\hypertarget{heroic-interlude-riposte}{%
\section{Heroic Interlude: Riposte}\label{heroic-interlude-riposte}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Thirty-one: use a sword fit for your height and built, not the
largest chunk of metal you can find. It will both improve your life
expectancy and save you a great many jokes about overcompensation.''}

-``Two Hundred Heroic Axioms'', unknown author
\end{quote}

``It's not as bad as it looks,'' Klaus spoke as he contemplated the map.

Regardless of her uncle's assurances, Cordelia was not enthused by the
way the Liesse Rebellion was currently proceeding. The insurrectionists
had avoided any majors defeat so far and managed to strike a few blows
at the Legions, but it could not be said they were \emph{winning}. Vale
was in rebel hands and the Countess Marchford had been gathering troops
from all over the south of Callow beneath the walls, but her own
informants in Liesse's staff had sent word that she was likely to
evacuate the city rather than give battle to the Sixth and Ninth
Legions.

``Why would she retreat?'' Cordelia asked. ``She has nigh twenty
thousand soldiers now, including a core of dwarven infantry. The Empire
has only sent two legions to subdue her: eight thousand soldiers, at
most.''

The Prince of Hannoven thanked the servant handing him a bowl of soup
and slipped him a few coins. Cordelia refrained from rolling her eyes,
as it would have been a breach of decorum. Servants were usually paid
less in the central part of Procer than they were in the Lycaonese
principalities, true, but they were hardly beggars. Her uncle's habit of
slipping silver to the hired help was as much a dig at the local
nobility as it was genuine charity. The grey-haired man broke off a
chunk of bread and dipped it into that foul onion broth he was
inexplicably fond of, scattering a few crumbs over his previously
pristine doublet.

``She's in a tricky position,'' Klaus finally replied. ``Most of her men
are peasant levies and those are likely to scatter if they get bloodied
bad enough. There's the Black Knight to take into consideration, too.
Half their boys will shit their breeches and run the moment he
charges.''

The First Prince did not wrinkle her nose in distaste, though she dearly
wished that etiquette would allow her to properly express her disgust at
the crudity just displayed. Uncle Klaus might have been a prince, but
whenever speaking of war he reverted to a soldier's vocabulary. Instead
she discreetly gestured for the servant to take away his soup when he
wasn't looking. There were many ways to get her feelings across without
needing to dip into impropriety.

``Then she could hide behind the walls of Vale,'' Cordelia pointed out.
``She has seen to it that the surrounding lands were burned, denying the
Empire opportunity to forage. If the levies have nowhere to run they
will be forced to fight.''

The prince of Hannoven snorted, then frowned when he realized his meal
had disappeared. He shot her an irritated look but she simply arched her
eyebrow until he gave in with ill-grace. She had trained him well.

``You don't ever want to get into a siege with the Praesi,'' Klaus told
her seriously.

``They have managed to take Summerholm only twice in over a millennium
of trying,'' the First Prince noted. ``How good at it can they really
be?''

``We're not dealing with the Legions of a millennium ago,'' Klaus
reminded her. ``Or even fifty years ago. Praes is the only nation on
Calernia that has a permanent corps dedicated to siege warfare,
Cordelia. We use imported dwarven designs like everybody else but they
make their own, and they'll only have gotten sharper since the Conquest.
If they're given time to make their machines, it'll turn into a
massacre.''

Ah. There was a cultural divide at play here, she grasped. Procerans
rarely took cities when they waged war on each other: princes disliked
the idea of having sweaty, dirty soldiers ransacking their famously rich
family seats. Wars between principalities were decided on the field, as
peasant conscripts could be expected to breed themselves back to their
former numbers in a decade or so. Lost battles were followed by trade
and territorial concessions, impermanent setbacks in the Ebb and Flow.
Praesi, it seemed, played for keeps: whatever they took they intended to
remain theirs as long as they could defend it.

``I do not understand how retreating will change the situation for the
Countess,'' the First Prince admitted.

``She'll burn the ground as she moves further south,'' Klaus predicted.
``When the Legions pursue they'll be exhausted and half-starved by the
time they get to the battlefield.''

