webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-061.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-43-treachery}{%
\chapter{Treachery}\label{chapter-43-treachery}}



\epigraph{``Habitually treacherous enemies are accomplices to their own
destruction.''}{King Henry Fairfax, the Landless}



I breathed in.

Fear drifted into my lungs along with the rotten scent in the air, the
poisonous odour of thousands of hellspawn and one of the oldest beasts
of the Chain of Hunger. Death, decay and a fight that would have been
hard business even with an army at my back. Gods, but it'd been a long
night and the dawn of it was not yet in sight. It'd been one thing to
stare down armies when I'd been Named, when I'd been in the deepest
throes of Winter, but now I was painfully aware this could all end as
simply as my throat being opened by some lucky devil. The knowing of
that almost numbed my limbs, when it sunk it so suddenly: I could die,
in these few coming heartbeats. I could have died at any time on the way
here, and even if we survived the closing jaws of this trap I might
still die before the night was over. It was an arresting though, one
that had my palms prickling.

I breathed out.

\emph{Fear is an old friend}, I thought. Fear was the pain in my leg,
the whispering tune of mistake and mortality and needing to always do
better lest if all fall apart. How could it cow me, when I leant on it
like a pilgrim's staff? I let that tenet straighten my back and took a
look at my opposition. Devils, alas, in the thousands.
\emph{Walin-falme} and \emph{akalibsa}, as we had fought before, but
this was a disparate horde and there seemed no end to the assortment. It
made gauging numbers difficult, given the wild variation of shape and
size in the swarming throng, but it could be no less than two thousand.
We moved, from there, to threats in the singular. The undead Horned Lord
known as the Skein was nesting among the ruins of the courtyard and
attending hall, its darkly furred strangely humanoid body folded inwards
as if it were a beast at rest. Great antlers of bone jutted from the top
of its head, set above golden eyes made even more vivid by the deep red
gouges beneath them. It was a creature gifted with foresight, near
impossible to damage and wielding at least one aspect I knew to be
capable of unmaking its mistakes -- \textbf{Spool}, it had called it in
Keter. At its feet stood two silhouettes, veiled to me until a sliver of
Night saw to that mundane frailty.

I breathed in.

Yet more trouble, and my fingers harshly coiled. My predictions had come
up short in two different ways and quite visibly so, for I now looked
upon two men: one whose frayed tabard bore the twin bells of House
Fairfax, the other whose pale green eyes watched all unfolding with open
interest. The man who had once been the Good King Edward Fairfax,
Seventh of His Name, bore old and intricate plate over which a tabard in
the gold and blue of the royal line of Callow hung. He wore no helm,
laying bare the face of a man in his late forties with sparse white hair
and the eternal beginnings of a beard, and in his hand he held a
longsword for which there seemed to be no sheath. To his side, the soul
of Amadeus of the Green Stretch had been put in slender silvery stocks,
his hands too far kept to reach the gag that had been put over his
mouth. My teacher looked much like his physical body did, though there
were dark rings around his eyes and a sort of haggard look to him I
found deeply unsettling. Black had always been near obsessively neat in
his grooming, but his soul laid bare was in disarray. That boded ill,
though at least the sharpness in his gaze had not been dulled. A bag had
been absent-mindedly tossed between the two of them, one I had with my
own hand filled with crowns. That left only\ldots{}

I breathed out.

Kairos Theodosian, Tyrant of Helike, sat draped over the gaudy throne
his gargoyles were keeping aloft unevenly. Though he'd quite brazenly
betrayed us, the odd-eyed villain had yet to bother with foibles such as
armour or a blade. No that he needed them, with a flock of enchanted
gargoyles obeying his every whim and a treasure trove of lethal
artefacts at his disposal -- to which, he'd added the casting rod of the
Rogue Sorcerer, which he was currently toying with as he grinned a
pearly white grin. This was all of it, I thought. Our enemy, against
which stood three: the Rogue Sorcerer, roughed up and stripped of tools,
the now twice-winded Saint of Swords and myself. This was not a fight we
would win with swords, I thought, given the disparity in strength there.
The best that could be hoped for was delay. We did, however, have one
advantage over our foes. The foundations of their side were unsteady,
while as long as there such a common enemy before us my own triumvirate
would stand united. \emph{How can I take your strengths and turn them
against you?} Four heartbeats had passed, and as the fifth reached us
Laurence de Montfort sighed. Not out of disappointment, I decided, or
sadness. It was the same sigh I'd heard dockworkers in Laure make when
some merchant had filled the hold with no eye to taking out the goods
out and an hour-long job was going to end up taking twice as long. The
Saint spat to the side, then rested her blade against her shoulder.

