\hypertarget{interlude-rope}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Rope}\label{interlude-rope}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-rope}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Rope}

\epigraph{``First, gifted:

Iron to bind

And rope to kill.''

-First of the three so}{called `Mavian Entreaties', found on raised
stones across much of eastern and Procer}



The anger had come, white-hot and blinding, but it did not last for
Cordelia had learned calm at her mother's knee. Mother might have never
held an audience or passed judgement without swallowing a sigh of
impatience at been the bare bones ceremony of a Lycaonese court, but
then she'd never been a creature of halls and laws. The Rhenian blonde
still remembered being taken on her first hunt out in the mountains, her
ever-restless mother still as a statue for half a night as they waited
for the stray ratling to come into arrow's reach. \emph{Patience,
sparrow}, Mother had whispered\emph{. Patience and quiet and take your
kill only when the time is ripe.} The arrow had taken the ratling in the
flank instead of the neck and even at seven Cordelia had been ashamed at
the mistake, but the lesson of the night had lasted longer than the
chagrin. It had been years since the First Prince had held a blade
larger than a knife, much less strung and fired one of the sturdy
shortbows her people kept for children and the weak, but unlike Margaret
Hasenbach -- once Papenheim -- she'd not been born for the song of steel
and strife. These halls, these laws, were the blades she knew how to
wield.

And it seemed someone had begun quite the ambitious game, just under her
nose.

The thought lingered and spread after she sent out her messengers,
summoning to the ancient palace of the Merovins every trustworthy sword
and spear she had in Salia. After that release of anger, the venting of
frustration, her temper cooled and she began considering the details of
this apparent folly. The Holies had called into session the Highest
Assembly, which while truly a power they held if only obliquely -- the
House of Light had the right to present petitions directly to the
Assembly on any day of the year, even on days where no session had been
called, which meant the act presenting such a petition could turn into
functional summons to one -- had been used only sparingly since the
Liturgical Wars. They had also ordered the arrest of Brother Simon by
their own guards, along with consignment to one of the House's basilicas
in the capital. The summons themselves were not an overreach on the
surface, though likely in practice, yet the arrest of one of Cordelia's
own spymasters and formal court official was a direct challenge to the
office of First Prince. One done in wartime, when she held an absolute
majority in the Assembly that could not easily be shaken.

Using Simon of Gorgeault's arrest and detainment as a pretext to
discipline the Holies would not be a popular measure, not when darkness
loomed to the north and faith in Above was the last comfort for so many,
but neither would it be the stuff riots were made of. Not when Cordelia
had paid lips to whisper her preferred telling of the tale in every
great tavern and brothel of Salia, which the priests knew well she had.
They had, in the past, complained of her savaging of the reputation of
Amadis Milenan and his allies through such means by the intermediary of
the now-arrested Brother Simon. They would know that so long as
sanctions were fair and artfully phrased, she would be able to lay them
without much trouble. And that after such lasting conflict she would
settle for nothing less than a crippling: confiscation of wealth, grain
and lands. Every priest not serving provable purpose in their current
position sent to the norther fronts to provide healing and moral
succour. Cordelia had been pressing for these measures or milder manners
of them for some time now and been denied again and again. There was no
true short-term gain the First Prince could think of that would be worth
the bleeding she would inflict on them in its wake. That was concerning
as it meant, in all likelihood, that the House of Light intended to
force her to abdicate.

\emph{Agnes would have warned me}, Cordelia thought. Though her cousin's
peering eyes had been on the darkness to the north and the madness in
Iserre, she would not have missed so glaring an attack. And mentioned it
even if it were doomed to failure, which the fair-haired prince was
unwilling to believe out of hand. There was always a way to end a reign,
even if it was a simple as a knife in unscrupulous hands. And so the
deeper game she'd glimpsed began to take shape for while one failing was
a mistake and two ineptitude, but three could only be \emph{deliberate}.
Of that sudden awareness Cordelia gave no outwards sign, though
assessing her current situation she felt her stomach clench. The Rhenian
princess had moved from her solar to the beautiful \emph{Gallerie des
Hérons} after sending out her summons, for the gallery with the great
windows overlooked the outer courtyard where her trusted soldiers would
be coming to gather. It was large enough to accommodate an assembly of
captains before they set out as well, which she'd been giving
instructions in arranging even as she considered the words she'd speak
when addressing them. She'd had servants fetching tablecloths and
refreshments to make the entire affair seem less of a hasty arrangement,
but the great gallery was rather empty of other company.

