webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-035.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-26-civility}{%
\chapter{Civility}\label{chapter-26-civility}}



\epigraph{``No plan is beyond dreading the sound of a match being struck.''}{Dread Emperor Reprobate the First}



``You could change,'' Hakram gently suggested, ``into something that's
not still smoking.''

I patted at my cloak absent-mindedly, irritated that even after three
rounds of that there still seemed to be smoke wafting up somehow. My
face was caked in dust and soot, so Adjutant was being fairly
light-handed by just talking about clothes, but to the Hells with it.
Who was I trying to impress on the other side, by not arriving dressed
like a grimy goblin and smelling of dark sorceries? That lot had already
declared me Arch-heretic of the East, the only way to go was up. A sharp
whistle had Zombie trotting to my side instead a spoken answer and
Hakram sighed.

``I take it you won't be washing either,'' the orc said.

``Got it in one,'' I cheerfully replied. ``Now, we're just waiting on-''

Leaning against my staff, I pushed myself atop my docilely waiting
mount. I settled comfortably onto the saddle, the length of ebony in my
hand spinning gracefully the once before I brought it to rest against
her neck.

``- a message,'' I finished. ``After that we'll be going to have a nice
polite chat with people who may or may not want to murder us.''

``Is Vivienne coming along?'' he asked.

I shook my head.

``Not for this, considering what it might come to,'' I said. ``And even
with you I'm hesitating.''

I glanced at his latest mislaid limb.

``You still any good in a fight, Adjutant?'' I asked, tone serious.

He'd known me long enough not to be offended by a question most orcs
would have drawn steel over, knowing it was genuine.

``I only need one hand for an axe,'' Hakram simply replied.

I nodded in acknowledgement, and neither of us saw any need to belabour
the subject any further. In the same way that he'd trusted I asked my
question without derision, I would trust him not to be letting pride do
the talking when he'd answered it. Dusk was mere moments away, but even
in that spreading gloom the winged silhouettes of the Sisters were blots
of deeper darkness. It would have been convenient to use them as
messengers, but I'd not even bothered to ask -- Komena might be somewhat
amused by the insolence of it, but Andronike certainly would not. I got
cawed at quite enough already without trying to use goddesses as carrier
pigeons. The word I'd been waiting on came back on foot, in the shape of
Lord Ivah. It knelt before my horse, head rising only at my silent
inquisitive glance.

``It was arranged, Losara Queen,'' the drow said. ``The order was
received.''

``Good,'' I said. ``On your feet, Ivah, and back to the sigil. We might
have a long night ahead of us.''

``One can only hope, First Under the Night,'' the Lord of Silent Steps
smiled.

It heeded the dismissal without tarrying any further, leaving no
footstep and making no sound as it vanished into the depths of the camp.
Adjutant had visibly been busying himself tying two bundles to the sides
of my mount, but it would have been a mistake to believe that meant he'd
not been closely paying attention to everything taking place by him.

``Drow are hard to read,'' Hakram said. ``But this one seems bound more
tightly to you than the others.''

``It was first among my Peerage, in trust if not necessarily in might,''
I said. ``The distinction remains even past the death of the titles they
bore.''

``Loyal?'' the orc asked me, head cocking to the side.

``To me?'' I smiled. ``More than some of its fellows are comfortable
with, I think. But their true loyalty goes to something I merely stand
for. Best not to forget that, when making demands of them.''

``And what demands will be made of them tonight?'' he asked.

I hummed.

``The order I sent was a contingency,'' I said. ``Best you don't know of
it for deniability's sake. But if the Saint of Swords is there,
Adjutant, I'll be making a play.''

``For?''

``The thing they have that I most want,'' I said.

I could see in the tightening of his brow that Hakram was forcing
himself not to ask more questions even as we made out of the camp. He
wouldn't be pressing more over the scheme hanging in wait, so odds were
he was simply still curious about the drow. It had a fond smile quirking
my lips, though I hid it away. Akua had taken to the culture of the
Firstborn only insofar as it involved the levers of power and other
exploitable angles, Indrani had learned what pertained to her own
interests and little else. Hakram, though, was fascinated by drow
culture in a manner that went well beyond the immediately useful or
relevant aspects of it. It was odd seeing them through that fresh set of
eyes, having them taken in as strange and exotic when they were neither
to me. I'd indulge him for an hour or two later, though if he intended
to make a treatise on the subject I was definitely letting him pick at
Ivah's brains instead. I'd refused the legionary escort Juniper had
offered when I'd told her I would be headed for talks with the Pilgrim
and his latest round of minions, along with Vivienne's suggestion of an
honour guard of knights. They both had their instructions in case this
ended with someone killing me, which I considered to be unlikely but
would be arrogant to be presume \emph{impossible}.

