The Last Stronghold of the Elite [1948 - 1969]

[Myroria]

Along the banks of the River Ser in Fellowmoor there is a community of gaudy faux-baroque mansions, each with its own little dock and yacht and each with its own family of old Indiotrovth and Moomintroth nobles. The neighborhood's name is West Ivory, but among the middle and lower classes of the city it is more widely known as "the place where people disappear", because no family that moves inside its walls leaves. Not because it is some prison or sanitarium, oh no, because any family that moves inside West Ivory can never find a reason to leave.

The year is 1944, and the cannons that threatened Fellowmoor have been gone for over thirty years. The monarch is Fendryn Quarrovth, first of his name, and once mighty Moomintroth is now His Majesty's Loyal Opposition in the Council. West Ivory, however, has remained a stronghold of Myroria's old wealthy families, Houses Indiotrovth and Moomintroth. Quarrovth's noblemen and women lie scattered around Fellowmoor, Pelagis, and the House's namesake city. However, one Quarrovth nobleman with (relatively) few credentials or friends has managed through both luck and skill to buy a mansion near the gates of West Ivory, nestled among the old money of Myroria. This nobleman's name is Marcica Quarrovth.

He is what Mrs. Claudette Ranroth referred to as "the moneyed intruder at the gates of West Ivory", and what Ms. Gorven Ranes referred to as "The trebuchet at the walls of the last stronghold of the elite". Make no mistake though, these women of high repute are in a way correct. Sera Quarrovth is indeed an intruder inside the walls of this grand castle, and bought his "little cottage" (to use the locals' term) specifically to spite the old money inside West Ivory.

That being said, being a parvenu to wealth, with all its accompanying arrogance, does not stop one from going far, especially when this nouveau riche man belongs to Great House Quarrovth. In fact, one could make the argument that Mr. Quarrovth's inherent ambition would serve him well in government. And one would be right. Marcica Quarrovth's story begins in a most unremarkable place; his office at the Fellowmoor meetinghouse for members of House Quarrovth. Marcica serves as head of the establishment, running the bureaucracy that he was once part of. The census in Myroria is due to occur next year, and seats on the Council are going to be apportioned to each House; therefore, almost the entirety of House Quarrovth's employees are being put to work trying to raise support for the House and gain - or at least keep - seats on the Council. Marcica, as head of one of the larger meetinghouses in the nation, is scheduled to speak at the House Quarrovth National Convention in the capital on April 23.

This speech is really Marcica's first foray into national politics - like the monarchy, all the important positions in the House are based on family, and Marcica inherited his position upon the death of his father. Understandably, then, Marcica is a bit anxious about his scheduled appearance before many high-ranking Quarrovth nobles, even if his speech has been checked and rechecked by the finest writers the Fellowmoor office has to offer.


The Convention proper began on April 20, a year before the census was due to occur. However, due to a delay at home Marcica didn't arrive at the Hotel Pelagis, its setting, until early the next day. This delay, Marcica would later realize, was a godsend. Because after he put his bags in his room (all expenses paid, of course - the monarch is not stingy when this convention could lead to five years of being a lame duck ruler), Marcica decided that all the stress concerning his arrival would best be resolved by a few minutes, or hours, in the hotel's hashish bar. While the delicacy of hashish was already going out of style in America and Eluvatar, in Myroria it remained fashionable among the elite, and any hotel as decadent as the Pelagis would have a fully stocked bar for its customers. It is here, in this hashish bar, that Marcica meets the person who will propel him to the highest echelons of the Imperial government.

[Myroria]

Marcica scanned the smoky bar upon entrance. Sitting at the bar were several foreign-looking businessmen with loosened ties laughing and joking; how uncultured. There were several small groups sitting at tables positioned throughout the joint, but one man in a cream-colored blazer was sitting alone at a table. Judging from the crest on his breast pocket, the man appeared to be with House Quarrovth, so Marcica decided to approach him and introduce himself.

Upon asking the man "Mind if I sit?" and being invited to, Marcica could tell from the strong smell of his cigar that this man was smoking regular tobacco instead of hashish like most of the patrons, and so Marcica took out his own tin of cigarettes, opting to keep his mind at least relatively clear, though the ever-present hashish smoke would still do its job.

"Marcica Quarrovth," he said, putting his lighter back in his coat pocket and extending his hand.

"Gothren Quarrith." the man replied, making sure that Marcica knew his family were good city folk in the olden days, instead of the disgustingly rich plantation owners Marcica had some extremely distant relation to.

"Are you here for the convention?" Marcica broached, asking the obvious. Gothren pointed at the crest on his breast.

"Mm. Deputy to the Lord Chamberlain. I'm supposed to make sure the royalty are well taken care of," injecting sarcasm into the last phrase of his sentence. A man who clearly didn't appreciate his luck in living in the various palaces with the Imperial Family. "What about you?" Gothren added.

"I, uh...I'm the director of the Fellowmoor Meetinghouse."

"That's nice," Gothren replied distantly. He clearly did not like being accosted by some stranger in a bar, especially without any booze in his stomach.

"I'm supposed to speak," Marcica said awkwardly. "On how to extend our House's appeal to old money."

"Mmhmm." Gothren saw out of the corner of his eye a waitress approaching with a phone on a tray, dragging an extremely long cord behind her. His face made a quick expression that screamed "Finally!" before returning to his previous apathetic expression.

"Someone called asking for you," the waitress began, nearly tripping on the phone's cord.

"I think I know who it is..." Gothren replied with a tired tone in his voice. Marcica then sat at the table silently as Gothren nodded his head and spoke words of affirmation into the phone. He hung it up and gave it back to the waitress before turning to Marcica. "It's been a...pleasure meeting you, Mr. Quarrovth. But I'm afraid I must return to my room as I have business to attend to. I'll be sure to see you speak at the convention tomorrow. Thank-you-goodbye!" he said, putting his cigar into an ashtray and quickly scurrying from the bar. Marcica sat alone at the table.

[Myroria]

Again Marcica found himself at the bar, though this time it was an actual bar, a bar-type bar, and not the hashish sort he was in previously. He had just finished his speech to the crowd gathered at the convention, and having heard somewhat genuine applause he patted himself on the back for at least entertaining the audience for fifteen minutes and scurried from the stage and into the nearest bar, a small one off the main ballroom of the hotel. A band was playing some Myrorian folk song to the people milling about the ballroom, and thus Marcica did not hear over the sound of the music the door to the bar opening. It was only when the bartender looked up from absently wiping the bar that our protagonist saw the man entering.

