Not for the first time since accepting this posting, Raphael Barham was glad he had literally decades of experience and even official training to deal with these sorts of social circumstances, as he managed to hold his polite smile as he was quite rudely half-physically, half-verbally expelled from the conversation he was having. To any observing eyes, he merely politely took a short step back and allowed the new arrival to quite loudly (again, both physically and verbally) seize the attention of the conversational group. On the inside, Barham was fuming.

“Eure kaiserliche Majestät,” the man, dressed in a deep blue uniform with gold frogging, began as he performed a formal bow. He was a slightly portly man, and the stately and expensive court uniform fit him poorly. “Darf ich, eure kaiserliche Majestät,” he began anew, “Ihnen aus Anlass des Geburtstages der geliebten Kaiserin, dieses bescheidene Geschenk überreichen?”

“Mein lieber Graf, wir sprechen heute Abend nur Englisch, zu Ehren unserer vielen und unterschiedlichen Gäste.”

The answer had come from the man in the centre of the group, dressed in a modernised French-fashion grey hussar’s uniform, complete with interwoven silver-gold frogging, and a white pelisse with silver threads and a lining of red rotebeutelmarder fur. Kaiser und König Theobald Valdemaras IV of the Empire of Myndowen stood about as tall as any Auroran, which made him tall enough to stand out amongst his fellow Myndowans. His short and gelled hair had once been uniformly copper but had by now, at ninety-one years, faded to an ashy blond, yet his dark brown eyes were still sharp and focused. It had been repeated so many times from every avenue that Barham had started to consider it a crude cliché, but there was something regal about the Emperor’s facial features, especially his impressive nose and high cheeks. But the lifestyle of excess of the Imperial Court had over the years stretched out the monarch who in his youth had been an active officer in the Myndowan Imperial Army, and now he was just as slightly distended and nonathletic-looking as Graf Siegwald von Blauquellen who had just addressed him.

“Now, Graf, could you please repeat what you were saying for the benefit of our honourable guests?” Theobald’s accent was relatively heavy, but a far cry from the worst Barham had heard on his deployment to the imperial capital world of Tschornohora. The two dozen or so court officials, aristocrats, officers, and other dignitaries whom the Emperor had allowed to congregate around him chuckled politely, ladies in elegant dresses daintily wafting their fans.

Graf von Bleuquellen cleared his throat awkwardly, to Barham’s personal amusement, and recovered from his bow.

“Of-of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” he said in a much heavier Germanic drawl. “I was asking for the honour of presenting to the Imperial Majesties, today on the happy occasion of the birthday of our ever-beloved Kaiserin, this humble gift from the Kaiserliche Flottenverein.”

At a polite nod from the Kaiser, the Graf half-turned around and clapped his hands together thrice. It was loud enough to grab the attention of the band major leading the combination of a minor strings orchestra and parts of the military band of the Garde-Regiment zu Fuß “Erbprinz Kasimir”, and with a quick closing of his white-gloved hand, the musicians stopped playing. The around four-hundred guests in the Ballrooms of the Gardens on the ground floor of the Imperial Palace of Diamantadler Schloss turned their attention to the sound of the sudden intrusion of their polite conversations over drinks, curiously looking at the huddle of people around the Emperor. Bleuquellen cleared his throat again, and stepped out to a more open part of the ballroom, finding a relatively clear spot on the imported Auroran bloodoak flooring, and he tucked on his uniform tunic to make sure he was being as presentable as possible.

“Lords and ladies, Frauen und Herren, it is my joy and pleasure, on behalf of the Kaiserliche Flottenverein, to offer the following spectacle, the Flottenverein’s gift to Her Imperial Majesty, Kaiserin Skaidré Elizabeth, on her twenty-seventh birthday.”