``They \emph{do} have a supply train, Uncle,'' Cordelia reminded him.
``They can keep themselves fed.''

``That's the whole point of having the Silver Spears based in
Marchford,'' the prince of Hannoven explained, tapping said city on the
map with a wrinkled finger. ``The moment the Sixth and the Ninth move
south, he'll hit the supply trains and harass their rear.''

``That strikes me as a particularly dangerous enterprise,'' the
fair-haired woman commented.

Unfortunate, that. It would be for the best if the Exiled Prince
survived the rebellion. The hero was the nephew of the current Tyrant of
Helike, and by right the lawful ruler of the city-state. If he managed
to become famous enough it might be possible to leverage that acclaim
into putting him on the throne -- which would neatly solve one of her
two most immediate foreign policy problems. A friendly king in Helike
would secure the lower western flank of the Principate and take the
pressure off of one of her steadiest allies in the Assembly.

``He's not a green boy,'' the older man replied, rubbing the grey
stubble covering his jaw. ``He's fought in border skirmishes against
Stygia and he's been on a few heroic adventures since his exile. I'm not
worried about him pulling off his part of the plan.''

``This newly-raised Fifteenth will be moving to meet him on the field,''
Cordelia said.

``A sloppy half-legion led by a Squire with no notable accomplishments
to her Name,'' Klaus snorted. ``They'll slow the Prince down some, which
I assume is what the Black Knight wanted, but there's no real threat
there.''

``She drove back the Swordsman when he assaulted Summerholm,'' the First
Prince pointed out.

Her uncle scoffed. ``The Warlock did that. She was just on the scene
when it happened. Besides, it's a good thing the Swordsman was slapped
around a bit. Now he'll stop hunting Calamities and go after opponents
he can actually kill. The Baroness Dormer has the troops to drive this
Heiress character out of her demesne, but she's been reluctant to engage
without a Named on her side.''

The contempt in the grizzled veteran's voice was thick. Unlike most
other Calernian states, Proceran rulers did not develop a Name when they
acceded to the throne -- as a result, the armies of the Principate were
rarely led by men and women bearing the mandate of Heaven. The score of
military victories they'd accumulated nonetheless had left the Proceran
military with a distaste for those who expected heroes to win their wars
for them. \emph{Easy for us to say}, the fair-haired woman thought,
\emph{when we so rarely find villains leading hosts into our land.} She
still had a few other questions, mainly regarding why the Empire had yet
to peel off Legions from the Red Flower Vales to reinforce their
offensive, but they were interrupted by a maid who hurriedly curtsied.

``Your Highnesses,'' the woman spoke. ``My deepest apologies for
interrupting, but the Lady Augur request your presence.''

Cordelia did not allow her surprise to show. It was rare for Agnes to
send for her: ever since she'd come into her Role she'd become an even
more solitary creature than usual. \emph{A prediction, then,} she
decided. She glanced at Klaus and he grimaced before rising to his feet,
wincing at the cracking sounds his back made. A lifetime of wearing
armour had not done wonders for his body, and he was no longer a young
man. The First Prince dismissed the maid wordlessly and strode towards
the garden her cousin haunted during daytime, her uncle following
closely. Midday had barely passed and it was pleasant spring afternoon
out, especially here among the hedges and flowers carefully cultivated
by Proceran royalty over centuries.

Agnes was sitting alone on a wrought iron chair, her simple blue dress
showing more of her legs than was strictly acceptable in polite society.
Had she still been a mere branch member of the Hasenbach family Cordelia
would have chided her for it, but Named got to live by their own
standards. If she wanted to go around naked and covered in blood, there
was not a man or woman in Procer who would dare to even comment on it.
Agnes' skin was impossibly pale for the amount of time she spent outside
and her Hasenbach-blond hair was cut in a short bob that had not grown
an inch since she'd become the Augur. It was tame, considering the kind
of appearance changes Names sometimes led to, but it still made the
First Prince uncomfortable to look at it. It was the touch of the divine
at work, no matter how mundane the detail.

``Cordelia, Uncle,'' the Augur spoke without turning.

She was looking at the sky, unconcerned by the glare of the sun.

``Agnes,'' the First Prince replied. ``You sent your maid?''

