\hypertarget{villainous-interlude-coup-de-thuxe9atre}{%
\chapter*{Villainous Interlude: Coup de
Théatre}\label{villainous-interlude-coup-de-thuxe9atre}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{villainous-interlude-coup-de-thuxe9atre}} \chaptermark{Villainous Interlude: Coup de Théatre}

\epigraph{``Never hold anything in a cage you can't put back in, should it
get out.''}{Dread Emperor Terribilis II}



Akua had spent most of her thirteenth summer pouring over all the
writings authored by Dread Empress Malicia and her Calamities.

Neither Assassin nor Captain had ever put their name to anything, which
had narrowed the field somewhat. Scribe, who could be considered an
honorary Calamity of sorts, had written a single piece on organizational
principles which had never been published and only ever circulated
privately among high-ranking Legion officers. Some of what the woman had
jotted down on the subject of redundancy in essential systems was
useful, but none of it was ground-breaking. It confirmed Heiress'
personal belief that the Scribe was a very talented administrator but
not a threat independently of her master. Warlock had been the most
prolific author, but all of it was related to either anomalous sorceries
or broader magical theory. The sheer spectrum of experiments the man had
been able to afford doing did indicate he had access to more wealth than
was openly known, which was\ldots{} interesting. It meant there was a
material power base to attack, if she ever needed to distract him.
Unfortunately, none of it gave any insight into the way the Sovereign of
the Red Skies thought. Still, ultimately the stewards of the path Praes
had taken over the last forty years were Dread Empress Malicia and her
Black Knight.

Those had been the papers she'd sought the most ardently, though she'd
not been the first Praesi aristocrat to seek insight into their ruler
and her right hand. Lord Black had penned a handful of treatises on
tactics, though they were not personal thoughts of his: merely reports
of what techniques had and had not worked during the Conquest, as well
as what made them fail when they did. There was a paper on the influence
of the original Miezan legions on the Praesi ones, and why some of the
leftover practices needed to be abandoned -- it had, however, been
written before the Conquest. All the suggested changes were long
implemented. The only knowledge she'd gotten of that was that the man
tended to focus on underlying structures when making changes: whatever
he made, he built to last. \emph{He dislikes retreating}, her mother had
said. The last paper she'd gotten her hands on was the after-action
report from his fortnight in Stygia. Not the censored one he'd given the
Chancellor's office at the time but the one he'd smuggled to Malicia --
then still a mere concubine.

Managing to have a copy transcribed had cost her a small fortune and the
lives of seven family agents in the Tower but she'd found the prize
worth it. Contrary to popular belief in the Wasteland, Black had
apparently not gone to the city with a plan in mind. He'd found the weak
points in the Stygian power structure, used Assassin to trigger a
collapse and then ruthlessly played factions against one another until
they were weak enough for him to impose the outcome he'd desired: a
ruling Magister from the faction friendliest to the Empire. The
assertion that he'd done the entire thing drunk she could safely dismiss
as a jest to amuse Malicia, for his predictions of enemy moves had been
too consistently accurate. Back then Akua had simply noted that Lord
Black was as dangerous when improvising as he was when operating
according to a set plan, but now? Now she saw the pattern.
\emph{Foundling works the same way.} The two of them knew they were more
skilled at exploiting chaos than their opponents, so they created chaos.
Whether it harmed their own side did not matter, so long as it also hurt
the enemy equally -- the comparative advantage they gained from disorder
still swung the balance in their favour.

Malicia's works were the most interesting, all in all. In her concubine
days she'd written a history of the War of Thirteen Tyrants and One
displaying a great deal of political acumen -- as well as access to the
private Imperial library, which was much more unusual. Members of the
seraglio did not get passes unless they were nobly born, and Malicia's
birth was as common as it came. The treatise on international politics
she'd penned after her ascension to the throne was arguably the most
important piece to be found and it was, in Akua's opinion, an
abomination. Titled ``The Death of the Age of Wonders'', it laid out
what Malicia believed the Dread Empire's stance abroad should be for the
next few decades. Some of it was common wisdom: the application of
political pressure in the Free Cities was an old favourite of Tyrants.
But the rest, like reaching out to the Thalassocracy? Whether or not
there was a need for a ``counterweight south of Procer'' was irrelevant:
Ashur stood on the side of Good. No amount of shared interests would
ever fill that gap. The need to keep Principate divided as she'd
outlined was self-evident, but it was Heiress' belief that Malicia's
ironclad avoidance of direct conflict had led the Empire directly to its
current weakened position.

