webcrawl/APGTE/Book-2/tex/Ch-013.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-12-reproval}{%
\section{Chapter 12: Reproval}\label{chapter-12-reproval}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``There's a very important difference between a nice man and a
good one.''}

-- King Jehan the Wise
\end{quote}

So apparently all that was needed to change a rather nice stockroom into
something sinister was clearing out the supplies, setting up a stone
slab in the centre of it and shackling a prisoner to it. \emph{You learn
something every day}. The combination of bare stone and simply-dressed
young woman was lending this whole affair a particularly villainous vibe
I wasn't really on board with, but I supposed that after getting shot by
the Deoraithe once already Warlock wasn't in a gambling mood. Still, if
\emph{I} got pissy every time someone put an arrow in me I'd have a
permanent scowl on my face. Bad form, that.

``I take it Masego won't be joining us?'' I asked.

The handsome older man shrugged. ``He has no interest in matters like
these. Neither do I, frankly, but rank tends to accrue tedious duties.''

In a way it was comforting that he was more bored with the coming
interrogation that being all creepy-expectant, the way villains usually
were in the stories. Warlock had admittedly been nothing but polite to
me so far, so I supposed I should have expected a departure from the
mould in this too. The dark-skinned mage lay back against the wall and
snapped his fingers nonchalantly, the prisoner stirring awake
immediately. The archer had woken up a little earlier today, the eve of
the furthest I could push back my departure, and promptly been put back
to sleep until she could be moved to a more appropriate facility. At
least the burns all over the stranger's body had been healed, though
sloppily enough that if she tried to move too much it would hurt -- not
a coincidence, I assumed. Her eyes blinked open, then widened when she
realized where she was. There was a single spark of terror before she
smothered it, schooling her face into a blank mask. \emph{She's been
trained to deal with interrogation}, I noted.

``I am an Imperial citizen being held unlawfully,'' she spoke up with
that odd Daoine burr flavouring her Lower Miezan. ``If you do not
release me immediately, there will be diplomatic consequences.''

``I am shaking in my boots,'' Warlock replied drily.

I sighed. ``You were caught participating in the activities of a group
that's been convicted of high treason and seen attempting the murder of
a member of the Dark Council,'' I told her. ``Both of those fetch the
death penalty, and not one of those nice quick ones. You're not going
anywhere.''

She glared at Warlock before turning her stare to me, eyes lingering on
my own obviously Deoraithe features. She said something in the Old
Tongue, the scathing tone obvious regardless of the language barrier.

``I don't actually speak that, except for a few curses,'' I informed
her.

``Probably best you don't,'' Warlock mused. ``And you should be ashamed
of yourself, young lady -- I'm sure her mother was a perfectly nice
woman.''

Whether the prisoner had actually insulted whoever had given birth to me
was up in the air, as far as I was concerned: I wouldn't put it above
the Soninke to yank my chain for the sake of his own amusement. Still,
if she'd wanted to hit a nerve then parents weren't really the way to go
for me. I was perfectly fine with having no idea who my progenitors were
-- parents were more of an abstract concept for me than anything else.
If anything the closest thing I'd ever had to a father figure was Black,
and wasn't that a terrifying thought?

``Arch-traitor,'' the prisoner spat in my direction. ``I know who you
are, Catherine of Laure.''

I rolled my eyes. I'd already gotten this speech from William, and he'd
delivered it better.

``I'm not in the mood for this particular debate,'' I replied, ``so
let's shelve the subject for now. Do you have a name?''

She glared at me\emph{. Eh, I've had better}, I thought. \emph{That's
barely a coercing-Morok level of spite.}

``Why would I give you anything, \emph{uraind}?'' she sneered.

``It'll make this conversation a lot easier if I can refer to you as
something else than ``prisoner'' or ``you'','' I told her honestly.

``I could rip it out of your mind, of course, but that tends to make a
mess,'' Warlock spoke idly. ``Delicate thing, the human mind. Not
telling what might break when I go fishing for what I want.''