The Graf theatrically indicated upwards, and from the slightly ajar gilded doors to the antechambers of the ballroom, twenty-four monitor drones flew in on their silent anti-gravity engines, and formed up into a large formation against the far end of the Revival-Rococo ballroom, mimicking a huge viewscreen. The whole gathering, guests, musicians, ambulating footmen and servants alike all looked quizzically at the drone swarm or at each other. Commodore Dame Sylvia Raharuhi, his direct superior, used the opportunity to join Post-captain Raphael Barham on the outskirts of the Emperor’s circle, and leaned over.

“Couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to gauge the mood at the top,” she whispered into his ear, and Barham allowed himself a lopsided smile.

“Greeted to ringside seats, if you like your boxing metaphors, Ma’am.”

Raharuhi smiled, and sipped from her glass of alcohol-free Riesling. No drinking on the job tonight for the Chief Naval Attaché of His Auroran Majesty’s Embassy to Myndowen. For the Vice Naval Attaché however, he’d had no choice in the matter as he’d been one of the guests of honour, invited by the Kaiser himself, and he was on his third glass of imported Neuhansa honey wine. They both wore the Royal Navy’s No.1C ceremonial uniform, a more elaborate version of the usual Day Dress, complete with medal ribbons, golden aiguillettes, and black dress shoes without the usual white gaiters. They also both wore their ceremonial parade swords, but since these could be construed as a threat to the Kaiser or any other member of the imperial family, small magnetic locks had been fitted around where the guard met the scabbard, and Diamantadler palace security were in possession of the keys, making the sheathed swords truly only for show. The same went for every other guest wearing dress uniforms, which seemed sort of excessive to Raphael, although he couldn’t really fault the security personnel for being paranoid; monarchs had been killed by more mundane “weapons” than ceremonial swords during the course of human history.

“It has to be noted the person this shindig is in honour of is still not here,” Raharuhi pointed out quietly and Barham nodded while taking a sip of his wine.

“That little detail is certainly enough to cause a few to scratch their heads, especially considering some of the clientele here tonight.”

Raphael Barham, younger brother of Nathaniel Barham and the uncle of Alexandra Barham, did not look like the most impressive military specimen. He was quite tall, but thin and a certain languid lankiness that somehow didn’t match his sharp facial features and his keen cobalt eyes. His strawberry blonde hair was long at the top and short at the sides, the Auroran male fashion, but which was slightly too dandy-ish for the Royal Navy which prided itself on tradition more than anything. Of course, that was all par for the course and part of his natural uniform outside the wool, silk and gold lace he wore. For all Sandy and the rest of his family knew, he was simply the current Vice Naval Attaché to the Auroran Embassy in Lemberg, and that his specialisation was naval personnel administration. What they did not know was that his pay checks were electronically stamped by the enigmatic entity known as “Room 137”. Room 137 was officially on the Royal Navy’s table of organisation a clerk’s division charged with the financial aspects of usage of civilian vessels in the Royal Fleet Auxiliary; it was easy to look up on the Royal Navy’s official webnet sites. In reality, Room 137 was a large operations group under the direct purview of the Department of Intelligence’s Direct Actions Branch, more commonly referred to as the Royal Naval Intelligence Service.

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Barham whispered as one of the side doors to the ballroom opened and a diminutive figure in a long albeit conservative cut crimson dress entered. Emperor Theobald apparently noticed the movement at the corner of his eyes and he waved the newcomer over. As Kaiserin und Königin Skaidré made her way over to where the Emperor was standing, the other guests noticed as well, and started to applaud politely. The band played up For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow and the crowd politely sang along, with the Empress pale cheeks visibly reddening and she curtsied respectfully as the song died down.

“Labas vakaras, Imperatorienė,” Barham said as the Kaiserin finally joined them, and the young woman smiled in appreciation of his rather mediocre attempt at pronouncing her native Lithuanian. Empress Skaidré Elizabeth was about a head and a half shorter than her husband, and meeting her for the first time, Raphael could tell why Theobald had chosen the much younger Skaidré to be his new bride. She was very shapely, filling out her dress nicely, but not flashy or garish in the way she dressed or conducted herself, a polite smile greeting her well-wishers, and mesmerising dark green eyes meeting her conversational partner’s directly. Her mahogany hair was braided in an elaborate crown, held together by a glittering tiara with inlaid diamonds and looping white gold chains that held small rubies.

