The Hidden King

[Gunnland]

“Masque”​

"Highhome" Mansion
Maseru, Loago

Hers was the only white face in the ballroom. The others wore black masks. Unmasked black servants wore black eveningwear and yellow kilts; the women colorful yellow wraps, carrying silver trays of biltong and haggis. Tall and lithe, she wore yellow well for a white woman; the Himyar sun had tanned her skin a tawny brown, and the headwrap somehow accentuated her long neck and high cheekbones. The clothes are meant to humiliate me all the same. Masked men kept introducing themselves anyway.

Her mind wandered back to Windhaven one month previous. “You always wanted to go to Himyar, Adelaide.” But there was always a catch with Robert. “The burned freak thinks she’s Queen Deoiridh. Unfortunately the queen dowager thinks so too. Best to send her to far Maseru.”

The left side of her mistress’s face was indeed badly burned; a lidless brown eye, forever astonished, protruded from red blotches and wrinkly, waxy skin that somehow looked like it was pulled too tight. Her hair was dyed a platinum blonde, completing the grotesque. Adelaide kissed her hand that day, playing along. But the woman pulled back, horrified, whispering, “Forget I am your queen! Call me Lady Cawdor. We shall think of a name for you, dear.”

“Rachida!” Snapped out of her daydream, Adelaide saw her mistress, nameless behind the name Elizabeth Cameron Cawdor, and faceless behind a black mask, literally snapping at her tanned ‘Ayyubistani maid’ to come to her. The masked madwoman looked almost beautiful, but she could not sound kind.

 

[Gunnland]

“Merman”​

Highhome
Maseru, Loago

Lady Beth was talking to a ceramic Poseidon mask. At the elbow of the Pelasgian sea-god was a woman wearing a fish-head and a scanty dress of turquoise fish-scales. Adelaide sensed him admiring her as she handed her mistress a glass of Burgundian champagne. That would be most of the bottle now.

“This is Duncan, chief of clan MacLeish. He has just arrived from Bremen.”

“You must stay with us, Duncan.”​

“I fly to Elephant and Castle tomorrow. Then to St. Tears for a meeting of the thegns.”

”Then stay the night with us.”
​

"Us!" Embarrassed, Adelaide looked at the floor as the Poseidon mask regarded her more closely. It had been a long day for the MacLeish. Nobody knew if he would make money or lose money, with the Beirans cracking down on overland drug traffic to Pelasgia.

“I command it as your queen. One exile to another.”​

Now ashamed on her mistress’s behalf, Adelaide was doubly embarrassed. And she wished to be anywhere else in the world as Lady Beth drew her mask down discretely, revealing half of her horrendously burned face. The god of seafarers, horses, and earthquakes was silent, inscrutable behind his mask.

 

[Gunnland]

“Fresh Air”​

Weissenfels, Eiffelland

Every breath of Eiffellandian air was a breath of fresh air, not only in a Borschel with the windows down, but also breathing in the lodoform ‘hospital smells’ of antiseptics and disinfectants. She had told Prince Ludwig so. It was a weight off her shoulders, living in a country that she didn’t feel responsible to change. And where she could speak freely about her beliefs without dire consequences. And wherever was not the stale air of a basement in Trivodnia, amidst the chaos of a kidnapping gone wrong. Ludwig’s eyes had widened at this. They made a perfect-looking couple. Julian knew she was pretty, with an athletic build and her blond hair in a tight bun. But Ludwig… Her withered grandmother, propped up in bed and looking alert, read her mind and began to croak,

“Landry says you have been seeing Prince Charming.” (That’s why the doctor left the room, blushing to see me.)

“Yes but I think he’s…”​

“…light in the loafers? All southern men seem that way, my dear.”

Julian wasn’t so sure the ancient crone was right. The world had changed. Well, it had changed in Eiffelland at least. And the progressive atmosphere that she liked most about the kingdom, at least when it came to Ludwig’s life plans, now seemed to also be a shame. She couldn’t quite understand it: the concept of homosexuality was something new to her. Even if he couldn’t love her that way, didn’t he want children, a family of his own, heirs to the throne? Gunnishwomen don’t marry for love anyway, she thought darkly, but just to avoid being stolen by someone else. At any rate she felt safe with Ludwig. She would call him to play tennis soon.

