There, at the edges of the map, but not shown in as much topographical detail, were the neighbours: Costa Blanca, and Iraquba.

Projecting his aversion upon the map, and finding there little to hold his interest – indeed, Lord Ludvig had always thought it was a misrepresentation of the territory it depicted in that it had more detail than the actual country - he shifted his gaze to the smaller map alongside it.

Ah, Quarto-Invary! Home!

A spasm of homesickness washed over him, competing with and then losing on points to the other spasms in his middle latitudes. Three more years, he thought. Just three more years in this ghastly place and I can go home and retire in peace.

Long his career had certainly been. Illustrious, too, but for what he called his single little misstep. And even though Lady Brünhilde had forgiven him for his lack of judgement, their marriage had suffered.

The Foreign Service had been less forgiving.

He had had a liaison with the Queen - of all people – and it had almost led to a national scandal and the fall of the government. It had taken all of the diplomatic skills of the Service to avert the fallout, and had resulted in him being relegated to this forgotten outpost of the Empire.

Oh, Bessie, what had possessed us? he thought ruefully. It had cost me my career and you, you had to give up your throne to that wastrel of a son of yours.