It was not a long walk, to where our enemies were waiting for us, and it
was opens ground every step of the way.

The pavilion was held up by two poles, thick canvas painted green and
gold descending from there in a roughly rectangular shape. The entrance,
flanked as it was by truce banners, had been tied open just enough to
reveal four silhouettes within without letting out the heat from inside.
All of them seated at a table, with raised braziers providing warmth in
the waning light of day. Hakram and I did not hurry, allowing the
shadows to lengthen with our approach. Crusted with dust and ash, I must
have looked to have been tarred to better match the dark: the sight of
me, at least, brought a sliver of almost indulgent amusement from the
goddesses still circling above. Sve Noc descended on dark wings twofold
in the exact moment day turned to night, and they claimed my shoulders
as perch without a word. We were close enough to the pavilion I could
make out the faces of most within. Rozala Malanza, face drawn and tired
after the day's battle but no less grimly cast for it. The Grey Pilgrim
himself was no surprise, for he would have been drawn to a day like this
sure as flies to fresh corpses.

The sight that had my pulse quickening, however, was the Saint of
Swords: Laurence de Montfort's crooked frame and wrinkled face were
unmistakeable. Well, it seemed I was going to be playing with fire after
all. The fourth and last was a man looking to be in his early forties I
knew not, though I could hazard a guess. He was built like an orc, tall
and broad and thickly muscled. Add to that the deep tan and the good
chance he was the commander of the Levantine part of the army, and odds
were this was the Lord of Alava. One of the Champion's Blood, as they
were called, though it was my understanding that the heroine who'd
killed Captain was not kin to the actual blood descendants of that
ancient hero. The two mortal rulers were fresh additions, not in
attendance when I'd gotten my first report of this tent being raised.
The Pilgrim must have sent for them before I even departed the camp with
Adjutant. The hero was laying it on thick, I decided with a frown. That
particular point had already been made when he first had the pavilion
put up. This reeked of overcompensation to me, and that was not
something I'd usually associate with an old hand like Tariq. Regardless,
I had no intention of being pulled into his rhythm.

``Here,'' I suddenly said.

Zombie stride came to a sudden stop maybe forty feet away from the
pavilion, and I stroked her mane affectionately even as Hakram followed
suit. With a hard shove I planted my staff in the snow, and Adjutant
mirrored the gesture with the truce banner he'd been marching under.
Without a word it was made clear to the other side I would not be
humouring them with a single step further. Komena cawed approvingly from
my shoulder, never one to pass the occasion to stick it to someone even
through ceremony. It was almost amusing watching the ripple of dismay
that passed through the enemy when they realized that they'd have to
leave their nice warm tent to come speak with the Black Queen. A small
gesture, perhaps, but so had been their own intention in making me crawl
to their table and domain before speaking to them. I intended to make it
clear from the beginning, which side it was between us that came closest
to being considered the \emph{supplicant}. They filed out one by one,
and I had to suppress a grin when I saw the Saint had gotten stuck with
the duty of carrying out a brazier. Seeing the woman who might just be
the most dangerous killer in the service Heavens being used for manual
labour warmed the petty cockles of my heart. The Grey Pilgrim took the
lead, those simples grey robes that should prove no match for the cold
all he'd bothered to wear. Malanza and the Levantine let him stand in
front, an implicit endorsement of his primacy, while the Saint put down
the brazier near them with ill-grace.

``Queen Catherine,'' the Pilgrim said, ``we-''

The touch was light as a feather, for the first fraction of a moment.
People often said they could feel a weight to the gaze of others, when
it was on them, a sort of sense for the attention -- and this was the
same, in a way. The crow-goddesses on my shoulders stirred, and the
touch was torn through by their will like a hand through cobwebs. It
came back, a little stronger, and from a myriad angles. Komena's wings
spread in irritation: the night shivered around us, and only then did
the attention \emph{withdraw}.

