\hypertarget{interlude-so-smile-tyrants}{%
\section{Interlude: So Smile,
Tyrants}\label{interlude-so-smile-tyrants}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``And so as night fell over the Blessed Isle, his Dread Majesty
sent across the river the corpse of Prince Robert and the captured
Princess Juliana, still bound in chains, for when released she had bit
off the ear of the High Lord of Okoro. King Selwyn Fairfax rode halfway
across the bridge, where he thus addressed His Dread Majesty: `You have
fought this war grimly on the field and gallantly beyond. Would that you
had been born west of the river, under a virtuous star.' And so His
Dread Majesty replied: `For having been born east of the river I became
instead a man to pluck stars from the sky. Is that not a higher
virtue?'\,''}

-- Extract from `Commentaries on the Campaigns of Dread Emperor
Terribilis the Second'
\end{quote}

To match the coming Damned, Chosen had been sent for.

Because Creation was a strange and ironic thing, Rozala Malanza thought,
this had been the suggestion of Catherine Foundling and opposed largely
by Cordelia Hasenbach. Not that the First Prince would be so uncouth as
to risk offending the Dominion by implying its favourite son was
anything other than a treasured ally. There'd been talk instead that the
Peregrine's presence might incite the Tyrant to misbehave, that surely
the White Knight himself would be enough. Princess Rozala suspected that
the First Prince had known it would fail, and it had, but had allowed
herself to vent a sliver of personal dislike in as harmless a manner she
could. That Hasenbach despised the Peregrine was no surprise to her, not
since she'd heard the full story of what had taken place at Saudant. The
sleepy little fishing village by the shores of Lake Artoise that had
been butchered to bring the Carrion Lord to heel, leaving not a single
survivor. Not even children.

It had shaken Rozala's high esteem of the Chosen, to hear this. A
greater good had been achieved by the act, that much could not be
denied. How many more dozens of thousands would have died if the Legions
of Terror slipped the noose in Iserre to ravage the western
principalities as well? Yet it'd been a grave evil, that too could not
be denied, and one dealt unto a sworn ally. The First Prince's view of
the matter was without nuance, but the Princess of Aequitan could not
quite bring herself to share it in full. She remembered still the Grey
Pilgrim saving thousands of lives during the Battle of the Camps, and
almost as many after when he went from wounded to wounded and worked his
healing to exhaustion. It had been an ugly choice the old hero made, and
one he had no right to make. But did they not breathe a little
\emph{easier} for it? Were they not, behind the outrage at the lives
taken and the brutality of the act, all a little grateful for what had
come of it?

The dark-haired princess could not embrace the choice he had made, the
deaths it had meant, but neither would she condemn it outright. It would
be hypocrisy of the worst sort to let Peregrine undertake the bloody
work of capturing the Carrion Lord for them and then in the same breath
to complain of his murderous meddling.

``Princess Rozala?''

The Arlesite general turned a pleasant smile upon the woman who had
approached her, for this was a relationship that must be cultivated for
years to come should they all survive these dark times. Lady Vivienne
Dartwick cut rather more regal a figure when out of the thief's leathers
she'd worn at the truce talks in northern Callow, though Rozala decided
that the milkmaid braid crowned by a tasteful silver circlet rather
helped the effect. It was said she'd once been a Chosen, before the
Black Queen turned her to villainy. Though few believed the Black
Queen's handpicked successor to be anything close to `redeemed' from
such damnation, she was still considered rather less incendiary an
interlocutor in diplomatic talks. Nobly born as well, for House Dartwick
was on the Callowan lists of nobility, which was a balm on the pride of
those who still balked at negotiating with a no-name orphan like
Catherine Foundling. A foolish thing, that, when the shadow of that
orphan's displeasure had half of Calernia shaking in its boots, but
pride could oft be a foolish thing.

``Lady Dartwick,'' Rozala replied. ``How may I be of service?''

``The Lord Adjutant is being sent out by my queen and will require a
guide,'' Lady Vivienne said. ``If I might trouble you to provide one?''

A matter of too little importance to speak to the First Prince over,
Rozala idly thought, yet requiring the assistance and assent of a
high-ranked Proceran. The Callowan noble had correctly navigated
etiquette in approaching her, which was a refreshing change compared to
her mistress -- who largely behaved as if she were above such things.
Rather more gallingly, she was not wrong to believe so.

``My personal secretary Louis Rohanon will see to it,'' the Princess of
Aequitan said.

