webcrawl/APGTE/Book-3/tex/Ch-026.md.tex

\hypertarget{villainous-interlude-stormfront}{%
\section{Villainous Interlude:
Stormfront}\label{villainous-interlude-stormfront}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``The covenant of the hungry lasts as long as the meal.''}

-- Taghreb saying
\end{quote}

Anaxares was having a tea party with monsters.

A civil one, he had to admit. The ridiculously large and opulent table
-- it was Ashuran pearwood, he was fairly sure, which meant it was worth
a small castle -- had been set on a platform in the morning, long before
the Black Knight had actually arrived. There were jewels set into the
surface of it that glinted the same no matter what light fell on them
that he believed would be able to shoot out beams of energy if the
Tyrant spoke the right incantation. At least the whole thing wasn't
floating. The boy had suggested all of this should be happening with the
platform a hundred feet up in the air, but Anaxares had flatly informed
him he wasn't setting foot on anything that wasn't touching solid
ground. After the usual round of inventive death threats, the Tyrant had
conceded the point and instead had gargoyles place over all four
corners. At least one of them was badly failing to pretend it was still
inanimate. Anaxares had thrown a biscuit at it earlier, just to see what
it would do.

Glare at his back when it thought he wasn't looking, apparently. Foolish
creature, all Bellerophans knew you should always assume someone was
looking at you. \emph{The Kanenas See All, For Their Eyes Are The Eyes
Of The Law And The Law Is Omniscient}, he added dutifully. Kairos had
put on a version of the Helikean infantry armour that was made of pure
gold, with pauldrons he suspected were actual real skulls. All three
people at the table were politely pretending they could not hear the
hissing angry ghosts bound inside said skulls. The Tyrant had tried to
dress him up in silks but Anaxares had ignored the servants and instead
continued to wear his old diplomat's robes, which he made a point of
washing himself. They were beginning to look rather frayed, but
accepting clothes from the boy would count as Taking A Bribe From A
Foreign Despot. Him aside, the two villains sitting across each other
were a study in contrasts. Studying Named as openly as he was always a
dangerous business, but Anaxares was already a dead man. What was left
to fear?

He'd expected the Black Knight to be some tall muscled Soninke, but the
villain was short -- shorter than the Tyrant, if not by much -- and pale
like a Callowan. He'd not believed that particular rumour to be true.
Weren't the farmers on the side of Good? It was hard to tell what his
build was under the plain plate he wore, but it was obvious that though
he was no slab of muscle he was an athletic man. In opposition Kairos
Theodosian was so thin he looked almost sickly. Like most people of the
Free Cities the Tyrant was tan and dark of hair, that last part one of
the few things the villains had in common. It was the eyes, though, that
set them apart the most. The murderous red eye of the Tyrant looked upon
everything with warm poison while the pale green gaze of the Black
Knight was cold, unmoving detachment. They were two different takes on
an old breed, these villains, and though their faces were pleasant and
smiling Anaxares could smell the violence wafting in the air like summer
heat. The Praesi set down his cup on the saucer, Nicean porcelain
clinking softly.

``That was the purest arsenic I've ever drunk,'' the Knight said. ``My
compliments to your alchemists.''

There was a reason Anaxares had left his own cup untouched. Unlike these
two he couldn't be expected to walk off a mouthful of poison.

``That's very kind of you,'' the Tyrant beamed. ``We tortured the
secrets of substance refinement out of a Taghreb exile a few decades
back, so really it's all thanks to the Empire.''

The two of them were still smiling. Anaxares would have shivered, if
terror had any point to it.

``I see you've set your table with fire rubies,'' the Black Knight
noted. ``A nice touch. I might lose an eye if you triggered those
without warning.''

``\emph{Burn},'' the Tyrant suddenly barked, leaning forward.

A heartbeat of silence passed and nothing happened.

``You could have flinched, at least,'' the boy pouted.

The Black Knight smiled serenely, drinking another sip of poison.

``Shame the rest of the Calamities couldn't come,'' Kairos said,
whimsically changing the subject.

``It would have been most impolite of me to enter your camp without some
precautions,'' the green-eyed man said.

``Are you implying I would murder an ally in broad daylight for no good
reason?'' the Tyrant said, aghast.

