Nabstria Unleashed!

A report concerning developments in the Burggraviate of Nabstria, completed by Colonel Sir Mallileu Fitzbuttress, late of His Majesty’s Horse Guards.

'Pursuant to my purposes as His Britannic Majesty's observer concerning the developing affairs in Mittelheim, I forward the following woodcuts illustrating a recent event in the War of the Spanish Suck Session. Against normal practice, the Nabstrian forces have eschewed a return to winter quarters and have suddenly taken again the field of war. Rumours abound of Nabstrian stratagems: Colonel Zeigler is nowhere to be see; King Wilhelm, prisoner of the Burgrave, has disappeared, and so have some of the strongest wheelbarrows in the kingdom. Messages have arrived from Emperor George of Grand Fenwick. Peace, it would seem, is far from Burgrave Falco's mind, and it may be that, after its period of rigorous re-training and re-equipment, the Nabstrian army intends again to contest the field of battle with its adversaries.

I remain your most loyal and obedient servant,

     Colonel Malileu Fitzbuttress'

'A scene near the edge of Falkensteinburg….

Col Tannenbaum, Chief Engineer of the Nabstrian Army, surveys the proposed route of the army.'

'Tannenbaum is joined by the rest of the Nabstrian General Staff, who then argue about which direction to take…'

'The argument can only be settled when General von Rumpfler and Paul, Duke of Clarkshire arrive.  ‘It’s that way’, the Duke says imperiously.  A message is hurriedly despatched to the army with its marching orders.

'The column is led by two companies of jaegers and a squadron of von Gank's Horse. The rest of the army's light troops and horse are already scouting far ahead.'

'As the jaegers disperse to cover the column, the infantry begins to march past. "Keep in step you dogs!  The General is watching!"'

'Rank after rank of blue-uniformed Nabstrian musketeers tramp past. Never has such a splendid force been put into the field by the Burggravate.'

'In fact, not only General Rumpfler but also the Burggrave are both watching the column with a keen eye. Von Gank’s Horse, distinguished in many a combat, trot forwards….'

'The full array of Nabstria’s Musketeer Regiments pass under the admiring glance of the Burggrave and his staff.'

'"Huzzah!" shout the musketeers! "Long live Nabstria!"

'The contrasting red and green uniforms of Nabstria’s Foreign Regiment, the ‘Wild Geese’ of O’Leary’s Regiment.'

'From Falkensteinburg, the Nabstrian musketeers follow the cavalry and head eastwards, eager to bring the Wihelmites to battle.'

As the Grenadier Regiments bring up the rear of the column, the Burggrave spurs his horse forward: ‘Well, my lads, if you fight as well as you march, victory will be ours!’

Let slip the dogs of war! Or at least, take them out for a brisk walk! Nabstria has been unleashed! On to victory!

A second garden interlude!

Meanwhile, in a more secluded part of the garden, von Rumpfler meets with Nora Hindquarters…

'But what’s wrong, Rumpy, my dear?  You’ve been awfully quiet since you returned home…'

'Oh, it’s just been dreadful, Nora, dreadful!  Every stratagem I have attempted has come to grief – even the ones from von Bulow’s ‘The Compleat Strategist’.  I fear I may now be a figure of fun to my own officers – I am at a loss, my dear, and I simply do not how I will proceed on the coming campaign…'

'Oh, come here, my dearest Rumpy and let me embrace you…everything will be alright…'

A garden interlude

An interlude in the gardens of Falkensteinburg…

With the Nabstrian Army currently disengaged from the enemy and back to its barracks to be re-equipped, there is a brief period of rest for the Burggrave and his commanding general, von Rumpfler.

After an elegant lunch, the Burggrave strolls in the gardens with his Burggravina…

'Well, I do declare, sir, that you have played with your soldiers long enough recently.  I do hope that you will be staying at home and attending to the affairs of the Burggrave for a while.'

'Yes, dear.'

'And really, my dear, this mania you seem to have for imitating the dress and habits of the King of Prussia is really too much.'

'Yes, dear.'

'The fact that you have uniformed your soldiers in the Prussian style is bad enough – can’t you come up with anything original yourself, dear?'