 

[Gunnland]

"An Unwanted Marriage"​

The Freehold
Windhaven, Gunnland

Both redheads had fallen in love in Valera, on the beaches of Borovanger before the war. That was something they had in common. But such warm memories seemed a long way from the drafty stone fortress: cold gray stones against a cold gray sky on the banks of the cold gray river Wash. Countess Mary was walking out of the room, red curls waterfalling down her black wool coat. Now she not only ruled a wealthy mountain fiefdom of Arundel, but the southern third of the kingdom – Lower Marpesia. They had made a deal. Jake Blackthorn turned to smile at his friend, but found Professor Wylie unsmiling.

“That went well with ol’ Molly MacLeod, didn’t it?”

“I have news from Loago. Queen Deoiridh is alive.”​

“Alive? Impossible!”

“It's worse. My source says ‘close’ to the MacLeish.”​

“Aw, gross!”

“It's a bid for the throne, Jake. She may turn the Camerons against the Gunns.”​

“But will the MacAllisters fight alongside the Camerons.”

“I'll worry about Yorc. You need to worry, ‘will the MacLeods?’.”​

“Five clans will make her… him… king?”

The professor scratched his messy blondish hair to let it sink in for his friend. A MacLeish and a Cameron on the throne, with Keith support. If they could get the MacLeods and MacAllisters. A king hostile to the party, the Thing, and the new leadership. Wylie shrugged his shoulders. Surely Jake must understand he needed to marry Countess Mary. It was time for both redheaded power politicians to keep their Borovangen lovers in the shadows; this was the power couple that could keep the disgusting crimelord and the disfigured queen – whose husband still lived! – from the throne.

 

[Rheinbund]

Universitätsklinikum der Robert Koch Universität

Weissenfels, Eiffelland
23OCT2017

"To be honest, I am very satisfied, Dr. Gunn MacChrystal,” Dr. Von Bernrode said. “In the beginning, I had my doubts if we could keep the Queen-Dowager alive, but she reacted very well on the cocktail of antibiotics we gave her. The abcess is gone.”

“We had to dialyze her a few times,” nephrologist Prof. Dr. Meyer said, “and we prefer to keep her on a low-protein diet, but her kidneys appear to take it up again as well. Of course her Creatinin Clearance won’t reach the normal levels again, but in her case I am happy with a clearance of 60 mL/min. We only have to make sure that her kidneys won’t deteriorate further, but I will write down a couple of living rules to get that on a row.”

“Of course we need to keep her here for some more time to let her gain strength again, but we have faith in her recovery,” Dr. Von Bernrode said.

“I also have the impression that the Queen-Dowager is recovering from a psychiatric point of view,” Dr. McAllister said. “She is becoming more alert, and her mood is improving. We haven’t discussed her opinion that the King of Gunnland is still alive, but to be very honest, I am beginning to doubt whether I can stick to my initial diagnosis of a delusional disorder. In any case, there are no signs of dementia.”

Dr. Gunn MacChrystal thought for a moment. Then he asked: “You say that you are beginning to doubt about your initial diagnosis of a delusional disorder. Does that mean that she knows more than the rest of the world knows?”

“That is one of the possibillities, Dr. Gunn MacChrystal,” Dr. McAllister said. “Like I said, I haven’t asked about her son still being alive. In the beginning, she talked about that on her own initiative. Now she doesn’t do so any more. That can mean two things. It could be that her thought about her son being alive resulted from the depression and the deliric state she experienced. In that case, her thought about her son being alive was indeed a delusion, from which she recovered. The other possibillity is indeed, that she knows more than the rest of the world knows. And in that case, King Josias is still alive, in whichever state he may be after that plane crash, and at whichever location he may be. But then the Queen-Dowager won’t tell anythig about her son any more.”

