webcrawl/APGTE/Book-4/tex/Ch-081.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-zwischenzug}{%
\section{Interlude: Zwischenzug}\label{interlude-zwischenzug}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``Of course I fear my friends. If they did not scare me, why
befriend them at all?''}

-- Dread Empress Prudence the First, the Frequently Vanquished
\end{quote}

When dawn came to Laure it found Vivienne Dartwick already awake. She'd
slept only fitfully on her too-soft bed, the sparse hours of rest broken
by regular reports from her Jacks. Now that she'd returned to the
capital she was like the spider returned to her web, her thieves and
spies passing forward a river of whispers she had not understood how
badly she missed before she could drink from it again. It'd been two
months since she had last spoken with Catherine, time and distance
watering her wine. She still believed most of what she'd said, but the
dire state of affairs here had forced her to admit her queen had not
been wrong in her predictions: neither she nor Adjutant had been able to
afford a full night's sleep since they stepped out of Arcadia. The orc
was a work horse like no one she had ever met, yet she knew that if he'd
been forced to handle the Jacks as well as the rest he would have
buckled under the weight.

Sunlight passed through the open panes of her window as she sat in
silence, two scrolls unfurled before her. Neither were pleasant news.
Dread Empress Malicia had sent a diplomatic envoy under truce banner and
the man was reported to be riding for Laure with all possible haste. His
affairs had been looked through, and he carried no letter or
instructions. Whatever the Empress wanted to be said would be spoke in
person. Reluctantly, Vivienne had passed along orders for the envoy to
be allowed use of courier horses and escorted by soldiers from the
Summerholm garrison. The second scroll was a matter beyond her own
purview to settle. After refugees began pouring into Callow through the
Blessed Isle, Catherine had ordered for the farmers of the eastern
fields to withdraw back to Summerholm with their grain and cattle. There
had been concerns that if the city garrison sallied out to force the
refugees back into the Empire it would be walking into a Praesi ambush.

The farmers and villagers closest to Summerholm had obeyed. Those closer
to Praesi borders, however, were digging in their heels. They were
refusing their abandon their possessions to the inevitable looting from
the refugees but lacked the means to carry them westward, and so they'd
refused to leave entirely. Already there had been strife between
Callowans and refugees, and over a dozen deaths. It would only get
worse, Vivienne knew. More refugees would come, and some would carry
weapons. Callowan farmers would empty their cellars of dusty old spears
and swords to fight for their land and property, and the killings would
escalate. The Praesi were sure exploit the mounting fears and either arm
or send troops to help their countrymen. Vivienne's own countrymen would
die, and not a damned thing would be done about it. Marshal Juniper, she
knew, would be adamant it was not worth risking the garrison to protect
farmers who'd refused to obey a royal decree.

There was only one man in the kingdom who could force her, and Hakram
Deadhand was not known to smile upon those who disobeyed his mistress.

Vivienne passed a hand through her hair, noting it was beginning to grow
long again. She'd need to have it cut soon enough, and it sent a private
pang of fear in her that this was the case. The thief had worked with
quite a few Named, since the Liesse Rebellion, and she had not known any
of them to have such issues. The largest physical change she'd seen in
someone with a Role was Masego's noticeable loss of weight after the
Observatory was raised -- and given that the man had often forgotten to
eat unless Indrani saw to it, the explanation was clear. The Hierophant
had been wasting away chasing his visions, his thinning had been as much
a reflection of that as his lack of meals. What did it mean, that her
hair still grew and she tired almost as easily as when she'd been young?
She'd never observed the same in any of the Named she'd known. The
thought that she might lose her aspects, or even her Name itself, had
been the fodder of persistent nightmares.

She was already dead weight as a Named, what would she be without even
that?

Vivienne forced herself to breathe in and breathe out slowly, the old
calming trick her thief master had taught her when he first took her
roof-hopping. Yet she could only think of the pain, oh the pain when the
lightning had coursed through her body. Of the searing green heat that
engulfed her under the cold gaze of the Duke of Green Orchards. Of the
flames that had licked at her body hungrily in the depths of the Doom of
Liesse, cracking the gums of her teeth and scorching her tongue. A
parade of pain, and what did she have but failures to contrast them
with? \emph{How many of my victories were truly mine?} Her hand was
trembling with the answer, and the knowledge that followed -- all of her
defeats had been of her own making. Vivienne snarled and formed a fist
with trembling fingers, hitting at the table.

