Wheels Within Wheels

The minister sighed. When he had arrived at the palace it had looked to be such a promising day. There didn't look to be that much paperwork to attend to, there didn't seem to be any annoying letters from constituents that his secretary hadn't been able to deal with. He had been very much looking forward to a quiet day attending to the minor affairs of his ministry and then retiring to his club for brandy and cigars at around six o'clock. Then the telegram had arrived from Mulitania, and his hopes for a quiet day had been dashed. His hopes for a quiet week were looking pretty slim as well.
Mulitania was a rarity these days, an old fashioned sorcerer-kingdom. It had been ruled by a magician of some puissance for the past eight hundred and forty years. Since the study of sorcery is rarely compatible with the demands of ruling a nation Mulitania was, by all accounts, a bit of a backwater. It was as poor as it was possible for a country to be and still qualify to be called a country. It had one railroad, no telegraph and its biggest exports were a peculiar form of smoked pork and the favours of the baser powers. It had been cheerfully ignored by pretty much every other nation in the world. Until now.
The minister read the telegram again: Rebels seized capitol. Stop. Lord defeated. Stop. Requests asylum. Stop.
This was the last thing he needed. The minister had met Lord Valdemar, Tyrant of the Iron Tower once before - it must have been almost fifteen years ago come to think of it. Still the wizard wouldn't have changed, his sort didn't. He would still be that unkempt, unwashed, mad eyed arrogant diplomatic incident in waiting that he always was. It would be the simplest thing in the world to refuse him - he had after all struck compacts with the deepest and coldest powers, he had given his own children to the Lady of Solemn Youth, traded an eye with the King With Nine Faces and served, so it was said, for five years as a captain in the armies of the Trembling Sisters. Any one of these deeds would be enough to bar his entry to any sensible nation. Unfortunately there were complications.

The minister had brought the matter to the attention of the PM the moment he had the opportunity. The PM had not been pleased, but he understood the gravity of the situation and called an emergency meeting of the cabinet. The minister had explained the situation, and then left the discussion to the floor.
"I don't see the problem," the deputy prime minister had begun. "He's clearly a maniac, so we just hand him over to the mob."
"The problem," the minister replied "is that we are, technically the Kingdom of the Seven Isles of Whispers"
"And furthermore" added the PM "Lord Valdemar is a direct blood relative of our own esteemed sovereign"
"Yes but in this day and age we can't allow ourselves."
"We are still a monarchy" continued the PM "and while it is true that King Anthony holds less sway in the kingdom than once he did, it would be a constitutional nightmare to turn his blood away at our gates."
"But he's a madman" the deputy prime minister insisted.
"If I may interject." the interjector was the home secretary. The minister did not like the home secretary. There was something about his manner which the minister found distinctly off-putting. His practice of sitting very quietly and then saying "if I may interject" was but one of many insipid habits. ".the King of Mulitania, while in many ways a. as you say. madman, does have many qualities to recommend him as an ally. He stands high in the favour of many of the subtler lords and it does not do well to displease the deeper powers."
"That's as maybe, but I still say he's a madman"
"Gentlemen, this is getting us nowhere" announced the PM "This is a royal matter, and I fear we shall have to take it to his Majesty. The minister and I shall consult with him forthwith"
"Are you sure that's wise?" cautioned the deputy prime minister "I mean. he isn't supposed to set policy any more and. well. we only usually take him out of his box on official occasions."

The minister had worked in the palace for the best part of the last two decades. Still he had never before visited the upper floors and had seen the king only very rarely, and then from a distance. Now, however, in company with the prime minister, he was being led up the Axeman's Stair and into the Chamber of Kings.
He was not sure what he had expected the box to look like. Jewelled perhaps, or gilt at least. It was in fact quite plain and unadorned, made from some form of hardwood. It was inscribed with the royal crest, and fastened with a simple silver clasp. The Prime Minister unlocked the box, reached inside, and lifted out the head of King Anthony. He placed it on a shelf set into the wall at about eye height which the minister could only assume was reserved for this purpose. Then the Prime Minister commanded it, in the name of blood shed, words spoken, compacts broken and fates unfulfilled to speak. At this king's eyes snapped open, and he began to speak.

".and your perfidious ilk. I would remind you that I am still your king, you are still my subject and thus it has been since long before the day of your father's father's father. You dare to seek to command me? Me! I have seen the patterns of."
"Your majesty."
"You interrupt me as well? You dare speak so freely before your sovereign? Do you have any conception of."
"Your majesty, be silent or I shall speak the twelve words of unbinding and cast you into the arms of the Smiling Ladies." The king fell silent. "Now, we have some news for you. Minister if you would be so good."
The minister stepped forward. He had known, of course, that the king was, at the end of the day, just a head in a box, but he was used to seeing it on state occasions, when the head was on its best behavior. Seeing his lord, sovereign and technical boss in quite such a state was unnerving to say the least.
"Your majesty. Your cousin, Lord Valdemar of Mulitania has been overthrown, and he requests asylum."
"Asylum!" crowed the head of the king "Oh how are the mighty fallen. Yes yes he must be brought before me."
"He is a maniac, my lord. Allowing him ingress could be unpopular."
"We do not abandon our blood. We do not take orders from our subjects."
"Very well my lord."

And that, as they say, was that. The word of the king was, after all, final. The former lord Valdemar was granted sanctuary in the northernmost of the Seven Islands. The next day the complaints began. The New Republic of Mulitania objected, of course, but they could be safely ignored. More worrying were the petitions from the Order of Eight Veils, a widespread movement with not inconsiderable power in much of the west. They objected, apparently, to the harboring of those who trafficked with the baser lords. The deputations from the Forty White Cities were equally put out, insisting that the former lord be extradited to face trial for crimes committed in the '32-'37 war. A herald from the Trembling sisters, her skin translucent and her lips quivering, insisted that he be returned to their service. Yes, the minister reflected, it was going to be a very long week.