"Mr. Quarrovth, do you remember me?" It was Gothren, but Marcica didn't want to look too interested, so he only replied with a "Gothren Quarrith, yes?" before getting an affirmative nod.

"My patron would wish to see you, Mr. Quarrovth. They were quite impressed by your speech." That would make one who was.

"I, uh...okay?" Marcica said. He was slightly buzzed from the scotch he had been drinking.

"Excellent," came Gothren's reply. He seemed much more interested in Marcica this time, though the interest was probably entirely fake. "Perhaps it would be best if we went to our suite."

"Perhaps," Marcica replied, quickly placing his money on the bar and downing the rest of his scotch. Gothren looked unimpressed.

"This way, serjo." Gothren lead Marcica down a hall he had not yet seen in the hotel, into an elevator and pressed "5" - the best rooms were, of course, at the top of the building. "I recommend you fix your tie," Gothren said, staring ahead as the elevator rumbled up. Marcica looked down and saw his red tie was loosened and askew. He quickly straightened it as the doors opened. "This way, serjo." Gothren said again, leading him down more unrecognizable halls. Finally Gothren stopped him before a double door - you knew a room was nice when it had double doors. Gothren slid his key into the lock and swung open one of the oak behemoths. The room was immaculately done up, even nicer than the luxury accomodations Marcica enjoyed.

"Hello?" Gothren called. There came no reply. "My patron must be out," he noted, sitting down in a plush armchair and fumbling for a cigarette case. "We will await her return." Gothren added, lighting his cigarette. He waved a hand at a nearby chair, inviting him to sit. Marcica shook his head, too anxious to sit. Who was his patron? Marcica knew that Gothren worked with the Imperial Family, but the Imperial Family was large, and he was just a deputy to the Lord Chamberlain - certainly no one to serve the Empeurer or his wife.

"Excuse me," Marcica finally blurted out. "I need to use the restroom." As it was a hotel room, Marcica quickly found his way through the generically-arranged suite and into the bathroom. He immediately put the toilet lid down and sat, staring at his feet. What if Gothren was lying the whole time? What if he was just some absurdly rich serial killer, wearing a blazer stolen from some dead Quarrovth bureaucrat? Marcica walked to the mirror and looked at his face. You could tell he had a couple drinks, but if this patron was indeed real they should understand why he'd need a drink after such a stressful experience as a speech. Marcica paced the bathroom for a few minutes before leaving and returning to find Gothren in his same seat, finishing his cigarette.

"Gothren?"

"You didn't flush the toilet."

"Huh? Oh, I was just uh, seeing if I looked presentable."

"Mm."

"Gothren?"

"Yes?"

"Who exactly is your patron?" As if on cue, the door to the suite opened.

"Why, the Crown Princess of course."

[Myroria]

"You wouldn't believe what they have in the laundry room, Gothren!" came a high pitched remark from the door, accompanied by an uneven click of high heels on tile. "A television! I had to go tell Tonasi something and it was just sitting there in the corner!" Now she was standing before him as Gothren puffed on his cigarette, maintaining a look of feigned interest. "We have a whole room for ours at the palace, and they just have them sitting in laundry rooms! Who would have imagined a hotel spent more than the Imperial Family!" she said, trailing off with laughter. Seeing a man standing awkwardly nearby in her peripheral vision, she turned to notice Marcica. "Serjo Quarrovth! I wasn't expecting Gothren would find you so easily!"

"It is a pleasure, Your Majesty." Marcica stammered with an uncomfortable bow. The smile faded from the Crown Princess' face.

"It's 'Your Highness' actually ... but I suppose I can forgive you this time." Looking to see that Gothren had silently vacated his seat to use the restroom or some similarly trivial business, she sat down in his chair. "I was very impressed by your speech, serjo. That part about old money being as old as rocks ... brilliance, indeed. I'm surprised it didn't get more laughs. I suppose people don't appreciate comedic genius as much as they used to."

"I suppose." said Marcica, his nervousness increasing with every word she said.

"But regardless," continued the Crown Princess, sensing his anxiety, "I have requested your presence to offer you a job with the Imperial Family. Being that I am heir apparent, so to speak, I am often called upon to make speeches and dedicate services - that sort of thing, the trivial stuff. The stuff my father doesn't like me using his speechwriter for. So I need a new one, of course. And after seeing your performance, I think you'd be fit for the job."

"Well, with all due respect, Your Highness..." began Marcica's awkward reply, "I'm not entirely sure if I'm willing to move here to Pelagis. I mean, I have a house in Fellowmoor which I have yet to pay off, among other engagements which might ... preclude my sudden movement."

"Well I simply cannot allow you to make such a major decision so suddenly. You, I, and Gothren here - " The Crown Princess turned to see Gothren still missing. "Well, Gothren wherever he is - will go to dinner to discuss this. Courtesy of my father, of course - pity he could not attend in person. There's a terrific restaurant near here owned by this adorable Hemlander couple. It's simply the best place for people with money to burn." Marcica looked at the wall next to him. This was not the sort of invitation one just refused, no matter how awkward it may be.

"Uh, that would be terrific Your Highness."

"Please. If we're going to spend three hours at dinner I don't want to be referred to as Your Highness. 'Fredrika' suits me well enough coming from such a polite acquaintance as yourself."


"Hm," began Marcica, looking at his first course. The ride over had settled his nerves enough to allow him to crack the occasional witty remark, so he took the opportunity. "They don't make full-body hairnets, do they?" Fredrika's lilting, grating laugh erupted from the other side of the table.

"Don't worry," replied Gothren with a grimace-smirk on his face. "They know well enough to keep their fur out of your food."

"Hm."

"Oh!" said Fredrika suddenly. "I never told you what was on that laundry room television!"

"Laundry room television?" said Gothren. "What laundry room television?" Fredrika squinted menacingly.

"The one I was telling you about! The television, in the laundry room!"

"They can afford to put a television in the laundry room?"

"Yes! That's what I was saying! I was surprised they could afford to have televisions all over the place!"

"What was on the laundry room television?" interjected Marcica to stop a scuffle from breaking out.