``I will catch up,'' she whispered, knuckles throbbing with pain. ``I
\emph{will}.''

She breathed in, breathed out. The tremors had not left, but lazing
about would not chase them away. She had had yet another losing fight to
pick. She left the scrolls behind and left her rooms, grabbing the first
palace servant she came across and ordering him to pass the message that
Marshal Juniper was summoned to a council in the formal room at Morning
Bell. Vivienne had no intention of spending time trading barbed words
with the Hellhound as would inevitably ensue if she went herself to seek
out the recently-arrived Marshal of Callow. The other whose attendance
would be required, though, she would fetch herself. They'd not traded
words in three days save through correspondences, their differing duties
and long hours precluding the shared meals that Catherine insisted on
the Woe having when she was there to enforce it. Honestly compelled the
thief to admit she would not have taken occasion to have one even if
there had been one. She'd warmed to some of the Woe more than she had
ever thought she would. Masego and Indrani she even counted as friends
of a sort, a notion that would have appalled her a few years ago.

She had no such conflicting feelings over Hakram Deadhand.

Adjutant was not difficult to find. The cramped and crooked room that
had once belonged to some royal scribe was the orc's office, and he did
not leave it unless he was needed for council or court. He must sleep in
there, if he even slept. The only distraction the Jacks had found he
indulged in were occasional visits from his subordinate Captain Tordis.
The other orc's presence, when not required by reports, was followed by
the door being locked and the captain emerging with her hair ruffled and
her neck red around an hour afterwards. No other such visitors had been
noted, which ran against Adjutant's reputation for promiscuity. Vivienne
suspected her was simply too tired and busy to chase skirts, even those
made of mail. The door to the officer was cracked open, light filtering
from inside. Neither candles, as Callowans preferred to use, not the
finicky magelights the Praesi were so fond of. A handful of common
sprites in bottles, spread around the room. Vivienne found the soft glow
of them almost soothing as she rapped her knuckle against the door
before opening it entirely. The orc was leaning over his desk, brows
creased as he moved his quill against parchment with almost unnatural
precision. He finished penning his sentence and blew the ink dry before
looking up.

``Thief,'' Adjutant said, nodding in welcome. ``Didn't think you'd still
be up.''

``It will be Morning Bell within an hour,'' Vivienne replied, then
gestured at the seat across him. ``May I?''

``Go ahead,'' he replied, sounding surprised. ``Gods, morning already? I
could have sworn it was barely half a bell past midnight.''

The thief carefully picked up the handful of parchment sheaths left to
pile on the seat, glimpsing a grain reserve tally left mostly open among
them, and set them down on the floor. She dropped down into the chair,
already wary. She forced herself not to look at his hand of bones, to
not remember the sensation of it wrapping around her throat and
\emph{squeezing}.

``You look tired,'' Deadhand gently said, fangs clicking inside his maw.
``Don't work yourself to death.''

``You're hardly one to talk,'' Vivienne said, painting a smile.

The kindly visage of the concerned friend, the shoulder all the Woe
could lean on. That was to be his face today, then. It was one of many.
Catherine's dutiful steward and second, smoothing away every wrinkle.
The laughing accomplice, trading jibes and jabs with the lowliest of
soldiers. The terrifying giant of muscle and steel, roaring as he tore
apart foes with fang and axe. The soft-spoken, cold-eyed thing that had
told her mild as milk he would snap her neck if she even considered
treachery. \emph{Which is your real face? Are any of them true?} She did
not look at the bones. \emph{Dead the hand and dead the man}, the song
went. She could not put it out of her head.

``I've set an hour or two aside for the purpose next month,'' he drily
said. ``I take it there's a reason for the pleasure of your company?''

