War?

Prince Rupprecht's meeting with the Zentan envoy is proceeding in a manner that more diplomatic observers might label as 'sub-optimal'.

'No! No! No! No! No!' cries the prince. 'You call this a present! These animals are completely flat!'
'They are animal skins my lord', says Chamberlain Fecklenburg. 'His Excellency Delli Rall has brought you a rare selection of skins'.

'Bah!' says Rupprecht, refusing to be mollified. 'I prefer my animal friends to be plumper than this. Much plumper! Take them away and feed them'.

'My lord', says the chamberlain. 'These animals are not alive ...'

'Well of course they aren't', retorts the prince. 'See how little he's feeding them!'

Fecklenburg orders the skins to be removed. His life is too short for this sort of nonsense. Far, far too short.

Rupprecht looks at the Zentan and pouts. 'Quickly then, my man - why are you here, tasking me with your animal cruelty?'

'Baaaah!' declares the Zentan. 'I am here to declare war on you, my lord, on behalf of my liege, Hospodar Casimir, the Shadow of God; God's Umbrella; and Also Possibly His Hat'.
Rupprecht frowns. 'Is it urgent?'
Rall considers this. 'It's a declaration of war'.
'I'm in a bad mood - come back when I've recovered'.
'When, my lord - this afternoon?'
'Next June.'
'My lord Rupprecht - it's a declaration of war. I think I probably have to deliver it today. I could, perhaps, stretch to tomorrow morning?'
'Deliver it now, and you will indeed be stretched until tomorrow morning', says the prince angrily.
'Mooooo!' declares the Zentan. 'Honour demands that I deliver my message! I declare war on you, lord of Nabstria!'
There is a moment of puzzled silence.
'But this is Bachscuttel', says Fecklenburg. 'The Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel!'
'Is it?' says Rall, amazed. 'Is it? Ah well. Hmmm. Well, then. Well, then I have come here to not declare war on you, and also to get some better directions to Nabstria!'

'Well, splendid!' says Rupprecht. 'Hurrah! It would seem that we have avoided war. Excellent! Because at the moment, I have much too much else to do than to, you know, command, and strategise, and inspire, and, and ... what is it that I habitually do in wartime to lead my country Fecklenburg?'
'As I recall, sir, you sit on your commode'.
Rupprecht beams. 'So, all's well that ends well, then! And in a spirit of fraternity and peace, why don't you sit with me and have breakfast!'

A Visitor!

Meanwhile, in Schloss Tanvaund, Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is ruminating on matters of state with his chamberlain, Leopold von Fecklenburg, and his chief medical officer, Herr Hans Klenser.

'My lord!' declares Klenser. 'I have come at once as you have ordered!'

'Excellent!' says Rupprecht. 'For I am in a terrible way'.

'My lord, what troubles you so?' says the physician.

Rupprecht groans. ''The awful impact of inflation, Klenser. I should have thought that that was obvious'.

'Indeed sir'.
'I mean look at this',continues the Prince. 'My girth is inflating at such a rate that I don't have any belts to keep my britches up'.
Fecklenburg interjects. 'Is that such a problem, my lord? I was under the impression that you viewed the wearing of your britches rather as an optional activity'.
'Indeed, chamberlain - but there are still many occasions in which I must, of necessity, cover my princely baubles'. Rupprecht's brows furrows as he considers some solutions. 'I could have Faltaire invent some kind of mechanical trousers, perhaps?'
'It's a rather complicated solution', says Fecklenburg carefully. 'I could of course simply purchase you some bigger belts'.
Rupprecht thinks about this for a while and then shrugs. 'I suppose so, Fecklenburg - it might be a simpler solution'.
Klenser nods in agreement. 'Yes, we don't want to reinvent the wheel, do we sir'.
'No, absolutely not, says Rupprecht. Feckleburg and Klenser bow and make to withdraw.

Although', says Rupprecht. The two officials halt. It is not impossible that a low sigh escapes Fecklenburg's lips.
'Although', continues Rupprecht, 'I have often thought that wheels could well do with a bit of reinventing'.
'How so, sir?' asks Klenser.
'Well, I've often found them to be rather too round'.
'Wheels that are round - isn't that rather the point of them, sir', replies the chamberlain.
'Yes, but it can often make it quite difficult to get into and out of my carriage, what with the roundness of the wheels letting the coach move'.
'The round wheels allow the coach to move'. Fecklenburg cocks his head to one side. 'Again sir, forgive me for being dense, but isn't that also sort of the point?'
'Well, I just think that a few straight edges on the wheels would make everything a bit more stable'.
'Wouldn't straight edges on a round wheel actually make them square, my lord?'.
'Oh no, I'm not an idiot - square wheels wouldn't work. But what about a hexagon or an ... octopus'.
'An octagon, you mean sir?'
'No, no, no - don't be ridiculous: The tentacles would get in the way'.

