Zenta!

In the Zentan capital of Nehrenvar, Hospodar Casimir, 'God's Umbrella and Also Possibly His Hat', is in conversation with his Grand Vizier Radu Pasha. The subject - terrible rumours of war emanating from Mittelheim, carrying with them the prospect of death, destruction, and the accumulation of human misery.
'Excellent news, Radu Pasha', says Casimir, beaming.

As previous editions of this painfully cheap publication have noted, the Hospodar has been keen to stoke the fires of conflict in Mittelheim as a way of escaping the call from the Sublime Porte to participate in the upcoming campaign in Persia. As a result, Casimir concocted a plan to disrupt Mittelhem's peace and sow discord. As the recent events in Schrote, and their consequences, have indicated, he has been rather successful

'Yes, my lord', replies the vizier. 'Excellent - and may I say a testament to your skill and deep sagacity in affairs of strategy and statecraft'.

'Yes, Radu slave, you may say that. And may I say, in my turn, that those words mean all the more to me because I know that you always, always tell me the truth'. The Hospodar arches an eyebrow and smiles at his vizier.
Radu bows, feeling, as he always does after a smile from Hospodar Casimir, deeply uplifted: if, that is, one's definition of the word 'uplifted' is feeling that a small part of one's soul is being water-boarded.

'Anyway, Radu Pasha', continues Casimir. 'Your presence here must signal some developments in matters of policy'.
'Indeed, my lord. The Bachscuttel ambassador wishes to see you. And also a newly arrived envoy from The Empire of all the Fenwicks'. 

'Later', says Casimir, waving dismissively. 'Much, much later'.

'More immediately, Dread Lord, the troops are assembled'.

'Excellent! Well, let's rustle up a few eunuchs, and toddle out to the parade, shall we?'

'Before that, my lord, I think that ...' Radu Pasha is interrupted by sounds of a commotion in the corridor outside.

Spanners!

'Well', continues Joachim, 'I can see Infanterie Regiment Number One ...'
'Yeeeees', says Emperor George suspiciously.
'But we then go straight to Number Three', continues Joachim, pointing at the banners.
'Yeeeees'.

Joachim frowns. 'So where's ...?'
'Don't say it!' shouts George, but he's too late!
'Where's Number Two?' says Joachim loudly.
'Stop it!'
Joachim blunders on, ignoring his father. 'Number Two!', he shouts at the troops. 'I need a Number Two!'

A slow, murmuring of 'fnars' begins to bubble amongst the assembled troops.

'Stop him! Stop him!' cries the emperor, pointing at the duke.

'Number Two? Number Two?' shouts Joachim, searching the line of banners.

The 'fnars' grow louder. Sensing an impending disaster, Wormer intervenes. Rushing forwards, he can see nothing better to do than give Joachim's codpiece a very hard slap. This does indeed stop Duke Joachim dead - but it replaces his investigations with a slow, long, piercing wail - a sound much like that likely to be made by a weasel who has just found himself being stuffed inside another weasel.

'Waaaaaaaaaaah!' cries Joachim clutching his Christmas winkie.

'What on earth is wrong, Duke Joachim?' asks the emperor.

'My test ...', he wheezes, pointing to his groin,  'test ..'

'Testing my patience, you bubble-headed buffoon?' asks George. 'Yes, you are sir!'

'No father', groans Joachim, 'my bal ... bal ...'

'You're ballroom dancing privileges, you nano-brained nincompoop? Consider them revoked!'

'No, my gona ... gona ...'

'Yes, you're going to be in hot water, you micro-craniumed muppet! Now, buck up! Pull yourself together! Stop your rude and risible rantings! Are you mad! Do you have a screw loose?'

'Yes', replies Joachim groaning, gingerly manipulating his codpiece, 'it's come out and now its poking me right in my ...'. 

'Cease your unwanted entendre antics, Duke Joachim! I don't want to have to have you imprisoned. I am relying on you to produce an heir'. 

'That might take ... that might take ... a bit longer than you think', says Joachim tearfully, adjusting his cod piece. 

George points meaningfully, which is his thing. 'Now, let us wrap up this sad bag of spanners before my son and heir creates any more disasters! Wormer, we shall hold our military review as soon as the remainder of the troops are assembled! And send me messages from our envoy in Zenta as soon as they arrive!'

'Indeed, sire!' replies Wormer. 'No doubt information will arrive very shortly!'

Banners!

Pogelswood - capital of the Empire of All the Fenwicks. At one of the gates, troops are parading with the new banners issued to the regiments of the recently re-uniformed army. Emperor George XIII, Minister Werner von Wormer, and Duke Joachim, George's heir, have come down from the council chambers to inspect the troops. For George and Wormer, this activity also has the advantage of  allowing Joachim's codpiece to roam free in the fresh air, making it much less likely that they will in any way come into contact with it.

To the martial sound of drums and flutes, the troops parade the flags of the various new regiments of the army.

All of the nicer banners are taken from Not By Appointment
https://nba-sywtemplates.blogspot.com/

Minister Wormer watches the troops arrive. Joachim seems very excited, and skips forward to direct the troops into line.
Wormer turns to George. 'I don't quite understand', says the minister, observing Joachim, 'given the tedious vulnerability of your Fenwickian subjects to double entendre, how Joachim's codpiece has not caused a lethal tidal wave of salacious fnarring sufficient to destroy the cohesion of the army'.
'Because the duke's accoutrement isn't double entendre', replies the emperor. 'Look at it'. He points at the appendage, waggling in the breeze. 'It's not a double entendre; it's not even a single entendre, or indeed any form that could be placed under the genus 'entendre' at all. It is exactly what it is - an enormous Christmas winkie -  and thus beyond the comprehension of most of the folk of Fenwick. It's too obvious, and so, in a sense, they can't even see it'.
'So if it was less obvious and more of an entendre ...' replies Wormer.
'Quite so - if we were to replace it with a cucumber, or a bent carrot ...'
'Or a long, creamy eclair ...'
'Stop it!' says the emperor horrified. He looks worriedly about. 'You can't even safely mime the words 'long creamy eclair' in Fenwick. Are you mad?'
Wormer frowns. 'So if my wife actually opened her bodice and popped out both her ...'
'Absolutely fine, Wormer'.
'But if she picked up two melons and held them in front of her chest ...'
'Fatal. Just fatal. And, it's important to note Wormer, a capital offence in Fenwick. Bringing melons into proximity with one another, or agitating them in a manner likely to cause a breach of the peace - which, just so that you're clear, Wormer, is any movement whatsoever - will have you locked up for years. Not even I could save you!'

The troops begin to form line, the banners waving proudly in the breeze - not unlike Joachim's codpiece.

Wormer peers at the banners. 'Sire, these banners look exactly like the Nabstrian banners, which is to say Prussian banners, but with the central eagle crudely removed and replaced by the insignia of Grand Fenwick'.

George nods. 'This was exactly the look that I was going for'.

'But my lord, won't this, along with having the exact same uniforms as the Nabstrians, which is to say Prussian uniforms, create untold confusion when we fight Nabstria?'

'Not at all. Distinguishing our troops from the Nabstrians, or indeed any other of the collection of the fractious weasels that comprise the other armies of Mittelheim will be easy. Ours will be the troops manoeuvering competently, obeying orders, and delivering volleys in a lethal fashion - whereas they will be the sack of sinuous military invertebrates drooling their way across the battlefield. Our troops are the Spartans of Mittelheim!'

'Aroo!' cries Joachim, helpfully.

'Father', says Joachim. 'Counting the regiments, I think that there's a problem!'

'What?' says George suspiciously.

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!'