``I've word from the Jacks,'' she said. ``The situation east is
worsening and something needs to be done before it comes to a head. I've
called a council with Marshal Juniper.''

``Hopefully Aisha will have gotten some tea into her before she
arrives,'' Adjutant grimaced, baring teeth like ivory knives.

She'd seen them rip into throats, more than once. Gobble down blood and
flesh greedily like it was the finest of delicacies. The quickening in
her pulse she kept away from her eyes, having learned from Akua
Sahelian's example. Diabolist had not quite managed to hide how wary she
was of the orc, and though the shade's discomfiture would usually have
put a smile on her face Vivienne had been too dismayed to be sharing any
opinion with the Butcher of Liesse to take any joy from it. \emph{Snakes
know one another}, she'd thought back then. Akua Sahelian was studying
the Woe carefully, forging herself into a person they would allow
themselves to like, but she'd found another had struck long before her.
No wonder the shade feared him: she'd found a man whose face was as
changeable as her own patiently watching her. And unlike Diabolist,
Vivienne doubted there was anyone alive who knew what Hakram Deadhand
truly wanted. The orc leaned back into his seat, rolling his shoulders
and loudly cracking his neck with a little exhale of pleasure.

``I could eat,'' Adjutant said. ``Probably should, too. Care to join me
on a trip to the kitchens?''

``I already ate,'' she lied without batting an eye. ``Though don't let
me stop you.''

She could think of few things she desired less than watching that maw at
work from across a mere table's width.

``You should get something warm in you,'' the orc advised, rising to his
feet. ``You look like death warmed over. Indrani forgot some of her tea
leaves in her room, I believe. I'll ask a servant to brew you a pot for
the council. Formal room?''

Vivienne agreed with a silent nod. She was not surprised he'd noticed
her fondness for Indrani's brews. Those dark eyes missed nothing and
forgot even less. They parted ways two corridors further down, and she
could not leave soon enough.

---

``So the farmers with spears are fighting the refugees with knives,''
Marshal Juniper grunted. ``There's a surprise: there'd a damned reason
they were recalled to Summerholm. The sole ingredient in that stew is
desperation.''

Staff Tribune Bishara had not, in fact, gotten some tea into the
Hellhound before she arrived. The orc's particularly fine mood stood
testament to this fact. The Marshal of Callow was of the opinion that
she should be overseeing the training camps filled with fresh recruits
from all across the kingdom, not cooling her heels at the capital, and
had spared no pains in expression that opinion to all those even
remotely involved. Adjutant was taking her spleen with at least the
semblance of good humour. The constant gruff whining scraped Vivienne's
nerves raw, especially when paired with the outcome she already knew was
in motion.

``The farmers are defending their lands from looters,'' she sharply
replied. ``As is their right.''

``Starving looters,'' Deadhand mildly said. ``I doubt there's any great
enmity or deep scheme to it. They're cold and hungry people, not a
marauding army.''

``Leave this alone long enough, and that's exactly what it'll turn
into,'' Vivienne warned. ``Blood has been spilled. They'll band together
for the safety in numbers, and so will Callowans to deal with it. By the
turn of the month it will be skirmishes all across the river banks.''

``There wouldn't be corpses on the floor if they'd obeyed Foundling's
fucking decree,'' Marshal Juniper bluntly said. ``Which was meant to
avoid this very outcome, if you'll remember. Last I checked someone had
crowned her Queen of Callow. I'm no jurist, but I was under the
impression ignoring royal decrees was some kind of treason.''

\emph{She's Queen of Callow, not some eastern tyrant or a damned
greenskin warlord}, Vivienne thought, fingers tightening under the
table. \emph{Our rulers know there's limits to what they can order and
reasonably expect to have obeyed.} It was a losing fight, as she'd known
from the start. Neither of these two bore any love for the land they'd
been charged with ruling, or the people born to it.

``There's no need to go quite that far,'' Adjutant said. ``As Thief
noted, all their actions save for ignoring the recall are legal under
Callowan law. It would be a mistake to paint all that followed with the
same brush as that initial mistake.''

