[Kalgachia] For Your Sins
[Kalgachia] For Your Sins
(The author gratefully acknowledges Ardy's 'consultancy' for the following work)
The unexpected boom behind Flavian Ventaro made him instinctively dive for cover among the snow-laden sedge tussocks. A second later came the soft patter of seeds raining down around him.
Ventaro waited. Only the soft, agonal death rattle of his final companion could be heard amid the tall grasses behind. No gunfire from their pursuers. No shouting. Ventaro cautiously rose and crept over to his fallen comrade - the man's leg was blown clean off and his face was completely grey, drained of blood by the gaping stump which was pouring its last torrents of blood over the surrounding foliage and snow, already spattered with gore and bone fragments. In their haste to get ahead of their pursuers, the two men had moved along the bank of this frozen stream too quickly. This was the habitat of the Shrapnel Lily, dormant in growth over the winter months but no less explosive if stepped on. They were difficult to see in these winter conditions; Ventaro had made a conscious effort to avoid dinnerplate-sized protrusions in the snow and assumed that his comrade was matching his path. Perhaps he had slipped outside of it; Ventaro would never know, as the man was now dead.
"And then there was one," he sighed. He looked back the way they had come, the crest at the edge of the shallow depression which the stream had cut out of the landscape. Somewhere beyond it were those giving chase. They would have heard the explosion and be closing in on the place this very moment. Ventaro took a final look at his comrade's ashen face - the lifeless eyes still bearing an expression of faint, almost pleasant surprise - and moved quickly on.
Some time previously, the inquisition had begun the moment Ventaro's unit established itself at its hastily-prepared fallback point. Very senior men indeed had called upon them, enquiring in the most acidic terms just why they had abandoned a well-fortified garrison to its horde of attackers when there were plentiful units in theatre to break the ensuing siege. Even the garrison's generous stock of supplies and munitions had been left intact, which went some way to explaining why the place remained under enemy occupation. One moment of tactical panic had operational, nay strategic consequences, as the unit's dour visitors had explained at some length. The commanding officer and those staff responsible for operations and planning had been called away immediately. Each remaining staff officer had been instructed to "prepare an account of yourself". They had been in the service long enough to know that in the circumstances, all such accounts could do was incriminate them further. Their decision, taken in whispered tones of general disbelief at the unfolding situation, was resignedly resolute - they would run away.
The enlisted crews of the unit's command transport section, at that stage only partially aware of the deep excrement in which the unit collectively found itself, complied with the officers' order to give them immediate conveyance away from the battlefront without question. It was only when the convoy briefly stopped to take on substantial supplies at a friendly fuel dump, and the drivers were ordered to give false names and unit details to the quartermaster on duty, that they began to resolve the reality of the situation - by then, of course, it was too late to do anything but commit to their flight as the collectively culpable pack of deserters that they were.
Aided by the unit's intelligence officer they had taken the back roads and eventually transited off-road entirely, to find an unguarded route to the vast and ungoverned territory where innumerable preceding generations of fugitive dross from all Micran nations had found their perilous sanctuary - the Green. This particular stretch of Green was replete not only with those Kossar bandits who had been armed and then abandoned by the Minarborian Empire, but also the dreaded Tee-al which, since that empire's downfall, had expanded its range considerably.
The intelligence officer had been well briefed on both things, allowing the deserters to avoid known Kossar hotspots; they encountered only scattered patrols which they gunned down on sight - if only to preserve the secrecy of their route, although the loot was useful. Of Tee-als there was no sign; Ventaro mused that they had moved south for the winter, or else retreated into their burrows for hibernation.
The unit logistics officer had, after a couple of days' racing across the snow-coated steppe toward a distant range of mountains, observed that things seemed to be going better than expected - for this he was hissed at by his companions, who had avoided such temptations of fate. Nonetheless the very next morning, just as it was about to enter a secluded valley of coniferous forest, the convoy was ambushed by a force of troops in prepared positions on the forest edge. Their marksmanship was professional and deadly, the first volley of anti-materiel rounds shattering the vehicles' engine blocks in succession before disciplined bursts of automatic fire tore through the seating, killing some where they sat and forcing the rest to disembark and take cover behind the vehicles. Hiding beside a vehicle in the middle of the convoy while it was peppered with bullets from the other side and the front, Ventaro recognised the attackers' gunfire as from his own side's weapons; their devastatingly well-prepared attack and consistent aim suggested they were special forces. As Ventaro's companions were picked off one by one - first among whom were those foolish enough to try returning fire - he had heard cool shouts of command as the attackers advanced around the rear of the now-burning vehicle column to cover the flank where he hid. A stretch of open ground had prevented him making a run for the woods.
