\hypertarget{interlude-concourse-ii}{%
\section{Interlude: Concourse II}\label{interlude-concourse-ii}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Thus the Gods granted us the third boon: no longer would scales
close our eyes, obscuring knowledge of Good and Evil and preventing us
from earning just deserts.''}

-- The Book of All Things, sixth verse of the second hymn
\end{quote}

Juniper had done what she could to keep the army on battle footing, but
not even the Hellhound's sternest warnings could keep an air of
festivity from hanging over the camp of the Army of Callow. Hakram noted
with some amusement that while the ale rations that Legion tradition
dictated should be opened after a great victory remained sealed and put
away there seemed to be no lack of drink flowing through the cups of the
legionaries -- be they exiles or the Black Queen's own. While the Army
of Callow had been under strict instructions to refrain from sacking
towns and cities even when its columns were detached and the supply
situation became arduous, there'd been no order sent down to avoid
trading with Procerans. Callowan soldiers were on campaign pay, which
meant only half the coin was handed and the rest set aside for return
home, but they were hardly penniless and in a war-torn region like
Iserre they were the closest thing to patrons the locals would see for
the winter. That'd overridden reluctance to trade with wicked heretics
some, though no doubt there'd been price gouging. At the very least,
most the bottles and flasks merrily being traded around fires were
filled with the rich red wines the Principate's heartlands were known
for. The ambitious had sprung for bottles of \emph{pleurs de fée}, the
heady Alamans herbal liquor whose name could more or less be translated
into Lower Miezan of `fairy tears'. Hakram had tried it a few months
back and found the drink foul, though humans seemed to like the taste
well enough.

``You'd think we fought a battle, by the revelry,'' Vivienne said, tone
dry.

Neither of them were fools, and the former Thief was an old hand at this
sort of game, and so instead of wandering around the camp in heavy dark
cloaks that hid their faces they'd put on officer's armour and kept
their faces half-hidden by helms. Two well-fitted armoured gauntlets,
one empty and the other hiding bone, had seen to it that Hakram's most
easily discernible marks would be kept out of sight. The orc followed
the human's gaze, finding a pair of grizzled or goblins cheerfully
bullying some Callowan girl-soldier into drinking enough \emph{aragh} it
was a near-certainty she'd puke. The sappers noticed the attention but
were unbothered bit it. Not unreasonably so: Adjutant was passing for a
captain of heavies, and Vivienne for a mage lieutenant. Neither of them
would be in an easy position to punish the drinking of soldiers so far
removed from their own theoretical commands.

``Perhaps we didn't,'' Hakram quietly replied, ``but it feels like
victory nonetheless, doesn't it?''

``We threw some spells and shot some engines and General Abigail ordered
a single cavalry charge on enemy mages,'' the blue-eyed noblewoman said.
``The drow fought, admittedly, but us? This entire `battle' had seen
fewer than two hundred soldiers die, Hakram.''

``Aye,'' Adjutant agreed, once more amused. ``Fewer than two hundred of
ours dead, and we've both forced the Grand Alliance into truce and put
the League of Free Cities to retreat. They'd make songs of today,
Vivienne, even without Choir dreams gilding the legend.''

``Legionaries would make songs of rivers being wet, after drinking,''
the heiress-designate to the throne drily replied. ``They've taken to
the sport of it the way Callowans once loved jousting.''

Hakram had never actually seen one of the famous Callowan tourneys, much
less a joust, tough he'd read of them in books. Under the Carrion Lord's
rule knightly orders had been banned, which effectively killed the
practice, and though under Catherine the Order of the Broken Bell had
risen anew it was also part of the kingdom's army in a time of war --
and so not free to pursue such leisurely pastimes. Under the old kingdom
the Fairfaxes had often held tourneys to recruit promising knights into
the Royal Guard, which had leant the practice a certain legitimizing
weight, but Cat had balked at resurrecting it. When Grandmaster Brandon
Talbot had pressed the matter she'd told him she'd rather arm another
company of regulars or feed a village through winter than `piss away
gold celebrating the virtue of knocking down people with sticks'. He'd
caught Juniper, whose distaste for the chivalric trappings of Callowan
knighthood was deeply ingrained, grinning to herself for a solid month
after that session of the Queen's Council.

``Mock if you will,'' Hakram gently said, ``but you know I speak the
truth. Tonight will be remembered for many years to come. It will have
consequences, Vivienne. Ripples.''

