I played Jak and Daxter: The Precursor Legacy for the first time when I was about eleven. My mom's boyfriend had a copy, and my sister and I used to get up at half past six, make ourselves breakfast and then play it non-stop for the five hours or so while we waited for the adults to wake up… at which point they usually joined in. Since then I've been writing fanfics for the series, although most of said writing has been purely in my head. I first played Jak II: Renegade when I was thirteen, Jak 3 and Jak X when I was fourteen, and coincidentally that was about the same year that I discovered this site. After progressing through Mary-Sues, OOC, new fandoms and other weird shit, I finally get to the stage where I'm a halfway decent author, and no sooner does that happen then I somehow find myself back in the fandom where it all started – Jak and Daxter. Fun times.
Only at this stage, I've had several years to develop some really weird interests. I'm quite interested in war and dynastic politics, and this got me thinking about Baron Praxis' relationship (spatial and psychological) with the various characters whose lives he screwed up, including but not limited to every single Havenite ever, Damas, Jak and Daxter, and Ashelin, his own daughter. Having clocked Jak 3 again, I added Veger to the mix, and this monstrous fanfic idea rapidly grew out of hand. I split it up into three pieces, added a fourth, and the Kings tetralogy (four-part series) was born.
Essentially, it's a novelization of the series (not counting TPL, although I might do that if I can manage to finish this). It follows the main players in the various stories – Damas, Veger, Erol, Jak and Dax, also Torn and Ashelin to a certain extent – as they and their actions decide the fate of Haven City, and the entire world. Expect details, and a lot of them, because as Veger says below, details are my forte.
Title: By Right Of Conquest – Part One of Kings
Genre: Adventure/political thriller, I guess…
Rating: T – at least for now.
Characters: Damas, Veger, Baron Praxis, Erol, Ashelin, Jak and Daxter, Torn/the Underground and more
Warnings: Crude language/swearing, lots of OCs, OCxCanon pairings, violence, some blood and gore
Summary: Ambition drives Baron Praxis to overthrow the legitimate King of Haven City, and now the entire city must pay the price of the Baron's actions. Out in the Wasteland, their deposed king finds himself given the chance for a new life, while his son fights for survival in a world that increasingly seems to want him dead.
-By Right Of Conquest-
-One
A cold wind blew across the plains, running ahead of the dark clouds that boiled out of the sky west of Haven City. The mountains, blanketed with snow even this late in spring, echoed with distant thunder. There was a storm coming – a big one at that.
Up in the Palace, King Damas felt the chill more clearly than most despite the braziers that flickered merrily away in all four corners of the Council Chamber. The Palace was always cold; such a huge structure took so much time and energy to fully warm that successive kings had deemed it a waste of resources. The living quarters were fully insulated, and wonderfully warm during the cold months; everywhere else, including the Council Chamber where Damas spent most of his time, was a freezing hell.
Damas set his jaw and glared at the assembled councilors and their expectant expressions. Usually when one spoke at a council meeting, the appropriate conduct was to rise and address one's audience from the head of the table. Damas as King of Haven City was the only one in the room who dared to contravene this unwritten rule, and he did so more often than not in winter. His chair had by now absorbed a good amount of his body heat, and he was unwilling to get up and let that heat go to waste.
Instead, he crossed his arms across his chest (another heat-saving gesture) and declared the meeting begun. It was one of the king's most basic functions, and Damas had been able to recite the formal words since he was ten years old. Like a lot of his kingly duties, it required no thought whatsoever.
The man the Council had chosen to be their spokesperson for this session exhaled slightly – whether from relief, stress, or simply the chill in the room, Damas couldn't guess and didn't care. The man opened his slack jaw and began to read the items on the list he held in delicately gloved but shivering hands.
Damas already knew what most of them would be, and he didn't doubt most of the men and women in the room did too. Haven's upper echelons were simmering with courtly intrigue, as factions gained and lost power, plots went on underneath people's noses and ideals were sold and traded for anything a man's heart could desire. Spies filled the court, drawing their pay from every man and his dog. Damas had a few of his own, carefully placed among the factions.