She discreetly gestured for one of the attendants to approach her, so
Louis could be informed of her request. It was insulting that her dear
friend's abdication of his crown for the sake of the Principate meant he
no longer qualified to attend councils such as this, but given the
recent\ldots{} agitation in Salia the princess knew it was not the time
to test the First Prince's tolerance.

``Will the Lord Adjutant be leaving us, then?'' Rozala asked.

She would not mind that, for the quiet watchfulness in the orc's eyes
spoke of little missed. Yet it would not do to loose a Damned without
first learning where he would head, and for what purpose.

``Queen Catherine intends to sound out the loyalties and interests of
Nicae,'' Lady Vivienne said.

And she'd sent out an \emph{orc} to do so? The Princess of Aequitan was
no village bumpkin, to believe orcs men turned to corrupted forms by
some ancient sin and the hand of Below, but it could not be denied that
the Deadhand's large fangs and leathery skin fed into his looming
presence to unsettling result. Though the Lord Adjutant had struck her a
clever-minded and methodical, he hardly made for a pleasant envoy.
Unless, of course, a reminder of force was what the Black Queen meant to
send. Who could truly know, with that one?

``Then allow me to offer my secretary's services as scholar and
translator,'' Princess Rozala suggested.

The heiress-designate eyed her pensively. It would mean anything spoken
would later be reported to her, true, but it would also lend the weight
of Procer's tacit approval to whatever was spoken. Besides, Louis truly
was fluent in tradertalk and of scholarly inclination besides. He would
be of practical use, regardless of all the rest.

``I thank you for the boon,'' Lady Vivienne said, tone formal. ``I am
certain Lord Adjutant will delight in the use of such an able aide.''

Secrecy was not paramount to whatever the Black Queen had planned for
the League, then, or perhaps even Nicae in particular. The arrangements
were made swiftly, and all was in motion before the latest arrivals
stirred the room. The Grey Pilgrim's stride was greeted enthusiastically
by the highborn of the Blood, though rather more coolly by the Callowans
and the Carrion Lord. First Prince Cordelia herself offered the due
courtesies and not an inch more, for even in utter scorn the Lycaonese
princess was rarely anything but flawlessly polite. The White Knight's
entrance was, by contrast, was more warmly received. The Chosen's
willingness to work with the Highest Assembly -- though never under, for
Hanno of Arward answered to the Tribunal alone -- and the strictures of
Proceran law had endeared him to Hasenbach and even Rozala herself, she
would admit. Never before had she heard of a Chosen who would list and
explain every kill he'd made in a rioting city before scholars of law so
that the actions might be assessed.

At least not without hinting it was mere humouring of mortal crowns,
while the White Knight had instead seemed serious and even
\emph{earnest}.

The White Knight and his companion the Witch of the Woods were also
notably strong Chosen who had come to safeguard Salia and the peace
talks, which had been reassuring considering who would be attending. The
Black Queen, the Hierophant, the Tyrant of Helike -- and now it seemed
even the Hidden Horror himself. In truth Princess Rozala had been
surprised at Queen Catherine's suggestion that the White Knight attend
this council, for the Sword of Judgement was blatant enough a ward
against her that the dark-haired general had believed she might take
offence. Apparently, Rozala Malanza faintly thought, someone had forgot
to inform Catherine Foundling of this: she met the White Knight's
arrival with a smile and a respectful nod, which the Chosen casually
returned. Rozala was not the only one to take notice, the eyes of half
the room coming to rest on the pair in silent surprise.

``Kairos Theodosian nears,'' the Black Queen suddenly said.

---

It had been more than a year now since the Tyrant of Helike had sworn
eternal friendship to Cordelia Hasenbach. Not that she had ever believe
him. Nor would she now put too much stock in anything he said, not even
if Chosen insisted he had been bound by a curse of truth. If a madman
believed the sky to be green, did that make it so? No, the Tyrant had
been a thorn in her side for too long to be taken as anything but a
peril.

The First Prince had considered the young king a diplomatic and military
headache from more or less the first breath after he'd taken the throne,
for he'd proven to be both cunning and very much inclined to turn that
cunning against Procer. The blonde princess had once believed that
Helike and its boy-king could be restrained by fetters of ink, treaties
binding the League to a ten-year truce with the Principate until other
affairs were settled, but that had arguably been the second-most serious
diplomatic blunder of her reign. She could not be certain that the
Tyrant's rise could truly be laid at her feet, for he might well have
struck out for power regardless of anything she did. Yet the League's
vote for truce with Procer had undeniably been the trigger of the civil
war that propelled the Tyrant of Helike to greater heights. And saw
Anaxares of Bellerophon elected to the office of Hierarch of the Free
Cities, though in some ways that seat was still good as empty.