The First Prince idly strode towards the great open glass window, a
time-worn but still powerful enchantment on the windowsill keeping out
most of the wind and cold from winter's last gasps. Cordelia pretended
to enjoy the view, though in truth she'd been gazing to see if any of
her Lycaonese soldiers had come. They had not, and the soldiers in the
courtyard below were all in the livery of Salia itself -- which meant
they were little more than city guard, and of suspect loyalty. Half a
step had her body angled so she could study the gallery through its
reflection on the glass, as she casually set a hand on the lukewarm
windowsill and allowed fatigue she truly felt to reach her face. Eight,
nine, ten servants in the hall. All with an Alamans look to them, none
that she'd brought with her from Rhenia. Louis of Sartrons had departed
some time ago to reach out to any Circle of Thorns agents in the
capital, yet the second of her three spymasters had remained at her
side. Balthazar the Bastard had taken being so surprised by the Holies
poorly and been in constant conference with some of his spies since. He
offered fresh reports to Cordelia regularly, having early on found out
where Brother Simon was being held and confirmed that ever current
sitter of the Assembly had been sent for by the House of Light.

Even as the First Prince watched, a woman in rough fantassin leathers
was allowed in by the guards guarding the southern entry to the gallery
and made her way to where the head of the Sliver Letters was seated to
whisper in his ear. The ferocious-looking spymaster heard her out,
replied in a low tone and sent her off. Cordelia looked away before her
scrutiny could be noticed, instead assessing the guards surrounding her.
Eight at the southern and northern entrances, all in Salian livery.
There were another three discreet doors in the gallery, from what the
tall blonde could recall, though through the glass reflection she could
only see two. Servant entrances for two of the three, and the last would
lead to a privy room for guests too inebriated to stray far to relieve
themselves when feasts where held in this gallery. She knew which of the
three was the first servant door -- one of the maids she had sent for
cloths mere moments had left through it -- yet did not know the other
two, which meant attempting to leave through one risky. Cordelia knew
there would not be two chances to slip the noose, which was why she
studied the soldiers assembling below in the courtyard. Near fifty now,
still all Salians. Could that many truly have turned their cloak?

Were she trying to isolate the First Prince of Procer within her own
palace she would have only moved after ensuring she had enough
conspirators to do so, yet there was no telling if her enemies had been
forced to move early. Having kept the jaws closing around her hidden so
far might mean as much, springing from fear of what she might do were
she aware, or it might simply be consequence of a preference for
discretion. The odds were better down there, she thought, than with the
guards at the entrances. The courtyard must be at least ten feet below,
and solid stone. Her blue dress, while not so impractical as to make it
impossible for her to move quickly, would still be ungainly. The First
Prince of Procer kept herself from stiffening when her spymaster's
recognizably heavy gait was heard before her. She turned to glance at
the approaching Balthazar, allowing the faintest hint of impatience to
touch her face.

``Your Most Serene Highness,'' the black-haired man said. ``I've news
from the city.''

``Speak,'' Cordelia invited.

``There have been riots in the streets,'' he grimaced. ``The priests
have claimed that you mean to crown yourself queen and incited the
people to violence.''

``Unfortunate,'' the First Prince of Procer said. ``They will have to be
dispersed, by club if not by speech. Best to act promptly before the
unrest can spread. How many soldiers have arrived?''

``Two hundred in the palace barracks, and those that can be seen
below,'' Balthazar said. ``I would starkly advise against taking to the
street with numbers less than five hundred, Your Highness. Salian riots
see stones thrown and knives bared even in times of plenty.''

And there it was, she thought. A feasible reason for her to stay here in
this hall, cooling her heels as the city went to the dogs around her and
conspirators carried out their coup. Balthazar Serigny was one of them,
of that there can be no doubt. The Holies could not have her unseated
without a vote in the Highest Assembly, and they could not possibly be
so foolish as to expect that such a vote could be won without
preparation. The House of Light must have reached out to fence-sitters
and the discontent, which the Silver Letters should not have missed
given their heavy presence in Salia. And to think that Cordelia herself
had ordered them to strengthen their presence, in order to expunge the
last of the Eyes of the Empire from the capital. She'd invited the wolf
at her table, believing it a hound. At least, the Rhenian thought, the
conspirators had failed to secure enough votes to unseat her properly.
They would not be resorting to such methods if they could use legitimate
ones instead. On the other hand, if she was made prisoner and another
candidate for her office presented how many of her allies would truly
stay with her? Cordelia's grip on the Highest Assembly had not been
gentle, though she had been careful never to ruffle feathers without
good reason. Some would turn, though, she knew. Some already had under
her very nose.