Then, at long last, something had gone wrong with the attackers' otherwise perfect ambush. Mere seconds before bringing Ventaro into their eyeline the attackers were set upon by a large Tee-al, attracted by the noise of the attack which simultaneously concealed the sound of its branch-snapping charge from the woods opposite. Ventaro and his last companion had used the distraction to dash into the woods on their side, assailed but not struck by fire from the one attacker who had spotted their escape. As they had sprinted along the relatively open forest floor, the roar of a jet fighter and a series of very loud explosions behind them had announced the Tee-al's demise, followed by volleys of automatic fire shredding the branches over the fleeing officers' heads in an apparent attempt to drive them to ground. Instead they had picked up their pace - the occasional shout, momentarily-spotted movement or ricocheting potshot confirmed that they were under active pursuit.
Over time this harrassment had subsided as the two men, less burdened by the weight of tactical gear, began to outpace their pursuers - but then the foot of Ventaro's companion had found the Shrapnel Lily.
Ventaro had not even been running for a minute after that when something small, heavy and very fast came thundering toward him. Between Ventaro noticing the attack dog and raising his sidearm at it, the thing had covered more than half the distance to him. His first shot shattered one of its hind paws as it closed to ten metres, only momentarily slowing its snarling charge before Ventaro, in a panic, emptied his entire pistol clip in the dog's general direction. As he braced himself for the creature's impact dragging him off his feet, he instead noticed its blurred motion resolve into a whining, twitching heap on the ground. One of his shots had struck the dog's spine, leaving it spasming uncontrollably in a pool of its own blood. Ventaro had no more ammunition, so he threw his pistol aside and ran on.
Then the forest momentarily ran out, and his luck with it. As he hesitated on the edge of a wide, apparently artificial band of cleared ground, his ears picked up the penetrating rasp of a helicopter approaching at speed. It drowned out the gentle footfall of his pursuers that avoided fallen twigs but was so close that Ventaro had heard it anyway. In a moment his attackers would emerge into sight with inevitable greetings of copper-jacketed lead, if the helicopter didn't get him first.
It was then that the helicoper's dark shape became visible through the forest canopy, wheeling around Ventaro's position. He suddenly recognised it as the helicopter of a foreign nation, watching as it drew into a steady hover and dropped a series of canisters into the woods between Ventaro and his pursuers. In a second these burst into thick clouds of grey smoke, obliterating all visibility around them and provoking one of the pursuers, somewhere behind the swirling miasma, to lose their cool and shout something - Ventaro did not hear what, but the shout of another one was just audible above the helicopter's droning roar:
"No, for fuck's sake! Hold fire on the chopper! Hit the traitor!"
This was all the hinting Ventaro needed. The moment of standstill had allowed him to catch his breath and now he charged across the open ground, the forest on the other side appearing painfully slow to get any closer as he sprinted toward it. A volley of gunfire whizzed over his head from behind - only to be met with another volley from the woods in front of him, kicking up the soil somewhere behind. More shouting came from both in front and behind, but by this time Ventaro was almost into the woods on the far side. Now staggering as he ran out of breath, he headed for the cover of the nearest thicket of bushes he could see - but to his bewilderment two of these bushes assumed humanoid shape, ran up to either side of him and tackled him to the ground. Their grip around his limbs was hard and instant.
As his face was being driven into the blend of snow and dead pine needles on the ground, Ventaro could see nothing. The gunfire had stopped, but nearby the shouting continued:
"Shirerithian forces! Check your fire! You are firing upon the sovereign territory of the Garden of Kalgachia! You are being observed by marksmen with thermal optics and WILL be fired upon directly if you continue to shoot!"