Still, for all that Cordelia had maneuvered and plotted against Kairos
Theodosian she had never seen the man with her own eyes until he came to
Salia. Much of what she had read of him proved true, the First Prince
pondered once more as the Tyrant swaggered into the parlour, but it did
not quite do the man justice. The thin sickliness, the loose robes that
did not quite hide erratic convulsions and trembling, or even the
blood-red eye under wispy brown curls: Theodosian almost seemed more
notion than man, as if some godly hand had painted grinning malevolence
on the canvas of Creation and crowned it king of Helike. Most of those
here loathed him, the First Prince considered. Some loathed him so
deeply it was like a poison in their veins. Yet looking at the young
king and the two waddling gargoyles flanking him, one would think he was
among friends.

``Oh my,'' Kairos Theodosian drawled. ``Such a gathering of great and
mighty names. My heart is made all aflutter.''

``Lord Tyrant,'' Cordelia Hasenbach calmly said. ``Welcome. You are
thanked for accepting our invitation.''

``Wouldn't miss it for the world,'' the odd-eyed villain grinned.

``Gods, you really are such a prick,'' the Black Queen of Callow said,
sounding almost admiring. ``If I didn't know better, I'd call it an
aspect.''

The fair-haired Lycaonese bit down on her initial wave of fear and
irritation. Much as she disliked the manners of the other ruler, it
could not be denied that no one in this room had even half the
understanding of the Tyrant she could boast of having. As if to prove
correct her thought, instead of storming out at the casual slight and
informality the other villain instead let out a cackling laugh.

``Catherine,'' he replied cheerfully. ``A pleasure to see you, as
always. Is that my old friend Amadeus I see cowering in your shadow?''

The Carrion Lord, who had kept his peace and spoken only sparingly since
his declaration of war on the Tower, never lost his air of cold
indifference.

``It is a rather broad shadow, these days,'' the Carrion Lord casually
replied. ``It makes for comfortable cowering.''

The choking sound from her side was, Cordelia realized, most of the
Blood supressing laughter.

``An empire's worth of room, eh?'' the Tyrant sneered. ``I wonder, did
the broken spine take the Name or was it the other way around?''

She must step in now else the villain would needle everyone here `til
Last Dusk. Satisfying as it was to hear the Carrion Lord pricked, it did
nothing to endear the one pricking him to her heart. Or advance the
cause of Procer's survival to let it devour time from the recess, for
that matter.

``The Dread Empire of Praes,'' the First Prince said, ``is not why it
was asked you attend this council.''

``Then by all means,'' Kairos Theodosian drawled, ``reveal this
revelation to me, Warden of the West.''

Cordelia stepped forward, back straight. Closer to a villain whose
suspected body count was in the hundreds, who had once router an entire
host by wielding a storm and not so long ago ripped out thousands in
cavalry from Arcadia and smashed them down onto the earth. She stepped
forward with utter calm, for these were \emph{her} chosen grounds and
her favoured manner of strife.

``Circumstances have ensured there is an alignment in our interests,
Lord Tyrant,'' Cordelia said.

A heartbeat passed; the blood-red eye blinked.

``Boring,'' the boy-king said, solemn as a judge passing a sentence.

``Yet here you are, standing among us,'' the First Prince said,
unruffled. ``Itching to turn on the Crown and Tower who have used you
better than you used them.''

``Slightly less boring,'' the Tyrant conceded. ``Still I've yet to hear
a single reason I should break such deep trust or sunder a precious bond
of fellowship.''

``You require assurances, understandably,'' Cordelia said. ``This can be
arranged. You stand, as you said, among an assembly of great and mighty
names.''

``And what would be required of me in exchange for these assurances?''
the Tyrant grinned. ``Go on now, Warden of the West. Do not
disappoint.''

``You have been deep in the Enemy's councils, Lord Tyrant,'' Cordelia
said. ``Reveal their plans to us and-''

``Nonono\emph{no},'' the Tyrant of Helike interrupted, growing
increasingly shrill. ``That was not the right thing to ask. You're doing
it \emph{wrong}.''

The villain seemed genuinely agitated, his arm slipping out of the
folded sleeve hiding it in a spasm. His brown eye had grown watery, as
if he were in pain or sorrow. The First Prince was taken aback, and for
once uncertain as to how she should respond. A limping gait whispered
across the floor, the Black Queen hobbling behind the Tyrant's back and
slowing only to offer her the most \emph{insolent} wink Cordelia had
ever seen. She flushed.

