MISC: The Girl Who Saved The World Part 12

[George Phillies]

The astute reader will note that while this is the way certain sorts of 
diplomatic meetings are opened, I had the assistance of Infodump Lord 
himself in the writing, there being a *lot* of background here.

“For the Celestial Republic of the Han, Prince Wang Dongfeng.” Dongfeng 
looked politely around the room, the blank look on his face masking his 
inner thoughts.

“Speaking for the Emperor of All France, Napoleon the Sixth,  I am 
Imperial Marshall Bernard-Christian Davout.” Davout wore the polychrome 
uniform of a modern French Field Marshal.  It was possible that some 
color had been omitted from his ensemble, but if so it was by oversight. 
For all his military decorations, Davout’s country including its 
not-protectorates from the Caribbean to the Eastern Mediterranean was an 
eminently civilized place in which an American could consider living. 
Napoleon might style himself Emperor, but local governments across the 
Empire, such as the Greek and Spanish Kingdoms and the Venetian 
Republic, had an independence that only Frenchmen and Americans found 
entirely reasonable.

“For His Great and Terrible Majesty, the Supreme Warlord of All the 
Germans, Kaiser Friedrich the Fourth and Greatest,  I am Markgraf 
Heinrich Moeller.” All the Germans, Buncombe noted to himself, if you 
ignored the Austro-Hungarians, the Swiss, the Bavarians, and the 
residents of the French Rhineland.  The Germans were forever scheming to 
recover the mythical past glories to which they thought they were 
entitled, their schemes having as their primary effect solidifying the 
anti-German alliance that included all of their neighbors.

“The Speaker for the First Speaker of the Mexica and the Inca.” Lord 
Smoking Frog, Buncombe considered, never actually spoke his own name. In 
his home country, for him to speak his own name might have been an 
impolite way of reminding people that the Empire of the Mexica and the 
Inca was in fair part run by the Maya.

“For the Osmanli padisahlari, the Emperor, may his wisdom increase 
forever, has sent me, his Grand Vizier, Suleiman Pasha.”  A fellow I 
have never met, Buncombe thought.  If the Ottomans sent their Prime 
Minister, they are taking matters much more seriously than I might have 
expected.

“Ambassador Fateh Singh of the Sikh Empire, Speaker for all South Asian 
states.” Singh’s cloth-of-gold coat appeared to Buncombe to be wasteful, 
not to mention cold. Similar criticisms might be made of most of the 
other foreigners, none of whom had adopted the simple, frugal, not to 
mention comfortable style affected by American diplomats.

“I am Saigo Shigetoshi, Legate of the Satsuma Daimyo.” Buncombe nodded 
politely at Saigo. Relations between America and their Pacific neighbor 
had always been friendly, each side recognizing that any other attitude 
was pointless. The legal fiction that Saigo only represented the Satsuma 
Daimyo rather than speaking for the Emperor and the Shogun was one of 
the quaint aspects of doing business with the Japanese. Saigo’s seven 
layers of polychrome kimono, besides being gorgeously colorful, managed 
to be both warm and comfortable.

“Legate Hong Sangui of Manjukuo.”  Hong carefully look away from 
Buncombe. Relations across the Bering Straits had been frigid since the 
Manjukuoans discovered that their failure to contest the ownership of 
Alaska had given away huge gold and mineral deposits. Of course, 
Buncombe considered, the Empire had been so little interested in Alaska 
and places beyond that they had retained a Russian to explore them. Hong 
wore pale yellow court robes, embroidered left and right with a pair of 
five toed dragons, showing a close tie to the Imperial family.  A large 
scarlet fire sigil sewn on each forearm of the robes indicated his 
performance on the Imperial Examinations, showing that he had finished 
in the highest rank.  The lower ranks test memorization, Buncombe 
reminded himself, but the highest ranks were based on puzzle solving. 
Hong hid a top-notch mind behind his refused shoulder.

“For Peter, Emperor of all the Russias, Princess Elizaveta Romanoff.” 
The oldest daughter of Tsar Peter VI wore classical Russian court dress, 
complete with a tiara. Romanoff ‘s coat and blouse and trousers were 
brilliant scarlet spackled with silvery lace and trim. The platinum 
alloy highlighted her long hair, faded by the decades from raven-black 
to pure white.  At 60, she preserved the figure she had had at 20, a 
figure that hid her sharp wit and sharper memory.  The figure, Buncombe 
thought, was undoubtedly in fair part a consequence of her wearing at 
all times a substantial tonnage of silk and precious metals.

“Colonel-General Wilhelm Christian aus und zu Dreikirch, League Secret 
Political Police.” Dreikirch snapped to attention and clicked his heels. 
Buncombe recognized his dress uniform; the New Hampshire State Guard 
used the same color scheme, minus all the gold braid and jingling 
medals, for its winter camouflage uniforms.

“League Elite Persona Brigade, Brigade Leader Valkyria.” The tall, 
blue-eyed woman now wore an ankle-length flame-orange dress rather than 
her more familiar battle armor.  The loose sleeves of the blouse failed 
to hide her substantial muscles. Unlike many folks in plate mail, 
Buncombe reminded himself, Valkyria was not stupid, just vigorously 
rules-oriented. In some ways rules-oriented could be worse.

“League Chancellor Lars Holmgren.”