webcrawl/APGTE/Book-4/tex/Ch-052.md.tex

\hypertarget{fatalism-i}{%
\section{Fatalism I}\label{fatalism-i}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``There is enough room to fit the entire span of Creation between
the Heavens and the mouths of priests.''}

-- Antoine Merovins, twenty-second First Prince of Procer
\end{quote}

It'd been the Battle of the Camps that started the fire.

Cordelia, in retrospect, could see how it had all unfolded. If the army
under Amadis Milenan had been defeated by mortal arms it might have been
possible to smother the first flames before they caught, but the Black
Queen had not deigned to offer that opportunity. The Prince of Iserre
could have been ruined in the High Assembly if he'd blundered and lost
dozens of thousands on some Callowan field to a superior general, but
who could castigate him for deaths borne from the \emph{sky} opening
over his army? You might as well blame a man for a storm or an
earthquake. Milenan had then made pacts with the Callowans and promptly
surrendered himself into their hands as a guarantor of that truce. He
was a folk hero in Alamans lands, now. The selfless prince who had put
his life in the hands of the savages to spare his soldiers a slow and
painful death. A true exemplar of Proceran \emph{noblesse oblige}. His
royal confederates had not even waited until they returned to the
Principate before beginning to lionize the man through letters and
songs. Even rats could man a ship, when the alternative was sinking.

There could be no serious effort to place the blame on the Grey Pilgrim,
either, even if he had been the informal leader of the Chosen with the
northern host. Aside from the Levantine hero's own leave of absence as a
hostage in Laure, it would have hollowed the Grand Alliance from within
to besmirch the reputation the Dominion's favourite son. Alienated quite
a few heroes as well, and not only those that shared his origins. Every
report Cordelia had received about the short assembly of every Chosen
before they split between armies had hammered home the implication that
the White Knight might be the presumptive leader of the heroes of the
Tenth Crusade but that the Peregrine was highly influential. Mobilizing
Chosen was like herding cats at the best of times, and the First Prince
felt ill at the notion of having to do so after having publicly
disgraced their communal kindly grandfather. In the face of earthly
powers, the heroes tended to close ranks: they would see this as an
outright attack.

In the end, no one could be blamed -- which meant everyone was to blame.
Especially the Black Queen and her cadre of wicked fae and perfidious
villains, served willingly by her armies of Callowan heretics, but
there'd been no lack of fault thrown about within the Principate. Most
of it had been laid at her feet. She was losing grip on the princes,
she'd said. After all, her own subjects had preferred making truce with
the Black Queen to fighting until the end. The Levantines had snickered
in the beards, making sly comments about the worth of Proceran soldiery.
Cordelia had spent many a sleepless night containing the damage, making
pacts across the entire eastern belt of principalities to ensure the
retreating army would be supplied and reinforced on its march south to
join her uncle in waging war against the Carrion Lord. It had all come
to nothing, as not even a fortnight passed before the news of the bloody
draw at the Red Flower Vales reached Salia.

In terms of fighting forces, the battle had been costly yet no great
wound. Military superiority had been maintained by a wide enough margin
the remaining armies of the Black Knight could be ground to dust on an
open field. In matters of reputation, however? It had been a crippling
blow. Uncle Klaus' repute would not be so fragile a single reversal
would upend it, but the Lycaonese had \emph{enemies} in the south. Like
poison in the wine the rumours had spread that the Iron Prince had grown
doddering in his old age. That Cordelia had known of his senility yet
ignored in an attempt to bring glory to her kin. It had been a crack in
her pedestal, and now the jackals had bared their teeth. The coalition
of royalty that had seen her rise to the throne, Lycaonese and northern
Alamans, had remained loyal. But the the edges of her majority in the
Highest Assembly had frayed. The tipping point had been one of the
harshest arguments she'd had with her uncle that she could remember.
She'd wanted him to split the army at the Vales and send half of it in
pursuit of the Carrion Lord's legions, but he had flatly refused. Bayeux
would burn, he'd said, and perhaps Aisne as well -- but then the Praesi
would find themselves surrounded and crushed. By remaining at the Vales
he was forcing Callow to remain on the defensive and readying the snatch
the initiative as soon as the passes were cleared.