'Well, I…'

'And really, the request of the Chancellor that I must reduce my household once again due to the expense of the wars is really beyond the pale – where does all the money go? It’s not as if I am overly extravagant – six pastry chefs is an absolute minimum and one must maintain the status and prestige of the Burggrave however the war might be going….Indeed I often think, dear, that you have grown stubborn – can you not just make peace and make friends again with our neighbours?  I know that Chlodwig is simply dreadful and that Rupprecht is infuriating but you know, we did all manage to get along before the war, didn’t we, dear?'  

'I suppose so, dear…'

'And now I hear that King Wilhelm is under our roof and you haven’t presented me to the King once – it’s really too much to bear!'

'Yes, dear…'

Avast, and so forth!

     It is fair to say that life has not gone quite as planned for Sir Hubert Lyme-Pickle, naval architect for Prince Rupprecht. It had all started out so well. Sir Hubert had the traditional background of an eighteenth century British aristocrat of modest means: boarding school at three; Oxford University at five; a commission as a lieutenant in the Royal Navy at six; captain of his own vessel at eight. In all this, he had had to endure no more than the usual quotient of rum, sodomy, and the lash, even if, as a teetotaller, the balance was weighted rather more heavily towards the latter two than might have been comfortable. Still, having moved on to a knighthood, and a lucrative administrative position at one of His Majesty's shipyards, Sir Hubert's sails seemed set fair, and his future mapped out: a fortune from public service; marriage; syphilis; a Baronetcy. Sadly, things then came to an untidy end, thanks to the activities of a certain Count Nikolai Orlov, a Russian diplomat and spy. Having discovered that Lyme-Pickle was appropriating official funds, squirreling them away under his mattress at home, the Count determined to use this knowledge to blackmail Sir Hubert into serving the nefarious interests of the Russian Empire. Breaking into Lyme-Pickle's bedroom one evening, the Russian then waited for Sir Hubert to return before confronting him with the indisputable evidence of his crimes. The pitiful claims by Sir Hubert that the money had merely been been 'resting in his account' were thus trumped by the sight, ironically, of a Count resting in his money. After that, Sir Hubert's life slipped slowly into a vortex of unpleasantness: blackmail; spying for the Russians; discovery; torture; escape; a short stint in musical theatre; more torture; adventures in mime; penury; high blood pressure; and escape by sea to Mittelheim. More torture, though this time accidental, as he was mistaken for an Italian; and finally, recruitment to the boatyards of Bestwestung, where Sir Hubert was made Chief Naval Architect of the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel on the solid basis that he could swim. A bit. With none of his expansive aspirations achieved, except the syphilis, Lyme-Pickle's only consolation was that his life could not possibly, ever, get any worse. Now, ashen faced, Sir Hubert Lyme-Pickle stands on the docks of the squalid town of Bestwestung and contemplates, between the fingers of the hands that he has clapped in front of his eyes, the scene in front of him as the nautical fruits of his efforts stands ready for launching.

The assembled dignitaries include Prince Rupprecht and his wife, Princess Caroline. Upon the rickety main slipway of the docks lies the object upon which Sir Hubert has been slaving night and day to build: the looming hulk of a twenty gun vessel of war. Behold, the new Bachscuttel navy! The ship has been christened the Princess Caroline, because the vessel and Rupprecht's wife have suspiciously similar displacements. Lyme-Pickle is glad to see the thing launched at last. The building process has been a difficult one, thanks in part to Prince Rupprecht's constant attempts to interfere in the design of the vessel. Fancying himself as a nautical fellow on the basis that he likes port, the Prince's lack of any real knowledge of ships was evident from his initial plans for the vessel, which replaced the gun deck with a duel-use sauna and pig-pen. Later plans to make it a sixty oar galley came to grief when it became clear that a misunderstanding regarding the difference between the words 'oar' and'whore' had produced a design that sucked in quite special ways. Luckily, nothing came of Rupprecht's later design to burden the ship with a gigantic wind-powered clock; it turned out that this was just a wind-up. To cap it all, Lyme-Pickle has been plagued by what has amounted, fundamentally, to severe harassment, the source being the Royal advisor and pig fancier, Baron Albrecht Steinhagen. Still committed to the notion that pigs can perform all of the key roles of maritime power, and at less cost than an actual ship, the baron has continued to conduct a range of experiments on his favourite farmyard fixation. The latest provided a particular distraction for Lyme-Pickle: involving pigs, hoses, and pressured air, the last delicate processes of finishing the ship were interrupted constantly by periodic high pitched squeals, maniacal laughing, and bacon-scented explosions.