There was a long pause. ``A flock of turtledoves flew east this morning,
as the bells rung,'' the Augur mentioned.

Cordelia did not sigh, though not for lack of desire.

``You will have to explain this to me,'' she reminded her cousin, who
blinked in surprise.

``Ah, yes. I forget, sometimes,'' she explained. ``One of your
diplomatic couriers was intercepted.''

``I thought you could warn us before that happened,'' Klaus broke in,
frowning.

``It wasn't planned,'' Agnes replied sleepily. ``Just an opportunity
taken.''

``Is the Stairway still secure?'' Cordelia asked urgently.

Her cousin nodded absent-mindedly. ``They don't know about that. I don't
see them finding out before it's used.''

The fair-haired ruler allowed her shoulders to loosen. Good. If the
Dread Empress had found out, the results would have been\ldots{}
disastrous, to say the least.

``There's more,'' Agnes spoke, finally turning to look at them.

For once she looked like her attention was entirely on the there and
then, eyes sharp with worry.

``There are elves in Callow. Two of them,'' she continued.

Cordelia closed her eyes and, for the first time in a year, allowed
herself to swear. \emph{Burning Heavens}. No, it would not do to jump to
conclusions. There were precedents for elves leaving their forest
temporarily, though admittedly very few. This did not have to be the
prelude to military action. Gods, she hoped it was not. The only place
the Forever King could turn his eyes to was south, and that was straight
into Daoine. \emph{And the moment an elf sets foot in the duchy, they
will go on war footing.} The Deoraithe hated the elves like poison, over
some ancient grudge about being the original inhabitants of the Golden
Bloom. \emph{And if Duchess Kegan is focusing on the elves, she will
refuse to get involved in the rebellion.}

``Do you know why they left the forest?'' she asked, more calmly than
she felt.

``It's unclear,'' Agnes admitted, her earlier focus already disappeared
as she looked away. ``They're looking for something. Or fetching
something. It will come to a head in Liesse, it's where all the knots
are. Elves are\ldots{} strange. It's like trying to map the stars from a
lake's reflection.''

Two elves, headed for Liesse. The damage even two of those could
do\ldots{} No elf over a thousand years old would ever deign to set foot
outside the Golden Bloom but that meant nothing: a dozen elven foot
soldiers could wipe out a company of soldiers without losing a single
man, if they felt the inclination. A single Emerald Sword could do the
same without even paying attention. The elves were Good, in the broadest
sense of the term, but that didn't change the fact that they saw
everyone but heroes and other elves as insolent vermin. That everyone
coming within half a mile of the Golden Bloom died without warning had
made that feeling very clear. Cordelia forced her mind to stay on track
as her cousin drifted away into her own world.

``We no longer have time to dawdle, Uncle,'' she finally said.
``Assemble a host. The Dominion needs to be brought to heel by winter.''

``By your will, First Prince,'' the prince of Hannoven bowed.

---

It was not a coincidence they'd run into the Silver Spears on their
flight south.

Fate was a word William knew better than to throw around lightly, but to
be Named was to be bound to the concept. \emph{Power calls to power.}
Finding the Helikean mercenaries camped by the village they needed to
resupply at must have been necessary, for some reason the Swordsman did
not yet grasp. There was always a reason. He needed to believe as much
now more than ever. The Conjurer was dead. The Hunter was a prisoner, if
not a corpse, and Breagach likely strapped to a table in some dungeon
until she could be dissected. The Thief had disappeared without a word
one night, and the betrayal left a foul taste in his mouth. Almorava
said she'd be back before too long but William has his doubts\emph{. And
can I really blame her? I led them straight into a slaughterhouse.} The
room they'd claimed at the only inn of the village was too small for all
four of the present heroes to be truly comfortable, though none of the
Helikean ones had yet to complain. Neither would the Bard, if the amount
of bottles she'd gone through since claiming a chair was any indication.

The Lone Swordsman knew he was a handsome man -- he'd attracted plenty
of attention even before becoming a hero -- but compared to the Exiled
Prince he might as well have been a goblin. The man was tall and looked
like he'd been carved out of single piece of marble, all perfect skin
and long flowing curls that looked more golden than blonde. He must have
been exceptionally vain before claiming his Name, to look this
supernaturally flawless. His follower, the Page, looked more like an
actual person. Short haired and slim, she was androgynous looking-enough
that he had not been sure she was a woman before he heard her voice. She
was also quite obviously in love with the Prince, to the extent that it
was almost embarrassing to watch.