``That's going to take a while,'' she said, sounding irked.

``That's mine, you loathsome turncoat,'' the Rogue Sorcerer yelled at
Kairos.

``I prefer to think of it as ours,'' the Tyrant jauntily replied.
``Although, if you truly want me to return it\ldots{}''

So, the sharper was about to blow and the moment the three of us were
separated by the horde then there would be no more planning. This was
it, all I had to scheme.

``Saint, how long can you buy me?'' I asked.

``You got a way to win?'' the old woman casually asked.

I nodded.

``Then however long you need, Foundling,'' the Saint of Swords told me
with a hard smile.

I supposed she could be counted on to be a reliable whirlwind of
destruction to anything she faced even when she was on my side, which
was somewhat comforting.

``Keep them off me,'' I said. ``I'll handle the Tyrant.''

``Figures you'd go for the cripple,'' Laurence de Montfort said.

A helpful reminder that `on my side' didn't mean friendly or any less
generally horrid, I noted. A heartbeat later Kairos got the casting rod
he'd stolen working and streaks of flame that looked fluid as water shot
out towards the Rogue Sorcerer, who took off running towards them.
\emph{Godsdamnit, Roland}. It didn't matter if he could handle the
sorcery being thrown at him, Kairos had hundreds of bloody gargoyles to
throw at him and however good the hero's set of mail it didn't cover his
face or throat or neck. I let the Night course through me and flicked my
wrist, spinning a hooked chain that caught the wayward hero by the back
of the coat and dragged him back forcefully. The Sorcerer had been about
to reach the edge of demolished second story room we were still standing
on, but the force I used in pulling him back had him half-tripping
backwards. And also narrowly avoiding the knife-wielding gargoyles that
popped right up from where they'd been hanging off the edge awaiting to
scythe through Roland's ankles, because because Kairos being a chatty
jackass didn't mean he wasn't clever. The streaks of flame I left him to
deal with as I advanced -- he snarled something in a language I didn't
recognize, still tripping backwards, and some sort of swirling eddy of
air caught them in a spin until the fires gutted out -- and dismissed
the chains. The gargoyles that'd come over the top milled uncertainly,
knives extended into nothing, and did not even manage to chatter before
I'd sent twin needles of Night through their torsos. They blew a moment
later, and I met Kairos Theodosian's uneven eyes as I came to stand by
the edge of the drop.

``So,'' I said, beginning to reach for my pipe, ``how firmly rooted
would you say your current allegiances are?''

It was theatrics, not directly asking what it was the Dead King had
offered, just like reaching for a smoke in the middle of battlefield. I
could not show weakness in the face of the Tyrant of Helike, lest he
decide we were spent and that the Dead King's victory was assured. Calm,
control and even a smidgen of nonchalance. Anything less and I would not
have gotten that keen glint in his good eye, the one that delighted in
there still being a game afoot. For though Kairos Theodosian enjoyed a
good bout of treachery, he would not commit to it without purpose and
would never climb into a sinking ship. In that sense, I understood him
in a way that few people could: like me, he had reached his current
heights climbing over a tottering pile of victories. Like me, he knew it
only took one hard defeat for it to all come tumbling down on his head.

``We are close as kin, our trust boundless and fondness without peer,''
Kairos soulfully said.

``Kill them,'' the Skein snarled, head suddenly rising up. ``\emph{Kill
them all}.''

I passed my palm over the head of my pipe, allowing a flicker of black
flame to light it before pulling at the wakeleaf unhurriedly. I sighed
in pleasure, feeling the Tyrant's gaze unwavering on me.

``Shouldn't you see to that?'' Kairos amusedly asked, moving his head
towards the courtyard.

Devils, Revenant, the closest thing I'd ever have to a father. A fight I
could not win. \emph{Calm, control, never miss a beat.}

``That's what heroes are for,'' I said.

I glimpsed, from the corner of my eye, the Saint of Swords landing in
the midst of a sea of devils with her sword raised high. Screaming
followed, none of it hers. So, Kairos hadn't taken the unspoken
invitation I'd given to imply he was open to further treachery. Which
meant Neshamah had bought him with a prize that was significant enough
the Tyrant didn't believe I'd be able to match it. He wasn't refusing
the prospect of turning on the Hidden Horror, that wasn't his way, but
he was making it known the bidding had started high and would only get
higher. \emph{So what did he offer you?} I wondered. Given that Kairos'
ambitions were still bound, as far as I knew, to the peace conference
he'd forced then it had to involve the survival of the armies below. Or
at least his, I corrected, for Iserre was made into a tremendous
butcher's yard by the Tyrant's hand then the only the threat of utter
annihilation could possibly bring either Hasenbach or myself to
negotiate with him ever again. Couldn't be just being spared, though,
because the Grand Alliance would be crippled by losing the armies below
and so far Kairos had gone out of his way to avoid accomplishing that. I
was missing something, because I could see no way in which the Dead King
taking this realm benefitted the Tyrant. My fingers tightened, beneath
cover of my sleeves. Was it that simple? When I'd irritated the Hidden
Horror, he'd said something that now sounded anew in my mind: \emph{when
I have taken what I wish from this ruin I will forsake it as well}. If
after he got what he'd come after Neshamah had no use for this place,
what would he lose by promising it to the Tyrant of Helike?