“Good evening to you too as well, Captain Barham,” she said in a melodious voice that carried only the slightest tinge of a Lithuanian accent, “I am pleased that you were able to join us tonight.”

“It would have been my head on a platter once I go home if my niece learned that I’d turned down an invitation to Diamantadler Schloss, Majestät,” he replied with an accompanying laugh, bowing slightly in response to the polite welcome.

“Sandy –ah, Alexandra–, my older brother’s daughter, is a very close friend to the daughter of the Marquess of Sélincourt, and she hangs in the upper circles that mere mortals like myself only get to experience once or twice in a lifetime, so me going to a foreign royal birthday party will just tickle her green with envy.”

“Oh my, it might as well do that,” the Empress chuckled politely, hiding her mouth behind a gloved hand demurely. There was some truth to what Raphael was saying, but he was hamming it up heavily, playing the character of Post-captain Barham, the Naval Attaché, a persona quite at odds with the real him. Though what was the “real personality” of any Spook was a matter of great philosophical debate.

“I understand this spectacle with the drones is for your benefit, Majestät, but the dear Graf hasn’t specified what it is just yet, has he?”

“No, he hasn’t,” the Emperor interjected, joining the conversation, with two very tall individuals trailing just behind him, and Barham realised Commodore Raharuhi had disappeared off somewhere, “but given he said it was a gift from the Flottenverein, I do not think I will be wagering any large sums of money as to what it will be.”

“I must say, Majestät, and do forgive me for perhaps divulging my cultural insensitivity or biases, but the concept of a Flottenverein, or a civilian interest organisation named the ‘Navy Association’, which heavily advocates and even personally funds the state’s navy... This does seem quite –if not absurd–, then at least overly devoted, though do please infer that no insult is intended."

The Kaiser produced a somewhat enigmatic smile and adjusted his pelisse.

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to make uncouth comparisons between our two great monarchies, Captain Barham. But no matter the layers of diplomatic niceties, there are truths that realpolitik has a tendency to whack one over the face with their unavoidable steel gauntlet.”

Kaiser Theobald finished his glass of wine in a swig, evidently held back a burp given the time he took to continue to resume his conversation. Raphael noted that the Kaiserin’s eyes were looking around frenetically, as if looking for an opportunity to escape, but she physically couldn’t from out of her husband’s grasp around her shoulders, as the Kaiser’s pelisse-riding arm was now firmly laid across her evening dress shoulder.

“Now, I know what your webpapers say about me and my nation’s governance…”

Barham opened his mouth to protest, but the Kaiser held up his now one free white-gloved hand to stop him.

“I do not play you for the fool, sir, and I beg you not to play as me such in return. I know the Star Empire of Myndowen and the Kingdom of Aurora has very different political traditions. And this gift is one of those differences. I know your Royalists and Social Liberals are having trouble gaining support for the continued expansion of the Royal Navy in your Parliament for obvious, and if I might, tragic, reasons. I do hope you can convey the heartfelt sympathies the Empire and the condolences me and the Kaiserin send to your people. Just know that the Myndowens are your true allies.”

It felt a bit hollow coming from him, but Barham had only to sneak a glance at Skaidré to know that at least half the imperial couple was truthful. In response, he simply bowed slightly.

“As to how the Flottenverein works,” the Kaiser continued, “our economy is not nearly as large as yours, nor is our navy. And I do have to point a finger in deine Richtung, because we’re not nearly as wealthy as the Auroran Kingdom, but we still have to maintain our own military independence, and as such have been forced to look for alternate sources of finance. I’m sure an Admiralty man as yourself would be aware of the cost of a new man-of-war, and would not begrudge us from directly appealing to the general public in order to help financing the construction and commissioning new warships.”

