webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/tex/Ch-012.md.tex

\hypertarget{villainous-interlude-chiaroscuro}{%
\section{Villainous Interlude:
Chiaroscuro}\label{villainous-interlude-chiaroscuro}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``It is a shallow soul who fights to the cry of `might makes
right'. The truth is more concise: might makes.''}

-- Dread Emperor Terribilis I, the Lawgiver
\end{quote}

When young mages were taught the limits of sorcery, one of the first
principle they were introduced to was that of Keter's Due.

The largest sorcerous event ever to take place on Calernia was the
creation of the Kingdom of the Dead by the king known to history as
Trismegistus: a single man had, within the span of ten hours, cursed to
undeath the entire population of an area comparable in size to the
Wasteland. Though of course details were sparse, given that this had
transpired before most of the continent was literate, through the higher
order of mathematics introduced by the Miezans it was possible to piece
together the broad lines of what had unfolded. Though High Arcana
essentially bypassed the need for direct conversion and sympathetic
links that limited lower sorceries, even those mysteries could
ultimately be understood through numbers. A recent understanding, that.
Early magic had been limited by capacity to channel power of
individuals, the mental and physical exhaustion they could take before
the continued manipulation of the laws of Creation burned them out.

The Taghreb had attempted to go beyond those limits by breeding with
supernatural creatures more apt at using sorcery, most notably the djin.
Limited success was attained: to this day, mages born to the southerners
were on average more powerful than those born in the rest of the Empire.
The Soninke solution had been less\ldots{} carnal, and ultimately more
successful: behind the walls of Wolof, the first ritual magic of Praes
had been born. Those early rituals were brusque and inexact, relying
heavily on human sacrifice to make up for deficiencies in what was not
yet know as spell formulas. It was still a massive improvement over
individual forms of sorcery, though this superiority was ultimately the
reason further progress stalled: already having an edge in spellcasting,
the ancient Soninke kingdoms sought to lessen weaknesses instead of
improving a strength. A mistake that cost them in the War of Chains.

As in most things magical, the Miezan occupation changed everything. The
foreigners from across the Tyrian Sea brought across with them Miezan
numerals and the Petronian theory of magic. Though in many ways inferior
to the Trismegistan theory later adopted by the Empire under Dread
Emperor Sorcerous, the Petronian theory turned the ramshackle artistic
ritual efforts of the Soninke mages into a proper method. The energies
released by human sacrifice or other means of fuel began to be
quantified and measured, matched to the requirements in scale and effect
of what the mages set out to achieve. Which ultimately led to the
discovery one of the great limits of sorcery: in the span between the
release of energy and its conversion into a spell effect, whether it be
ritual or individual, some of that energy was lost. Worse, that quantity
of energy was not fixed but proportional to the total sum of energy
released.

What was actually wasted varied from a tenth to fourth when it came to
individual casting, but could go up to seven parts out of ten when it
came to rituals. Though advances in spellcrafting and the theft of the
entirely different Baalite spell formulas inherited by Ashur managed to
lower that proportion, no spellcaster had ever managed to get the waste
under a tenth in any form of sorcery. That tenth was colloquially known
Keter's Due. To turn an entire kingdom into undead, the Dead King in his
capital of Keter was forced to open a stable and permanent portal into
one of the Hells. And while nine tenths of that energy was properly
channelled in ritual, the remaining portion turned the city of Keter
into a warped ruin of anomalous magical phenomenon. The problem of
Keter's Due was that it limited what could be accomplished by ritual
magic if you were in any way invested in where it took place. The larger
and more powerful the ritual, the more dangerous the waste of power
released.

Akua's intentions were of titanic scale, which meant this was a titanic
problem.

Turning Liesse into a ritual array had been achievable, especially after
the widespread sabotage of all major infrastructure that had followed
her taking stewardship of the city. Who exactly was responsible for
that, she was still unsure. It had been too subtly wrought to be
Foundling's doing, and too moderate a retaliation to be the Lord
Black's. That left the Empress, but there was no way the woman would
have allowed her control of the city if she actually knew what Akua
intended. Her best guess was that she had not been the target at all,
which was somewhat amusing if an irritation. Even with that interlude,
Akua had been satisfied with the gain she'd made in the rebellion.
Liesse's wall ran with old and powerful wards, and the city had been
built by the corpse of an angel. Tying both those assets into her own
project had been a highly stimulating magical puzzle, one she'd been
working on since the age of thirteen. And she had done it.