"They're trying to ban dueling in the Royal Confederacy;" began Fredrika. "It'll never happen."

"Why do you say that?" Marcica replied. He didn't even know what the Royal Confederacy was, though he had some inkling it was the title of Eluvatar.

"They don't like to change anything over there. Their king has been dead for 200 years but they still pretend he's alive. They still have trial by ordeal if you ask for it. The point is, Eluvatarans are a very stubborn people. Just ask my husband. They'll never get rid of dueling." Fredrika leaned in closer and kept her voice down. "We caused the Great War and still haven't outlawed assassination. Can you imagine what persists in a place like Eluvatar? Oh no ... it'll never go away." Their next course arrived, and Marcica had yet to get halfway through his first. The waitress was a Hemlander woman, who was probably short for her people but still towered over the table.

"Is everything alright?" she asked in her lilting accent.

"Yes, thank you." replied a dismissive Gothren. The waitress walked off. The Crown Princess' first course was a salad, and her main course was a Hemlander native dish - some sort of concoction of goat and buckwheat.

"If you don't mind me saying," began Marcica, again nervously, "I don't really think I can take this job. I have too many entanglements in Fellowmoor that I don't have the means to take care of."

"Mmm!" said Fredrika, finishing swallowing her goaty soup. "Who's the House leader for County Pelagis?" asked Fredrika.

"Well ... that'd be the Empeurer, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would, Marcica. And who is the only person in the nation who could take care of this whole entanglement in Fellowmoor for you? Legally, of course?"

"Well ... the Empeurer."

"Yes indeedy," said Fredrika. "And, who before you today is the Empeurer's beloved only child?"

"Well, you..."

"Yes!" Fredrika took another sip of her course. "Did you know, Marcica, that it wouldn't dent my father's wealth to pay off your house and put you up in  style here in Pelagis when you can't be home?"

"Well, I suppose..."

"So I don't see what the problem is." For the first time that night, Marcica actually looked into the Crown Princess' eyes. One could tell she was used to getting what she wanted. And it's hard to turn down the person who will eventually rule the nation.

"Okay..." Marcica said weakly.

"Good!"

[Myroria]

"You know what's coming up this December, don't you?" said Fredrika. They were at the same restaurant, but now it was the next morning and Gothren was missing. Probably attending to packing; tomorrow the Imperial entourage, now including Marcica apparently, would return to Pelagis. Fredrika was eating nothing this time around, but Marcica had a plate of pancakes before him - even the best Lycanthropic dishes couldn't compare with good old-fashioned pancakes in his opinion. Marcica was moving a forkful of pancake to his mouth, but paused.

"No, I don't." Fredrika looked disappointed and puzzled.

"Vrerevot. The fiftieth anniversary. You do know what happened in Vrerevot, don't you Marcica? My father fought there." Marcica chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before continuing.

"That's this December?"

"Yes. I need someone to write me a speech. And that someone is you."

"I gathered that much," said Marcica, stabbing pieces of pancake. His nervousness around the princess had all but disappeared. "But December is months from now. And it's not like you'll be saying much; your father will do all the talking."

"The Empeurer," began Fredrika, making it clear that it was HER father, and Marcica's king, "wants me to speak to the youth of Myroria, so they never forget the fiasco that happened there."

"Well don't worry Your Highness... I'll make sure the speech is done to the highest standards before the anniversary." Fredrika could detect a tone of exasperation in his voice. She looked at her thin wristwatch. The time was 11:24.

"We have to go." said Fredrika quickly.

"Wha? But I'm not done!"

"I promised Gothren I'd be back for 11:30."

"We left at 10:00!"

"It's not my fault you take an hour and a half to eat pancakes.

"I..."

"Check please!"

"Where are you in such a hurry to go?" Marcica asked as the Hemlander waitress lumbered over.

"I told you. I promised Gothren I'd be back."

"Shouldn't he be accommodating you?" Fredrika shook her head as the waitress stood at the end of the table. She fumbled for her wallet and gave the waitress seventy-five Imperial marches. "That should take care of it." she said with her best fake smile. The waitress looked incredulous. "I know the owner," continued the princess, nodding her head. "If it doesn't take care of it they'll trust me." The waitress nodded slowly and walked off. Fredrika stood up quickly with a "come on!". Marcica slowly rose from his seat and followed her out, putting his hand on her waist, years of taking women out to dinner making it instinct. She looked surprised but said nothing.

[Myroria]

The couple found Gothren standing at the end of the "Imperial Corridor", as the hallway outside the Princess' room had begun to be called, waving around various baggage handlers like a policeman directing traffic. At least two bellboys pushing luggage carts covered with various dry-cleaned gowns squeezed past Fredrika and Marcica before they got to Gothren.

"So why did you need me again?" asked Fredrika.

"I didn't," replied Gothren. "You told me you'd be back at 11:30." Fredrika squinted, as was her way when she disapproved of something that was said. "What?" asked Gothren. "I can feel your squint." Now the various servants and attendants were filing out of their rooms with their things to return to the palace. "I left you some clothes for the ride back to the palace tomorrow, not that it's a long one." With all of Fredrika's gowns and dresses and servants safely downstairs and stepping into cars, Gothren proceeded to open the door to the suite. "And sir," he said, directing his attention towards Marcica. "I recommend you get yourself some more ties. You were wearing that one when I met you a few days ago, and it is simply not acceptable for a man in the employ of His Majesty to own only four or five ties."

"I have some more at home..." Marcica replied passive-aggressively.

"Mm." came Gothren's reply, losing interest in the exchange. "Now, if I may, milady? I have yet to eat lunch and I would like to request my leave." His formal request came with a hint of friendly sarcasm.

"Go ahead." came Fredrika's reply with an equal amount of the stuff.


"May I remind all Myrorians of the dangers of totalitarian thinking," Marcica read off a heavily marked page. Now it was 5:30 instead of 11:30, but Gothren was still gone attending to the final preparations for the trip back to Pelagis - it was surprising how much had to be done to get the Imperial entourage back to Pelagis, only a few hours away. "During the darkest hours of the Great War, many Myrorians demanded a decrease in civil liberties to catch so-called 'traitors'. And now, in a much more dangerous world than that in 1898, a new generation will sometimes push for similar measures - measures that would disgrace everything the soldiers here at Vrerevot fought and died for. Liberty, equality, and freedom are things that all Myrorians should treasure. Thank you."