``Tariq,'' I interrupted in Chantant, tone harsh. ``If you don't tell
your owners to keep their grubby little fingers to themselves, I might
just decide to take offence to their behaviour.''

Like tossing a stone in a pond, I got to see the ripples from that.
Princess Rozala was surprised, and a little confused. The Levantine
looked\ldots{} angry enough to draw steel, but hiding it much better
than I would have guessed. Good ol' Laurence had a hand on her sword,
ornery cutthroat that she was. It was for the best, I mused, that the
scheme I had in mind required me to get under the skin of most these
people.

``Pardon?'' the Grey Pilgrim said, what looked like genuine surprise on
his face.

Andronike cawed on my right shoulder, though the true meaning she simply
wove into my mind as a thought.

``Mercy, huh,'' I said. ``That'd be the Ophanim, if I remember my
theology right.''

I leaned forward, peering at the Grey Pilgrim and not.

``Are you listening through him, you meddlesome old things?'' I asked.
``Try that again and I swear I'll take a few feathers for my cloak.''

Hakram, bless his soul, had always been quick to follow through on my
plays.

``This could be taken as an assault under truce banner,'' the orc
gravelled. ``What exactly is your meaning in arranging this, Princess
Malanza?''

The Princess of Aequitan's face betrayed irritation, before she mastered
it and it became a pleasantly smiling mask.

``This is a misunderstanding, Lord Adjutant,'' she said.

``They're lying,'' the Saint of Swords said. ``It wasn't an attack, only
gazing.''

Years of rubbing elbows with Praesi ensured the flash of satisfaction I
felt never made it to my face. Laurence was always going to be the weak
point, here: she was powerful, unused to having to measure her words and
hated me to the bone. Like a lot of people who'd been the strongest in
their surroundings for years on years, she'd not had to really answer to
anyone for too long. That led to sloppy habits.

``So by your own admission the Choir of Mercy attempted to look into my
mind,'' I coldly said.

Rozala's face tightened almost imperceptibly. She might not have a sense
for stories, this once, but she could recognize a diplomatic blunder
when she heard one.

``The Saint of Swords does not speak for us,'' the princess said. ``As I
said, Black Queen, this is a misunderstanding. Let us put it behind us
and-''

Suddenly, Andronike began laughing in the back of my mind. A heartbeat
later I heard Tariq flinch, and from the crow-goddesses I felt only
vicious satisfaction.

``Gods, child, what have you done to yourself?'' the Grey Pilgrim said.
``Those things on your shoulder\ldots{} those are no crows. How many
times can you sell your soul?''

Had he tried to gaze at them using an aspect? I almost pitied him if he
had. The foundations of apotheosis for these two had been millennia of
hateful murder, and the mortar had been Winter freely given -- look at
one of those raw would have been painful, but the two? Still, I ignored
him and kept my eyes on Malanza instead. She was the angle I needed to
exploit right now. The Levantine, who'd still not been introduced, was
watching this unfold with wary eyes but not apparent inclination to step
in.

``Your delegation has now assaulted me, accused me of lying over said
assault and is now trying to lecture me like a misbehaving child,'' I
mildly said. ``Explain to me, Rozala Malanza, why I should not simply
\emph{leave}.''

``Perhaps a recess is in order,'' the Levantine said, speaking up for
the first time. ``An hour, setting terms through intermediaries to avoid
this strife.''

His tone was calm, and his Chantant only lightly accented. What he was
suggesting had a decent chance of succeeding, which was why I couldn't
allow it to happen. This needed to have a very specific shape to it, if
I didn't want it to end with a sword running through my guts.

``There has been no evidence that your side is willing to negotiate in
good faith,'' Hakram said, tone just as calm. ``A recess would change
nothing. It is an \emph{explanation} that is required.''

``I am Yannu Marave, Lord of Alava and first among the Champion's
Blood,'' the Levantine said. ``I give my word that no assault was meant,
to the best of my knowledge.''

Cool-headed, I thought. That was unfortunate. Why couldn't I have gotten
your average brash Dominion swordarm in attendance instead? Hells, the
boy in Sarcella had been from a legacy of mages and he'd been nowhere
this even-keeled.

