\hypertarget{chapter-83-a-mould-unbroken}{%
\section{Chapter 83: A Mould
Unbroken}\label{chapter-83-a-mould-unbroken}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Diplomacy is half lies and half courtesies, which is to say it
is entirely lies.''}

-- King Alistair Fairfax, the Fox
\end{quote}

The Tyrant of Helike had seemingly decided to strike with his surprises
hard and early, which I could appreciate. It'd save us time, since
admittedly anything discussed before `surprise, the Dead King is here!'
was likely to fall by the wayside. I'd half-expected him to wait until
we were halfway through a particularly complex discussion before
dropping that into our laps, actually, since Kairos Theodosian was
rarely one to avoid heaping insults upon injury. Murmurs spread through
the room at the Tyrant daring to speak so boldly in the wake of the
First Prince, though I'd seen to it that the people that mattered would
already be in the know.

``Shut your cripple mouth and sit down, boy,'' Lady Itima of Vaccei
snarled out. ``It's a fucking outrage you even have a seat in this
hall.''

Hasenbach had implied to me that while Itima of the Brigand's Blood was
-- rather ironically, given the legendary hatred of her line for
foreigners in general and Procerans in particular -- her steadiest ally
among the Blood she was also very much out to get the Tyrant's head on a
plate for his actions during the adventure that birthed the Twilight
Ways, as well as a handful of prior betrayals. The redeeming aspect of
that was that unlike most Levantines the Lady of Vaccei was not
insistent on having that head taken on a battlefield or by honour duel.
A knife in the dark or poison in the cup would do just as well, for the
Vengeful Brigand's brutal pragmatism in aging war against the Proceran
occupation had trickled down to his descendants.

``The Dominion of Levant objects to this departure from the agreed-upon
order of affairs,'' Lord Yannu Marave calmly translated in more polite
terms.

``Look at the other two Blood,'' Vivienne murmured.

I followed her own gaze and found the faces of my old buddy Razin and
Lady Aquiline utterly calm. I knew precious little about Aquiline Osena,
but I'd watched Razin Tanja come apart at the seams in the shadow of
Sarcella. I liked to think I had a good grasp on the man, and he was not
all that skilled a liar or dissembler -- if anything he a rawness to him
I found almost refreshing compared to the practiced masks of near every
other aristocrat I knew. He would have been embarrassed by Lady Itima's
outburst, if it had come as a surprise to him. Which meant it wasn't. I
let out a small noise of approval at Vivs for that, I might not have
caught if not for her sharp gaze. She was getting to be a fair hand at
these games, which boded well for the years to come.

Itima Ifriqui's flare of temper had been planned, it seemed, though I
could only wonder as to why. Reinforcing the knowledge that Kairos was
hated abroad to the rest of the League? It might even be a simple matter
of herding him towards a particular response, though that would mean the
true hand behind this was the First Prince. This was her preferred
battlefield, not mine.

``Friends, allies, companions,'' the Tyrant of Helike enthusiastically
said. ``How could I dare to defy such ironclad law as the order of
affairs? No, I speak now so that an oversight might be corrected.''

``Get on with it, Tyrant,'' I called out. ``There's only so long of you
orating at your own navel I'm willing to suffer.''

``\emph{Catherine},'' the odd-eyed villain cried, sending me a wounded
look.

From the corner of my eye I saw Princess Rozala's lips twitch in
suppressed amusement. It would have been impolitic to wink, I supposed,
and besides I had a policy.

``And what oversight might that be, Lord Tyrant?'' Cordelia Hasenbach
calmly asked.

``Why, there are yet delegates to arrive and be seated,'' Kairos
Theodosian grinned.

The First Prince of Procer elegantly extended her arm, palm up, and a
dark-haired attendant offered her a small ceremonial baton of sculpted
alder. Though carved from one piece, it'd been made to look like it was
a bundle of small twigs tied together by a string. One twig for each
principality, symbolizing that each twig alone was fragile but the
bundle was stronger than the sum of its parts. It'd been a common
imagery in Procer until the Liturgical Wars, during which it fell out of
favour, and had been around long enough for a few verses back home to
have been written about it. Even as Cordelia Hasenbach knocked the baton
against the surface of her table I hummed the tune to \emph{Two Dozen
Snakes A Knot Do Make}, Vivienne at my side going rigid to avoid showing
reaction.

