SAPR

by Scipio Smith

The Court of Mistral (New)

The Court of Mistral

Swift Foot Thrax sat on the bed, reading the Red Book of the Coliseum.

It was a list of all the arena champions past, stretching back as far as the records themselves stretched back — and beyond, since it included some almost certainly mythic entries at the front — and continuing to the present day.

Although, it had not escaped Swift Foot’s notice how the records got shorter the closer one got to the present day. Entries for some of the old champions spanned for pages and pages, as they had not only won arena titles but also slain grimm, led warbands, defeated outlaws, served the Emperor with arms and wits alike. The entry for Pyrrha Nikos, by contrast, could scarcely be called a paragraph; the Pride and Glory of Mistral Reborn, and she could scarcely muster a paragraph for her deeds. Admittedly, she was still very young, and perhaps the reason she had decided to go to Beacon was in hope of adding more deeds to burnish up her entry to something closer to the old length — and this was last year's edition, so when this year’s entry came out, there would be something about the Breach in Vale and the battle she had fought there and about her other accomplishments fighting latter day outlaws in the city — but even if that were so, it would be one example going against the grain of all the other examples.

She would be an exception that proved the rule that Mistral was in decline, fallen from the lofty glories of those earlier days.

But Pyrrha was still young, with — gods willing — much glory before her. She had won her first tournament when she was twelve years old. Swift Foot was sixteen years old now, and she hadn’t even won a tournament victory, let alone done anything else worthy of note or honour. If only her father had let her enter the Mistral tournament, then maybe… but her father had refused even to contemplate it. He feared that she would lose and embarrass him; he feared that his name would be shamed by the association with a failed daughter.

He had allowed Terri-Belle to compete — and she had won, washing away the stain of her loss in the finals of the Vytal Festival; after that one year of triumph, she had declined to compete again, preferring to retire undefeated; Swift Foot sometimes wondered how much of a hand their father had had in that — but not Swift Foot. She could not be trusted as Terri-Belle had been.

The bed upon which Swift Foot sat was comfortable enough, but not too comfortable — even with the throw cushions strewn atop it — to encourage softness; a rug of alternating pink and purple rectangles sat beneath the bed, and a pair of old stuffed dolls sat upon the floor by the bedside. Swift Foot’s rhomphaia, which she had named Ceres’ Kiss, hung upon the wall above her bed, together with a pair of crossed javelins. For the rest, her bedroom might have been said to very much resemble one of the rooms at one of the huntsman academies, save that she had it all to herself: there was a wooden desk, a chair, and a bookshelf above, but very little else in the way of decoration or adornment.

When she went to Haven in just over a year’s time, she would feel right at home.

She might even prefer it; at least at Haven, she wouldn’t have to put up with—

“You’re in trouble now, little sister.”

Swift Foot looked up from her book to see Shining Light and Blonn Di standing in the doorway; she didn’t have an actual door, only a set of curtains blocking the entrance to her room, and those curtains had been pushed back. Her two middle sisters were identical, with the same long blue-green hair worn in long curls cascading down below the shoulder, the same purple eyes — those features were, admittedly, shared with Swift Foot herself — the same sharp angles to their faces, the same statuesque tallness; they even dressed the same, in white one-shouldered gowns that almost, but not quite, revealed one breast to view. The only difference was the side on which they parted their hair and the side on which they wore the single shoulder of their dresses.

Everything else was the same, including the smirks they now wore upon their faces and the malicious glints in their eyes as they beheld their little sister.

“'In trouble'?” Swift Foot asked. “What did I do?”

Shining Light shrugged. “I’m not sure, but Father did say he wanted to see you, and that can’t be good.”

“We were supposed to fetch you a while ago, but we took our time getting here,” Blonn Di added. “So he’s probably upset with your tardiness by now. Hurry along.”

Swift Foot leapt off the bed. “I’m only late because you made me late!” she protested.

“And you think Father will believe you over us?” Shining Light asked, as the two of them made a little space in the doorway.

“Shining Light!” Swift Foot protested. “Why?”

“Why?” Shining Light repeated. “Because you ask ‘why’ in that whiny voice, you little brat. Now get going, or it will be the worse for you when you finally do come before Father.”

Swift Foot groaned as she ran for the door, passing between her two sisters and starting down the corridor towards the throne room. “You two are the worst!” she shouted behind her as she ran.

“‘You two are the worst’!” Blonn Di cried mockingly. “Cry more, little sister!”

“You want this to stop, stop making it so easy!” Shining Light added.