Akua was genuinely regretful that there was no one should could trust
enough to boast of the achievement. It might be the single greatest
accomplishment of her life. It was, though, somewhat of a comfort that
eventually every living soul in Calernia would tremble at the mention of
it. Powering the array had been the first issue, and one she'd come very
close to solving at the Battle of Liesse: imprisoning a Hashmallim would
have given her everything she needed and more. Unfortunately, Foundling
had turned the Lone Swordsman's blunder to her own purposes. Akua was
not a debutante trying to pull off her first poisoning, so of course
she'd had alternatives prepared. Fuelling anything of this size with
demons was asking for trouble, considering the Due, so she'd had to look
into gods. Securing the entity that dwelled in the heart of the Greywood
had proved unfeasible, but her second target had panned out. Mostly.

The seventeen conduits she'd had her agents acquire -- to the cost of
many, mnay lives -- were kept under enchanted sleep in chambers below
the Ducal Palace. The seeking rituals she'd done had revealed that the
entity they were bound to was artificial, not a natural force, but that
made no real difference. According to her calculations it was even more
powerful than the Hashmallim had been, which was a boon as well as a
curse. When a stable binding was established and she triggered the
array, Keter's Due would effectively wipe Liesse and its immediate
surroundings off the map. That was not an acceptable result, since she
would be on the premises and fully intended on staying human. That was
arguably the brilliant part of what she'd achieved with her array. She
had found a way to still use the waste energy, what could be construed
as a pre-conversion escapement that effectively negated the downsides of
such a large ritual. Given the scale of the entity she'd found, however,
she'd had to revise her schematics and broaden the size of the array's
escapement.

That meant more stone needed, more time and an ever-growing list of
liabilities.

Secrecy was paramount: the moment the Named of the Empire became aware
of what she was making they would immediately move to destroy her.
Though she'd prepared Liesse for assault, Akua was not ready to face the
full might of the Legions of Terror. Her infiltration and co-option of
both the Scribe's and the Empress' spy networks in Liesse was a
temporary state of affairs. The longer she had to falsify the
information coming out of the city, the higher the chances her agents
would be caught and purged. Already Malicia had flushed out the first
level of her infiltration, and even if she was abroad Scribe would catch
up eventually. The Webweaver was a tool, not a player, but she was a
\emph{very} effective tool. There were, of course, more pressing
threats. The worst of which had been unleashed by Foundling, who seemed
to have a bottomless bag of talented lunatics to throw at Akua's plans.

The heiress to Wolof was about due another of her backers coming to a
grisly end, so her mood was already cautious when she allowed Fasili
into her solar. There was no point in shuffling the parchments on her
desk -- she knew better than to keep anything compromising where there
weren't two dozen highly lethal wards forbidding entry to anyone but
her. There were only seven safekeeping this room, a mere warning by
Praesi standards. The Soninke bowed after entering, lower than he should
to anyone not the Empress. Fasili was a fair hand at flattery, a skill
helped along by the stunning good looks bred into all highborn Praesi.

``Lady Akua,'' he greeted her. ``Gods turn a blind eye to your
schemes.''

``Lord Fasili,'' she replied, affecting warmth.

She didn't particularly care for him, though he was useful. Having the
heir to the High Lordship of Aksum on her side opened doors and brought
resources, even if he was semi-openly feuding with the woman who
actually ruled that region. If she'd not been Named he would have been
sizing her up for a dagger in the back to afterwards usurp control of
her own faction, but as it was she was untouchable. That didn't make him
trustworthy in the slightest, but it did mean he was not a rival. He was
a danger mostly to her other supporters, squabbling for the position as
her right hand. For now, there was no need to deny him the perception
that he was.

``I bring unfortunate tidings,'' the man spoke in Mtethwa. ``Another
patrol has been destroyed.''

\emph{Surprising}, the Named thought. After Foundling's goblin had begun
killing off her patrols she'd ceased using Praesi and had instead
conscripted Callowans, knowing Squire would be reluctant to kill her
countrymen. Maybe enough to recall her tool to Marchford, if he killed a
few.