The fact of the matter was, Haven City was for the first time in a century holding its own against the Metal Head hordes. What Damas lacked in political tact he more than made up for in military competency. Between himself and the commander of the city's military forces, Baron Praxis, the armies that had been besieging the city for close to thirty years had been smashed. There was a glut of skull gems and trophies on the black market at the moment, and many a Krimzon Guard had boosted his retirement fund by selling his spoils to the highest bidder.
Having therefore enjoyed several years of relative peace, the noble classes were once again starting to make their own trouble. Damas counted three major factions amongst his council, each of which were doing their best to derail the others' plans. And while they were fighting amongst themselves, nothing else got done. Damas half-wished that the Metal Heads would come back.
"–and that is this afternoon's agenda," the spokesman concluded with a flourish. Immediately, the room was filled with comments and protestations from the councilors.
Damas resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, instead settling for a clandestine roll of his eyes. It would have been funny if it weren't so annoying; all these grown men and women, most of them rapidly approaching retirement age, shouting over and insulting one another like schoolchildren.
The loudest and most irritating of the voices belonged to Count Flynn, a weedy man who headed one of the richest families in the city. He looked around at the councilors with piercing yellow eyes, banging repeatedly on the council table with his fist.
"Taxation! Why was I not informed of the rise in the last Council session!" His lip twitched as his face tried to rearrange itself into his customary sneer. "We loyal citizens don't expect to be hit with tax raises without warning. What do we pay them for, eh?"
Another member of the council rose, smacking the surface of the table and grinning mercilessly. "Why does it matter to you? I don't believe you've paid the full amount in your life, Flynn."
"Ooh, listen to the pot talking! You're just as bad as he is!" The third voice came from way too close to Damas- Duke Regan, the Grand Chancellor. Count Flynn opened his mouth to argue, and Damas decided it was time to end this conversation.
"Your attendance record is less than stellar," he said insistently, glaring at the red-faced Count. "We do make these decisions known prior to each meeting, yet you've coincidentally not attended all the sessions in which we've discussed the taxation issue. Now this topic has been settled, we need to get onto this week's agenda."
"Oh." Count Flynn subsided with bad grace, scowling as though his absences were somehow Damas' fault.
A redheaded woman was next to rise, her expression a mask of expertly disguised contempt. Myrtale Praxis was the Baron's wife, and often acted as his stand-in on the Council, as the Baron himself had no interest or talent with matters political. Damas had identified her as one of the power brokers within the court – as Praxis' wife, she had the undisputed might of the Krimzon Guard behind her. She hadn't allied herself with any of the factions so far; which could have been for good or bad, and Damas had two of his best spies watching the woman either way.
She cleared her throat, her steely glare demanding silence. "Since the last time this council met, several matters have been brought to our attention in the Guard, and I would beg you all pay attention. These matters are paramount to our great city's survival – but I'm sure I don't have to tell you that.
"The shield wall continues to run smoothly, although several power leaks have been identified in the southeastern Port section, and I suggest we make this our top priority. Metal Head scouts have been seen close to that section in unusually large numbers over the last four days, and it is possible that they have discovered the leaks as well."
Myrtale paused here, shuffling her papers back into a neat stack. "Regarding the city itself, there have been two riots in the lower city in recent months. One a year is the usual frequency, so this is cause for concern. The most recent of the two began in the Industrial Section over a pay dispute–"
"I already heard about this," Count Flynn interrupted, scowling peremptorily. Myrtale leveled a blank look at him from her startlingly green eyes.
"Yes, you would, Count, since I believe the owner of the factory at fault is your son. As I was about to say, the riot spread rapidly into the slums. It wasn't so violent as to concern this council – it was oddly pacifistic, as a matter of fact. Shops closed, but none were looted. The crowd's violence was mostly directed towards the peacekeeping force we sent in."
"I suppose the slummers would rather not destroy their own houses and businesses," Baron Efrath said sourly. "Makes sense, I suppose."