``You would,'' Anaxares said.

``I could state it outright, if you'd prefer,'' the Black Knight kindly
offered.

The crippled boy tried to drum his fingers on the table casually, but
his hand was shaking so badly it looked more like he was thumping it.
The ghosts bound to his armour screamed angrily, the sound strangely
muted. The diplomat was beginning to find it soothing, to be honest. He
felt too weary to scream in horror himself but having someone else
express the sentiment was gratifying.

``Don't,'' Kairos finally decided. ``My most trusted advisor took the
fun out of it.''

Green eyes turned to study said advisor almost curiously, to the man's
dismay.

``You are Bellerophan, correct?'' the Knight asked.

``You already know the answer to that,'' Anaxares replied, picking up a
biscuit.

He'd been assured those weren't poisoned, so he broke off a piece and
scarfed it down.

``It's been a subject of debate as to why you are still alive,'' the
pale-skinned man said, not denying it.

His eyes flicked at the Tyrant, who shrugged.

``Haven't done a thing,'' Kairos said.

It was actually hard to tell when the Tyrant was lying, in Anaxares'
opinion. He did so frequently and about matters both mundane and
important without rhyme or reason, which meant establishing a baseline
for truth and lies was difficult.

``Thinking too much about why is the curse of unenlightened peoples,''
the diplomat asserted. ``Peerless Bellerophon Is Always Correct For The
People Cannot Be Wrong, May They Reign Forever.''

``I love it when he does that,'' the Tyrant said. ``It's like they're
whispering sweet propaganda straight into my ear.''

``Bellerophon does have a surprisingly effective indoctrination
apparatus,'' the Knight agreed.

Spoken like an Enemy Of The People, Anaxares thought with a frown.

``So why are you haunting my doorstep, Black Knight?'' Kairos suddenly
said.

There'd been no transition from pleasantries to business, no hint or
warning. The Bellerophan had seen him do this many a time now, with
almost everyone he spoke to. He was not sure whether the quicksilver
change was meant to unsettle whoever he dealt with and gain him an
advantage or if the Tyrant was genuinely that unstable. It might, he
suspected, be both.

``We meant to speak with you in Delos, but events conspired against
it,'' the other villain replied.

As a career diplomat, Anaxares could admire how well-crafted that
sentence had been. The use of the word conspiracy would imply fault,
while on surface absolving responsibility -- a counterpart already on
the defensive would feel bound to offer explanation. A shame that
tactics like those were worthless against the Tyrant. The boy, after
all, was mad.

``Your play there spoiled my amusement,'' Kairos complained. ``I was a
sennight away from making a dragon from the bones of their fallen. I was
going to crash it into the citadel and demand their surrender.''

``You would have been repulsed,'' the Knight said, and it was spoken
like a fact.

Considering every assault by Helike on Delos had met that exact fate,
Anaxares believed him to be entirely correct.

``That's the problem with Praesi, these days,'' the Tyrant replied with
an unpleasant smile. ``You worry too much about things like victory and
defeat.''

``No worry would have been necessary on your part,'' the pale man said.
``Victory would have been yours if your host had assaulted the walls
instead of retreating.''

``And how \emph{boring} that would have been,'' Kairos said. ``I take no
hand outs from the Tower, Carrion Lord.''

``We have enemies in common,'' the Knight calmly pointed out.
``Dismissing the possibility of common striving against them is
counterproductive.''

Kairos cackled.

``You don't have a pattern of three against the White Knight, do you?''
he said.

The Praesi's face was blank, a wax mask without expression. Then,
slowly, his brow creased.

``Neither do you,'' he said.

``Someone's hourglass is running out,'' the Tyrant grinned, sing-songing
the words as his red eye pulsed. ``Regretting taking that apprentice,
are we?''

``My decision has never been more justified,'' the man disagreed
serenely.

``\emph{Spineless},'' Kairos stated with thick contempt. ``You lack
rage, Black Knight. If you were any more resigned to your fate you'd be
licking the boots of the Heavens.''

The Knight did not seem particularly offended by the insults. He did not
seem, Anaxares, as the kind of man who could easily be offended. It
would have been most unpleasant to negotiate with him.