``Send for Captain Haas,'' she said, making her face imply restrained
desire for a frown.

Balthazar would not accede to that, for Andrea Haas was the head of her
personal retinue and a hardened killer besides. Cordelia's heart
clenched when she realized that her old compatriot had likely been
assassinated as a prelude to the coup, though it could not be certain.
Agnes\ldots{} no, they would not touch Agnes. The Augur was too
important a strategic asset for them to hurt even if she was Cordelia's
cousin. \emph{I can do nothing for anyone from the bear's den}, the
First Prince thought. \emph{First I must escape.} Balthazar grimaced, as
if reluctant, and she gazed at him with polite impatience until he gave
answer.

``Captain Haas had been drinking,'' the spymaster said. ``And is half in
a stupor, at the moment. I would send for a priest to sober her, Your
Highness, but given the circumstances\ldots{}''

``As you say,'' the First Prince of Procer said. ``The entire priesthood
is suspect until proven otherwise.''

``I'll send for the current ranking officer, if you'd like,'' Balthazar
offered. ``A Lieutenant Beringer, I believe.''

So the conspirators had even sunk hooks in one of hers, Cordelia thought
with distaste. It could be a hostage had been taken, she considered, but
then she would not glorify the stuff her people were made of. They could
be just as venal and treacherous as anyone else, and there were some who
might say that the way Cordelia Hasenbach had sent no host to bolster
the defence of the Lycaonese realms meant she'd betrayed them first. All
of her soldiers here had kin who had either fought at Twilight's Pass or
died there. No, their loyalties were no so ironclad as they might have
been a year past.

``So long as it does not detract from muster,'' she idly said. ``It
seems the Hellgods have my plans in their eye, tonight.''

``We'll crush them as soon as we have our forces in order, Your
Highness,'' Balthazar Serigny said. ``It is a matter of an hour at
most.''

Cordelia inclined her head by a fraction and then looked back down into
the courtyard, a clear if silent dismissal. There were perhaps a hundred
soldier now, some of which had noticed her presence. Not a single one
wore anything other than a Salian tabard. There was movement in the
corner of her eye, and the First Prince almost tensed before she forced
herself not to -- and then Balthazar nailed the windowsill with a
dagger, biting into the wood, just as her fingers clenched against the
wood until they paled.

``Always were sharp, weren't you? For a savage,'' the man casually said,
and whistled.

Half the servants unsheathed knives, while a pair of guard on the
southern entrance and a single one to the north were slain by their
comrades without hesitation. One of the maids tried to run for a door,
but a thin man in servant's livery threw a blade without missing a beat
and it went through the back of her skull. The others screamed, and
obeyed when told to sit on the ground with their hands behind their
head.

``It was the lack of a flinch, was is not?'' Cordelia calmly asked.

``It's a good trick, when you're dealing with a scheming one,''
Balthazar grinned. ``Anyone would flinch, expect someone thinking they
might have a reason \emph{not} to. What was it that gave us away?''

``Agnes would have warned me,'' the First Prince said. ``If she did not,
it was because someone prevented her from doing so.''

And only the Silver Letters, of all the many possible conspirators in
the city, had the means of doing that. They had, in the end, caught the
most damning of the weakness in an oracle: a warning meant nothing if it
went unheard. It had been four days, since Cordelia last spoke to her
cousin. She'd meant to do so, she truly had, yet there was so much to do
and if the Augur had an important insight she'd send a messenger to say
as much. The servant who were not Silver Letters had all obeyed and
knelt, and Cordelia felt her blood turn cold when she saw Balthazar
trade a look with one of the assassins.

``No,'' she hurried said. ``Do not-''

Throats cut the servants dropped to the side, one after another, as they
twitched and gurgled the last of their life away. Cordelia did not look
away. She had not known their names, not one of them. Yet she would
learn them, if she survived, these innocents who had lost their lives
because she'd not been quite as clever as she thought she was.

``That was unnecessary,'' the First Prince said, voice raw.

The bearded man chortled.

``Going soft, are you?'' Balthazar said. ``Can't have witnesses to this,
Hasenbach, lest the priests find their scruples after the deed is done
and decide to turn on me.''

``So the Holies truly are in revolt,'' Cordelia said, forcing calm.
``You did not simply suborn some of my people and feed me a lie.''

``Wouldn't move without them,'' the spymaster said. ``No, without the
righteous sort at my back this would have been mere wickedness.''