But Lyme-Pickle has managed, in the end, to complete the vessel, and now it stands ready on the slipway. Wanting to give the launch of this Mittelheim leviathan the proper pomp and ceremony, Prince Rupprecht has pulled out all the stops. Sadly, Johan Sebastian Bach refused his invitation, claiming that he would 'rather eat his own earwax' than enter Mittelheim. Instead, the entertainment has been provided by one of the masters of Gelderland culture: Herr Dieter Spucks and his Jumping Ducks. A lavish spread has been laid out next to the ship: a cornucopiea of gateaux's, pastries, and open fruit flans, provided by Prince Rupprecht's new chef - a wandering Italian, dressed in the faded uniform of a general officer. Upon the deck of the ship stands proudly the newly appointed Grand Admiral, Karl von Doenutz. Now, Rupprecht gives the signal - it is time! With a final sad quack from the light entertainment, there is a dramatic drum roll from the Guard Grenadiers, and the Princess Caroline is launched towards the sea! But, as the Caroline shoots down the slipway, the hawsers snap and the ship slides sideways: as terrified spectators hurl themselves out the way, the ship really hits the flan as it ploughs through Rupprecht's gargantuan buffet. Still, by some miracle, the ship reaches the water and, with a gurgling lurch and a thundering splash, it settles upon the sea.

And so, a new chapter opens in the Wars of the Gelderland Succession. From the rickety boatyards of the port of Bestwestung lurches the first dedicated warship ever to be launched by Saukopf-Bachscuttel: indeed by any Mittelheim state. The Palatinate now possesses the best navy in Mittelheim, although this is not unlike describing someone as the tallest dwarf. As the vessel floats in the water, the assembled dignitaries give a ragged cheer. This is the largest thing to float from Mittelheim's shores since Landgrave Choldwig last had his commode emptied.

The assembled crowd waits expectantly for the first potent demonstration of Bachscuttel's new capabilities. But it is evident that it may yet be some time before Prince Rupprecht can make use of the strategic leverage afforded by maritime power. Whilst the Palatinate may have a ship, it has not yet put into place many of those things that are usually regarded as necessary for the effective functioning of a navy: navigational training, for example; sea trials; or a crew. In consequence, the Admiral stands alone upon his ship, with only the vaguest idea of why, if the ship isn't swimming, it doesn't sink. As the wind picks up, and the sea strength builds, the ship begins to commence an alarming wallowing and swaying not seen since the court was last commanded to watch Princess Caroline working it on her trampoline. On deck, Admiral Doenutz does his best to get his new charge underway. But his loud commands of 'Giddiup', 'Mush', and 'Engage' bring no discernible change to the movement of the ship. And so, as the currents seize the ship, the Princess Caroline commences a random sea-borne perambulation across the coastline. Once into the deeper waters of the Baltic, she begins a yawing and heaving worse even than that occasioned by Prince Rupprecht's first sight of a painting of his intended wife. As the ship floats gently out of sight of the shore, the Prince gently wipes the remains of an apple strudel from his face and turns to Baron Steinhagen - it's time for plan B: 'Baron' he commands, 'inflate the pigs!' 

Retreat!

Meanwhile, many miles from the Nabstrian council chamber, the Burgravate's army continues its withdrawal after the battle of Hansel and Gretel. General von Rumpfler is standing with one of his staff officers, a Major Seewurd, upon a low hill, watching his troops trudge disconsolately past. For the moment, however, the retreat has halted: elements of the supply train have become entangled with a troop of cavalry and a portion of the officers' baggage, causing a chaotic melange of leech biscuits, cavalrymen and ladies undergarments. Attempting to restore order to this unedifying scene is a tiny, stooped fellow in an ill-fitting uniform: the commander of the baggage train, a certain Captain Schmeckohl, a slimy creature, as dark as darkness. Schmeckohl seems rather to have lost his cool, and now appears to be trying to strangle one of the horses with his tiny hands. 'Curses', cries Schmeckohl, 'Baggage! We hates it! We hates it forever!' The horse seems unperturbed; unsurprising, since being strangled by the little supply officer is about as dangerous as wearing a slightly tight cravat.

