The Many Ills of Illiyor
A Whisper on the Wind is a story written by Orion in early 2015. It was published on the Bastion Union forum. This story is coterminous with A Whisper on the Wind.
The Many Ills of Illiyor
Philip Crumb paced back and forth in front of his desk, an ornate piece of Lyrican furniture built from the salvaged remnants of the Great Oak of Illiyor and now around 700 years old. Despite this profound piece of furniture, Crumb hardly noticed it. His jacket was bound tightly about his bulging frame, and his hands were clasped so firmly behind his back that his knuckles had begun to turn white. The small round spectacles that he wore were drooping down his nose, and his thinning hair had become disheveled. His Chief of Staff, Lord Julien, stood stiffly to the side of the room, watching Crumb pace, his dark blue uniform blending in with the dark mahogany walls. Suddenly the silence was broken by another outburst from Crumb.
"What the devil does that man think he's doing?!" he shouted, not especially at Julien, but at the room in general, which was otherwise unoccupied except for a dozing cat, whose repertoire was not interrupted by his master's yelling. "I said we'd lend him tacit support and he thinks he can go conquer the world! Well he'll have a sorry awakening soon enough!"
Julien coughed to clear his throat and stepped out of the shadows. "The Grand Duke has legitimate claim to Jaris. Besides the Alexandrians and Apollonians, who both seem to have an agenda of expansion, there's no other power to contest his rule besides the independent cities."
Crumb turned on him like a snake striking its prey. "And what's wrong with the independent cities?! We've managed just fine for the past hundred years without a damn overlord! I never agreed to sign a death warrant!"
Julien went on the defensive, "They've defeated New Nova, which was the biggest threat."
"And raised the suspicion of the Alexandrians!" Crumb retorted. "New Nova is a bug compared to the power Geneva could put out if they wanted to. All they need to do is feel threatened and they could crush Titov without breaking a sweat!"
"We've already committed ourselves to this," stated Julien. "If we backtrack now then no-one will trust us."
"Our commitment is to preserving the rights and freedoms of Illiyor," thundered Crumb. "To top it off he's using those damn machines!" he added.
"I'm not happy about the machines either," said Julien. "We all have family that died in Antica."
Crumb softened a bit at that. "What would you have me do then?" he asked.
"Wait," replied Julien. "He's bound to make a mistake. No matter how powerful he thinks he is, he's young and over-confident. That army isn't big enough to exert control over all of Jaris, and he's not making friends by bombing them. The first sign of weakness and his 'Grand Duchy' is going to collapse."
"Then what?" asked Crumb, who had finally stopped pacing and was leaning against the desk. "We can't have Illiyor sucked into a power vacuum."
"We need to gain a patron now. Not publicly of course, but we should approach another power for protection. Someone that can guarantee Illiyor's independence."
"Alright, so say we do find someone willing to give us support. Who would it be, and more importantly, what would we need to sacrifice in order to gain that support?" queried Crumb.
•••
A man in a dark cloak walked briskly through the muddy streets of Illyrikos. It was raining, but the temperate weather was a welcome change to the cooler climate of the north. He had his hood draped fully over his head, obscuring his face from view, and he walked somewhat hunched over, while the rest of the cloak drooped down to his tall boots. Ahead a small tavern of faded white stucco with a thatch roof loomed precariously close to the pier, looking as if it might fall into the water at any moment. Wisps of smoke billowed angrily from the chimney, fighting the rain to dominate the air. He approached the tavern's front door, a heavy thing of oaken planks and iron hinges, its only ornamentation a small sign reading "Open".
He unlatched the door and stepped inside. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, a big stone edifice in the center of the building. At the back right was a bar made of one long oaken plank, behind which a hefty woman stood washing mugs, barrels of ale arrayed on either side of her. The rest of the room was dominated by tables and chair, so of which had small walls built into them for privacy. Near the bar several sailors sat drunkenly, hugging their tankards as if they were their childhood sweethearts. Closer to the front and to the left a pair of men sat in close conversation at one of the more private booths, leaning over the table and their tankards and speaking in whispered voices. He ignored these two and walked directly up to the bar, slapping a sovereign on the oak that made a crack loud enough to be a gunshot. The barmaid turned with a start, nearly dropping the mug she was drying.
"What didtcha do that fer? Tryin ta scare me loik that!" she asked angrily, but with a quick look at the man her demeanor was quickly subdued.
"A tankard of your best stout," he said, undeterred. He turned and left her without waiting for a reply. A quick look around the room and he chose a small table near the front, not far from the door. Sitting at a chair he pulled back the soggy hood that was draped over his head, revealing stringy black hair and deep sullen eyes. An aquiline nose and heavy set chin suggested noble birth, but he was dressed like a ruffian. The drunken sailors only paid him minor attention before turning back to their own precious tankards.
The barmaid came up with a frothing tankard of ale that dripped black stout over its edges. It would have stained the floor were it not already black with dirt and grime. She set it on the table in front of him, not nearly as lightly as she could have, spilling some in the process.
"Here's ya stout," she said. "No refunds if'n ya don't likes it." And she turned and marched back to the bar.
For several minutes the man sat brooding over his ale, taking slow, small sips of the strong beer. He cast occasional glances at the two men whispering in the corner, who likewise cast furtive glances in his direction. Finally one of the men spoke up. "Sir, why don't you join us? It's not often we get visitors to Illyrikos. We would very much like to hear news of the world beyond these shores."
"Thank you for your hospitality," the man responded, getting up and moving to the booth. He draped his cloak on an old iron hook nearby, and sat in a chair at the end of the table.
"Are you from very far?" asked one of the men at the table.
"From the north," replied the man bluntly.
"And how was your voyage here?" asked the other.
"The seas were like silver," he replied slowly.
The code had been spoken. Immediately the three men bent over the table, the heavier one on the left began first. "We've been expecting you. I'm Philip Crumb. My associate here is Julien Svor. I assume you are Lord Rivers?"
"Yes, but do not use my name here. Although I do not think we will be suspect, especially since I am not in uniform, precaution is nonetheless essential. You may call me Mr. Lake."
"Very well, Mr. Lake. I take it you received my letter?"
"Yes, and we are prepared to assist you in this matter."
Julien spoke up, "And what will you provide?"
"We are prepared to provide military support and offer protection of Illiyor."
"But for what cost, hmmm?" asked Crumb.
"Illiyor must accept Brettania as her sovereign, and the Lord Chancellor as monarch."
"Why should we trade one oppressor for another?" replied Crumb.
"You will be granted Commonwealth status. Illiyor will retain its rights, but we will assume command of executive functions. You, of course, will retain your post as governor."
"I see. And what guarantees can you provide for our security? If you cannot uphold your offer, then Illiyor will be destroyed, while your islands won't even see battle."
"You have the word of the Isles, and we have prepared a treaty formalizing our commitment." Rivers/Lake extracted a scroll from within his vest and handed it to Crumb, who proceeded to unroll and read it.
"Full military support?" asked Crumb again.
"We have forces on stand-by at Port Impregnable."
Crumb looked to Julien, who only nodded. "Very well," said Crumb finally. "I affix my signature." And he pulled a pen out and signed the document, promptly rolling it back up and handing it back to Rivers.
"I will get this back to Westminster as quickly as possible. In the meantime we'll starting moving our forces in place. In one month we will start the offensive."
"Godspeed, Mr. Lake," said Crumb. "Our lives are in your hands now."