``She has gained in ruthlessness,'' Akua said.

There was an undertone of approval to her voice. She'd learned the hard
way not to underestimate the other woman, and seeing Squire adopt the
more enlightened attitudes of the Praesi did not entirely displease her.
It did not benefit her, of course, but Akua having strong enemies meant
that Evil itself was strong. A skilled enemy was often more useful than
an inept ally.

``Though you are no doubt correct,'' Fasili said, ``in this instance the
deaths lack the marks of the \emph{other}'s agents.''

Akua's lips quirked the slightest bit at the word the man had used.
Other\emph{. Nyengana}, in Lower Miezan. The connotations did not carry
across the languages. It meant \emph{not us, therefore inferior.} Not
other tongue on Calernia offered such a broad selection of terms to
convey contempt as that of her people. The amusement was, however,
fleeting.

``But it does bear marks,'' she prompted.

``A survivor was left,'' Fasili said. ``He claims their patrol fell prey
to a hunting party of fae from the Summer court.''

Akua's face remained the picture of serenity.

``Not unexpected,'' she smoothly lied. ``Though ahead of my
predictions.''

The \emph{fae}? What in the name of the Dark Gods were they doing so far
out of the Waning Woods? She'd been aware that Foundling was having
trouble with the Winter court since the very first incident -- the
bastard Taghreb with the odious name Squire had running her spy network,
though a talented amateur, was still an amateur -- but she'd chalked
that up to unforeseen side effects of using a demon of Corruption. Even
Triumphant, may she never return, had only used those sparingly. Within
a decade the thinning of borders would have fixed itself without any
need for intervention, and if it kept Squire busy until then all the
better. This, though? This was not a coincidence. If both courts were
making a move on\ldots{} Well, what they were attacking was the crux of
the issue here, wasn't it? It was unlikely to be the Empire, which left
the unfortunate possibility it could be Callow itself. That could be
problematic, given that almost the entire extent of her resources was
tied up in the former kingdom.

The heiress to Wolof delicately grasped her decanter of Praesi wine and
poured herself a cup, then one for Fasili as well. The other Soninke
bowed his head in appreciation and took a seat when she wordlessly
invited him to. He discreetly passed his palm over the cup before taking
it in hand, skilled enough that the alchemical pellet of lesser
antidotes made no sound when it sunk into the wine. For all that High
Lady Abreha seemed to think little of her heir, Akua had found him to be
everything a noble of Praes should be: ruthless, patient and subtle.
He'd already arranged the disgrace of two possible rivals for his
position since he'd returned to her court, in both cases through a
dizzying series of catspaws and intermediaries. If she'd not had two
devils discreetly tailing his every move, she might even have missed
some of the intricacies of his plots. As it was, Fasili was in the palm
of her hand. She knew who he was sleeping with, who his enemies were and
where his coin was kept. It would be the work of a slow afternoon to
destroy him, if the mood ever struck her.

She wouldn't, of course. The other Soninke was a talented commander of
men -- though not as talented as Ghassan had been, before Foundling had
ripped out his soul -- and his schemes occupied enough of the players in
her court that they had no occasion to dig too deep into her own
activities. He'd made one attempt to investigate that himself, but the
man he'd bribed to transcribe her architectural plans had been made to
disappear the same day, along with the entire chain of intermediaries
used. The message had been duly received and no further attempt ever
made. Akua did like to deal with intelligent men: she never had to
repeat herself. Sipping at her wine -- her own pellet had already been
at the bottom of the cup when she'd poured -- the Soninke allowed
herself to enjoy the taste of home. This particular one was from the
outskirts of Nok, the grapes grown there tinkered with over centuries so
they would pair well with the taste of antidote.

It was something of a faux pas among the nobility to serve wine where
one could taste one's precautions.

``We'll narrow our patrol routes and double the numbers deployed with
each,'' Akua said.

