webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-128.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-and-so-let-us-be}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: And So Let Us Be}\label{interlude-and-so-let-us-be}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-and-so-let-us-be}} \chaptermark{Interlude: And So Let Us Be}

\epigraph{``The source of might in an army is unity, not numbers. Therefore,
the mightiest of all armies numbers a single soldier.''}{Isabella the Mad, Proceran general}



Hakram was smelling a rat. Adjutant had always enjoyed using that
particular human idiom, as it happened, mostly because it was patently
untrue by face value. Humans had all the nose of a sparrow, stumbled
around like drunks in the dark and were terribly fragile in most ways
that mattered. The last had little to do with rodents, but it was always
worth mentioning. As a rule, humans would not be able to smell a rat if
it was nesting under their own pillow. Unlike goblins, who entirely
coincidentally tended to have very full cookpots when Legions were
garrisoned in cities. Goblin stew was always an enjoyable meal, Hakram
thought, if not necessarily for the taste then always for the surprise.

``The Magisterium is pleased by your understanding, Lord Adjutant,''
Magister Zoe Ixioni smiled. ``It is always a delight to speak with a
professional like yourself.''

The slaver -- he would not forget for a moment what she was, even if she
offered an empire's worth of smiles and compliments -- offered Louis
Rohanon a more restrained look.

``And we honour the Principate as well, of course,'' Magister Zoe added.
``It is deplored by the enlightened members of our assembly that war was
waged between our nations.''

``First Prince Cordelia is a fervent adherent of peace and diplomatic
resolution,'' Louis Rohanon replied without batting an eye, lips
quirking enough to imply a smile without ever delivering it.

Princess Rozala's `secretary', who regardless of what he was now titled
had been until recently the Prince of Creusens, had proved to be fairly
adept at navigating the meetings Hakram had found himself dragged into
one after another. Adjutant rumbled out a breath, feeling the rhythm of
Bittertongue's old song sound against his bones. \emph{No peace can
there be, between lash and orc.} It was an affront to the history of his
kind that he must now speak otherwise, pretending the ways of the
sorcerer-lords of Stygia did not sicken him as he watched the magister
slip away. Rohanon let out a noise of distaste, when it was only the two
of them left in the room.

``I always end up feeling like I need a wash after entertaining someone
from the Magisterium,'' Louis Rohanon admitted.

``Would that someone had laid to waste that city and its slaver-lords
with it,'' Hakram gravelled. ``Yet they have tread with care to avoid
this, over the years, and it seems still.''

The man nodded, slowly. He was a skinny, scholarly sort this one. Yet
not without spine or cleverness, and for a Proceran seemed a
surprisingly decent man. That might explain why the Jacks had found out
he was so badly in debt to Iserre. Decency was unlikely to see one
thrive in a place like the Highest Assembly.

``If I might speak frankly, Lord Deadhand?'' Rohanon hesitatingly said.

``I would prefer it,'' Adjutant said. ``Mine are a simple folk, and the
sly ways of humans confuse me.''

It was almost appalling, the orc thought, how eager people this far west
were to believe that. Not so appalling he would not use it, however. The
former Prince of Creusens choked.

``That would have been more believable a lie before I saw two envoys
fall for it, my lord,'' Rohanon delicately said. ``It no longer holds
water in the slightest. Not that listening to Basileus Leo explain to
you the office and powers of the Hierarch was not most entertaining, but
I would spare myself the indignity if you'll allow it.''

``Leo Trakas was a most helpful young man,'' Hakram drily said, neither
admitting nor denying anything. ``You offered frankness, Louis Rohanon,
and I accepted. Speak accordingly.''

``I would not dare to presume as to the Black Queen's intent in sending
you out,'' the former prince said, ``yet if you were meant to assess
divisions and seek weaknesses in the League, you should have come to the
same conclusion as I.''

The orc studied the man, considering if this was a conversation he
should be having, then lightly inclined his head I agreement.