Dr. Von Bernrode started to think. Then he asked: “To which extent is the Queen-Dowager in danger at the moment? And Princess Julian?”


Tennis court of the university sports centre
Weissenfels, Eiffelland
24OCT2017

Actually, Taekwon-Do was Ludwig’s main sport. He was 1st Dan in it, meaning that he was a blackbelter. He was also training to obtain the next Dan degree. He did play tennis as well, however. He had to, because the tennis court was still the place where the children of the elites met. Luckily, he was quite good at tennis.

The weather was good today. It was a comfortable 20 degrees celsius, and the sun was shining. Ludwig and Julian had one of the courts for one hour. After then, they went to the terrace to drink something. After a couple of hours, they went to Ludwig’s apartment in the city. Ludwig was also quite a good cook. He made a typically Eiffellandian meal with stewed meat, red cabbage with apples and mashed potatoes.

During the meal, Ludwig and Julian started to talk. When Julian started to ask about Ludwig’s life plans (especially about children), Ludwig immediately understood where Julian wanted to steer to. He thought for some moments. Then he started to to talk.

“Actually, I haven’t thought about the question of having children or not yet. You must realise that I am in a bit of a special situation. Weissenfels is one of Eiffelland’s big cities. Because it is a big city, and because it is a city with two universities, the athmosphere is liberal here. The same applies to Trier, Ingelheim, Köln, Bremen, well, to all big cities in Eiffelland. The situation in the countryside is different, at least regarding homosexuality. Also Rügen and Helgoland are not really gay-friendly.”

When he noticed that Julian didn’t understand what he meant with “gay-friendly, he said: “Oh, sorry, gay means not only happy in Engellexian English, but also homosexual.”

Then he took a sip of his wine, and continued.

“To make it more complex, homosexuality is even forbidden in Helgoland, while it is legal anywhere else in Eiffelland. This is possible, because Helgoland and Rügen have quite a high level of autonomy. Now the problem that I have, is that I am part of Nobility in Eiffelland. My own family knows that I’m gay, and it is not a problem there. Not even to my superwomanizer brother Johann. This is different for the majority of the other noble families in Eiffelland, however. I had a boyfriend two years ago. He was a descendant of a countal family. We met while we served our military service in the Navy, and fell in love with each other. We had a great time together. My family accepted him, but his family forced him to marry a girl. When he refused, his family had him declared insane. A few months later, he died in a nerve clinic.”

He took another sip of his wine, and then continued.

“Summa summarum, I am accepted as a gay within my own family, but I am not accepted as a gay by my own social class. Given the fact that almost all descendants of Eiffellandian noble families go to University in Weissenfels, and that as part of the family tradition I am a member of a very conservative fraternity. Things would become complex to me when my homosexuality would become public. That is one part of the problem.

You will probably think that I would overcome that problem by going into a relationship with a girl, but that will create other problems. The most important problem is that the life of the girl I would marry would be based on a lie, to be precise my lie to her that I love her. Furthermore, I would take her opportunity to become really happy with somebody who really loves her. I think that that would be a bigger sin than getting a relationship with a guy.”

He took another sip of his wine, and then continued.

“I have indeed taken my decision. I am a member of the highest family of the country, and the highest family of the country supports my homosexuality. The majority of the country does so as well. When I get a boyfriend again, I will defy my social class.”

 

[Gunnland]

“Bales of Gold”​

Purpoole, Gunnland
60km southeast of St. Tears

Over the stone wall, his neighbor’s barley stood in great bales of gold. He could only look on enviously, back to his patchy and blighted harvest, and twist the ends of his mustache into little bales of gold. His father always said watering the fields with blood was no good. But his best friend, the ‘warrior-poet’ Stephen MacAllister MacGarry was not here to give him farming advice. The colonel was here tell him what the MacAllisters would do. Would they back the Cameron-MacLeish alliance, or join the Gunns to spite the Camerons? And whose voices would matter?

“The young mormaer. Walter Matthew. Old Stoke. Me, I suppose. Maybe Fick. Maybe Farrier.”