'Riveting intellectual challenge though this conversation is, my lord', says Fecklenburg rather icily. 'I do think that other matters require your attention. There is, outside, the emissary from Zenta that I informed you about earlier, my lord'.

'What?' enquires Rupprecht. 'Oh, Hell's bunions man! Well, send him in then - but he'd better be entertaining'. 

Emissary!

'Is he really the most suitable man for the position of emissary to Nabstria?' asks Hospodar Casimir the following day.
Radu Pasha bows. 'My lord, this fellow is, to put no finer point on it, a slack-jawed, dim-wittedly dangerous  dunderhead'.
'Hmmm', replies the hospodar. 'He still sounds too reasonable for the job in hand. I need a leper-licking loon: the kind of wild-brained wazzock incapable of reasoned discourse. There needs to be no chance whatsoever that the declaration of war that he delivers to Nabstria might lead to any kind of diplomatic solution before the actual fighting starts'.
'I think he's your man, Dread Lord', says Radu Pasha. 'Although I use the term 'man' very loosely, given that, in relation to his personality and outlook, he has more in common with an angry orangutan'.
'What is an orangutan?' asks Casimir.
'I don't know my lord', admits Radu Pasha, 'but everyone I've talked to that has met one has been been very clear on their dangerous combination of irritability and inhuman strength'.
'It is a combination best avoided', admits Casimir. 'And so I command you never to introduce me to one'.
Radu bows.
Casimir sighs. 'Well, slave; send him in then'.

Radu gestures to the guards.

'Dread Lord!' announces one of the harem eunuchs. 'Osman Delli Rall!'

A wild looking figure enters the chamber.

'Delli Rall?' asks Radu.

'Baaaaah!' says Rall, bowing low. 'I am come before you great hospodar. Command me! Mooooo!'
Casimir's left eyebrow creeps upwards quizzically.

'Welcome, Delli Rall!' cries Radu Pasha. 'Your hospodar wishes to converse with you! Now, then, would you like some coffee?'
Rall rolls his eyes. 'Baaaaah! I am a Bashi-bazouk, my lord: a crazed, blood thirsty madman, keen to rip the ears from every infidel I can get my steely hands on. Blood is all that I consume!'
'A hot chocolate?' suggests Casimir.
'Ooooh lovely!' replies Rall enthusiastically. 'Anything but kippers. I hate kippers!'

'That's oddly specific given that I was in fact offering you something to drink', says the hospodar.
'Indeed my lord. But I was just warning you. Kippers send me into paroxysms of uncontrollable rage!'
'I shall bear that in mind when I next consider serving fish and sea food as beverages. Still, I'm sure that kippers are an irrelevant piece of the detail that will never crop up again'.

As Rall slurps his drink, Casimir looks more closely at the wild-looking delli. 'Impressive! Have you actually pushed those knives through your body? asks the hospodar with professional interest. 'I mean actually right through your skin?'
'There's no pockets in my trousers', says Rall sadly.
'You could buy yourself some that do have pockets?' suggests Casimir.
Rall considers this. 'I was in a hurry. my lord'.

Pleasantries are exchanged, to much bowing and 'Baaaas!' from the delli. Eventually, Casimir turns to the matter in hand.
'I have called you here, Delli Rall, because I wish you to go to Nabstria and declare war upon them!'

'My lord!' cries Rall, falling to his knees. 'You have only to command me!'
'I think I just have', says Casimir. 'So, off you go: and don't, whatever you do, in any way facilitate peace'.

'At once, my lord!' cries Rall, heading for the door. He then pauses. 'Ah, my lord - where exactly is Nabstria?'

'I like this man already', says Casimir with satisfaction.

March!

In Hospodar Casimir's harem chamber, planning is already under way for the coming campaign in Mittelheim. Casimir has with him the Fenwickian ambassador, Wolfgang, Graf Hotkreutzbahn, and also his closest councillors and officers. These include his vizier Radu Pasha; his military advisor Sergiu Bey; his treasurer, Pasha Manuel Draff; and the commander of Zenta's maritime forces, Admiral Akbar. Akbar has exactly the sort of ambition, enterprise, and diligence that one could expect from someone who had chosen to join the navy in a landlocked state.