They'd resumed walking, and though the gloom of Akua Sahelian's curtain
of night had cast darkness over all it was not enough that Adjutant did
not see the unease his words had brought to Vivienne's face. Like him,
she had difficult grasping what might yet come of what had taken place
tonight. Unlike him, however, that blindness worried her. Their steps
slowed as they left the outskirts of the Second Army's camp in favour of
Fourth's. He'd have to speak less here, as he'd spent months as an
observer with the Fourth Army and he might be recognized by some through
his voice even in the dark. Vivienne's gaze was on a young Soninke
legionary, standing on the shoulders of a pair of orcs with a clay pot
of black paint in hand as he added to one of the army's banners.

``Wings,'' she softy said. ``I will not be surprised if the Third is
doing the same. Sve Noc were not meek of hand in Sarcella.''

The legionary had some talent, Hakram, though, for though instead of a
brush it was the work of fingers dipped in paint the fresh symbols added
to the banner could not be mistaken for anything but what they were:
crow's wings. Two pairs, sharply shaped and feathered, and the Soninke
finished the last touches on the last wing only to reveal the Fourth
Army's changed banner: the four in Miezan numerals, gold on Fairfax
blue, but now framed with crow wings at the upper corners.

``It'll spread from there,'' Adjutant acknowledged.

The soldier-artist was helped down by the pair of well-built orc women
who'd been holding him up -- one of them, Hakram could not help but
notice, had an enticingly muscled frame and fangs that looked like
they'd go \emph{right} through bone -- and the three of them were
greeted by cheers from the throng of soldiers that'd been watching.

``I'd say something scathing about soldiers and superstitions,''
Vivienne mused, ``but for all I know that might be enough to attract the
gaze of the Crows.''

``Best to keep on good terms with gods, when death and dying's your
trade,'' Hakram said.

``Even those?'' the noblewoman said. ``I wonder. That Catherine has
charmed ancient horrors into some manner of patronage I've no trouble
believing -- Merciful Heavens, it wouldn't even be the first time -- but
that does not mean the spread of their influence is a boon. She will not
always be there to keep them honest, and when our soldiers return home
there might be\ldots{} complications.''

``The House Insurgent has been rather amiable to the drow,'' he pointed
out.

There'd been incidents, of course, but the Firstborn were being kept in
hand by their chieftains and to be frank the Insurgents were trouble all
around. Hakram had been told of quarrelsome priests, before, but it'd
been with the understanding that those quarrels were largely
theological. The House Insurgent was rather prone to fistfights, for
priests, and it likely did not help that most of them were young and
fresh to their rebellion.

``The Insurgents are the hotheads and Catherine's most radical partisans
in the House,'' Vivienne said. ``It's the priests in Callow that might
have words when the banners come back bearing Night's wings. Heresy, in
particular, comes to mind.''

Hakram had followed the debates within the Callowan House of Light with
great interest, to the extent that he'd sought a sister for theological
lessons. More than once Sister Mariet had hinted that he should consider
conversion for the sake of his soul, but given how clear-spoken and
learned the old woman had proved to be he'd hardly minded. The conclave
in Laure that'd followed the Jacks seeding the rumours he and Vivienne
had agreed on of the Woe's time in Keter had taken them both by
surprise, and they'd both found that as they had no real influence
within the House they could only be spectators to what then unfolded.
Perhaps a third of the priesthood of Callow, numbering high with the
young and those hailing from the heartlands of the kingdom -- which had
always been the region most eager to embrace the Black Queen's reign --
but also a surprising among of oldest priests from the north who'd been
infuriated by the Proceran House being involved at the Battle of the
Camps had taken a hard line and pressed for the entire Tenth Crusade to
be declared graceless. That'd been judged too extreme an approach by
many, even though the Grand Alliance had come to be held in great
disdain. It would be, in essence, declaring the entire priesthood of the
Dominion, Procer and Ashur to be grasping heretics and any soldier
participating in the crusade to have forfeited the grace of the Heavens.

