In the Name of Cod, Go!

'Father, I thought you’d like to know that the new flags are here'.

'Very well', says the emperor, his demeanor brightening somewhat. 'Our preparations for war are proceeding apace!. We must parade the army so that I can determine its readiness. And then, we shall unleash our legions upon our adversaries!'

'Hurrah!' replies Wormer enthusiastically. 'Ruthless violence - it's the only language our enemies understand!' 
Joachim frowns. 'Well, don’t they also speak German?'
George sighs. 'Joachim, you have delivered your message. Why are you still here, disturbing my peace and offending our Christian sensibilities?'
'Couldn't I hang around, father? I'm at a bit of a loose end'.

'It's your loose end that's the problem. Look - it’s not even straight, it bends that way', says the emperor pointing, something that he seems to do a lot.



'Somehow my lord, the bendiness makes it seem worse', winces Wormer.
'Couldn't I make myself useful?' asks Joachim. 'After all, I am your heir'.
'Well', says George, looking outside at the sunshine. 'You could lie in the garden and pretend to be a sundial'.

Wormer chortles politely.

'Splendid', continues George. 'Let's go and inspect those new banners. In the meantime, Wormer, inform Cavendish that I wish the army assembled for a grand review'.

'Are we to take on our enemy alone sire?' asks the minister.
'No Wormer. It would be expedient to procure allies'.
'We could send a messenger to Wurstburp', interrupts Joachim, trying to be helpful.
It takes the emperor and Wormer some time to stop laughing.
'No Duke Joachim', says Wormer. 'The first rule of diplomacy in Mittelheim is that the loser gets Wurstburp'.
Emperor George clicks his fingers. 'I know - let’s send an emissary to Zenta!'
'Ooh yes!' says Joachim. 'That might be fun!'

The Codfather!

'Behold, father! My new codpiece!' says Joachim delightedly.
'The power of Christ compels you!' cries Wormer, making the sign of the cross at Joachim's offending organ.

'No!' says the emperor. 'No! This just won't do, Joachim! You are a duke and should comport yourself as such! What is that thing issuing forth from the front of your britches? Is this some of joke? Or is this some kind of tasteless bet? You haven’t been talking to any cardinals have you?'

As has already been noted in this modest publication, Joachim has a particular enthusiasm for the fruits of Herzo-Carpathian codpiece workshops. In any other state, wearing such a thing would merely be crass; in Fenwick, with its sensitivity to double entendre, the duke's accoutrement is a dangerous threat to public order.

'Take it off!' says George. 'Take it off so that Wormer and I can  engage in sober discussions on matters of state'.

'It's ... ah ... it's... attached, father', replies Joachim. 'I could take my britches off', he volunteers.
'Excellent', retorts the emperor. 'Because nothing says "sober discussions on matters of state" like being in a room with a man with no trousers and a giant Christmas cucumber protruding from his nethers'.
The emperor turns to Wormer. 'Don't just stand there, Wormer: say something!'
'Should we call for an exorcism, sire?' asks the minister.
'No demon of Hell with any self-respect would inhabit my son's codpiece. Which', he continues reflectively, 'is not a phrase that any ruler in the Enlightenment should ever have to utter'. George sighs. 'Just cover it up!'
Joachim shrugs and puts his hat over the end.
The two men look at the results.
'Is it me', says Wormer, 'or does that make things worse'.
The emperor nods reluctantly. 'It looks like a dong in a tricorne - I may as well be looking at Rupprecht of Bachscuttel'.
Joachim removes the hat.
George shakes his head resignedly. 'Look', says George. 'Why are you here, my son, testing my temper and moral wellbeing?'

Reorganise!

In Pogelswood, capital of the Empire of All the Fenwicks, Emperor and King to be, George XIII, is meeting with Graf Wernar von Wormer, once treasurer to Gelderland's King Vlad, but now serving as a Fenwickian minister.
'Now then, Wormer', says the emperor, pointing vigorously, 'what are the latest reports on the evolving situation!'

The Graf nods. 'I hope, my King, that you have recovered from your terrible experiences in Schrote'.

'Aren't all experiences in Schrote terrible?' says the king philosophically. 'And I slept through all of mine. But I need a coronation, Graf - I need to solidify my position in Gelderland'.

'Quite so, sir. And perhaps we may look to resolve that issue imminently. But as to the evolving situation, it would seem evident from reports that Nabstria, Bachscuttel, and Rotenburg were behind the attempt upon your person in Schrote, and that they are seeking to challenge Fenwick's dominance in Mittelheim'.

'Well, I've had enough of them, Wormer - it's time for war. It's time to depose those morons Falco of Nabstria and Choldwig of Rotenburg. And I especially want to see the end of that idiot Rupprecht of Bachscuttel!'

'It's not impossible, my emperor, that Rupprecht is cleverer than he looks'.

'Possibly, Wormer: but given that he looks so very, very stupid, that still leaves quite a wide margin for cretinism. It's time, once and for all, to end his life of criminal pervitude'.