"You better not be angling for a pay rise," Count Flynn flatly told the Baroness. Myrtale laughed shortly.
"No, for the foreseeable future the Krimzon Guard's budget is sufficient. I would however suggest a budget rise for the Research and Development laboratories. Several of the ancient circuits within the eco grid and shield wall are being worn down by the constant use, and the defense technicians tell me that we still don't have viable replacements, even if we can find a way to repair the eco leaks in the shield wall."
"Out of the question! We can't afford it!" the treasurer, Count Nexten, cried. "This year's budget is not stable enough. Too many expenses, not enough disposable income. The war and those leeches in Kras are sucking us dry."
"We also can't afford not to afford it," Damas cut in. The arguing nobles looked at him almost as if they'd forgotten he was there. "Our continued existence relies totally on the shield wall." He shook his head slowly, and looked up at one of the quieter members of the Council. "The defence budget is fine as it is, and our trade agreements with Kras give us a little extra money to play with. Count Nikolin, the civil service and welfare budgets. What's the status there?"
Count Nikolin, a short, stocky man with lime-green hair, rebalanced his glasses on his snub nose. Damas knew him perhaps the best of all the Council, as his father-in-law. The man was one of the few nobles to possess a sense of practicality, and seldom joined the shouting matches that dominated the Council Chambers at times.
"Civil service is struggling a bit," Count Nikolin admitted, glancing at his papers. "The lower classes are growing steadily, and the current infrastructure isn't holding up as well as it could be. The slums, the Port, the less affluent areas of the farm districts are all close to reaching capacity. Living standards are dropping quite quickly as a result. Welfare, on the other hand… for whatever reason, demand isn't rising as fast as we'd expect." He looked up at Damas, and shrugged. "Either way, we're losing money."
"Figures," Count Flynn muttered in a stage mumble. "For my part, your Grace, I think we only have one option. One budget must be cut in order to save us all, and at the moment the civil service sector is of least importance."
"That puts the entire city in a dire situation," Count Nikolin argued. "The lower classes will be living in squalor before long. We might levy taxes instead, or request financial and technological assistance from – say, Kras, or Kerany in the Icelands."
"One would argue that it is of more worth to live in a little discomfort in order to facilitate survival, than insist on luxury and be killed because of it." Count Efrath looked skywards, and sighed. "If we ask for foreign assistance, those leeches in Kras, to borrow Nexten's term, will bleed us dry of all the concessions we have left to give, which risks the Icelands and the Northlands deciding to take offense at so-called 'favorable treatment', meanwhile we lose more money than we gain in the long run. If we levy taxes, the entire city will revolt."
Privately, Damas knew this was going to be a tough choice. Either way, he'd alienate someone – whether it was the governing class with whose help he ruled, Haven's growing middle class, or the innumerable lower classes who could conceivably decide whether or not he stayed on the throne.
The warrior blood in him sang out for another option. If the city's situation was so dire, it said, then remove the one element that threatened it above all else. Translated from political-speak: destroy the Metal Heads. Kill their leader, the one figure keeping them organized into the deadly army they were. Kill their leader, and Damas felt sure the army would collapse into a disorganized rabble.
Eleven years ago, the former king, his father, had let Baron Praxis talk him into doing exactly that. The attempts left King Philip dead, and Praxis close to it. Damas remembered the night the attacking force had come straggling back with photographic clarity; how they had unloaded his father's body (bloodied, streaked with contaminating dark eco, all but torn in half) from the air train, the deadened, numb looks on the survivors' faces – the time it had taken for the medics to pull Baron Praxis back from the brink of death. The man had been strong, much stronger than Damas' father. If their positions had been swapped, Damas thought the Baron would still have been the one to survive.
Damas was no politician, but he was damn sure the city was much stronger now than it had been under his father. Any attack on the Metal Head's nest now might well yield the results they needed.
He pushed the idea to the back of his mind to stew, and excused himself from the council, leaving the politicians there to sort out the budget problems amongst themselves. Two attendants accompanied him out.