'Really', says von Rumpfler, 'is that the best baggage officer that we could find?'
Seewurd shrugs, a complex movement communicating simultaneously the meanings 'yes'; 'please don't have me beaten'; and 'this coat is a little bit small for me'.
Down below, Schmeckohl is suddenly wracked by a terrible cough: 'Gollum! Gollum!' he expectorates.
A quizzical look appears on the General's face.
'He's Captain Schmeckohl, sir' says Seewurd. After giving the General the few sketchy details that he has on the Captain's background, the Major adds: 'and he has a very strange cough.'
Down below, the little Captain is wracked once again.
'Game Pie! Giraffe!' coughs the little baggage officer: 'Golfballs! Game over!' he continues.
'He's an odd chap' ventures the Major. 'Hey, Schmeckohl' he shouts down to the Captain, 'Did you hear about the fellow that was crushed to death by a pile of books?'
Schmeckohl looks up momentarily.
'He only had his shelf to blame!'
Schmeckohl gives the staff officer the benefit of one of his digits. 'He really doesn't seem to like riddles, does he' says von Rumpfler wearily.
'Glutinous! Gazpacho!' coughs Schmeckohl.

The General and the Major turn to other business. Seewurd produces the latest report on the army's withdrawal, and proceeds to inform von Rumpler of the latest developments on his army's retreat. But von Rumpfler is clearly tired; as Seewurd drones on, with his tales of the march rates, logistics and intelligence, the General's thoughts drift inexorably towards his paramour, Nora Hindquarters: her marvelous eyes, her splendid shoulders, and her pair of ...
'Remarkable hillocks, sir'
'What's that, Major?' says a startled von Rumpfler.
'Any attempt to move north eastwards is hemmed in by some tricky high ground, Sir.'
'Oh yes, quite, quite, Seewurd: carry on.'
Seewurd returns to his report and von Rumpler returns to contemplating the memories of his mistress: her trim waist; her milk-white thighs; the fragrant lure of her...
'Tangled expanse of heathland'.
'What?', says von Rumpfler.
'There's little forage to be had, sir; what with the moors and such.'
'Oh yes', says the General. The Major continues; ration strengths, scouting reports. Von Rumpfler closes his eyes, squeezing out the mundanity of his army life, the banality of it all; taking himself back to the early days in Falkensteinburg - the carefree days in the early stages of his relationship with Nora; the eager, fleeting moments, when he could throw her to the bed, urgent in his desire to place his tongue upon her...
'Weevils, sir'.
'Christ, what?'
'The biscuit is riddled with them, and the men will soon be on half rations.'
'Terrible, I'm sure' says the General, 'Hmm - but did you mention that the scouts have returned? What reports do they have of the enemy's pursuit?' Von Rumpfler listens carefully. His army is fragile, and the last thing that he needs now is a close pursuit by troops from the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel.
Seewurd nods: 'The scouts have returned. They report a serious tussle with some of the Palatinate's dragoons, but there seems to be no sign of the rest of the enemy's army.'
'And the casualties?' says the General.
'None killed, sir, but two did have their lunch money stolen and another apparently was captured temporarily and subjected to some eye-watering wedgies.'
'Will he survive?' asks the General solicitously.
Seewurd shrugs. 'It's touch and go, my Lord: it depends whether the physician can extract the poor fellows britches from his nether regions or whether he might, instead, have to have his buttocks amputated.'
Von Rumpfler nods: 'Ah, the perils of war in Mittelheim', he adds. 'But did the scouts provide any useful information? How large is the pursuing army?
'Countless, Sir.'
'Hmmm' says the General, 'That's not reassuring.'
'No sir: although given the poor grasp of numeracy in our army, that could mean anything upwards of three.'
Von Rumpfler nods, looking back down at the baggage train.
'Gabardine! Gadgeteer!' coughs Schmeckohl, restoring some kind of order to the wagons.

