Abhari

The world is, very temporarily, at peace. War between the three Great Powers would be catastrophic, and is universally acknowledged as such. The situation only gets worse as new technologies and sorceries are developed and refined with every passing month. Snaking railways and coaling stations connect the major cities of the world, augmented by careful celestial engineering, or bound spirits, or simply the Names of the great and good. Ten thousand ghosts work tirelessly to provide Her Oceanic Majesty's clients and proxies with enough aetheric rifles to win their petty skirmishes and border disputes, while their binders spend sleepless nights worrying it will be rendered moot by some mad genius out of the Republic or perfectly executed Janissary coup.   Abhari itself is the crown jewel of a rotting empire, the Viceroy's power maintained entirely by Her Majesty's selfless advisers and generous loans. Centuries of careful rule have left the population hopelessly entrapped in the binding Oaths that underlay imperial magic-and while the princes and masters and bishops are content with their inheritance, the teeming masses are very much not. They are, in fact, disgruntled enough to listen eagerly to apocalyptic preachers and buried gods, who speak of purity through flame. To the Envoys and Great Men of the Republic, who peak of the supreme virtue of passion and of raising talent above birth. To the Janissaries and technocrat-monks of the Commonwealth, who speak of universal service and engineered utopia.   Thankfully, enough still listen to Her Majesty's generously loaned inspectors, or at least the coin in their hand and the threats in their eyes.