webcrawl/APGTE/Book-2/out/Ch-043.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-nemeses}{%
\chapter*{Interlude: Nemeses}\label{interlude-nemeses}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{interlude-nemeses}} \chaptermark{Interlude: Nemeses}

\epigraph{``I've been told one can only be betrayed by a friend, which is
why I constantly surround myself with enemies.''}{Dread Emperor Traitorous}



``This is a problem,'' Arzachel said.

Akua stilled her tongue before it could deliver a truly scathing piece
of sarcasm. The Proceran was quite good at his work, but he did have an
unfortunate tendency to present obvious truths as if they were a
revelation from the Gods. The two corpses had not been touched since the
picket had brought them into the supply tent, the wounds in their
throats and kidneys still bloody if no longer bleeding. The smell was
foul, but this was hardly the first time Heiress had ever been in a room
with corpses. They'd been a staple of her childhood.

``They hit the sentinels right before dawn, as far as we can tell,'' the
commander of her mercenaries grunted. ``Knifed those two and infiltrated
the camp. We don't know how far in they got.''

Foundling's foul little goblins at work, of that there was no doubt.
Chider had warned her that the one named Robber had a reputation among
her kind as half-mad even by their standards. Akua had been sceptical
that Squire would let him off the leash in the middle of a campaign but
she had been incorrect, evidently. Their last confrontation had
radicalized her rival more than expected. The girl took everything so
personally, even when she was not meant to: Foundling had committed the
Praesi cardinal sin of coming to care for her power base on a personal
level. It made controlling escalation particularly tricky, though
admittedly it also made manipulating her child's play.

``Are you certain they're no longer in the camp?'' she asked.

They were two days off Marchford, headed for the very ford the city had
been named after. This was the first night some of her men had turned up
dead, though there'd been reports of goblins skulking around the edge of
her camp before.

``I combed through the camp, but goblins can hide in a bare white room
if they need to,'' Arzachel said. ``We'll only know for sure when we're
on the march.''

In this kind of situation Akua's preferred counter would have been to go
on the offensive, but the situation did not allow for that kind of
manoeuvring. By officially designating her as an auxiliary the Black
Knight had ensured she was bound by the regulations of the Legions of
Terror. Any incident between her men and the Fifteenth would end up
arbitrated by either a military tribunal whose members would be chosen
by Foundling or directly by the Squire herself -- who'd been granted
absolute discretionary authority over the legion by Lord Black. That
path ended only with gallows being raised. Even her own personal safety
was at stake at the moment, though she already knew how she'd slip out
of that particular noose when the time came.

No, until they reached her own objective she'd have to stay on the
defensive. Not the optimal stance, but it could have its uses. Allowing
Squire to build up her confidence with minor indirect victories would
make it easier to blindside her later. Akua could not under any
circumstances allow herself to be baited into a direct confrontation: it
would be throwing away the last year of work entirely, and it was
incredibly unlikely she'd manage to pull wool over the eyes of Lord
Black twice in a row. The dark-skinned aristocrat consciously refrained
from touching the unmarred skin on her hand where she'd rammed her own
knife a few days ago. She suspected the man had been trying to bait her
into something unwise, but she'd known better. He did not have enough to
kill her and anything short of that could be healed in time.

The fear she still felt at the way he'd smiled at her would go away in
time. No one had ever Spoken at her before, and while Lord Black was not
in the same league as the Empress -- there was a reason any agent who'd
been in the same room as Malicia had to be disposed of immediately -- he
still had brought more to bear than any mere Black Knight should. A
consequence of his lacking power in other areas, perhaps.

``Speak with Chider,'' she ordered. ``She'll help you prepare for goblin
raiding tactics.''

Arzachel nodded, looking away too quickly. He'd been looking at her
breasts, most likely. The riding dress she was currently wearing did
allow some cleavage to show, and puberty had been kind to her in that
regard. Akua was the result of centuries of breeding for looks and
magical power, though standards of beauty had admittedly shifted several
times over that length of time. That the mercenary desired her was a
useful tool of control, though that attraction would have to be
carefully managed: spurned men often did childish things to `get even',
and she had no intention of ever sharing a bed with the Proceran. She
left without a word, mind already moving on to the next situation she
had to address before the march west resumed. She had a scrying session
scheduled, and the woman she was going to be conversing with was not one
she could afford to face while distracted.