“Donating exclusively for more warships outside their normal state taxes?” Raphael couldn’t really believe what he was hearing, and the outburst was one of genuine horror. Had this even been suggested in the House of Commons in Cordelia, the MP who’d posited it would have had to find a new career that same evening. But the Kaiser just smiled at Captain Barham as if explaining something complicated to a child.

“As I said, Post-captain, I didn’t believe you would understand, since we do have quite the different political atmosphere, if you’d pardon to the slight pun.”

Someone in the corner of Raphael’s eye made a motion to gain the Kaiser’s attention, and Theobald bowed his head ever so slightly in a polite gesture.

“If you’d forgive me, Post-captain, there are others this night who demands my attention. But rest assured, I will return, and we must talk about your exploits on the Duchess of Grey Hill’s staff during the Drei Schwesteren. That campaign helped out our nation a great deal, and we owe you Aurorans much for dealing with the Rekindlers.”

With that, the Kaiser walked off in a completely different direction of the ballroom, leaving his much younger spouse –and the one who’d this whole shindig had ostensibly been organised in order for– behind, to the nominally tender mercies of the Myndowen courtiers.

Post-captain Raphael Barham, a scion of one of the oldest Royal Navy dynasties of Aurora, and hopelessly romantic when it came to social mores and the role of military officers, opened his mouth to produce a few comforting words to the Kaiserin, as he had been brought up to do.

But, as if on cue, the huge viewscreen made up of drones came to life, each showing a small part of a large broadcast from somewhere in space. It took a few moments for the camera to focus, but soon settled on what Raphael immediately recognised was an orbital drydock. Unlike Auroran drydocks which were ostensibly open to space in order to facilitate access and make transport of construction materials easier, Myndowan drydocks had a larger inner armoured box inside the arms of the docks, which did provide a layer of protection and reduce the usage of anti-grav nets to stop things from flying off into the void, but it also made it harder to manoeuvre construction crafts and colliers around the hull being built, and it hampered further expansion of docks and yards. But it did make for an admittedly very impressive spectacle as, to the tune of Unter der Admiralsflagge played by the band in the ballroom on cue from Graf Bleuquellen, a huge steel-grey warship slowly exited the drydock, pulled along by small but powerful grav tugs.

“Eure Kaiserliche Majestät,” the Graf announced proudly while indicating to the slowly emerging man-of-war, “it is my pleasure and honour to present to you, paid for by voluntary tributes to the Flottenverein by the noble people of Tschornohora, Nay Vilnius, Wallachia, and the rest of the Empire, the Kaiserin-klasse Schlachtschiff, SKMS Kaiserin Skaidré I!”

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers, and Barham joined in but immediately noted that while the Emperor’s chest puffed out and the arm he had laid around his wife’s shoulders flexed a bit, the Empress’ body stiffened and she drew in a sharp breath. It was only a very small gesture, and hadn’t it been for Raphael’s training to look for exactly these sorts of physiological reactions in situations like these, it would have gone unnoticed. He had to stop himself from smirking.

As the band continued to play, and several dignitaries came up to the imperial couple to congratulate them, Raphael could take a few moments to stand back and do what he did best and what the King’s Royal Navy paid him to do; observe.