The General sighs, struck by a new and pleasant memory: a marvelous morning, entering Nora's bedchambers unexpectedly to find her bent over, and he suddenly seized with the urgent desire to get his hands all over her...
'Embarrassingly large trouser-tent'.
'What?' says von Rumpfler.
'It's frightening the men, sir,' says Seewurd, pointedly looking  upwards and waving generally in the direction of the General's crotch.
'Eh? Oh'. Von Rumpfler gives up his reverie. Only duty , it would seem, is to be his mistress for the rest of this campaign: and he doesn't like the size of her ankles.
Below, the baggage difficulties seem to have been resolved. Sitting on the lead wagon is Captain Schmeckohl: as it finally sets off, bouncing alarmingly along the muddy track, the little Captain begins to howl.
'Why is he so unhappy, says von Rumpfler, 'Didn't you say that the Captain was rich?'
'No, my General, 'says Seewurd: 'I said that he had piles. It's quite different.'
As the wagons judder across the rutted pathway that passes for a Gelderland road, Seewurd winces at the cries from Captain Schmeckohl: 'Ow! My ring! My ring!'
'Bah!' says von Rumpfler, 'there's no need for him to be so precious'.

Decisions!

.... we're going to have afternoon tea'.
The mood in the council chamber lightens immediately, the assembled councillors agreeing amongst themselves that there is no knotty problem of strategy, no fundamental misalignment in the means, ways, ends relationship, no disharmony between tactical, operational, and strategic levels of war, that cannot be made better by a scone and a cup of tea. As a bell is rung to summon the afternoon's refreshment, Bishop Munschrugge addresses the council expansively:
'What we face, gentlemen, is a difficult problem of strategy. We have King Wilhelm; but now we don't really want him because it would seem that our adversaries are fighting this war slightly better without him. But we can't just give him back, because that would make us look weak. So what do we do? We face, good Sirs, a strategic Gordian Knot.'
'Gordon who?' says the aged Count Beckwurz, Minister for Treacle and Public Education.
'Gordian knot', says von Wornitzdaun.
'He's not what?' says the Count.
Groans and hoots ensue, until someone loudly shouts 'Treacle leakage!', causing the aged Minister to hurry from the room to deal with this presumed crisis.
The Chamberlain arrives, organising the servants as they provide the assembled councillors with high tea: toast, biscuits, and ...
'What's this', says Munschrugge: 'Where are the scones?'
'Well my lord', says the Chamberlain apologetically, 'It seems we have a shortage of scones; so I took the liberty of replacing them with ...'
'Brussels sprouts. Why am I looking at Brussels sprouts', says Munschrugge.
'It's King Wilhelm, my lord', says the Chamberlain. There is a groan from around the table.
'Out with it: what has that Dark Lord of Lard done now?'
'Well, my lord, it seems that he has been whiling away his hours of captivity by engaging in eating games with his guards.'
'His guards?'
'They get bored, sir. Guarding his door seems so pointless because he's too porky to get through it. To open a means of egress large enough from him to escape through would require the use of a substantial piece of siege artillery; and the guards are confident that they could hear the squeaking of the cannon's wheels from some distance away. And if Wilhelm could make a sprint for it, he would be able to escape the pursuit only with a seven month head-start and a system of winches and pulleys that would be very, very difficult to sneak into the prison in a pie.'
'And'
'And so his guards saw little harm in humouring him when he desired to engage in a traditional Gelderland eating competition.'
'And it's a competition with scones?' says Munschrugge.
Yes sir - the Game of Scones. You win or you barf, apparently.
'And the prize?
'More scones.'
'I see. Chamberlain...'
'Yes, My Lord?'
'Leave this room and go to the guardhouse. Tell the guards to arrest you and have you executed.'
'Chamberlain?', says Munschrugge, as the Chamberlain walks dejectedly towards the door.
'Yes, my Lord?', says the Chamberlain, turning hopefully.
'Get us some more jam, first.'