Her tent had been prepared for the casting, the twenty-four layers of
wards humming against her skin when she entered. Waiting for the Warlock
to be gone had been common sense, for not even old Wolofite secrets were
guarantee that man would not be able to listen in. He'd systematically
broken through Wolofite warding schemes during the civil war, after all,
and done so without even resorting to sacrifices. There were still
entire cabals of mages in the city who dedicated their days to finding
out how he'd accomplished that, though their efforts had not borne
fruits in decades. Instead of the bowls of water some mages preferred,
the Sehelians of Wolof had always used mirrors. Having them cast from
the same ingot ensured a better and more stable connection than most
linked items could manage, an advantage that had once ensured her
family's armies could communicate as far as Foramen while their
opponents could manage barely half that distance. That Lord Warlock's
introduction of a long-range scrying spell accessible to all had
destroyed that comparative advantage still caused some bitter feelings
at home.

The round golden mirror, the size of her palm, rested innocently on the
table. Akua let out a long breath and felt her mind cool. This was not a
Name trick but a meditative one, setting aside distractions and allowing
her thoughts to flow without emotional bias. The technique had been
tortured out of a member of the Watch a few centuries ago and carefully
hoarded ever since, never leaving the confines of the ruling line of
Wolof. Heiress touched a finger to the polished gold.

``Show me not my reflection,'' she spoke in an ancient Mtethwa dialect,
``but the face of your brother.''

Her touch did not leave a fingerprint. There was no ripple, no uncouth
glow: the eyes of her mother simply met hers a heartbeat later. High
Lady Tasia Sahelian was nearly sixty years old, though she looked barely
half of that. It was no glamour: rituals to maintain the physical
trappings of youth and the same superior breeding that had led to both
their beauty were more than enough. High cheekbones and perfect
eyebrows, lovely dark golden eyes and full lips -- it was no mystery why
the High Lady still had so many admirers even at her age.

``Mother,'' Akua said.

The High Lady would not have spoken first if she hadn't, an unspoken
reminder that for all that Heiress had a Name she was still not the
dominant partner in their relationship.

``Akua,'' her mother replied. ``I'm told you're finally on the march.''

Likely the woman already knew where they were headed, but Heiress
answered the unasked question nonetheless.

``To Liesse,'' she said. ``We've been ordered to take the city while
Lord Black deals with the rebel host.''

The High Lady has no visible reaction but there was a palpable sense of
satisfaction emanating from her nonetheless, even through the mirror.
That part of the plan had succeeded flawlessly.

``Foundling must be anxious,'' Mother said. ``She will be finishing her
pattern of three with the hero.''

Not gloating, for High Lady Tasia was better bred than that, but
something close to it. Squire had actually not seemed anything of the
sort, though she had to be aware that after a victory and a draw she was
headed for a defeat against the Lone Swordsman. No doubt her teacher had
informed her that it was possible to discharge that mandated defeat
without the consequences being fatal -- though Akua doubted it would
easy, with a Bard on the opposing side. While those types of Names were
rarely able to intervene directly, there was nothing stopping them from
manipulating the situation from behind the scene.

``Is my support on schedule?'' Heiress asked.

She'd sent for her own reinforcements, detachments of household troops
contributed by all the ranking members of the Truebloods. Only a
thousand overall, since none of the members trusted each other enough to
truly deplete their strength, but it would still double her numbers. Her
mother paused.

``There have been developments,'' she said.

Not a collapse of the Trueblood coalition, Heiress decided calmly. It
was currently the most united it had been since Malicia's ascension of
the Tower. An exterior factor, then. The Swordsman? He should have been
in Liesse with the Stygian slaves, but heroes could be slippery that
way.

``Such as?''

High Lady Tasia allowed her lips to thin in displeasure.

``The ships assembled to cross the Wasaliti were stolen,'' she said.

The meditation technique held, muting the sense of surprise. Not sunk,
\emph{stolen}. That phrasing was not happenstance.

``The Thief,'' Heiress said.

