webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/tex/Ch-033.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-22-govern}{%
\section{Chapter 22: Govern}\label{chapter-22-govern}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``We do not forget.''}

-- Official motto of the House of Iarsmai
\end{quote}

I hadn't set foot in a House of Light since becoming the Squire, though
to be fair my attendance at the daily sermons had always been shaky.
This wasn't just any house, though: it was the Alban Cathedral, the
beating heart of the faith in Callow. There were hundreds of brothers
and sister here at all times, and Praesi occupation had done nothing to
change it. The priests, after all, had not taken part directly in the
fighting for the capital during the Conquest. They'd healed any who went
through their doors, but none had taken the field. The House of Light
did not concern themselves with who ruled the land, only the souls of
the people who lived on it. Or so they liked to say. Some priests were
more politically-inclined than others: a few of the sermons had been
very harsh on the subject of Evil and its servants, though they'd always
refrained from outright preaching rebellion. That was the line Black had
drawn when conceding freedom of worship in the conquered kingdom.

The main hall was filled with beds when I entered, though thankfully
most of them were empty: with the end of the riots, the influx of
wounded had ceased as well. I left the Gallowborne outside, and for once
Tribune Farrier did not protest: the idea of being at risk here was as
absurd for him as it was to me. White-robed priests stirred when I
strode in, with an older woman coming forward. She did not have any
marks distinguishing her from the others -- the brothers and sisters had
no ranks, and seniority did not always mean authority -- but the simple
fact that she was the one headed for me said it all. She had Deoraithe
blood, I noted. Too pale to have both parents from the Duchy though. The
sister bowed.

``Sermons have been suspended for a sennight, my lady,'' she said.

``The it's a good thing I'm not here for one,'' I replied. ``Take me to
the baroness.''

She smiled with feinted confusion and began to answer, but I cut her off
with a sharp gesture.

``I'm Catherine Foundling,'' I said.

``I am aware, Lady Squire,'' she said.

``Then you should know deceiving an Imperial dignitary while the city is
under martial law qualifies as treason,'' I said. ``Don't make that
mistake. It would get ugly for both us, and I'm not here to hurt her.''

``The cathedral offers refuge to all,'' she insisted.

``Look outside, sister,'' I said tiredly. ``There are no refuges left.
Don't make me ask twice.''

She looked like she'd bitten into a lemon, but didn't protest again.
There were catacombs under the cathedral, every child knew, but people
not sworn to the House of Light were not allowed to set foot in them.
Most of the Fairfax dynasty was buried there, save for the few whose
heads were in the Hall of Screams. I hadn't known for sure there were
rooms other than the graveyard carved out in the foundations, but it was
easy enough to suspect. They had to keep the food somewhere, not to
mention the more contagious patients. Baroness Kendal was in one of the
rooms that served the latter purposed, if I had to guess. I could feel
power coming from the walls that made me uncomfortable, had the Beast
raising its hackles underneath my skin. The whole cathedral was full of
it, but it was particularly pure down here. I wasn't surprised,
considering I could be more than twenty feet away from consecrated
grounds. The sister knocked at the door and the baroness herself opened
it, her arm in a sling.

``Lady Catherine,'' she said, blinking in surprise.

I looked at the priestess.

``You may go,'' I said, and it wasn't a suggestion.

She didn't enjoy that, but I didn't particularly care. I turned to Anne
Kendal, taking in the sight of her. She was still pale, and not in the
pretty way she usually was -- it was the pale of someone who'd bled too
much, not the ivory of good breeding.

``May I come in?'' I asked.

``By all means,'' she replied, moving out of the way.

The room wasn't much to look at. A cot and a small table covered with
fresh linens. A water basin in the corner, and an open book on the bed:
something religious, by the looks of it. The baroness closed the door
behind me.

``I'd invite you to sit down,'' the baroness said, ``but I seem to be
short on furniture.''

``I don't intend to stay long,'' I half-smiled. ``You should sit,
though. You still look like you're recovering.''

``The assassins punctured by lung and cut into my spine,'' she admitted.
``Even the touch of the Heavens has been slow in working.''

\emph{Gods}. I hadn't thought her wounds had been that bad. No wonder
people thought she was dead. And I'd probably let the people who'd done
it go not a bell ago. The taste of self-disgust was thick on my tongue.

``I was aware of the risks when I accepted your offer,'' Kendal
reassured me, misinterpreting the look on my face. ``Praesi play for
keeps.''

``Don't they just,'' I muttered.

So did I, these days. I had a fresh batch of corpses in the city to
prove it.