``And though Billy King did step on them,'' Black quietly hummed, lips
twitching, ``they hardly even-''

Of course Black would know the words, I amusedly thought. He'd ruled
Callow for twenty years and unless he'd done so without ever setting
foot in a tavern he probably knew most the old songs.

``-noooooticed,'' I could not help but finish, swallowing a grin.

Vivienne had joined her voice to the sound as well, though discreetly.
Even in a Legion haunt like the Rat's Nest they'd sung that regularly,
legionaries being rather fond of the imagery of anyone stepping hard on
the proverbial knot of snakes west of the Whitecaps.

``Your people do have a singular talent for putting mockery to a tune,''
the Carrion Lord fondly said.

Our shared mirth had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the hall, a few
other delegates eyeing us curiously. It was rather pitiful that between
three former Named not a single one of us could properly hold a tune but
aside from that I claimed no regrets. Yet Black's uncharacteristic
levity, I suspected, might just be the result of seeking diversions to
distract frim his worries about a matter I'd warned him of. While we
whispered in our corner the First Prince had begun out first gambit of
the day. At the knocking of the baton the attendants were set abuzz like
a swarm of bees, the gates to the back of the League delegations' left
and right opening. Down both avenues a small but beautiful desk was
carried, and behind the desks a single seat each. Kairos's good eye
narrowed for the fraction of a moment as he took in the second desk
before his face eased into a delighted smile. It'd stayed long enough
for me to catch his surprise, though.

\emph{Come now, Kairos}, I thought. \emph{You might as well have told me
outright.} \emph{I know how Malicia works, there's no way she'd ever
trust one of her lords to negotiate with the likes of you. Even if they
were not treacherous and courting you support to overthrow her, they'd
be always a step behind you in any talks.} Which meant the old
body-taking trick of Dread Emperor Nefarious would have been put to good
use. It was a small leap from there to figuring out it was rather likely
that Malicia's host body might have accompanied him in his campaign, or
meant to be another surprise attendance at this conference -- after all,
Black's presence here meant that in principle the Dread Empire of Praes
was allowed to attend. It'd been a risk to bring out the two desks from
the start since this was speculation and not certainty, but the First
Prince had argued we lost precious little from being wrong while
inflicting sharper uncertainty should we be correct. I'd still been
against it, but Cordelia's instincts had seemingly paid off if the
Tyrant's surprise was not mere playacting.

Now he had to wonder how deeply we'd seen through him and if my alliance
with the First Prince might not be closer knit than he'd assumed. The
painted desks were set to the sides of the League's delegations,
slightly behind their leading table. A subtle slight, that, implying
inferior status. Cordelia was apparently not above venting her
displeasure through small details, which I found rather endearing. It
added a touch of humanity to the ice-cold and masterfully controlled
princess I'd been treating with, a woman who'd use even her own grief
and shame as tools to get her way without batting an eye.

``How very gracious of you, First Prince,'' the Tyrant laughed.
``Without further ado, I then present-''

Black tensed. If I'd now known the man I might not have noticed, for he
had not moved a hair, but his eyes gained an edge of razor-sharp
attention that'd not been there before.

``His Majesty Trismegistus of Keter, the Dead King!''

It was almost amusing the way the older of the Atalante preachers went
white as a sheet when the other one rose to his feet. Sorcery coursed
down the body of the impostor in thick rivulets, revealing beneath an
illusion the same skeletal puppet of polished ivory bones and long
purple cloths I had met with last night. I'd been wondering if it'd be
the same, or if he had another host form to ride hidden away somewhere
in the city. The tall dead thing stood before the desk set out for him,
and the room erupted in whispers. Some scribes even cried out in fear,
as if they'd been told the Gods Below had come up to see to them
personally. It was a different sort of fear they had for the Hidden
Horror, here in Procer. Even in the south he was not so much a legend as
a sword hanging above everyone's head: after decades of it not falling
down you could tell yourself it never would, and even forget about it.

But every time you happened to look up, you were made to remember that
safety was just the tale your parents told you as a child so you'd sleep
well. Callow knew the Tower's shadow like its own breath and blood, but
it could not be denied that the Principate knew the Crown of the Dead's
almost as intimately.