The corridor outside the Council Chambers was cold enough that his breath condensed into white steam. Eco lamps glowed at intervals along the walls. They threw out an eerie red-tinted light, but wasted no heat. The walls were dull beaten metal, like everywhere else in the Palace. It was a gloomy and unforgiving place to live – even Damas and his ancestral pride had to admit that.
Damas hurried along the corridor, the attendants hurrying to keep up with his long-legged strides. He was taller than the average, and capable of more than most, at least where physical and econetic ability was concerned. It had never occurred to him to modify his actions to better assist the people around him.
In any case, the mazelike route between the Council Chamber and Damas' personal residence was quickly behind him. He turned and banished the attendants from his presence in no uncertain terms, and pushed open the door into his own private world.
The warmth hit him like a wave, billowing welcomingly around him. Clear, warm light, this time from the yellow eco lamps that served double duty as lights and heaters, illuminated the sumptuous, comfortable room around him. Soft velvet couches, the curtains drawn across the window, everything in muted tones of wood and russet, no trace of cold metal except for some of last night's cutlery on the dinner table.
His wife had banned the Palace servants from the residence – which worked well sometimes, less well on others. Hera was a passable housewife, able to wash dishes, look after pot plants, make beds, tidy rooms, dust and sweep and scrub any available surface until it shined. Details were what tripped her up – she could never find every last dish that needed washed, or water every plant that needed it, or pick up every dropped sock.
Damas wouldn't have had it any other way though. He liked the look of life about the place. It seemed more like a home now than it had when he had been a child, growing up with a sickly mother and servants never far from a dropped book or unwashed fork.
The room was almost silent, but for muffled cooing issuing through the half-open door to the nursery. A rare smile creeping across his face, Damas lightly strode over to the nursery and peeked inside. Everything in his field of vision went fluffy and vaguely pink.
His wife and queen stood by the empty crib, their baby son in her arms. Hera's long green hair was bound up in a loose braid, which the baby was industriously tugging, an expression of fierce concentration on his round pink face. Mother and son shared the same shade of cerulean hue in their eyes, the same snub nose. More than just that – Damas couldn't explain it, but there was something else between them, something less distinct but hugely more important.
They had named their boy Mar, after the legendary founder of Haven City, Damas' distant ancestor. To avoid confusion between the two Mars, Damas' son was called Baby Mar. The name wouldn't be accurate for much longer though- Baby Mar was rapidly outgrowing babyhood.
The boy in question turned his head towards Damas as soon as his father stepped into the room, smiling hugely. Hera took advantage of the distraction to pry her braid from Mar's chubby hands, tossing it over her shoulder and hopefully out of reach. Turning doting blue eyes on Damas, she smiled in turn, and stepped closer to him. Five feet and two inches of emerald-haired firebrand stared up at Damas.
"I take it you got bored of the yammering?" she asked with her usual blunt humor. "Couldn't keep yourself away?"
"Something similar, at least," Damas replied, chuckling softly. "Yet another budget crisis has come up. I can't help with that, so there was no point in my remaining any longer. Your father and the other lords are much better qualified for that."
Hera rolled her eyes. "My father, perhaps. I don't quite agree with the rest of that sentence. Count Flynn in particular needs a round-the-clock watch placed on that stick he's got up his ass. Nothing good will come of it."
"That I've been sure of since I was ten," Damas said dryly, gently swinging the door open further and walking out into the living room once again. Hera followed, a smiling Mar contriving to squirm out of her arms. He couldn't walk unaided quite yet, but with the sort of single-minded determination he had inherited from both parents, it was only a matter of time.
Damas loosened the ties of his heavy ceremonial overrobe, and laid the garment neatly over the back of the nearest couch. It was a pain in the neck, but in winter's cold he didn't mind it so much. Hera sat Baby Mar down on the couch beside it, and she and Damas watched in amusement as the boy inquisitively poked and prodded at the quilted fabric.
"Ooh, be careful with that, son of mine," Hera chuckled, lifting smiling eyes to Damas before looking back at Mar. "One day you'll be the one wearing it."