``I'd heard the Fifteenth had arrived, but I hardly believed it,'' the
baroness, smoothing a silver curl back as she sat on the bed. ``They'd
have had to leave months ago.''

``We went through Arcadia,'' I said.

She stared at me like I'd just grown another head.

``That's\ldots{} possible?'' she said.

``If you're a Duchess of Winter,'' I replied.

She looked genuinely unsure what to say at that. I forgot, now and then,
that the kind of eldritch places I went and the many different creatures
that tried to kill me in them were just legends to most people. Stories
they never expected to see take flesh. I'd lost those kind of
certainties: if it could be real it was and it was probably after my
head for some godforsaken reason.

``Will you be using that as your title?'' she finally asked, which she
probably felt was relatively safe grounds.

``I'm leaving that up in the air until I've had a chat with Her Dread
Majesty,'' I said. ``I don't suppose the priests carried word of what
happened today?''

She shook her head.

``They say isolation from the worries of Creation will allow me to heal
quicker,'' she said.

``Ruling Council's dissolved,'' I said. ``I stormed the palace last
night and had Murad and Satang publicly crucified just before Noon
Bell.''

``Gods save us all,'' she whispered, closing her eyes. ``It is ill-bred
of me to say as much, but they deserved to die. Not this painfully, but
they did.''

``My legionaries will put them out of the misery after sundown,'' I
shrugged. ``Point will have been made by then.''

That was as much pity as I was willing to expend for those two. I only
had so much to spare, and there were many souls more deserving of it.

``If I may ask, who rules Callow then?'' Kendal asked, eyes fluttering
open.

``I do,'' I said. ``But I'm going off to war for Gods know how long.
Congratulations, Baroness Kendal: you've just been appointed
Governess-General of Callow.''

She eyed me carefully.

``There is no such thing,'' she said. ``And if there was, the Empress
would frown upon it.''

``The Empress will have to cope,'' I said. ``And I'll have to give her
something for it, I'm sure. No doubt she'll have her price ready when we
speak.''

``I suppose I should thank you for the privilege,'' she finally said.

``Don't thank me,'' I said. ``I want you to turn this country into
something functional while I go off to kill the people burning it down.
I'll leave you my seal -- that gives you authority over everyone in
Callow who's not in the Legions.''

``The city must be in shambles,'' the baroness sighed.

``Heal quickly, Anne Kendal,'' I said. ``Your home needs you, and so do
I.''

---

In the end, it took two more days before Laure was settled. The
appointment of the Governess-General was met with enthusiasm by the city
-- she was well-known there and better liked -- and quiet distaste by
the legionaries of the Fifth. None of them had forgotten that she'd once
been the Baroness Dormer and one of the foremost nobles of the Liesse
Rebellion. That she had been made the highest-ranking person in Callow
after myself was a bitter bill to swallow. They'd just have to deal with
it: I didn't have anyone else remotely as competent and trustworthy at
my disposal. That made for one fire mostly put out, so on to the next:
the Deoraithe. I'd used the Fifth's mages to scry Marshal Ranker and
inform her I would be headed for Denier immediately, though I couldn't
give her a clear date of arrival. It was a good thing I didn't even try
an estimate, because this time travelling was\ldots{} difficult.

What I took my soldiers through did not look like Winter. Or Summer, for
that matter. Unless I was mistaken we'd marched through the borderlands
between both. It had been deserted on Winter's side, but on the last few
days of the journey we'd begun so see larger and larger patrols from
Summer gathering in the distance. It took us a week, in the end. Still
shorter than it would have taken us through Creation, but inexplicably
longer than it took us to get to Laure from Machford. There did not seem
to be any rhyme or reason to the time spent in Arcadia, and my control
on it was erratic. I'd barely needed to do anything the first way
through, but on this one not getting stuck for months had been a
constant struggle. I did not believe our third way through would go
uncontested.

The gate opened a full day south of Denier, since I'd never been in the
city itself. I allowed my legionaries a bell to recover on these
less-treacherous grounds before beginning the march anew. My two and and
half thousand men came in sight of the city's walls on the evening of
the following day, though the Marshal's scouts found us long before
that. I didn't bother to meet them in person -- Nauk served as a
go-between while I spoke with Hakram. When it came to Legion gossip,
Adjutant was without equals.

``So,'' I said as Zombie trotted at his side. ``Fourth Legion.''

The tall orc shot me an amused look.

``Cognomen \emph{Blackhands},'' he said.

``I already knew that part,'' I complained. ``Everybody knows that.''

