\hypertarget{interlude-giuoco-pianissimio-ii}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Giuoco Pianissimio
II}\label{interlude-giuoco-pianissimio-ii}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-giuoco-pianissimio-ii}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Giuoco Pianissimio II}

\epigraph{``A man could sift through all of Creation and never find so much
as a speck of this elusive thing called the greater good. Like all the
most dangerous altars, it is entirely of our own raising.''}{King Edmund of Callow, the Inkhand}



``It looks like you shoved the stump in a fire,'' Fadila Mbafeno sighed.

That was, in fact, exactly what Hakram had done. Blood loss could kill
even Named, and while pushing a fresh stump into a hearth fire until the
flesh cauterized had been excruciatingly painful it'd still been better
than dying in a ratty Laure tavern. Masego's assistant -- and nominal
head of the Observatory in his absence -- had promptly answered the
summons after he returned to the palace, and begun to work on healing
his wound without quibbling. There were other mages in the capital, of
course, and many priests. But Fadila was Praesi, and that had decided
his choice of healer. The Soninke had been raised to understand the
value of discretion and not inquiring in the affairs of one's social
superiors. The dark-skinned woman leaned closer with a silvery scalpel
in hand, cutting slightly into the burned flesh at the end of his stump.
No pain, he noted, though that might simply be because he'd grown
light-headed enough he no longer felt it. The blade came away red and
the sorceress washed it in a bowl of clear water before wiping with a
cloth.

``I'll need to cut away the burnt flesh before healing the damage
beneath,'' she informed him. ``Healing is not my specialty and burns are
trickier than most wounds. Pouring magic into scorched flesh tends to
have\ldots{} unpredictable results.''

``Do as you see fit,'' Adjutant gravelled. ``I will defer to your
judgement.''

She nodded in appreciation.

``You've lost a large amount of blood,'' Fadila added. ``I'd recommend
poultry, fish and red meat -- which are staples of your people's diets,
regardless. Orcs lack the most the issues involved in human blood
transfusions, so it's certainly possible if you want to accelerate
recovery, but my understanding is that local mores frown upon those
kinds of rituals.''

``It won't be necessary,'' Hakram simply said.

The full consequences of his actions must be played out, lest the
gesture be robbed of some of its weight. She did not question his
answer, as she had not lingered on the subject of reattaching the hand
after he'd declined. The Soninke passed her knife under open flame to
cleanse it, and then set to the methodical business of prying away the
burnt flesh on his stump before healing it. The spell she used for that
purpose, he did not recognize. The sorceress used no incantation, and
the shape and colour of the magic were different than that used by the
Legions of Terror. The pain returned quick enough, a deep ugly throb,
and Hakram only then realized she'd discretely numbed his nerves before
her early examination. Kind of the Lady Mbafeno, he thought. The title
occasionally tossed in the foreigner's direction by servants and court
officials was a source of mild amusement to him, he could privately
admit. It was a Callowan courtesy title, one that would likely have
gotten her killed if she'd claimed it while still in the employ of a
Wasteland patron -- it would have denoted the kind of ambitions Praesi
aristocrats disliked finding in their subordinates.

Fadila Mbafeno had, after all, once been \emph{mfuasa} to the Sahelians.
Servant blood, it meant, a distinction between commoners and those
retainers directly in the service of the nobility. Hakram had studied
her background in some detail, as it happened. After Masego had snatched
her from the gallows and placed her in his service, Catherine had rather
bluntly told the orc that if Fadila was a risk she would be getting into
an `accident' as soon as feasible. The investigation had led to an
interesting look at Praesi customs, particularly pertaining mages.
Sorcery and political power had been intertwined in the Wasteland since
long before the Miezans ever made shore on Calernia, in Praes more than
any other region. The lords high and low had bred sorcery into their
lines with methodical precision, bringing talented mages into the fold
whenever it seemed like the blood thinned, but those were ultimately
limited arrangements. Both Soninke and Taghreb saw more mages born than
any other human ethnicity on the continent, which meant it was
effectively impossible for the nobles to keep the practice of sorcery
entirely within their own ranks.