Firstly, the warship itself; secondly, its surroundings. It was clearly inspired in places by Auroran naval designs of comparable size, but he had to admit that he had been expecting something… more when he had read tentative reports of the new Myndowan class of capital ships. Where Royal Navy ships were flat along the top and flared out along the middle to create larger surfaces for their heavy railcannon turrets and to concentrate their armour belts, the designers of the Kaiserin class had sort of flipped that. The fore and aft sections leading to the middle and main superstructure of the ship was flattened out, and had reduced the broadside to two gundecks, but retained a much more conventional (and by Auroran standard, obsolete) main body, with a whopping six gundecks to compensate for the reduced fore and aft broadsides. The bridge superstructure was admittedly very tall, and only lacked the gravpulse sensor “wings” that protruded from Auroran bridges, or else it would have been a true copy. The rear section was surprisingly horizontally sleek, but changing camera angles showed it was unusually wide, belying the amounts of engines the ship possessed. Naturally, it had no railcannons, since only the Aurorans had fine-tuned the technology required to create such naval weapons of mass destruction, and instead relied on a semi-uniform broadside railgun armament. All in all, despite its size –listed on the screen as 1,982 metres–, a relatively boring and underwhelming addition to the military engineering vortex that was the current naval arms race among the major star nations; it was hopelessly obsolete compared even to the decade old Warrior class, never mind the soon-to-be-completed Vanguards.

What was much more interesting in Raphael’s opinion was that the dockyard seemed to be in Elisabethmond’s orbit, not Katharinamond’s. Elisabethmond was the farther of Tschornohora’s two moons and had a significantly less sizable industrial base than Katharinamond; at least, that was if you believed official records. Maybe there was some truth to the rumours that titanium mining and alloy forging operations had been secretly ramped up to the point where Elisabethmond could host its own orbital naval infrastructure, instead of just shipping raw materials to Katharinamond… If that could be verified, it would surely make his superior, Vice Admiral Adrienne Bower-Henton, 5th Lady Admiral of Intelligence, very intrigued.

“What do you think of her, Post-captain?” a mellow voice interrupted his flow of thoughts and Raphel turned around, managing to check the speed he used to do so in order to not seem too paranoid. He was greeted by the two tall individuals that had been standing with the Kaiser previously, and he had to crane his neck up slightly to look them in the eye, smiling politely while internally he was almost panicking. Fuck, this is so not what I need right now.

“I don’t believe I have had the pleasure, Captain…?” Raphael let the last word hang a bit in order to provoke an introduction, while he bought himself some more time by downing the last of his honey wine. The one who had spoken smiled briefly before saluting crisply. He was very tall, possibly two-hundred and ten centimetres, and wore a naval uniform not terribly unlike Barham’s own, with black and gold the dominant colours, but with violet stripes along the trouser legs and a high and tight collar with violet gorget patches of the style used on the Auroran Royal Army and Royal Marine parade dress uniforms. The four golden bands on his sleeves which Raphael had used to identify him as the equivalent of a captain in the Royal Navy, were interlaced with thin red stripes. Over his black and gold tunic chest the man wore a long, white linen sash with two long stripes of royal purple. His somewhat long grey hair was simultaneously scruffy and fashionable, exuding an aura of nonchalant elegance, and his brown eyes twinkled with something Barham wasn’t quite able to place.

“Heliophoros, Sir, Lord Fleet-captain Stephanos Heliophoros at your service. This is my adjutant, Lady Archcommander Achaia Indosphoria. I simply wished to exchange pleasantries and offer my congratulations to your assignment to the Auroran Embassy. I can assure you, there are not many plenipotentiary postings as… interesting as the Myndowen Empire. Wouldn’t you agree, Archcommander?”

The Archcommander (roughly the equivalent of a Royal Navy Captain, while a Fleet-captain was more akin to a Commodore, Raphael managed to exhume from somewhere deep in his memory banks) was about as tall as her superior officer, but she was much less welcoming, with a stern look on her perfectly symmetrical face. Her deep green eyes seemed to try to pierce through Barham’s constructed exterior, long blonde hair framing her bronzed features and black-gold-violet uniform almost like a halo.

“Sir,” was all she said, nodding ever so slightly in Barham’s direction, as she picked up two long-stemmed glasses of an alcoholic beverage of some sort from a passing footman and handed one to the Fleet-captain. He could feel the hand holding his own empty glass was starting to sweat.

Fleet-captain Heliophoros tutted and hiked up a grey eyebrow in disapproval.

