webcrawl/APGTE/Book-2/tex/Ch-047.md.tex

\hypertarget{villainous-interlude-impresario}{%
\section{Villainous Interlude:
Impresario}\label{villainous-interlude-impresario}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``The victor in a war is usually decided before the first battle's
been fought.''}

-- Prince Louis of Brabant, later eighth First Prince of Procer
\end{quote}

Traipsing through Arcadia like some sort of murderous errand boy had
been oddly nostalgic, Black mused, especially with Wekesa at his side.
It had been the both of them in the beginning, before they'd ever met
Sabah or Alaya. Their little jaunt through the realm of the Fae had not
carried with it the same sense of momentous wonderment he'd felt back
all those years ago, but there was something refreshing about being just
a man with a sword instead of the Empress' implacable right hand. Things
had been simpler, when he was young. The lines between friend and foe
had been clear, the dangers understandable. He and Malicia had climbed
the Tower only to then understand the unspoken truth of it: the higher
the edifice, the narrower the summit -- and the stiffer the winds. These
days they spent as much time making sure they remained on top as they
did actually ruling. It was like pulling weeds, he'd once told Hye, if
ripping out one laid the seeds for a dozen more.

He'd put aside the thoughts by the time they arrived at the fortified
camp Istrid and Sacker had established southwest of Vale. The city
itself had been taken without contest before he'd left for Marchford,
abandoned by the rebels. They'd only occupied it long enough to make
sure no armed insurgents would be hitting their supply lines. The
combined forces of the Sixth and Ninth legions theoretically numbered at
eight thousand, though in truth they came closer to ten with all the
camp followers and support personnel. Leaving a garrison in Vale had not
been an acceptable option, not when the Countess Marchford's host
numbered twenty thousand. Half of it peasant levies, admittedly, but
quantity could have a quality of its own. Wekesa dismissed that
ridiculous chariot pulled by winged horses his husband had gifted him
years ago as Amadeus rolled his eyes. He dismounted his own horse and
allowed the necromantic construct to be led away by a legionary.

``You'll be up to your neck in scheming soon, I imagine?'' Warlock
asked.

``I have a few irons in the fire,'' Amadeus agreed.

His old friend grimaced. ``I'll be in my tent, then. Drinking. You
always get irritatingly smug when a plan comes together.''

``I do not,'' Black replied, but Wekesa dismissed the words with an
absent wave of the hand as he walked away.

There was no way to win with this lot. He'd always made a point of not
gloating even if the enemy was dead, but Hye had promptly informed him
that he made such a point of not gloating that it counted as doing it.
They never let anything go, really. He'd worn leather pants once at age
sixteen and it had taken them twenty years to stop mentioning it every
time they went drinking. It would be another twenty before he lived down
Stygia, and since Nehebkau now led Tenth the whole `negotiating with a
dragon' affair would likely follow him to his grave. Sighing, Black made
his way to the command tent. Eudokia was already waiting inside, the
pile of parchments that followed her like an obedient dog stacked on a
table as she read through his correspondence. Amadeus cast a curious
look around.

``Sabah?''

``Gone hunting outriders,'' Scribe replied without looking at him.

``On a horse, I hope?''

The plain-faced woman shook her head and he almost frowned. The days
were Captain had relied on him to cow the Beast were long gone, but if
she let it out too much she still had\ldots{} issues. He'd have fresh
meat rations set aside for her. He'd barely poured himself a cup of wine
when the generals arrived, Istrid striding in without bothering to be
announced and Sacker following close behind. He'd always liked Istrid
Knightsbane, in all honesty. She had weaknesses as a commander but she
was not above taking advice from her staff to make up for it -- and she
was viciously, viciously loyal. Sacker was another story. Though the two
greenskins were as sisters, after all those years working together, the
goblin general had never been part of what could generously be called
the `loyalists' in the Legions of Terror. Sacker had been a Matron
before becoming an officer and though the official word was that no
goblin could sit on the Council of Matrons while serving in the Legions
he'd always suspected she was the eyes and ears of the Council in the
army. She would look out for goblin interests above everything else.

``Warlord,'' Istrid greeted him, clasping his arm.

``Istrid,'' he replied, then nodded at Sacker. ``General.''

``Lord,'' the goblin murmured.