"Prefects of Kalgachia! Our intention is not hostile! We are in pursuit of an armed fugitive in grave deviation from his loyal subjection to the Kaiser! You will return him to our custody immediately!"
"Any return will occur through the proper channels! As the uniformed officer of a combatant in the ongoing war, this individual has infringed upon the soil of a neutral party and will be interned!"
"Neutral party my arse! Why don't you intern all those Nova English training squads then, you bastard heretics!"
"Nova England is not an aggressor in this war!"
"USSO states are aggressors by definition!"
The argument continued while one of Ventaro's camouflaged captors dragged him to his feet and the other physically shielded him. A hood descended over his head and something very like a gun barrel was pressed into his back. Then a calm, almost languid voice spoke into his ear:
"Forward march, Tribune. Keep going until we tell you to stop."
Ventaro set off as ordered. "Am I in Kalgachia?" came his muffled voice from inside the hood.
"For your sins, dear Tribune," said his captor, "it appears you are."
(I thought if I'm giving up the chair, the least I could do is use some of the free time to throw out a story or two )Summary: an officer escaping the post-Tianhoucheng purge of the Shirerithian Imperial Army flees to Kalgachia.
Re: [Kalgachia] For Your Sins
Ventaro expected little luxury in his new home - his fellow deserters had decided early in their trip that escape to Kalgachia was simply the least bad option - they had ruled out hiding under the noses of Shireroth's ever-increasing constellation of security organs early on, and those who nursed romantic notions of hiding out in the Green like the vagabond rogues of folk legend had their illusions quickly broken by the first couple of days actually spent there. This left only the option of internment by the militant, mountain-dwelling Gnostics to whom all things Shirerithian were manifestations of some insidious celestial evil masquerading as a civilisation. Certainly they had fodder for their demented musings in recent times, thought Ventaro - under Steward Zinkgraven, the chattering classes of Shirekeep remained myopic to most things beyond the tips of their noses but out in Benacia's Wild West, Shireroth's mask of civilisation did appear to be slipping somewhat. Indeed in places, thought Ventaro, the level of casual savagery by persons of authority resembled historical accounts of Babkha, just before the excesses of that empire's boorish fulfilment layer reached their inevitable point of singularity in a self-inflicted nuclear holocaust. Then again, his observations may have been unduly influenced by his interactions with Babkhi auxiliaries drafted from Alalehzamin, whom command had seemed to take sadistic pleasure in seconding to Ventaro's legion and tasking him, as the legion's Tribune of Personnel, with their integration. Still, he thought, those days were over now and besides, no amount of flattery in the face of the Kalgachi belief system would lift the status of oath-breaking deserter from his head. From what he had heard, the Kalgachi were every bit as ideologically demanding as the Nationalist & Humanist goons back home - if not more - and could not be expected to have sympathy for the morally spineless. The only question was the extent to which they would exploit their custody of him for the cynical purposes of strategic optimisation and diplomatic leverage.
After his capture the Kalgachi Prefects had bound Ventaro's hands and conveyed him, still hooded, in some kind of vehicle for a while; after which he was marched into a building and deposited alone in what sounded and felt like a holding cell. By now succumbing to a raging thirst, he ventured a request for water and to have his hood removed - neither of which were answered, much less granted. Left to pace around the cell and bump off its walls, Ventaro quickly established that it was unfurnished except for a hole in the corner of the floor whose sharp and unpleasant stink suggested some kind of toilet. Lacking a bed, Ventaro went to the opposite corner of the cell and curled up on the floor, pondering what might become of him. In that moment he found himself envying his fellow deserters, who had long since been liberated from all worldly worries by the sweet release of death.
The silence of the place, and Ventaro's accumulated fatigue, put him quickly to sleep for an unguessable period until he was abruptly awoken by the ear-splitting creak of the cell door opening. The sound of boots walking into the cell could be heard and Ventaro hurriedly sat up against the corner, awaiting some kind of physical contact. Instead came a voice, addressed to someone standing outside:
"You butchers don't get any better do you? How long has he been in here like this?"
"Nine hours, colonel. I was ordered to keep him in the state he was detained."
