The Count Returns

[Maksym Hadjimehmetov]

The state car with Shirereithan pennant flying on its bonnet sped through the night, past the lights of what modest nightlife Brookshire Hamlet had to offer. The dome of the Great Kehl rose over the small city, tightly hemmed in between two tranquil rivers and wooded mountains- a little spot of paradise. The shaded windows of the car were thoroughly unnecessary this late at night- nobody could see the occupant anyway, and those on the streets of the outer city this late at night- drunks, policemen, lost foreigners desperately trying to find their hotel, couldn't have cared less anyway.
It was a comfort, nonetheless, that Hadjimehmetov, who had been these past six months travelling Micras to broaden his petty feudal horizons, was back home. The ugly vowel clusters, many sibilants, and unsightly orthography of his native Laqi language were like music to his ears after so long abroad. Things had changed, too- the old Barony was gone, and the people in power in Shirekeep had decided to call it something else.
Didn't matter. Out here in the provinces life continued on much the same, Kaisers came, Kaisers went- oh, they were obeyed and respected- even adored- but politics stayed in Shirekeep, and Laqi people liked it that way.

The familiar crunch on gravel as the car approached the Baron's Palace in the Gorantagh forests reminded Hadjimehmetov he had not eaten since leaving the intermicronational airport in Shirekeep, and the usual warm Laqi evenings, with the incessant sounds of crickets and drunken corrupt local officials fornicating in bushes almost sounded sweet to his ears. Ruling this place would irritate him as it would anyone, but it was home, it was Modan-Lach, and he was Laqi. The Baron's Palace had been sadly neglected. The old butler, Rostam, a great Samovar of a man with impressive beard, greeted the Count with a restrained joy- in Laqi culture, the business of ruling was sacred and not to be disturbed by trivial things such as joy. It was a solemn duty, and though the other rooms in the Palace had been at least kept warm and welcoming by the servants' anticipation of the Count's return, his office was a mess of cobwebs and dust. They had not dared step inside, for this was where the Count sat and thought, breaking occasionally to pour himself a whisky and throw darts at an old picture of Danny Wallace on the back of the door.

He ran a finger along the side of the desk. The thick dust was disgusting, though at least sweeping it away would feel cathartic in some strange sense- like starting a fresh, hopeful chapter in the province's history. He found his old uniform and peaked cap- relentlessly pompous and sagging under the weight of the pointless decorations he had awarded himself in a moment of extreme boredom. It was a little too small- evidently the fine wines and heavy sauces of foreign cuisine had agreed with him all too well. He would have another made the first thing the following morning.

Life in the provinces could be lazy or exhilarating, depending on your opinion of regular exercise and the 'great outdoors'. For now, Hadjimehmetov was just glad to be back.

[CJ Miller]

Too bad I can't write at this level of greatness.