She held up admirably under the threat, her face betraying no sign of
fear, but the way she'd gone still revealed exactly how terrified she
was at the prospect. It sickened me a little to see it. Not at her for
being afraid, but at myself for being part of the people inflicting that
fear. I'd enjoyed putting the fear of me in my enemies before but that
had been on the field, where we both had weapons. Not when they were
chained in a dark room underground, trapped in a room with one of the
greatest living monsters of the Empire and the apprentice of another
one. \emph{But that's a child's way of seeing things, isn't it? If
you're so insecure about your objectives that you feel the need to give
the enemy a fair shot at you, then maybe you shouldn't be fighting at
all.} It was not a game for the meek I was learning to play. I knew
that, but it did not take away the sick feeling in my stomach.

``Breagach,'' the woman said. ``That is all you will get.''

``Cute,'' Warlock commented. ``Lying, is it? I didn't think the Watch
was that self-indulgent.''

I made a mental note to pick up a language primer on the Old Tongue
before leaving Summerholm. Or, more realistically, tell Hakram to pick
up one for me. I disliked missing context, and I'd gotten better at
using my learning aspect anyway. Within a month or two I should be able
to speak the basics and understand the rest.

``I am not part of the Watch,'' Breagach replied calmly. ``A typical
southerner assumption, to believe that any Deoraithe leaving the Duchy
belongs to it.''

``Well, let's find out if that's your first lie of the day,'' Warlock
smiled.

A dozen bars of red light came into being above the Deoraithe, connected
by threads of gold. Breagach drew a breath in panic and struggled
against her bindings but she was nowhere strong enough to burst through
good goblin steel.

``Do stop fighting it, it won't be painful if you remain calm,'' Warlock
spoke absent-mindedly. ``Interesting breed you are, members of the
Watch. Took me a while to figure out what made you tick.''

``They're still regular humans, aren't they?'' I frowned.

``When I first cut one open I found there was no physical difference to
a regular Deoraithe,'' Warlock agreed. ``Which is fascinating, given
what they can actually do. I theorized the modifications regressed upon
death -- which, while an advanced piece of sorcery, is not impossible.
Besides, their little club has existed for over a millennium in one form
or another.''

I got the feeling I wasn't going to like what followed.

``Grem was kind enough to secure me a live specimen, but a living
dissection yielded the same results,'' the Calamity continued in that
same casual tone.

I was glad he was facing away from me, unable to see the disgust on my
face. My fingers clenched and unclenched, but I bit my tongue. I had no
authority over the man, and making a fuss now wasn't going to bring
anyone back to life.

``It was Amadeus that put me on the right track, ultimately,'' Warlock
said. ``When trying to understand someone look at their enemies, he told
me. He's a font of useless sayings like that, but now and then they do
come in useful. Who do the Deoraithe hate more than anyone?''

Breagach let out a hoarse cry, then collapsed in exhaustion against the
stone.

``The elves,'' the dark-skinned man finished. ``Oh, how you despise
those isolationist little bastards. Can't say I blame you -- even the
other Good types can't stand them. Regardless, their entire species adds
more weight to their presence in the Pattern the longer they live. From
there, it was a natural leap to start examining your souls.''

The red bars dropped down into the stone, digging into it, and the cords
of gold thickened until they formed a ridge not unlike a painting's
frame. No, I realized as the golden magic spread to fill in the circle.
Not a painting, a lens. There were arcane runes forming and dissipating
across the surface, though I did not know their meaning. Warlock clicked
his tongue against the top his mouth.

``Bad habit, lying,'' he commented. ``Though it's interesting you've
only taken the first three Oaths: they don't usually send out anyone
without at least five under their belt.''

I frowned. ``She's tinkered with her soul?'' I asked. ``That seems
incredibly dangerous.''

``It would be more accurate to say they bind their souls to a source of
power -- one I've yet to identify,'' Warlock explained. ``They use
rituals called ``Oaths'' to tap into it according to set patterns. Night
vision, accelerated reflexes, superior endurance and even an extended
lifespan.''

My frown deepened. ``Not the Gods, surely?''

The dark-skinned man snorted. ``A little above their reach, that. It's
not one of the angelic Choirs either, or anything demonic. My best guess
is a nature spirit of some sort.''

``There are things in this land older than you could hope to conceive,''
Breagach gasped.

``They always say that,'' Warlock mocked. ``Oh, our spirit guardian is
beyond your comprehension! Its power is unrivalled, tremble and flee!''

The second part was spoken in one of the worst imitations of the
Callowan accent I'd ever heard.

``There's a difference between Gods and gods, child,'' the Calamity
murmured, ``and I've more than a few of the latter's corpses in my
laboratory.''