``We had her cornered, until she dropper her hammer,'' the Exiled Prince
said, recounting his raid on the Ninth and the way it had turned sour
upon the Captain's appearance. There was a touch of disbelief to his
voice, like he still couldn't quite believe what had happened. ``Then
she turned into this\ldots{} creature.''

``We already knew she's a werewolf,'' William reminded him. ``I briefed
you personally on what we know of the Calamities.''

``I've seen werewolves before, Swordsman,'' the Prince replied through
gritted teeth. ``I've \emph{killed} werewolves before. That abomination
was something else entirely. She was tall as an ogre and she moved so
fast I could barely see her. My men might as well have been lambs, for
all the difference it made.''

Page squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, but the Prince barely noticed.
William resisted the urge to cringe. How could he not have cottoned on
to the fact that his closest supporter had feelings for him? Or was he
merely pretending not to? Heroes did tend to attract a lot of attention
from the opposite sex, and even the same. The Swordsman had always
preferred to air out the fact that he had no intention of getting
romantically involved with anyone whenever he was in similar situations,
but he wasn't unfamiliar with the concept of ignoring an uncomfortable
truth to avoid breaking someone's heart. \emph{Or he could just be an
imbecile}, William thought uncharitably.

``She bit the head off of my second-in-command before we could do
anything,'' the Exiled Prince continued. ``The Order of the Righteous
Spear drove her back but we had to retreat anyway. She bought just
enough time for the Sixth to get their ranks in order.''

There was no need to belabour the explanation any further. It was one
thing to hit Praesi legionaries in the flank with the element of
surprise on your side, quite another to lead a charge into the Ironsides
when they were expecting you. The flower of Callow's chivalry had been
taught that lesson on the Fields and never recovered from the near-total
losses it cost them to learn. For all his theatrics, the Free Cities
hero was a talented commander. He wouldn't throw his men at the enemy
recklessly, not when his Silver Spears represented a solid half of the
total cavalry the rebellion had at its disposal.

``It was still the largest victory we've managed against the Empire so
far,'' William replied. ``And you can believe they've taken note of it.
They're sending the Fifteenth after you, last I heard.''

The man laughed, his long golden curls shaking as he did. The Swordsman
was morbidly curious about how the other hero was able to keep them
looking this pristine in the middle of a campaign, but decided not to
ask. Name perk, most likely.

``A rookie villain and her understrength crew of miscreants?'' the
Prince mocked. ``The Empire thinks too much of themselves.''

And now that wasn't something he could just let go. You couldn't
underestimate the Squire, that was the kind of stupidity she \emph{fed}
on.

``Wipe that smile off your face,'' William replied flatly. ``If you take
Squire lightly for even a single fucking moment, she will flay your hide
and make a standard out of it.''

The Prince looked dubious. ``I understand that she is your nemesis and
that in some ways she must be your match, but she's never led an army
into battle before. As far as I know, you're the only hero she's ever
fought. She is ill-equipped to deal with the likes of the Silver
Spears.''

``The first time I met Catherine Foundling,'' the Callowan spoke
quietly, ``she arranged the death of her four rivals in the span of a
single night and then threw me into a river after I literally split open
her torso. \emph{She doesn't go down}, Prince. Corner most villains and
after a brutal fight it's done, but short of decapitating her you're not
going to make her stop. She's not that powerful, but in a way that makes
it worse: she knows that, so she became tricky and ruthless instead. Not
to mention I'm fairly sure her second-in-command is coming into a Name,
because he scrapped with Thief and walked away without any major
wounds.''

``I'm confident Page will be able to handle the orc,'' the Prince
replied drily, failing to notice the adoring smile the woman in question
sent his way at the endorsement.

He really had to be doing that on purpose, William thought. He couldn't
\emph{possibly} be that dense, could he?

``Single combat.''

Everybody turned to look at the Wandering Bard, who'd somehow managed to
shake herself out of her drunken stupor.