Cooler heads, mostly priesthood from the ravaged south and the wary
east, had tried to broker a compromise by instead declaring the decrees
of the same Salian conclave that'd declared Catherine to be Arch-heretic
of the East to be themselves heresy. That vote had passed unanimously,
but the radicals had pushed for denunciation of the House of Light in
Procer as a whole and found little appetite for the measure among their
fellows. The talks turned harsh when the compromise motion of the House
providing a tithe from its coffers to the Kingdom of Callow to support
the defence of the realm was flatly refused by the southern priesthood,
who was already beggaring itself providing charity to the families
displaced by the Arcadian War. With that second compromise collapsing,
the radicals scorned their fellows and mocked them for \emph{children of
Dana} -- which, Hakram learned from the ever-helpful Sister Mariet, was
a reference to the infamous Sister Dana of Laure who'd colluded with the
Procerans during their occupation Callow -- before walking out of the
conclave. They'd come to call themselves the House Insurgent, in the
months that followed, and many had flocked to the Army of Callow. Yet it
could not be denied that most the Callowan priesthood, more than two
thirds of it in truth, had preferred a tamer stance.

In the kingdom the priests who'd remained in the fold had come to be
called the House Constant, though that was more story than truth: they
were united mostly in their eschewal of harder measures, and in other
things remained as prone to squabbling among themselves as the Callowan
priesthood was reputed for. They could be counted on to back Catherine
against all comers, so long as those comers were foreign, but Vivienne
was right in worrying of dark wings painted on banners. The settling of
a goblin tribe on Callowan soil had been a hard mouthful to swallow for
many of them, as was the entrusting of so many high offices to
Wastelanders and greenskins, yet those had only been earthly matters.
The Crows earning some devotion of their own, however, would be seen as
Below sinking its claws in the hearts of the Callowan flock. There would
be trouble.

``Most the soldiers we took in from the old legions keep to Below, if
they keep to anything at all,'' Hakram said. ``And many of what used to
be the Fifteenth do the same. It may not be too contentious a matter so
long as it is kept ceremonial. Soldiers' superstition, as you said.''

``I hope you're right,'' Vivienne said.

Yet her eyes were on the cheering soldiers, surrounding a crow-marked
banner.

``But if you are not,'' she said, ``then it might be necessary to back
our favoured horse within the House of Light.''

Adjutant's brow rose.

``Insurgent over Constant, you mean,'' he said, tone pensive as he
measured the rusks. ``It might be it can be done. If we return victors
one and all, their reputation will have risen. Yet there are risks to
meddling there, especially for us.''

House Fairfax had been embroiled in disputed with the House of Light
more than once, over the span of its line, most often over the great
cathedral of Laure and what was spoken in the sermons given there. Yet
the old kings and queens of Callow had been Named as often as not,
exalted in Above's service. It was one thing for one of that ilk to
intervene in the House's affairs but entirely another for the
\emph{Black Queen} to do so. If a villain was seen as trying to subvert
the House of Light, rebellion was certain. Even the Carrion Lord had
chosen the soft death when dealing with the priests, preferring instead
the stratagem of starving them of coin.

``Too early to tell if it'll come to that,'' Vivienne Dartwick finally
said, eyes hooded. ``We'll have to keep an eye on things as they
unfold.''

Adjutant rumbled in agreement and they resumed their walk. The First
Army's camp, where they'd begun their wandering, had been quiet and
orderly compared to the rest -- as was only to be expected, as it was
Juniper's own command and closest to her displeasure should festivities
become too obvious. The Second's, under General Hune, had been tense for
other reasons entirely. As Hune's army had seen fighting during the day
and the night, it'd been allowed to rotate most their companies to
sleep. Which had turned out less than restful, when vivid dreams began
waking the legionaries. The First Army's entire mage contingent had been
awoken to put together answers, as well as the Senior Mages from other
armies. So far there'd been little more put together than the string of
visions depicting parts of the struggle that'd taken place over Liesse,
though the shape of the whole adventure had been taking appearance when
they'd left the mages to it. Adjutant would have liked to assign Akua
Sahelian to the matter, but she'd had more pressing duties: the soul of
the Carrion Lord had been stolen back from the heroes, as had been his
body weeks ago, and now the shade who'd once been the Diabolist had been
tasked to bind soul and flesh anew after their brutal severing. Still,
useful as her expertise might have been the army's mages and scribes
were capable of seeing to the matter. It was less than urgent, anyhow,
as Catherine would tell the tale herself when she returned. Most
important, as far as Hakram was concerned, was that the most recurrent
and vivid of the visions showed that Grey Pilgrim and the Saint of
Swords were seemingly dead. The latter would do no favours to
Catherine's reputation, but the former was a deeper concern.