How about you two grow up a little bit? Swift Foot said. Shining Light and Blonn Di were not nearly so old as Terri-Belle, but they were both over twenty and graduated from Haven what was more, and yet, they acted just like they had when they were twelve and took her dolls away to make her cry.

It was no good telling them that, though; they liked to hear Swift Foot complain, but if she complained too much — or if her complaints struck home too much and pricked their pride — then, well, they had other ways of making Swift Foot unhappy.

It wasn’t as though she had a door to her room.

Yes, Haven Academy could not come soon enough, in Swift Foot’s opinion. She would miss Terri-Belle, but she could use her semblance to talk to her whenever she wanted to, and in the meantime, she would be out of this house, away from her other sisters, away from Father — a little away, at least. She had considered applying to Beacon, like Pyrrha Nikos, or Atlas like Phoebe Kommenos or Turnus Rutulus, but Father might not allow her to stray so far, and at Haven, she was almost guaranteed to be made team leader, just as all her sisters had been.

At Haven, she would have the best chance of showing what she could do.

But that was a year and more off now. For now, she had to get through this interview with Father.

All of Swift Foot’s sisters tended to slender tallness, but Swift Foot was slightly less than average height for her age. Like Shining Light and Blonn Di, she had inherited her mother’s hair and eyes — and she wore it like them, in long curls; she had considered changing to something more distinct but, well, she liked her hair, and she wasn’t going to change it to something that looked worse just because she shared a style with the worst people she knew — but while her elder sisters had inherited their father’s features, Swift Foot took after her late mother in being more soft of face. She sometimes wondered if that was why Father thought her weaker than the rest; or perhaps she really was weak, and he was wise enough to realise it.

Either way, Swift Foot ran as fast as her sandal-clad feet would carry her to the throne room, where her father sat in the Chair of Stewardship before the throne. The entrance to the throne room was guarded by a pair of enormous statues, two black onyx horses rearing up, their hooves thrashing in their air, their mouths opened as if they meant to devour some enemy or trespasser with their teeth. Swift Foot had never liked those statues; they had frightened her when she was a little girl, and she liked them little better now. She passed beneath them as swiftly as she could and tried to put them from her mind.

The Imperial Throne of Mistral sat upon a raised dais, reachable by a long purple carpet that crossed the centre of the room. Three steps led up to the throne of gold, which was surrounded by jagged spikes of grey stone as though the rock itself, a living thing, had erupted to hedge the seat of Emperors about with defences just as the swords and spears of Mistral had, in elder days, hedged round the Imperial dignity.

Her father, Lord Diomedes, did not sit upon the throne. He sat on a chair of black ebony wood at the base of the dais, and by his side stood Swift Foot’s eldest sister, Terri-Belle.

Lord Diomedes was a man turned old by the cares of state; his hair and bristling beard alike were as white as snow and as wild as a winter squall, the beard descending down to his chest and his hair past his shoulders; his eyes were a cold grey, like iron, and his face was as broad and hard as any brawler from the lower slopes — if his eyes were grey as iron, then his face was the anvil on which the iron would be beaten into shape. His shoulders were broad, and he wore a crimson toga over a segmented cuirass of bronzed metal, while a guard of just such a bronze colour protected his brow and nose.

Terri-Belle, who stood beside him, was tall, her arms and legs toned with muscle; she was dressed, as was her habit, as a warrior, clad in an armoured cuirass which guarded her chest, stomach, and some of her shoulders, but left her arms bare down to the heavy vambraces that she wore strapped to both her wrists. Studded pteruges guarded her thighs and covered up the short blue skirt she wore beneath. Her hands, and two of the four fingers upon each of them, were covered by black gloves which left her remaining fingers bare. A spindly silver armband encircled her left arm. Her horn was at her hip, and her spear, Thunderbolt, was in her hand, the butt resting upon the floor.

Swift Foot approached and dropped to one knee before her father’s seat, bowing her head.

“You’re late,” her father said, his voice curling with disapproval.

“I’m sorry, Father—”

“In this room, you call me lord,” Lord Diomedes reminded her.

Swift Foot swallowed. “Of course, my lord. I’m sorry, I was—”

“I am not interested in your excuses,” Lord Diomedes declared. “We will discuss an appropriate punishment later, but now, to business, since we have so little time remaining.”

Terri-Belle took a step forward. “Father has decided that you will attend court today, at my side.”

Swift Foot looked up, a gasp escaping. She would attend court? With the lords and councillors? “Why?”

“Do you not wish to be of service to Mistral and to me?” Lord Diomedes demanded.