Adjutant had read the appropriate treatises, back in the College, and so
he was aware that most people born with the Gift either never realized
they had it or died young after an uncontrolled or untrained use of
sorcery. Another significant portion had too little talent to be able to
practice sorcery beyond a few tricks without extensive tutoring, though
when born to wealthy families such types made up the backbone of
alchemists and academics in the Empire. It was the smaller portion that
had a Gift strong enough for ritual or combat sorcery that had the High
Lords and their vassals regularly sifting through their subjects. The
treatment those `lucky' few received varied from region to region.
Taghreb, as a rule, treated them like a sort of lesser nobility and
created mage lines within their territories that could be called on when
there was need for war or marriage. Soninke, as in most things, proved
too complex to easily generalize. The policies of Okoro and Nok tended
towards bringing agreeable mages into the fold as \emph{mfuasa} and
those judged unreliable forced into service with the local noble's
household troops. The stubborn and the runners disappeared.

Aksum was the most traditionally hard-line, with any mages not leashed
or wedded unceremoniously slain before they could become an issue. Akua
Sahelian's own father, famously, had been born with enough talent he
could be a threat even as a servant and no spare relative to wed him to.
He'd had to flee the region with killers after him, finding refuge in
Wolof. The line to which Fadila had once been sworn to, and the last of
the great Soninke cities. Wolof was a centre of sorcery rival to Ater
itself, and had remained so for millennia by investing heavily in
raising and training mages. It was well known to `acquire' mages from
other regions in difficult situations, but Fadila had been born in the
city and so fallen under the aegis of its internal policies. Like all
children with promising magical talent, she'd been taken from her family
while young, the parents being offered a lump sum as redress for the
loss of a child, and trained at the High Lady's expense until she
reached the age of twelve. Young mages who made it that far -- not a
given, the mortality rate was one in three -- were assigned permanent
service to either the Sahelians or one of their vassal families, a
highly politicked process that the ruling family of Wolof used to both
reward and slight their subordinates.

The loyal got rising talents, the troublesome only the dregs.

Fadila herself had been judged of sufficient prowess to enter the
service of the Sahelians themselves, and cultivated as \emph{mfuasa} to
the family. She'd known Diabolist socially but never been in her
personal circle, and been considered a likely fit for a teaching or
research position after she spent a decade or two fighting as a combat
mage for her masters. Her talent as both a ritualist and a theoretician
had been noted in Praesi circles -- she'd made some waves after proving
it was possible to forge a weak artificial sympathetic link in scrying
tools -- and that reputation was likely the reason Diabolist had picked
her as a retainer when she set out to engineer the Doom of Liesse. The
amount of work required in turning an entire city into a runic array
would have been massive, and she was a natural fit for Akua Sahelian to
delegate the lesser tasks to. It was fortunate, Hakram often thought,
that she'd been snatched from Diabolist's service before she could serve
that purpose. How much faster would the Doom of Liesse have come, with
such a helper?

``There,'' Fadila said, placing her silver knife back into the water.
``That is as much as I can do. Should you change your mind about
reattaching the hand, it will be necessary to cut off a sliver of the
stump and a degree of functionality will be lost. In case you were
unaware, limb reattachment attempted more than ten hours after the loss
has at most a one in four chance of success. I can't speak for what Lord
Hierophant would be capable of, naturally, or even Callowan priests.
Their methods are largely beyond my understanding.''

``Duly noted,'' Hakram replied, gaze turning to the stump.

His dead flesh had been carved off, piece by piece, and instead thin
green skin now covered his wrist. Almost thin as a human's, he thought,
though it would thicken in time.

``Be careful with it, it's fragile even by human standards,'' the
sorceress said. ``As it happens, the flesh reached full saturation
during the process. I won't be able to touch it again for at least two
days, and after that only minor touch-ups. It would be ideal if you
could avoid puncturing the skin for a full month.''

``I'll be careful with it,'' Adjutant said, and blinked.

He'd been trying to move fingers that no longer existed, he realized.
That would be an adjustment.

``Thank you, Lady Mbafeno,'' he finally said. ``That will be all.''

``It was my pleasure, Lord Adjutant,'' she respectfully replied.