``The League of Free Cities is on the verge of collapse,'' Hakram
acknowledged. ``Nicae has yet to hear of the disastrous fate of its
fleets but already the Basileus seeks to displace Helike as the leading
power. Atalante chafes under a villain's lead, and at the frequent
slights it is offered.''

``Bellerophon is out of its depth,'' Louis Rohanon noted. ``I would
hazard a guess its general-delegate has not received instructions from
the People in weeks, if not months, and is entirely unwilling to do
anything that might result in execution by the kanenas.''

Which was, as far as Hakram could tell, essentially any action at all.
The Republic of Bellerophon's legal system struck him as what might come
to be if a dutiful scribe set down every single shout from an angry mob
and made them all into law, then repeated the process half a hundred
times.

``Delos remains aloof, but it appears both Stygia and Penthes are
readying to leave the sinking boat,'' Hakram added. ``Else Magister Zoe
would not have been so eager to assure me theoretical alignment with the
Tower would not result in military support of any kind.''

``The Tower has been digging at the Tyrant's position in the Free
Cities,'' Louis Rohanon openly aknowledged, ``and the Empress has lived
up to her reputation in achieving such broad success. Unless the
Hierarch takes the League in hand this day it will not survive this
conference as a united entity. Should he die, nearly half the League
will seek the Empire's protection against coming retribution before the
corpse is cold.''

Which was inconvenient as without allies in either the League and the
Thalassocracy the sole avenue to bring the Empire to heel was a land war
of the old way, Callow and Praes entwined in the ancient dance of steel
once again. Yet as much as Hakram's mind was inclined to tumble down the
slope of logistics and strategy, it would be a mistake to do so. The
Tyrant of Helike was the devil of the day, and what they had now
discovered the Named must have already known. The ship that had carried
him to the peace conference of Salia, the large and largely untouched
army of a united League of Free Cities, was on the verge of collapse. As
things stood, even if the Tyrant ordered these armies to ravage southern
Procer most of them would ignore him and continue the retreat south. And
with Catherine having crippled the famous \emph{kataphraktoi}, Helike's
own army was crippled in turn.

The Tyrant of Helike no longer had the clout to make demands. More
worryingly the boy-king must have known it would come to this for weeks
if not months, and he had still come. And so, Hakram was smelling a rat.

``I fear,'' Hakram Deadhand said, ``that Lady Dartwick's instincts have
proved true.''

``In what way?'' Louis Rohanon asked, eyes cautious.

``Kairos Theodosian is exactly where he meant to be,'' Adjutant said,
``and cares little for the fate of the horse he rode after he ceases
riding it.''

---

Indrani had never been one to shy from admitting to herself when she was
enjoying something, and so she wasn't going to start now: this was
hilarious, and she in no way regretted striking the first spark of that
debate.

``Soon you'll be telling me magic is an art and not a discipline,''
Masego scathingly said. ``\emph{Divine approval?} You might as well
start praying for spell formulas.''

``There is recorded precedent for certain workings functioning better
when aligned with the words of the Book of All Things,'' Roland said.
``While I would not-''

The Rogue Sorcerer was trying to keep things civil and academic, which
naturally meant he was doomed to fail just as all voices of reason had
been since First Dawn.

``Spoken like a Trismegistan coinpurse,'' the Witch of the Woods snorted
contemptuously. ``Praying would work swifter than your \emph{method} and
involve rather less scribbling of numbers. And Gods forbid you forget to
carry a one: you'll melt your face instead of lighting a candle, if
anything happens at all.''

``While Trismegistan sorcery is known to require significantly more
study than most, it has also been proven to produce more reliable-''
Roland tried.

``You defend ignorance as creativity and methodology as shackles,''
Masego retorted, deeply appalled. ``I should expect nothing more from
someone who apes Ligurian magic without-''

``Dogs of Trismegistus bark not --''

``Perhaps,'' the Rogue Sorcerer desperately said, ``we should lower our
voices. At this rate illusion or not they'll \emph{hear} us arriving.''