In matters of military strategy, Cordelia trusted none more than Klaus
Papenheim. Yet he was failing to see the broader canvas in which he took
action: the Prince of Bayeux had signified that his vote could no longer
be counted on the very evening he'd learned that his principality would
see no reinforcements. His kinswoman in Aisne put forward a motion of
protest in the Assembly the following day, and though it was defeated it
could be understood from the public denunciation that her vote would no
longer be for sale at further sessions. In the wake of that blow, like
carrion to carnage, the self-proclaimed Kingdom of Callow had sent
formal request to join the Grand Alliance.

The feeding frenzy that ensued was a \emph{heinous} thing.

It'd been impossible to keep it quiet. Half a dozen Ashuran committees
would be presented with the papers, and it was a certainty at least one
of the sitters among them would have a loose tongue -- and that was
without even considering the Levantines, whose lords and ladies argued
about even their \emph{own} state secrets in broad daylight. The
viciousness of the rhetoric that followed surprised even the First
Prince, who had once believed she knew the worst the Assembly had to
peddle. The Arlesites principalities had been lukewarm at the notion,
many more concerned by the massing armies of the League than any matters
Callowan, but the Alamans? Three different princes spent half an
Assembly session railing at the heresy inherent in treating with a woman
the House of Light had declared abomination. War on Callow must be
prosecuted to the last holdout, every trace of Evil scoured from that
backwards kingdom even if it took torches to see the business done. A
choice had to be made, then, in how Cordelia would spend her influence.
She could either make quiet concessions and assurances behind closed
doors so that no coalition of princes numerous enough to unseat her
formed, or she could call in every favour she'd accumulated since her
crowning to have the proposal shoved through the Highest Assembly's
throat.

She'd been teetering on the brink of a decision, when Catherine
Foundling called on her. That hard-eyed young woman bearing a mantle of
power with eerie nonchalance, speaking of peace and treaties and
alliances even as she raised thousands from the dead and split the sky
asunder with her wrath. The greatest warlord of their age, with a string
of impossible victories to her name -- against her own people, yes, but
also the Wasteland and the legendary hosts of the fae. She'd murdered a
god, it was whispered. She had tricked a Choir into resurrecting her,
laughed in the face of the mercy it offered. It took will, Cordelia
knew, to deny even the shadow of the Heavens. That smiling girl in faded
plate had borne the full weight of their hatred and \emph{walked away
whole}. Her madness must be one beyond measure. What kind of titanic
arrogance did it take for a young girl to believe she knew better than
even the Gods? And yet when she had sat across Cordelia in that strange
shadowed world, she had made a reasonable offer. Abdication, if on her
own terms. Alliance against the Empire, for assurances of Callowan
independence. And so the First Prince had hesitated.

Then reality had come calling, of course. It was a tempting offer, as
devils were wont to provide, but it would shatter the Grand Alliance.
The Dominion's highborn would never brook such a compromise willingly,
and twisting their arm into accepting it would make it certain Levant
would withdraw from the Alliance the moment the Tenth Crusade ended. The
Thalassocracy might agree, as Magon Hadast misliked having his finest
war fleets abroad while Nicae stirred near his belly, but it was no sure
thing. And if Cordelia accepted the Callowan offer, backed it in the
Highest Assembly and proposed it to the Grand Alliance only for it to be
spurned by her own allies? She would be unseated within the month. For a
moment she dared to walk the line anyway, to try to secure such an
overwhelming diplomatic \emph{triumph} that not a soul would be able to
deny she had won the war with words instead of swords. It failed, of
course. Foundling trusted her no more than Cordelia trusted the other
woman, and seemed to have grown more reluctant to slay her people since
the Liesse Rebellion -- even if such a sacrifice would ultimately result
in a lesser loss of lives. It had been the correct choice, she knew.

And still, sometimes, she thought of the cold bleakness in the Black
Queen's eye. Of the woeful oath she'd spoken. She did not sleep well, on
those nights, if she slept at all. Her attendants had grown skilful at
masking the circles around her eyes with powders, and brews by the
palace alchemists kept her sharp when rest eluded her. Cordelia felt a
well of gratitude for her handmaidens, smiling at the envoys she was
sharing tea with. They would have pounced on even the smallest hint of
weakness. Ashurans of the sixth citizenship tier were notoriously
cutthroat.

``The matter of partition will need to be addressed in writing sooner or
later, Your Most Serene Highness,'' the tanned young man said.