"Has he been fed at all?"
"No, colonel."
A hiss of derision could be heard from the apparent colonel, whose hand now slid under Ventaro's armpit.
"Alright... on your feet, Tribune. You're being moved."
Ventaro rose cautiously to his feet, moving a little quicker to the grasp of the colonel's hand around his upper arm as they marched out of the cell. He pondered why it was deemed necessary to tell him he was being moved - a deception to get him quietly to the execution chamber, perhaps? He decided it was best not to ponder any more - it would be of no help anyway. The rest of his journey was spent in a state of calm resignation; another vehicle journey, another building entry, but this time - given the telltale sensations of travelling in an elevator and the elapsed time between its start and stop - ending very deep underground indeed. At long last, after a minute or two of being marched around the place, Ventaro's hood was pulled off his head - his squinting eyes adjusting to the light and identifying two soldiers of the Kalgachi Defence Force as they unbound his hands.
He was stood in a small office of some kind; a well-appointed wood-panelled affair lined with bookcases, framed paintings and even a drinks cabinet. Behind its walnut desk a KDF colonel was taking his seat, presumably the same man who had brought Ventaro here. He examined a handful of papers, occasionally shaking his head or chuckling with amusement. A polite cough from one of the soldiers brought his attention to Ventaro.
"Ah yes," said the colonel, "you can leave him with me. But fetch the steward before you go. I'd like a large plate of cold mutton cuts, a decanter of water and two glasses."
"Sir," affirmed the soldiers, stiffening in salute before they stepped out of the room.
"I gather you've had an interesting journey, Tribune," said the colonel, indicating the empty leather chair in front of his desk. "Please, be seated."
"Thank you," said Ventaro, keeping his tone neutral as he settled into the chair. He appeared to have finished the Bad Cop stage for now; presumably this colonel was the Good Cop, meant to throw him off guard and get him talking. On the journey here he had decided to resist divulging any great military secrets; he may have viewed the Shirerithian army command and their political masters as a pack of gluttonous psychopaths, but he felt he owed it to the common folk of Shireroth, the kind of people he had grown up with on the fringes of Cabbagefall, to avoid going full turncoat. It was, after all, the last bit of integrity left available to him.
"Accept my apologies for the way you've been detained thus far," said the colonel. "After some... intensive lobbying, the decision has been made at the highest level to transfer you from the care of the Prefects to that of the Kalgachi Defence Force. I am Colonel Quack."
Ventaro nodded his acknowledgement, thanking himself for being too tired to laugh at the name. It was probably a false name anyway.
"And you, presumably," said Quack, "are one Tribune Flavian Ventaro of the Shirerithian Fifth Legion?"
Ventaro betrayed a moment of surprise. He had destroyed all of his identity documents before leaving Shireroth. How did the colonel know his name?
Quack took Vantaro's startled jolt as an affirmative answer. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," he said. "Through the Sxiro-Kalgachi Military Coordination Council, your superiors have informed us of your demotion to the rank of Legionary... presumably to keep you subject to their military penal regime." He rummaged around among the papers and slid out two plain epaulettes. " They were kind enough to provide your new insignia. We'll provide you with a sewing kit to attach it to your uniform."
At that moment the door opened and a white-jacketed steward entered, pushing a cloth-covered trolley with a silver decanter, a salver full of cold meat and two glasses.
"Marvellous," chirped Quack, surveying the trolley as it was wheeled to his desk. "That'll be all, Bobbins." As the steward left the room, Quack poured water into the two glasses and picked some meat off the salver. "Rest assured, Legionary," said Quack, "that nothing untoward has been done with these refreshments." He took a bite of the meat and a sip of the water. "It only occurred to me that you may not have eaten or drunk for a while. Help yourself."
Ventaro's suspicion was overcome by the sight of badly needed sustenance and he reached forward to pick up the glass of water, downing it instantly before looking at the colonel, whose gentle wave of assent permitted him to pour and gulp down two more. Then he sampled the meat; it was heavy with salt and grease, to a level which might have offended his palate on a normal day but at this moment, his half-starved body was craving such things. In his desperation he had forgotten his culinary manners, licking his lips and fingers as he devoured two more pieces of meat. The colonel observed this in patient silence, only nodding toward the folded napkin which Ventaro hurriedly picked up, muttering for Quack's forgiveness with his mouth still half-full.