“I do,” Swift Foot said quickly. “Of course I do; I merely—”

“Then it is time,” Terri-Belle said. She approached, looming over Swift Foot until she knelt down beside her and placed one hand firmly, but not uncomfortably, upon her youngest sister’s shoulder. “Watch, listen, and say nothing.” She smiled. “For the most part, that is what Father himself will do. What a wise lord does: listen, take counsel, sort the wisdom from the folly, and only at the end decide what advice is good to follow.”

Swift Foot nodded. “And what will you do?”

“I will speak,” Terri-Belle said. “As it is required for someone to speak. Now up; they will be arriving soon.”

Swift Foot climbed to her feet. “What of Shining Light and Blonn Di?”

“Your sisters will be meeting with the Merchants’ Guild and the Most Ancient and Honourable Company of Caravaneers,” Lord Diomedes said, sounding as though the notion bored him. “To assure them that the convoys to and from Mistral will not be threatened.”

“And why is that important?” Terri-Belle asked.

Swift Foot rolled her eyes. “Because thanks to the Company’s influence, overland convoys are still the most common form of intra-continental transport,” she recited.

Terri-Belle’s lips twitched. “Correct.”

“You coddle her too much,” Lord Diomedes said. “To know so little deserves no praise.” He affixed her with his gaze. “And how does the Company sustain its power?”

This one required a little thought. “Organised crime?” she said, half-guessing. It was something like that; at least one of the grand old guilds was hip-deep with the gangs that infested the lower slopes; it was the pinnacle of said gangs’ influence, though not of the guilds themselves. Their voices were heard in the councils of the high and in the gutters of the low — and they owned everything in between. In some ways, they were more powerful than some lords. Or at least more influential.

Lord Diomedes nodded. “You are not completely without wisdom then, I see.”

Whatever else might have passed between them was interrupted by the arrival of a robed servant, dressed in the livery of the palace, who bowed from the waist before announcing, “Lady Nikos, my lord.”

Lady Nikos entered the throne room, tall and proud, walking with the aid of an ebony cane. She passed beneath the equine statues as though they meant nothing to her. Terri-Belle and Swift Foot stood aside for her as she approached, so that none might stand between her and the steward.

When she had reached about the point at which Swift Foot had bowed, she too bowed, placing both hands upon her cane as she bowed from the waist. “My Lord Steward,” she said. “I hope you will forgive a failure to genuflect; I fear I would be unable to rise again.”

Lord Diomedes chuckled. “Fear not, my lady; our dignity is not more precious than your comfort. Welcome, I am glad that you have decided to grace us with your presence. I have missed your wisdom in the council chamber these years passed.”

“You do me kindness, or else you flatter me,” Lady Nikos declared. “For myself, I think I have given Mistral a greater gift than any counsel I gave to you, my lord.”

“Though she is far away, and farther than some of us would wish, your daughter’s actions burnish Mistral’s glory, my lady,” Terri-Belle said. “Be welcome.”

“Thank you, Lady Terri-Belle,” Lady Nikos replied. “And Lady Swift Foot, a welcome surprise to see you here.”

Swift Foot bowed her head. “My lady.”

“Lord Rutulus, my lord,” the same servant who had announced Lady Nikos’ arrival now declared. “And … ahem, Miss Camilla Volsci.”

Swift Foot glanced up at Terri-Belle, but her eldest sister’s face was expressionless, and if she was surprised to hear that Camilla Volsci was here, let alone displeased, she gave no sign of it.

Swift Foot knew who it was, of course; everyone in Mistralian high society knew Camilla Volsci, the faunus girl whom old Lord Rutulus had rescued from traffickers and taken into his own house, to be raised alongside his own children. In Lord Rutulus’ absences, she did all the work in representing him and his interests that ought, by rights, have been performed by Lord Rutulus' own sister. But why was she here? Was she allowed to be here, neither noble nor councillor?

The answer came to Swift Foot a moment later: she was allowed to be here so long as no one actively objected to her presence. But would anyone object? Would her father, or her sister?

“There is more wisdom in her than in her lord,” Terri-Belle murmured, so softly that her voice carried only so far as Swift Foot. “If she is here with him, I welcome it.”

Lady Nikos made way, as Terri-Belle and Swift Foot had made way before her, as Lord Rutulus and Camilla made their way down the centre of the throne room. Turnus Rutulus was a man tall and broad shouldered, his long dark hair streaked with blood red at the tips that curled about his chin; he was unarmed but wore a black cuirass and pteruges over his blood red tunic, as though he feared to be attacked within the palace walls. A tiger stripe sash was bound around his waist, and like all noble Mistralians — save, at present, for Swift Foot, who had not received hers yet — he wore an honour band around his left arm; his was gleaming gold and patterned in such a way that it, too, suggested the stripes of a tiger.

