The glistening, golden hull of a Shukensha-class liner glowed marvellously in the pale-blue light of the Ile-de-France sun. The Blachernae, the floating palace of the Archon Icarus of Custodi, hung just outisde the gravitational pull of Planet New Paris. On board, the first official party of Custodi diplomats were ready to board the shuttles and meet with the foreign office of King Charles XI of Gallia.

Dia Augustopolou was reclining on a chaise-longue in one of the drawing chambers of the upper deck of the liner. The decorations were still quite Kusarian, different from what she had been used to back in Attica. Yet, the more familiar furniture, just like the chaise-longue, found its way into the chambers, mixing with the more 'paper' style of oriental decor.

She gazed through the transplas window towards the planet. The prosperity of the Gallic kingdom was evident even from orbit. The lights of the cities in the distance, on the dark side of the planet, glowed warmly, yet capriciously, as if taunting her with their success. Billions of people planet-side, flourishing under the iron fist of the king. There might have been insurgents, surely, but any opposition in the aristocratic heart of Gallia seemed like a bad dream, like something to be dealt with after breakfast, like flies to be cast away with a swift wave of the hand.

Gallia prospered and would pass on a splinter of that prosperity down on the Corsairs, just like a chip of paint falling off a beautiful masterpiece. It was diplomacy, the miracle of mercantilism, that led them here. Custodi would have a permanent embassy planet-side, what a dream! A dream has come true, a House at last recognising the legitimacy of the Cretan Empire, or at least the Greek-speaking part of it. Civilisation, civilisation tasted so good. Dia's eyes lit up.

How come the Dorians could never manage it? How come they could only fight, never to think of the broader picture? How come Corsair cities never flourished like those of Gallia? Sure, there was Heraklion. But Heraklion was a fluke, an oddity, an error in the grand scheme of things. It was a city shielded from the corrupting influence of the rest of Corsair Empire, instead of flourishing thanks to it, it flourished in spite of it, carefully maintained by subsequent Custodi Archons, quietly and scornfully disregarding everything that lied beyond its borders.

Her pondering was interrupted by the doors hissing open. She turned towards them to notice her father, Archon Icarus followed by old man Katsouranis, the designate Ambassador of Custodi to Gallia. They contrasted heavily: the Archon was a muscular, bearded man who emanated power and strength. The ambassador was dignified, yet sly. For some reason, she felt the lack of her friend, and Katsouranis's niece, Maria. Perhaps it was just her odd desire for symmetry.

"We are ready," Icarus spoke. "Let us board." The three walked out of the chamber and towards the lower decks, where a shuttle would wait for them to bring them to the surface of New Paris.


The third day in a row of near-constant drizzle over Ile-du-Palais drove her up the wall. The city was full of lights, yet all were distorted by the rain. Pomeroy had told her that it was better when it did not rain, but her three days planet-side, near the government offices of the Gallic Confederacy felt like torture.

Three days. That's how long it took her to handle the new bureaucracy requirements to deal with a land transfer, a small vineyard estate that would become her Gallic home closer to the tropical regions of New Paris. All the documents to sign, check, double-check, triple-stamp and forward to a different office. She wondered if it would've been less work if she hadn't been a foreigner. But, in the end, she was one, and it was important to her everything was above board.

She was a guest in Gallia, after all. Sure, a working, taxes-paying kind of guest, but a guest nonetheless. The detailed minutiae of Confederate politics were, honest-to-goodness, of absolutely no importance to her. She only paid attention to eventually figure out who were the real people wielding influence so that her ultimate goal of being in Gallia - finding out what happened to old man Katsouranis - would be reached.

The clasps of her jewelry case clicked satisfyingly. The silvers inside would have been impressive back on Crete, but here, most of the Gallic aristocracy focused on ostentatious, almost baroque pomp that drowned her own tasteful, if rich, choice of jewelry and clothes. The aristocracy that felt very little difference after the regime change. Those that opposed disappeared and eventually it just became en vogue to support the Confederacy. Monarchy was simply not in fashion anymore, even though the only thing that changed was the facade. And facades, when unsupported, topple at the slightest touch.

The silver chains rustled quietly as she ran the bracelet chain around her right wrist. The small ornament depicted the archangel Asha, surrounded on both sides by two pearls. The depiction of the angel's head rested on the top of her wrist, the bottom of the hood holding another silver chain in place. She ran the chain between her ring and middle fingers and attached to a ring, shaped like an eleven-pointed star, on the other side of her wrist, all the while appreciating the beautiful, elegant Custodi craftsmanship.

She squinted at her reflection in the mirror. There was something different about the woman standing before her now. Something different than the times when she was standing before a similar mirror, in the Augustopoloi estate in Meletis. She could not quite name what was discrepant, but she seemed alien to herself.

Was this the right way? The cities had seemed so marvelous from orbit on that day in the lounge of the Blachernae. Now, all of this, was a distant memory. The King's reign was no longer over Gallia, it was no longer a well-oiled, autocratic machine. It was a shambling corpse of a revolutionary state, with rulers strugging to keep the snubbing Minarchy, Grand Duchy and Republique in check. The old Kingdom was united and efficient. The oligarchy of Custodi was united, but inefficient. This... this was divided and inefficient. Truly, the worst of both worlds.

Another piece, her favourite, a silver bull-horn necklace with a discreet chain that hung just below her breast, adorned with a small obisidan in the middle. She reached underneath her hair to fasten the chain on her neck.

She had a certain sympathy for the Enclave. In general, from what she heard, the kings of Gallia ran the nation fairly competently for the seven centuries and change it remained hidden from Sirius. She found dealings with the Royal Navy pleasant, as they displayed orderliness, efficiency and a general firm handle on whatever was going on. It was unclear to her how much of that was military drill, how much the system of government and how much Gallic culture, but it produced a comparatively good mix. A breath of fresh air from the Dorians and the clueless, formless Sirian underworld.

She slid her rings, one by one, on her fingers. Each silver, each with a different ornament. Seven in total, on each digit except the pinkies and the left ring finger.

Indeed, it was not just cities that showed the might of an empire. It was the culture, the society, the hierarchy and the power. Oh, to devise a system of government that's efficient, humane, natural, and resistant to the threat of revolution. She was not arrogant enough to attempt something like this, not yet. Perhaps one day, when she would be older, secluded in a study somewhere, writing down her memoirs. Not earlier. Until then, the cities would stay as they are.

The jewelry ceremony finished with two elaborate earrings which she carefully put on. After that, she took one last, confident glance at the mirror and nodded to her reflection. The final day on Ile-du-Palais. One more little thing to do.