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aggie-postemon · 17 days ago

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The Greater War

Twelve years after the start of the Great War (and ten years since it ended), Alek sits on the throne of Austria. He's got Dylan to thank for it, but even he's not entirely sure why his best friend brought him a country.

Come along for whispered secrets; shouted secrets; courtly intrigue; and, of course, a long-secret romance, revealed at last.

Chapter Three - Counsel and the Council

AO3 | FFN

By the time Alek returned to his chambers for the evening — leaving Dylan curled up in his armchair with Bovril, one hand in the egg crate to feel for the temperature — Alek had almost convinced himself that he was wrong. Dylan had been barely fifteen when he had boarded the Leviathan. Fifteen (or, god forbid, even fourteen) was younger than most people married. This was especially true among commoners, who had no fragile political alliances that early marriage might cement. Still, Dylan's secret was bound up in this concept of a wife. Bound up in his family, who certainly seemed to have marriage on the brain. "Jaspert's not married," Dylan said angrily to his mother one morning. "And he's older than me. Why aren't you on his case?" Jaspert took a long sip of tea, a silent plea to leave him out of the conversation. "Don't worry, Darren," Mrs. Sharp said, flexing to that incorrect name again. "I am on his case. Unfortunately, the village lasses have all turned down my inquiries with extreme prejudice." "Of course they did," Dylan said darkly. That retort seemed to be too much for Jaspert to handle. He put his teacup down sharply, something hard in his expression. "I dunno," Jaspert said. "Think they might be holding out for the dashing Sharp brother from that mover footage. You were supposed to keep a low profile, remember?" Dylan sputtered. "That was twelve years ago, ye great bumrag!" "Ye could've quietly waited out the war with me on the Minotaur, but no, ye needed to stay aloft in a storm, get carted God knows how many miles, and end up on the most famous airship of all time. Then crash in the Alps, meet a blasted Prince Charming of all things. And if that wasn't enough! "You had to be directly involved with destabilizing the Ottoman Empire with a revolution, and oversee your prince become a king. All that's not even mentioning the Mexican revolutionaries who took that footage!" Jaspert was breathing hard, now. It seemed the elder Sharp brother might have had that on his chest for a long while. More reasonably, Mrs. Sharp said, "Three revolutions was a bit much, dear. Governments are allowed to change hands without the input of one very young Scotsman." "Alek was already technically next in line for Austria," Dylan said. "That's hardly throwing a revolution, making sure he lived to take Austria on." Both Mrs. Sharp and Jaspert looked at Dylan like they had their own suspicions about the death of Alek's grand-uncle. So, Alek wasn't the only one. "What? His letter from the Pope was completely legitimate!" "With no one alive to corroborate it, of course," Mrs. Sharp said, eagle-eyed. "I'm sure everyone else who stood to inherit accepted his claim with no ruffled feathers at all." Alek looked down at his hands. Dylan could have had a perfectly ordinary life as a Scottish Airman, if he'd not met Alek.