The colonel smiled. "Reminds me of my own days out in the Green as a young lieutenant," he said. "Some days I could have eaten Tee-al turd if I'd had a little salt to go with it."
Something popped up in Ventaro's mental bank of uninteresting facts, one which the presence of an officer's uniform and a long career propping up the garrison mess bars of Shireroth instinctively compelled him to flaunt. "I'd imagine..." be began, realising his voice was hoarse and hurriedly clearing his throat. "I'd imagine salt is hard to obtain, this far inland."
"We're not quite the goitre-ridden cretins that the Shirerithian media would have you believe," said Quack, "but nor could I call our salt supplies generous, you're quite correct there." He turned in his chair and flipped open the glass-fronted door of his drinks cabinet, located to be accessible without him having to get up. "Mutton grease and water doesn't mix too well," he said. "Especially in a man of your condition. It'll tear your guts up. You'll need this to break it down." He produced a bottle of Stalemate Gin, filling both glasses and waiting for Ventaro to take up his. "A toast then," he said. "To fallen comrades."
A moment of silence found no objection in Ventaro. "Fallen comrades," he said, raising his glass and knocking back the gin which slid down his gullet like water for just a moment, before transubstantiating into liquid fire and taking him aback. Being the seasoned drinker that he was, he kept his outward composure despite the flaming rush of warmth to his cheeks. "Not bad," he said. In reality it had a bitter, lingering aftertaste of crushed conifer needles which brought back unpleasant memories of his flight through the Green.
"Well you look like a man who needs a little liquid fortification," said Quack. "After what you've been through. Your comrades at the Military Coordination Council were a little... guarded about the events which brought you here, but I gather you've had a falling out with the Shirerithian military command. Do correct me if I'm wrong..."
Ventaro chose his words carefully. "There was a... bureaucratic overreaction," he said, "to certain deficiencies in my legion's command during the Tianhoucheng breakout. To the extent that I found my life in danger. I must therefore request asylum in the Garden of Kalgachia."
"Did you have nothing to shoot yourself with?" said Quack in a casual tone, as if it were a question of minor technicality. "The Prefects tell me you arrived without a sidearm."
Ventaro shifted in his seat. "I used up the ammunition against the force who were chasing me," he said. "Besides, I wanted to exhaust all other options before considering suicide."
"I see," said Quack. "Well, I have to tell you that your asylum claim could go either way. One the one hand, most of Kalgachia's population are descended from the victims of Shirerithian atrocity and it'd be dishonourable to turn you away. On the other hand, you are an offi-... soldier, in the army of the Probable Enemy. Being so closely entwined with the Shirerithian military complex won't go down well with the Prefects, but I'll refer your claim to them anyway. Until it is settled, you will be subject to internment at a special guarded residence."
"Special guarded residence," said Ventaro, risking a provocative grin. "A prison, then?"
"By all means visualise it as such," said Quack. "That way you'll be pleasantly surprised when you arrive. Regardless of what the Prefects think, You're not a prisoner of war and you won't be treated as such. However..." he looked down at his papers, "...I do have some questions which you're free to answer as you wish."
Ventaro pouted. "Go on."
"Who initiated the 'bureaucratic overreaction' you speak of?"
The honour of Vantaro's native army could hardly be degraded by answering this one. "Men from Shirekeep," he said. "Civilian clothes. Not sure what office, they make new ones all the time. I'd say the Chamber of the Crypteia."
"What makes you say that?"
"Whenever they entered a room, everyone else tried to leave. Even my superiors wanted to avoid them."
"And how did you escape?"
"We were fortunate enough to procure some motor transport." Ventaro kept the answer vague.
"We?" said Quack. "You mean you travelled with others?"
"But you already know this, colonel," said Ventaro. "You toasted their memory not two minutes ago."
"I was speaking of fallen comrades generally," said Quack, smiling at Ventaro's slip.
Ventaro sighed. "Very well, there were others. Good men, too. You can put that on your record. But I was the only one to make it."