The eye she'd lost at the hands of the Lone Swordsman's attack had been
replaced by a well-crafted glass one and most of her burns had been
healed through sorcery. The part of her face that had been touched by
magic was not as wrinkled as the one that was untouched, making her look
like she'd grafted the skin of a younger goblin on her face. The effect
was somewhat gruesome and knowing her she'd been leveraging it ever
since.

``Countess Talbot ain't moving,'' Istrid told him, accepting a cup of
wine when he poured it.

Sacker shook her head when offered the same, her single living eye
watching them carefully.

``She's not retreating anymore, then,'' Amadeus said. ``Good. I was
beginning to think she'd march all the way to Holden.''

``She's trying to bait us into joining up with your apprentice and
sieging Liesse,'' Sacker spoke quietly. ``That way they can cut our
supply line and fall on our backs.''

``Catherine has Liesse in hand,'' he simply said.

``So now the blades come out, eh?'' Istrid grinned nastily. ``About
time. It'll be like old times, stomping a Callowan host into the
ground.''

Black sipped at his cup, still standing. Sacker let out a small noise of
amusement.

``There's not going to be a battle, is there?'' she said.

``Not as such, no,'' he agreed. ``Within three days the Countess' army
will collapse.''

Istrid looked like he'd just stolen a dozen sheep from her pens. ``We
\emph{have} them, Warlord. We force a battle here and it'll be a
massacre.''

``That's what we're trying to avoid,'' Scribe said from her corner.

Both generals jumped, though Sacker much less noticeably. Neither of
them had noticed Eudokia was in the pavilion -- people rarely did,
unless she wanted them to. A pair of hasty `Lady Scribe's later, Black
cleared his throat.

``Half of that army is peasant levies, Istrid,'' he said. ``Farmers and
craftsmen.''

There was a moment of silence.

``We kill them and there's no one to till the fields when the time
comes,'' Sacker immediately grasped.

And there was the reason the goblin was slated to be the next Marshal,
even with her mixed loyalties. She had an ability to grasp the larger
picture that Istrid simply lacked.

``It's not a coincidence that they started the rebellion just before
sowing season,'' Amadeus said. ``Countess Talbot is holding all of the
fields in the south hostage. If we break her army too badly or burn the
farmland to smoke her out, there will be food shortages in Praes. We've
become too dependent on Callow for grain and fruits since the
Conquest.''

He'd tacitly allowed that to happen, with Malicia's blessing. Food went
into the Wasteland and luxuries into Callow: the trade relationship
between the two lands bound them together tighter and improved the lot
of the commons on both sides. Keeping the standards of living for the
lower classes high enough was the keystone of killing rebellious
sentiment in its crib, both in the Wasteland and in the former kingdom.
Well-fed, gainfully employed individuals tended to think twice about
throwing in their lot with rebels. They had too much to lose.

``No fight at all, then?'' Istrid asked, disgruntled.

``I didn't say that,'' Black mused. ``I'll need your wolf riders ready
for deployment. I am not of a mind to let rats flee the sinking ship.''

Istrid grunted and from the look in her eyes Amadeus knew she'd be among
those riders when they left camp. Peace was not something orcs were
particularly fond of, and the Knightsbane less than most. \emph{Crows
are already gathering for what's to come, Istrid. All you have to do is
wait.}

---

Morning came and word trickled out from the enemy camp that the Duke of
Liesse was dead. Amadeus had ensured as much last night by slipping
Scribe a piece of parchment with the words `Gaston Caen, Duke of Liesse'
on it. Since being raised by a school of hired killers had left Assassin
with a particularly vicious sense of humour, the Duke had been found
drowned in his own chamber pot. Relatively tame, Black decided, compared
to some past killings. He blamed a twisted upbringing: the people who'd
taught Assassin had used as a graduation exercise the murder of a target
by use of as innocuous a tool as possible. Men had been killed with
teacups, he'd been told, filing cabinets and even once half a blunted
copper coin. Assassin's own graduation exercise had been the murder of
every single other assassin using them against each other. The other
Named had a rather thorny take on irony. Buttering his bread, the
green-eyed man paused to take a sip of tea as he watched the green
fields ahead of him and the rebel host beyond them.