``Sometimes they need us devils to speak the ugly things, Kairos, you
ought to know that by now,'' Queen Catherine said, tone teasing.

Tension in the Tyrant's shoulders loosened by a fraction at the words,
and Cordelia grasped the game. Silk and the steel, then. She was more
used to standing as the former than the latter, but not unskilled at the
exercise.

``\emph{Say it},'' Kairos Theodosian demanded.

``Give us a good reason to keep warring on Keter,'' the Black Queen
said.

As she often did, the Queen of Callow was cutting to the bone of it for
that was the truth exact of what they needed. A great banner of fear and
outrage that would bind Principate -- and beyond -- to pursuit of the
war against the Dead King, and if there was one man who might give them
that at this very moment it was the Tyrant of Helike.

``Ah,'' the odd-eyed king said, savouring the sound. ``There it is. Now,
let the mangled relic in the corner attest to my words -- not you
Amadeus, at least this time -- and pronounce truth where it is. I have
such a reason and can reveal it to you.''

All eyes in the parlour turned to the Grey Pilgrim, whose eyes were
narrowed.

``Truth,'' the Peregrine slowly said. ``In word and intent.''

``Then let us speak of price, Theodosian,'' Cordelia said. ``Some
offences may yet be forgiven, should you bargain in good faith. Wealth
and honours could be laid on your brow.''

Cordelia was much taller than the Tyrant and made certain to loom over
him as he spoke. A tilt of the neck lent her the appearance of looking
down on him as she spoke, and she added a faint hint of sneer to her
lip. Dislike was as distracting a feeling as any other, and if she must
wield the reputation of the Alamans abroad to best achieve it she would
not balk at the indignity.

``He's not the coin kind of king, Hasenbach,'' the Black Queen drawled.
``No, he's an old-fashioned sort. He wants his seat at the table back.
Don't you, Kairos?''

Which Queen Catherine wanted no more than Cordelia herself, though with
the amused glint to her eye she was doing a fair impression of desiring
otherwise.

``Catherine, how distressing,'' the Tyrant grinned. ``That would imply
that I currently no longer have a seat. Am I not a participant in good
standing of this peace conference?''

``Helike can be spared retribution for its reckless war-making and
treachery,'' Cordelia said, phrasing it as a great concession. ``Your
abdication, however, might be required for the sake of peace.''

``Now there's a familiar tune,'' the Black Queen smiled.

It was, the fair-haired princess thought, a little \emph{too} sharp a
smile for that sharpness to be entirely feigned.

``Ladies,'' the Tyrant intervened, sounding utterly delighted, ``come
now, is there truly need for such language? Now, unless I am mistaken
there was some talk of dues.''

Queen Catherine began circling again, and Cordelia breathed in. Time to
see what the two of them could bargain him down to.

``You are due quite a few things,'' the First Prince pleasantly agreed.

``Mostly the one, as far as I am concerned,'' Kairos Theodosian grinned.
``And dear Catherine knows what I want, she does. She even brought it
for me.''

The trial, Cordelia thought. It was all coming to hinge on the trial of
the White Knight, as promised at the crossroad of the Princes'
Graveyard. She had been warned by every Chosen and Damned she was on
speaking terms with that to allow such a thing to unfold would be highly
dangerous and acted accordingly.

``Your demand for a trial of the White Knight is on the official order
of affairs, Lord Tyrant,'' the First Prince mildly said.

``Very far down the list,'' the Tyrant replied, just as mildly. ``And I
could not help to notice some details of procedures related to its
positioning. Now, were I a suspicious man, I might suspect they'd allow
a clever sort to put off that discussion for weeks, if not months.''

Which had been the very intent. The League of Free Cities as it
currently stood was a derelict taking water, and the situation would
only worsen unless the Hierarch himself intervened. It was unlikely he
would, meaning that waiting for a span might very well see the Tyrant's
power among the League and perhaps the League itself collapse -- and so
make any demands of his utterly irrelevant, for he would no longer have
the knife at the throats to see through his extortion.

``Then we move it up the list,'' the Black Queen shrugged.

``I would not wish to be unseemly in my demands,'' the Tyrant smiled.
``And so, I've a suggestion to offer that could be considered less of an
imposition.''

The smile widened, until all that Cordelia could see was a thin, sharp
slice of teeth and a pulsing red eye.

``Let us hold the trial \emph{now}.''