“Lady Achaia, can’t you see Captain Barham here has an empty glass? Offer him yours and go grab another from somewhere, I won’t tolerate such rude behaviour from an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy.”

The Archcommander didn’t even bat an eyelid, and with quick and fluid motions she exchanged her glass for Raphael’s before he could even begin to protest, and turned on her heel to find another footman, her long black uniform skirt swishing around her long legs.

“You must find it in your heart to forgive her,” Fleet-captain Heliophoros said after his subordinate had merged into the crowd of guests, “this is her first interstellar posting, ah, her first diplomatic interstellar posting that is. Too used to walking around the floor of a cruiser’s bridge rather than the floor of a ballroom, that one.”

“No need to forgive when there is nothing to be forgiven, My Lord,” Barham managed to reply, still mentally scrambling in order to adapt to this new situation he found himself in.

Eugeneis, that was the name he was searching for, meaning literally “good people”. He subtly looked Heliophoros over again. There was no doubt about it, all the tell-tale signs were there; the height, the slightly disturbingly perfect symmetry of facial features, the almost fearsome beauty, the unspoken aura of both elegance and joviality he exuded, the lithesome movements of his limbs and delicate shifting of weight whenever he spoke or assumed a new position. His adjutant had been the same, possibly even more so, but she had yet to return so it would remain academic until Barham could reappraise his impression of her. Eugeneis, the genetically engineered aristocratic caste of the Holy Kingdom of Dionysia, some of the most enigmatic and incomprehensible people in Human Space, for a myriad of reasons. Tank-bred to be the absolute best in any fucking category, how can mere mortals compete?

“So,” Heliophoros said after a sip of his drink, “what do you think of the SKMS Kaiserin Skaidré I? I would love to hear the professional opinion of one of the Admiralty’s own, it is so refreshing when military people can discuss matters directly over a drink, rather than involving annoying analysts and divers opinion-havers, wouldn’t you say?”

Barham sipped his own drink to buy time. He noted the return of Archcommander Indosphoria and nodded politely in the tall female officer’s direction. She too wore a long linen sash with purple stripes, the purple marking the wearer as nobility.

“First of all, My Lord,” Raphael said in a polite tone, but he was mentally on the qui vive now, “I am merely an observer on the Admiralty’s payroll, I’ve never commanded a ship in my career; if you want the perspective of a ‘true’ naval officer, you’d better ask my superior, Commodore Raharuhi. Secondly, it is hard to make up one’s mind only by looking at her, there might be a lot under her exterior we’re not privy to as mere outsiders.”

Heliophoros’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he sipped his drink –the type of which Raphael still could not place–; and Barham was confused by not just the alcoholic beverage, but also the mental direction the Dionysian officer was heading.

“A most peculiar choice, was it not?”

“Politically reckless, some have called it.” Archcommander Achaia Indosphoria’s voice was surprisingly melodious for a woman that at first glance looked so stern and, for lack of a better term, icy. She shifted her weight and crossed her left arm over her chest, while holding and intermittently sipping from a wide glass of an oak-coloured liquid in her right hand. Perhaps it was the wine providing him with some extra bravado, or perhaps it was professional pride, but Raphael chose to nibble at the bait presented instead of letting pass by.

“I take it we’re not talking about the battleship on the screen.” It wasn’t a question, and Indosphoria smiled thinly.

“Quicker on the uptake than your predecessor, Post-captain,” she said, “that is to be commended.” She quickly scanned her surroundings before continuing, seemingly deciding no one were close enough to eavesdrop.

“You, like us, must have questioned the choice of a new Empress so soon after the passing of Empress Sibylla, and such a young specimen at that.”

“Careful with your choice of words, Lady Achaia,” Fleet-captain Heliophoros cautioned, “there’s a double entendre implicit in that term that we two in particular would be wise to steer away from.”