``Welcome back,'' the Swordsman greeted her. ``Are you finally done
drinking? That'd be a first.''

``That's her weakness,'' the heroine elaborated, ignoring him after an
amused look. ``Squire is a transitional Name, it can't match the kind of
raw power a fully realized hero can throw around. Get her in a
one-on-one fight and you should be able to kill her.''

``I'll keep that in mind,'' the Prince replied thoughtfully.

``The orc shouldn't be much of a problem,'' William grunted. ``You can
only expect so much out of a monster.''

The two Helikeans traded uncomfortable looks. On most days the Swordsman
would have let it go, but today? No, he was done playing nice. Not with
that foreigner and his cushy little life, who'd gone from heir to a
throne to one of the wealthiest exiles on the continent.

``You think I'm prejudiced,'' the green-eyed man stated.

``I find your comments distasteful,'' the Exile Prince replied flatly.
``And unworthy of a hero.''

``And I think now's a good time for everyone to retire,'' the Bard broke
in, but they were far past that.

``You know what I find distasteful?'' William asked with a pleasant
smile. ``When a rich brat from the Free Cities comes and tells me
greenskins aren't fucking monsters.''

The Lone Swordsman leaned forward.

``You've had an easy living down south,'' he said. ``All you Free Cities
folk, fighting your little land wars against each other. But this is
Callow, princeling. Our enemies don't make treaties when they win, they
don't use trade embargos or petty intrigues. You know what orcs do when
they come here? \emph{They rape, murder and pillage}. They even eat our
dead, like we're godsdamned cattle.''

``Legion regulations forbid both rape and pillage,'' the Page
interrupted hotly. ``And who do you think you are, you Callowan hick?
Just a half-rate hero from a backwater-``

``I'm what's left of this Kingdom after the rest of Calernia abandoned
us to the Empire,'' he snarled. ``Two \emph{thousand} years, the
greenskins have been setting this land on fire at every occasion, and
you think you get to lecture me about what they are? Orcs don't make
cities. They don't trade or farm. All they do is \emph{kill,} and teach
their whelps the same. They contribute as much to Creation as the
godsdamned plague. You think they changed as a species because of rules
not even fifty years old? You can put a leash on a wolf and it's still a
vicious predator. You see that's what they are, when it comes down to
it: wolves on two legs, just itching to sink their teeth into
something.''

William laughed.

``So go on, tell me it's disgraceful the way I talk about them,'' he
said. ``Let's see how long you keep saying that, when they start eating
your friends.''

The Lone Swordsman rose to his feet, pushing away the table.

``We're done here,'' he spoke. ``Good luck with the Fifteenth, and don't
say I didn't warn you.''

---

The rage had left him by the time he ended up on the roof, leaving him
feeling cold and alone. It wouldn't be the first time, and it wouldn't
be the last: both his temperament and the nature of his Name tended to
put him in the position. He stayed there until night fell, drifting in
and out of sleep. There'd been little enough time for that evading the
Empire's patrols. Eventually he heard someone scrabbling across the
tiled roof: the Wandering Bard, he knew without looking. She plopped
herself down next to him. For a long time, they remained silent.

``Did you notice?'' he asked suddenly. ``The villagers are avoiding us.
Not just the Silver Spears -- which I'd understand since they're foreign
mercenaries -- but us too. At first I thought they were afraid of Praesi
retaliation when we leave, but there's more to it than that. They were
glaring at us, Almorava. Like we're an occupying army.''

``Not all of them,'' the Bard said. ``Some were even trying to enrol in
the Spears.''

``The older men and women,'' William replied quietly. ``The ones who
actually lived under the Kingdom -- they were the angriest. It's\ldots{}
not what I expected.''

``Thought it would be the other way around, did you?'' Almorava guessed.

``I know taxes are lower under the Empire,'' he admitted. ``And the
Legions have clamped down on bandits. Imperial Governors are better
organized than the nobles used to be, when they're not corrupt.''

``So they can squeeze as much gold out of their term as they can,'' the
Bard noted. ``Not out of a taste for good governance.''