``They don't usually know where it's from,'' Hakram gravelled. ``Ranker
was the Matron of the Hungry Dog tribe, before she took up with Lord
Black. She took all goblins of age with her into war and sent the
children to half a dozen other tribes.''

I whistled, reluctantly impressed.

``That's a hell of a bet to make,'' I said. ``He was still an up and
comer back then, and the Empress a relative unknown. Still doesn't tell
me where that cognomen is from.''

``Hungry Dog tribe had a ritual, when time came to choose their
matron,'' Adjutant said. ``All the candidates put their hand in a
brazier -- the one who kept it the longest got to rule.''

``High pain tolerance doesn't mean good leadership,'' I grunted.

``It's about who was willing to suffer the most to get it,'' the orc
said. ``I can respect that. Ranker kept her hand in there for half a
day, long after everybody else had abandoned. Her left hand's a
blackened ruin, and she's refused any healing ever since.''

``And they named an entire legion after that?'' I frowned.

``Officers in the Fourth kept the tradition,'' Hakram said. ``Even those
not goblins. Most of them take healing afterwards, but everybody has to
be willing to burn for power.''

``That feels like it should be against regulations,'' I said, then
glanced at him. ``\ldots{} is it?''

The thing with being Named was that rules only applied to you if you
allowed them to. For example, my relationship with Kilian was
technically breaking a rule about fraternization -- she was under me in
the chain of command. I'd learned the most important of the regs, but
some of the smaller ones I'd, uh, only skimmed. In my defence, there
were a \emph{lot}.

``It's skirting the line about voluntary injuries,'' the orc replied.
``That can qualify as desertion, if you're not careful. But the
Marshal's been with the Carrion Lord since the beginning. Those that
were get to run their legion however they want.''

A woman used to getting her own way, then, and one of the three
highest-ranked military officers in the Empire to boot. I narrowed my
eyes, thinking back to an old Name dream of mine -- she'd been with Grem
One-Eye and Istrid during the civil war. That'd been what, thirty years
ago? And she'd already been a matron candidate before that. I wasn't
clear how old you had to be for that, but at least ten years old felt
like a safe bet. Considering it was rare for a goblin to make it past
thirty-five, that Ranker was at \emph{least} forty was notable.

``How old is she?'' I asked.

``Near sixty,'' Hakram said. ``And no, nobody knows how she made it that
old. Most common guess is that Lord Black had rituals done to extend her
lifespan.''

``He doesn't like using blood magic,'' I frowned, as there was no real
question about what kind of a ritual could be used for such a purpose.
``He would have needed a very good reason.''

``She's the most powerful goblin in the Empire, bar none,'' Adjutant
said. ``And she's a vocal advocate for the Tribes being involved with
the Legions. Pickler says a lot of the Matrons were in favour of going
isolationist after the civil war.''

I raised an eyebrow.

``They made a lot of gains when Malicia won the throne,'' I pointed out.
``Breeding restrictions were lifted and they pretty much run the
Imperial Forges.''

That part hadn't been taught in the histories back at the orphanage, but
it had been in the pile of books Black had dropped into my lap when I
first became the Squire. I'd taken me a few years to understand that
those were meant in part to be a primer to Imperial politics -- by
learning how all the major players had gotten where they were, I could
get a read on what they wanted. Before the civil war the High Lords of
Foramen had owned all the forges in the city, though they'd used goblins
as labour. Malicia had given ownership to the Tribes and only allowed
High Lady Banu to take a cut from the proceeds. A significant one, but
it'd been a sizeable blow to her power base. I'd not been surprised to
learn that she was part of the Truebloods.

``They've always had a bend that way,'' Hakram shrugged. ``And no one
gets involved with the Tower for long without getting burned. I can
understand wanting to take their win and go home.''

I hummed.

``So she's a key player, then,'' I said. ``If she goes, the Matrons
she'd keeping in check get bolder.''

``She's not someone you can bully, Cat,'' he warned. ``She's run Denier
for twenty years and the Fourth is rabidly loyal. Get on her bad side
and even \emph{our} goblins will get restless. She's to the Tribes what
One-Eye is to the Clans.''

The looming figure of an era, he meant. Even Juniper got star struck
when she spoke about Marshal Grem, and she was not a girl who impressed
easy. I allowed the conversation to ebb as I considered what was ahead
of us. Duchess Kegan who'd raised her army of twenty thousand was only
half the problem I had to deal with. I knew what the Deoraithe wanted,
and our shared enemy was common ground enough I was more or less
confident I could point her in the right direction. The question was
whether I could make Marshal Ranker buy into the notion. Marshals
weren't just the Imperial officers with the authority to command several
legions: they had a broader responsibility put on them.