"One day," Damas agreed. Mar paused for a moment, staring up at his father. Damas gazed back at him, and in the quiet felt something in his heart flip. It was happiness, contentment – in that moment, it felt like his entire life was defined in this one small package of bold and mischievous life.
Then Mar gave a gurgling laugh, and smiled widely, holding his arms up to Damas. Obediently, the king picked his son up, and Mar kept laughing, delighted at being held up so high. His chubby baby fists reached out and clutched handfuls of Damas' white hair, pulling urgently in his quest to be lifted higher still.
The rain came pelting down outside, but within those four walls, it was a good day to be alive.
Count Veger lounged in his high-backed chair, studiously inspecting his fingernails. The clock on the wall faced one-thirty in the morning; a comunit lay on his desk, screen flashing intermittently black and white as its battery slowly ran out.
He was alone in his study – not an unusual occurrence, even this late at night. Veger had no family, no wife to share a bed with. He lived and breathed politics, guided his life through the papers and orders that arrived and left his desk at a steady rate each day. Each night these needed ordered and inspected- written or edited in some cases. It was far from rare for his housekeeper to get up for some item in the quiet hours before dawn, and see the light still flooding out from underneath the closed door of his study.
On this night, he did his work accompanied by the flash of lightning and the accompanying low rumble of thunder. The storm that had gathered over the city that afternoon had hung on stubbornly throughout the evening, and now sat heavily over the city, heavy black clouds dumping sheets of water into the streets. Rain drilled a machine-gun pattern on Veger's window, alternately softer, then fiercer as the wind blew it about the house.
A soft chime sounded from the desk, and Veger lifted his dark grey eyes to his comunit. Caller ID flashed on the screen, given in numbers in case someone ever got a hold of Veger's call records: 067319-1. Baron Praxis was on the phone.
Veger punched the button marked accept call. "What a pleasant surprise, my dear Baron," he remarked, not bothering to pick up the unit and face the screen. He could see Praxis perfectly from where he was, but the Baron couldn't see him. "I take it this isn't a social call."
"It's not," the Baron said bluntly. No doubt he'd have his shrew of a wife standing somewhere off screen, telling him everything she thought he needed to know or do. "That brain of yours remembers everything, does it?"
You're asking me if I remember having plotted a coup – masterminded it, despite your wife's best efforts – for the last three years? Veger inwardly chuckled. As code went, it was ridiculously vague, but knowing what Veger knew it was only too easy to decipher the Baron's meaning. Sometimes politics was a godsend.
"Details are my forte, Praxis. I'll be sending you three numbers in a couple of hours, so you may ask them yourself. All that remains is for you to commit yourself. I will be looking forward to your signature." The last sentence was a cover – Veger had masterminded no less than three treasonous plots before, and he hadn't survived this long without getting very good at covering his tracks. "Rather interesting council meeting today, wasn't it?" he added airily, watching the Baron's expression go from blank to wary.
"I wouldn't know," Praxis said, shrugging. "You can never predict what the rabble will do one day to the next. They're almost as bad as Metal Heads." His right hand drifted up to his metal-plated skull. The wound was a sore spot of Praxis', gained almost a decade previously in a foolhardy assault on the Metal Head nest itself.
"Mm," Veger agreed noncommittally. "They go straight for anyone dressed in red armor, don't they?"
Praxis scowled. "Ungrateful fools. They'll learn not to, one way or another." He abruptly terminated the link.
Veger looked up, glancing around his spartan office. His gaze eventually settled on the holoframe that took up most of the wall beside the door. The picture it currently showed was a peaceful forest scene, trees moving slightly in a brisk breeze, water rippling in the wide, clear pond near the bottom of the frame. Veger briefly debated finding a different scene, one to more accurately reflect the times.
He began to chuckle slowly. Praxis liked to be the one to hang up first. Veger did not set any personal store by such a petty domination move, but he let Praxis have his little pleasures. It kept the man's attention and temper from coming down on Veger like a hundred-ton weight, as it had the tendency to do.