"The others... liquidated, presumably?"
"Take a wild guess," said Ventaro. "I only got away because a Tee-al showed up to the party and caused a distraction."
"Yes, those creatures like to make a scene," said Quack. "Who was doing the liquidating? S.W.O.R.D, presumably? The Prefects say the troops they saw chasing you had non-standard weapons. Tankgewehrs and such."
"I couldn't possibly say," said Ventaro, despite being fairly certain who had pursued him. S.W.O.R.D. were part of the Shirerithian Imperial Forces and he was not inclined to spew their operational details, even if they had tried to kill him.
"Well you were very lucky," said Quack. "Did you encounter any of ben Mavet's Kossars operating out of Nackolom?"
"We only saw them from a distance," said Ventaro. As if in protest, the memory of his fellow deserters killing three Kossars and looting their corpses to near-nakedness erupted in his mind. Thankfully Quack had poured him another gin - he knocked it back to drown the recollection and change the subject. "They say the Emira of Jadid Khaz Modan drinks this stuff in industrial quantities," he said. "Word has it that she was mightily annoyed when you stopped selling it to Shireroth for bonded Froyalaners. Had to go through some intermediaries to avoid the sanctions on the USSO and get it from their market through Nova England. It literally has to circle the globe to get to her. The Gods only know what the price is, but she pays it."
"Is that so?" said Quack. "And where did you hear this?"
"A military source," said Ventaro, dropping the detail out of his answer again.
The conversation continued over gin and mutton with Ventaro consistently revealing decently-sourced gossip on the Shirerithian elite, whom he quietly despised, but tightening his lips when it came to operational military matters. Colonel Quack, deducing this over the course of an hour, decided to conclude the interview. With his apologies Ventaro's hood was reapplied - although his hands remained unbound - and he was brought to the surface where another vehicle journey awaited him. This one was considerably longer, permeated with cordial but muffled small talk with colonel Quack through Ventaro's hood.
Their destination was assailed by a freezing wind and Ventaro's hood was removed to reveal a solitary log cabin on a mountainside, fronted by a small guardhouse. The two sentries outside the door, the collars of their greatcoats turned up against the cold, saluted colonel Quack as he led Ventaro into the wall of warmth inside, generated by a crackling log fire in the cabin's granite fireplace. As he was shown around the cabin, Ventaro noted the kitchen to be well stocked and a selection of vaguely interesting volumes lined the bookcases of the sitting room. The bathroom was less well appointed but clean, and Ventaro's assigned bedroom had a rustic, if slightly austere charm about it. It reminded him of a vacation he had taken in Elwynn when the Froyalanish were still in power, to a hygge-optimised forest lodge. He quietly resolved to enjoy these surroundings while they lasted, before his hosts saw fit to resume the Bad Cop routine or worse, deny his asylum claim and hand him back to Shireroth. To his relief there also was a cabinet full of booze, with which to obliterate the intrusive memories of all that had brought him here.
"Ah!" said colonel Quack as he peered out of an ice-rimmed window. "Your housemate has returned."
"Housemate?" said Ventaro, sliding the book he was browsing back onto its shelf.
"Yes, we let him take escorted walks around the mountain trails... looks like they're coming back before the weather turns on them." The sound of footsteps and conversation filled the front hallway as they entered the cabin. "We got him by accident, you know," said Quack. "Poor fellow was inspecting aid supplies at our end of the Diwangdao air bridge when your boys invaded the place. Legionary Ventaro, may I introduce Captain Ping of the Imperial Jingdaoese Army..."
Ping, striding into the room in spotless uniform, instantly froze and returned Ventaro's glare of apoplectic shock. Ventaro's gaze was then diverted to the holstered sidearm which hung from Ping's belt.
"Oh that's just an ornament," said Quack, noticing where Ventaro was looking. "We've got his ammunition, don't worry."
"Even so," said Ventaro through clenched teeth, "and without disrespect to the captain here, I must... question the propriety... of lodging us in the same house."
Ping's eyes darted from Ventaro to Quack. "I was... not expecting this," he said in an inscrutably clipped tone. "You intend for him to live here?"