Camilla wore a black dress with a high neckline that embraced her throat but left her pale, fair shoulders bare, descending to a slightly ruffled skirt that stopped just below her thighs. On her right arm, she wore a vambraces that protected her wrist and the back of her hand, while on her left, the vambraces extended all the way up to meet the couter that warded her elbow. Purple sleeves covered her upper arms below the shoulders, while a single rerebrace sat upon her right arm. Her boots were black, and high, and looked stiff enough to offer some protection, leaving only a little of her legs exposed. A dark cuirass protected her belly and one breast, but was half-concealed beneath the bindings of purple cloth, shading softly into white, that descended from her waist down to between her legs; like her master, she wore a tiger stripe sash, but hers was the stripes of a white tiger of the snowy peaks, while her honour band was set with pearls.

Like Lady Nikos before him, Turnus bowed; unlike her, he didn’t have the excuse of a bad leg to excuse why he didn’t drop to one knee, as Camilla did.

“My lord,” Turnus said. “I thank you for your invitation. It is good that the old ways are being revived.”

“Not all the old ways, my lord, or else your companion would wear chains,” Terri-Belle said.

Turnus looked at her. He hesitated. “Yes, well … progress is a good thing, in many respects. Something I fear that we forget too often. And yet we must not forget that there is a place for some traditions also.”

“How very wise of you, my lord,” Terri-Belle said. Her voice dropped as she muttered, “Pompous ass.”

Turnus did not hear her. Rather, he turned to Lady Nikos. “How now, my lady?” He reached out to take her hand and raised it to his lips. “How is your daughter?”

“Pyrrha was well, when last we spoke,” Lady Nikos declared. “Although a trifle melancholy as a result of this dreadful business in Vale.”

“The sorrows of others touch a kind heart deeply,” Camilla murmured. “Her melancholy speaks well of her.”

“And yet I — and many others — would that she were home, and away from such sorrows, as would many in the kingdom,” Turnus declared. “If she were to come home, then the whole city would rejoice to see her.”

“And yet, my lord, she will not come,” Lady Nikos said. “Lady Terri-Belle has tried and been rebuffed in my very presence.”

“It is not only melancholy that grips her, but a degree of stubbornness also,” Terri-Belle said. Her voice became a trifle mischievous as she added, “Or that which youth calls love.”

Turnus’ face darkened. “Lady Nikos,” he said. “This Valish boy with which Pyrrha demeans herself—”

“'Demeans herself'?” Lady Nikos said. “My opinion of Mister Arc aside, you will not speak of my daughter ‘demeaning herself’ in my hearing, Lord Rutulus.”

“Of course not, forgive me,” Turnus said at once. “I am…” He trailed off, and said nothing further as to what he was.

One by one, Lord Diomedes’ guests arrived: Professor Lionheart, looking nervously around him as though someone might jump out to scare him in a childish prank; Lady Ming, dressed in a kimono of white; Councillors Ward and Kiyat; Lady Vasilias in a stola of sea blue; the heads of Mistral’s grand old houses, those that yet lived, joined by those most prosperous new families who had acquired sufficient wealth to be called noble in all but name. They filled up the throne room with their bodies and with their chatter, talking amongst themselves while Lord Diomedes, silent, watched them all from where he sat hunched on his chair.

Terri-Belle slammed the butt of Thunderbolt down onto the ground. The sound of its crash echoed in the throne room, and silenced the voices of all within.

“My lords, ladies, Councillors, noble citizens of Mistral,” Terri-Belle said, walking forward into the empty space in the centre of the room, putting herself in the midst of all the court here assembled. “On behalf of my father, and in my own right as Warden of the White Tower, I thank you for your presence here. As you well know, I hope, if you are not completely incurious, you will know that the Kingdom of Vale recently suffered a grimm attack the likes of which has scarce been seen. We are gathered here to discuss how we may reassure the people that Mistral is as strong and safe as ever and to discuss how we shall respond to this unexpected turn of events.”

“Could Mistral withstand such an assault as we have witnessed on Vale?” asked Georgia Yeoh, stepping forward slightly out of the crowd. She was a woman in her late middle years, but with her black hair largely untouched by greys and her skin largely untouched by wrinkles; the Yeoh family was not one of Mistral’s most prominent, but they enjoyed the patronage of the House of Ming, and Swift Foot guessed that Ms. Yeoh was acting as Lady Ming’s vanguard. “Perhaps the people are right to be nervous.”