A shiver went up my spine at the words. Maybe if he'd sounded like he
was boasting I'd have dismissed the claim, but he sounded so\ldots{}
matter-of-fact. Like there was nothing particularly unusual about taking
apart literal forces of nature to see how they worked. \emph{Monster}, I
reminded myself. \emph{Polite and charming, but still a monster.}

``Anyhow,'' the mage shrugged, ``We have what we need. The Watch answers
directly to Duchess Kegan, meaning she knowingly broke the terms of her
client state treaty with the Tower.''

There wouldn't be war over this, I knew. The Empire wouldn't open a
second front in the war over such a small incident. But there would be
consequences.

``The tribute this year is going to be particularly expensive, I
think,'' I murmured.

``Politics,'' Warlock dismissed, tone uninterested. The magic over the
prisoner winked out a moment later. ``That's what Black and Malicia are
for.''

He turned his eyes to Breagach, who while visibly tired was still awake
enough to look at us with undisguised loathing.

``And you, my dear, are going back to sleep,'' he continued mildly,
raising a hand.

``Stop,'' I said.

The stare the Calamity graced me with was mild, but I still had to stop
myself from reaching for my sword.

``Black mentioned a bloodline ritual,'' I said.

``We already know she's Watch,'' Warlock replied impatiently. ``I tire
of wasting time on this affair.''

``You said it was odd she's only taken three of the Oaths,'' I pointed
out, mind slowly catching up to what my instincts had latched on. ``If
she was deployed even though she's not fully trained, there's a reason
for it.''

``And you think a bloodline ritual will explain that?'' the mage replied
sceptically, though at least I had his full attention now.

``If I were sending a representative into a war, it'd be someone I knew
I could trust,'' I grunted.

The Calamity's eyes narrowed. Ah, he'd gotten it. For all his flaws, the
man was clever.

``And who can you trust more than your own blood?'' he finished in a
murmur, turning calculating eyes towards Breagach.

She'd gone still again. Warlock tapped a finger against his belt and a
previously invisible sigil lit up, dropping a slim knife into his palm.

``Blood magic,'' I spoke flatly, not bothering to hide my disapproval.

``Get over yourself, girl,'' he replied in the same tone. ``The same
discipline is the only reason that scar across your chest didn't kill
you. Besides, I just need a few drops.''

I scowled as he walked up to the prisoner and cut on her upper arm as
she tried to wiggle away, collecting a few drops and keeping them on the
edge of the knife. He crouched on the ground and bright red flames lit
up the tip of his index as he traced a pentagram of soot on the stone.
He added a few runes at the tips afterwards, then traced a circle in the
middle and flicked the blood into it. I couldn't quite make out the
words he whispered afterwards, but I recognized the cadence: Mthethwa,
an older dialect. He rose and took a step back.

``And now?'' I asked.

``By contracts made, I summon you,'' he replied, still looking at the
pentagram.

There was no flash of light or sudden smell of brimstone. One moment
there was nothing, then a little creature stood inside the pentagram,
sniffing at the circle. Its skin was a reddish grey, with its
disproportionately large head sporting a pair of ears vaguely
reminiscent of curved horns. Bat-like wings were coming out of its back
and flapped as it chittered in a guttural language I'd only heard spoken
once before. The Dark Tongue, what Captain had used to order the
abomination that had taken us up the Tower.

``It doesn't look sentient,'' I finally said.

``It isn't,'' Warlock agreed. ``Blood imps are never particularly clever
and this one's not even a decade old.''

I shot him a quizzical look.

``Devils begin as the personification of a concept,'' the Calamity
explained with a sigh. ``The older they get, the more they can think
independently of that nature. There are differences according to breeds,
of course, with more abstract concepts resulting in greater
intelligence.''

I raised an eyebrow. ``And what does that thing personify?''

``Hunger for fresh blood,'' Warlock replied absently, eyes on the imp.

I followed his gaze saw the devil was now licking Breagach's blood like
a cat would a saucer of milk, making ugly little satisfied sounds as it
did. The sight was nauseating.

``Good,'' the mage smiled. ``And now for the pleasant part.''