Deadhand the diplomat, now: half the friend, half the officer. Vivienne
had not wanted the responsibility of the regency of Callow and found the
burden of it suffocating, but the way the title seemed to be left at the
door in their eyes remained galling. The difference between the
authority in name and the authority in truth had grown to worry her, not
for what it was but for what it might become. Catherine had come to the
throne lawlessly, but that lawlessness could not keep lest the kingdom
come apart at the seams. \emph{A few years of this}, she thought,
\emph{and it will be one law for those with swords and another for those
without.} If that came to be, the kingdom would burst like an overripe
fruit without even need for an invasion. Callowans had long been under
Imperial rule, but they were beginning to wake to the old freedoms.
Hatred of Procer and Praes was keeping the peace for now, yet how long
would that last?

``A decree's a decree,'' Marshal Juniper growled. ``We start making
excuses for everyone and this falls apart.''

``If you start hanging farmers for defending their land, \emph{excuses}
will be the last of your worries,'' the thief coldly said. ``They are
not beast of burdens, to be browbeaten into the latest whim and whipped
if they do not immediately obey.''

The orc's maw opened, baring a row of sharp fangs. Vivienne forced her
shoulders to loosen, affecting nonchalance. Perhaps even contempt.
\emph{Show her fear, give her an inch, and it will be the end of you},
she thought.

``You brought this to us,'' Adjutant spoke before the other could. ``And
I'm glad you did. Have you already thought of a measure to remedy the
issue?''

Always so smooth, so measured. Too perfect. It made her skin crawl. It
was no mystery, why she could not make herself trust this one while
she'd come to rely on a Praesi warlock and a vicious pupil of the Lady
of the Lake. \emph{Masego cannot curb his tongue nor his face and
Indrani has never been anything but brutally honest of her indifference
to the suffering of others.}

``The reason for their recalcitrance to leave is simple,'' she said.
``They will not abandon their possessions to looters but lack any method
of bringing them west of they leave. If the means are provided, the
matter will be largely settled.''

``Not much road in that region, save for the Imperial highway,'' Marshal
Juniper said, eyes narrowing. ``You can't just requisition merchant
wagons from Summerholm, the axles will break in rough country.''

``The garrison of Summerholm has a large complement Legion-issue supply
carts,'' Vivienne said. ``All reinforced with good steel.''

``No,'' the Hellhound immediately said. ``That's out of the question. I
will not allow military equipment to be doled out to farmers. Anyone
could seize them.''

``I did not mean for them to be spelled away into the countryside
miraculously,'' she replied scathingly. ``The garrison would be
escorting the carts. The presence of soldiers will put an end to the
skirmishes immediately, which should quicken the process enough the
risks will be minimal.''

``You must have been struck on the ear in Keter,'' Marshal Juniper
growled. ``I just gave you your answer. If I'm unwilling to risk carts
why would you think I'm willing to risk the force holding the east?''

``It does not hold the east,'' Vivienne said through gritted teeth, ``it
watches from tall walls as the entire eastern stretch slowly goes up in
blood and flames.''

``All it takes is for Aksum or a pack of lesser lordships to see the
garrison coming and we could lose the entire garrison to an ambush,''
the Hellhound said slowly, as if addressing an idiot. ``They have mages,
Dartwick. They have household troops and devils. The Empire's interior
has been left entirely untouched by the Ashuran raids, they're fresh and
at full strength. If the garrison force is gone, they can push forward
to Summerholm and there's fuck all we can do about it. Half my army is
spread across training camps and the rest guarding the Vales. If the
enemy move quick enough, we could actually lose Summerholm itself. Walls
mean nothing without men on them. All of this, for a pack of bloody
farmers who refused a direct order and are now facing the eminently
predictable consequences of that refusal.''

``Not your army, Hellhound,'' the thief said softly. ``The \emph{Army of
Callow}. Sworn to protect its people, not just turn back invasions or
war abroad.''

``I know the godsdamned name,'' Marshal Juniper snarled. ``The queen of
the place put me in charge of it. You sure you want to have a pissing
contest over that? I don't think you'll like the results.''

``Enough,'' Adjutant said.