``There is a difference between acknowledging the possibility of failure
and embracing the outcome,'' the Praesi said.

``That you even accept the chance of defeat is disgusting, if you'll
forgive my language, much less that you plan for it,'' the Tyrant
hissed. ``You are a \emph{villain}. We do not go gently into the
night.''

``There are graveyards full of men who thought the same,'' the Knight
replied. ``They died having accomplished nothing.''

``You're scribbling on sand and calling it a legacy,'' Kairos mocked.
``Nothing that happens before or after you matters -- only the decisions
you make \emph{now}. And those I see you make? I find lacking.''

``Means are irrelevant,'' the Black Knight coldly said. ``Results
dictate all else.''

``I despise you and everything you stand for from the bottom of my
heart,'' the Tyrant enthused. ``Shall we work together?''

Anaxares quietly choked on the biscuit he'd been nibbling at, entirely
ignored by the other two.

``That would be best,'' the green-eyed man acknowledged. ``The Empire is
not interested in direct intervention. Resolution by local actors is
preferable in Her Dread Majesty's eyes.''

``What you actually want is for Procer to lose their pretext to go
a'crusading,'' Kairos laughed. ``So what's the plan, my dearest friend?
Peace with Nicae?''

``Cessations of hostilities between League constituents would allow you
to turn your attention elsewhere,'' the Black Knight replied. ``There
are no real gains left for you to make.''

``And just by coincidence, that `elsewhere' happens to be eyeing your
borders,'' the Tyrant mused.

``Aligned interests are not the same as subordination,'' the other
villain said.

``Not all that far, though,'' Kairos said. ``Regardless, Nicae's not
interested in peace right now. They're growing too fat on Proceran
silver and soldiers.''

``Stripping them of that fat would make them reconsider their
position,'' the Knight said.

``One last battle, eh?'' the Tyrant laughed. ``That could be
interesting. But they've so many heroes, my dear friend. I'm terrified
of what those could do to me. I'm only one boy, after all.''

Kairos had not even attempted a token effort to make that lie sound
plausible, the diplomat noted.

``We intend to engage the White Knight and his companions again,'' the
pale man said.

``I feel safer already,'' the Tyrant grinned toothily. ``It's so nice,
having friends.''

The Black Knight nodded, unmoved.

``Scribe will be in contact with you shortly,'' he said, rising to his
feet.

The boy waved away the notion, unconcerned. He waited until the Praesi
was at the edge of the platform.

``Black?'' he called out.

The man glanced back.

``I'm going to betray you, you know,'' the Tyrant promised.

The thing that looked back at the boy then was not a person Named or
not. Humanity had slid off that face like water off a clay mask, leaving
behind absolutely nothing -- the thing behind those eyes was coldly
taking their measure, calculating the span of their usefulness and the
death that would follow it. Carrion Lord, they called him, and the
diplomat finally understood why. Why this\ldots{} thing could cow the
third of a continent.

``You will try,'' the Black Knight replied. ``They always do.''

---

The diplomat had expected them to leave after the other villain exited
the camp, but they remained at the table. Kairos was still drinking his
tea, exaggeratedly holding up his little finger so it never touched the
cup.

``What are we waiting for?'' Anaxares finally asked.

It was the crown of noon, and staying in the sun this long always gave
him a headache.

``The counteroffer,'' the Tyrant said.

The sound of the teapot's lid being raised drew his attention a moment
later. There was a woman leaning over it, from the Free Cities by the
looks of her. Long and curly dark hair, curvy under her leathers that he
could smell reeked of spirits even from where he was seated. The
stranger had a silvery flask in hand and was pouring what looked like
Proceran brandy inside the teapot -- she didn't stop until it started
spilling over, only then pouring herself a cup of `tea'. Nine tenths of
that had to be liquor, he thought. And it was probably still lethal to
drink, not that it stopped her from gulping down her her cup and messily
wiping her lips with her sleeve.

``I don't know where you get your arsenic, Kairos, but it's the good
stuff,'' she said. ``You can really taste the almonds.''

``Anaxares, this is Aoede the Wandering Bard,'' the Tyrant smiled
fondly. ``She's here to manipulate me like she did near Delos.''