Fasili inclined his head, allowing the faint trace of a smile to touch
his full lips. He \emph{would} be amused, Akua thought. Like most
war-inclined aristocrats in the Wasteland, the man knew the deployment
doctrines of the Legions of Terror inside out even if he'd never stepped
foot inside the War College. This particular measure was straight out of
the treatises penned by Marshal Grem One-Eye, as they both knew. Most
Wastelanders never bothered to read those, preferring to settle for what
had been written by the Black Knight who, even if Duni, was still
Praesi. Neither Akua nor Fasili, however, had been inclined to pass on
the insights of the greatest military mind of their age simply because
it had been born inside a greenskin body. Though Malicia's dismissal of
everything the Empire stood for was a mistake, it would be just as much
of a mistake not to learn from the successes she had gained from a
degree of practicality. Talent must be used wherever it was found. That
much the Dread Empress had divined correctly.

``I've been given to understand that the Moderates are gaining ground,''
Fasili said, tone casual. ``Rumours imply that High Lady Amina might
formally withdraw from the Truebloods.''

Which would mean Foramen and the Imperial Forges were not longer aligned
with Akua's mother, cutting off another means of influence for the
Truebloods. High Lady Amina was owed half a tenth of any profits made by
the Imperial Forges, making her one of the single wealthiest individuals
in Praes. Losing those coffers -- as well as the knowledge of the
quantity and location of any armament made in the forges filling them --
would be a major blow. The Named sipped calmly at her wine, then arched
an eyebrow.

``Inconsequential,'' she finally said.

Fasili managed to hide his surprise well enough that the only detail to
betray it was the slight widening of his eyes. Akua watched the gears
grind behind that handsome face, almost amused. If she was not bothered
by the Truebloods falling apart, it meant that she was no longer
dependant on them for backing. The implication there being she'd either
struck deals with individual members of the faction that made their
affiliation irrelevant -- which she had -- or that she intended to
strike out on her own. Which she did, in a manner of speaking. She would
not turn away the allies Foundling's reckless accumulation of troops was
gaining her, but the days where her efforts had been an extension of her
mother's designs were coming to an end. It would be strange, to stand
without the protection the woman had afforded her all these years even
if she hated her. Strange and exhilarating. The cage was finally
breaking.

``Do you ever get tired, Lord Fasili?'' Akua asked suddenly.

The man blinked.

``Of?''

``This,'' she said, tone whimsical. ``Of what we are. Of what we do.''

There was wariness in those eyes now. He was wondering if she was trying
to entrap him in some way, to make him misstep so that she could bind
him closer to her will. Akua could have told herself she didn't know why
she was speaking with this man, someone she could use but not trust, but
that would have been lying to herself. \emph{Because Barika is dead.}
The pang of loss there surprised her, as it always did. Praesi did not
have friends and confidantes, she'd always been told. They were too
obvious a target, too large a liability. And yet on most days she still
turned to her left to share a thought, only after realizing that the
girl she would speak to was long dead. Barika was not the costliest loss
she'd incurred at Liesse, but it was the one she felt the most often.

``Never,'' Fasili replied. ``My line is that of kings and Empresses. It
would be a disgrace to reach for lesser prizes.''

In most cultures, Akua mused, one of her closest allies admitting to
wanting a throne he believed she herself coveted would have been cause
for a rift. For Praesi, though, it was duly expected. Ambition was bred
into them before they were even born. Each High Lord and Lady saw to it
their inheritors were more beautiful, more intelligent, more powerful
than their predecessors. Some families had eschewed the Gift in their
ruling line, for necromancy and diabolism often complicated the
succession, but those that hadn't always brought in the most powerful
mage they could secure. Praesi aristocrats were expected to always look
\emph{forward.} If they could not claim the Tower or a Name, they were
to strengthen the family and prepare the grounds for their successors to
surpass them. For any trueborn Praesi to not attempt to reach the
heights their ancestors had touched, to never try to go even further,
was\ldots{} blasphemy. Turning your back on everything that had come
before you, all that set you apart from those beneath you.

Fasili Mirembe has assessed he could not currently claim the Tower or
become an independent force through a Name, so he had aligned himself
with Akua. Through this he sought to better his position, gain material
advantages and favours that would allow him to either further the
interests of Aksum or his own. Most likely he intended on being her
Chancellor, if she became Dread Empress, and bide his time until he
could knife her and become the Emperor himself. None of this offended
her. Ambitions like these were what kept her people sharp, what set
apart Praesi from the rest of Calernia. Akua's people never settled for
what they had been born with, never allowed themselves to stagnate. The
Dread Empire had gone through hundreds of different faces and iterations
before it had conquered Callow, but in the end it \emph{had}. Because
the Kingdom of Callow had been the same since its foundation, while
Praes shifted with every Tyrant. And now Dread Empress Malicia wanted to
kill the very soul of their nation.