The voice rang with power. Not quite Speaking, Vivienne thought, yet not
too far from it. She'd never mastered that trick herself, but she'd seen
Catherine employ it. Felt the ripples shudder through everyone, the air
heavy like just before a storm struck. The Black Queen rarely used the
tool, but when she did the casual display of power was always
terrifying. The way she could snatch the will of anyone in earshot as
easy as snapping her fingers, bludgeoning them into obedience with
weight and power. Adjutant did not have the talent, and for that
Vivienne thanked whatever Gods were listening. It was already terrifying
enough to remember he'd been able to fight her before even claiming his
Name. Every single conversation they held was tinted by the knowledge
that the orc was now in the fullness of his power, capable of tearing
apart lords of the fae. He could rip out her throat with but a moment's
effort and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

``This bickering helps no one,'' Deadhand said. ``Juniper, there is a
difference between having a rough tongue and pouring scorn. One is your
character. The other has no place in this room, or in conversation with
people who \emph{outrank} you.''

The Hellhound lips thinned.

``There was no-''

Adjutant barked out a sentence in Kharsum, too swift and heavily
accented for her to understand most of it. The words for oil and fires
stood out, and the Marshal of Callow closed her maw with a loud click of
fangs. She no longer spoke. Vivienne's eyes remained on the other orc,
wondering if she should be expressing her warm gratitude for Deadhand
deigning to step in. She found little of that in her heart. The
Hellhound's open hostility was nothing new, and this did absolutely
nothing to mend it.

``Juniper isn't wrong about the risks,'' Adjutant finally said, voice
calm again.

\emph{Another losing fight lost}, Vivienne bitterly thought. They did
not trust her or her judgement. The worst part of it was that she could
see why they did not. What had she achieved with the Jacks that required
a Name, that could not be done by another spymistress? How had she
proved herself the equal of the infamous Black Queen or dauntless
Archer, of an orc celebrated in song or a mage who spat in the eye of
lesser gods? She'd been enemies with these two, not so long ago. And
even then it'd been William who took the hand now made of bones, while
she'd been tossed through a window like a sack of radishes by an offhand
spell. \emph{I do not belong here,} she thought, the warm memories of
laughter by the fire seeming so far away. She did not belong at this
table, arguing over the fate of her people and losing inch by inch.
She'd joined Catherine for more than this, hadn't she? For something
beyond Imperial rule, and there was no mistaking what this was. It might
be orcs speaking, but the words were the harsh teaching of the War
College -- the Carrion Lord's own.

Vivienne had not turned her cloak to keep living under the laws of the
Black Knight. She tried, even now, to keep her eyes ahead. On the Liesse
Accords, that single piece dream that could not be called anything but a
good for the world. The lone and lonely light in this ugly sea of grey.
Yet the Accord were far on the horizon, and the tide was drowning her
now.

``We'll need to amend the operational plan,'' Adjutant said. ``Leave
some of the garrison behind and keep what we send out in a tight cluster
with the Wild Hunt ready to gate them out if the Empire mobilizes.''

Vivienne's heart skipped a beat. It was what she'd wanted to hear. What
was his angle, here? What did he gain by this? \emph{What does he gain
by the Liesse Accords}, the old whisper came, \emph{that he would
champion them so ardently?}

``The Hunt is the key to our defence, Hakram,'' Marshal Juniper said.
``If the League or Procer strikes-''

``If,'' Deadhand repeated. ``A possibility. Is it a fact that we're
losing people now, Juniper.''

``I don't like it,'' the Hellhound said. ``It leaves us fragile.''

``You don't have to like it,'' Adjutant said. ``It's an order. Now,
Thief. I believe we have a map of the region somewhere around here for
proper planning, but I'd like your thoughts on how we should go about
the evacuation. I'm leaning towards a circular sweep, but you've people
on the ground and I don't.''

Vivienne Dartwick leaned forward and spoke, the council stretching for
over an hour before the bare bones of a plan had been laid down and a
recess was called until they'd all looked into the proper records and
logistics.

The patient watchfulness in the orc's eyes never left for a moment, and
she never ceased to look for it.