The Legions should have marched across the Vales decades ago instead of
resting on their laurels, to burn Salia to the ground and permanently
sunder the principalities.

The entire treatise had left Akua uneasy, and it was only years later
she'd understood why. Malicia looked only forward, to a future she could
shape with her own hands. The past glories of the Empire she dismissed
as irrelevant at best and a hindrance at worst\emph{. She thinks near
all Tyrants before her were fools, as if she were the only clever woman
to ever hold the Tower.} Akua Sahelian had been born to the ruling line
of great and ancient Wolof, the only Imperial city never to be occupied
by foreigners after the Declaration. As a child she'd played in the
temple-mazes where her ancestors had sacrificed greenskins to the Gods,
she'd grown a woman in the shade of the baked mud pyramids where rituals
as old as Calernia still took place. Her very blood was running with the
history of Praes, its madness and greatness both. To even entertain the
pretence of wiping the slate clean with a new reign was to spit on all
the Tower stood for. \emph{We are the last of our breed, Malicia. The
last great villains of Calernia, perhaps in all of Creation.}

The drow of the Everdark had collapsed into bickering tribes unworthy of
the ruins they haunted. The Chain of Hunger was nothing more than a
horde of starving rats, as incapable of villainy as any other animal.
The Dead King, that famed monster who'd turned his entire kingdom into
undead and invaded the very devils who'd thought to trick him, had not
stirred from beyond his borders in centuries. That the Lycaonese had
been able to participate at all in the Proceran civil war was a sign of
how far the lich had fallen -- in olden days they would not have dared
to strip even a single man from their walls. Stygia and Bellerophon had
been muzzled by the other cities in the League, reduced to petty border
disputes, and the same city of Helike that had broken the Principate's
back under the Unconquered now flinched in the face of Procer's
displeasure. All that was left was the Dread Empire, the Tower flying
the black banner promising death and ruin to all who thought themselves
beyond humbling. And now Dread Empress Malicia would have them turn
their backs on that inheritance. It was enough to make a woman's blood
boil.

But Akua remembered, and from this she drew strength. Dread Empress
Triumphant -- may she never return -- had been born in Wolof, and had
kept Wolofites close during her reign. She had not trusted them, but
perhaps distrusted them less than others. Even as Praes collapsed in the
face of the retribution wrought by an entire continent and two foreign
empires besides, her ancestors had retreated beyond the high walls of
their city and hoarded secrets now forgotten by everyone else. And so
now Akua stood in the hills south of Marchford, the very city her rival
was marching on after her victory against the Silver Spears.

Heiress had not bothered to bedeck herself in plate, though she owned
several sets. That kind of cumbersome protection was hardly needed: the
Soninke was a skilled swordswoman but it was a skill she'd acquired more
to prevent a weakness than acquire an asset. She preferred for others to
shed the blood for her, and had picked her entourage with that
preference in mind. Her lacquered armour of overlapping steel scales was
styled in the ancient style of Taghreb warriors, the skirt of scales
making up the lower part splitting over her knee to reveal hardened
leather boots. The rounded helmet protecting her head was wrapped by a
scale aventail she'd covered with a red silk shawl, leaving an opening
that revealed only her face. The entire set had been tailored and
adjusted for her, of course -- her curves were not easy to fit under
such apparel, even after binding. Reining up her horse, the dark-skinned
aristocrat stopped to survey the temple she had come to find.