I inhaled smoke and blew it outwards towards Kairos, whose nose wrinkled
at the acrid smell. I couldn't beat that offer. It was a way for the
Tyrant to get everything he wanted, so long as the Hidden Horror got it
too. Which was, I realized, my angle. Kairos Theodosian could not, as
I'd thought earlier, afford a single hard defeat. And he had to be
achingly aware here that he'd made a bargain with an entity his superior
in every way, including perhaps even treachery, and that if he was
crossed then he had no real way to strike back. Not alone, anyway, and
when it came to opposing the Dead King then there was only one game in
town.

``Well, he's lying to at least \emph{one} of us,'' I pensively said.
``Did you offer something worth more than a hundred-year truce?''

``You jest,'' the Tyrant grinned.

A little too quickly, I thought.

``I'm deadly serious,'' I said. ``Kairos, I'll be blunt here because if
he's actually sold this place to you instead of me I'll need to cut my
losses and break it. Which is going to be damned hard to do a messy
besides, so I haven't the time to dawdle. I got my win here in exchange
for backing his envoy at the conference when the truce offer comes. One
of us got peddled goods already sold, obviously, so which of us is it?''

``A truce,'' the Tyrant skeptically said.

``Don't be daft,'' I frowned. ``You know what it's meant for. I'm
willing to take the bet, because I'll get this continent ready for war
on Keter even if I have to kill and raise every ruler myself, but I'm
hardly blind to the risks.''

A hundred years was a long time. Time to prepare, yes, but also for the
continent to come apart. A truce meant no armies, not absence of
schemes, and the most brutal blow the Hidden Horror might yet deal was
to let that century come to pass and then do \emph{nothing}. To let
every willing sacrifice turn into bitter recrimination, to let his
opponents devour themselves from the inside without sending a single
soldier across the border. If I'd tried to weave a lie out of thin air,
I thought, the Tyrant might just have sniffed me out. But this? If I
were Kairos Theodosian, I'd believe it. Because I would afraid I'd been
double-crossed, yes, but also because of who it was I was looking at. A
woman who'd bargained with the King of Winter and Sve Noc, when the
cliff's edge was reached, and Hells hadn't I headed to Keter to make
another deal not so long ago? The Tyrant of Helike watched me with an
inscrutable expression his face, and the simple fact that he was no
longer grinning like a lunatic told me I'd drawn blood. I thought, for a
moment, of feigning impatience and trying to hurry him along -- an
announcement it was time to cut my losses, cryptic action begun -- but I
stilled my tongue. On real stakes I would not gamble this way. And the
more I actually lied, the more I risked this exceedingly more skilled
liar catching me out.

``Speak to me, then, Black Queen,'' the Tyrant coolly said.

Not victory, this, but it was an opening.

``I'm not going to bribe you,'' I snorted. ``You just knifed us, Kairos.
You want back on this side? Make it worth my while to keep the heroes
from putting your head on a pike. I'm willing to deal because I'd rather
you sell me this place than the Dead King, but don't mistake that for
actual \emph{need}.''

For a terrible moment, I thought I'd overplayed my hand. That the
bluster had been too much, that I'd been seen through because I'd
refused to bend my neck even if in that situation it would have been my
words exact. Instead I was interrupted by a flock of steel-clad devils,
whose leathery wings beat loud as they descended towards me with raised
spears. My muscles began to tense and it was all I could do not to reach
for the Night. But I had appearances to maintain, and Gods I was so
close to flipping the Tyrant I could almost taste it. The
\emph{walin-falme} hit a hastily slapped down ward like birds hitting a
window, as the Rogue Sorcerer came through for me. I did not even grin,
instead pulling at my pipe as I continued matching gazes with Kairos.
\emph{Look at how in control I am}, I thought\emph{. Wouldn't I have to
be a lunatic, to stick to a bluff so stubbornly when the situation is
this dire?} Airily tossing aside the Sorcerer's casting rod -- Roland
distantly screamed in a furious voice about it being irreplaceable and
worth a fortune -- and extending an open palm, Kairos was handed his
jeweled sceptre by a chitter gargoyle and used it to thoughtfully
scratch his chin.