“It’s not just Deoiridh who lives. King Josias is alive. I should have told you a year ago.”​

“Well." (Colonel MacGarry was surprisingly calm for a moment.) "Rob!”

“If your clan backs the MacLeish and the phantom of the opera, the true king will want war.”
​

The blighted crop was his fault, for being away all the time: Windhaven yesterday, Weissenfels tomorrow. Robert’s wife wasn’t speaking to him, at least in full sentences. The two men stood looking over the blighted fields in silence, knowing that nothing grew that was watered in blood, and could not be baleful.

 

[Gunnland]

“Chieftess”​

Weisssenfels Airport

She hugged Ludwig tightly. In a cruel twist of fate, she loved her prince even more as a revolutionary -- like she wanted to be. But when he is middle-aged, won’t he want children? Is wanting children a betrayal of his personality or his old love? Professor Wylie looked on, black spectacles over a blond mustache, worrying. Would Ludwig make her a difficult tool to use? Atop the airstairs, Robert decided to take a risk.

“Your parents are alive. Your royal father crippled. We can’t protect him if they know.”

“But I? Why didn’t you?” (She looked wildly around the plane cabin as if her father was there.)​

“We were not strong enough to protect you, either, Highness.”

"I have to see him... He has to reign again!"​

“He wants you to lead the family now. You are our chieftess now.”

She was already sobbing as she sat in her white leather seat. Though it might seem presumptuous, he sat next to her, and to his surprise she leaned over to cry into his tweed jacket. Even an overwhelmed Julian worried she might be laying it on too thick. This man is not as strong as Ludwig. But it takes a prudent man to steer Gunnland through these perilous times. Robert began to speak of what she must do. The thegns would rehabilitate the MacLeod. But no four clans would unite behind her brother Joachas to take the throne. Still, if by some miracle they did, there was an ancient law she could use to delay his coronation for some years. She fell asleep as the mustached steward described some of its grisly particulars.

 

[Gunnland]

“Palanquin”​

Ile-des-Pins, Lower Marpesia, Gunnland

Molly giggled a little when they lifted her in the palanquin, though frozen in photograph the Duchess of Lower Mapresia seemed to have a charming, genuine smile. Four giants in traditional costumes held the poles: in front, a Gunnishman in a (still technically illegal) yellow MacLeod kilt and a Francophone woman with a big black hat shaped like a bow; in back, a bare chested black Nethian man in a collar of bird feathers, and a Visislavic woman with a spade-shaped golden headdress. They represented the four peoples of Lower Marpesia, dating from a history in which the duchy was not so Gunnicized.

“Representing mountain rebels, Slavic separatists, and slaves' grandchildren.”

“So you’re saying annexation is only going to add to my government’s problems?”​

“Well… it is going to solve almost all of mine, Leader.”

Standing next to a solemn First Secretary Harrington – who had bored him with talk of the Visislavs’ ‘parallel polis’ and Francophone republicans’ mountain communes where they dreamed of overthrowing Chagny – Leader Blackthorn let himself laugh at the ridiculous spectacle. But she is something. Mary MacLeod’s pellucid skin, freckles, and orange hair clashed terribly with her yellow (still technically illegal) MacLeod shawl – but the hideous combination invited him to remember how stunningly beautiful she looked in a dark suit. He scanned the gallery for Alejandro, Duchess Mary’s flame, her version of his Marta, but apparently neither of them had thought it appropriate to bring their Borovangen lovers. Instead, he met the eyes of Colonel Steve MacGarry, who was grinning like a cat. It wasn’t every day you woke up to find a small but well-trained army ready to fight for the Kingdom of Gunnland. It was almost like being the leader of a real government. Jake winked at Steve. Then he opened his mouth and rolled his eyes in a ridiculous gesture. Many people afterwards noted his behavior had been less than appropriate.