Except. "If I hadn't dragged him into politics , Dr. Barlow would have." Stabilizing and destabilizing governments would have been Dylan's day job, then. "Not if he'd sent out the panic flag instead of choosing to ride out a storm on a Huxley on his first day," Jaspert said stonily. "Blisters, Jaspert," Dylan said softly. "I thought we'd got through this." "Blisters, Jaspert," Jaspert said, pitching his voice high. "You don't even try anymore, do you? And he still hasn't figured it out." "Oh fuck you," Dylan said. "He's right here." "It won't matter," Jaspert said. "I could fucking spell it out and he'd still be oblivious. We were over this, Darren, back before you gave him another ten years of your life, when he was newly on the throne. Back when I thought he'd know eventually. Know and do right by you." Dylan's expression shuttered completely. "That's never what this was, Jaspert. I'm here because he's my friend, because Austria needs him, and because I damn well want to be. And I am tired of people telling me that I should want something different, that I should want more. If you can't stomach my life here, Jaspert Sharp? You should just go home." "Fuck flying, then." Jaspert said. "I guess you really did just want to be a soldier. His." "Yes! Alek's solider," Dylan hissed, leaning across the table into Jaspert's personal space for emphasis. "That is my job. That is what I signed up for when I left the Air Service!" Jaspert stood from his chair, then. He looked to Alek. "Excuse me, Your Majesty," he said, suddenly all politeness. "This has been a lovely meal, but I think a need to take a walk." "Of course," Alek said. "Thank you for dining with us." Alek was bewildered again. He was spending too much time bewildered, lately. Jaspert Sharp stalked from the room. The door slammed behind him. "He called you the wrong name," Alek said, deciding to address one of his many questions. "Your mother does, sometimes. I've always assumed Darren must be an uncle, or something. I've never heard Jaspert say it, though." "Glaikit wee shite," Mrs. Sharp said, burying her face in one hand. "Fuck me," said Dylan, more simply. "Now that," Mrs. Sharp said, "Is a bridge too far, young man. No fucking until you're married." "I'm twenty-seven!" Dylan said, nearly screeching. "So?" Mrs. Sharp said. "I'm all for a certain amount of swearing among frustrated adults, but I think we all know you mean that one a little too literally." Dylan pushed his plate away, then theatrically slammed his head on the hardwood table. Mrs. Sharp gave a disapproving little hum. "Don't be silly. Think how disappointed Dr. Barlow would be if you damaged that fabricator's brain of yours." Dylan looked to Alek for help. Oh no. Alek was staying out of this one. Mrs. Sharp then looked to Alek for help. "We all know you could get married more or less the moment you wanted to, Dylan. Right, Alek?" Alek floundered for a long moment. "Any woman would be lucky to have you, Dylan." God's wounds, why was that such an awful and awkward sentence to say? Was Alek so reliant on his friend that he resented a theoretical wife Dylan didn't even have yet? He must have said it well enough, though, because Mrs. Sharp beamed at him. "I hate you all," Dylan said.

"Yes, well," said Mrs. Sharp. "That's what mothers and best friends are for." As breakfast broke up, Alek reflected that Jaspert was right. The Sharps had clearly been trying to spell something out for Alek, despite obvious resistance from Dylan, and Alek did, indeed, end the meal oblivious. That it was perhaps undignified for a king to be spoken of that way did not actually occur to him. Alek wondered if his own mother might ever have gotten so forward with Alek if she had lived to see him become a man. She'd be worse, he decided. The lady-in-waiting who'd captured a prince would absolutely be worse. But she'd be subtler about it. Alek smiled at the imagined sight of his mother, Sophie Chotek in all her glory, hassling him about picking a bride. It ached. It would always ache. But it was a good ache, today.

~~~

After that disastrous breakfast, Alek spent more of his waking hours at Dylan's side than was probably productive for either of them, but it was luxurious, being in his friend's presence after time spent apart. Also, Alek couldn't quite stop himself from obsessively watching Dylan's every move, trying not to think too hard on anything at all. The quality time was a good excuse. Dylan could tell, though, and that created tension.

The tension was made worse by the fact that Jaspert was clearly avoiding both of them. Alek made it two days before he tracked down Mrs. Sharp. "Jaspert," he said. "Is he okay?" Mrs. Sharp was in the greenhouse. She set down the baby loris she was teaching the alphabet. "He's fine," she assured. "He's just protective of Dylan, and feeling a bit like a failure." "Because he's not as accomplished as Dylan?" Alek could handle jealousy, but despite Jaspert's words at breakfast, the tone hadn't spoken of jealousy. "Not at all," Mrs. Sharp said. "Jaspert's earned his flowers and he's right where he wants to be. He feels like a failure because I tasked him with being Dylan's protector, and Jaspert managed to lose him the very first day." "I know Dylan was a little young to join the service," Alek said. "But did he really need protection that badly?" "Well, he managed not to die without it," Mrs. Sharp said. "I wasn't sure he would, when he left." "And why was Jaspert even qualified?" Alek asked. "He's not much older than Dylan, and he was very young when he enlisted." "He enlisted behind my back," Mrs. Sharp said. "I lost my husband to the sky. I did not want to lose my children. But Jaspert was officially the head of the household. There was nothing I could do to stop him." "But you could have stopped Dylan?" Mrs. Sharp turned to face Alek a little more squarely, tugged at the end of her graying braid.

"Not without killing him by inches," she said. "He was dying in Glasgow. Finally, despite my feelings on the matter, despite the fact that he was too young, and despite. Well. Everything else, I had to let him try. I thought he had a better chance of coming back to me alive, whole, if he had Jaspert there to watch his back. And I knew Dylan would watch Jaspert's back in turn. Honestly, I thought he'd be caught right away, laughed straight off the proving ground. He'd come home, miserable, but at least he would have known he tried." "Because he was a year too young?" Mrs. Sharp gave Alek a wry smile. "Let's go with that." "So because of his other secret, then," Alek said. "You've figured out that he has a secret, then?" Mrs. Sharp said. "You're less of a numpty than we thought." "You had the right of it, I'm afraid," Alek said. "I overheard a conversation between him and Count Volger the night before he left for London. They didn't say what it was, or even that he had one. It's just that they were clearly talking around a truth I didn't know." "And did you ask the Count?" Mrs. Sharp asked, eyes glittering. "I spoke to him," Alek said. "But he said, and I agree, that I should hear it from Dylan whenever he's ready. So I don't know what it is. I said I'd try not to guess, so I'm also trying not to think on it too deeply." Alek shrugged. "Doesn't stop me from thinking about it constantly." "Oh, Alek," Mrs. Sharp said, before pulling him into a hug. "You sweet boy. You must know he isn't keeping it from you to hurt you." Ten years ago, twelve years ago, Alek would not have felt so sure. Today, he submitted to Mrs. Sharp's embrace and mumbled into her shoulder, "I know." He did know. "I promised Volger I would try to take it well, when and if he tells me." "He will," Mrs. Sharp promised, pulling away to look at him, a hand on each of his shoulders. "Keeping up the act gets harder every year. Mostly because he hates hiding anything from you." "I've never been able to hide anything from him, not for long." "Believe it or not, except for this one tiny detail, Darren feels the same way." And now Alek knew that had to be intentional. He picked up a loris, just to do something with his hands. "Why do you call him that?" Mrs. Sharp practically smirked at him. "I believe, young monarch, that you are overdue to find that out. A little more patience is all I ask." Alek stared at her, dumbfounded. Darren wasn't just an odd substitution with some uncle or cousin. "By God, that's his name." Mrs. Sharp tilted her head. "I'm almost certain you're spelling it wrong in your head. It's Scottish Deryn. Not English Darren. But explaining it would give the game away. And I think your Volger is right, you should hear it from him. He should have the opportunity to tell you." "Understood," Alek said. "I'll talk to Jaspert," Mrs. Sharp said. "I think these developments will make him feel better." "Good," Alek said, and was kind of surprised to find he meant it. He thought Jaspert had come a little too near to hurting Dylan's feelings at the breakfast where everything had gone to Hell. With that, Alek made his excuses. He had work to do, a council to contend with. As he picked his way back inside his father's castle, he realized that Dylan almost definitely did not have a wife. Not if he'd been dying by inches under his mother's watchful eye, a fourteen-year-old in Glasgow. A wife wouldn't have gotten him laughed off the proving grounds, either. Alek breathed in deeply, settling into a prevailing sense of relief.