``Are you lying?'' the Tyrant of Helike asked, cocking his head to the
side.

I grinned, all teeth and malice.

``I don't know,'' I said. ``Am I?''

A heartbeat passed, both stares unflinching.

``I think, Catherine,'' Kairos Theodosian fondly said, ``that you are
lying through your teeth. But I still can't tell, and so it seems were
are still allies.''

Calmly I inhaled a mouthful of wakeleaf, and waited for the --
\emph{there it is}, I thought as the Skein's hulking shape obscured the
sky, rising behind the Tyrant and myself. The stench of it was horrid,
though spitting out the smoke in front of my face took the edge off of
it.

``\textbf{Spool},'' the Skein snarled.

And just like that/

/the Tyrant of Helike sneered.

``Fate is a tug of war, you raggedy old thing,'' Kairos Theodosian said,
and there was something sharp in his tone I'd never heard there before.
``Do you think the wishes of the conquered matter more than those of
contenders?''

``You die laughing,'' the Skein hissed. ``Or. You flee. Or. I am broken.
Or. Everything burns. Or. Or. \emph{Why does it keep changing}?''

``There's more than one reason I picked him out for this band,'' I
amusedly said.

Was Kairos Theodosian a treacherous, unpredictable and murderous madman?
Yes. Obviously. But against a particular kind of foe -- say, an oracle
who'd spin our of new thread of prediction from his every whim as the
lunatic committed to them with ironclad will unhesitatingly -- that had
its uses.

``\textbf{Spool},'' the Skein snarled again and/

/``Do you think yourself above even the Gods, you presumptuous relic?''
the Tyrant of Helike snarled back. ``Do you think you can erase
\emph{me} like chalk on a slate? Learn your place.''

``Shouldn't have done that,'' I told the Revenant, pulling at my pipe.

``It will kill you,'' the Skein cackled, its laughter like rumbling
thunder. ``Wish, wish into the grave. How many years can you spend?''

I winced. I'd fought enough Named to recognize when one's bottom line
was being crossed, and the continued attempts of the Revenant to use its
aspect were definitely whipping Kairos into a proper frenzy. I could
only guess at what was the cause of it, but the rage in that crimson
bloodshot eye and the wildly shaking hands struck me as too raw to be a
lie.

``I will confess,'' the Tyrant of Helike said, tone eerily calm, ``that
you have rather offended me. You may attend to other matters, Black
Queen. This one will be settled by my hand.''

``And now,'' I said, ``for my next trick.''

Because if I were an undead sorcerer with my personal Hell and forever
ahead of me, if I'd taken to snatching Named and making them into my
vanguard in Creation -- which would mean, most of the time, that they'd
be far from me and exposed to all sorts of aspects and sorceries -- then
there was one thing I'd make sure of. The Skein went still as the corpse
it was, and pale gold eyes shone with something eldritch.

``You have been fooled, Tyrant,'' the Dead King spoke through his
puppet. ``I struck no bargain with the Black Queen.''

And there it was, I thought. The gap between the man the Hidden Horror
had once been and the man the Tyrant was. Neshamah had been a brilliant,
sharp-sighted sorcerer whose apotheosis had been achieved over decades
of careful planning with nary an opening left open. Even in undeath the
heart of that man remained, made stiffer perhaps but undiminished. And
the thing was, he had that same flaw that my father sometimes did. Gods,
clever as they were they forgot anyone else could see the world in a
different way they did. Forgot to see, I supposed, or simply didn't
care. Why would they? Victors that they were, they'd gotten their way so
often. But Kairos Theodosian, now that was a man of a different breed.
He was Tyrant of Helike not because he wanted to change the world, to
shift borders on a map or leave behind a name that would ring through
the ages. Kairos, he was \emph{villain}. He was a partisan of Below, not
a warlord or a theft of godhead, and his faith was the same ruinous red
thing that had rent the Wasteland asunder for more than a millennium.
And so the Dead King, brilliant monster that he was, had just made his
first blunder of the night. Because the moment he'd made an effort to
not be at odds with the Tyrant of Helike, he'd made every lie I'd spoken
irrelevant. Because, in the eyes of the Tyrant, he would only be worth
appeasing if he was a \emph{threat}. And given the choice between
successfully crossing me or the Dead King? Well, one of them was
worthier prayer than the other.

I met the Dead King's eyes.

``Mistake,'' I said in Ashkaran.

``\textbf{Rend},'' Kairos Theodosian laughed, and all Hells broke loose.