A moment of silence followed, the two mages who'd been arguing looking
away in embarrassment at how heated the conversation had grown.

``I hear Jaquinite sorcery can do stuff neither yours can do,'' Indrani
idly said.

``That would matter, I imagine, if Jaquinite sorcery could reliably do
anything in particular,'' Masego said.

``Teach an apprentice Proceran magic for a year and they will crush one
taught Wasteland posturing for the same,'' the Witch of the Woods
retorted without missing a beat.

\emph{Ah}, Archer thought. \emph{Much better}. Roland shot her a
betrayed look she answered by prettily batting her eyes, and the giant
wolf the Witch was riding on glared at her woefully. Indrani sniggered.
`Woeful', which worked as \emph{two} puns because Archer was one of the
Woe but it was also close to wolf and\ldots{} eh, just wasn't the same
when Cat wasn't there to be offended to her core by the puns. She'd keep
it in mind for when she ended up giving her report, though. The four of
them were getting close to Lyonceau, the small town they'd been headed
towards for the better part of an hour now, so perhaps it was time to
pretend she'd been on Roland's side this whole time.

Zeze and the Witch were in a full blow argument again, voices
progressively rising along with the general pettiness of what was being
said, so she cleared her throat loud enough it'd cut through.

``Shame on both of you,'' Indrani piously said, ``ignoring poor Roland,
when he's trying to warn you about dangers.''

The Rogue Sorcerer eyed her pensively.

``I believe,'' he said, ``that you might just be the worst person I
know.''

``That was unkind,'' Masego seriously said.

``Rogue,'' the Witch said, ``comport yourself cordially. They are our
allies for now.''

There was a pause.

``You have fought the Dead King, besides,'' the Witch reminded him.

``I know what I said,'' the Rogue Sorcerer muttered.

``I forgive you, as mine is a forgiving nature,'' Indrani lied.

Roland met her eyes discreetly, lips moving to silently mouth `\emph{the
worst person I know'} in Chantant, and she grinned back. Indrani had
grown to like the Rogue Sorcerer: he was a delight to toy with and
halfway decent in a fight. Not too hard on the eyes, either, which was
always nice in a boon companion. He'd also proved more useful when
they'd run into the Witch of the Wilds and accusations had flown about
how they were plotting to murder the entire Grand Alliance. Which
Indrani was reasonably sure was not the case, since she would have had a
seat at the council where that'd be decided and she'd not been
\emph{that} drunk in a while. Roland had more or less vouched for them
not being up to no good -- at that moment in time, anyway -- and that'd
led to the question of \emph{why} the Witch would think they were up to
some skulking murderousness.

The answer was, in a word, Lyonceau.

Archer herself had found there was something odd with the League's camp
when she first went out on a walk thereabout, in essence because there
was nothing at all odd with the League's camp. The Tyrant might be able
to keep his lunacy in check for a few days, Indrani had mused, but the
\emph{Hierarch}? Unlikely. She still remembered the frightful madness
that'd fallen over Rochelant like a veil, the red-handed tribunals
that'd spread out like tendrils of sickness from where the Hierarch sat.
It was the sort of thing you could tuck away in Arcadia or some other
neat little pocket, on occasion contain behind the right sort of wards
and sometimes even something you could lull into sleep. For a time. But
there were always, \emph{always} signs. So Indrani had told herself,
maybe there were wards. None she could find, true, but it wasn't her
specialty by any means.