``Does that really matter to most people?'' William asked tiredly. ``As
long as it's easier to feed their children, what do they care if the
Praesi line their pockets?''

The Bard pulled from her flask, dangling her legs off the edge. She
liked to do that, he'd noticed. He'd never seen the attraction himself:
he'd become wary of heights since Squire had thrown him off Summerholm's
ramparts.

``Just because they're stronger or better organized doesn't mean they're
right, William,'' she said.

``Doesn't it?'' he wondered. ``You know, when I first met Squire, she
said something to me. \emph{Nobody here's any more free than when you
started.}''

He leaned back against the stone.

``She's not wrong. If we lose, what have I accomplished except filling a
few graveyards?''

``First,'' Almorava spoke, ``I'd argue that those deaths were all
well-deserved. They're an occupying force, Willy. They don't get to
annex another country and then whine when it fights back, even if it's
twenty years later. Second, you're looking at this wrong.''

He half-turned to look at her, but unsurprisingly she was drinking
again. She held up a finger to tell him to wait while she finished off
the rest of her flask.

``Gods, that stuff is horrible,'' she muttered, wiping her lips. ``I
can't believe even the Lycaonese would enjoy it. But, as I was saying,
you're thinking about this the wrong way. Sure, by starting the
rebellion you endangered a lot of people's lives. Sure, for most of
Callow living conditions under the Empire are better than they were
under the Kingdom.''

``If you're attempting to disagree with me,'' the Swordsman frowned,
``I'm sorry to say you're not doing very well.''

``Here's the rub, darling,'' she replied, putting a finger on his lips
and drunkenly shushing him. ``The way things are right now? That's not
Praes. That's Empress Malicia and her Black Knight.''

``I don't follow,'' he admitted. ``Those two are Praes, in every way
that matters.''

``They're Praes \emph{right now},'' the Bard corrected him. ``So what
happens when one of them croaks it, or both? They've been in charge of
the Empire for forty-odd years. That's long, by Imperial standards.
Sooner or later one of them is going to make a mistake, then the
opposition will pounce -- that's how Evil works.''

``You don't think their policies will survive them,'' William realized.

That was\ldots{} well, pretty likely actually. The sort of calculated,
patient Evil he was fighting against was the exception and not the norm.
And while villainous Roles essentially allowed their Named to live
forever, in practice villainous rulers usually lasted shorter than
heroic ones -- whose lifespan was about the same as that of a human
untouched by the divine.

``You're not at war with Malicia, William,'' Almorava reminded him.
``You're at war with the Dread Empire. Eventually some madman is going
to end up climbing the Tower, and the same people glaring at you now are
the ones who'd be yelling the loudest for someone to save them.''

He looked up to the sky. Full moon tonight, the Eye of Heaven out in all
its splendour. How long had it been, since he'd last sat down and looked
at the land he was trying to save?

``It seems unfair,'' he finally admitted. ``That the people I'm trying
to free are complaining about it not being easy. Then again, who am I to
complain?''

He closed his eyes.

``You know what it means, right?'' he asked. ``That I'm sworn to the
Choir of Contrition?''

The Bard's voice was quiet, almost gentle.

``That you did something unforgivable. Something you could spend your
whole life atoning for and still fall short.''

He laughed bitterly. ``A poetic way to put a very ugly story. I used to
live in one of the villages part of the Liesse governorship, you see. My
parents were cobblers. My mother's father was a knight under King Robert
so I got the sword, but to be honest we weren't all that different from
anyone else. I only started practicing with it to impress girls, though
I kept it up when I saw I had some talent. It wasn't a wealthy life, but
we were better off than most -- I was going to inherit the trade, since
my sister didn't care for it.''

It was good that she didn't interrupt, ask anything. He wasn't sure he
would have been able to continue if she had.

``She was engaged to man from Liesse, the third son of some minor noble.
Never liked him. He lorded his education over other people, used words
he knew they wouldn't know. Mary was clever though, liked books, so she
got it.''

William let out a shaky breath. He had, in a way, never felt so naked in
his life. There was not another living soul who knew that story, and he
still wasn't sure why tonight he'd finally felt the need to unburden
himself. Because she was a Bard, maybe. Because before the year was done
he might be dead and someone, \emph{anyone} should know the truth of it.