~~~

When Alek walked into his next council meeting, he was whistling.

Dylan - Darren? some Scottish variety of Darren? - was already there. He was draped in one of the official council room's hard-backed chairs, an arm thrown carelessly behind him, one knee to his chest.

The Austrian noblemen already looked furious with him.

The ragtag assemblage of merchants and farmers and factory laborers that Dylan had picked up over the years looked like they were desperately trying not to laugh.

Dylan, of course, had brought the crate of eggs. They could almost certainly be left alone for an hour at this stage in their development, but they rattled the dyed-in-the-wool Clankers in the room, and Dylan loved rattling dyed-in-the-wool-Clankers. Everyone needs hobbies.

"Why must you persist in breeding these abominations against God?" asked one of the nobles. He was talking to Dylan, but he'd obviously waited until Alek was in the room to say it. Alek's nobles were more then a little afraid of Dylan.

Dylan ignored the question in favor of cooing at the egg box, shifting one of the heaters, a smile in the corner of his mouth.

"They're a symbol of Clanker-Darwinist cooperation," Alek answered firmly. "They give Austria an air of neutrality we cannot afford to lose."

"That," Dylan said. "Also, look at them. They're cute."

Distinctly, the noble wrinkled his nose at Dylan, but he only responded to Alek. "They make you look like a Darwinist, that's hardly neutral."

How this was true when Alek also devoted not insignificant tax dollars to Master Klopp's project in Prague — a school of mechanics for both nobles and commoners — Alek was not sure.

But it was clearly one man's opinion, so it was not impossible that others might share it.