It was a small and wretched thing, even if it had been built in stone.
The single company of Proceran mercenaries she'd brought with her had
taken it without any trouble, falling on the unwary sentinels by
surprise. The building did not appear on any maps, for it was not a
place of worship -- it was a prison, one designed by the provincials to
keep one of the Hell Eggs forever unhatched. Barika rode up to her side,
her ornate robes a ridiculous affectation in this barbarous country. The
spells woven into the cloth made it hard as steel should anything strike
the other woman, as the spells in Akua's own armour made it resistant to
both extreme temperatures and foreign magic, but while such elegance
would have been duly appreciated in Praes it was wasted effort out here.
Callowans were a people of mud and shit, fit only for toiling fields
save for a few superior breeds like the Deoraithe. Of all the members of
Heiress' inner circle, Barika was the least valuable in and of herself:
she was not as powerful a mage as Fadila, not a skilled warrior and
leader of men like Ghassan and not an inherently valuable piece like
Chider. She wasn't even particularly clever, though she was by no means
stupid. \emph{She is my most loyal, though, I will give her that.} The
two women watched in silence as Commander Chider dragged the priest of
the temple and slit open his throat with obvious relish, red gushing all
over scarred hands as the undead goblin smiled.

``Whatever the necromancer did to bring her back,'' her childhood friend
finally said, ``it left\ldots{} marks.''

``Savagery can be useful, if properly leashed,'' Akua replied.

And there was no denying she held Chider's leash. The necromancy that
bound the goblin's soul to her corpse and the enchantments that allowed
the charred husk to actually move existed only as long as she allowed
them to. Undeath, while technically granting magical properties to a
corpse, did not allow individuals who'd lacked the talent before their
demise to use sorcery. Chider had been born without he gift and so had
no way to influence the magic that kept her in Creation. In the
distance, Heiress glimpsed the man in command of her Proceran
footsoldiers stalk towards her. Large and fierce, Arzachel of Valencis
had proved himself when her host had taken Dormer by sneaking in under
cover of night and opening the gates. The man moved with the fluidity of
a large cat, and his hand was never far from the hooked falchion at at
his belt. From the moment she'd first met him there had been desire in
his eyes when he looked at her, though Heiress was not inclined to
indulge him. There were more suitable men if she felt like sharing her
bed with anyone.

``The temple is secured, my lady,'' he announced, his Lower Miezan
softly accented. ``There were few with the priest, only old men and
green ones.''

``Good,'' Akua replied. ``Have your soldiers clear the grounds. If
anyone tries to enter\ldots{}''

``I know the drill, Lady Heiress,'' he grinned. ``Corpses all around.''

The Procerans had been a good investment, she decided. Former soldiers
from the warring principalities, they'd been exiled from the Principate
for banditry and hostage-taking -- something she'd found an asset more
than a black mark. They had a talent for finding gold that had come in
useful in southern Callow: she'd already made twice as much as she'd
spent hiring them by pillaging rebel holdings. The Stygian slaves had
proved to be less resourceful, but then she'd not expected initiative of
them when buying their leash. Dismounting gracefully, Akua left behind
the mercenaries and passed the two columns that marked the entrance to
the inner temple. Barika followed cautiously, her unease at the thought
of what lay inside all too visible. The structure was short compared to
the high-ceilinged Houses of Light the provincials were so fond of
building, hidden away between hills so it could not be seen from a
distance. She found the inside to be miserably bare, all naked stone
with only dirty beddings to decorate. The living conditions of dead men
did not interest her, though.

What she'd come for was in the centre of the room, surrounded by
markings of powdered chalk: a large standard plunged into the ground,
pitch black with golden snake swallowing its own tail embroidered into
the cloth. It moved to a breeze that did not exist, even contained like
this. Before Triumphant -- may she never return -- the Empire's armies
had merely been known as the Legions. The terror in the name had been
earned by artefacts like this one, the vanguard of armies that had
subjugated all of Calernia for the first and only time in its history.

``A Hell Egg,'' Barika said, catching up to her. ``Gods, I never thought
I'd see one.''

``There are none in the Wasteland. She let all the demons she'd bound in
Praes loose when the army of heroes assaulted the Tower,'' Heiress
replied. ``There is one another left in Callow, according to my records,
and a handful in Procer.''

What the greatest of the Tyrants had wrought was not easily undone. If
it were the Sky Breaker and his wife would not still be bound at the
summit of Cloudreach Peak, one cursed with endless hunger and the other
with endless healing. It was said that the howls of anguish coming from
them both still troubled the sleep of all who dwelled in the
Titanomanchy, a reminder to the giants that defying Praes was never
without cost.

``You'd think that a hero would have broken the bindings and killed the
thing, after all these years,'' Barika said. ``They're not limited the
way villains are.''

