An Interlude!

In the harem of his palace, Hospodar Casimir has summoned into his presence a newly arrived emissary from The Empire of All the Fenwicks. In considering who it is that he should ally with in what seems to be an imminent Mittelheim conflict, he has deemed it expedient to gather as much information as possible.

While he waits for the arrival of the Fenwickian ambassador, the Hospodar is passing the time by going through one of his periodic 'getting to know you' interviews with one of his concubines. It isn't something he generally looks forward to because the conversations tend not to be massively stimulating.

'So' says Casimir without much enthusiasm to one of the reclining concubines, 'tell me about yourself'.

The girl squints. 'Well, Dread Lord, it’s made of wood and it has some books on it'.
Casimir sighs. 'No, that's your shelf - what about yourself: that is, you'.
The concubine seems panicked by Casimir's line of questioning. 'But my Lord! I've never been on a shelf. I think I'd fall off'.

'I ...' Casimir seems about to say something else to the poor lass, but then gives up. He gestures his Grand Vizier, Radu Pasha, over. 'Radu slave, you've got to get me a better quality of dancing girl'.

Radu looks concerned. 'Better quality, sire? Are they not sufficiently ...'  Radu searches for the words. After years in the Hospodar's service, Radu has realised that, in matters such as these, he needs to be careful. Whilst Casimir has few constraints whatsoever when it comes to inflicting pain, being quite happy to poke, stab, fillet, peel, stretch, mangle, and/or incinerate others at the drop of hat (or indeed in cases of a disloyal sounding sneeze) he is actually rather conservative when it comes to matters relating to the boudoir. After all, he might be a psychopath with a bevy of harem slave girls ready to service his every carnal whim, but he is also a married man. 

Radu finally alights on what seems a suitably innocuous line of analogy. 'Are they not sufficiently well ... ah ... upholstered?'

'Upholstered?' asks Casimir suspiciously. 

'Perhaps their ... ah ... pillows need plumping up?' 

The hospodar looks perplexed. 'In God's name, what Radu Pasha?'

'Perhaps ones more appreciative of having their ... ah ... ornaments handled? Or whose doors don't ... ah ... creak so much when you ... when you ... open and shut them ...'. His voice trails off, Radu sensing that this might be the sort of metaphorical dead end that also comes equipped with a hole full of scorpions with a sign next to it saying "Put Head Here". 

'I have no idea what you're talking about, vizier, with your strange references to furniture! I want a girl that's more intelligent, not one that smells of polish!'

Radu bows very low. 'Alas, my lord, we have tried, but it never works out. If they are intelligent then they have ideas of their own; and if they have ideas of their own, it means that they can disagree with you; and if they disagree with you ...'

'Slave Radu, I'm after a woman intelligent enough to know that their very survival depends upon them agreeing with me. Someone like yourself, but who looks better in gauze undergarments'. He eyes Radu. 'Much, much better'.

'You are too kind, sire'.

'No, that's rarely been one of my faults'.

There is a sudden blast of trumpets.

Casimir sighs. 'Thank goodness. Rescued by the Fenwickian ambassador. Well, let's have him, then'.

Levend!

As the Yoruks ride off, they are replaced by a shambling noisome, ill-disciplined mass that doesn't so much march into view as intermittently dribble forwards.

Hospodar Casimir nods. 'So finally we have the camp followers: thieves, beggars, diseased doxies - the noxious sediment at the bottom of my army'.

'Alas, no, my lord' says General Bulbous. 'These are indeed a core component of the fighting troops of your army'. 

The wind then changes direction. Casimir chokes violently on the terrible, terrible smell.

'What on earth ...', says the hospodar in strangled tones.
'Borat levend', replies General Bulbous, his familiarity with the troops meaning that he has already stuffed some rags up his nose.

'I am confused', says Casimir. 'Their limbs are moving and yet, indisputably, they smell partially decomposed'.

'They rub themselves in the blood of woodland animals to enable them to better blend in'.

'Blend in better with what? Dead woodland animals? Is there much of a call for that?'

'I don't believe, my lord, that the Borat region has a terribly active social scene'.

The levend assemble slowly, alternately chattering and stinking.

Casimir pulls a face. 'So these fellows are even poorer than their Yoruk countrymen?'

'Indeed, sir - too poor a prospect even to attract sufficient fleas to afford a mount'.

'Stinking and impoverished - they don't sound very promising, Bulbous'.

'They are indeed worthless trash, my lord: and yet they are quite flexible on the battlefield'.
The hospodar nods. 'Bendable and expendable: that sounds a lot more promising. Well, if this is the army that I have, then I must give due considering to how - and against whom - it should be employed. Now, give me go of your palanquin, and let's head back to the palace'.

Yoruks!

'Ah!', says Hospodar Casimir. 'These look like saner fellows!'
'Indeed so, my lord', replies Bulbous. 'They never stop complaining about having to live in Mittelheim'.
'And these would be more irregular cavalry?' asks Casimir.
'Yoruks', replies the general.
'That's a little rude, Bulbous - but I think I'm right'.
'No, no, my lord - Yoruks: they are Yoruk cavalrymen provided from the Borat region!'