One-Eye was charged with securing the border with the Principate,
Marshal Nim with keeping peace in the Wasteland. Ranker was meant to
keep the Duchy of Daoine in check, positioned near the best crossing of
the Silver Lake's tributary to slow the Deoraithe down if they rebelled.
I had, theoretically, the authority to give her orders. But her
responsibility to keep an eye on Daoine came straight from the Tower,
and that meant gave Ranker at lot of leeway. Malicia's orders came
before anyone else's, no matter the circumstances. I remained silent all
the way to the city, but no solution presented itself.

---

Denier was a sleepy little city, about the size of Summerholm but
nowhere as heavily fortified. It had rarely ever seen fighting: whenever
the Empire had bypassed Summerholm and crossed the Hwaerte, they tended
to go straight from Laure. The city had been stormed during the
Conquest, but it had surrendered after a token resistance -- it was in
no way capable of resisting the likes of what Praesi sappers could
unleash. Its only real military importance came from the fact that it
stood near the easiest crossing into Daoine. Higher up the river the
harsh currents made navigation tricky and the making of a pontoon bridge
nigh impossible. The waters west of the city were almost lazy in
comparison and full of large mud banks. There was no bridge into the
Duchy, of course. That no such thing would be built without the sanction
of the Dukes and Duchess of Daoine had been one of the conditions
written into the treaty that saw Daoine folded into Callow after the
First Crusade. No Fairfax had ever dared to go back on that word, even
when the northerners flouted the authority of the throne.

The greatest general in Callowan history, Elizabeth Alban, had famously
attempted to invade the then-Kingdom of Daoine. By the the Queen of
Blades had already proven her ability by occupying three principalities
of what was not yet the Principate, crushing a Liessen rebellion and
turning back a Praesi invasion. The expectation had been that, within a
few months, the Deoraithe would be made subjects of Callow. Instead
she'd had to slog through the countryside for two long years, losing
thousands to ambushes and night attacks while her supply trains
disappeared. Historians usually noted that given another year she might
have won anyway by forcing a decisive battle at the capital of Daoine,
but the invasion had collapsed when the Praesi had crossed the border
again under Dread Empress Regalia. After the Wastelanders were defeated
and the Empress killed as her flying fortress crashed into Laure, the
Queen of Blades had begun planning a second invasion.

So the Watch had murdered her in her bed, in her own seat of power.

No ruler of Callow had ever forgotten that pointed warning. Had half the
population of Daoine not been wiped out by Dread Empress Triumphant when
she took the continent, the Duchy might very well be a sovereign nation
to this day. A combination of worries about Praesi resurgence even after
Triumphant died and Eleanor Fairfax's deft diplomacy -- helped along by
her famous `friendship' with the Queen of Daoine -- had seen the kingdom
made a duchy, though one so removed from the authority of the throne it
was effectively a vassal state instead of truly a part of Callow. That
state of affairs had been maintained after the Conquest, with regular
tributes and fixed war time obligations being signed over to the Tower
by treaty. My short-lived Ruling Council had changed nothing in that
regard: Duchess Kegan's envoy had flatly refused any notion that they
were subject to its authority and I'd recognized that as a fight I
couldn't win. And wasn't even sure I wanted to, to be honest. Daoine had
always gotten on just fine on its own. \emph{Don't fix it if it ain't
broke.}

The gates were open for us when my soldiers finally made it to Denier,
ranks of legionaries atop the walls watching us. I rode in at a brisk
pace, and only reined in my horse when a Taghreb with the markings of
Staff Tribune headed in my direction with two lines for escort. I
quietly ordered the Gallowborne to allow them passage, though Farrier
saw to it they immediately surrounded the legionaries of the Fourth when
they got lose.

``Lady Squire,'' the olive-skinned man greeted me, sharply saluting.

``Staff Tribune,'' I replied. ``You look like a man carrying a
message.''

``Marshal Ranker asks that you attend to her immediately, ma'am,'' he
said.

I cocked my head to the side.

``My men are not yet settled,'' I said.

``I would handle this myself, my lady,'' he said. ``The Marshal would
like you to that within a bell Duchess Kegan will be crossing the river
with a party to treat with us. If you're to be part of the conference,
you will need to be briefed.''

I smiled at the Taghreb, cursing viciously inside. Well, there went my
plan to work on Ranker for a day or two before talking with the
Deoraithe. One of these days, I was going to force Fate into a physical
manifestation and then I was going to \emph{stab} it.