"Excellent!" Fredrika said. Somehow six hours of work on a speech had not tired her out as much as Marcica. Possibly because she wasn't the one doing all the writing. "That will do for tonight," she continued. "We'll look over this speech later, when we are both well-rested, yes?" Marcica nodded tiredly at this rhetorical question. "Well don't just sit there rubbing your eyes, Marcica!" she again yelled. "This was your first speech written for the Imperial Family! We must celebrate! Drinks! Music!" Fredrika got up to look for the few records she brought with her to the hotel, and Marcica got up at the same time to walk to the bathroom, a kink in his leg from hours of sitting.

Again, rather than actually use the bathroom for its intended purpose, Marcica stood in front of the mirror. His tie was undone and the bottom of his jacket was wrinkled from sitting. There were bags under his eyes, bags seemingly too large for the work he had been doing for the past six hours. Perhaps he was coming down with something. The air in Pelagis never sat well with him, but one supposes he'd have to get used to it now. Straightening his hair and adjusting his jacket as best he could, Marcica walked out of the bathroom.

There was no music playing in the suite, but Fredrika was bending over an icebox looking at several red glass bottles. "I couldn't find the records;" Fredrika began, apparently sensing Marcica's presence. "Gothren must have taken them out to the car, but he left the drinks, God bless him." Fredrika retrieved one of the glass bottles and held it up. Marcica wasn't sure whether the bottle or the woman holding it was more appealing. "Is grayf alright?" said Fredrika. Grayf was an ages-old Myrorian brew known in other countries as strawberry wine.

"Sure," was Marcica's reply. "Any booze would be good right now."

"I know what you mean." Fredrika placed the bottle on a table near the icebox and screwed off the cork. She poured two glasses and sat facing Marcica. "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" she said, looking out the window. Marcica lazily turned around in his chair. "It sure is."

One thing the narrator should point out at this point is that grayf intoxicates quickly. This absentminded exchange was one of three things Marcica remembered about that night. The second was Gothren entering the room, seeing the Crown Princess and her speechwriter in bed together, and quickly leaving as if he was used to the sight. The third was Marcica recalling the first night he met Fredrika, when she mentioned her husband was stubborn.

[Myroria]

Two words continued to ring in Marcica's head during the drive back to the Palace: Nund Cifuniaeth. "Our organization", literally, but a vague phrase like that could refer to anything from a national government to the brass band Marcica dabbled with in college. But when "our organization" was translated into Eruvite, it became Nund Cifuniaeth, or to use the figurative Inglish translation, "The Ilium Mob", rumored to be run by each successive generation of barons of Ilium. And who was the baron of Ilium in 1948? Why Peté Tar-Ilium of course, the mild-mannered and respectable husband of the Crown Princess of Myroria.

The Dunedain certainly did not approve of such a marriage, but what could you expect from the Ilium family? At least Peté wasn't like his father, carrying a teenage wife on his left arm. Nor did the nobles of House Quarrovth approve of their heiress presumptive marrying an outlander, especially when there were at least eight home-grown Myrorian suitors waiting at her beck and call at any given time. But in 1944 Fredrika Vadeni Quarrovth became Fredrika Vadeni Tar-Ilium, and "Baroness of Ilium" was added to Fredrika's titles. And now, scarcely four years later, the Baroness was sleeping with her speech writer. Marcica finally turned away from the window and his thoughts to face Gothren, who he had been stuck in a car with behind the Princess'.

"What?" Gothren said, feeling his stare despite reading some inventory paper.

"Was this the first time she fooled around?"

"The first time who fooled around?"

"I know you came in. How did you not hear us, you creep?" This remark was enough to get Gothren to look up from his paper.

"It was quite a large suite. When I entered I just thought you two were having a very intense conversation and agreeing with each other a lot." Marcica rolled his eyes.

"Was it the first time or not?"

"I can assure you, Mr. Quarrovth, that the Princess is not a common street whore."

"Well, where else did she learn those - " Gothren cut him off.

"Only I make the remarks around here. And even if I did know if this was the first time - which I don't - I certainly wouldn't be at the liberty to tell you."

"Does her husband run the Ilium Mob?" Gothren laughed at the question.

"Yes. The Prince Consort regularly has people killed. And if you keep sleeping with his wife you might be next." Marcica couldn't detect the sarcasm.

"How many people has he had killed?" Gothren decided it would be fun to lead his seatmate on.

"Oh, not that many considering his position. Only two or three hundred." Marcica's sarcasm detector remained woefully inadequate. He again glanced nervously out the window at the passing storefronts, and only looked back when Gothren sighed.

"I'm kidding. I can assure you the Ilium Mob is a myth. There is no organized crime syndicate richer than God running illicit operations in Eluvatar or anywhere else. And even if there was, I can tell you from four years of experience with the Prince that he would not be running it." This assertion, however, still failed to calm Marcica's nerves.

"How do you know that?! Maybe he's hiding it from you!"

"Oy," Gothren sighed before looking back to his inventory sheet. "Ask the Princess if you don't believe me. You certainly know her well enough. Or at least know her grayf personality." What Gothren didn't realize, however, is that the Crown Princess knew little more about her husband than either of the gentlemen in the car behind hers.

[Eluvatar]

She knew some things of course. Little things. His favorite novel, the kind of movie he could enjoy. She knew his unconscious habit of closing his eyes with his hands when concentrating deeply. She even knew that Peté did not much like his late father. But Fredrika had no idea that Nund Cifuniaeth was real, or that Peté directed it.

Even as Marcica nervously looked out the car window, Peté was engaging in a decidedly unsavory conversation with his friend and helmsman Chostamir.

"So you think Vardamir is a Cifund?"

"I'm not saying he's probably an agent of the Bureau, I'm saying I know he was raised from birth by agents, got the top secret agent infiltration night classes, and makes drops at tea-time every tuesday after a full moon on the park bench across from a nice sandwich place in the Christian quarter."

"You've done your homework. Thanks Chostamir," Peté paused as he turned to pull on one of the yacht's many ropes. "I don't suppose you've already prepared misinformation for him?"

"You know me too well. I've got a fake cell of losers prepared for him to head already. They'll give the Bureau plenty to think about." Chostamir spun the helm a few degrees starboard. "About Fredrika. You're sure you don't want me to, you know, do something?"