Zeze had been raised by a man who'd turned warding into weapon to
shatter fortresses, though, and losing his sorcery had done nothing to
curb his sight. The Rogue Sorcerer had been with him then, the two of
them discussing the Twilight Ways and the making of gates for it, and
it'd been easy to bully -- convince! \emph{Convince} him to come along.
No wards of the calibre that'd keep the Hierarch quiet in the League
camp, they'd confirmed for her. Might have been a good time to go to the
Crows, then, but Zeze still kind of wanted them on a vivisection table
and the Sisters tended to ask payment up front for miracles from anyone
but Cat. Who had half a dozen other cats to skin, about then, and a
limited amount of additional hands in Hakram and Vivienne. So instead
Indrani had called on the finest band of useless busybodies she knew,
namely Robber and his cohort of miscreants.

Her Majestic Catherinery had helpfully turned them loose on the
countryside with even looser instructions, so it'd been child's play to
commandeer their little goblin legs and watchful eyes. The Hierarch had
to be close, because there was no way to the Tyrant was wandering too
far away from him, and it wasn't like the man was going to feed himself
-- so find the food, find the man. Or so had been the thought. And
Robber had put his cohort to passable work, keeping a watch on the
League's camp through the day and night. Unfortunately Kairos Theodosian
was, as usual, a twisty little fucker. The food wagon had gone out under
illusion veils, then passed through some wards carved into stones. Twice
they'd followed a wagon and lost it, which none of them had taken well
pride-wise, and some Magisterium prick had caught the goblins lurking so
Archer was forced to send them away.

They'd gone hunting for the ward stones instead, since those would be
the key, which was when they'd run into a masked woman on a giant wolf
and some very hurtful accusations. The Witch had come to it form the
other way entirely, as it happened: she'd found an abandoned town a few
hours out of Salia that was entirely hidden by wards and followed the
wagon line from the other direction until she ran into them sniffing
around a ward stone. Conclusions were leap to, though Indrani would
admit that a pair of villains around a disappeared town was usually
pretty damning stuff. The place was, according to the maps Roland had
gotten his hands on, called Lyonceau. It was one of those small Proceran
towns that emptied during winter, and according to the locals pretty
much the only thing of note bout it was that it had a large House of
Light: several towns and villages around used it for the festivals
instead of their own small altar, since it was cheaper than building and
maintaining one of their own.

It was suspicious nonetheless, all had agreed, and they'd gone to
trespass -- by which Indrani meant \emph{investigate}, naturally, since
you got to call it that when you were on the side of the angels. Though
in theory the Witch was the one guiding them, in practice since she'd
spent most the way arguing with Zeze it had been the helpful giant wolf
that led them.

``This isn't right,'' Masego suddenly said.

All four of them were Named, and none fresh to the mantle, so the moment
the Hierophant spoke the other three ceased moving forward. Indrani
could see nothing but a snowy plain above, and apparently neither could
Roland, but even with the mask she could see Masego and the Witch were
looking at the same place.

``We've arrived?'' she asked.

Leaning on her aspect might allow her to peer through an illusion or a
ward, but she'd rather not begin using those too early in the day -- not
when there might yet be a fight ahead of them.

``We are at the outermost boundary of the wards,'' the Witch of the
Woods said. ``I grasp your meaning, Hierophant. This is\ldots{} unusual
work.''

Roland muttered under his breath in the mage-tongue, gesturing sharply
with one hand as he reached within his coat with the other. The silvery
sorcery that gathered around the tip of his fingers he laid against the
small wooden box he'd produced and it sank within. He opened it deftly,
revealing some sort of oily ointment.

``Around the eyes,'' the Rogue Sorcerer told her, ``and over the
eyelids.''

Indrani's brow rose and she dipped a finger, handling one eye and then
the other. The smell was unfamiliar to her, save for what she suspected
to be apple tree bark, and it tingled pleasantly against her skin. One
she'd applied it as the hero had instructed, she found she could now
glimpse colours where before there had been only air. It was a vast
tapestry of many-coloured threads, she thought, yet she could only ever
see the threads she was directly looking at.

``It is not merely unusual work,'' Masego said, sounding troubled. ``It,
in part mine. Akua Sahelian's also, and a myriad others, but some of
those patterns were first laid down by my hand.''

