Tolls and Bells

A long oval table sat in the room’s centre—lacquered to the colour of a blue hydrangea. Around it were ten, tall chairs, each bearing a symbol of office. Half of them were seated, the other half, empty. Off to fight wars, or participate in other things of note.

It was located on the edge of the city centre, a district rife with the downtrodden; harlots, drug peddlers, and the like. The building was an inconspicuous thing, two storeys of stone, flanked by columns on both sides. There were no guards to keep it company. But there were watchers—spies in otherwise normal clothing, patrolling the street for any signs of White Hats and the like.

“In honour of Gijyou Sōuun, First of His Name, I Abe Fordsworth, hereby call this meeting.”

As was in the nature of most things table-related, the most important figure was located at the rear end. And the most important figure, as it had been seen by those present, was dressed in tones of green and turquoise. He wore a sleeveless tunic in the Entillan style, with shoulder guards, a rapier at the hip, and a gun at the other. The man was well-dressed, to be sure, with a ceremonial air about him. But he was also sleek, and lacked the additions that made a man ‘too much’, in these days, considered to be jewels, rings, and medals.

—Abe Fordsworth: Prince of All Things Besides the King

“So,” he gave a casual shake of his hand. “Any news?”

A deep smile touched the man to Abe’s right. He was short and overbearing, with jewels sewn into his robes, and a pen’s tip for hair.

—Horhe Antisen: Prince of Commercial Affairs

“The King’s Tournament is well on its way. By the morrow, we’ll have progressed into the first round. A mêlée, so I’ve heard.”

“Anything else?” said Abe.

Horhe spread his arms, sleeves gleaming with gems. “Fights have been breaking out all over the city. Houses, destroyed. Just this morning, a peasant saw me and begged. Said his precious melons had been used in a food fight, and that he wouldn’t have anything left to sell.” Hothe shook his great, overbearing head. “Poor thing.”

“Peasants and melons are the least of our problems. Anything else?” said Abe, already tired of saying ‘anything else’.

A chair dragged along the floor, croaking with the sound of wood on stone.

“I have something else!”

Now it was someone else’s turn to interrupt. She had fluffy, brown hair, falling in tousles down her back, alongside two dog-ears atop her head. A dog-girl.

—Nelsie Greywah: Prince of Foreign Affairs.

“Yes?” said Abe.

“Mhmm, I believe, I believe…” Nelsie shook her head. “Urm. I’ve received reports that half the White Hats have been replaced.” She jolted in place as if to correct herself. “Officially, they’ve been dismissed for corruption, and stationed elsewhere. But after some investigation, I’ve discovered that the evidence was likely fabricated. The replacements are bad!” Her tail stiffened. “Ummm. Umm! What I mean to say is the new White Hats are largely the Lord Regent’s Loyalists! A ploy! A ploy!” Nelsie yelled, standing up with her tail wagging.

Abe sighed. “That much is obvious.”

Under the guise of ‘increasing security’, most of the White Hats—the city’s guards—had been culled. Meanwhile, the Lord Regents had them replaced with his own private soldiers. Loyalists who acted on his every word. In service of a White Hat commander, bribed with riches and pleasures a Lord Regent could so afford.

“Everyday, Fordsworth. Every passing day, the Lord Regent consolidates his power. First, the City Watch. Then, the army. Once he’s obtained every sword, gun, and lance, I shudder to think what he might do next.” Horhe gave a subtle tilt of his head. “As our King once said, ‘Though a sword may cut a path, a pen must decide where it ends’. And our pens are rather poorly defended.”

Abe groaned in frustration. “That insolent Lord Regent.” He spat. “By what measure?” said Abe, pacing about. “You think he’ll send the White Hats? Pull us from our beds? Kill our families? Have us shot in a display of summary execution?”

“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIEE!” cried Nelsie, tail fluffed like an idol-stick at a concert.

“If we do nothing,” came a low voice at the far end. “That is precisely what will happen.”

His cloak shimmered in stripes of red, blue and yellow.

Underneath, however, was a mask in near-human likeness. Brown as wood. Crafted to an artisan’s precision, with dimples, whiskers, and a single slash of grey across the middle.

A strange look for his profession, but one that suited him all the same.

—Grove Sadstill: Prince of Spies.

“It is time to face the facts. We remain outnumbered and outgunned. We have neither the time to afford patience, nor the means to sustain it. Our immediate survival is dependent on the Lord Regent’s disposal. And his, ours.”

He reached into his multicoloured cloak and took out a device. A thick, pink thing. Flesh, transmuted into a purely anatomical form.

“Eep! W-what is that thing?!” cried Nelsie.

“It bears no seams and no stitch,” mused Horhe. “I presume this to be of otherwordly make? That or some magical apparatus. I am rather uninformed about the nature of these things.”

“You were correct on the first count.” Grove grabbed the horrible thing and shook it. “One of my spies discovered this in the Lord Regent’s strongbox. We believe it was used to relay a message.”

With a click of a button, the ‘thing’ sprang to life, squirming in place, and spouting strange heretical words.

“Motto hayaku!” It squealed. “Motto hayaku oni-chan!~”

Nelsie squirmed. “W-what’s happening? Is it talking to us?! Why does it sound so indecent?!”

“It's the King’s tongue.” Abe frowned. “I picked up a few words in his company. I can tell that much.”

Grove clicked again, and the thing’s squirming and moaning ceased.

“What is the point of all this?” asked Abe.

“The device was located in the Lord Regent’s strongbox inside the Bank of Entilla. According to the bank’s scribes and witness testimony, the strongbox was last opened five months before.”

Horhe looked surprised. “But our borders… Were they not open to the Otherworlders just a few weeks prior?”

Grove nodded. “The Lord Regent has been conspiring with Otherworlders for longer than he let on.” He fixed his posture, standing tall with his shoulders protruding. “I have an assassin in the palace. Just give the word and the Lord Regent won't live to see tomorrow.”

“Yes,” said Abe, looking at Grove to acknowledge his sentiment, but inhaling deep in a half-display of ironic objection. “Yes. Killing the Lord Regent is all fine and well. Now tell me, after we’ve run him through, what shall we do with the other five hundred White Hats waiting outside?”

Therein came the great question. If all it took was an exercise of military might, why exactly did they not proceed?

“Has there been any word of the Grand Marshal’s whereabouts?” asked Abe.

“Not since a few weeks,” replied Horhe, ending his word on a sombre tone. “She was last seen on a trip back to the homeland. Last I heard, she ran into some trouble on the road. Bandits… Apparently.”

Abe looked to Grove. The Prince of Spies said nothing. His eyes were all the verification they needed.

Without the Grand Marshal. Without the army. All they could do was sit and watch. And wait as the White Hats killed them all.

Nelsie cleared her throat. “Wait and hope.”

Horhe blinked. “Pardon?”

Her dog-ears twitched like fish on land. “Wait and hope… The Grand Marshal always said: Wait and hope. So with absolute respect to everyone here, and their common sense.” She slammed the table, tail shaking with absolute ferocity. “That’s what I’m going to do! I’ll wait, and I’ll hope that the Grand Marshal hasn’t abandoned us for no reason other than thin hopes and dreams!”

Abe nodded. “Wait and hope.” He grappled with the meaning of those words. “Wait and hope.”