She gathered her affairs and bowed before leaving. She might not have
seen the Wasteland in years now, but the manners remained with her. The
angle of the bow had been the one court etiquette dictated as required
for a High Lord of Praes. Though he found himself in a thoughtful mood,
Hakram did not linger in the private room he'd requisitioned for the
treatment. This business, after all, was not quite done. His
conversation with Thief had been interrupted by the woman's obvious
horror at his actions, worsened when he addressed the bleeding with
cauterization through the tavern's hearth fire. That was not entirely
unexpected. He'd given it better than half odds they would have to take
recess while the wound was properly seen to, when deciding his course of
action. Hakram usually slept in his office, whenever he could spare time
for slumber, but he did have personal rooms of his own in the palace.
Amusingly enough, they had once been those of the queen consorts of
Callow -- he was not certain whether Catherine was unaware of the fact
or simply indifferent, though an alternative might be that she knew and
it was actually her sardonic sense of humour at work. Regardless, they
were the rooms closest to her own. He'd been rather touched by the
implications of that, though he still used them only rarely.

Thief would not come to him in his office, he knew. It was, in her eyes,
the seat of his power. It was also where he kept his axe, and Vivienne
preferred him unarmed when she could stomach to see him at all. A place
where he could be expected to go but where his presence was lightly felt
would be the most appropriate setting for the last part of their
exchange, and so the orc did not waste time dawdling before heading for
his quarters. He'd felt eyes on him the moment he passed the threshold
of the healing room and twice more while on his way, and so it was no
surprise that Thief awaited him inside when he opened the door. Her
informants must have been tracking him all the way to here. The personal
quarters of the queen consorts of Callow had been luxurious even before
Laure and its royal palace fell under the rule of Wastelanders whose own
nobility was known to be ostentatious to almost absurd extents. The orc
had stripped away most of the decorations, though the furniture itself
had been of very good make and so remained intact. The only luxury he'd
occasionally partaken in was the large balcony outside overlooking a
garden, the closest to a spot of green he'd been able to find in this
city. It was there that Thief was awaiting.

She looked small and thin, sitting on an open windowsill and bathed in
moonlight. Even for a human. Catherine was shorter, but like her teacher
she had enough presence it was barely noticeable when looking at her.
Vivienne Dartwick's hair had grown longer, he noticed once more. Hakram
did not allow his eyes to linger -- his attention would only have
worsened whatever issue lay behind that fact -- but he'd noticed when it
first began. Before the departure for Keter, and for it to have been
noticeable even back then it must have started slightly earlier.
Namelore was a muddle of imprecisions and exceptions, he knew, but where
there was an effect there would be a cause. If, as Catherine insisted,
the appearance of a Named was a reflection of how they saw themselves
then such changes in Thief were a warning sign as to her mental state.
Worrying, considering her influence and formal charge over the only spy
network Callow possessed. Vivienne would not need to rebel to damage the
kingdom, only withhold key information at a crucial moment. Or, more
likely in his eyes, simply \emph{leave}. The hole that would make would
be a crippling blow to a kingdom that'd effectively begun being raised
from the ground up a mere two years ago.

``Adjutant,'' she said, flicking a glance at him. ``At least you had
enough sense to see a mage.''

``I would have survived it,'' he simply said.

Moving slowly, he came at her side. Large as the open window was, there
would be no accommodating the both of them if he wished to sit with her.
Instead he simply rested his elbows on the windowsill, leaning forward.
Though he did not turn to watch, he felt her eyes looking down at the
stump. Good. There had been, he'd realized early, no real chance any
words from his lips could sway her. She distrusted him too much.
Catherine could have a fireside chat with a stranger for half an hour
and have the come out willing to murder in her name, but that had never
been one of his talents. He could ease and turn currents, but not birth
them. It was important for a Named to recognize their limitations, he
believed. The costs of arrogance were so much higher for them than
anyone else. Knowing that, Hakram had been forced to make a decision.
Simply allowing things to unfold as they were was not to be seriously
considered. The longer Thief was allowed to consolidate her power -- and
she already was, by bringing the informants who'd once answered to
Ratface under her banner -- the costlier her defection or betrayal would
become. It might have been possible to draw the matter out until
Catherine returned, if he'd had a precise notion of when she would, but
he did not. That left killing her before she became an issue or finding
a way to stem her doubts.

``The very devise of the Woe,'' Thief murmured, eyes leaving his absent
hand. ``\emph{We will survive}. It smacks more of desperation than
valour.''

``Valour is the game of the winning side,'' Hakram replied. ``If you can
afford to worry about appearances, it's not a war to the death. We've
known precious little else.''

``There comes a time when those excuses grow thin, Adjutant,'' she said.
``I was taught as a child that dark circumstances are a test of
character. That the righteous rise above, that the wicked \emph{sink}.''