The man grinned, revealing crooked teeth.

``This is Above's work, though, or I've been assured,'' Balthazar said.
``Though the full amnesty was more to my taste than some old fool's
early absolution, I'll tell no lie.''

Amnesty. And there it was, why she'd kept speaking to this stain of a
person even as the blood of innocents spread across the panelled floor.
Balthazar Serigny was a gloater, and one who had a particular distaste
for his social superiors as well as Lycaonese -- though the second came
as a surprise to her, truth be told. There'd nary been a hint of it
before today. Amnesty over killings within the bounds of the capital
could only be extended by the ruler of the principality of Salia, which
was however happened to be the First Prince or Princess of Procer. This
was, currently, Cordelia herself. The conspirators had therefore a clear
successor for her in mind, one that'd gone as far as putting their name
to a pardon before the bloody work of dethroning Cordelia had even
begun. And there were only a very few people in Procer who could
feasibly fill her seat so smoothly. Amadis Milenan might have, before
his abdication, and now in his stead Princess Rozala Malanza -- who in
truth had become a stronger candidate than Amadis had ever been even at
the peak of his influence.

Her own uncle, Prince Klaus Papenheim, might also gather such support as
the foremost general in the Principate as that realm lay on the brink of
destruction. Prince Ariel of Arans might squeak through as a compromise
candidate, but the man lacked strong ties outside the eastern
Principate. Not the kind of figurehead around which a coup would be
birthed, and certainly not when hundreds of thousands of soldiers were
marching through eldritch paths into his lands. No, of all these the
only practicable candidate was Rozala Malanza. Who, aside from middling
talent in scheming, had spent most of the last year on campaign in a
principality where scrying was impossible. Which meant either Princess
Rozala had hidden her cunning very skillfully, someone of influence was
behind her or this was a foreign plot to cripple Procer just as it
seemed possible for it to be saved. Cordelia's heart whispered of
Malicia, the old enemy in the East, but the Dead King was conceivable
foe as well -- though through clandestine intermediaries, for the
Rhenian doubted even the lowest of the low would strike bargain with the
Hidden Horror directly.

\emph{Or}, Cordelia grimly thought, \emph{they might be fools. They grew
scared of what they saw on the horizon, rustled up someone of high
enough birth and used them as a figurehead for this ill-advised
butchery.} That the Holies might truly be so arrogant as to presume
they'd be able to force the election of their chosen candidate without
any real support seemed unconvincing, but Cordelia Hasenbach was not so
conceited as to deny that the measures she'd taken to ensure the
survival of Procer might lead others to act against her this
dramatically. Out of fear or principle, or perhaps even the heady potion
that could be brewed from both together. It did not matter, in the end.
Order would be restored, and everyone who'd lent their hand to this
utter lunacy made to dance at the end of a rope. Balthazar, sure he had
her in hand, moved away from the window.

``Now be a good girl and sit down in a corner, Cordelia,'' the spymaster
grinned. ``You might even make it out of this alive, if you do as you're
told.''

He'd left the knife in the windowsill, she saw. That simplified matters.
The blonde princess snatched the dagger's handle, ripping it clear of
the wood. The large bearded man looked at her with a mixture of contempt
and amusement. He was a former soldier, a hardened killer and
significantly larger than her. There were more than a dozen soldiers and
Silver Letters as well, now all casting eyes on her. Uncle Klaus, she
thought, would have said something outrageously obscene before baring
his sword and attempting to fight his way through. And, brave stubborn
old warhorse that he was, he would have died trying.

``I suppose even the runt of the litter will know a little fighting,''
Balthazar Serigny laughed. ``Go on then, \emph{First Prince}. Impress
me.''

The princess' cool blue gaze swept the room, burning every face into her
mind. Names she might not have, but this would suffice. \emph{Patience,
sparrow}, her mother's voice rang. \emph{Patience and quiet and take
your kill only when the time is ripe.}

``Before spring comes,'' Cordelia Hasenbach calmly said, ``I will see
you all hang.''

Before they could reply she slashed as her own breast before dropping
the dagger. Shallow but long, the wound bled vividly and began soaking
her dress. Even as surprise and confusion bloomed across the faces of
those looking at her, the First Prince climbed the windowsill and threw
herself down into the courtyard. The landing was painful, and she did
not suppress her scream as she felt her leg crack.

``Murder,'' Cordelia called out to the crowd of soldiers looking at her.
``Treason! Serigny tried to assassinate me!''

It was time to find out, she thought, whether Alamans gallantry was an
empty boast or not.