Demons were born of Evil, and so Evil could not destroy them -- or so
went the theory. Only the lapdogs of the Heavens had been gifted the
ability to truly destroy a demon instead of merely jailing them or
sending them back to the Upper Hells.

``I chose this one for a reason, Barika,'' Heiress smiled. ``A demon
alone would be a great and mighty threat, yet Squire might be able to
contain it until reinforcements came. But a demon from the Thirteenth
Hell \emph{and} a battalion of devils? That is another thing entirely.''

Devils grew stronger as they grew older, more cunning and more vicious.
\emph{And these have been bound on Creation for over eight hundred
years.}

``Thirteenth Hell,'' a third voice mused. ``Corruption, isn't it? Well,
that's going to be a fucking mess.''

Akua's sword cleared the scabbard before the first word was finished.
Barika's hands wreathed themselves in roiling shadow, barely contained.
A woman was leaning against the wall in the back, a silvery flask in
hand and a lute hanging off a leather strap going across chest. Taghreb?
No, Ashuran. Heiress had met some of their kind in Mercantis. Not one of
Squire's known associates. Lord Black's? \emph{Wrong direction, this is
Callowan holy ground.} There was one known heroine part of the Lone
Swordsman's crew who was from the Thalassocracy -- the Wandering Bard.
That could be a problem, she thought coldly. All the Bard variations
were more dangerous than their commonly ascribed ineptitude would have
one believe. They were harder to kill than cockroaches, for one, and
their entire Role family instinctively understood things about the way
Creation worked that even archmages could only grasp at. One of the
running theories as to why even villains who should know better let them
talk was that they practiced a softer form of Speaking, one that
influenced instead of commanded.

``Impressive stuff, ladies,'' the hawk-nosed woman praised them, ``but
it won't do you any good.''

``And why,'' Akua asked softly, ``would that be?''

The dark-haired stranger wiggled her eyebrows.

``Because I'm invincible, of course,'' she informed them cheerfully.

The Soninke aristocrat kept her face blank, resisting the urge to cast a
worried glance at the standard. That kind of talk was like sending a
written invitation to the Gods to make the opposite point. And yet,
nothing happened\emph{. If a villain had dared to say that, the roof
would have collapsed on their heads.}

``You're the Bard,'' Barika said suddenly, finally catching up. ``The
one that was in Summerholm with the Lone Swordsman.''

``That's me,'' the heroine agreed. ``Almorava of Symra, at your service.
Well, not really since you're dastardly villains, but you get my
meaning.''

``I commend you on passing Arzachel's picket,'' Heiress said, ignoring
the digression, ``but you seem to have squandered the element of
surprise.''

The woman chuckled and wiped her mouth on her sleeve after taking a long
pull from her flask. Akua sneered at the lack of manners.

``Didn't walk here, sweetling. I try not to think about how that works
too much. But you know us Bards,'' Almorava smiled. ``We Wander into all
sorts of places.''

``And you mean to stop us?'' Barika snorted. ``You overestimate the
strength of your Name, singer.''

``Wow,'' the heroine huffed. ``Rude. What is it with villains and
getting personal? I'm not even here to get in your way. You finally
decided to get plot relevant so I'm having a look, is all.''

``You would stand aside and let us free a demon on Callowan soil?'' Akua
asked sceptically.

``Pretty much,'' Almorava shrugged. ``I mean, it's a shit plan so why
would I stop you? I'm a little surprised, though, I'll admit. Foundling
thinks with her fists and Willy thinks three days after the battle's
over, so by default you're supposed to be the mastermind of this story.
But \emph{clearly} there's no way letting loose a personification of the
concept of corruption could ever backfire, right?''

``What you westerners know of demons could not even fill a thimble,''
Akua replied flatly, then immediately clamped down on her temper.

An insult this puerile should not have been able to get under her skin,
but the casual disrespect she was being offered had her taken aback.
Even Foundling, irreverent guttersnipe that she was, had learned to
watch her mouth around her. The Bard raised a hand in appeasement as she
polished off another part of her flask. Heiress frowned -- how much
alcohol could there possibly be in a receptacle that large? Had the
flask been made bottomless? \emph{That would be absurd. A working that
rare and powerful would cost a fortune, even in Praes.}

``No need to get all offended,'' the heroine said. ``I'm just wondering
what your deal is. Like, what is it you \emph{do}? Being rich and pretty
isn't actually a magical power, sweetheart.''