``I was taught as a child that killing a man for a goat was glorious
affair, if done on an open field,'' he said. ``We are more than our
first lessons. We have to, or we'll only ever be what our ancestors were
before us.''

``There is worth in old lessons,'' Thief said. ``In old wisdom.''

``If they were so wise,'' Hakram mildly said, ``why did we inherit such
a debacle of a world from them?''

She went still.

``Those ways kept Callow free for millennia,'' she said.

``They failed, in the end,'' the orc said, not unkindly.

``To the Carrion Lord,'' Thief replied. ``How often does Praes spawn a
man like that? Calamity was the right name for his band. The kind of
catastrophe born once a few centuries.''

``Even before him, this kingdom was the battlefield of the continent,''
Hakram said. ``Praes invaded every other decade, Procer whenever the
stars were right. How often has this land truly known peace?''

``We have brought many things to Callow, Hakram Deadhand,'' the Thief
soberly said. ``\emph{Peace} was not one of them.''

``I am told,'' he said, ``that births are rarely gentle affairs.''

``And what are we birthing?'' she said. ``There has been more martial
law than actual law, over the last two years. We've assassinated and
hanged, sacrificed thousands to make deals and still we tremble in the
Tower's shadow. At what point, Adjutant, does a justification become an
excuse?''

``We have also fed the starving,'' Hakram said. ``Sheltered the lost.
We've built a kingdom and reclaimed its border. The good may not erase
the bad, but the bad does not erase the good.''

``And yet I wonder,'' Thief said. ``Could others have done what we did,
without the costs? Without compromising who they were?''

``If there were such people out there, they have not come,'' Hakram
said. ``You compare yourself to ghosts of your own making.''

``We're not the best, but we're what there is,'' she bitterly said.
``I've said that myself. To others, and while facing the mirror. That
too grows thin with the repeating. Gods, if those people had come I have
to ask -- would we have killed them? \emph{Did we}, before they ever
came into themselves?''

``If they could not face us-''

``They couldn't face Malicia,'' Thief sharply said. ``Or Cordelia
Hasenbach, or her heroes, or the Carrion Lord. I know, Gods damn you. I
know. And I know, too, that I might as well be shouting into the void
when I say this but it needs to be said anyway: we are not the lesser
evil. Not anymore, when we seek to make pacts with the fucking Dead King
and move armies like pieces on a board for diplomatic gains. The only
difference between us and the old evils is that we're newer at this game
and nowhere as good. That isn't a distinction to be proud of.''

And there was the rub, for Hakram had known this kind of talk before and
never put much stock in it. He'd spoken with Juniper, once, and I her
own blunt way she'd laid bare the heart of it. Callowans looked at
knights and saw chivalry, honour and all those other virtues. Orcs
looked at knights and saw killers on horses. Vivienne had championed
causes, one after the other, that had been put aside in the name of
necessity. Yet they were not unworthy, none of them. She felt discarded
and ignored because, frankly, she had been. Her only victories had come
by the planning of others, used as a cog in a greater machinery. Hakram
rather enjoyed such a role. It was what he'd been taught, what he was
good at. But he stood certain of his worth outside that boundary, and
Vivienne Dartwick did not.

They had to start listening to her.

Not because they would lose her if they did not, but because she was
right -- or at least not entirely wrong. They'd all flocked to
Catherine's banner because they liked the world she wanted to make, that
she made just by being who she was. And Thief, in her own way, was
perhaps the most ardent partisan of that. Because she would stick by
that vision even when Catherine did not, even if it made her the only
objector in a council. An obstacle instead of a speaker, as she'd put it
herself. How many of those councils had been true debates, instead of a
confirmation of a decision already made? \emph{Too few}, Adjutant
thought. \emph{Too few for what we want to be.} He could feel her eyes
returned to his stump, and knew the bargain had been worth it. The
lessons had been learned well\emph{. Are we not all your students,
Catherine? In our own winding ways. You taught us that there is always a
way through, if we're willing to bleed.} Words would not convince Thief,
but now every time doubt came she could look at the stump and know, know
beyond doubt, that she had been judged worthy.

More useful a thing than a handful of fingers.

``So tell me,'' Adjutant said. ``How we can be different.''

Her gaze met his, hesitant. Fearing. Assessing. Hope was always a most
tempting cup to drink from, even when you knew the chalice might be
poisoned.

Vivienne Dartwick spoke, under pale moonlight, and Hakram Deadhand
listened.