``She left a note on the shore, informing us they had been `borrowed
indefinitely','' Mother said, eyes gone hot with rage. ``A small fleet,
gone inside an hour without a trace. They're not on the river and our
agents in Mercantis have seen no sign of them.''

Heroes, unmaking a month of preparations as easily as a soldier tossed
dice.

``You could charter more,'' Akua noted.

Mother shook her head minutely. ``The Empress has finally made her
move.''

That single sentence brought fresh dread that put anything personal fear
inflicted by Lord Black to shame. The man was a threat, but he was
ultimately nothing more than an exceedingly talented warlord. Dangerous,
but he could be neutered through politics. Her Most Dreadful Majesty
Malicia, First of Her Name, had always been the most dangerous of the
two. While her Knight settled the provinces the Empress had spent
decades fencing with the sharpest minds in Praes, leaving behind her a
trail of broken ambitions and exquisitely outplayed corpses.

``She was particularly clever about this one,'' the High Lady admitted.
``Our request that the Clans be forced to be pay the tributes they
refused under Nefarious rests on the legality that, even when not under
de facto Imperial control, territories are subject to Imperial law and
obligations. Under that understanding, the lands you looted in southern
Callow are granted the same legal status.''

Which meant either Wolof had to pay massive reparations for the damages
incurred in that territory or withdraw the request made to the Tower.
That her mother was currently implying she would not have the funds to
assemble another fleet of transports implied she'd already reached a
decision on the matter. \emph{And we can't rely on the other Truebloods
to foot the bill. Mother is the unofficial head of the coalition, but
unmatched monetary contributions would muddy that status.} Akua found
she agreed with the decision made here, after a moment: wealth would
flow back in Sahelian coffers soon enough, while backing down on the orc
issue was not something they could ever take back. It was still
incredibly inconvenient.

``I'll manage without them,'' Akua said, to her mother's visible
approval.

In some ways having only expendable troops at her disposal opened
possibilities. She'd already secured the necessary fuel for her rituals
but being able to operate without the limitation of having to preserve
any of her forces save her personal followers allowed for a degree
of\ldots{} recklessness borrowed household troops would forbid. Not to
mention never having to pay the mercenaries would relieve the family
coffers of an additional burden. She could work with this, unplanned as
it was.

``Keep me informed as you approach Liesse,'' High Lady Tasia ordered.

Akua bowed her head, though the commanding tone rankled. It always did.
Without wasting any times on goodbyes, her mother's profile disappeared
from the mirror. Heiress waited, for now came the contact she'd actually
been looking forward to. The link between mirrors activated again,
responding as if it had been triggered from the other side. It hadn't
been: a spell had been used that fooled the laws of sympathy scrying
relied on to make the artefact believe it was connected to its match
again. An older Soninke man appeared on the surface, face wrinkled with
laugh lines and sleepless nights. Not particularly handsome, but there
was an intensity to him that almost made up for it when he focused
entirely on something.

``Papa,'' Akua smiled.

``Mpanzi,'' her father grinned.

\emph{Dear one}. He'd always refused to use the name Mother had given
her. One of the few kinds of rebellion he allowed himself.

``You look tired, Papa,'' she frowned. ``Have you been working on
another project?''

``Oh, nothing important,'' he dismissed. ``I may have stumbled onto an
improvement on the Shahbaz ritual that bears promise. Still a horribly
wasteful form of conversion, but it brings foundational flight closer to
the sacrificial threshold.''

Heiress found a smile tugging at her lips. Only her father would call
modifying a ritual formula dating back to the Declaration `nothing
important'. On another day she would have asked him to elaborate if only
to watch his face light up -- not to mention that if he'd genuinely
found a way to make flying fortresses less costly it could be very
useful -- but she had precious little time right now. She loved to talk
magic with her father, though, she truly did. He had a real passion for
the subject and as a child he'd made it a pleasure to learn. Akua
believed that if he'd not been her teacher she would not be half the
caster she was today, no matter the potential she'd been born to. And
she still believed he would have been a much better Warlock than the
current one, if he'd pressed his claim. So many things could have been
different, if Papa had answered the call of the Name instead of denied
it.

``You have that look on your face again, my child,'' the dark-skinned
man sighed. ``The one that says you're tugging at doors best left
unopened.''