"Well I thought you'd appreciate the company," said Quack. "I'm sure you'll get along just fine. Let's face it, gents... the war is over for both of you. I'll leave you to get acquainted. Farewell for now..."
Quack returned Ping's salute, and that of Ventaro who had belatdely thrown up his own. By the time Quack was out of the door, Ventaro had seated himself in a corner of the sitting room from which he could observe everything. To his consternation, Ping marched into the kitchen and began rattling around in a drawer full of cutlery. Then his head peered cautiously around the door.
"I am to begin cooking. You will perhaps tell me your... dinner preferences."
Ventaro's threat assessment shifted from knives to poison. "Well I'd better come in there and help you prepare it," he said.
Ping gave a critical squint. "Very well," he said.
In the awkwardly tight confines of the cabin kitchen, a dinner was decided and prepared in a series of terse, martially-efficient utterances. They would be having lamb in fried rice with goats' cheese sauce and a round of Bergburg blinys for dessert. Ping did not argue the details and neither did Ventaro.
It was only as they sat down to dine that Ventaro came to appreciate his luck. "It would be worse for both of us," he said, "If there was a Florian living here."
Ping set down his chopsticks and looked at Ventaro. "Yes," he said after a moment. Then, after taking a mouthful of food, "They are to blame for this war. I think Floria should be wiped from the face of Micras with nuclear weapons."
"As do I," said Ventaro with a steady nod. "By my country or yours, it doesn't matter."
"Why not both?" said Ping.
"Why not indeed," said Ventaro, shovelling the cheesy rice into his mouth with a fork.
At least they could agree on something.
Summary: The fleeing Shirerithian officer is subjected to a disturbingly-gentle interrogation and confinement, and makes a new friend.
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Re: [Kalgachia] For Your Sins
Very good as always.
I have it on good authority that the condition of consignments of Stalemate Gin donated by Nova English mariners to the Sea-Reavers, in return for safe passage outside of the Zimian patrolled zones, have proved somewhat unsatisfactory. The contents would apparently evaporate from the bottles whilst in transit back to the mainland from New Blackstone.
The House of Osman has instead contracted with the Schleps Gin company of Sansabury to come up with a substitute product that matches the unique refreshing qualities of the original. I believe they are marketing it as "Endsieg Gin" or something equally tasteful.
In any event the desired industrial quantities will be achieved, especially since the penalty clauses under the contract for the distillery are stringent bordering on draconian. A pound of flesh, or metric equivalent, was mentioned in one place.
Gin has become inexplicably popular lately, although the varieties sold to the proles in Shirekeep have more in common with industrial solvents than anything flavoured by the humble juniper berry."We only saw them from a distance," said Ventaro. As if in protest, the memory of his fellow deserters killing three Kossars and looting their corpses to near-nakedness erupted in his mind. Thankfully Quack had poured him another gin - he knocked it back to drown the recollection and change the subject. "They say the Emira of Jadid Khaz Modan drinks this stuff in industrial quantities," he said. "Word has it that she was mightily annoyed when you stopped selling it to Shireroth for bonded Froyalaners. Had to go through some intermediaries to avoid the sanctions on the USSO and get it from their market through Nova England. It literally has to circle the globe to get to her. The Gods only know what the price is, but she pays it."
I have it on good authority that the condition of consignments of Stalemate Gin donated by Nova English mariners to the Sea-Reavers, in return for safe passage outside of the Zimian patrolled zones, have proved somewhat unsatisfactory. The contents would apparently evaporate from the bottles whilst in transit back to the mainland from New Blackstone.
The House of Osman has instead contracted with the Schleps Gin company of Sansabury to come up with a substitute product that matches the unique refreshing qualities of the original. I believe they are marketing it as "Endsieg Gin" or something equally tasteful.
In any event the desired industrial quantities will be achieved, especially since the penalty clauses under the contract for the distillery are stringent bordering on draconian. A pound of flesh, or metric equivalent, was mentioned in one place.
All this has happened before, and all this will happen again.
Re: [Kalgachia] For Your Sins
Presumably assisted to market by whatever Hall of Fruits Beverage Distribution Concern No.177 calls itself these days...