``It seems your own deal is being a drunken twit,'' Heiress smiled
pleasantly.

``Oooh,'' Almorava purred. ``You're one of \emph{those}. Old school
Praesi villain, with a closetful of self-importance and megalomania. At
least that finally explains why your schemes are so terrible.''

These were more familiar grounds. This was close enough to court
intrigue Akua could glimpse her opponent's intent, and the attempt being
made was feeble.

``This would be the part where I lose my temper and reveal all my plans
to you, I imagine,'' Heiress noted calmly.

The Bard grinned. ``Can't blame a girl for trying. But I was actually
referring to your little operation in the south.''

``You mean our \emph{victories} in the south,'' Barika corrected
sneeringly.

``You know what's not going to be a great victory?'' Almorava said.
``Allowing two thousand slaves to come into contact with a hero. In
private Willy's got all the charm of kettle of fish, I'll grant you, but
out in the field? You don't need to be a Bard to predict how that's
gonna go.''

``Slavery is illegal under Tower law,'' Akua replied. ``They are all
free men.''

The heroine rolled her eyes. ``I'm sure they volunteered to fight a war
on foreign soil because you asked nicely. Well, you girls have fun with
your hilariously ill-advised plan. The battle's about to start, so I'm
needed elsewhere.''

The shadows still wreathing Barika's hands formed into long whips and
she stepped forward.

``I think not,'' the mage said. ``You'll be our guest for a while,
Bard.''

``Nice delivery,'' Almorava praised. ``Way to work that sinister
intonation. But I see you your creepy shadow tentacles and raise
you\ldots{} \emph{the Sands of Deception}!''

Shoving her free hand in a pocket, the heroine took out a handful of
sand and threw it in Barika's face. The mage coughed and lashed out
blindly with the shadows while Heiress carefully stepped out of the way,
unsure what the effect of the artefact would be. When she went to flank
the Bard, though, she found the irritating wretch was gone.
\emph{Outside my line of sight for the blink of an eye, and she
disappears. That is a very, very dangerous ability}. There had to be
limitations: Names were never this generous without taking a toll of
some sort, or adding restrictive clauses to how the power could be used.
Barika allowed the shadows to lapse when she realized they were now
alone in the temple, picking the grains out of her robes.

``This is just regular sand,'' the mage noted, confounded. ``\ldots{}
Wait, is \emph{that} the deception?''

Akua had never more keenly understood the age-old Praesi tradition of
summarily executing one's subordinates. She let out a slow breath and
mastered herself. This entire interlude had been somewhat frustrating,
but ultimately it changed nothing.

``She's right, though, isn't she?'' Barika spoke hesitantly after a
moment. ``Why did you leave the Stygians with Ghassan if you knew they'd
have to fight the Lone Swordsman?''

Heiress walked up to the standard, idly smudging the protective powdered
chalk patterns the priests had been making for centuries with her foot.
That should weaken the pattern enough that the demon would break out
within the next two days -- already she could feel a presence inside the
artefact stirring awake, tasting the damaged holding spells. It would
not do to linger here.

``For the same reason we play shatranj, you and I,'' Akua finally
replied.

Heiress had never enjoyed the game. It was horridly simple, two sides
with equal capabilities taking each other's pieces in a slaughter
without elegance. And yet she was known for playing it, because she had
willed it so. As a youth her mother had introduced to \emph{baduk}, a
game from the kingdom beyond the lands of the Yan Tei, and this one
she'd actually come to enjoy a great deal. Baduk was not about a limited
handful of sequences, it was about positioning. The word meant
``encircling game'', and Akua had not played it once since she'd come
into her Name. \emph{For the same reason you don't know I'm a better
mage than you are, Barika.} So long as everyone else thought they knew
what game she was playing, they predicted her moves accordingly and
thought they understood her designs. Her enemies had yet to grasp the
most salient of all truths: in games as in all things, the only move
that mattered was the last.

She'd been setting up hers from the moment she'd first laid eyes on the
Squire.
