"What do you suppose was in that message?" one Khandazarian Chancellor whispers to another in the Hall of Chancellors, where the business of governing Khandazar is mostly conducted. It was once the Imperial Throne Room of the great palace Yama Gadyuk, back in the days when Khandazar was ruled by an Emperor, but it has not been used as such since the Emperor was deposed and beheaded in the Great Revolution, which took place a decade before the Vyrunian Civil War.
"It did not look fancy enough to be an invitation to the Midsummer's Eve Ball," another replies.
"Perhaps a response to the messengers we sent?" a third muses.
"'Twould be quite swift a response, if indeed that is the case."
"Mayhap a new trade proposal?"
"Doubtful. It is known throughout the Continent that we officially have no love of free trade."
"What other business could they possibly have, if not--"
The doors to the Hall of Chancellors crash open and the Grand Chancellor barrels through them, unkempt beard bristling with barely contained rage and robe billowing behind him. All the Chancellors stand and bow to their leader, darting nervous glances back and forth. Whatever message came from Mordalce, it clearly displeased His Eminence greatly.
"Scribe!" the Grand Chancellor bellows once he arrives at the place of honor, that which was once the Emperor's throne. He has no regard for the traditional protocol of greeting the other Chancellors and bidding them to be seated. Accordingly, the Chancellors remain standing and begin to sweat nervously as the Grand Chancellor paces angrily back and forth.
"Yes, Your Eminence?" the scribe, an ancient old crone with the voice of a crow with laryngitis, inquires blandly. She always remains unruffled, no matter how irate the Grand Chancellor becomes. Some of the Chancellors think she must have witnessed the birth of the world; she is easily the oldest person in the room.
"My instructions to the Board of Chancellors at the conclusion of our last session, please."
The scribe flips through her records with astonishing speed for one so aged and arrives at the correct page swiftly. "'You will find a way to convince the Mordalcean court to invite us--even beg for our presence--at their Midsummer's Eve Ball. We must have an equal opportunity to court the Princess of Vyrunia, now that she has returned. I care not how you accomplish this, so long as it is done.' Those instructions, Your Eminence?"
"Yes, those instructions." He flings the message from the Mordalcean heads of state into the middle of the Chancellors' Table. "Does this look like an invitation or a supplication to any of you?!"
"It is, ahem, not in the usual style of such things, Your Excellency," one Chancellor ventures timidly after perusing the document in question.
"Far from it, in fact! That is an accusation that our emissaries have broken a plethora of court traditions and international agreements and upset our delicate balance of ambivalence between Khandazar and Mordalce! Apparently five emissaries broke into Cloiche Fuar and tried to force the Queen to send us an invitation. Not only will they be stepping up their security at the LEAST CONVENIENT TIME for my plans, but they are demanding an apology, keeping our emissaries imprisoned, and threatening to cut off trade, to say nothing of the Midsummer's Eve Ball!"
The Chancellors exchange sheepish and horrified glances.
"Well? What have you to say for yourselves? Whom did you send on this ill-fated errand?" the Grand Chancellor demands, pounding the Chancellors' Table for emphasis.
"Five elite assassins from the Order of Bundthall," another Chancellor replies meekly.
"Assassins. You sent ASSASSINS for a mission of persuasion?!"
YOU ARE READING
Her Rightful Place
FantasyAll she wants is to live her life in peace. But a series of unfortunate events places her on a whirlwind journey, and she must determine who she is and how much of a difference she can make... Mireille is a young, orphaned seamstress of great skill...