He'd had his table set at the edge of the fortified camp, a handful of
Blackguards looming behind him in a concession to safety -- not that
they were particularly necessary, given the very lethal wards Wekesa had
set around him before stealing most of his bacon and flouncing off to
bother Sabah. Ahead the Callowan army was milling aimlessly like an
anthill that had been kicked, hamstrung by the death of the man they'd
been rebelling to put on the throne. Duke Gaston had been little more
than a figurehead while Countess Elizabeth ran the campaign as his
military commander and betrothed, but figureheads were important when
you assembled an army drawn from the commons. The man's claim had
derived from being the highest ranked remaining Callowan noble and from
some extent that the ancient Dukes of Liesse had once been kings in
their own right, which put the rebels in a spot of trouble.

The only duchy with a ruler left in Callow was the Duchy of Daoine in
the north, where Duchess Kegan still watched events unfolding with her
armies assembled at her capital. She was not a participant in the
rebellion, though, and more than that nobody wanted a Deoraithe on the
throne. They might have been a people admired by other Callowans, but
they were not \emph{liked}. Scribe dipped a wheat biscuit in her own
teacup, a truly horrible habit. He frowned at her, not that she cared.

``Why only the Duke?'' she asked.

Black had been about to reply when he felt a flicker at the edge of his
awareness. Ah, the pest had arrived. The Wandering Bard sat on the edge
of the table with a grin, though it disappeared rather quickly when he
casually palmed a throwing knife and flicked it at her head. The blade
would have buried to the hilt between her eyes had the Ashuran not come
out of existence as smoothly as she'd appeared. Amadeus raised an
eyebrow. As he'd suspected, that was not teleportation. And it did not
appear to be controlled. Another flicker and the Bard reappeared in
front of the table, frowning.

``You know, that's-``

Black's shadow extended behind him, casually adjusting the aim of a
mounted crossbow towards the heroine and pulling the trigger. She
flickered out of existence before the bolt could tear through her lungs.
The next time the pest reappeared she was standing thirty feet ahead of
him. A tendril of shadow snuck across the grass as she glared.

``Gotta say, you're being kind of a d-``

The tendril punctured the ground, setting off the demolition charges
buried under the heroine. Black took a bite of his bread and chewed
thoughtfully. The Wandering Bard did not reappear. Thrice beaten and she
stayed gone, then. He'd thought that would do the trick: Names like
Bards lived closer to patterns and were able to use them, but they were
also more closely affected by them. None of the times where she'd been
gone had been willingly triggered, he assessed. Odds were she did not
control where and when she went. More than that, if the ability had not
been teleportation the implications were\ldots{} interesting. How could
you be somewhere and then somewhere else, if not teleportation? Simply
by being there, he thought, although that brought other questions with
it. The appearances were not instantaneous. Where did the Bard go, when
she was not in Creation? Possibly a pocket dimension. More likely,
\emph{nowhere}. Power did not come without costs, certainly not power of
that magnitude. No wonder she drank.

``What were you asking again?'' he asked Scribe after a moment.

``Why you had only the Duke killed,'' she reminded him.

An apt question.

``Because the rebels are no more a monolith than we are,'' he said. ``As
we speak, Countess Elizabeth is likely trying to put herself forward as
the candidate for the throne -- and she does have the most troops under
her command. She is, however, widely disliked by the other nobles.
Gaston picking her as a bride was a slight to the Marchioness Vale,
whose rank is higher even if she is not as wealthy or militarily
capable. The Countess also despises, and is despised in turn, by the
Baroness Dormer. Something about being rivals over the hand of the
Shining Prince in their youth. The Baroness is currently in Liesse, but
she is extremely popular with the men she's sent here.''

``That leaves the Baron Holden,'' Scribe noted. ``The Countess' cousin
once removed. He'll support her.''

``He would,'' Black agreed, ``had I not told you to send that letter to
Grem last month. By now he'll have received a messenger informing him
that Nekhaub is torching the odd barn in his holdings and that a cohort
of undead is driving his landholders into the city. Not any real damage,
you understand, and deaths will be avoided, but to scared civilians it
will make no difference. He'll want to return to protect his lands. It's
an ingrained instinct in Callowan aristocrats.''

``You're dividing them,'' Scribe said. ``Setting them against each
other.''