"No. I have my secrets, she can think she has hers. We should have someone make sure Gothren keeps her on the pill when needed of course." Peté turned away and grew silent, staring ahead into the wide blue seas.

[Myroria]

February 23, 1950

"Tell Saleiroth to bring his men up," whispered His Majesty, Fendryn Quarrovth, first of his name.

"What, daddy?" replied his daughter, bending close to his ear. Marcica, who in the span of two years had gone from the Princess' speechwriter to her new Deputy Chamberlain under Gothren Quarrith, to one of many men representing his House on the Council, stood by the door in the large, ornate bedroom. Standing in the corner of the room no more than three feet away was the Prince Consort, his mouth pursed in a gesture of sadness ever-so-slightly punctuated by excitement.

"Tell Saleiroth to bring his men up," repeated the king. "Ready them for battle."

"Yes, serjo." said Fredrika with tears in her eyes. Thus were the last words she spoke to her father. The Austrasian bullet lodged near his lung finally killed its recipient. Fredrika collapsed on the body of her father as the various nurses left the room. Fredrika's husband rushed to console her, and Marcica, waiting for a few seconds, filed out after the nurses.


The next day was hardly a better one for the Princess. The Council thought that Fredrika's court favorite would be the best to let her know the bad news, though Marcica cursed the thought. Fendryn's beloved only daughter could be found in her quarters, Gothren told her, and you'd think it was Victoria weeping for Albert from the noise you could hear. Fredrika, sitting in the antechamber weeping like a teenage schoolgirl, did manage to dry her eyes long enough for Marcica to begin speaking.

"Milady," Marcica said, sighing deeply. He hadn't been this nervous since the day he met her. "Milady... The Council has voted to suspend your succession. They would like to review your claim to the throne." The sentence was ended by another loud burst of crying. Marcica nervously stared at a hair on his lapel for a few seconds before moving in to comfort his lover. He didn't know where the husband was, and quite frankly he was scared to find out. "I'm sure there's no need to worry," Marcica grappled for the words to plug her tear ducts. "This is only the second time an Empeurer has died without a male heir... I'm sure the sexists are just taking their time." The talk about heirs and succession only made Fredrika cry more. Marcica again looked nervously at the antechamber door.

"Who else is there?" Fredrika choked out through weeps.

"Uh," came the reply. He looked away to deliver the rest of the sentence. "Your husband. You know how they are though, uh, they're all so sexist they'd even consider an outlander over a woman." By the time Marcica looked back, Fredrika was looking at him with wide eyes, red from hours of weeping.

"Would they?" she replied, her anger completely untempered by her prior emotional state.

"But - but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. I said they would consider it. They'd never actually go through with appointing an outlander to the throne."

"'Cica," she began, calling him by her affectionate nickname for him. She sounded anything but affectionate this time, though. "You know I love your comfort, but... I need some time alone to think about this."

When Marcica shut the antechamber door behind him, the weeps he heard upon entering were replaced with screams.

[Eluvatar]

Marcica sped away from the room in the curious walk people seem to do when they are fleeing from a crime scene (whether it be legal or social). The ornate carpeted halls of the palace seemed to extend for miles, but that old saying about the world being small apparently applied just as much there despite the hallway’s Lovecraftian geometries. Marcica had hardly taken two steps before bumping into none other than Peté Tar-Ilium himself, the outlander husband of Fredrika.

“Oh, er... serjo. I’m sorry to bump into you like that.” Marcica quickly said, as Peté glowered questioningly at him. A piercing scream emanated from the room Marcica just left.

“What did you do to her!?” asked Peté in a low voice, growing livid. “Why is my darling wife screaming as you leave her chamber, flja?”

“I, uh -- “

Peté frowned. “Whatever it is, I’m going to find out. If you’re... If you are hurting Fredrika, you will be sorry.” Peté carefully moved Marcica aside and strode purposefully into the chamber. Marcica quickly ran to the door that Peté closed and locked behind him. He heard muffled voices through the heavy door but could just barely make out the conversation.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Peté queried to his stricken wife.

Fredrika controlled her anger as she looked at her husband, but one could tell she wasn’t doing a fantastic job. “Oh, it’s just... father. I’m so distressed.” Even in hysterics Fredrika tried to control her emotions - but generally when one says they are distressed it comes off rather unnaturally, and Peté, the tone-reading master any mob boss must be, noticed.

“Did ... Marcica do something insensitive?”

“No, in fact,” Fredrika choked through sobs. “He has been nothing but helpful.” Dabbing her eyes, she regained her composure enough to look directly at her husband. “How was your day?” she said with a large hint of both passive-aggressiveness and suspicion. Peté cocked his head slightly at Fredrika’s strange emphasis but spoke regardless.

“Very... strange. Nobody really mourned my father. He was a right mohinendecachawurenabinsen*. It’s so different with Fendryn. He was a good man and everybody knew it.” Peté paused, contemplative, “It seems so... strange.”

“Why?” said Fredrika, looking for an argument. “Why is it strange that my father was a good person?”

“Because people suck. They lie, they cheat, they abandon, they kill...”

“Oy,” Fredrika continued. “Your cynical rants are honestly the last thing I need to hear right now, dear.”

“You think I’m ranting? You are extraordinarily lucky!” Peté purpled as he exclaimed, “Every day in the palace that cachar - “ Fredrika stood up suddenly.

“This isn’t about your father, Peté! This is about my father, and --” Fredrika suddenly paused.

“And what?”

“And... and who will succeed him!”

“What are you trying to s - “ Peté began, raising his voice. Fredrika clearly knew something she shouldn’t have heard yet. “Did Marcica tell you?” he continued, lowering his voice to its previous level.

“Did he tell me what, Peté? Did he tell me that the Council had suspended my claim? Yes he did. Did he tell me they were considering you? Yes he did. But he didn’t tell me that you had something to do with it. I figured that out all by myself. Surprising, I know. We Myrorian women are much more clever than the Dunedain dames you’re used to.”

Peté wasn’t sure whether to be more offended by her racist remark or by her anger at his succession in her place, which even he knew was essentially in the bag. His wrath was, as was his habit, expressed coldly and as quietly as a cat’s footfalls. “I did not go to them. Mistress Silvtroth came to me, asking if I could serve Myroria as executive and I answered affirmatively. I would not want to see the throne go to some distant cousin, would you?”