Terri-Belle’s momentary silence gave away that she did not think Ms. Yeoh to be completely wrong. “Let us not become consumed by despair,” she said. “We are not so foolish as the Valish as to have a tunnel running from grimm-controlled territory to underneath the city; there is no easy way for the grimm to circumvent our walls. And, I am sure that, if the city were to come under attack, then every warrior in the city would take up arms in its defence.”

“And how many warriors are left in the city?” Lady Ming asked. “Lady Terri-Belle, is it not so that many huntsmen are late returning from their missions, in some cases weeks overdue?”

The court broke out in murmurings and whispers. Swift Foot saw Terri-Belle clench one hand into a fist.

“Peace, good people, I pray you,” Terri-Belle said. She hesitated for a moment. “It is so,” she admitted, which only led to the murmuring, so recently stilled, breaking out once more. “Peace, I say again,” she cried. “I mean to set out tomorrow and search for our missing huntsmen, and I for one yet have hope that some of them may be found alive.”

“Then where are they?” Lady Ming demanded. “If they have not returned — after so long, in some cases — then must we not assume that they are dead? Lionheart, how many huntsmen remain in the city and accounted for?”

“Uh … sixty, or perhaps seventy,” Professor Lionheart said.

“You don’t sound very certain,” Camilla pointed out. “And does that include the Imperial Guard?”

“One would hope not, or we are in trouble,” Lady Ming said.

“N-no,” Professor Lionheart stammered. “No, it does not.”

“The Imperial Guard has not escaped unharmed from this … whatever is causing the disappearance of our huntsmen,” Terri-Belle admitted. “But I can yet muster forty-seven spears or swords at my command.”

“So that is one hundred and seventeen huntsmen at most,” Lady Ming said. “Very few with which to hold a city, even leaving aside the rest of our vast domains.”

“There are some huntsmen still scattered across the countryside, continuing to defend the outlying settlements against bandits or grimm,” Professor Lionheart ventured.

“Until they are picked off as well like all the rest,” Lady Ming said.

“If the city were to come under attack, I have no doubt that we would be able to call on the services of Lord Rutulus and his fighters,” Terri-Belle said. “I hope, my lord, that you would not abandon the city in its hour of need.”

“The House of Rutulus has always answered Mistral when she calls,” Turnus declared. “It has been true in my own lifetime, in fact, and would be true again, if need be. Assuming, of course, that I and my men were in the city.”

“So we must count on Lord Rutulus being unemployed,” Lady Ming said tartly.

“There are also the tournament fighters who could be mobilised if need be,” Terri-Belle said.

“Not enough,” Lady Ming insisted.

“I hear a great many criticisms,” Lord Diomedes rumbled from his chair, “but I hear far less in the way of solutions; come! This is not a forum for carping, but to hear how we may ready ourselves. Lady Ming, Ms. Yeoh, do you have anything to suggest, or do you only have holes to pick in our arrangements?”

Turnus folded his arms. “Androids would make up the deficiency in manpower,” he suggested. “For an order large enough to protect the whole city, I am certain the SDC would give us a fair price. I could even reach out to my contacts and attempt to negotiate a discount.”

“How very generous of you, Lord Rutulus,” Councillor Kiyat said. “But you are not a Councillor yet, and we have no need of your help negotiating with the SDC.”

“It is my understanding,” Ms. Yeoh said, “that the SDC androids are of poor quality, practically disposable, unable to withstand attack.”

“All valid, but they would be sufficient to man the walls against attack,” Turnus said. “And free our limited numbers of capable fighters fit to act as a flying column wherever the attack should be pressed home.”

“We cannot rely upon Atlesian toys,” Ms. Yeoh declared. “If we must model ourselves upon Atlas, then let it be by the raising of an army.”

There was momentary silence in the court.

“An … an army?” Councillor Ward repeated. “An army from where?”

“From amongst the people, Cicero, where else?” Lady Ming demanded.

“Mercenaries?” Councillor Ward suggested.

“Where are we to find them in sufficient numbers?” Lady Ming asked. “And besides, a state that depends upon mercenaries and auxiliaries—”

“Yes, yes, my lady, we are aware,” Councillor Ward said quickly. “But this is not a game; citizen armies cannot be conjured out of thin air; they take time to raise and what then? Does anyone believe that commoners pressed into service and given weapons will be able to stand against the grimm? Or even against a reasonably-sized bandit tribe? We will lead the people to their deaths.”

“Not to mention that raising an army after so long without one is hardly likely to calm the public anxieties,” Councillor Kiyat muttered.

“So we do nothing?” Lady Ming asked. “We sit and wait and tell the people that all is well, and all the while, the tide comes in around our sandcastle?”

“That’s ridiculously melodramatic, my lady,” Councillor Ward said. “Mistral is not under attack.”

