Story: Aid
Year: 1000 FY
Characters: Kesshare, Sheminne
Warnings: Background civil war, oblique war profiteering


Envoy Sheminne curtseyed low and did her best not to look straight down. The City of Glass was imposing enough, and she'd had previous ill experiences with too-clear floors.

The Audience Hall, at least, seemed to be mirrored rather than clear, other than the dais ahead of her. It gave the impression that Queen Kesshare was floating, rather than sitting, when the light hit her right. As if chairs and floors were for mere mortals, like her consort beside her, not for the iron-hard desert Queen with her dark hawk's eyes and deceptively simple and soft-looking silver gown. She looked like a bronze-gilt statue of a harsh Goddess of the Dead, and Sheminne didn't have to be a performer to know that every aspect of the Queen's clothing, posture, Hall, down to her husband slightly behind her, in shadow, on a more-solid throne, the fact that the cavernous room, with its graceful columns and shimmering floor was entirely empty save for the three of them and a handful of silent bodyguards...

It was calculated for exactly that impression of ultimate power and doom.

But the Millennial Riots were causing more and more deaths in Sheminne's homeland, and her sovereign Prince was desperate enough to call on the desert's aid.

The statue spoke. "You may rise."

Sheminne did as she was told, carefully keeping her head low. "I come as representative of Prince Nemarre, to request the aid of the Crystal Throne in maintaining the peace within his borders."

"And what does the Prince of Rilanne offer us in exchange for our aid?"

"My Prince is prepared to offer a substantial monetary incentive, Your Majesty, as well as, of course, quarter and supplies for any soldiers you send us," Sheminne replied instantly.

"We have wealth enough," Queen Kesshare replied. "We will require something more than quarter."

This was what Sheminne had feared when she was sent on this mission.

"Give her whatever she asks, Sheminne," Nemarre had said. "We're out of options."

"There are preferential trade routes that will be directly opened to desert caravans," Sheminne tried.

"Hm," the Queen said. Her husband leaned forward and she listened to something he said--Sheminne recalled he came from a merchant house. She dared to feel a flutter of hope, maybe he would convince her that would be enough. "That will do for a start. We would also like to ensure that our peacekeeping force isn't merely a stopgap."

And there went the flutter. "Your Majesty?"

A slow smile spread across that statue face. "Our soldiers would need to be guaranteed their welcome until the country is fully pacified."

Sheminne's stomach sank.

"Give her whatever she asks, Sheminne."

"Your Majesty," she whispered, and curtseyed again, seeing her own ghastly-pale face reflected a thousand times, from floor to ceiling and back again, and feeling slightly nauseous.

"We will attend to details of the agreement and draw up the documents tomorrow," the Queen said, with that same unruffled calm she'd maintained the entire meeting. "You may leave us."

Sheminne curtseyed a third time and backed out of the Audience Hall as fast as she could while maintaining a modicum of decorum.

Her footsteps chimed, and echoed.

It took forever to reach the door.