 

[Gunnland]

“The Highland Way”​

Finlaggan, Gunnland
75km west of Dalmyre

“If we vote with the Camerons, we can crown Deoiridh. We would be kingmakers! We could ask for…”

The sallow and haggard lordling banged his pewter tankard hard down on the oaken table. Old white-haired Colmac Stoke stopped his excited wheezings, and the room was silent for a moment as their young mormaer brooded. Damn fake clan. Wearing the damn scarlet tartan for the first time in months, no doubt. Yorc had been a good looking young man; trying to quit heroin had changed that. He knew he shouldn’t be so angry. Damn Finlaggan – a stone farmhouse ridiculously festooned with shields made to look old. Damn Dalmyre businessmen greedy for Lloyd & MacLeish stocks and Cameron Shipyards shares. No fight in any of them. Two weeks ago Yorc had jammed a hand grenade in the mouth of a Guard. I shall show them the highland way. Peter Farrier and Thomas Fick started to say something, but the young Mormaer of Finlaggan cut them off with a glare. Only Stephen MacGarry, his military commander’s uniform underneath, was a study in silence. What could he say? Fortunately, now, what did he need to say? The silence may have gone on forever, had Walter Matthew not started clapping, and managed to say exactly what the young MacAllister wanted to hear:

“The Camerons have been working with the MacLeish secretly. Building their ships. And the MacLeishes fight with them against us in government uniforms. And the Keiths do nothing. I have no love for this government, as you know, my lord. But it’s not the Gunn’s government in the lowlands. It’s the Cameron’s. It’s the MacLeish’s. Let’s fight them the highland way.”

 

[Gunnland]

“Promises in Blood”​

St. Tears, Gunnland
10km from Ayr

The black blade of the sgain dubh, dipped in whisky, slipped into Duncan’s side. The pain was extreme. White globules of fatty tissue split apart. In a moment the gash filled with blood, then spilled into a silver cup that his left hand pressed into his hip. Six other chiefs in great flowing tartans of all colors did the same, standing in a circle around a square-cut black rock. The Stone Chair of Gunni. On that rock, they would sign a promise in their own blood.

Mary MacLeod, now able to use her name legally for the first time in her thirty years, hid her eyes from the barbaric spectacle. Only a finger-prick was required of the countess, the woman unanimously acclaimed as the MacLeod and therefore rightful Duchess of Lower Marpesia only minutes before. Then when they went through the motions of failing to elect a king, again, Mary shocked them. Locking eyes with the only other modern person in the room, she nominated Julian Gunn. The Buchanan and the MacDougall immediately tossed their claymores to clang at the floor beneath the rock. Only three votes, with four against. Then, just as the yellow smile opened within the Keith’s bushy brown beard, the sick-looking young man with a scraggly blond beard – Yorc MacAllister – threw his sword violently in a flat spin towards the rock.

“I do not wish to be queen…” Julian rose poised and confident, the dark blue and dark green Gunn tartan favoring her much more than Mary’s yellow plaid. “…yet. Only when my studies are over. Till then I shall govern over my signature, in secret, from Eiffelland. I understand there is an ancient tradition to seal such a pact.” On cue, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Duncan MacLeish reached into the folds of his kilt and pulled out the knife.

 

[Polesia]

"Unwanted Cargo"​

Kretyn
Trivodnia

Late July

It had been a long time since Ber Teitl was dockside. The four stars tattooed either shoulder entitled him to a cosy life at some back office in Amstov, counting money other people had made. Yet here he was, overlooking the flat waters of the Inner Sea, stood between two rusting warehouses waiting for some pisher to let him in. It felt like his twenties all over again.

Finally, he could hear the clunk of a lock opening, followed by a piercing screech as a warped metal door began to scrape furiously against the concrete floor. In his youth, Ber would have barely flinched at the noise, but as age had gotten the better of him, he couldn't help but wince.

The door continued to drag along, the jarring sound growing in intensity. Its slow movement gave way for the morning sunshine to pierce through the gloom, revealing a gaggle of nervous looking armed young men. They peeked outside warily, checking all directions for any sign of the port police. There was no need: a bundle of cash enclosed in a stern warning had been left outside the nearby patrol post.