“Nor was Vale, until it was,” Lady Ming said.

“Have you given any thought as to how this would be done, my lady?” Terri-Belle asked.

“I have,” Ms. Yeoh answered. “I have prepared a full dossier with all of my recommendations, if the Warden of the White Tower would care to read it. As the Councillor has pointed out, armies cannot be conjured out of thin air, but by starting with a single regiment or two, we could ensure a solid cadre of troops who are well-disciplined and -equipped, if not experienced, to form the nucleus around which a larger force could be created. I believe the people are wise enough to understand the reasons for our action without panicking unduly. Those of you so concerned that the act of beginning to protect ourselves will bring the grimm to the door should have more faith in the people of Mistral.”

“Do you think the people of Mistral will flock to the colours?” Terri-Belle asked.

“Are the lower slopes still not wretched?” Ms. Yeoh asked. “Not everyone who grows up there can be Arslan Altan; there are many, I believe, who would welcome an easier escape from poverty and deprivation.”

“And how would you equip this force?” Terri-Belle asked.

“I believe MARS should be able to oblige us, for the right price,” said Ms. Yeoh.

“The SDC would give you better value for money,” Turnus declared.

“But not better quality, I think, my lord,” Lady Ming replied.

Turnus frowned. “I yield to no one here in my admiration for the Atlesian military and its capabilities, but traditionally, the prerogative to raise standing troops in arms — as opposed to raising a levy for a campaign or war — is held not by the kingdom itself but by … not to put too fine a point on it, but by those of us in this room?”

“Would you have us raise an army so, Lord Rutulus?” Lady Nikos asked. “Would you raise a regiment, and then I do the same, and Lady Ming another until the city is awash with armed bands?”

“He’s raised a regiment already,” Councillor Ward muttered.

Turnus did not look fazed by the response. “Why not?” he asked. “It was how it was always done, how Mistral fought its wars and won the largest territory of any kingdom in Remnant.”

“And lost the greatest war,” Lady Nikos replied. “And the war against the faunus that followed; I do not regret that we lost that war, for our cause was not just, but nevertheless, the methods with which we fought the war left something to be desired.”

“Forces on the Atlesian model, of course,” Turnus said. “But who better to lead them than we who are bred and born to command?”

But where will you lead them? Swift Foot wondered. And against who?

“You speak of armies, but what of fleets?” Camilla asked. “Is Mistral to have its own warships, also, in your plan?”

“Of course,” Ms. Yeoh said. “We are fortunate to have two ships in mothballs, the Dingyuan and the Zhenyuan, laid down twenty years ago. They were never deployed due to reallocation of resources, but all work was completed on them first; I believe them to be serviceable.”

“So do others,” Lord Diomedes said. “I have received an offer from the new First Councillor of Vale, Aspen Emerald, offering to buy both vessels from us to augment the strength of their own fleet.”

“So we will strengthen the Valish and deprive ourselves?” Lady Nikos asked.

“Is that not what you have done, my lady?” Lady Ming asked. “Strengthened the Valish and deprived us?”

“By all means, sell the Valish our obsolete junk,” Councillor Kiyat said. “If we agree that ships are necessary, then squeeze every lien out of Vale and use the money to buy new, modern vessels for ourselves.”

“We seem to have come to an agreement that this is necessary,” Councillor Ward observed. Swift Foot was inclined to agree.

“Less than a hundred and twenty warriors to defend Mistral, at the most,” Lady Ming reminded him. “Does that state of affairs seem as though it can continue to you? As though it should? And that is only assuming that no other huntsmen leave Mistral on assignments from which they do not return.”

“I will find out what is causing our huntsmen to disappear,” Terri-Belle vowed. “But … I concede there is some force in what you say, my lady.”

“Save that the city has survived since the faunus war without an army,” Lady Nikos pointed out.

“Indeed, we are discussing vast expenditure for an uncertain purpose,” Councillor Ward reminded them.

Professor Lionheart said, “I believe that our graduates from Haven Academy—”

“That your graduates from Haven Academy are not pisspoor is a reflection of their natural quality, not the standards of your instruction, Lionheart,” Lady Ming snapped.

“Should we not discuss the question of bringing our students home whilst we are on the subject?” Councillor Ward asked. “I have a son currently at Beacon, as does Lady Vasilias; Lady Nikos has a daughter. And beyond this court, there are the fathers and mothers of every Haven student Mistral born, and of those young Mistralians who decided to seek … other educational opportunities at other academies who are now asking themselves ‘is it safe? Should my child remain at Beacon in these present circumstances?’ Thank the gods of sea and sky that Pyrrha Nikos was not killed defending what the Valish call the Breach, but if that chokepoint had not been held…”

“It scarcely bears thinking about,” Camilla said.