Finally, to the late afternoon sounds of birds, distant harpsichord music, and a small firing squad, Bishop Munschrugge outlines his plan: 'Our witless opposition will presume that the campaign season has now ended. But we will surprise them. What we will do is to send messages post-haste to our allies in Grand Fenwick. As soon as our army has recovered, we will order von Rumpfler to march and join up with our allies: this combined force will march rapidly upon Grosschnitzelring, crushing our divided opposition on the way. In the meantime, Colonel Zeigler and a small force of troops will wheel King Wilhelm back to Grosschnitzelring, and, using Ms Hindquarters' information, they will break the King back into the capital city, wedging him into a convenient doorway. Our army will advance upon the capital and lay siege; but with King Wilhelm back in command, Grosschnitzelring should be easier to get into than a butter covered midget. We'll have complete victory and be back in Falkensteinburg in time for tea and scones. Or at least', says Munschrugge, eyeing his plate dubiously, 'tea and a more acceptable scone substitute.'

After a moments silence, the council room erupts into a round of applause.

Von Frerkingheil hops up and down excitedly: 'This is going to be brilliant! Nothing at at all, ever, could possibly go wrong with this plan, my Lord.'
Graf Decksluder groans: 'You had to say it, didn't you Frerkingheil; you just had to go and say it.'

Cogitation!

'Bugger'.
Bishop Munschrugge drops the despatches from General Von Rumpfler. His head sinks and he begins gently to knock it against the table-top.
'Bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*, 'sod it' *thunk*, 'bugger' *thunk*.
'Is it good news?' Graf Deckscluder asks hopefully.
The Bishop raises his head, his wig now perched precariously askew.
'No, my good Graf, it is not. Von Rumpfler's army has been defeated and is now retreating back towards Falkensteinburg. Moreover ...', the Bishop waggles his finger at Graf Decksluder, interrupting the Graf's attempt to speak, ' ... I do not think that any exercise of maritime power in the littoral environment is likely to reverse the outcome.'
The Graf closes his mouth, and sits back disappointed.

The Nabstrian cabinet receives reports that
King Wilhelm is unhappy

Burgravial Treasurer Werner von Frerkingheil stands suddenly and addresses the assembled council.
'Dammit! We cannot have another defeat: we must win the battle of the narratives; we must triumph in the influence campaign! We must ensure that all of Europe believes that we have won a great victory!'
Munschrugge shakes his head vigorously, his wig twirling: 'Good Treasurer - our army is retreating.'
Frerkingheil looks triumphant: 'Only in a geographical sense, my lord.'
'Is there any other sense?'
'Metaphysically, my lord, I think that we could say that the good general von Rumpfler is advancing towards Falkensteinburg. And the dogs of Saukopf are falling back from their capital city of Pfeildorf.'
Munchrugge seems unconvinced, but Frerkingheil continues:
'This defeat is, I should say, a blessing in disguise.'
Munschrugge sighs: 'Hmm, well, if so, I have to say, it's a very good disguise because I can't see how this helps us at all.'
'We can spin this into a victory!' says the Treasurer.
'Spin it?' says Munschrugge wearily, 'It'll require more than spin: it'll need cartwheels, handstands and a very special kind of trampolining if we are to sell our current predicament as a success. The Burgrave really isn't going to be very happy.'
Frerkingheil nods excitedly. 'It provides an opportunity to test some alternative instruments of statecraft. I've already been doing some preliminary work in the realms of propaganda. Count: let them into our plan.'

The aged Count Leopold von Beckwurz, Minister for Treacle and Public Education,* stands unsteadily.
'Gentlemen. We need time to re-organise our army; time to train them; time to equip them with new muskets and uniforms. Time also, perhaps, for a new approach to this war. To gain that time we must exploit the power of the printed word! Behold, the first step in our new literary offensive!'
'I have a bad feeling about this,' mutters Graf Decksluder, doodling a three-deck ship of the line with his quill, and writing the words 'all mine' underneath.
With a flourish, Count Beckwurz produces from his coat a slim volume.
'Here, honoured gentlemen, is the first weapon in our new offensive against the Wilhelmites: a set of verses parodying the limp-witted Prince of Saukopf-Bachscuttel.
Munschrugge seems to perk up at this. 'Yes, that just might have some impact if it were written by a skilled, witty, and highly intelligent word-smith.'
'Er', says Count Beckwurz.
Munschrugge's eyes narrows: 'So, you engaged the services of Voltaire, yes?'
'I extended to him an invitation', replies von Beckwurz.
'And?'
'He extended to me a finger'.
'And then you obtained the services of, say, Jean Jacques Rousseau?'
'Er, no'
'Laurence Stern?'
'No'.
'Henry Fielding?'
'No'
'So basically, you haven't got a skilled writer.'
'No, not really'.
'So, in fact, you probably just asked someone that you knew.'
'Yes'.
'In fact, you probably wrote it yourself, didn't you.'
'Basically, yes.'