``Under the cover of dark, if I am not mistaken, the men from Dormer and
Holden will desert,'' Black shrugged. ``Those from Dormer heading
towards Liesse, the others towards home. That cuts down on their
professional troops by a third.''

It didn't, if you counted the mercenaries. Four thousand dwarven
veterans, the heaviest of infantries. But since he'd had Eudokia deal
with that matter already there was no need to belabour the explanation.
As for the Baron Holden, if he followed his men in desertion -- and
Black was fairly certain he would -- Istrid's wolf riders would be
taking him. Only when he was out of sight, though. It would not do to
discourage desertion. Amadeus took another sip of tea. It was a
beautiful day.

---

Wekesa was hogging the wine, as he always did. Sabah was tearing into a
barely cooked side of lamb, looking vaguely guilty as she did. She
avoided that kind of behaviour around her husband, who'd never so much
as glimpsed the Beast, but she did not need to be so delicate around
other Calamities. They'd all seen her in the fullness of her wrath,
tearing off heads effortlessly and bathing her fur in blood. Black
poured himself a cup of Aksum red before Warlock could finish it,
slapping away the retrieval spell the smug-looking Sovereign of the Red
Skies tried to hook around the jug.

``The army looks smaller than it did yesterday,'' Wekesa said, trying to
distract him as he pilfered some couscous from his plate.

Black refrained from rolling his eyes. Warlock only descended in petty
thievery like this when he missed his husband too much, though when
they'd been younger he'd also done it purely to spite the others. Until
Hye had nailed his hand to a table, anyway. His lover did not brook
threats to her morning tea. She'd apparently picked that up from her
father, who'd been an admiral among the Teoteul until a defeat at Yan
Tei hands had forced his exile. How he'd managed to cross the Tyrian Sea
was a story in its own right, as was the way he'd romanced one of the
few elves to ever leave the Golden Bloom. Amadeus patiently bid his
shadow to form teeth and began sawing through the back leg of Wekesa's
chair, but he deigned to reply.

``The soldiers from two baronies deserted during the night,'' he told
them.

His prediction had been mostly accurate, though he'd somewhat
underestimated the impact of the Duke's death. At least a thousand men
from the levies had melted away under the cover of darkness, smelling a
losing fight. Istrid had gone to follow the unfortunate Baron Dormer
with all of her wolf riders before dawn came. They had standing orders
to retreat if a hero showed up, but otherwise the outcome of that fight
was settled.

``They still have most of their knights,'' Sabah said, clearing her
throat and setting aside the clean bones of her meal.

``They do,'' Black conceded. ``And though we've proven we can deal with
them now, they'll cost us unnecessary casualties if they fight. Unlike
the levies, they won't desert easily. They badly want the return of
chivalric orders and only a restoration of the Kingdom can accomplish
that.''

``I still have that plague for horses you had me cook before the
Conquest laying around somewhere,'' Warlock offered.

``That kind of weapon is hard to put back in the box when it's come
out,'' Black declined. ``Anyhow, the matter is handled.''

``Can't be too handled, the horses are still there,'' Sabah pointed out.

Amadeus reached for his wine and found the cup empty. There was a very
suspicious magical siphon at the bottom of it and Wekesa hadn't refilled
his own cup in some time. The Black Knight glared at the other man, who
grinned mockingly. He set the teeth to saw faster.

``Contrary to what many treatises preach,'' Black said, ``I don't
believe that morale shocks off the battlefield are better off delivered
all at once. Several consecutive blows bring the expectation of more to
come. That perception comes in more useful than one instance of great
panic.''

``He's still hiding more tricks up his sleeve,'' Sabah translated for
the benefit of absolutely no one.

``I haven't been around for too long,'' Warlock said. ``He's gotten
too-``

The back leg broke and the Sovereign of the Red Skies sprawled on the
grass in a messy heap. Amadeus stole his cup of wine, pointedly not smug
to such an extent it looped back around to smugness.