The Dominion was prickly, when it came to the Peregrine, and though the
visions legionaries had received made it clear Cat had tried to prevent
his death that might not mean too much to grief-stricken killer with
more pride than sense. Someone would have to be blamed, and even if it
did not outright come to war they might try to kill Catherine upon her
return to `avenge' the Grey Pilgrim. Which would lead to war regardless,
no two ways about it. His warlord was popular even with the
Legions-in-Exile, who of the coalition holding this camp were the host
with the least fondness for the Black Queen. The Army of Callow and the
Firstborn had deeper loyalties, and very few qualms over killing either
Procerans or Levantines if provoked. The truce over the field had been
achieved by scheme and force of personality more than great desire for
peace by the soldiers, Hakram knew, and that made it fragile. Even more
so now that the League's hosts had retreated some and no longer stood as
a close and obvious threat to the other two great assembled armies on
the field. Juniper was well-aware, which was why there were scouts out
there keeping an eye on the Grand Alliance's positions and the Army of
Callow had yet to entirely leave battle footing.

If the betrayal came, they knew, it would come after dawn rose when the
drow would be struck by the sun-sickness and forced into slumber after
being stripped of their power. Some would remain able to fight, but few
and as little more than tribes of warriors.

The orc was forced out of the thought from the first stirrings of a song
in the distance, one he did not recognize. The mismatched pair wandered
closer to the source by unspoken accord, until they found a broad
bonfire and a crowd half-drunk soldiers around it. Orcs and goblins,
Taghreb and Soninke and Callowans. They were, to hear of it, crafting a
song in the old legion manner -- everyone trying a verse, a chorus of
loud voices singing the attempts until something passable had come of
the crucible. Hakram missed Nauk like a limb, in that moment. The other
orc's rough humour and gift for song and poetry, his strange yet
unrepentant sentimentality. It was not enough to distract him from the
sight of one of Vivienne's agents approaching her discretely, whispering
news in her ear when she gestured permission. The orc's attention turned
instead to the song, heart clenching at the remembrance of a friend he'd
now twice grieved.

``Came they proud princes, one and all

Great lords from olden, golden halls

And as one they fell, under the moon

When the Black Queen sang her tune

For in lovely Iserre did come undone

Dominion of seven crowns and one

`lo blood of slayer, brigand, binder

And champion too, binding tighter

Yet what star could shine so brightly

It would not fear our queen's fury?

For in lovely Iserre did come undone,

Dominion of seven crowns and one.''

The song, he thought, was fiercely proud. Raw and half-done, yet already
he could see the grimly boastful shape of it ripping free of a hundred
voices. The Jack slipped away and without pause Vivienne leaned close,
lowering her voice.

``Juniper sends that the Dominion has begun to gather troops,'' she
whispered. ``So has Princess Rozala.''

The one-handed orc looked up the night sky, so very close to fading. He
could feel it in his bones, how close to that veil falling they had
come, how near to the end of the journey they'd arrived. It would all
end soon, one way or another. And beyond that, Hakram felt another pull.
An older claim to him, one he'd embraced body and soul.

``We gather our own, then,'' he growled. ``And quickly.''

The woman who'd once been the Thief glanced at him knowingly.

``You know where Catherine will return,'' she said.

``I do,'' Hakram Deadhand said. ``So let us gather steel, and march
towards it.''

Vivienne did not question him, for she knew the truth of it. In end,
Hakram of the Howling Wolves Clan was many things. A soldier, a killer,
a steward and on occasion a scribe. He'd served as an advisor and a
herald, as an ender of loose ends and watchman of missteps. For the hand
taken from him by the Penitent's Blade and returned by the sorceries of
the Sovereign of Red Skies, he had earned the sobriquet of
\emph{Deadhand}. To ensure the succession of everything that had been
built in the beating heart of Callow he'd carved through the other
wrist, and not once regretted it. That lesson, like many others, he had
learned from someone he loved the way a knife loved a steady hand or
sparrow loved flight. For, most of all, he was a bored sergeant on a
warm Wasteland night, catching his first glimpse in the eyes of a
stranger of the girl who'd topple empires and feeling his blood
\emph{burn}.

He was the Adjutant, and Catherine Foundling was returning.

If any stood between them they would be broken, sure as dawn and dusk
and the death of men.