Veger's mind drifted towards the near future. He felt sure it was going to be an interesting few weeks, although 'interesting' was probably not the adjective most people would choose to describe it. Momentous, perhaps – definitely terrifying for some.
Three years ago, Veger had been astonished to discover that underneath Baron Praxis' outward image of being King Damas' loyal right-hand man and co-commander of the victorious Havenite armies, there lurked a rebellious and power-hungry core.
The Baron had enjoyed a huge amount of power during the old king, Damas' father's reign. The House of Mar hadn't produced a strong leader in close to a century, and there had been idle talk of replacing the line entirely with a more competent family. The Praxis clan had topped a very short list of candidates.
Then Damas came along, and took charge in a highly decisive fashion. Baron Praxis had lost a whole lot of his influence as the young king deftly split up the old guard, the faction which had essentially controlled Haven City for the last twenty years, skillfully inspired an unshakable loyalty towards himself in the lower classes, and best of all, drove off the Metal Heads. A large part of that victory had been thanks to Praxis' efforts, and the Baron had waited patiently, expecting to regain his old influence as a reward. Damas had grown up in a court ruled by a small group of the nobility, however, and was reluctant to let anyone gain that sort of power in his reign.
Eight years later, the Baron had tired of waiting. He had come to Veger, and found to his delight a willing co-conspirator.
Veger had no grievance with the Mar family. Since childhood, he'd been fascinated with the legends that had grown up around the bloodline, such as the incredible frequency with which Channelers turned up and the abilities that Mar had bequeathed to his descendents. The family was destined to rule, as far as Veger was concerned.
Eco was, as always, the city's weak point. By right of birth, the heirs of Mar gained ownership of all eco acquired by Haven citizens. Channelers were given special rights with regard to this eco. Veger's mother had been a Light Channeler, and as far as her son was concerned her rights should have been passed on to him. Light eco was the purest of energies, associated with all that was good in the world. The Veger family was rightly destined for greatness, and the Count saw no harm in taking what should have been his in the first place.
Despite his famously hard-nosed attitude, the Baron hadn't liked the idea of actually killing Damas. Veger couldn't fathom why- the king was all that stood between Praxis and his ultimate goal, control of Haven City.
The plan was relatively simple. Veger had already found willing supporters, and set in motion the events that would depose the House of Mar. Not entirely so, for that would completely go against the constitution of Haven, but it would get rid of Damas and his queen, and assure Baron Praxis the power he desired.
Then there was the king's son, Young Mar. Veger hadn't missed the fact that the boy displayed several early indicators of a Channeling ability. This was the only part of the plan with which Veger hadn't yet decided on a course of action. Young Mar Praxis really had to hang onto; the boy was the rightful heir to Haven City, and the only key to uncontested power. As a mere baby, he couldn't govern the city by himself, of course. No, he would have to have a regent to do that for him. And who better to act as regent than the old king's right-hand man, Baron Praxis?
Veger picked up the comunit, flipping the screen open and tapping a terse message onto the screen. Three numbers, each of the linked to the comunits of three major nobles: Baron Meleager, Count Mychau, and Count Flynn. All three had hereditary and practical links to the Praxis family, and had been Veger's first converts to the plan- his only converts, at this stage at least.
He clicked the send button, and habitually erased the message record from the comunit's memory. The less he could be linked back to, the better.
Veger looked down again, at the papers scattered across the desk in front of him. Most were contracts, trade agreements, old laws and Council bills. All were central to Veger's plotting. Politics left traces, and some of the best records were in these documents. Tonight, Veger was looking for something – anything – that might lead him to another ally.
The House of Mar had its hereditary supporters. So did the house of Praxis. Count Flynn's family had been on-and-off allies with Praxis for centuries. The Nikolin family tended to support the Mar kings and queens – which went some way towards explaining why it, a small family with few estates and titles, so often held the highest offices in the city government.
Vegers throughout the centuries had switched sides as the political wind changed. Pragmatism was theirs, and while the heroes and honest men of the world might look down on them for it, the fact remained that whatever the outcome of any given battle, the Vegers were generally on the winning side.