---

The third morning showed another chunk of the rebel host missing. The
dwarven infantry had disappeared during the night, though not before
quietly butchering most of the knights in their sleep. Their contract,
though paid with Proceran silver, had technically been held by the Duke
of Liesse. The fig leaf had been a necessary fiction for First Prince
Cordelia, who could not be seen to be too directly involved in the
rebellion if she wanted popular support. Black had simply hired the
dwarves in advance for when their contract with Liesse expired and had
the man killed. After that their orders were to stay for a single day,
wipe out the enemy cavalry in the night and march back to the Wasaliti
where barges would take them down to Mercantis. It had been a hideously
expensive measure to take and he'd had to designate a route for the
mercenaries to follow that wouldn't allow them to loot most of southern
Callow on their way out, but the results spoke for themselves. The rebel
army was falling apart at the seams, fights breaking out between
supporters of the Marchioness and the Countess.

The levies were staying mostly out of that, leaving the squabbles to the
retinues of nobles, but seeing their only remaining real soldiers take
blades to each other was the final nail in the coffin of their
willingness to wage this war. Which was why Black had quietly sent
envoys to the most prominent leaders among them and asked for a parley
halfway between the armies. Idly trotting up on his horse, the Black
Knight bade it to stop in front of the dozen men and women who eyed him
warily without ever touching the reins. Those were an affectation, as he
controlled his mount entirely through his Name -- now and then enemies
tried to seize them to unhorse him and got a blade through the throat
for their trouble.

``Good morning,'' Black greeted them politely.

Disbelieving glances were exchanged among the envoys, to his mild
irritation. Why did people always expect him to be uncivil? Being Evil
was no reason to be rude. Even when it was necessary to execute someone,
there was no need to be unpleasant about it -- and he had no intention
of killing any of these people, if they did not force him to.

``Good morning,'' a heavyset blond woman in her fifties replied,
sounding as if she did not quite believe what she was saying.

One of the men, dark-haired and scarred by what he absent-mindedly
decided to be a legionary's blade, spat to the side.

``Ain't come to exchange pleasantries,'' the man said.

Black cocked his head to the side. The face was almost familiar, but
then a lot of these soldierly types were.

``I've met you before,'' he said. ``Summerholm?''

If it had been on the Fields of Streges, the man would not be here to
stand. The soldier blinked, then shook his head.

``Laure,'' he replied. ``Was in command at the Muddy Gate.''

``Your men held for half a bell,'' Amadeus remembered idly. ``Ranker
thought you would be the first to fold, but she always did underestimate
the Royal Guard. You were next to last.''

``Good soldiers, all of them,'' the man glared. ``Most of them dead
now.''

``Yes,'' Black spoke softly. ``They fought well. They fought bravely.
\emph{And they died}.''

He had not raised his voice or used his Name to inflict fear, but a
shiver went through them nonetheless. Alaya could weave lies so
beautiful you wanted to believe them and Wekesa could turn a man mad
with three words but Black, Black had always preferred to use truth.
Nothing cut quite so deep as an unpleasant truth.

``You here to threaten us, then?'' a young woman spoke belligerently.

``Do I need to?'' he asked. ``You know who I am. You know what I can do.
Worst of all, you already know how this ends. It's the reason you're
standing here in the first place.''

``We still got numbers on you,'' another man grunted.

``I could carpet this plain with the dead,'' Amadeus said frankly.
``Make this a victory so brutal the Fields of Streges would pale in
comparison, and they were bloodier than most. But I don't want to, you
see.''

``Yeah, you're a real bleeding heart,'' the young woman from earlier
said.

Black smiled. ``What's your name, young lady?''

She paled, but after so much bravado she was too proud to back down in
front of the others.

``Amelia,'' she replied, chewing her lip as she did.

It seemed the rumours he could steal someone's soul just by knowing
their name had not quite died out in these parts of Callow.

``I'm a very bad man, Amelia,'' he said. ``What I am not is a
\emph{wasteful} one. I could slaughter the heart of southern Callow's
people today, but all that would accomplish is the making of corpses.
Corpses don't grow crops. Corpses don't pay taxes.''

``Neither do rebels,'' the old soldier grunted.

``So cease being rebels,'' Black shrugged.

``Just like that?'' the woman who'd returned his greeting asked. ``We
just walk away?''

``Go home,'' Amadeus offered. ``Go to your families. No sanctions will
be imposed, no additional taxes levied or property confiscated. And the
next time a lord comes to you with coffers full of Proceran silver
talking of \emph{freedom}, remember today. Remember that mercy once is
an investment, but twice is a mistake.''

