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[h1]Ducal Apartments, The Port City of Léonne, Duchy of Valbe, Cordonova[/h1] 

[url=https://youtu.be/t_AUZVS5LP0?t=1h15m11s]“...A letter, Your Grace. From the Pontifical Palace.”[/url]  

The Grand Duke was silhouetted by a paroxysm of dusty light erupting from the high east windows upon the dais; through the beams, one could glimpse brief winkings of light off of gilt platters and glass decanters. He was at his breakfast, which, as per his wont, stretched throughout most of the morning in a pageant of alternating victuals and, of greatest interest to the Duke, libations. Three watches yet remained before noon’s height, and he had already polished off a decanter of brandy and two bottles of young Lôrasse red. 

Antas ever marvelled at the man’s stamina.  

He did not see—a consequence of the illumination—but rather heard the Duke’s snicker. 

“And what does the fuck want from us now?” he began, his light tenor thick with derision, “More coin, perhaps? Another pouch of nutmegs? [i]Pah[/i]!” 

The Grand Duke Lirian of House Valbe was a learned man—a patron of the arts, a shrewd penny-pincher, an able tactician, a gourmand of the historical (not to mention the epicurean), and even the architect of, though still admittedly callow, poetic quatrains. 

That, of course, did not inhibit him from…[i]unsavory[/i] speech, the kind that would make the more straight-laced courtiers of the Flagstone Court blanch and utter a truncated hosannah to the Saint. Especially in the private company of his trusted Seneschal. 

Antas grinned, sweating already in his pine velvet doublet, and approached the dais. The light assaulted his eyes, inciting a coruscation of points and shadows behind his eyelids. He winked into the rays, grimacing, which bought a laugh from the Duke. He rose from his seat at the teak escritoire, and wordlessly gestured to the balcony, the glimmering plate of the port far below. 

They sat about a low table, in the Eastern manner, upon silken cushions richly embroidered, as the Duke poured him a cup of wine. 

Antas could see that he had neglected to shave, presumably for a few days now, and a thick stubble, dark and spattered with shining bands of grey, sprouted from his hard jaw. 

“Do you wish the court to believe their Duke has been replaced by a Nordöldten axe thrower?” the Seneschal asked bemusedly, raising his goblet to Lirian’s honor and drinking deep. 

A fine vintage, to be sure.

“They’d like that, wouldn’t they?” the Duke returned, reclining upon the pillows and sipping gingerly at his wine, “No, Antas...I’ve been preoccupied, as you might imagine. I’ve scarcely the patience to countenance Portos’ bumbling for the nonce. 

“Besides,” he continued, scratching at the burgeoning growth with a pensive air, “Beards [i]are[/i] in vogue, or so I gather, in Turchina. Perhaps I ought to spark a pogonic frenzy.” 

They chuckled at that briefly, before a small silence settled, and the time arose to get to the point. They were, after all, perhaps the Grand Duchy’s busiest men. 

Antas set the tone, a wanton breeze off the sea nearly giving him cause to pocket the parchment; rather, he handed it to the Duke for his study, “Elections have been convoked, my Lord. For the office of High Pontiff.” 

But the light of recognition had already dawned upon Lirian’s rapidly searching visage. “Ah,” he uttered, like an oath. 

“Well, then.” 

“Praise God and Saint [i]fucking Fiorentino[/i],” Antas snorted, draining his goblet and replenishing it in the same motion. 

“You know, you ill-bred cankerwort, that I will not acquiesce to sacrilege. If you’re cold, the Order’s fires are [i]very[/i] warm,” the Duke riposted, his voice flat. However, a moment later, he raised his eyes from the letter and flashed him a toothy smile, before returning to his task. 

“A rambler, that Mauricio, is he not?” Antas probed sardonically. 

“Yes, yes...but then again, he [i]is[/i] a cleric. It seems their lot in life to pontificate upon the various manners by which we will be damned in the fires of perdition.” 

“The Notables will have to be convened. Shall we elect a date?” 

“As soon as we are capable of, gentle Antas,” the Grand Duke replied, folding the parchment and tucking it into some compartment of his unlaced doublet, “I’d prefer to be done with it. Have riders sent posthaste, preferably before this afternoon.” 

“It will be done, my Lord,” the Seneschal returned, inclining his mottled pate a few degrees, “As for the matter of our candidate...might I suggest—” 

“It will be Barthóld.” 

Antas raised his brows—hoary as caterpillars and white as snow fox fur—at that. Wenčel Barthóld was Bishop of Letwijs, an important fortress city in the hinterlands of the Veldt. But most critically, it lay within the jurisdiction of the Duke of Innes. 

The Seneschal, of course, did not have need to consider the implications of the Grand Duke’s choice. It was the essence of simplicity, after all. 

Barthóld was a conservative curate, and thus could stymie the fervor that diseased the Veldtish, it seemed, from the womb, like some divine malediction. But, he was no zealot; despite his religious fever, he did not seem to share the lust for witch blood that had crept into every corner of Antova. The man, though getting on in years, hailed from a more pacific age. 

With the backing of the Veldtish dukedoms, it would be a thoughtless thing to overcome the proposals of the Unterham block. Julla would doubtless prop up their candidate as well—the one thing they despised more than the horsefuckers of the Veldt were the horsefuckers of the South. Péy, of course, was a foregone conclusion. Likely Duke Godefroy would forward the Bishop of Ondaz—he was his cousin, after all—but the Grand Duke knew how to deal with the man. 

It was an effortless choice, engineered to succeed. 

Scruple, however, played over Antas’ countenance. 

“How well do you know this Barthóld?” he asked, studying the brigantine coming to port. Reheban, by the looks of it. 

“Precious little, beyond the surface of it, I fear. I gather that his repute is well earned—he has penned some treatises which are respected amongst the clergy. His reputation, of course, is not limited to our own borders...He does not seek to reinvent the wheel, thankfully. I was rather hoping to invite him to give mass for the Feast of Saint Ogbas in the coming month.” 

“A splendid idea, my Lord. You might profess your adoration for those treatises of his. I daresay he shall find the opportunity irresistible,” Antas replied, fingering his own beard. 

“But...can he bought? Can he be controlled?” 

The Grand Duke regarded him levelly, a phantom of a smile dimpling his bearded cheeks. 

“All men, no matter how holy, have their price, Antas,” he murmured softly, with an air of conspiracy. 

“Let us sound his timbre and play his tune. What man, after all, could repudiate us, when we offer them the [i]world[/i]?” 

[hider=Summary][list]
[*] The Grand Duke of Cordonova, Lirian of House Valbe, receives Mauricio's letter calling for the convocation of elections for High Pontiff.
[*] He and his Seneschal, Antas Girgonne, make preparations for the convening of the Notables, the council of nobles which arbitrate decisions of import within the Grand Duchy.
[*] They discuss the matter of their candidate to be presented to the Notables for the election of High Pontiff, one Wenčel Barthóld, the Bishop of the fortress-city of Letwijs in the Duchy of Innes.  
[*] Lirian wishes to invite the Bishop to Léonne in order to administer the mass of the Feast of Saint Ogbas in the coming month, and, of course, to recruit the Bishop to his side.
[/list][/hider]