It was not all fear, though. Lady Aquiline looked like she was itching
to draw a blade, and her fellow Blood all had measuring stares. I
glanced at the princes' table, and my respect for them rose a notch when
I saw only cold disdain on those faces. The luxuriantly mustachioed
Renato of Salamans took in the Dead King's clothes with a look that
could only be called scornful, and Ariel of Arans leaned to the side and
idly spoke to Princess Rozala in a low voice. As for Rozala Malanza, her
dark eyes stared at the Dead King unblinkingly. The burning intensity of
the hatred I saw in there gave me pause, for I'd seen hatreds great and
small in my time and that one was neither shallow nor passing. As for
the First Prince herself, her face was a cold and regal mask framed by
golden curls, offering only icy loathing.

Parts of the League's delegation -- Atalante, Nicae -- were dismayed by
the sudden revelation, but others largely indifferent. Delos and
Bellerophon's delegates were respectively keeping notes and looking
rather lost, while the Penthesians seemed more cautious than alarmed.
Yet it was the Firstborn whose reaction had me savagely grinning.
General Rumena, silver-blue eyes staring straight at the King of Death,
clenched its fingers into a fist and struck against the table once.

``Prav ruvan,'' the Tomb-Maker said.

\emph{First claim}, it meant. A statement, but also the beginning of
something more. Mighty Jindrich laughed, the sound scything through the
room filled with murmurs, and struck at its table as well.

``First claim,'' Jindrich also said. ``For this I offer three spears of
finest obsidian, and the Secret of Shells.''

Mighty Soln jeered.

``Cheapskate. First claim,'' it said. ``A finely made \emph{bureau} of
wood, and the Secrets of Shaping and Sight.''

The only word of that not in Crepuscular was in Chantant, \emph{bureau},
for the drow were wildly appreciative of the Proceran style of elaborate
wooden desks and in deference to that appreciation had been very
particular about using the `proper' term for it. And so, as the rest of
the hall handled the surprise of the Dead King's presence, the proud
Mighty of the Empire Ever Dark held their bidding war over which of them
would have the privilege to first attempt to kill the Dead King on the
field and take his Night. The Tyrant cleared his throat, and I felt
Black tense again.

``And, naturally, Her Imperial Majesty, Dread Empress Malicia of
Praes!''

He sounded, I thought, like a merchant hawking wares at the market.
Murmurs bloomed anew as one of the translators from the League rose to
her feet. I noted with faint amusement that Malicia's host-body had
chosen to be seated close to the aisle. I supposed the revelation would
have lost some of its gravitas if she'd had to politely ask the other
League translators to pull forward their chairs so she could stride out
with the right sort of presence. The illusion laid there was rather
simpler than the one that'd revealed the Dead King: a young Soninke
woman was revealed, but one of broadly similar height and body shape as
the feigned translator. Bright runes were visible, carved directly into
the skin and looking halfway between mutilation and tattoos. The
Empress' puppet made way to her pulpit with a fluid grace that was all
Malicia, impressively conveyed halfway across the continent and to a
body not all that like her own save in the dark tone of the skin.

Whatever amusement I'd savoured while pondering the practicalities of
that theatrical reveal went up in smoke when I turned my gaze to Black.
He was looking at Malicia's puppet with the naked desperation of a
drowning man, eyes roaming her form almost obsessively. It took me a
moment to understand why. My father was looking for a hint, any hint at
all, that this might not truly be Dread Empress Malicia. That it could
be a trick or some sort of fake. My fingers clenched as I watched him
watch her stand before her desk and he was forced to admit there was no
such thing. Something died in those pale green eyes, at that moment, and
I realized Scribe had been right. Even now, even after the betrayals and
the lies and the mistakes, he'd still intended on finding a way for the
Empress to live. And when Amadeus of the Green Stretch grasped the
truth, truly came to look in the eye, that he was about to be robbed
that recourse? A light went out in his gaze that I suspected none still
living could bring back.

Something flickered across his pale face, a weighing of choices, and
then something like disgust. In the heartbeat that followed, he pushed
back his chair and rose to his feet.

``Alaya,'' Amadeus said in Kharsum, voice only barely clinging to calm,
``this is a very grave mistake.''

Sigil-marked and burning with hollow fire, the puppet that Malicia rode
turned empty eyes to Black. Considering, until she spoke.

``Unless oaths were sworn to the crown of Callow, the correct placement
for the Empire's delegation is behind me,'' the Empress replied in Lower
Miezan.