Munschrugge takes a deep breathe 'Fine, marvellous; let's take a look at it: get copies for everyone.'
The script is distributed. Munchrugge reads it resignedly. His compatriots also look at it, most moving their fingers slowly along each line, silently mouthing the words.
Graf Decksluder is the first to speak.
'Well, ah, it's very moving, but I can't help thinking that we need something with a little more emphasis on creating a narrative structure to this war in which our Burgravate embodies strong moral qualities, whereas our enemies are portrayed as ethically compromised; and also at the same time, rather less use of bottom jokes.'
Count Beckwurz bridles: 'Well, what changes do you suggest?'
'Well, it's just ... well, here, you see', the Graf points to the third line', perhaps a better tone would be created by the use of the word 'blunder' rather than 'chunder'. Or here, perhaps 'tardy' rather than 'lardy'. And I must insist that we find some more appropriate words that rhyme with 'luck' and 'anchor'.
Munschrugge steps in: 'So, what - you intend to distribute this throughout the Burgravate?'
'Indeed, good Bishop,' replies Count Beckwurz enthusiastically, 'it will be read from one side of Mittelheim to another.'
Munschrugge makes a face: 'It will be read. Really? Tell me: what is the literacy rate amongst the peasantry?'
'Not high,' chips in the Graf.
'But our treacle stocks have never been higher', interrupts von Frerkingheil defensively.
'So', says Bishop Munschrugge, 'What would an average peasant do with a volume such as this?'
'Light a fire', laughs another counsellor.
'So actually,' says Munchrugge, 'what we'll be distributing are ...'
'Firelighters', admits Count Beckwurz.
'Precisely,' says the Bishop: 'Any other ideas for this new enterprise?'

A peasant poetry reading gets out of hand

Momentarily nonplussed, Count Beckwurz quickly rallies. 'Indeed yes', he says. The Count then describes a second line of operation. He has taken on the services of an expert artist, Osker Siber, who has been tasked with working on a whole range of scurrilous wood cuts, lampooning the Burgravate's enemies. 'Here is the first', announces the Count, grandly. At a nod from the Count, a servant begins to distribute copies of the woodcut. There is a moments silence as the assembled councillors review the work.
The Count explains: 'It is a picture of donkey, which is labelled 'Prince Rupprecht': the message is that Prince Rupprecht is a donkey'.
'Yes: a subtly subversive image,' says Munschrugge.
There is another silence.
'Hmmmm,' says Graf Decksluder, 'this donkey doesn't look right. I thought donkey's looked like horses. This one looks odd.'
'Yes' says Baron Friedrich, Minister for Corsets and Public Transport, 'it hasn't got any udders.'

Nabstrian peasants celebrate wildly after news of
von Rumpfler's latest victory

Freidrich's compatriots stare at him. 'Donkeys don't have udders', says Graf Decksluder.
Freidrich looks perplexed - 'Then what is it that my wife has been milking?'
Decksluder chokes on a gulp of wine, and there is an embarrassed silence.
'Well', pipes up another councillor, 'it's got a bushy tail, and large ears. Actually, this donkey looks a bit like, you know, a dog or something.'
Graf Decksluder nods: 'Actually, I think this is a picture of a fox.'
Munchsrugge, sighs: 'So, what this woodcut actually says is that Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachscuttel is a fox. We are implying, therefore, either that (a) he is wily and cunning, or that (b) he is a saucy minx that we should like to take out for some dancing and a light supper.'
'They do say he has nice ankles', says Friedrich.
Graf Decksluder winces, and tunelessly whistles a sea shanty to fill the icy silence that follows.

Bishop Munschrugge stands slowly. 'Gentlemen, I fear that your influence campaigns and Siber attacks will not have the decisive effects now required. I have decided on a plan of action to recommend to the Burgrave: this is what we're going to do ....'











* This post in the Burgrave's government combines two purviews; responsibility for managing the Burgravate's treacle supplies, and the education of the poor. The budget for the former is considerably larger than for the latter.