"Shalom, Komande Teitl, it is my honour to welcome you here."

The confident greeting was from Hersh Milgram, a local pimp who had somehow ended up as the Zhlotov syndicate's head of operations in Kretyn. He emerged from behind the guards, arms stretched. Grabbing Ber by the sides, he kissed both cheeks before gesturing inside. Ber grunted, before signalling his own entourage to follow.

"I can assure you I brought you here for much more than heroin, Komande," Milgram continued, pointing to the stacked containers lined up towering over the men, "in fact we have a very special guest."

Ber stopped.

"If this is some cheap whore you've managed to smuggle from Kashtan that you're going to try and impress me with I swear I'll-", the wizened gangster growled, clenching his fist.

Hersh's collection of working girls had served him well throughout his criminal career. He once boasted his clients could fuck anything east of Ivar. This didn't just tempt the many sailors who passed through Kretyn, but also Ber's peers, who had not just old wives, but old mistresses too. The seemingly eternal youth of an Oriental hooker was an attractive alternative.

Hersh laughed. "Cheap?!" He laughed some more. "Komande, I would never offer a respected guest something cheap." The last word was almost spat out.

"I have you a princess."

With Ber looking ready to punch him, Hersh pulled out a wrinkled page from the Kretyn Evening Star. It was from the international news section. A picture of the Gunnish Princess Julian sat in the middle, surrounded by details of her alleged kidnapping.

"I was speaking to the MacLeish men," Hersh carried on, "some mission from the Church or whatever.."

The MacLeishes had been around since the Free State was declared in 1921. First as mercenaries, but soon brought their shipping and criminal interests to Trivodnia as well, realising this new country sat in the middle of some of the world's biggest trafficking routes.

Ber was shaking, the thin sheet of paper nearly ripping in his hands.

"...too hot to have her there so.."

"So?"

The anger was barely containable now.

"She's here. In Kretyn. The Grand Hotel."

Hersh was about to reach for a cigarette but was shoved to the ground by a raging Ber. The veteran may not have had the stature of his glory days, but was still a force to be reckoned with. His hands, gnarled from repeated torture from both the law and rival gangs, rained down on Hersh's face. His mouth, spit flying, lips flapping, teeth nashing, threw out a string of Yiddish curses, and a broken explanation for the extreme violence.

"Politics... Politics... NO POLITICS!"

The beating was like a downpour, and soon Hersh just lay there, blood oozing from his broken jaw as his fingers twitched violently. Hersh's protection watched on helplessly, and before they could reach for their guns, were mowed down, a rapid succession of shots echoing around the metallic chamber, the bullets making an empty thud as they passed through the bodies and into the tin walls.

 

[Gunnland]

"Loose Ends"​

Oa, Gunnland

It was not destined to be like the emotional reunion with her father and little brother, hugging his frail depleted body in the wheelchair, telling him about Prince Ludwig, and how Cherra, the crazy old bat, contemned the Eiffellandians "and their pantaloons." It would be anticlimactic. Like the meeting that never happened when Cardinal Stewart flew south for the conclave. William Wilson agreed on the phone to take her to the MacLeish, laughing, "if she would slap that p-p-prick Von B-B-Bernrode for him." I'll show him a Sippenfeindschaft!

"This is where we k-k-keep them p-p-penned. D-D-Duncan left the house an hour ago." Two black SUVs waited outside with the stuttering earl, her friends Ashild and Maddie, and four Wilson Gunns with rifles. Julian's flats crunched the gravel as she approached the great stone MacLeish manor, all that remained of the Lord of the Isles's once-vast fiefdom. A tall brunette with bruises on her face opened the front door just a crack, and Julian pushed past her, barely noticing her scandalous yellow dress. And for nothing. She banged her palm on the bedroom door till it stung brutally. Not wanting her mother to hear her cry, her flats pounded down the marble stairs and out of the manor. The curtains were still drawn in the oriel window.

Then she heard crunching gravel. Adelaide was running after her barefoot, a skimpy yellow cocktail dress fluttering in the cold wind.