He raised a hand and closed it into a fist. The imp rose into the air,
letting out shrieks of dismay, then an invisible force brutally squashed
it. Not a drop of the reddish mulch it turned into splattered, forming a
perfect sphere still hovering above. Slowly it descended and filled the
circle. There was a heartbeat after that, then lines of red emanated
from the circle to touch all the tips of the pentagram. The whole thing
smelled like rotten blood. Letters in the Old Tongue started appearing
on the stone, forming a family tree circling around the remains of the
imp. I looked askance at Warlock, who was reading them intently.

``Well now,'' he murmured. ``Someone's more important than they look.''

He pointed out a pair of words close to the circle.

``That's Duchess Kegan herself,'' he informed me.

``And their relation is?'' I prompted.

``Cousin's daughter,'' he replied. ``Late twenties in the line of
succession, but she's still part of the ruling blood.''

``If you think you can hold me-'' Breagach started heatedly, but the
Calamity lazily waved a hand and she slumped down abruptly, unconscious.

I let out a long breath. ``Well,'' I announced, ``that's that. You'll be
keeping custody of her for now?''

``Until it's been decided what will happen to her, yes,'' he
acknowledged. ``You've secured the Hunter?''

``As secure as a hero can ever be, anyway,'' I grunted. ``He's a
liability. I don't suppose you've got a way to bind his Name?''

The Calamity shrugged as we left the room, stopping only a heartbeat to
incinerate the remnants of his ritual with a flick of the wrist.

``It's possible to bind or usurp a Name, with the right tools,'' he
agreed. ``But a proper ritual site is needed to manage it. The only
usable one in Callow is in Liesse, which would make the matter rather
tricky.''

Ugh. It figured. I'd just have to put in place as many precautions as I
could. We strolled out of the room to a smaller chamber. Someone had
helpfully placed a pitcher of wine on the reading table by the window
and I wasted no time in grabbing a cup and pouring me something to
drink. I could use a little steadying after that whole affair -- the
roof of my mouth still tasted like rotten blood. I poured Warlock one
too after he gave me a pointed look, sipping at my own as an awkward
silence took hold. He was the one to break it.

``Later tonight,'' he spoke, ``my son will ask to accompany you on your
campaign. You will accept.''

``He's been dropping hints in that direction for a few days,'' I
grunted.

There was no denying that Apprentice would be an asset and I'd already
intended to say yes, but being more or less ordered to do so rankled. I
wasn't sure exactly where I stood to Warlock, when it came to the
pecking order, but lower seemed like a safe assumption.

``Yes, he has,'' the Soninke sighed. ``That was meant to indicate he
would accept an invitation if you extended it.''

I raised an eyebrow. ``Why didn't he just ask?''

``Black needs to go over Name etiquette with you again,'' he replied,
irritation colouring his tone. ``You are the Squire. The command is
yours, which would make it extremely rude for another Named to simply
invite themselves along. Villains have been killed for being that
presumptuous.''

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Was it this complicated being a hero?
Maybe it wasn't too late to switch career paths.

``I'll explain the misunderstanding,'' I said, putting down my
half-finished glass of wine. ``I can't say this was a particularly fun
afternoon, but it was certainly educational. If you'll excuse me, I've
got a general staff meeting in half a bell and more paperwork on the
backlog than I want to think about.''

``I do not excuse you,'' Warlock said mildly. ``There's still one thing
we need to discuss.''

``I'll make sure nothing happens to him,'' I said seriously, pretty sure
I knew where this was headed. ``I know he's not used to military life.''

``Oh it's not that,'' the man chuckled. ``You're a clever girl, I'm sure
you're perfectly aware of what the consequences of allowing my son to
die on your watch would be.''

I frowned. ``Then what's this about?''

``Before leaving Ater,'' he spoke calmly, ``you met with Malicia.''

My blood ran cold, but I kept my face expressionless.

``I did.''

No point in lying about it. There was nothing uncertain about the way
he'd phrased that. The Calamity smiled.

``Allow me to share something about the rulers of Praes, Catherine. You
see, both Amadeus and Alaya -- Malicia, as you'd know her -- see the
Empire through the lens of how they operate.''

The dark-skinned man sipped at his glass, eyes shadowed.

``Amadeus thinks of it as a great machine, and so sees himself as a cog.
An important one, but ultimately replaceable. A simple matter of fit and
function.''