'It’s a trap!' claims Akbar loudly. 'It’s a trap!'

'I doubt it, Akbar, I doubt it', says Radu Pasha. 'I only asked for a cup of coffee'.

'My lord, our troops are ready for the campaign', announces Sergiu. 'They are honed to the pinnacle of military efficiency'.

'The pinnacle, you say?' replies Casimir. 'Well, I suspect that that's the top of a very small mountain. Nevertheless, the sooner we can shift our troops from Zenta, the sooner they will stop punching other Zentans in the face and stealing their belongings. Commit the army at once! All of them! Put the troops onto boats; paddle them down the Strudel to Nabstria; land in Nabstria; and then battle our way eastwards - first Nabstria, then Bachscuttel, and then Rotenburg'.
Sergiu nods. 'Splendid, sire. Although, we shall need to prepare the troops to ...'.
'Oh no, no,no', says the hospodar, 'no preparation is necessary. Just get them out of my Sanjak as soon as possible'.

The Fenwickian ambassador pushes his way forwards and then interjects gingerly. 'But my lord, there are the niceties of war that must be abided by. We cannot unleash our forces until we have made a formal declaration of war: such is the way of things in civilised places'.

Casimir pulls a face. 'Oh no, no, no! Not at all!' 
The Graf blanches. 'But my lord, if we do not abide by these accepted norms, all of Europe will look askance at us. This is the era of enlightenment. There are customs, laws, and other', he gestures rather randomly, 'things'.
'I am less worried about those ... things ... than you are ambassador. Much less worried', says Casimir dismissively.
Hotkreutzbahn perseveres. 'But my lord, I cannot be certain that my King will be willing to support such a Zentan attack without going through the correct forms and protocol'.
Casimir sighs slowly. 'Well, fine. I'm not by nature an unreasonable man. We shall compromise. I will send an emissary to declare war at the same time as I launch my armies. If he happens to get there slightly after my troops, well, I can just blame it on the roads, or poor maps, or that the emissary has short legs'.
The graf seems uncomfortable - but he weighs up the importance of having Zenta in the alliance with Fenwick, and also the consequences of putting Casimir into a bad mood. 'As you wish, my lord. Short legs'.

'Excellent', says Casimir. 'Radu slave, find me a diplomat to send to Nabstria'. He pauses. 'And make sure he's not too tall'.

Radu bows. 'Your will, my hands, Awful One'.

'It's a trap!' adds Admiral Akbar helpfully.

'For once, Akbar', says Casimir, 'you're probably right'.

Alliance!

'Ah, ambassador!' says Vizier Radu Pasha. 'With your presence here you are really spoiling us!'

The Bachscuttel ambassador, Ritter von Dweeb  enters the hospodar's chambers tentatively. He looks warily from side to side, as if checking for ingeniously hidden, but strikingly painful, traps. It is really quite a good impression of checking for ingeniously hidden, but strikingly painful, traps, because he is actually checking quite hard for ingeniously hidden, but strikingly painful, traps.

'My lord!' he cries, bowing low. 'I come on behalf of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel, offering you an alliance with my Prince Rupprecht and all the benefits that would accrue from said co-joining of our forces!'

'Would there be more of those glittery chocolates?' asks Radu Pasha.

'Possibly', Dweeb says slowly, holding on hard to his hat. 'Possibly'.

'Well', says Radu Pasha, 'the distribution of such sweetmeats might help undermine the attractiveness of the arguments put forward by the representative from Fenwick'.

'I must protest, sire' continues Dweeb, 'though obviously with great respect to yourself, my lord, at the presence in your court of the Fenwickian envoy! Nothing good can come of listening to knaves such as he!'

'He seemed a nice enough fellow when I spoke to him earlier', says Casimir evenly.

'He is, alas, a pernicious war-monger!' replies the ambassador. 'What we need in Mittelheim is peace'.

'Peace?' says the hospodar thoughtfully. 'No, not really. I don't see any great benefits to peace at the moment. Tell me ambassador, have you ever been to Persia?'

'My lord, I cannot say that I have. Is it nice?'

'Is being hit around the head by a violin, whilst simultaneously having one's wedding tackle gnawed off by a badger, something that one would describe as "nice"?'

