She tramps to the centre of the front of the stage and gazes over the throng fearlessly, with a sort of bold confidence. "Right," she begins, pitching her voice so it will carry. "No doubt by now you lot have heard something going on from higher up. I know the way rumours travel. You've probably heard Dunstree's out as Lord Mayor and that's correct." She listens to the hum and buzz fly around and then lifts her voice again. "There'll be those of you that might be sad to hear this and those of you that may be glad. The smart ones of you out there won't be sad or glad. You'll be wondering who the hell I am. I'm Princess Breyd, Lady Mayor of this City and the one who has to whip this piss-cutting town into shape."

"The Havenites say we're a pack of uneducated, dirty gutter-trash without any chance for success of regrowth and rebuilding because we only find our arses to scratch them. I say they're a pack of prissy pampered souless maggots without enough spleen to face the blood and guts reality that their ivory tower existance can't prepare them for. The Mecklenburgs think we're too unorganised and have no discipline. They think we're doomed to failure because we're lack a pedigree and we haven't been bred to be the best. I say they're a bunch of idiots who couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions weren't printed on the heel. We're Amberites. Are we going to let them tell us what we can and cannot do?"

"I'll offer you the same deal I gave those of Salis Hills. Play fair by me, don't shirk your load, work hard to rebuild this city and Amber into a better place and I'll be happy to let you get rich by your own labours. But you lot screwed up. You haven't been pulling your weight, there's been an apathy towards sabeteurs and assassins getting in to this city because you're all standing about waiting for somebody to hand you your salvation on a silver salver. I'm here to tell you that's not going to happen."

"Your City can no longer support dead-weight and freeloading opportunists looking for a free meal. From this moment onwards, if you take from the dole, you will be putting back into this city. If you cannot pay taxes because you are unemployed, then you will be fed and sheltered in council housing, but you will earn it by the sweat of your brow. I'm putting everybody on the dole to work. Specifics of this will be announced to you when you come to collect your rations." Breyd expects this to go over badly and stands staring down the crowd with her usual fiery glare.

A few people murmur but surprisingly many cheer her

One person hollers out,"Paolo in a Skirt!"

"Rory in Drag with the Red Hair!"

"Margaret Thatcher, Milk Snatcher!"

Surprisingly, Breyd doesn't seem to rise to any of this bait, but the dark eyes do dart into the crowd as if to unearth who is shouting. There's no list of names being jotted down, but if they can be intimidated, they might jolly well get that impression.

"Also, as of this moment, there is now a curfew effective in the City. It starts at nine in the evening. Anybody not of Royal blood out and about without a pass explaining their business after dark faces a fine at best and will forfeit their lives at worst. Passes are available for those who have legitimate reasons to be abroad in the City at night and you'd better carry them if you're going out. I don't listen to excuses very well." She waits for that to sink in. "I won't tolerate conspiracies against the Crown and there have been too many attempts as of late, so I am declaring martial law. Don't even think about rioting either; I have no problems turning the Watch loose to kill you lot for sedition and misbehaving. I don't care what your personal opinions of me are: I will have order in this damn City!"

Many are quiet but others are applauding quietly.

"I'm also announcing the formation of a Brute Squad to go into the worst quarters of this City and clean them out. There will be hangings before this week goes out," she promises. That might go over well. The public seem to like hangings.

There is an explosion of cheering and suggestions go out as for the next set of victims. Calls are made to sell glory hands again along with bring back the whipping posts.

Breyd holds up her hands for order. "I'm sure there's enough stupid people out there thinking they can slip one by me and there will be plenty of 'volunteers' for the gallows. Gory hands will be obtainable after excecution for a modest fee, of course. I know the sorcery shops seem to like doing a special on those." She grins wickedly. "As for whipping, of course that will be instituted again. Public whipping and civic work will be the sentance levied against those who default on debts or cannot pay fines that have been raised against them by the Crown."

She holds up her hands. "I have one last bit of good news for everybody. Anybody found throwing the contents of thier night jugs into the street will no longer be fined."

The population cheers ecstatically,"Gardez L'eau Alexis!" - coming out as Gardy Loo!

"No modern Chaos crap for us. Alexis is a changeling of Jasra!"some call out.

She waits for the cheering to die down a bit. "Instead, they and their households and their neighbours households shall be required to drink the contents of their night jugs for a week while the crews turn out to clean up the neighbourhood wells." Breyd casts an obsidian hard eye over the crowd. "Even an ignorant pack of sewer rats knows better than to foul their own nests. I am not even remotely joking on this one. Do I make myself clear?"

They look pissed off but say notjhing.

"That's all for the moment," she finishes and then turns to walk off the stage, showing her back to them without the slightest bit of doubt. She might have bigger balls than Dunstree...

This text is copyright © Craig Lucas and Beth Major; "Amber" is copyright © Roger Zelazny; "Amber" the diceless RPG is copyright © Phage Press. No copyright infringement is intended.

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