I could buy that easily enough. Black was capable of great cruelty but
he was not, I believed, a cruel man by nature. Violence was a tool to
him, a way to reach an outcome. That did not make him any less
dangerous, or make his actions excusable. But it did matter, even if
only a little.

``Alaya is a little trickier to grasp,'' Warlock murmured. ``She sees it
as a weave, and herself as the weaver. She cannot choose the materials
she was given to work with, be she \emph{can} choose what she makes with
them. And if a particular thread runs out?''

The dark-eyed man shrugged.

``She merely has to secure a substitute, trusting that the work she'd
already woven will be tight enough to hold.''

``Why are you telling me this?'' I asked quietly.

``Because they're both wrong,'' the Calamity replied. ``Praes isn't a
machine or a tapestry -- it's a living, breathing organism.''

I frowned. ``And what's that supposed to mean, exactly?''

A hard smile split the mage's face. ``You can't rip out a creature's
heart and just shove another in its place.''

I kept my face blank. Warlock was Black's first companion, the dreams
had shown me that much, and that he'd be my teacher's staunchest
loyalist wasn't a surprise. But how much did he know? I hadn't agreed to
Malicia's offer, not in so many words, and it concerned the far future
anyway. Imehad told me to watch out for Scribe above the rest of Black's
companions, but Warlock was the one sitting in front of me right now.
I'd seen him in action when he'd been crippled by magical backlash and
within moments of stepping onto the scene he'd incapacitated two heroes
and casually slain another one. If it came to a fight against him, my
chances of survival were\ldots{} slim.

``You can stop panicking, girl,'' the dark-skinned man spoke coldly.
``It is not my intent to kill you, though you'd be a fool to think I
could not.''

``I see no reason we should fight,'' I replied, as calm as I could
manage. ``We're on the same side.''

The mage laughed, the sound darkly mocking. ``You think the Empire is a
single side? How delightfully naïve of you. We are not Callowans,
child.''

He leaned forward and there was nothing handsome about that face now,
warped as it was by barely-contained power just itching to lash out.

``We were tribes and tribal kingdoms, before the Miezans, and if you
scratch under the surface we are still. I know who my tribe is,
Catherine Foundling. I have fought with them, bled and wept with them.''

``Yet another Praesi telling me I can't be part of their little private
club,'' I replied, anger freeing my tongue. ``There's a shocker.''

Because if the man thought I would just sit there and be castigated for
something I hadn't done, wasn't even sure I should do, then he could go
burn in the bloody Hells. Wasn't like he was unacquainted with the
damned place.

``Your birth has nothing to do with this,'' he said harshly. ``Neither
Scribe nor Ranger are from Praes. Black barely is, by most of my
people's standards. We are having this conversation because Malicia
summoned you to the Tower and made you an offer.''

``I didn't accept it,'' I spoke through gritted teeth.

``You didn't refuse it,'' he replied. ``That is all someone like Alaya
needs. She laid the seed, and in the coming years you will have to make
a choice. As you are now, I know exactly which one you will make.''

``You are,'' I spoke icily, ``assuming a great deal.''

``Maybe you will prove me wrong,'' Warlock shrugged. ``I have been
surprised in the past. But I speak to tell you this -- if you don't,
there will be a price.''

``Whatever happened to not making obvious threats?'' I spat.

``I don't think you quite understand. I love Amadeus, you see,'' Warlock
admitted casually. ``He is my oldest and dearest friend, a brother in
all but blood. I don't care one whit for the Empire or Evil or all those
carefully laid plans everybody seems to be following. So you can believe
me when I say that if your knife finds his back, I will not kill you.''

He leaned forward.

``What I \emph{will} do is rip your soul out of that mangled husk you
call a body, then cast it into the Void \emph{so you can continue
screaming in unspeakable agony until Creation itself falls apart},'' he
hissed.

Stepping back, he smoothed his robes and smiled pleasantly.

``I'm glad we had this talk. It's better to air these things out,'' he
said as my fingers tightened against the grip of my sword. ``You are
excused, Catherine. Have a pleasant afternoon.''

Putting down his cup he offered me a friendly wave and strolled away,
whistling the air to the Legionary song. I stood there for a long
moment, allowing my breath to steady and the fear to recede. I closed my
eyes and forced my fingers to leave my sword, exhaling slowly. Hakram
would need to find me another book, it seemed. \emph{There's bound to be
something out there about the best way to kill a mage.}