“I would like the throne to go the daughter of our late monarch, as is custom here. Quite frankly I find it hard to believe that you did not use your leverage on the council to make some sort of arrangement... dear.”

Peté continued a touch more warmly, “I don’t think this conversation is going anywhere good. I will retire for tonight and we can settle this when we’ve rested,” and he continued without a pause but perhaps with a slight upward twist of the lip, “darling.”

* pig turd with horseradish in a bun; a very strong Eruvite defamatory name, about the strength of the English “motherfucking bastard”

[Myroria]

The coronation of Peté Tar-Ilium took place on a snowy day in early November on the steps of the Grand Imperial Residence. In one of the numerous temporary observation booths perched precariously on the courtyard wall sat Marcica and Gothren, but their eyes were not focused on the couple dressed in regalia, but instead looked blankly ahead while their owners engaged in a deep conversation.

"I don't know what you're so concerned about, Marcica," said Gothren, whose hands clapped in unison with the crowd almost of their own volition. "Did you see her kiss P-His Majesty gave Fredrika? I didn't know it was possible for a ceremony to be so...ceremonial. Trust me, you'll be getting more kitty than ever before."

"Wha? I - She is our queen now Gothren. And your employer. You can't talk about her like that. It's unseemly. And furthermore... you're a chamberlain, shouldn't you be more, well, professional?"

"Please," replied Gothren. "Nowhere in my family's employment contract did it say we had to be professional. Besides, you act like every teenage boy in the country isn't speaking the same way about their illustrious Empeuress."

"Gothren, just because you have the mind of a teenage boy doesn't mean you have a blank check to act like one. And as I've mentioned before, many, many times... I'm not concerned with how much 'kitty' I'll be getting, f'lah. I'm concerned about our new monarch's well-being."

"I wouldn't say our monarch's well-being has ever been particularly good. Mentally at least. And I've known her far longer than you, friend."

"My point is that it's not fair for the Council to have passed her over for an outlander. I think he was involved with the decision somehow."

"Aha! You're piecing it together my dear boy. A democratic body elected by census-takers with three political parties that change every 50 years is unfair! And an Ilian making corrupt deals? Well this is the story of the century. I'm not you, but if I were, Marcica, I'd keep my head out of things that don't concern me. Enjoy your affair with the queen and wait for her to send you to a government estate with a pension. It's better for you in the long run."

"But it's not better for the country." Gothren rolled his eyes at this particular remark.

"I think fair Myroria will handle a little political maneuvering. We've been doing it for 50 years longer than the Democratic States, and if it's not imploding on them it won't implode on us."

"Who's to say the Democratic States won't implode in 50 years? And regardless of your simply excellent advice Gothren, I think it'd be the best thing for Her Majesty and our country if I investigated what happened in the Council after Fendryn died."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

[Myroria]

Marcica and his new queen sat alone at a table in the palace that normally sat 16. Both acted listless; Fredrika picking idly at the food on her plate and Marcica instead staring idly at the snow piling up outside. It was January 1, 1951, and both were still fighting their headaches from the night before.

"I, uh - what was I saying?" Marcica started, tearing his attention from the window.

"You were saying Councillor - uh, how Councillor Silvtroth blew you off when you asked about my husband's election."

"Oh, right. Well I asked her about it, and kept avoiding my questions. 'I didn't decide, I just relayed the council's decision to His Majesty', she would say. And then when I said how she had to have been involved at some point she would just shake her head and say 'I'm really not at liberty to say. I was under oath when I entered that room.'"

"That's weird. How much money did you give her?"

"What? I didn't give her any money!" Fredrika laughed at Marcica's naivete and pushed away her plate.

"You amuse me sometimes, dear. How long have you been working with these people? You should know no Councillor worth their chair would give you their name without at least a 50 marche a month stipend." Marcica was about to continue but saw flashing blue and red lights out of the corner of his eye. He walked to the window and saw a black sedan followed by two black-and-white police cars drive up the road to the family's winter residence.

"Is that my husband?" Fredrika asked, nodding at some servants who scurried away with their plates.

"Looks like it. What has he been doing all day?"

"You seem to be under the impression he tells me these things, dear." Marcica smirked at the remark and briefly locked eyes with his king who was now exiting his car.

"I should probably go."

"Why? He's going to be in his office until 2 o'clock tomorrow morning, and if he runs into you you're just here on business. You have to write me that speech for that... thing. He's too busy to care."

"I feel like he knows."

"Knows what?"

"'Knows what?'" Marcica said mockingly.

"Oh. Ha. I would be very surprised if he didn't know."

"What?!" he replied, tearing his eyes away from the silent courtyard and back at Fredrika.

"Sometimes I wonder if you know anything about the place you spend 12 hours a day. Obviously he knows, 'cica. My husband doesn't just form grudges against people for no reason."

"So you've known he knew this entire time, and you've done nothing?! He'll kill me!" Fredrika laughed.

"Kill you. Yes, our illustrious leader kills people. That could never end badly. Trust me. My husband is too concerned with whatever it is he does all day to do anything to you." Marcica sighed and looked back at the empty courtyard.

[Eluvatar]

Peté A brief clatter could be heard in the middle of the Empereur’s suite. The sound of dice might seem out of place in this gilded chamber, draped with ermine-trimmed tapestries covering immense bookcases, decorated with occasional ceremonial swords and armor, and floored with a great slab of malachite. “Six!” excitedly said young Meneldur Mondros Quarrovth Tar-Ilium, seven year old heir to the throne. Peté smiled gleefully as Meneldur moved his Top Hat space by space, “One, two, three, four, five....” Meneldur paused. “Six.” He looked sheepishly at his father. “I believe I hold Park Street, son.” Peté said with an indulgent smile. “Yeah dad... How much?” the son uttered apprehensively. “Eleven Hundred marches.” “Oh no, I have to more-gouge-” “That’s mortgage, son.” Peté interrupted. “more-gage something... okay, ...” Peté grinned as little Meneldur carefully counted out 140 monopoly marches and then put together a great big stack. “Here you go papa,” Meneldur handed the stack to Peté and pouted. Soon, Meneldur clacks his piece (a billy goat, though the game designer thinks it’s a dog) once, twice... thrice, and looks down. “Now, son, was that what you rolled?” “No papa,” Meneldur replied quietly. “What did you roll?” the amused Patriarch inquired. “A two.” “Is it fair to pretend it was something else?” “No. But you’re big!” “So?” “You, you knew I’d land on those houses!” “No, I didn’t. But I knew you could. That’s why I agreed to the trade.” “But you didn’t tell me those blue ones were so expendive!” “That’s expensive, son. And if you’re making a deal with somebody, you have to judge it for yourself.” Just then, the engrossed Empereur and his son were interrupted by the doors swinging open and a clerk stumbling in. “Your Majesty!”