Ahirom Seneqart, his name was. He was a frequent patron of the pleasure
house nearest to the palace, and quite loquacious after sharing a bed
with nubile young men. Never less than two. A man of great appetites,
this one. Cordelia, as the ruling Princess of Salia, had naturally
inherited the ancient web of informants that counted every madam and
bawd in the capital. It was ancient Proceran custom to sift through the
pillow-talk of foreign envoys to better outwit them.

``You are most correct, Sitter Ahirom,'' the First Prince said.

No coquettish smile for this one. His tastes ran exclusively to the
other sex, if his spending habits were any indication. Instead she
sipped daintily at her cup -- an Ashuran leaf from Smyrna, as a courtesy
-- before setting down the porcelain.

``Yet it strikes me as premature to set in stone such terms before the
end of the crusade has come in sight,'' she continued. ``I have long
admired the methods of the people of Ashur, who ever choose steady
deliberation over hasty mistakes.''

``The people of Ashur have deliberated over this matter, First Prince,''
Ahirom's grim-faced companion replied. ``The conclusion is being
presented to you.''

The other speaker for the committee assigned the task of overseeing the
Thalassocracy's actions within the Grand Alliance. A woman, this one,
and in Cordelia's opinion quite the incompetent. Sitter Adonia had quite
the imposing presence, tall and well-proportioned with long dark hair
going down to the small of her back. She'd been a fleet commander of
some renown, before rising two tiers in the wake of her crushing of a
small armada of corsairs form the Tideless Isle. Quite good with a
cutlass, allegedly, but in matters of diplomacy she was the proverbial
stone hitting the glass house. She'd been appointed to the committee as
a voice for the fleets, Cordelia reminded herself. She was not meant to
be a proper envoy, merely the eyes of Ashur's soldiery in the Grand
Alliance.

``It was my understanding that Thalassina has yet to be breached,''
Cordelia said, keeping her pleasant smile. ``And that High Admiral
Hadast's glorious victory at Nok was followed by a withdrawal.''

A polite way to remind the jackals that requesting that the Wasteland's
only two ports be ceded to Ashur after the conquest of the Empire was
somewhat laughable considering the Ashurans had yet to establish any
significant presence on the ground. The raids from the coast had to be
costing Malicia quite a bit, but they were only that -- costly. The
Empire still had nearly all its legions in the field, and the sack of
Nok had evidently failed to trigger a war of usurpation.

``Let me be clearer,'' Sitter Adonia said bluntly. ``There will be no
repeat of the crusader kingdoms. That method of dismantling Praes has
failed. The Thalassocracy agrees with the Dominion's proposal of forced
deportation. When this is implemented, it is only natural for Ashur to
inherit the coastal lands of Praes. No other are fit to hold them.''

Cordelia sipped at her tea in silence, eyeing Sitter Ahirom and his
uncomfortable look. The implication that the other two signatories of
the Grand Alliance would force Procer to agree to certain terms after
the Tenth Crusade was impolitical to speak, even if it might be true in
essence. Sitter Adonia had failed to mention, naturally, that the
Levantines were not all behind that deportation proposal. A significant
portion of the Majilis was arguing for the more moderate position of
Praes being purged of its aristocracy and portioned into small Alliance
protectorates. A few were arguing for outright massacre, but they had
yet to gain any real support. Thank the Gods for that.

``My fellow sitter meant no slight, Most Serene Highness,'' Sitter
Ahirom said, smiling embarrassedly. ``Ashur remains committed to all
treaties signed, and would never seek to influence the decisions of the
Alliance in an unseemly manner. We merely request that the Principate
begin to consider the shape of the crusade's aftermath.''

``A most reasonable request,'' Cordelia mildly said. ``Yet a full
session of the Highest Assembly is not feasible to call with so many
princes and princesses warring far from Salia. A treaty of this
magnitude would require more than two thirds of the Assembly to be
present and acquiescent, without any surrogate casting. You may rest
assured, however, that I will raise the matter with the appropriate
parties to prepare the grounds.''

``There's no need to play coy, First Prince,'' Sitter Adonia sneered.
``We understand how these matters proceed. The committee is willing to
recommend to Magon Hadast that the Red Flower Vales, along with Ankou
and all attendant lands, be recognized as a natural extension of the
Principate.''