``I wish you were with me,'' Akua said.

``I wish you had never gone at all,'' he replied sadly.

``You know I had to,'' Heiress said.

``I know your mother said that,'' he murmured. ``You do not have to
listen to her.''

\emph{You do}, Akua almost said, but it would have been unfair. Her
father had been born one of the mostly innately talented mages of his
generation, to the extent that he'd had a claim on the Name of Warlock
after the previous one's assassination. He had not, however, been born
to a powerful family. Minor nobility sworn to the High Lord of Aksum, a
deeply paranoid man whose only daughter was already married: if he'd
stayed in the village of his birth, he'd have been taken in the dark of
night and never seen again. High Lords did not allow strong mages to
survive if they were not personal retainers or useful breeding stock.
Instead he'd found protection and funding in Wolof, where her mother had
required obedience and his help in conceiving a child in exchange. He'd
never even been granted official consort status.

Their only contact when she'd been a child had been her tutelage in
sorcery, all other interactions strictly forbidden. Not that Papa hadn't
found a way regardless, running circles around High Lady Tasia's best
mages and turning it into a game for his infant daughter. She'd loved
him for that and loved him still, for he had never once asked anything
of her. All her life she'd been told that the gifts of her birth raised
her above others, whether it be in intellect or looks or sorcery, and
that girls like her only came once every few hundred years. It had been
a heady thing, until she'd realized that those gifts came at a price.
She was a product of the oldest blood of Praes and her loyalty to that
blood was expected to be absolute. Akua was to return the banner of
Evil, \emph{real} Evil, to its rightful place at the summit of the
Tower. Anything less was unacceptable.

And the truth was, she believed in this. She did not know whether or not
that was because she had been raised to believe it, but ultimately it
didn't matter. No matter the source the conviction had become her own.
Whoring out the soul of the Empire for a few victories the way Malicia
had was repulsive to her. The Empress' path was one that looked back on
all of what Praes had ever been and dismissed it as the flailing of
children. Every villain who'd ever spit in the eye of the Heavens swept
under the carpet like a shameful blemish, a thousand years of tears and
blood denied. Akua looked back on the Tyrants of old and felt only
pride, for the monsters and the fools both -- for even the fools had
shaken the world, in their own way. Their legacy was not wrong, it was
just \emph{incomplete}. It had taken years to realize that for all that
her mother preached this gospel, the reality of intentions was
different.

High Lady Tasia planned for her daughter to be the next Dread Empress
and for herself to be the power behind the throne. Whether or not she
ended up being Chancellor was irrelevant, so long as Akua enthroned was
utterly dependent on Wolofite resources to maintain her reign. What
Heiress had thought to be Fate was just another, larger cage\emph{. You
should not have taught me as well as you have, Mother, if you wanted to
succeed.}

``I'll win, Papa,'' Akua said. ``Believe in me.''

``Always,'' he smiled softly. ``I'm just getting old, Mpanzi. We old men
like to fret.''

``I love you,'' Heiress murmured, embarrassed.

``I love you too,'' her father replied. ``Nothing will ever change that.
If you can believe anything, believe in this.''

Her hand remained on the mirror long after his image faded. She wished
the spell had been less than perfect, so that the bleed over had warmed
the metal for her touch. \emph{I'll win}, she promised herself. She'd
break the cage, even if she had to break the world with it.

---

The olive-skinned old man hopped along the chalk lines traced on the
ground, fumbling the last to the children's delight. The gaggle of
street kids excitedly started arguing about the kind of penalty Ophon
would have to submit to -- he'd stood perfectly on his hands earlier, to
their amazement. The shaved former slave smiled at a fair-haired girl
who tugged at his pants, patting her head and promising in all
seriousness that he'd show her how to use a spear later. The child
scowled ferociously and told him he'd better. All of the Stygian spears
were in a constant state of wonder around children, William had found.
They were made magically sterile during their conditioning, for their
masters believe that while sex was a useful reward their soldier-slaves
should never have their loyalties split by families of their own. The
Lone Swordsman snorted as the commander of the Stygian phalanx deftly
pushed himself up on a single hand, muscles tensing as he maintained the
stance perfectly for a solid sixty heartbeats as the kids counted out
loud.