``Perhaps the two of you had diplomatic intentions,'' I conceded,
adjusting the angle of the thrust. ``If that's the case, we may proceed
without their presence. It has certainly been nothing but a distraction
so far.''

The earlier anger returned to his eyes. \emph{There we go}, I thought.

``The Peregrine will always have a voice in the councils of Levant,''
Lord Yannu replied, tone grown cool.

Now we were getting somewhere. He'd taken a position, I could take
offence to it rightfully and walk away from this without having been
`the villain breaking negotiations on purpose', which was rarely a
situation that ended well for said villain.

``Foundling, this is getting out of hand,'' Princess Rozala said, with
forced calm. ``As Lord Yannu suggested, a recess would be best.''

``She's breaking this down on purpose,'' the Saint said, and spat to the
side. ``The Enemy always schemes, Malanza, you should have learned that
by now.''

And it was true, I thought, but by saying it she'd given me exactly what
I needed.

``That's quite enough,'' I said, allowing anger to seep into my voice.
``We're done here. If neither you nor the Pilgrim can keep your
\emph{hound} on a tighter leash, Malanza, we'll settle this on the
field.''

Now, there was the gambit. But I'd been fairly sure the moving parts
would come together just right. With the Sisters disallowing whatever it
was that allowed the Pilgrim to look into people, he should be on the
backfoot. Experience, for once, would work against him: when you used a
tool for several decades, suddenly losing it required an adjustment.
Even the finest swordman in Creation would need time to adapt after
being forced in his first fistfight in sixty years. Time which I'd been
careful not to give the Pilgrim, so to speak. Now, Malanza had to answer
for two heroes neither of which she had any real authority over, and she
was not great diplomat in the first place. That I'd be able to work
around her when the chaos set in was a given. The only unknown had been
the Lord Yannu, but even though he'd given me trouble most of Levant
came with a usable handle: the Grey Pilgrim himself. Even the
implication he was to be dismissed had been enough to harden the
Levantine's position. Now, I had passable reason to leave in a huff. And
I'd repeatedly slighted the Saint this whole time, when odds were she'd
be opposed to this kind of conference in the first place. I was leaving
with the promise of waging a battle that would be dangerous for her
side, in her eyes likely succeeding at whatever scheme I'd been intent
on. So, after I took my reins in hand and began to tug at them to turn
Zombie around, I prepared to find out whether my gambit was going to pay
off.

A flicker of movement from Saint, and just like that \emph{I had them}.

``Laurence,'' the Pilgrim yelled, ``don't-''

I wouldn't be able to avoid that, I thought even as steps almost faster
than I could follow had the Saint of Swords standing in front of Zombie
and swinging her blade at my throat. But then I'd known I wouldn't be
able to, and taken precautions well in advance. As the steel made it a
bare inch from my throat, ruffling Komena's feathers lightly as it
passed, Laurence de Montfort was decked in the face.

She went tumbling across the snow, spewing out blood and even a tooth,
while Rumena the Tomb-Maker followed.

The Grey Pilgrim's hands blazed with light, but a heartbeat later I had
my staff in hand and pointed at him.

``You make a move, Tariq, and I'll drop you,'' I said, tone perfectly
calm.

He hesitated, even as the two mortals on his side reached for their
blades in delayed reaction to this unholy mess, and that was quite
enough for General Rumena to see my will done. The Saint of Swords
landed on her feet, but the ground beneath her turned into boiling
shadow and her leap up as she raised her sword once more had her land in
the grasp of the old drow. Who closed its fingers around her throat, and
squeezed lightly once. Her hand went down at the clear signal that the
drow could have killed her but would refrain if she ceased moving. In a
fair fight, I suspected the Saint would kill it after some trouble. In
an ambush, as I'd arranged in a sense, it might be a little more even.
But my weapon here wasn't Rumena's own might, so much as the fact that
the Saint of Swords was a heroine who'd just attacked someone leaving
peaceful negotiations held under truce banner. There wasn't a single
fucking story that would get her out of this, so long as I was careful.

``I've had better fights from \emph{jawor},'' the Tomb-Maker scathingly
assessed in Chantant. ``This cattle is blind and easily provoked, Losara
Queen. How has it survived so long in the Burning Lands?''

I couldn't \emph{prove} that Rumena had worked on its mastery of
Chantant purely to be able to slag its opponents verbally, but I had
very deep suspicions.