Dylan, however, looked frosty. "Would you call either Japan or America Darwinist? Their unique blends of technology protected them both during the Great War, kept them out of things for longer then the rest of us."

"Austria is hardly America," the nobleman spat, America a curse in his mouth

"True," Dylan said. "We lost territory in the Treaty of Versailles."

Alek cleared his throat, suddenly sure that this disagreement would come to blows if he didn't intervene. "I'd appreciate a little more civility," he said. The nobleman looked triumphant. "From both of you, Duke, Mr. Sharp."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

Austrian nobles said Alek's titles like insults, back when he was but the son of a lady-in-waiting. Many still did.

Alas, even as King of Austria, Alek was the son of a lady-in-waiting. At the end of things, he was Sophie's son before anything else. Sophie's son and Dylan's friend.

"Now," Alek said. "In the interest of civility, we need to talk about some of these tax requests. I understand that expenses are going up, but that is also true for the common folk. We cannot make them bear that burden alone. And that is why I called all of you here today, to attempt to broker a compromise between all the social classes that leaves everyone with enough money."

"They want a tax increase?" one of the farmers said, a note of panic in his voice. "Your Majesty, the farmers don't have it!"

"Right," Alek said. "Again that's why I wanted everyone here. So we can talk about the rates that work for everyone." Nobody looked happy, but honestly, that was Alek-and-Dylan's specialty.

...Alek had dragged them both to Austria, and honestly, one of these days an assassination attempt was going to actually work. Alek thought, rather unpleasantly, that he was just like his father.

At the end of the meeting, when Alek had stopped his nobles from bleeding the farmers dry, but had left the merchants and laborers perhaps a little less happy, Alek saw one of the laborers pass Dylan a surreptitious note.

That laborer, Alek knew, was a union organizer, with connections across German-speaking Europe.

Moreover, and Alek wasn't sure how formal this was, he was one of Dylan's primary information gatherers. He had access to a startling number of contacts, and he reported on all of them to Dylan.

Alek did understand that it was Dylan to whom this man had pledged his loyalty, and Alek honestly approved. He had the distinct impression, sometimes, that it was Dylan who ruled Austria. Alek was only there to keep the nobility from kicking up a fuss about it.

Dylan clapped a hand on the laborer's shoulder, slipped the note into his breast pocket, sewn a little low in his jacket.

"How is your wife and daughter?" Dylan asked, and Alek wasn't sure if it was out of genuine interest or just to disguise the exchange. Alek would have thought the exchange was blatant to anyone with eyes. Over the years, however, he had learned that he watched Dylan more closely than anyone else did.

The laborer glowed. His daughter, it turned out, had enrolled at Klopp's school. That had been one of Dylan's odd little insistences, that Klopp's school be open to women as well as men.

Dylan beamed at this news, and Alek knew that it was both. That's why Dylan was so effective - he genuinely cared, and he used that to disguise the fact that he'd developed a spy network under the counsel's nose.

Dylan made his way through the room, exchanging pleasantries with everyone, and receiving notes from a farmer and a member of minor nobility. Also, from one of Konopiste's staff, who were always welcome to sit in on these meetings, though few ever did.

Alek mingled. Making something akin to friends out of his councilmen was more than just a nicety - it kept him alive.

Unfortunately, Alek was not as good at making friends as Dylan. As soon as it was politically appropriate, he left the room, headed to the private council room where he debriefed with Dylan and Volger alone.

When Dylan and Volger joined him, Dylan's eyes were cold. "I'll be staying in your chambers tonight," he said. "Ma can watch the eggs."

"Oh?" Volger said, back in that silky tone.

"Come off it, Count," Dylan said, flapping an impatient hand. "I've been saying I don't like the collective tone in Prague for months, now."

"Ah," Volger said.

"You think there's going to be an attempt?" Alek said worriedly.

Dylan fished a pile of notes from his breast pocket, more than even Alek had seen exchange hands. "I've got reports from the union fellow, from members of nobility, and from a member of the castle staff who overheard an exchange. There's going to be an attempt. The question is when."

"Do you know who?" Alek said.

Dylan grimaced. "Yes, but I'm not sure how deep it goes or how many allies he has. And Alek, I need you to act normal."

Yes, Alek was a terrible actor. "Right," he said. "You know I trust you. I was just curious."

An odd current passed between them then, because Alek did trust Dylan, but this was the first time he'd needed to since discovering that there were secrets between them. He didn't like it, but the trust was still there.