Borders set in stone, never to advance again. The wonders of sorcery
that were the envy of the continent, suppressed or abandoned. The High
Lords, the very whip that drove Praes to improve, neutered into
irrelevance in a fate more insulting than mere extermination. Centuries
of toil to make the orcs a warrior caste incapable of functioning
without the Tower thrown to the wayside by granting them authority. The
goblins, who would always answer to their Matrons above anyone else,
allowed to sink their claws in the Legions of Terror. Oh, Akua knew what
was being done. Malicia and her Knight were making Praes a nation where
the power was in the hands of institutions, not Named. An Empire that
was no longer malleable for every Tyrant to make into whatever tool they
needed to overcome the forces of Good. A fixed monolith, bound together
by a philosophy that was nore more than the absence of philosophy. A
nation that did not stand for anything but standing.

``Do you know why the Truebloods are losing, Fasili?'' she asked.

``My great-aunt has splintered the opposition,'' he replied immediately.
``Without a united front, Malicia cannot be overcome.''

Akua smiled, the open display of emotion making him uncomfortable.

``They were never going to win,'' she said. ``After the civil war, when
she set aside Black's cold hate and refrained from a war of
extermination against the nobility, we came to believe the Empress was
one of us. That she played the Great Game.''

``Iron sharpens iron,'' the other Soninke murmured.

\emph{And the sharpest iron takes the throne}, she finished silently.
Praes would always be strong, for only the strongest could claim the
Tower. Every child that mattered was taught this from the cradle.

``But she doesn't, Fasili,'' Akua said. ``This whole time we've been
trying to win the same way we did with the Maleficents of the
Terribilises of olden days. Acknowledging she has touched greatness but
knowing that to grow again the Empire needs a fresh Tyrant. One still
hungry.''

``The Empress has achieved more than almost any before her,'' Fasili
conceded reluctantly. ``It is then her due to keep power longer than
almost any before her. This changes nothing. In time she will lose her
way and be overthrown.''

``She won't be,'' Akua said. ``Because while we schemed for advancement,
to be her successors, she has waged a war of destruction on us. And a
few months ago, she won.''

The dark-skinned woman brushed hear hair back, though it was perfectly
styled.

``She barred the office of Chancellor, the most important ward against
reigns that linger,'' Akua began to enumerate. ``She opened the highest
ranks of the Legions and the bureaucracy to lowborn and greenskins,
smothering our influence there. With Callowan grain she has made field
rituals irrelevant, severing the bond that kept the lesser nobility
dependant on us. Trade with Callow has established sources of wealth we
do not control, ending our ability to win through coin. All we have left
is the court, where we claw at each other for ever-lessening gains and
she smiles down at the corpses.''

Fasili had gone very, very quiet. He eyed her with barely-veiled horror.

``She's not trying to win the Game,'' she said. ``That wouldn't matter.
No one can win forever. She'd trying to \emph{end} the Game.''

``Then we must rebel,'' he said. ``\emph{Now}, while we still can. If
you bring this to the attention of the High Lords, they will back you.
To do otherwise would be folly.''

Akua drank daintily from her cup.

``They already know, Fasili,'' she said. ``The hard truth of it is that
if we wage war, we will lose. We cannot beat the Legions, and the
Legions are loyal. Lord Black will not turn on his mistress and the
Warlock bound the soul of the last envoy to a chamber pot. The
Truebloods attempted to win through guile, and they have failed. My
mother clings to her crumbling plans and grows desperate, while the
weak-willed among them seek to surrender.''

She met his eyes calmly.

``For that is what the Moderates are: a surrender. Do not think
otherwise for a moment,'' Akua said. ``In exchange for survival and
scraps of influence, they turn themselves into coffers and spell
repositories for Malicia to plunder as she wills.''

``I will not allow my blood, a line that goes back to the \emph{War of
Chains}, to be used as a fucking \emph{court ornament},'' Fasili barked,
eyes burning. ``Evil does not surrender. Evil does not bow to
inevitability. We spit in the eye of the Heavens and steal our
triumphs.''