``Catherine,'' the Grey Pilgrim said. ``You cannot-''

``Your Majesty,'' I idly corrected. ``I am going to ask you questions
now, Pilgrim, and if you don't answer them quickly and truthfully then
General Rumena will execute the attempted murderer of the Queen of
Callow.''

``Queen Catherine,'' Princess Rozala tried, but she wasn't part of this
right now and so I simply ignored her.

``Do you have Amadeus of the Green Stretch as a prisoner?'' I asked the
Pilgrim.

``Yes,'' Tariq said.

``Where is he?'' I asked.

``At camp, under restraints.''

``Is he alive and unharmed?

``Yes,'' Tariq said.

``Is he in his right mind?'' I pressed.

``As far as I know,'' the Pilgrim said.

``Good,'' I smiled. ``Fetch him, right now. I'll trade him for your
murderous little friend.''

The Grey Pilgrim remained silent for a long moment.

``Laurence is one of the few living heroes who might be capable of
slaying the Dead King,'' he said. ``More than that, of killing him
permanently. You could be dooming the continent by killing her.''

I met his eyes and smiled.

``General Rumena,'' I said. ``Squeeze a little tighter.''

``Merciful Gods, Foundling, this is madness,'' Princess Rozala yelled.
``You can't extort us-''

``Your delegation just tried to murder me under truce banner, Malanza,''
I snapped. ``You should be licking my boots in \emph{fucking gratitude}
that a prisoner is all I'm demanding to let it go.''

``The Carrion Lord torched entire principalities,'' the Princess of
Aequitan snapped back. ``How many thousands of dead innocents are on his
head? And you think you can just ask for him back?''

``Black's the only way Praes doesn't collapse and take a third of the
continent down with it,'' I said through gritted teeth. ``So take your
damned objections and choke on them, Malanza, because he might be a
monster but he's \emph{mine} and he's still needed.''

``Don't do it, Tariq,'' the Saint called out. ``Let them have me and
then slit the bastard's throat. No truce with the Enemy.''

``Tighter still, Rumena,'' I coldly ordered. ``Pilgrim, an answer. You
won't wait me into a story that turns this around.''

``If you kill her,'' Tariq said, ``I'll kill him.''

``You've kept him alive so far for a reason,'' I countered without
missing a beat. ``While I have no pressing reason to keep de Montfort
breathing save for this trade. Try again.''

``You are gambling with matters beyond your understanding,'' the Pilgrim
said, sounding frustrated.

``If even a single one of you had taken any of the deals I offered we
wouldn't be standing here tonight,'' I told him without a shred of
sympathy. ``Instead you get this and you get me. You were warned,
Pilgrim. My terms were given, do we have a bargain?''

``He's killing her,'' Pilgrim said, eyes flicking to the Saint.

``Best hurry then,'' I harshly replied.

``I only have the body,'' the Grey Pilgrim said. ``The soul was
removed.''

``By who?'' I snarled.

He didn't answer, and that was answer enough. The fucking Saint of
Swords.

``Where's the soul?'' I asked.

``I do not know,'' the Pilgrim replied, then glanced at the Saint again.
``If Laurence dies, Catherine, we have no accord.''

``General Rumena, loosen your grip slightly,'' I reluctantly said. ``And
you must be hard of hearing, Pilgrim -- it's \emph{Your Majesty}. How
can you now know where the soul is?''

``I entrusted it to the Rogue Sorcerer,'' Tariq said. ``And sent him
into hiding.''

``Why?'' I hissed.

``So that the Black Knight's body could be publicly slain while his soul
remains usable as leverage,'' the Pilgrim said.

``Have the body delivered, then,'' I coldly said. ``It'll serve for a
start.''

``And Laurence?'' the Pilgrim pressed.

I glanced at her, at the naked hatred on her face. Before this she had
despised me mostly in principle, I thought, but now? Now it was
personal. She'd be after my neck from the moment she was let loose.

``You can have her back, once I have the body,'' I finally said.

My eyes turned to the princess and the lord, who looked deeply
uncomfortable with what had taken place -- as much with the Regicide's
actions as the fact it looked like I was coming out on top, I thought.

``So,'' I said. ``I suppose we have some time to kill before I get the
body. Let's have us a peace conference, then.''