That night, Dylan prepared Alek's meal. He was a surprisingly good cook of simple fare, but Alek knew he hated doing it. Most of the time. Alek trusted the castle staff, but cooking seemed to comfort Dylan, when they both knew that Alek's parents had been taken by poison, right along with their taster. The poison had been too slow-acting to show immediate effects.

"I sent Ma to town in disguise to buy ingredients," Dylan said. "Just in case."

That sounded a little excessive to Alek, but, "Thank you, Dylan."

"She wanted to cook, too, when I explained the situation, but you know."

"I know," Alek said. Dylan's own assassination attempts over the years had given Alek the impulse to do everything with his own hands, see everything with his own eyes, until he could really believe that Dylan was safe.

Alek ate a plate of bangers and mash, with, he understood, exactly the wrong kind of sausage. He himself wasn't enough of a connoisseur to know the difference.

"There's also sauerkraut." Dylan said, producing a jar of it from nowhere. "Ma bullied the cook into giving her the recipe, and she's been fermenting this jar in her room, so it should be safe. You do need a vegetable."

Alek gave it a hesitant taste. "I think I love your mother," he said.

"She loves you too, you know. That's why she asked for the sauerkraut recipe to begin with."

Alek wouldn't say that sauerkraut was a favorite food of his, but the attempt at kindness was so endearing that he decided that Mrs. Sharp's sauerkraut specifically was going onto his favorites list, now and forever. She'd included the juniper berries and caraway seeds and everything.

He heaped a large forkful onto his plate, decided he loved the tang of it in contrast to the blander British fare. "I'll be sure to thank her," Alek said. "For both the sauerkraut and the market run."

That night, they made a show of going into their separate chambers, in plain view of any number of castle staff. Barely an hour passed before Dylan slipped in through Alek's window. Genuinely, Alek had no damn idea how Dylan did that. The walls were sheer, the balconies were well separated.

There was a flurry of activity in the deepening dusk as Dylan checked the room. The sun set. Lamps were blown out.

"Sleep," Dylan said, sitting in one of Alek's armchairs, facing the door in total darkness.

It was like a spell. Alek slept, and did not wake until he heard a strangled scream, and a body hitting the floor.

He sat up. Dylan had not left the armchair. A woman — a new kitchen hire, if Alek remembered rightly — gurgled on the flagstone, one of Dylan's knives in her neck.

At first, Alek thought Dylan had made some horrible, awful mistake, but as he slipped from his bed covers to take a closer look, he saw that the woman's fingers were twitching around the handle of a knife of her own.

There was a knock at the door. Alek jerked to look at it. "It's me," came Volger's voice. "I'm coming in, stay your hand, Mr. Sharp."

Light spilled briefly into the room from the hallway. Volger wasted no time in shutting the door behind him, dark eyes going straight to the body. "My God," he said. He looked at Dylan. "You know who organized this?"

"Yes," Dylan said. "He will have quietly retired to the countryside by morning."

"Good," said Volger. "Good. You take care of that. I'll clean up in here."

Alek could see the war in Dylan's expression. He did not want to let Alek out of his sight, but he also wanted to see the job finished for himself. For a long moment, Dylan studied Volger's face. "Don't let him out of your sight. Even if that means cleaning up together."

Volger frowned. Neither Volger nor Dylan liked to let Alek's hands get dirty.

"I can help," Alek said, because Volger and Dylan were his men, and Alek would never ask his men to do something he would not do himself. "Dylan? Whomever he is, bring him down. Only cowards hide behind women."

Dylan nodded, placed a hand on the door to the balcony. "I will. But Alek? Women are full well capable of being monsters. She wasn't tricked or manipulated into this. She wanted you dead. Don't doubt that."

"Mr. Sharp," Volger said. "This is not the time for a battle of the sexes."

"Just think about it," Dylan said. "And keep your blasted eyes open. I think this is all we can expect for the night, but it's not impossible a fail-safe escaped my network."

"Of course," Volger said.

"I'll be careful," Alek promised.

Dylan nodded tightly, passed through the balcony doors, then hoisted himself over the balcony railing and out of sight.

Alek looked at the dead woman on his bedroom floor. "God's wounds."

Volger set to rolling her up in the ruined carpet — an older one, set out for this exact purpose. "God's wounds indeed."

Alek felt they might be talking about different things.

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