``They seem to be settling in fine,'' Almorava said.

Of all the heroes he'd worked with, the Bard was the only one who'd ever
managed to sneak up on him. William's hand dropped from the handle of
the Penitent's Blade and he turned to look at the Ashuran musician.
She'd somehow managed to sit at his side without making a single sound
or getting the attention of his Name, which they were both perfectly
aware should be impossible. With a salacious grin she offered him a pull
from the flask of rotgut in her hand. He declined wordlessly, not that
it stopped her from polishing off half the stuff inside.

``You've been gone a lot, lately,'' he said, turning his attention back
to the city streets.

Liesse was beautiful this time of the year, just like he remembered. The
City of Swans bordered a lake full of the birds it had been named for,
the light stone and widespread garlands of flowers hanging from
everywhere making it look like it was in a permanent festival. It was
far cry from how it'd been when he'd first arrived with Baroness
Dormer's host and the Stygians. Liesse had been left without a garrison
by the rebels and descended almost immediately into chaos without even a
city guard to keep the peace. There'd been riots and looting until he
restored order, and the Duke's Plaza had been turned into a makeshift
gallows where Praesi `sympathizers' were lynched to the jeers of the
crowd. Not that they even always waited for that parody of justice: more
than a few couples mixing Wastelanders and Callowans had been murdered
in their own homes, thought thankfully no one had been stupid enough to
start a fire afterwards. Half the city would have gone up in flames if
they had.

``Hasn't been much for me to do,'' Almorava replied, wiping her mouth
and panting.

She seemed tired and a haggard, William noted. Could use a bath, not
that she didn't often. In this kind of heat liquor took its toll.

``Where do you go, Bard?'' he asked. ``When you're not here.''

``You're going to be getting a message soon,'' the Bard said, ignoring
his question. ``From the First Prince.''

William's lips curled with distaste. His single meeting with the woman
had not left him with much trust or fondness for her. It was said that
there were three kinds of Procerans: the hot-blooded Arlesites in the
south, the scheming Alamans in the centre and the coldly practical
Lycaonese in the north. After meeting the Lycaonese First Prince, he'd
had no trouble believing what was said about her people. She used
manners and diplomacy like soldiers used sword and shield, cornering her
opponents one smile and polite question at a time.

``And what does her Most Serene Highness want from me?'' he asked.

``Not her,'' the Bard said. ``Her cousin, the Augur. She's seen what's
coming.''

Almorava's tone had remained light but it raised William's hackles
nonetheless. There'd been an ominous weight to that sentence, for all of
the heroine's nonchalance.

``Squire,'' he said.

``And the other one,'' the Wandering Bard grinned. ``You're a hit with
the ladies, Willy. Must be your body, because I'm sad to inform you it's
not your winning personality.''

``You don't even sound a little bit sad,'' William complained
good-naturedly.

Though he'd humoured his friend in her bantering, most of his attention
was already on the battle ahead of him. With both the Baroness' men and
his Stygian allies, he'd have both numerical superiority and walls.
Against most people that would be enough, but he'd met Catherine
Foundling before: uphill battles like this were her specialty. He'd
already prepared the city for a siege by bringing in foodstuff from the
neighbouring fields the moment the Countess Marchford had ordered him to
remain and protect the unofficial rebel capital, but it wouldn't be
enough. Traditional siege tactics wouldn't be the way his enemy would go
at it. He'd have to watch for infiltrators, starting right now, and
prepare a counter for the enemy mages. He grimaced: leading armies or
even small groups was not his specialty, as Thief had pointed out a few
months ago.

``I'm thinking of putting Ophon in charge of the defence,'' he told
Almorava, gauging her for a reaction.

She hummed approvingly. ``Not a bad idea,'' she said. ``The former slave
facing his former owner. It has a shape to it.''

``You really think she'll let the Heiress participate?'' he frowned. ``I
thought they were rivals.''

``She won't have a choice,'' the Bard said, putting down her half-empty
bottle and taking out a deck of cards from her bag ever-full of
surprises.

Tarot, he recognized when she flicked a card at him. Six of Cups. There
might have been a meaning to that, though he didn't know it.

``Are you branching out in divination, now?'' he teased.