Fredrika “We’ve all had to deal with our housefoxes leaving their excrement on the floor - the cleanup, the smell, the wasted time - it can be excruciating! No more with our patented ‘Teach Your Fox to Toilet’ system...” Gothren circled the ad with a thick black pen. It was a little expensive, but it would certainly be worth it in the long run from all the carpet cleaning expenses at home. Suddenly the light illuminating his Fox Fancy magazine was covered. He looked up to see a clerk standing in front of him, holding a portfolio. “The Empeuress wishes to see me.” he said to Gothren. He looked over to the door he had been tasked to sit next to, closed his magazine deliberately, and set it on the floor. “She’s...” A muffled moan emanated from the wall behind him. “bathing. She doesn’t want to be disturbed.” The clerk adjusted his tie awkwardly. “But she set up an appointment. I’m representing Mr. Laroth, the architect? Our offices were contacted to - “Yes, yes, the expansion of Their Majesties Pelagis residence. I know. But irregardless - “ “It’s ‘regardless’. Just ‘regardless’. And I don’t see what the problem is, serjo. She scheduled this meeting herself.” “Regardless of whether or not she scheduled this meeting herself, she is now presently indisposed! Do you not understand the words I’m saying to you?” “I think this is all a big misunderstanding. I mean if you’d just let me go in and talk to Her Majesty I’m sure you’d see she just wants to... keep our meeting secret! So she told you she was taking a bath. See? Now if you’ll excuse me - “ The clerk began to reach for the door but Gothren quickly caught his arm in his hand. “You will never work for anyone again. You are not to enter that suite.” A silence hung over the corridor as the two men stared at each other, the clerk’s arm still firmly in Gothren’s grip. It seemed to last for hours until it was ended by a high-pitched scream from the room. The clerk again adjusted his tie nervously as Gothren relaxed his grip. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, serjo.” the clerk mumbled. “No inconvenience.” said Gothren. The clerk hurried away as he reopened his Fox Fancy magazine.

Peté’s smiling eyes swiftly turned lividly cold. He spoke in a strangely crystal clear whisper. “I am not to be disturbed during these evenings but for nuclear war or another such imminent threat to this palace. Why are you here?”


The clerk, Nalmen Hlaarovth, turned white and stepped back outside. He thought, briefly, about running from the palace and hoping that his king would never find him. His pride, taught to him by his parents over many years, would not allow him to simply run, though. Then again, his parents never had to deal with the rage of Peté Tar-Ilium when his family time was interrupted. Nalmen thought to himself as he paced the hall outside the recreation room. How did he not notice the time of the evening? Would he lose his job? How would he explain why he interrupted family time for such a trivial matter? His thoughts were interrupted, though, by the opening of a door. Meneldur walked out with a smile on his face, and Peté rubbed the child’s black hair before sending him away. He turned to the clerk with an irate expression that promised nothing good.

“Now... What was so important?” the Empereur asked so quietly that the ticking of the grandfather clock seemed like thunder.

“I... “ Nalmen looked away briefly. “Her Honor, Councillor Silvtroth, said to me that Her Majesty’s friend came to her asking about why she voted for you to be placed onto the throne.”

Peté snorted. “Ah. This time I will forgive you. But remember never to interrupt me when I am with my children.” He paused, and grinned a pained grin, “He asked? No offer of money or... favours?”

Nalmen couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief. “No, Your Majesty. He just asked. I don’t think Mr. Quarrovth would bribe someone, especially not someone on your gift-list. And Her Honor certainly didn’t mention doing anything...untoward with him.”

The pained expression gone from the Empereur’s face, he concluded the conversation. “Thank you for keeping me informed. Would you get me Minister Moomintroth please on your way out? He has an appointment.”

Marcica breathed a sigh of relief. He had been hiding out of sight against a wall, and with the conversation ended he finally had a chance to finish his escape from the royal apartments. However, it seemed that as soon as he stepped into the dim light of an electric sconce he stepped into the Empeurer’s line of sight.

“Ah, just the man I wanted to see. Marcica Quarrovth. Come in, come in.” Peté grinned like the proverbial canary-consuming cat, and pointed towards the chamber he was still standing outside. Marcica’s heart pounded and his stomach dropped. Running was obviously out of the question; the only choice was to follow his monarch’s “humble request”. He had certainly talked his way out of things before, and it’s not like the outlander king could see the fingernail scratches on Marcica’s back.

“I wanted to apologize for my brusque behavior with you the other day.” Peté continued, grinning even wider, “It was not right of me to be so … impolite.” Sneering, he finished his thought, “Over such an insult one could challenge me to a Duel, were it not illegal now.”

“As it... very well should be, serjo.” Marcica replied, puzzled. “I hope mature men like yourself and I could avoid such violent confrontations.”

“Oh indeed,” Peté smirked, “It’s best if we didn’t confront each other. It would seem that you seek to confront me. I’m sure you heard Hlaarovth’s little message. One might think you were..." the Empereur paused, leaning the slightest bit forward, "Up to something.”

Marcica’s stomach dropped even further than it had before. Now it was somewhere around the kneecap, and felt just as squished as one might expect it to be.

Pleased with the younger man’s apparent discomfort, the Empereur continued, “Luckily for you, you would have no luck in your pursuit of a conflict. There’s nothing to find. Perhaps you’d be better off using your, ah, detective skills,” the disfiguring smirk on the dunedain man’s face becoming more evident still, “Finding greedy little rats like soon to be ex-Defense Minister Moomintroth. So rest assured that I understand that I slighted you that day, that I am sorry for it, and that you need not fear the Empereur will manhandle you again.”

Marcica swallowed. He wanted to fly into a rage at this s’wit but now his stomach acid was dissolving his kneecaps and making his legs weak. He mumbled a “Yes, Your Majesty.” and hurried away, trying to ignore Peté’s condescending “Now there’s a good sport!”

