The main hall of the Hobart Kingdom Royal Court, arranged like a concert hall with seven rows of elevated benches forming a forty foot wide half circle, had seating for five hundred, but with only Viscounts and above who were immediately available present, it looked nearly empty.

Philip could already hear the clamour of sixty or so disgruntled noblemen before he opened the door.

“Who does he think he is, summoning us on a moment's notice.”

“It's like he's beckoning a pack of dogs.”

“I for one will not stand idle while Prime Minister Howling Mad insiss on abusing his authority.” That voice came from The Duchess of Wellington, Ann Millin. A woman for whom Philip was familiar, and often at odds with.

Across from the sparsely populated benches, next to the podium the king would sit at, the Earl of Hobart, Prime Minister Philip Howlanger, entered the fray. “Order,” he called.

All eighty or so pairs of eyes were on Philip, and for a moment the hall was silent. That was only for a moment though. Once the disgruntled noblemen, sixty or so out of eighty, realized that the object of their displeasure was present, the hall became chaotic again.

“What's the meaning of the Howlanger?”

“Do you have any idea what the term reasonable notice means?”

“The king will hear of this Howlanger!”

Philip was expecting this but still found it fatiguing. He pinched the bridge of his nose in concentration and bellowed, “Order! The council is in session and there will be order!”

The rabble subsided, again only for a moment. Dutchess Millin, the one to break the silence, did not like Philip, and though she was pleased his summon excused her from her nephew's fundraising party, she wouldn't let slip an opportunity to give Philip a hard time. “Fine then Mister Minister, what is this whisper you’ve summoned us over?” she said accusingly.

“It is a matter of the utmost concern, my lords and ladies, and requires our immediate action,” Philip said, and shifted his attention to the Dutchess, “I would not have summoned you had it been otherwise.”

Before he could continue, a loud voice interjected. General Moore was a short bald man, wide as a barrel, with a handlebar mustache and a bad temper. He'd been interrupted from his liquor and lovers to attend this council and furiously demanded, “Answers, answers Howlanger! Your little stunt has caused some of us significant inconvenience. If you ever pulla stunt like this again, I’ll ensure your no longer Prime Minister, Mister Minister, so stop wasting our time with frivolous words and get to the point already!"

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Philip decided to disregard the General’s inappropriate outburst. He didn’t need to smell his breath to tell he’d been drinking heavily. “The Kismond Third Army marches to our borders," he finally said.

Again, the hall became silent for a moment. This time seemingly all eighty or so noblemen erupted at once.

“Nonsense.”

“Why would the Good King march on our borders?”

“We can’t fight the third army!”

“Order! Order!”

The rabble didn’t fully subside until Dutchess Millin spoke over the commotion. “And you sure of this because, why? You heard it in the wind?”

A nod was the spy master’s only reply.

“Even if it’s true, we don’t have the strength to win a head on engagement with the Third Army, and we don’t have the reserves to win a prolonged war against Kismond. What would you have us do Mister Minister,” Marquise Loyd said as though the whole matter was someone else’s problem entirely.

His carefree attitude came off as insufferable to Philip. “It is not what I would have you do Marquise. It is what the crown will have you do.” The Prime Minister waited until he had the audience's attention. “We will bolster the border defenses with ever available resources, and prepare for an indefinite blockade.”

Once again, the hall fell silent. This time for longer as the ruling class of Hobart Kingdom let the gravity of those words settle in.

“So what if the Third Army marches to our border? Good King Henry won't give the order to invade,” the intoxicated general said, emboldened by liquid courage. Several of the noblemen voiced their agreement.

“What do you recommend General Moore?” Philip asked, displaying his annoyance with the general and his line of reasoning.

“I say we do nothing. Call them on their bluff.” The drunk was loud and confident, like he had solved everything with a single sentence.

Dutchess Millin, more perturbed than Philip by his remarks, said “Moore you dithering drunken idiot! If that damn Wicked Ninth Prince decides to take Wellington, Moorehaven would be a mere fortnight's march away. Would you then defeat the Ninth Prince and the Third Army solely with your mustache?” 

The general responded with a scornful expression on a beet read face. “Will Hobart even survive another build up? A tax hike and conscription will make us vulnerable to subversion. Wellington, being on the border, will be the most vulnerable. Would you then be lynched by your own peasants, oh wise Dutchess Millin?”

“Are you a fool and a coward?” Dutchess Millin was somewhat reserved when she addressed the Prime Minister, but held no such reservations when it came to the general. “You’re more gnome than man, short fat, and fearful,” she spat with disgust.

“Order!” was again called, and again the hall was orderly for a moment.

“If we have another border closure, rebellion won't be far behind.” Marquis Lloyd's off handed comment caused the rabble to erupt once again.

"We should appeal to the Good King."

“Paying ransom would be the most efficient thing to do.”

“Are we witnessing the return of the Savage King?” an especially panicked Viscount asked.

“Order! And you will hold your tongue Viscount Applewood,” Philip shouted obscenely loud. Loud enough to blow out a common man’s ear drums. Tolerating the General's remarks was one thing, but he would not allow Hobart’s own nobility to speak ill of his king. “By the word of the king there will be no concessions. This session is for the purpose of fortifying the border and preparing for an indefinite blockade. Anyone here unwilling to submit to those two objectives may forfeit their titles and wander the frontier, now.”

Finally, with the threat of exile looming over the session and the deafening voice of the Earl lingering in their ears, the discussion moved to more productive topics. Which was appropriate as they had plenty to talk about. So much so that the sun would rise before they disbanded.