'Has our military reorganisation progressed?' continues George.

'Indeed, sire, yes. We have integrated into our new military the very best of the Gelderland troops'.

'What, both of them?'

'Indeed, so, sire.  And we have renamed the units according to your wishes. The line troops are now numbered one to nine.'

'But there's only eight regiments of them'.

'There's no number two, sire'.

'Why isn't there a number two?'

'Because this is Fenwick, sire'.

George considers this. 'Actually, fair enough. And what about the uniforms?'

'As you requested my lord. As you have wisely noted, in previous conflicts it might have been assumed by appearances that our army was composed of exactly the same troops as those from other armies, just shuffled in randomly as required. But now, our troops are clothed as they should be, in their own Fenwickian uniforms'.

'Excellent - the Prussian uniforms that I requested?'

'Yes, sire. About that. Obviously I am not second-guessing your choices, my emperor: but aren't the Nabstrians also in Prussian uniforms?'

'Indeed Wormer - they'll be furious!' says George, sounding pleased.

'I think that Burgrave Falco might be quite upset'.

'Pah!' says George. 'There aren’t string instruments small enough for me to play that particular tune of sorrow'.

The conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door.

'Dammit, Wormer - that'll be Joachim, my turnip-brained son and heir. Enter!'

The door opens and Joachim appears.

'Father!' he says.

Wormer blanches.

'What in God's good name is that ...!' chokes the emperor.

Pie Hard Too! Pie Harder!

Fecklenburg is forced to switch from the Dijon to the English mustard to bring Prince Rupprecht around this time. After a short interlude, Rupprecht is sufficiently recovered to engage once again in sensible conversation. Or at least, what passes for sensible conversation for the Prince. Which, to be honest, isn't that sensible, but is at least somewhat more intelligible than the 'Aaaaargh!' and 'Weeeeeeeeble!' that he had previously been uttering. The wheel barrow is cleared from the room and, in an even clearer sign that Rupprecht intends to take the ensuing conversation seriously, he has undone his flies.

'Fecklenburg, there must be some positive outcomes from our enterprise in Schrote!'
'Well, sire, we have taken the bishop of Schrote'.
'But we don't like him, do we?'
'No sire - he is sly, elusive, related to King George of Fenwick, and also a Sagittarius. But, on the plus side, sire, since you were the previous Bishop of Schrote, he's bringing back the vestments that you liked so much'.
'I'll bet they're stained in ways that make them really difficult to clean'.
'He is a Catholic bishop, my lord: I think that's a given. More broadly, though, my prince, may I suggest that in attempting to resolve the unfortunate consequences of the recent campaign in Schrote, we should frame some kind of plan'. 



'A flan?' says Rupprecht, suddenly more alert.

'No sir - a plan. Because our situation, my prince, is not easily resolved through the acquisition of flans'.

'But we must have some advantages, Fecklenburg. I mean, for starters, we are gifted with my genius'.

'Yes, my lord', replies the chamberlain sagely. 'But just in case that isn't enough, we might want to seek other advantages. In truth, there are indeed some positives. Our adversary George of Fenwick isn't in an easy position. Nabstria is with us, as is Rotenburg. And in any case being king of Gelderland and emperor of Fenwick is a difficult juggling act for George'.

'Yes', says Rupprecht nodding. 'I mean, how does he keep both crowns on at once?'
'No, my lord - juggling as in he will need an effective strategy to reconcile the needs of both'.
'A strategy? Of course, well, I suppose he could wear them on alternate days'.
'No, sir: I mean 'both' as in the interests of both states, not the crowns themselves'.

'Obviously, yes, yes. But aren't the Fenwickians, you know "the Spartans of Mittelheim"? Wouldn't it be better to cleave to our traditional foreign policy approaches and sell the Nabstrians and Rotenburgers out?'
'Indeed, my lord, that is our usual way, But I don't think that George will fall for it this time. I really think that we are in the horse flop without a shovel'. 

Rupprecht mopes, but Fecklenburg tries to rally him.

'No, my prince. We should not fear this, if we are clever. History surely is on our side. For if the Fenwickians are indeed the Spartans of Mittelheim, then this conflict my lord will be as the struggle between Sparta and Athens: a struggle between brutal authoritarianism and the principles of freedom'.
'Is that a good thing?'
'Yes, sir: because history famously lays out how that conflict ended'.
'You'll have to give me a hint'.
Fecklenburg places his hand behind his back and crosses two fingers. 'Athens, sire, Athens won'.
'Excellent', he pauses. 'And which are we?'
'The latter, my lord'.
'And are the Latters friends of Sparta or Athens?'
No, 'the latter' as in the second'.
'The second what? Flan?'

Fecklenburg slows his breathing and counts silently to twenty - ten is never enough. 'My lord, I shall on your behalf send emissaries immediately to the other states of Mittelheim. We are three states now in our alliance - but more will certainly probably join!' 

'Ooh, yes!' squeals Rupprecht. 'Send one to Zenta - that might be fun!'