``There are other influences in there,'' the Witch of the Wilds said.
``Callowan wards, Aenian cants and that odd Jaquinite escapement.''

``No sorcerer could make such a thing,'' the Hierophant said. ``No
living one, anyway.''

``The Tyrant's bargained with the Dead King before, we know that,''
Indrani said. ``What's so troubling about these wards anyway?''

``The Doom of Liesse was meant to bring forth devils, to forge Greater
Breaches,'' Masego hesitantly said. ``This is\ldots{}''

``Angels,'' the Witch of the Wilds said. ``They are not as easily
summoned as devils, but this is meant to command the attention of
angels.''

Well, Archer thought, \emph{shit}.

---

Vivienne found Adjutant waiting in the hallway, along with a
worried-looking Louis Rohanon. She was not the only one to notice this,
Princess Rozala excusing herself from her conversation with Lady Itima
to silently join her as she sought out Hakram.

``Lord Adjutant,'' she greeted him, ``Secretary Rohanon.''

Rozala Malanza went through the same round of courtesies, receiving the
same nods for it.

``The situation in the League is considerably more unstable than we'd
believed,'' Hakram quietly said.

``We believe the Tyrant no longer holds sway,'' Louis Rohanon added just
as quietly. ``And that he was undermined by the Tower. Both Stygia and
Penthes seem to be leaning towards Praes.''

Which went some way in explaining why the Tyrant had willingly served as
the Dead King's herald once more, Vivienne thought. She'd believed until
now it was simply a matter of letting loose a wild lion in the pen so he
would not seem as dangerous, but this\ldots{} fit. Though a raging
lunatic, the boy-king of Helike was brilliant in his own way. He must
have known that the Princes' Graveyard would be the beginning of the end
for his influence in the League, and with it his right to make demands
of the Grand Alliance, so he had helped forge another calamity so that
he could bargain away the key to beating it back in exchange for the
promises being made to him being kept. The vicious wretch had yet to
miss a single step, though Vivienne had a hard time believing the
outcome of the Graveyard had been his intent. Most likely Catherine's
victory had forced him to improvise in the wake of the defeat, leading
to this fresh madness.

``It no longer matters he's lost the League,'' Vivienne admitted.

Surprise, from both men.

``He swore before the Peregrine he has a way out of our current
predicament,'' Princess Rozala elaborated. ``His bargaining chip has
changed, though the bargain has not. He still requires the White Knight
to stand trial for his actions in the League.''

``When?'' Hakram asked, hairless brow creasing.

``Today,'' Vivienne said. ``The recess will be extended into a dismissal
of today's session. We will be heading out to the trial's grounds
presently.''

Catherine and Hasenbach had returned to the hall along with Yannu Marave
and the Carrion Lord to swiftly pass the motion, though given that the
Grand Alliance commanded a comfortable majority in such votes that was
largely a formality.

``It cannot be held in Salia, surely?'' Louis Rohanon said, looking
alarmed. ``I know not the consequences of attempting to pass sentence
onto the Sword of Judgement himself, but surely we cannot risk the
people of the capital so recklessly.''

``The First Prince agreed,'' Princess Rozala said, smiling approvingly.
``The trial will be held outside the city. Haggling was had over the
exact grounds, until we settled on a town in the countryside three
hours' ride from here by the name of Lyonceau.''

``It is a trap,'' Hakram bluntly said.

``It's Kairos,'' an amused voice drawled. ``Of course it's a fucking
trap.''

Vivienne turned and saw her friend -- her queen -- limping forward,
leaning on her strange yet oddly soothing staff. She did not hide her
surprise at the swift return, or at the way that the drow called the
`Lord of Silent Steps' stood at her side. Hakram was just as surprised,
by the looks of it.

``Your Majesty,'' Princess Rozala greeted her. ``Was your right to vote
passed to a delegate?''

``We're already done,'' Catherine replied. ``First Prince Cordelia
wasted no time on ceremonies, and most votes were know before they were
cast.''