'Probably not', answers Dweeb cautiously, wondering where this conversation might be going, and whether a badger and/or some form of string instrument, might soon be making an unwelcome appearance. 'It isn't something that I, at least, would recommend to friends'.

'I would agree, ambassador. But as an activity it is still infinitely preferable to campaigning in Persia. So, I must instead find some way of campaigning in Mittelheim'.

Dweeb suddenly realises the import of Casimir's words. 'My lord! Surely it cannot be that you have manufactured this conflict in order to avoid taking an unwanted foreign trip? ' he asks appalled.

Radu Pasha shrugs on Casimir's behalf.

'Are you mad?' adds Dweeb.

Radu pasha winces and the chamber goes very, very quiet. As this modest publication has already noted, the hospodar is quite sensitive, given his family history, to charges that he might be short of a few marbles; or indeed that the marbles might have been replaced at some stage by rabid mongooses*. Radu has contemplated over the years whether or not Casimir is actually mad. His conclusion is that he isn't mad in the strictest sense of the word - if by 'strictest' one means actually quite mad indeed. Rather, the hospodar possessed in large measure those qualities required to survive as a ruler in Mittelheim: qualities that in other parts of the world might qualify one for an extended stay in the heavily padded room of one's choice.

'Ah, er, I use the word "mad" only in the most figurative of figurative senses', says Dweeb hastily, sensing the possible approach of a badger string quartet. 'Yes, ah, most figuratively. And respectfully. Very, very respectfully.

Casimir seems unfazed by Dweeb's outburst. He gestures towards Dweeb.

'Hmmm - do you think oil would heat that breastplate up most effectively; or should I go off piste with some garlic butter?'

As Dweeb is hauled off by the harem guards to reflect on his unwise words, news is sent to the Fenwickian ambassador that Zenta stands with King George in the coming war!

* Or Mongi.

Alliance?

'So', says Casimir thoughtfully, 'you are offering us a full defensive and offensive alliance?'

In front of him, the Fenwickian envoy nods in agreement. The imperial representative, who goes by the name of Wolfgang, Graf Hotkreutzbahn, then gestures vigorously. 'You have heard my offer, great lord. Subsidies and territorial concessions aplenty. Our enemies evidently are committed to toppling my liege George, King and Emperor. Clear evidence of this has been demonstrated by the acts of aggression perpetrated against us during the recent conflict in Schrote. Only war can ensure the security of Fenwick-Gelderland and the stability of Mittelheim. Our enemies are implacable; and so our response must be relentless: victory or death!'

'This is a significant business, then' says Radu Pasha.

'Indeed, sir, yes' replies the ambassador. 'We are Fenwick, not Funwick - and we are deadly serious about the prosecution of this coming conflict'.

Casimir nods. 'So who else will be in this alliance. If I joined you, our adversaries would number three - Bachscuttel, Rotenburg, and Nabstria - and we would number only two; so we would need at least one other power in our little entente'.
The ambassador looks uncomfortable. 'Sire, my next visit is to ... Vulgaria'.
'What?' roars Casimir. 'Ally with Vulgaria! Never! We hate them! We have suffered years of depredations at the hands of Vulgarian frontier brigands! Uncivilised, unbrushed, unwashed, and often undressed! No, no, no, no, no, never, no. Just ... no! What is the alternative?'
'Wurstburp, sire'.
'Fair enough, Vulgaria it is. We'd just have to find some entertaining treachery to inflict upon them at a later date'.

'Excellent, my lord', says Radu Pasha. 'Backstabbing Vulgarians is always a popular activity throughout your realm'.

'Backstab?' says Casimir thoughtfully. 'Oh, no, no, no, no. Where would the fun be in a quick stab that they'd never see coming. No. I envisage something grander; more dramatic; more operatic in quality. Something that has stabbing, yes - but that also combines aspects of flaying, searing, trepanning, dicing, and carefully targeted chopping. Yes, yes. This could all work out very well'.

The Graf nods. 'So, you will join us then, my lord?'

Casimir shrugs. 'Well, let us see, shall we. I am keen to hear the Bachscuttel ambassador, who will be here presently'.

'He will have no offer that I cannot improve upon!' cries Hotkreutzbahn passionately.

'Well', says the hospodar philosophically. 'I suspect that his breastplate would heat up even more nicely than yours'. Casimir sighs. 'Withdraw Graf. I shall hear what the Bachscuttlers have to say...'