``You're a heroine,'' the diplomat said, face creasing in surprise.

``I'm starving is what I am,'' the Bard complained. ``Hand me a biscuit,
would you?''

Anaxares did, too baffled to object.

``Did you have fun with the Big Guy?'' Aoede asked with her mouth full.

``You were right,'' Kairos said. ``I want to kill him \emph{so very
much}.''

``Yeah, he doesn't really play your kind of game,'' the Bard said.
``Who's this charming fellow, by the way?''

She was pointing the remnant of his biscuit at him like a wand, hand
wavering as she poured herself another cup of of tea-flavoured liquor.

``This is Anaxares, my most trusted advisor,'' Kairos grinned. ``I
abducted him. He's not very happy about it.''

The dark-haired woman squinted at him, slurping her cup loudly. For a
moment Anaxares could have sworn she was entirely sober and studying him
with a piercing gaze, but then she choked on the liquor and the moment
was gone. She thumped her own chest until she stopped coughing, spilling
biscuit crumbs everywhere.

``You're a class act, Tyrant,'' she said admiringly, still breathless.
``Haven't seen anything that brazen since Traitorous.''

``Flatterer,'' Kairos replied. ``Now, speak treachery to me Aoede.
Treachery most foul.''

``Right,'' the Bard said, putting her cup down and leaning against the
table. ``So obviously I'm trying to trick you to your death here.''

``As is only right and proper,'' the Tyrant agreed.

``So here's something for you to consider,'' she continued. ``You should
off a Calamity.''

``Or not,'' Anaxares suggested mildly. ``We could, in fact, not do
this.''

``Tell me more,'' Kairos ordered.

``So your grand plan, it's not really a plan,'' the Bard said. ``It's a
juggler's philosophy.''

``I've no idea what you could possibly mean,'' the Tyrant smiled.

``First step always works, so always have a first step going,'' Aoede
said. ``Now, a lesser soul would say all that will accomplish is destroy
more and and more of Creation until it all collapses on your head
because you missed a beat.''

``The part that matters is the dance,'' Kairos smiled. ``Not the bow at
the end.''

``And I applaud that, I really do. Here's the thing, though,'' the Bard
said. ``You're running out of enemies, Kairos Theodosian.''

``I can make more,'' the Tyrant pointed out.

``Lesser ones,'' Aoede shrugged. ``Not a lot of heroes running around at
the moment and you've already slapped around most of the League. You
need to expand your roster, my friend.''

She added an exaggerated wink after calling him that, to the Tyrant's
visible delight.

``So I backstab Praes, if you'll forgive my language,'' he mused.
``Alas, killing a Calamity also helps the horse you have in this race.''

``You don't need to wield the knife yourself,'' the Bard said. ``Use my
heroes against them, just blatantly enough the Big Guy knows what you
did.''

``It is lesser treachery that you peddle, then,'' Kairos replied, tone
disappointed.

``That's where you're wrong,'' the dark-haired woman slurred. ``Point
isn't to make the Calamity die, it's to \emph{make an enemy of Black}.
He loves them like family, you know. You need to hurt him at least that
deep if you want him not to let go of the grudge. Anything less and the
moment he's back in Praes you drop off the stage.''

``This plan involves making an enemy of one of the most dangerous men on
this continent for no tangible gain,'' Anaxares said. ``It is not a good
plan.''

``Don't be foolish, advisor,'' Kairos said. ``Making an enemy of one of
the most dangerous men on this continent is the \emph{point} of the
plan, not a side-effect.''

``And to think you said I was bringing lesser treachery to the table,''
the Bard said shaking her head. ``I'm wounded, Kairos.''

``I'm deeply sorry,'' the Tyrant said. ``As an apology, let me offer you
this: \emph{nocere}.''

The jewels on the table immediately lit up and shot half a dozen beams
of scorching red light at the Wandering Bard, who disappeared into thin
air before a single one of them made contact. There was a long moment of
silence.

``She's playing you,'' Anaxares pointed out, aware it was blindingly
obvious but believing the boy could use a reminder.

``Oh yes,'' the Tyrant smiled, and his eye pulsed red. ``Just imagine
the kind of enemy she'll make, when I betray her too.''