'Borat ? Yes: not, if I remember rightly, a terribly prosperous region in my Sanjak'.
'No , my lord. I think that there are parts of the province where fleas are actually legal tender. But it is such poverty that encourages them to volunteer. Actually, what you see my lord are the more prosperous of the Borats, since they do at least possess horses'.
'How did they buy them? What is the exchange rate like on Borat fleas?'
‘"Buy", my lord?  I’m not sure that "buying" is their normal procedure when it comes to purchasing horses. Generally, I think that they tend to "borrow" them from other peoples. Although, to be honest, they have quite a loose definition of the word ‘borrow’: it really includes everything from "I’ll bring it back in minute" through to "since I’ve shot you, you won’t be needing this anymore".
Casimir and Bulbous survey the Yoruks as they perform feats of skill.

'They do at least seem enthusiastic, my lord', says Bulbous, hopefully.
Casimir shrugs. 'Hmmm, well it's probably more like desperation - but it’ll do for my purposes'.

Dellis!

 As the provincial sipahi ride off back towards camp, looking for someone to lend them some cash, another body of horse approach. Suddenly, the force lets out a wild cacophony of 'waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!', 'eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeegh!', and 'hubbahubbahubba!' sounds.

'Who on earth are these noisy hooligans!' cries Hospodar Casimir.
'Delli irregulars, my lord', replies General Bulbous. 'Crazy loons; slack-jawed nutters; the wildest, strangest, most addle-bonced fighting men ever to ride a mount backwards and then wonder where their horse's head had gone'.

'They don't look crazy', says Casimir interestedly. 'Just a bit bad at riding'.

'Savages one and all', says Bulbous dismissively. 'Torturers and bloody-handed butchers!'

'Well', says Casimir, shrugging, 'it's important to have hobbies'. Bulbous coughs nervously, recollecting suddenly that if Casimir wasn't himself technically a torturer and a bloody-handed butcher, that was only because the hospodar had written the laws in ways that made what he did 'legitimate corrective action'.  

'The sorts of fellows that steal sweets from babies', adds Bulbous changing tack.

'That doesn't make them loonies', says Casimir, who himself hadn't always been on the right side of the 'theft from babies' debate. 'Children should probably eat less sugar, I think'.

'Frothy-lipped beasts, all too willing to slay the defenceless!' tries the general.

'Meh', says Casimir unconvinced. The hospodar himself generally interpreted the principle of  'women and children first' less as a moral imperative and more as a targeting priority.

'They like living in Mittelheim', says Bulbous.

Casimir chokes and almost falls from his cushions. 'Hare-brained crackpots!' he splutters. 'Bare-bottomed bone-heads!' he adds. 'Move these lackwits on!'

Provincial Cavalry!

The Giezzas shuffle off; although, to Hospodar Casimir's mind, there's rather too much falling over, shooting one another accidentally in the head, and/or expressing a love of musical theatre than he might be comfortable with in a military manoeuvre, given that, since he is paying them, he has at least a vague expectation that his coin should be reciprocated by a measure of military competence. General Taras Bulbous, having more experience of commanding Zentan armies, seems less concerned.

'My lord, given a little more time for training - say, fifty years or so - I think that the Giezzas might make fine troops'. He considers this further for a moment. 'Or at least acceptable troops for missions involving the subduing of very short and poorly trained adversaries'. He considers the issue further. 'That are asleep and that are already tied up'.

Hospodar Casimir seems about to raise a finger - a sign either that he intends to order an execution or to take a break for lunch. Before Bulbous finds out which, he hears the sound of approaching horses.  This makes him instantly more optimistic. Zenta is well known for in Mittelheim for the quality of its cavalry, who are skilled riders that only rarely marry their horses. 

The provincial Sipahi have arrived. Casimir watches them as they perform feats of horsemanship. The troops seems competent but also a little lacklustre.

'These fellows don't seem as enthusiastic as would like', observes the hospodar. 

Bulbous bows. 'I believe, my lord, that there are some concerns regarding the lateness of their pay'.
The hospodar nods. 'Well, Bulbous, to be fair to them I have indeed ordered the paperwork for their pay held up'.
Bulbous doesn't quite know what to say. He could intervene on behalf of his troops - but this might only end up expediting the seperation of his head from the rest of his body.
'Economics', continues Casimir. 'I like to hold the paperwork back until after military campaigns - when as many of the troops as possible are dead'.
'Ah, er, a wise choice, my lord', replies Bulbous. 
'So, Bulbous, it would be useful if you could ensure that as few survive as possible'.
The general nods phlegmatically. 'I think that can be managed, sire. Your will, my hands'.

The Archers!

Hospodar Casimir frowns. 'Well, now - who on earth are these fellows?'
General Taras Bulbous looks a little nervous. 'They are Giezza levy, my lord - from the Dojay province'.
'Dojay Giezzas?' asks Casimir. 'Whilst I don't want to appear judgemental, they don't look entirely competent'.
'My lord, they are the very, very best that Dojay province has to offer', replies the general. 'So, generally, your instincts are right - they are rubbish'.

Casimir scrutinises the Dojay contingent. 'Some of them don't even have muskets, Bulbous. They only have bows. Is that a problem? It seems to me like it's a problem'.

Bulbous shrugs. 'Bows, muskets, soft furnishings - it doesn't really matter what they are armed with, sire. The main role of the Dojay Giezzas is to catch bullets. If the enemy are aiming at them, then it means that they're not aiming at someone else'.

'Someone else more useful?' asks Casimir.

'That would be absolutely anyone else, my lord'.

'Excellent!'