``He was the wrong kind of clever,'' William whispered. ``Joined a
resistance group, talked at dinner about how the people would rise one
day and throw out the Legions. Was all talk at first, but one day they
decided to kill one of the governor's men. Collaborators should all die,
they said. Idiots.''

He smiled mirthlessly.

``Must have been at least five spies in their group. I'm pretty sure the
Eyes started it in the first place. Eventually he told my sister what
they planned and she jumped right in. Walls were thin. I overheard.''

He paused, then stopped. Just thinking about what followed made him want
to puke. He felt something cold against his arm and opened his eyes in
surprise. A bottle of Liesse apple brandy, the stuff they made out of
hard cider. He snorted and took a swallow of the suspiciously
already-open bottle. Steadied his hands, which he hadn't noticed were
trembling.

``Confronted her the night before,'' he confessed. ``Told her it was
mad. Wouldn't change anything, and didn't she know what the Praesi did
to rebels? The whole family hangs, if it's treason. But Mary? She was on
a crusade. She was going to free Callow. The man was just a beginning, a
first step. She wasn't going to get caught and she wasn't going to
stop.''

He took a long, deep pull from the bottle. Gods, it would be so much
easier doing this drunk. It would dull the feeling of it.

``I'd like to say I was thinking of my parents when I did it, but I
wasn't,'' William whispered. ``I was thinking of the tanner's daughter I
had a thing for, and how we might get married when I got the shop. I was
thinking about how selfish my sister was, throwing me away for people we
didn't even know. For a \emph{principle}, just a make-believe wish.''

Another swallow but his mouth was dry.

``I stabbed her with a table knife, right in the neck. She was dead in
moments. Now here's the part where it really becomes unforgivable. My
parents weren't home, still at the shop I assumed. I thought maybe
nobody would know. But I couldn't just leave her there, or get out the
door with a corpse. People would notice.''

He laughed, because what else was there to do? Gods, every day he put on
white it felt like a lie. It should be red, red like the blood he still
saw on his hands whenever he prayed and the Hashmallim listened. They
wouldn't let him forget, let that night become a memory instead of a
lash. They were right to.

``Broke the knife against her collarbone, so I fetched a butcher's piece
from the kitchen. Half a bell I must have spent chopping up my sister in
little pieces. I was about to start putting the meat in bags when the
legionaries showed up.''

The laughter froze in his throat. Would that he could choke on it, but
he'd left merciful ends like that behind him long ago.

``The idiots got caught. They'd already arrested my parents and all the
other families. But me? They put me in a separate cell. Then the morning
after some Soninke came to me. Dragged me up, clapped my shoulder. Said
I wouldn't hang, he just wouldn't hear of it. I'd done my duty to the
Empire, I was an example to all Callowans. Told me there'd be no trouble
inheriting the shop and sent me on my way.''

William let out a long, shaky breath then drowned it in some more
brandy.

``This is why I can do what I do, Bard. You think I didn't see the look
of disgust on your faces when I carved up those officers? It's fine, you
\emph{should} be disgusted. It was a foul, horrible thing I did. And
I'll do it again, and again, and again until Callow is free.''

He smiled, and this time it was almost genuine.

``I went a little mad, afterwards. Went into the wilds, almost starved.
But then I saw an angel, and it said it would never forgive me.''

He glanced at Almorava and she looked like she wanted to weep but had
forgotten how. He handed her back the bottle.

``Contrition is not forgiveness, Bard. Can never be forgiveness. It's
not in their nature. They already told me where I'm going after I die,
and it's not the nice place. So I'll get my hands dirty for the rest of
you, because that's what I'm meant for now.''

He let out a tired sigh.

``Besides, they made me a promise,'' he murmured. ``Before I go Below,
I'll get to see Mary one last time. Apologize. Doesn't matter if she
accepts or not, you know. She deserves to hear me beg, for what I did.
Won't even it out, but what else can I do?''

He heard her finish the bottle, then drop it down. A long moment of
silence, then the sound of glass breaking. He almost laughed -- the
brandy was starting to take effect.

``Oh, you poor Contrition fools,'' the Bard murmured. ``You break my
heart every time.''