Akua allowed the unsightly display of emotion to pass without comment.
It was not unwarranted, when one learned one's entire way of life was
teetering on the edge of destruction.

``I never believed in the Trueblood cause,'' Akua admitted idly. ``At
the heart of their movement there was a sliver of hypocrisy. They
believed their ways are superior, and therefore they should lead Praes.
But if their ways were truly superior, would they not already be
ruling?''

``\emph{Their} ways,'' Fasili repeated, eyes narrowed. ``You speak as if
they are not yours as well.''

``You've read the treatises of Grem One-Eye,'' she replied. ``So have I.
Would your parents have? I know my mother did not, and many consider her
mind as sharp as the Empress'.''

``There is a difference between reading the words of the foremost
general in the Empire and discarding everything we are,'' the other
Soninke flatly retorted.

``The duty of our predecessors was to make us more than they were,''
Akua said. ``They have succeeded in this: that is why we see a brilliant
tactician instead of mouthy greenskin brute. For ages we've sought to
forge better bodies, better sorceries, better minds -- and yet we fight
the same ways we've done since Maleficent first took a dagger in the
back. We improve capacity without ever addressing \emph{perspective}.''

``If that were true,'' Fasili replied, ``we would not be having this
conversation.''

``We're not having this conversation because of our families,'' the
dark-skinned woman said. ``The Empress is the one who forced our eyes
open.''

``The Empress would see us eradicated,'' the heir to Aksum hissed. ``And
she is \emph{succeeding}.''

``And for that,'' Akua replied quietly, ``We owe her much. Fasili, when
was the last time that we were truly in danger? Not of losing the throne
to another of the great families or of failing another invasion. When
was the last time the High Lords and Ladies faced \emph{extinction}?''

The man bit his tongue, then actually thought.

``The Second Crusade,'' he said. ``When the first revolt against the
crusader kingdoms failed.''

``And from those ruins rose Dread Emperor Terribilis II,'' Akua said.
``One of our greatest, and a Soninke highborn. He did things differently
from his predecessors and turned back two Crusades.''

``And so we should surrender to our superior on the throne?'' Fasili
said bitterly.

``You miss my point,'' she said. ``We flirted with destruction and we
became \emph{better}. Seven hundred years have passed since then,
Fasili, without ever being in such a situation. We've become soft since
then, narrow-minded. Arrogant.''

She smiled thinly.

``And so the Hellgods put us through the crucible again,'' she said.
``\emph{Adapt or perish}. Are we relics to be discarded, or the beating
heart of what it means to be Praesi?''

``We're not done,'' he said. ``We're never done.''

``My mother,'' Akua said, ``would have me be the swan song of Praesi
villainy. The last stand, raging against the dying of the night. But our
parents succeeded, Fasili. They made us better than them. We can
\emph{learn}.''

``Take what made them successful,'' the man said slowly. ``Make it
ours.''

``Praes is a story,'' she said. ``A Tyrant to lead us. A Black Knight to
break heroes. A Warlock to craft wonders. A Chancellor to rule behind
them. And an Empire like clay, to shape into the tool they need: an
entire nation built to empower the ambitions of a single villain.''

``Our Empress rules,'' he murmured. ``Our Black Knight leads. Our
Warlock crafts nothing and our Chancellor \emph{is} nothing. All the
while the Empire calcifies into institutions, impossible to move.''

\emph{Yes}. Finally, he was beginning to understand. None of them were
acting as they should, not in the way that mattered. Malicia was more
Chancellor than Empress, Lord Black had reigned as king in all but name
for twenty years and the Warlock learned without ever building. They
were trying to change the story but oh, they had not thought that
entirely through had they? Because once the changes began, they were no
longer in control. Anyone with the right power could shape the story
too. Akua looked at them, and she did not see rulers. She saw stewards.
They had made themselves to be administrators, and in Praes those ever
only had one function: to enable the designs of the villain above them.

``Foundling came closest to understanding,'' Akua said. ``It's how she
beat me, at Liesse. It wasn't her Name she used.''

Akua drained the last of her cup, gently put it down on the desk.

``It's never been about the Names, you see,'' the Diabolist smiled.
``It's always about the \emph{Roles}.''