It had been a very long time, Cordelia thought, since anyone had tried
to bribe her with such open contempt. Setting aside that any occupation
of Callowan land would turn into a brutal grind of constant banditry and
rebellions -- they were, for the Heavens' sake, a people that
\emph{prided} themselves on inheriting grudges from generation to
generation -- Cordelia had absolutely no intention of annexing any part
of Callow. Would she split it into several kingdoms? Absolutely. It was
necessary to ensure that the Black Queen's surviving partisans would not
be able to mount any significant bid for power until her memory had
faded among the populace and could no longer serve as an effective
rallying cry. There were already separatist currents within the region,
anyway. The northern baronies were near a kingdom of their own, the
Duchy of Daoine was independent even when it bothered to pretend
otherwise, and most the south had remained under aristocratic rule until
mere years ago: the people there, unlike those who'd lived for decades
under Imperial governors, had never entirely abandoned the old Callowan
way of life. In the face of the insolent sitter's gaffe, Cordelia
allowed displeasure to touch her face for the first time since they'd
begun this audience. She cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the other
Ashuran.

``An interesting position,'' she said, a mite coldly, ``for the
Thalassocracy to take. I am not in the habit of carelessly disposing of
lands, nor do I take kindly to attempted \emph{bribes}.''

The man looked like he'd plunged his hand into a brazier, and the look
her sent at his colleague promised a hard conversation.

``My fellow sitter misspoke, Most Serene Highness,'' he said. ``It
appears the coldness of these lands had inflicted her with some manner
of fever. Please forget anything that was said.''

``I am saddened to hear that the weather has left Sitter Adonia
indisposed,'' Cordelia said pleasantly. ``Perhaps she should be allowed
to rest, I simply could not bear to be responsible for the ill-health of
a treasured ally.''

The woman looked furious, but after locking eyes with the other envoy
she bit her tongue.

``We would not impose on your patience any longer, First Prince,'' the
man said. ``Yet before we take our leave, might I raise a small
matter?''

Cordelia debated instructing them to pass the request along to one of
her officials as a polite chiding for the utter lack of manners Adonia
had offered, but after a moment decided against it. Best to have Sitter
Ahirom owe her a small favour instead. He was more malleable clay than
most among his committee, and holding the debt without ever calling it
in would make him more hesitant to contradict her in sessions where the
Levantines were in attendance.

``It would be my pleasure,'' she said, demurely inclining her head.

Ahirom's smile was rueful. He knew very well what he'd just surrendered.

``A delegation of Speakers from the homeland has recently arrived in the
city,'' he said, if she hadn't known they were coming months before they
ever came in sight of Salia. ``They mean to consult with the House of
Light on some matter of theology. Might I trouble you for the throne's
permission?''

The blonde Lycaonese brought the teacup to her lips, mind spinning. This
was, in truth, something of an offered courtesy. She did not have the
authority to forbid Proceran priests from holding council with the
Ashuran cultists. Yet granting official permission would change the
nature of the sessions held. It might become an official conclave,
however unlikely such an affair was to take place -- the Speakers were
mystics prone to speaking in riddles, and had no patience for the many
scriptures and theologies of the House of Light. In truth, the council
would take place whatever she said. Best to give sanction, and in
hosting the event on palace grounds ensure she had eyes and ears at the
proceedings. If they turned to one of the many Salian cathedrals
instead, inserting agents would be a tricky affair to accomplish without
ruffling the feathers of the priests.

``You have it, of course,'' Cordelia smiled. ``It is but a small matter,
Sitter Ahirom. I will naturally arrange accommodations, for I would not
slight the famous sage-priests of Ashur.''

She set the affair aside, after the sitter left. She would keep an eye
on the proceedings to ensure that whatever priestly squabble emerge did
not threaten to spill over into Grand Alliance, but there were more
pressing matters to see to. The Levantines were making noises about it
being a breach of terms for their hosts to protect Proceran lands
instead of taking the war to the Wasteland, ignoring the fact that
they'd been asked to march on a \emph{Praesi} army led by the Empress'
two finest generals, and she needed to convince the Princess of Tenerife
she still had the full support of the throne without committing any more
troops to the border with the League. Agnes sent for her just before
nightfall. Cordelia did not hurry in a manner that would be unseemly,
but immediately set aside any duties that were not essential. The moon
was out when she joined her cousin in the palace gardens.

``Woe, Cordelia,'' the Augur said. ``Woe to the north and to the south.
Sit and listen, before it is too late.''