“All I am saying,” the Archcommander continued after another sip from her drink, seemingly unperturbed, “is that choosing a Lithuanian as the new Empress is a very bold choice given the political climate in the Myndowen Empire. Sibylla was a German-Hungarian noble, a perfect imperial candidate and immensely popular among the aristocracy and the Jagiellonians. Now that is turned completely on its head, and the Lithuanians, lowest in the, how you say… pecking order?”

Barham nodded, fascinated by the direction of the conversation, but not yet daring to air his own thoughts on the subject, choosing to let the Dionysians show their cards first.

“The Lithuanians,” Indosphoria continued, “were lowest in the pecking order, but with a Lithuanian empress, they have been vaulted into a position of political acceptance they’ve never had before.”

“In a way,” Barham said, pretty confident he had by now recognised the rules of the game the two Dionysian officers were playing, “it is both very worrying and academically interesting that a modern star nation like the Myndowen Empire is still so slavishly adhering to antiquated ideas of pseudo-ethnicities and castes. It is true that those you refer to as Lithuanians by and large has a very high percentage of Generation Two genes than the rest of the populace, but not even the most ‘pure-blooded’, if you’ll pardon the expression, of ‘German’ nobles have a hundred per cent natural bloodline. If the ‘Lithuanians’ are about eighty per cent Gen-Two, then the genetic Hungarians has to be at least fifty-five per cent so-called ‘pure’, and then we’d have a whole riot going…”

Barham stopped to cough, an artificial respite that would not be lost on anybody in the audience if they’d been paying attention. He did it to observe the reactions of the Dionysian officers. The two of them, which were standing out due to mere physiological reasons, started to move away from what Barham would image was what considered the “good company” in Lemberg, moving further away from the other guests and dignitaries. Not that he’d been there too long, but as a Navy Spook, he could recognise someone being fishy, and the two Dionysian military attaché officers certainly were.

But, as it happened, there was the slightest of twitches in the corners of the eyes of both Indosphoria and Heliophoros at the mention of invented ethnicities and castes, and Barham relished the satisfaction he felt at delivering the little barb, but he continued as if he hadn’t noticed a thing.

“Organising a modern society into a tiered system of political acceptance based on genealogy and then forcing these populations into syncretic cultural-ethnic social groups does not sit very well with the average Auroran, I can tell you that much.”

No visible reaction this time, Raphael noted. Heliophoros sipped his drink, paying close attention to what the Auroran was saying.

“That aside, I think we can all agree that Empress Skaidré is a very courteous and handsome young woman, and on a personal level, I believe the Kaiser has made an excellent choice.”

“A lot of Galicians and Ruthenians would perhaps take umbrage,” Heliophoros countered, “especially the Galicians who now find themselves in the same spot the Lithuanians were only three years ago. A cursory glance on local webnet fora yields more than ample evidence to the fact, ranging from Galicians being passed over for promotions in favour of Lithuanians, to a decrease of reported crimes committed by Lithuanian individuals and a corresponding increase among the Ruthenian and Galician populaces.”

“Admittedly,” Indosphoria picked up the baton, “a lot of that can be consigned to simple disaffected bluster and good old-fashioned factionalism and racism. No society is immune to such petty emotions.”

“Especially one as culturally divided as Myndowen,” Barham agreed, “it is a small wonder that it is still standing.”

He was about to say something more, but a footman appeared out of nowhere.

“Begging your pardon, lords and lady,” he said in a heavy Hungarian accent, “but His Imperial Majesty asks for your attention.”

The trio turned towards where the Kaiser had reconvened his little miniature court, the Kaiserin close by, and he was waving them over. Raphael used the momentary distraction to hurriedly down the rest of his glass.

“Ah, you go ahead, My Lord, My Lady, I seem to be in need of a top-up, I will join you momentarily.”

With a quick bow, he didn’t wait for them to answer before he hastened off across the ballroom in order to find Commodore Dame Sylvia Raharuhi, and another drink –non-alcoholic this time– to keep up the façade. This evening was turning into a very interesting one.