“Indeed,” Councillor Ward agreed. “It was bad enough with the White Fang on the rampage, but now this? How can we trust Vale to keep our children safe? How can our people trust Vale to keep our children safe.”

“General Ironwood has been appointed head of security for the Vytal Festival,” Turnus pointed out. “If we are to model our own military upon the Atlesians, perhaps we should put some trust in the Atlesian military?”

“We have spoken of avoiding an outbreak of public panic,” Lady Ming said. “And yet, we propose to withdraw the Haven students, attempt to pull out Mistralian students from Beacon and Atlas, ship them all home in great haste, what does that say except that we are scared?”

“Pyrrha will not come home,” Lady Nikos declared, “and while I understand Councillor Ward’s concerns, it seems to me, as it seems to my daughter who is there in Vale, that the worst of the danger has past: the threat of the White Fang and the grimm neutralised, as Lady Terri-Belle and I have discussed already.”

“It is highly unlikely there are sufficient grimm in Vale for another such attack, and their route into Vale is cut off,” Terri-Belle said. “Having failed to bring the students home before now, I suggest we might look rather ridiculous if we did so now that the danger is reduced.”

“Not to mention cowardly,” Lady Nikos added.

“'Cowardly'?” Councillor Ward gasped.

“Yes, Cicero, cowardly,” Lady Nikos repeated. “To flee in the face of danger, is that the act of a Mistralian warrior? Is that what we wish to teach our children, a lesson more detrimental to the next generation of our pride and strength than anything that Leo might teach them — or fail to teach them? What will be said of us in Vale and Atlas if we quit the city and the tournament because we remembered there were grimm in the vicinity? We will be the laughingstock of all Remnant.” She paused for a moment. “The reputation of Haven Academy has suffered in recent years. Huntsmen trained at Beacon are more highly regarded for their skill, and those of Atlas for their discipline; but I believe, I hope, that our Mistralian huntsmen yet have a reputation for valour unmatched by any others in the four kingdoms. Will we throw that reputation away now, when the worst of the threat has passed?”

“That is all a very pretty way of saying you wish to see a crown of laurel placed upon your daughter’s head, my lady,” Councillor Kiyat said, his voice rich with amusement.

Lady Nikos, for her part, did not look offended. “I take comfort from knowing that my personal desires are in alignment with the good of Mistral in this.”

Lord Diomedes raised his hand, and the whole court went quiet, waiting to hear what he had decided.

For her part, Swift Foot tried to work out what he would decide, based upon all that he had heard.

It seemed almost that there would be the raising of some sort of army; even Terri-Belle had admitted that they had need of greater strength in their defence. But, equally, Swift Foot was certain that he would not simply grant the lords and ladies the right to raise troops as they wished; he would not grant that much power to those who might use that power against him. No, it would be Lady Ming’s proposal, or nothing: an army, yes, but at his own command — or under Terri-Belle’s command, at least — that would not threaten him.

But would he sell the Valish the ships? Ships today, or ships tomorrow? That depended, to Swift Foot’s mind, on how urgent you thought the need was. If you thought it desperately necessary to put something in the air for the defence of Mistral, then two old hulks were better than nothing, provided the weapons worked; but if you thought that it could wait, then you may as well sell the Valish your old tat while they were desperate and buy yourself something new and shiny with the proceeds. It was certain that the Valish were desperate, but what about Mistral?

Desperate enough to raise an army for the first time in decades. While Mistral was not under threat, it was clear that the Breach had rattled them; Swift Foot was surprised by the lack of people trying to mount a defence of the old ways. But then, the old ways had been dying in Mistral for some time. The city clung to its past, but no matter how desperately it clung to it, that past slipped through its fingers all the same. There was a reason why Pyrrha Nikos was known as the Evenstar: she harkened back to a time almost vanished, the last gleaming of a light that would soon be extinguished by the blazing sun of an uncertain future.

In the old days, the Emperor had allowed the Lords Rutulus and Thrax and Ming and all the rest to raise their retinues in arms, confident that that they would never turn that strength against the throne: the honour of those noble houses had been too great, and had any family so shamed themselves as to take up arms against the throne, then every other noble line would have leapt to swords and spears in defence of the House of Victory.

