You wake to the honking of trumpets. Outside your window, a parade is kicking off the preliminary celebrations three days before Gathyote. Every member is on foot. Although the parade calls for the beginning of joyous festivities, the music and dress would make one think that this is a funeral procession.

You watch a crowd begin to form in the streets, dead silent as they listen to what more closely resembles a strangely melodic alarm than any intentional arrangement. The ensemble is primarily composed of ancient horns that each mimic a wailing cry by virtue of both their original construction as well as having tarnished over time. In the middle of the metal bleating screams a single hurdy-gurdy played by an instrumentalist hidden in the depths of the crowd. The parade wanders down the street and is out of sight long before it is out of earshot.

It is seven in the morning. You do not, nor cannot, return to sleep.

*

Later that day, in the lord mayor’s office, you stand in the centre of the room. Your back hurts. There are no chairs, save for that of the lord mayor's desk chair. Business is conducted on foot here, as is the business of drinking alcohol. Both are expected to occur in this meeting. Such is politics in Edrye. You stand for fifteen minutes, then thirty, then forty-five. You consider how leaning on the desk might affect the outcome of this meeting. Before you can find out, the door creaks open behind you.

The lord mayor of Athar takes his sweet time crossing the room. He pours two drinks and does not wait for you to raise the glass to your lips before knocking his own back. His face is nearly devoid of collagen. His lids and eyebrows sag around his small, dark eyes. His lips appear to melt off his mouth. Every turn of his head is accompanied by swishing jowls. He is permanently frowning. The bloodhound resemblance is uncanny.

It's difficult for you to imagine that this is what every Wilskenn strives for. The mark of a very long life. "Lord mayor--"

He holds up a puffy hand. The fastest movement you have seen him make yet. He pours another drink for himself. Carefully, with shaking hands. Then he speaks. "You want us to fight." Not a question.

"Pangua requests Edrye's assistance in the war," you say.

He laughs, then wheezes. He wipes his long, drooping lips with an embroidered rag and takes another sip of his drink. "It is no request," he says into his glass cup. Although his accent is heavy, he is clearly making an effort to pronounce the Panguan words properly. "We fight, we die. We don't fight..." He gestures to you.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

You retrieve the envelope from your bag and open it. The letter inside states, among other things, the possible forms of retaliation Edrye can expect from abstaining. It is all worded so distantly, as if what it describes is as obvious and natural as the incoming tide and the landing rain. Yet, it is a list of threats. What Pangua has the power to give and what it can take away. You hand the letter to the lord mayor, who glances at it from down his snout at some strange angle where his eyes can properly focus on the words. He folds the letter back up and places it on his desk. He leans back against his desk, sets his glass beside him, and links his hands together over his stomach. "Miss..."

"Deborah Tosteson."

"Miss Tosteson. If you were to write all of Edrye's policies on one page, nowhere would the word 'pacifism' appear. Nonviolence is no nation, nor individual's, definition. It is a symptom of a higher cause. What you would find on that page is a philosophy of survival. To fight in a war is not against Skenn, but the only wars this country is ever asked to fight are those that do not promote its survival. Is this war any different?"

"I can't answer that," you admit. "The worth of every war is decided retroactively."

"But the cost is paid upfront."

"I'm not here to tell you that our part in this war will be looked upon favourably by history," you say. "Or that your people won't suffer greatly for having taken part. I can tell you that my people have already suffered, and will continue to suffer needlessly, without Edrye's help."

The lord mayor is quiet for a moment. Then he says, "It is not my decision to make."

Fearing that you have just wasted your time, you ask, "What do you mean?"

"Tomorrow I will be dead."

You don't answer.

"I was hoping to eat at Gathyote one more time, but I won't make it." He shifts his weight against the table. "The arrangements are already in place so your purpose here won't be delayed. My funeral will be done with before the festival, and afterwards my replacement will be happy to sign over our people."

"I'm not sure how to respond."

"Now is not the time for response," he says. "I'm taking the last of the true old-world politics with me. Edrye doesn't change on the surface, but this new generation of highborn Wilskenn have had plenty of time to decide what they like about Pangua. What Pangua has to offer them. Your country can be very generous to the right people. You can decide how to respond to that later."

"I'm sorry you won't see Gathyote."

"Don't be sorry. Go and eat enough for both of us. That is all I'll ask of you."

"Me? Why?"

"It's a saying: when you cannot do much else to help yourself, help yourself. We are the voices of our nations, and yet what can either of us do? We eat, we drink." He laughs. "You are a shitty politician, Miss Tosteson. You can't help but care about the problems of strangers as if they were your own. For the same reason you are a good person. I'm afraid I frustrated the last diplomat you sent. He said–and maybe you can help me understand what he meant–that 'you can't teach an old dog new tricks.'" He looks at you in such a way that his coy understanding shines through.