``Divination is just parsing out a story that hasn't been written yet,''
the Bard snorted. ``As if I'd need cards to do that. No, I just like
throwing those around people who think too much. They waste their time
puzzling out the meaning when they should be worried about something
else.''

He carefully picked up the card, holding it up. ``Illuminate me, then,''
he said. ``Why does Squire not have a choice in letting her enemy
help?''

``By now the Big Guy already assigned Heiress as an auxiliary to the
Fifteenth,'' the Bard said, ``but that's just a surface detail.
Patterns, Willy. It's always about patterns.''

``It will be the final fight between she and I,'' the Lone Swordsman
frowned. ``You think she'll be sending in Heiress to avoid a defeat?
Using a proxy, so to speak.''

The Ashuran patted him on the back comfortingly, dropping the deck to
pick up her flask. The cards scattered all over the floor and William
repressed a twitch. He disliked messes, and she was making no move to
pick any of it up.

``Close, but you're missing the point,'' the Bard said. ``You already
have all the information. When referring to Heiress earlier, what did
you call her?''

``Enemy,'' William said.

``Before that, you sorry human-shaped sack of potatoes.''

``I take offense to that, kind of,'' the Swordsman replied mildly.
``Rival. They are rivals.''

``Nemeses, even,'' the Bard said, smiling nastily.

A heartbeat passed until he caught on. ``You mean\ldots{}''

``Yours is not the only pattern of three Catherine Foundling is bound
by,'' Almorava said. ``One defeat for Heiress, on the shores of the
Blessed Isle. One shared draw, in the ruins of Marchford. You know what
comes next.''

``A victory in Liesse,'' William finished. ``Surely she has to be aware
of that?''

``Oh, she hasn't noticed,'' Bard said. ``As Fate would have it, the Big
Guy would have. If he'd arrived in time to hear Heiress speak the word
`draw', anyway. But he was detained in Arcadia when getting there.
Couldn't find someone to open a way out.''

``A fortnight ago,'' the dark-haired hero spoke slowly, ``you appeared
covered in snow.''

``Lovely people, the Fae,'' Almorava mused. ``Live closer to the Story
than anybody else. They know better than to ignore the warning of a
mysterious cloaked stranger.''

There was a long moment of silence between them as they watched the
children play in the distance.

``You're a very dangerous woman, Almorava,'' he finally said.

``I don't have a speck of power to my Name,'' the Bard murmured. ``All I
am is a grain of sand.''

\emph{That can be all it takes, to break a machine}, William thought.

``You'd rather Heiress survive than Squire,'' he said after a moment.

``Every single time,'' the Ashuran agreed vehemently.

``Foundling is trying to change things for the better, at least,'' the
Swordsman pointed out, though defending the traitor left a foul taste in
his mouth.

``You need to stop thinking in terms of individuals, William,'' the Bard
grunted. ``The Squire is a legacy. So is Heiress. One of those legacies
is much more dangerous to Creation than the other.''

``She summoned a \emph{demon}, Bard,'' the hero spoke flatly. ``I'll say
this for Malicia and her dogs, they've shown more restraint than their
predecessors.''

``It doesn't matter if she summons a whole army, though she didn't do
any summoning at all. Heiress loses, in the end. That's her story. She
makes a mess, but in the end she can't win. These\ldots{} practical Evil
types. They can win, if we let them.''

``It wouldn't be the first time Evil wins,'' the hero said grimly. ``Nor
will it be the last, if we should be defeated.''

``They don't win like this, William,'' Almorava said quietly. ``This
monstrosity of a plan the madman and the tyrant have cooked up? It
changes things. Opens a door that can't be closed ever again. They think
they're different but they're not, not really. Not enough that it
matters. Patterns don't discriminate between shades, you see. They only
see black and white.''

``You've lost me,'' the green-eyed man admitted.

``Don't worry about it,'' the Bard sighed. ``Just prepare. That plan
you've been thinking of? Do it.''

He didn't bother to ask her how she knew about that. The Lone Swordsman
allowed the Wandering Bard to rest against his shoulder for a while.
They stayed like that until the sun began to set, the silence strangely
comfortable.

``Nowhere, William,'' she whispered, bringing the bottle up to her lips.
``I go nowhere.''