The line of Thrax was not so sacrosanct, nor was the rank of Steward. Swift Foot knew that it rankled with Terri-Belle that their father was not called an Emperor, or King at the very least, but in Mistral, it was not simply a question of how long it took to make a steward a sovereign, nor was it simply a question of the rightful royal line continuing to hang around like a bad smell — or even such a wonderful smell that it reminded people of why their Thracian scent paled in comparison … there was only one royal line in Mistral, and that line stretched back even to the very founding of the kingdom, encompassing wars, triumphs, disasters, periods when Mistral had been conqueror and conquered; romance, pride, heroism, glory beyond imagining, the line of Nikos had presided over all of it. What was the stewardship compared to that? What was a family that had only ever held second place until less than a hundred years ago, and that had secured its power through double-dealing and shady arrangements with faunus warlords?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

Perhaps the Breach had not really rattled the court nearly so much as it seemed; perhaps it was really just an excuse to put the old ways out of their misery once and for all.

Lord Diomedes said, “We will not withdraw our students from the Vytal Festival. We will not flee after the battle is already won, and we will not cast aside Mistral’s best chance of victory in ten years.” He favoured Lady Nikos with a smile. “That said, we take heed of the concerns expressed with regards to the state of our defences, and for that reason, my lord Rutulus, we will be most gratified if you will reach out to your friends in the north and begin negotiating for the purchase of a large number of these combat androids. The Council will, of course, review the terms before any payment is made.”

“My Lord Steward,” Councillor Ward began. “Lord Rutulus—”

“Will serve us well in this while you, Councillor, make contact with the Valish Council and begin negotiating for the sale of the Dingyuan and the Zhenyuan. And, while we feel the age of private armies has passed, we are minded to consider the proposals of Ms. Yeoh for a gradual increase in our martial strength. Ms. Yeoh, if you will submit this dossier you speak of to my daughter, the Warden of the White Tower and commander of any army we should raise, then she will evaluate it and give me — and the Council — her final recommendations. My lords and ladies, Councillors and noble citizens, does any voice dissent from this course?”

No one spoke. It was much as Swift Foot had expected, and for that part which she had not guessed — they were selling the ships.

Almost as if this was really about power after all.

But then, with her family, was it ever really about anything else?

Comments

[Kiue Jin]

Oh, good old Minstral... where appearances are so important that it strangles actual substance.

That being said, it is good to see that the government is taking its situation seriously. That being said, it appears that a lot of its problems with Huntsmen and the quality of Haven can be traced to Lionheart. I cannot help but feel with Lord Diomedes' character that the main reason he keeps Lionheart around as Headmaster, despite the fact that he is a useless toady who is running the academy to the ground is because he is a spineless toady who will do as he's told: A more competent headmaster might be more of a thorn in his side.

[Corax Morn]

“Where are we to find them in sufficient numbers?” Lady Ming asked. “And besides, a state that depends upon mercenaries and auxiliaries—”

I read that chapter of The Prince yesterday, and today this comes out. Rarely have I seen such good timing.

[Alysion]

11171413
I cannot help but feel with Lord Diomedes' character that the main reason he keeps Lionheart around as Headmaster, despite the fact that he is a useless toady who is running the academy to the ground is because he is a spineless toady who will do as he's told: A more competent headmaster might be more of a thorn in his side.

It's maybe also because the system is making almost imposible to get rid of a Headmaster. Lionhearth can seem incompetent but I don't think Ozpin will let him down

But it's true that Mistral is also a bit more monarchist. Those rules may have a bit less ground there

[Aemon Targaryen]

The line of Thrax was not so sacrosanct, nor was the rank of Steward. Swift Foot knew that it rankled with Terri-Belle that their father was not called an Emperor, or King at the very least, but in Mistral, it was not simply a question of how long it took to make a steward a sovereign, nor was it simply a question of the rightful royal line continuing to hang around like a bad smell — or even such a wonderful smell that it reminded people of why their Thracian scent paled in comparison … there was only one royal line in Mistral, and that line stretched back even to the very founding of the kingdom, encompassing wars, triumphs, disasters, periods when Mistral had been conqueror and conquered; romance, pride, heroism, glory beyond imagining, the line of Nikos had presided over all of it. What was the stewardship compared to that? What was a family that had only ever held second place until less than a hundred years ago, and that had secured its power through double-dealing and shady arrangements with faunus warlords?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

It remind me of the Tyrell of ASOIAF and how tenuous their hold on power was due to them being initially mere stewards.

[Lancerguy]

And the pieces begin to move as the ripples reach the other kingdoms. It went as expected from our players, both new and familiar as Mistral now enters the field and the wheels continue to spin ever faster

[alfonso_rd_33]

11171413
Then again, Ozma as the last king of Vale designed the system of the academies, and the appointment of their headmasters in a pseudo separation of Councils and Academies