Tyvia
Establishing Nation
Abelard Havenholt was a large man, having once been fit and broad and since gone to fat. It had been a steady decline over the years, as the stress and pressure of being his House's patriarch began to weigh heavy. His flowing golden hair, once a source of great pride and joy for Abe as a young man, had dimmed to become little more than a messy mop of grey barely clinging to the top of his sweaty scalp.
On this particular day, he found himself in the office of the Lord-Protector. It was a well-illuminated room furnished in the typical Neo-Colonial style, with wide windows and high sloped ceilings complementing a chamber which revolved around a central office-space and a massive quartz fireplace. He sat upon the red velvet couch directly perpendicular to said hearth, with a set of armchairs and small tables likewise positioned around it.
“I hope you understand that this will finish you,” he said, making every attempt to keep his tone even and diplomatic.
A chuckle escaped the Lord-Protector, the well-dressed aristocrat reclining backwards into his armchair and bringing one leg over the other to rest atop the nearby holly tabletop. The newspaper which had previously rested across his lap was now casually discarded, tossed carelessly towards the wastebin at the room's other end. He sought out a sip from the mug he held first, replying only after draining a healthy quarter of its steaming contents. He spoke with an easy confidence; in the characteristic lilting drawl of his native Arkanroa.
“Darrow'll follow through, but a scapegoat's needed to make the first move. It's not a grave sacrifice, in truth, but I admit it will hurt.”
“How much can he do if your successor refutes the measure? He can't just forward them to the military without the Lord-Protector's write-off.”
“Not as Chief, as Lord-Protector,” was Mayburn's response, eliciting a look of outright perplexment—upraised brow and all—on Havenholt's end. It brought a smile to Mayburn's own lips, and he elaborated promptly: “Darrow will be appointed. He's fairly popular, actually, even with the newer group of Elect.”
“I know you've got both Weavers, and the van der Horsts aside from your own, but that's still--. .”
Mayburn interrupted. “I've spoken to Lee last week. We'll have the Kynes votes, and he's like as not going to bring the rest of the patriots with him. All told, if everyone brings their usual hangers-on, it should be seventy or so percent in favor.”
Havenholt frowned, the possibilities swirling around in his round, greasy head. Putting a finger on his chin, he put forward a musing, “Evehart won't like it, though. Nor the Siwards; Leo Siward has been eying the office since '44. Even if you get seventy percent in favor, you might still end up with more than thirty against you if they push forward for Abjuration.”
Mayburn's smile grew to become a full grin, a twinkle in his eye as he stared at Havenholt. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Abe, why, I knew you'd be quick on the uptake,” he said. “That's why I asked you here, as a matter of fact. Any offer to this effect will look like a lie coming from me, but if you were to go to Leo—tell him that we can give him an uncontested run in '56 . .” The Lord-Protector trailed off thereafter, letting the words simply sink in. To his credit, Havenholt managed to look only intrigued, nothing else leaking through. He'd been a family patriarch for too many years to let slip his thoughts so easily, and had been involved in politics for longer besides.
“We've never been firm friends, at least not in the public eye,” Havenholt eventually conceded, bobbing his fat head forward.
“And so it will seem all the more genuine. He knows I will have had to make guarantees to you, and I do. There is no lying here—much to everyone's collective surprise, I do not doubt.”
He shifted in his seat, expression pensive. It was becoming clearer, perhaps, but Mayburn's position among all this remained cloudy.
“Do you really think you can roll-back the last three decades, Elijah? They've been cutting away at the armed services since Kynes died, what makes you think you can undo that—more to the point, why do you even want to?” Havenholt questioned. “They'll think you trying to empower yourself—like a 20th century Zach Tykker!”
The allusion to Tykker was a powerful one, at least in Seneca politics. A man who'd split the nation with his attempts to consolidate the Lord-Protectorship, and who'd eventually triggered the Great Revolt by his actions. To this day, Tykkers avoided involving themselves in politics as a result, and Zach Tykker's name remained reviled. To his credit, Mayburn's lips wrinkled and his smile vanished, eyes now clouded with silent fury.
“Goddamnit, Abe,” he let out, willing his voice to be steady. “We live in the most populated country in the New World, with an economy that is growing at a rate to soon rival Sylvania's—and we project no force, and possess almost no armed service. What is this if not a grave folly in this changed world we live in?