For the second time that night, Veger's comunit went off. He frowned at the caller ID, not recognizing the numbers flashing on the screen: 028746-5.
Veger considered the comunit for a bare moment, and answered the call, picking it up this time. King Damas flickered onto the screen, and Veger barely managed to suppress a horrified twitch.
"I'm surprised to see you up so late, your Grace," he said politely, forcing back his momentary panic. His mind worked furiously: did the king know? Had he somehow figured out what Praxis and Veger had planned? He looked closer at Damas' expression.
There was some worry there, but no anger. Damas wasn't quite that good at hiding his emotions. Veger relaxed, wondering what had driven him out of bed at this hour of the night.
Damas shook his head, bluntly getting to the point. "As of half an hour ago, the Icelands are at war. Kerany and Taillaw – some dynastic insult gone too far. I need to know which of the lesser states are allied with each of them."
That was almost as bad as Veger's first assumption. The Count mentally switched gears, riffling through the neat pile of papers on his desk. "Simply put, most of the interior cities are with Kerany, and the coastal cities as far west as Lalath are with Taillaw. There is a narrow channel through the Taillaw-allied regions through which most of our Southlands trade comes and goes… find a map, your Grace."
Damas disappeared from the viewscreen for a moment. "What then? Our allegiance is with Kerany. This could cut us off from the Southlands altogether."
Considering the options, Veger nodded grimly. "That is of course the worst-case scenario." Haven had a lot of external territories in the fertile Southlands. While most of the city's produce came from its own farms, the land in the Southlands provided them with a backup plan – which they'd been pressed into using for the last fifty years or so. A lot of what kept the nobility fed to their exacting standards came from the Southlands.
"Do we have an ambassador in Taillaw at the moment?" Damas asked, reappearing in the viewscreen.
You should know; you signed his appointment papers, Veger thought. Aloud, he said, "Lord Lamark, one of Count Flynn's bastards, ennobled by the old king. His term is up next year."
"I'm recalling him now," Damas said, "and I want you to replace him."
Veger's jaw dropped open.
"I intend to announce this at an emergency Council session tomorrow morning. We need to keep those supply routes open. You are one of our best negotiators, and I trust you to get the best deal possible. Do you understand?"
Veger closed his mouth, recovering his dignity, and nodded. "Perfectly, your Grace. I will be honored to serve Haven in such a way."
"Good." Damas didn't smile. He never smiled. "Council Chambers, tomorrow seven-thirty."
With a quiet beep, the link terminated.
Veger sat staring dumbly at the comunit for a while, as the battery slowly approached zero charge. This changes everything… Praxis will have to do without me for a while, but I don't trust him to do as I say when I am four thousand miles away and can't watch over his moves myself.
Ambassadorial terms lasted four years. Praxis had waited three years. Veger doubted the man had the patience for one more, let alone four.
Mind made up, Veger quickly dialed Praxis' comunit. The link established, Praxis picked up with a grumbled greeting, and Veger managed to get in two quick sentences before the battery in his comunit ran out of juice.
"We've had a change of circumstance. Get your men ready, Praxis – it's now or never."
Notes for Geeks:
-Myrtale Praxis is obviously Ashelin's mother- her name comes from Olympias of Epirus – the mother of Alexander the Great – also known as Myrtale. If you've read much about her you might understand why I gave her this name…
-On a related note, Damas' name comes from Greek, meaning 'popular', so I figured I'd give his father a Greek name too. Philip means 'horse lover', if you're interested…
-Count Flynn is Erol's father; the son Myrtale mentions is Erol's big brother, as yet nameless. Interestingly, this makes Erol's full name Erol Flynn- if you get the reference I will love you forever.
-'Your Grace' is the prim and proper form of address for dukes (and bishops, I think). It can also be used for royalty, as you see here, and prior to about the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries was much more common than 'your Majesty'. I'm not sure how it compares to 'your Highness', however.
I'm also currently looking for a beta reader for this fic… PM me if you're interested.