[Myroria]

"I'd hate to say 'I told you so', 'cica, but I told you so. My husband is not to be trifled with. I knew you'd be caught eventually. Zip me." A television, newly bought for the Empeuress' suite, hummed as Marcica zipped her dress with quivering hands.

"He's going to kill me. I know he is."

"Would you stop your sniveling? He's not going to kill you. He doesn't do those things. Not out of any moral prohibition of course, but because killing you would make too many problems... " Fredrika saw that her encouragement only encouraged one thing: Marcica's neurosis. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. "Sometimes I think I should wear the suit and he should wear the dress" the Empeuress thought before sitting down next to him. "Listen, 'cica. You don't have to worry about that. But you shouldn't go chasing my husband looking for any sinful or immoral thing he does. It's not good for your mental or physical health. And besides," she added with a smirk, "he's too good at hiding it."

"He's probably outside listening to us right now!"

"I doubt that. He ran off to the press to give a statement about Moomintroth."

"But he died years ago!"

"Not the king, 'cica. Nereth Moomintroth? The defense minister? My husband had him removed from office."

"I don't recall anyone ever mentioning that to me."

"Of course you don't. The press only heard about his scheme this morning, and you were too, erm, preoccupied to listen to the radio or watch the television."

"You were preoccupied too!"

"Please," Fredrika said, getting up and walking over to turn up the volume. "Don't underestimate my powers of gossip. Just because the media doesn't know about it doesn't mean no one does. Embezzlement! Can you believe they got the old dinosaur on that? Back in his day Moomintroth was so good at hiding his tracks... I suppose there's nothing our beloved monarch and his oddly beautiful informant can't do."

"He told me to use my powers of detection to root out people like Moomintroth."

"My husband?"

"Yes, His Majesty."

"Okay, there's two things wrong with that idea. First of all, you have no powers of detection. Holmes didn't go asking criminals if they did it. And second of all, playing into my husband's hands is probably the last thing you want to do now. You want advice? Take it from someone who loves you. Stop with the searching. Maybe if someone searched and revealed enough they'd crush corruption in this country. But that someone isn't you. Summer is coming, Marcica. We have a home in County Ivorheart. Away from my husband. Away from politics. You wanted your whole life to be a member of the idle rich. Now's your chance, and I'll be damned if you decide you'd rather put on your hunting hat and cape."

[Myroria]

August 12, 1957

A torrential downpour fell on the roofs of Fellowmoor as a large group of Myroria's richest and most influential shot the breeze safely inside a ballroom. Marcica, dressed in a tuxedo, and the Empeuress (of course) stood outside a pair of oak double doors, speaking softly and barely audible over the roar of the rain outside.

"First they will introduce me. 'Presenting Her Majesty, Empeuress Consort of Myroria and Archmaster of Great House Quarrovth, Serja Fredrika I Tar-Ilium.' Then they will applaud. And then they will say, 'Presenting His Honor, Serjo Marcica Svadthyn Quarrovth, Councilman of Great House Quarrovth.' Then they will applaud. A lot. I hope you enjoy it, because it's the only time you'll get more applause than me; but of course you've earned it. Our newest Councilman. I never thought Silvtroth would kick the bucket." Marcica smiled and looked away. Fredrika glanced to see if the hallway was empty and touched her hand to his face. "You handled the ceremony. You can handle this. Are you ready?" The serjo nodded.

It was a short walk to the oak double doors - the real ones, that they were supposed to enter in that is - and two men were standing by at the ready. Fredrika stepped ahead while Marcica still hugged the hallway wall, standing between two gold sconces. The Empeuress' gowns still got to him, after ten years of being together. Well, together in the sense that a queen and her speechwriter could be together. The doors were opened by the burly guards, and three loud raps were heard. A voice shouted, and Fredrika stepped into the ballroom. Marcica didn't really listen to her introduction or the applause, and it was only when one of the guards coughed to get his attention that he too stepped forward. Again there were three raps, but instead of an elegant Empeuress it was a cowardly speechwriter stepping into the ballroom.

"Presenting His Honor, Serjo - "

"I don't deserve this." Marcica thought to himself. For a moment he was worried he said it.

" - Great House Quarrovth." Applause, again. The doors shut. He stood there, all eyes on him. The silence was interrupted by a man who was standing amongst the crowd yet right in front of Marcica. He was dressed in only a suit jacket and shirt, and raised a glass of champagne.

"And may God bless His Honor." The man's tone seemed almost sarcastic.

"God bless him!" said a few members of the crowd. The group returned to milling and conversations about yachts. Fredrika rushed to Marcica's side.

"That was - "

"Rothis Vrotrith. Pleased to meet you, serjo." The mysterious man appeared just as mysteriously, and offered his hand. Marcica shook it slowly. "Was His Majesty not able to attend tonight?" Rothis asked, looking at Fredrika.

"He is not a member of our House. There was no need for him to attend when there are much more important things to do."

"Not a member of your House. Of course." Again his tone rang with sarcasm, but he spoke as if no one could notice it but him. "But regardless. I am here with a purpose and I shouldn't dance around the subject with small talk. I was going to ask if His Honor and... Her Esteemed Majesty would like to accompany myself to dinner after this little get-together."

"I am sorry Serjo, but we are simply too busy for pleasure this evening." Fredrika chuckled, partly out of politeness and partly because double entendres were, in her mind, the highest form of comedy.

"Well that's good then, because our dinner will be strictly business. It would be the two of you, myself, and my colleague, Councilwoman Gorvas Menadrith of House Vrotrith." Marcica finally stopped holding his tongue.

"I would be honored to attend." Fredrika shot a glance at him.

"I suppose I could go to dinner."

"Excellent! I live in the penthouse at 34 East Avenue, in Fellowmoor Farside."

"Excuse me," began an incredulous Fredrika. "We will be dining at your apartment?"

"Penthouse, Your Majesty." came the reply, as Rothis put his empty glass on the tray of a server walking by. "And I can assure you both the accommodations will be to your liking. But I do not patronize the restaurants in this city." Fredrika remained suspicious. "And don't worry - the parking there is sufficient to ensure you remain... inconspicuous." Marcica saw the look in Fredrika's eyes. Being conspicuous was not what she was worried about.