“I understand how it will look. That is why I will resign. It will be a marvelous victory for Siward and Evehart, who will rejoice and praise themselves as the saviors of the Union State in this century! I care not, for the work will carry on.”
In the end, Havenholt agreed to speak to Siward.
On this particular day, he found himself in the office of the Lord-Protector. It was a well-illuminated room furnished in the typical Neo-Colonial style, with wide windows and high sloped ceilings complementing a chamber which revolved around a central office-space and a massive quartz fireplace. He sat upon the red velvet couch directly perpendicular to said hearth, with a set of armchairs and small tables likewise positioned around it.
“I hope you understand that this will finish you,” he said, making every attempt to keep his tone even and diplomatic.
A chuckle escaped the Lord-Protector, the well-dressed aristocrat reclining backwards into his armchair and bringing one leg over the other to rest atop the nearby holly tabletop. The newspaper which had previously rested across his lap was now casually discarded, tossed carelessly towards the wastebin at the room's other end. He sought out a sip from the mug he held first, replying only after draining a healthy quarter of its steaming contents. He spoke with an easy confidence; in the characteristic lilting drawl of his native Arkanroa.
“Darrow'll follow through, but a scapegoat's needed to make the first move. It's not a grave sacrifice, in truth, but I admit it will hurt.”
“How much can he do if your successor refutes the measure? He can't just forward them to the military without the Lord-Protector's write-off.”
“Not as Chief, as Lord-Protector,” was Mayburn's response, eliciting a look of outright perplexment—upraised brow and all—on Havenholt's end. It brought a smile to Mayburn's own lips, and he elaborated promptly: “Darrow will be appointed. He's fairly popular, actually, even with the newer group of Elect.”
“I know you've got both Weavers, and the van der Horsts aside from your own, but that's still--. .”
Mayburn interrupted. “I've spoken to Lee last week. We'll have the Kynes votes, and he's like as not going to bring the rest of the patriots with him. All told, if everyone brings their usual hangers-on, it should be seventy or so percent in favor.”
Havenholt frowned, the possibilities swirling around in his round, greasy head. Putting a finger on his chin, he put forward a musing, “Evehart won't like it, though. Nor the Siwards; Leo Siward has been eying the office since '44. Even if you get seventy percent in favor, you might still end up with more than thirty against you if they push forward for Abjuration.”
Mayburn's smile grew to become a full grin, a twinkle in his eye as he stared at Havenholt. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“Abe, why, I knew you'd be quick on the uptake,” he said. “That's why I asked you here, as a matter of fact. Any offer to this effect will look like a lie coming from me, but if you were to go to Leo—tell him that we can give him an uncontested run in '56 . .” The Lord-Protector trailed off thereafter, letting the words simply sink in. To his credit, Havenholt managed to look only intrigued, nothing else leaking through. He'd been a family patriarch for too many years to let slip his thoughts so easily, and had been involved in politics for longer besides.
“We've never been firm friends, at least not in the public eye,” Havenholt eventually conceded, bobbing his fat head forward.
“And so it will seem all the more genuine. He knows I will have had to make guarantees to you, and I do. There is no lying here—much to everyone's collective surprise, I do not doubt.”
He shifted in his seat, expression pensive. It was becoming clearer, perhaps, but Mayburn's position among all this remained cloudy.
“Do you really think you can roll-back the last three decades, Elijah? They've been cutting away at the armed services since Kynes died, what makes you think you can undo that—more to the point, why do you even want to?” Havenholt questioned. “They'll think you trying to empower yourself—like a 20th century Zach Tykker!”
The allusion to Tykker was a powerful one, at least in Seneca politics. A man who'd split the nation with his attempts to consolidate the Lord-Protectorship, and who'd eventually triggered the Great Revolt by his actions. To this day, Tykkers avoided involving themselves in politics as a result, and Zach Tykker's name remained reviled. To his credit, Mayburn's lips wrinkled and his smile vanished, eyes now clouded with silent fury.
“Goddamnit, Abe,” he let out, willing his voice to be steady. “We live in the most populated country in the New World, with an economy that is growing at a rate to soon rival Sylvania's—and we project no force, and possess almost no armed service. What is this if not a grave folly in this changed world we live in?
“I understand how it will look. That is why I will resign. It will be a marvelous victory for Siward and Evehart, who will rejoice and praise themselves as the saviors of the Union State in this century! I care not, for the work will carry on.”
In the end, Havenholt agreed to speak to Siward.
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