\emph{And I do not make mistakes,} went the unspoken sentence.

``There is a price, of course,'' he said and they stiffened.

Some smiled with triumph, confirmed in their private belief that Evil
could never negotiate in good faith. Callow was a land of old grudges,
lovingly tended to.

``The nobles,'' he said. ``The ones who took the silver. \emph{Give them
to me}.''

He leaned back in his saddle, then smiled at them.

``You have until nightfall to think it over.''

His horse wheeled away without a word as hushed whispers erupted among
the envoys. Before the two bells had passed fighting erupted in the
rebel camp, but it was all a foregone conclusion. Marchioness Victoria
Lerness of Vale and Countess Elizabeth Talbot of Marchford were dropped
off bound and gagged at the edge of his camp by men who wouldn't meet
his eyes as the army started dispersing into the countryside. Some of
the retinues had not fought and still lived. They would be an issue
later on, he knew. He'd have to assign a legion to the area to prevent
the rise of banditry. The nobles were brought to his personal pavilion,
where under guard they were allowed to wash up and compose themselves.
Amadeus only entered afterwards, and calmly invited them to sit.

``Marchioness Victoria,'' he greeted them. ``Countess Elizabeth.''

They were both in their forties, though even he did not look it he was
older than both of them. The Countess of Marchford was fair-haired and
still roughly handsome, though too sharply boned to have ever been a
great beauty. The Marchioness had dark hair braided and showing thin
streaks of grey, her blue eyes watery but unblinking. Neither of them
showed the fear he knew they felt.

``The Carrion Lord himself,'' the Marchioness said. ``Should I be
honoured?''

``Come now, Victoria,'' the Countess mused. ``Anything less would have
been a slight.''

Though mere hours before they had been at each other's throats, in the
presence of the Enemy they closed ranks without hesitation. Of all the
qualities of the people of Callow, he had always admired that one best.
Praesi never ceased sharpening their knives even when the enemy was
knocking at the gate.

``I would receive your official surrender, if you would care to give it
to me,'' Black said.

``Oh, I don't think so,'' the Marchioness chuckled.

The Countess smiled. ``Your offer, though kind, is declined. As the
commander of the armies of the Kingdom of Callow, I must inform you that
our official reply is \emph{go fuck yourself}.''

\emph{Give me a hundred officers with that kind of backbone and I'd
conquer all of Creation}, Black thought.

``I expected as much,'' Amadeus said. ``Countess Marchford, the offer I
made you after the Conquest still stands. A position as general at the
head of a Legion as well as amnesty.''

``You don't really get it, do you?'' the Marchioness laughed. ``I
wouldn't flip Elizabeth a copper if I saw her on the street starving but
I would never, not for a moment, think she'd make a truce with the
Enemy. We were born free, Praesi. That's not something you forget.''

``The Marchioness of Vale is correct,'' Elizabeth Talbot said calmly.
``We both know how this ends, hound of Malicia. The noose, the chopping
block, or whatever else your butchers in the East can think up.''

She leaned forward, meeting his eyes.

``I would do it again, Carrion Lord,'' she spoke hoarsely. ``Even
knowing how it ends, I would do it again.''

There were a few heartbeats of silence, then he sighed.

``What an utter, utter waste,'' Black murmured.

But the gears were turning, and didn't that say everything that needed
to be said? He rose to his feet.

``Crucifixion,'' he said.

``Returning to Triumphant's favourite, I see,'' the Marchioness replied,
though she paled.

``A legionary will be along soon, with a pitcher of wine,'' Black said.
``It will be poisoned. A painless one -- you'd fall asleep and never
wake. Whether or not you drink is up to you. Nailing your dead body to
the cross will have the same effect as if you were alive.''

Villains must be graceful in victory, he believed. They knew defeat a
lot more intimately than the other side. With a respectful nod, he left
the two aristocrats to their last moments. The rebel army had died
without the kind of battle that would make a pivot in the story
unfolding across Callow. Liesse would be the closing of the rebellion,
Liesse and Catherine. Looking up to the darkening sky, Black hummed an
old song his mother had taught him.

It had been a beautiful day, but he'd always loved the night best.