``The League?'' Vivienne asked.

``Couldn't even agree on a delegate without the Tyrant herding them,''
the Queen of Callow said. ``The wheels are coming off that cart, mark my
words.''

``And the Dead King, Your Majesty?'' Princess Rozala probed.

``I hesitate to ascribe surprise to a bare skull,'' Catherine mused.
``But this was not his work, I'd bet rubies to piglets over it. This
stage belongs to Kairos Theodosian alone.''

``We believe the Tower to be actively courting cities among the League,
Queen Catherine,'' Louis Rohanon said. ``Dread Empress Malicia would
have greatly undermined the standing of the Tyrant for this to
succeed.''

The Queen of Callow frowned.

``Then after riding his last horse to the grave, he has saddled a fresh
one,'' Catherine said. ``You saw it true, Vivienne.''

Even now, the former thief was surprised by the flush of pleasure she
felt at the freely offered praise. It was not entirely warranted, in her
eyes, for while she'd brought up the notion first but she doubted they
would not have seen it themselves in time. Still, it was not unpleasant
to hear. She smoothed away the emotion, for there were higher callings
than indulgence at hand. A drow painted in the colours of the `Losara',
the tribe among their kind that Catherine had unsurprisingly ended up
forging when none at hand suited her purposes, stepped forward to murmur
in Lord Ivah's ears before retreating. The Lord of Silent Steps
addressed the queen in Crepuscular, and she closed her eyes in thought.
A few moments passed, and she opened them.

``No, doesn't mean anything to me,'' she told the drow. ``Adjutant, I
need you to find me someone who knows something. An herbal brew made of
foxglove, nightshade and powdered graveborn mushrooms -- what is it
for?''

Vivienne was looking for it, so she caught it: the faint tremor, the
pulse that shuddered through the fabric of Creation as Adjutant called
on one of his aspects. The tall orc's head snapped to the side, cheeks
creasing in amusement as his eyes came to rest on the approaching form
of Lady Aquiline Osena.

``Providence, warlord,'' he gravelled in Kharsum. ``The wind is in our
sails for once.''

``Don't rejoice,'' Catherine replied in the same. ``Think on how bad the
opposition must be, that \emph{we} are smiled upon.''

The Lady of Tartessos was approached, and Princess Rozala was prevailed
upon to make introductions. Few courtesies were had, as Levantine ways
tended to be pleasantly brisk. The question was asked, though nightshade
was a term unfamiliar to the Levantine. Belladonna, however, she
recognized.

``That is champion's brew, though I have never heard of graveborn
mushrooms being used in the recipe,'' Lady Aquiline said, though she
looked bemused at the question. ``Only one without character would use
it in an honour duel, but it can be a worthy thing when drunk in the
deeps of the Brocelian.''

``What does it do?'' Catherine pressed.

``It lends strength to the dying,'' Lady Aquiline said. ``It calms
limbs, eases the flow of blood and lends vigour -- for a time, and at a
price. It is false strength, and when it fades often kills the
drinker.''

``Let me guess,'' Catherine Foundling grimly smiled, ``graveborn
mushrooms would add a little more to the vigour, right?''

``I am not certain,'' the Lady of Tartessos admitted. ``It would be
better to ask Razin, as one of the Binder's Blood would be learned in
such lore. Yet what you say seems likely, for barrow-born things often
lend poisonous strength before they kill.''

``Catherine?'' Vivienne asked, looking at her cautiously.

Something almost like fear had flickered across the Black Queen's face
for a moment.

``The Tyrant of Helike was drinking this by the cup last night,''
Catherine said, ``and it was brewed potently enough it would have
outright poisoned someone without a Name.''

A moment of silence passed.

``Steel yourselves, my friends,'' the Black Queen gravely said, ``for
when the likes of Kairos Theodosian comes to sing his swan song it is
not a thing to be taken lightly.''