``This is \emph{madness},'' Black hissed, still in Kharsum. ``Dark Days
protocols and alliances with Keter will not take us through the storm,
Alaya. I have secured other means, if you would simply let me-''

The eyes of nearly the entire hall were on the two of them. I wondered
how many people could even speak Kharsum, here. It was not even all that
common in Praes, much less Callow, and so I doubted even the Procerans
had a translator for the main orc dialect. I hid a wince at my teacher's
mistake a moment before he bit his tongue over it, but it was too late.

``Let you?'' the Empress softly replied. ``Am I then to hide in your
shade like a child and let the rules of power to be decided in this
ostentatious scrap heap of a city? I think not.''

Something like a twitch of pain marred the puppet's face.

``Stand behind me,'' the Empress ordered, asked, pleaded. ``The game can
still be won, Amadeus. I yet know how.''

I bit my tongue, knowing from experience that my stepping between those
two ancient monsters had ever only earned the disapproval of both, and
followed across the face of the green-eyed man the war between the
Carrion Lord and Amadeus of the Green Stretch. One had followed and
trusted Dread Empress Malicia for most of his life, murdered and
sacrificed and bled to see the order they'd built together stand. Yet of
the two that creatures was the one that'd turn on the Empress. Not
easily, or without cause, but turn on her it would. If the gears turned
and the verdict churned out was that victory demanded the blood of his
dearest friend, the steel would be whet red once more.

The other, though, was that part of Black that had seen a barren
wasteland of empire and wanted to mend it. That'd made a family of a
young mage hunted by the most powerful practitioner in the empire,
offered friendship to a woman whose curse had devoured her life and
charmed the likes of the Ranger and the Assassin through the strange
mixture of devotion and black-hearted ruthlessness. The same boy who'd
struck a friendship with a tavern girl long before either of them ever
saw the Tower's hulking shape on the horizon.

It was the part of him I loved, if not the one I'd taken lessons from.
And I thought it might just be the part of him that, right now, was
murmuring in the back of his mind about one last leap of faith.
Murmuring that by abandoning Malicia now all the darkest fears -- and
Gods, how could she not fear when it'd been armies led by Black and
loyal to him above all else that saw her rise to the throne? -- would be
confirmed by his own hesitation, his own weakness. Guilt and love and
the chains of a loyalty that had been well-worn long before my birth. I
was my father's daughter, and so this I understood.

As he'd no doubt understood, when for the heraldry of the \emph{noble}
house of Foundling I chose not some glorious beast or some fearsome
weapon. I did not even choose to ape the dignity of the Fairfaxes and
the Albans by stealing their arms so I might better suckle at the love
they'd earned among my people. I'd chosen a silver balance, set on the
stark bleak blackness of the man who'd taught me, and on it I'd weighed
a crown and sword. Right and might. Principle and necessity.

The wants of the woman, as Akua had once told me, and the needs of the
queen.

The thing was, that as much as we -- Malicia, Black, myself -- were
pretending this was a war, it wasn't. It was the inexorable sound of a
noose being pulled tight, the song of an arrow before it tore flesh. It
was the march of the inevitable, because while I believed it was Amadeus
of the Green Stretch that both the Empress and I cared for, that boy was
just who he'd been born to be. The Carrion Lord, the Black Knight, the
cold-eyed and stead-handed killer that broke armies and conquered
nations? That was who he'd chosen to be. And so, inch by inch, the
inevitable one. Those hungry, callous cogs of steel ground up the boy
that'd been and the girl he'd loved.

And when the steel came free of the last parts with a wet squelch, the
Carrion Lord breathed out shallowly.

``It was never a game, Alaya,'' he gently said. ``It is a mould, and it
will be \emph{broken}.''

They shared a long glance, in a hall where the great and powerful of an
entire continent had gathered to speak and yet not a single whisper
could be heard -- only utter, oppressive silence. What he was going to
say now, I'd predicted. I'd told Cordelia what he would say, what would
drive him to it, with a degree of exactness that now chilled me. Dark
hair flecked with grey, back straight as an arrow, the Carrion Lord
turned to address the hall with eerie calm.

``I address now all who would lend ear, mighty of Calernia come to this
hall,'' the green-eyed man said, in perfect Chantant.

Translators hurriedly whispered as he spoke, for those who did not speak
the tongue.

``The so-called Dread Empress Malicia I hereby denounce as unfit to
reign and having lost the favour of the Gods Below through carelessness
and misrule,'' the Carrion Lord said. ``I claim the Tower as Dread
Emperor of Praes, and ask for the recognition of the delegates to speak
in its name.''

Sometimes, I thought, it was an ugly thing to be right.
