webcrawl/APGTE/Book-5/out/Ch-116.md.tex

\hypertarget{chapter-76-procession}{%
\chapter{Procession}\label{chapter-76-procession}}



\epigraph{``Orphan am I, yet with many mothers and fathers. At once ruler
and ruled, yet never only one.''}{Famous Proceran riddle, referring to the city of Salia}



I'd never been all that fond of the cloying amount of ceremony that
accompanied rising up the ranks.

Oh, I understood the reasons for it. I'd argued the matter with Black
back in the day, when we still had our lessons in Ater. Said that it was
absurd to treat a king or a general as if they were gods, that the more
you set distance between the people making decisions and the people
about which those decisions were made the more you ran risks of losing
perspective. I still believed that, truth be told, but after years in
command of armies and a few wearing a crown I could better appreciate
the points my teacher had made back then. When someone was invested with
a great deal of power and authority, treating them like a stranger off
the street meant treating all that power and authority just as casually.
That tended to foster bad habits. In Praes the lie of Malicia and
Black's invincibility had kept rebellions from flaring up because they'd
just seemed \emph{beyond} that: Black always ended up crushing his foes,
Malicia always ended up having been three steps ahead of everyone else.
It was the same principle for this, more or less: the more ceremony you
surrounded someone with, the more they seemed different. Apart from the
rest. And, since they were of a different breed from the common man on
the street, their authority need not be fought and their power need not
be questioned.

That was the reason while my morning had turned into a damned slog, when
it came down to it. There were four delegations that the Principate of
Procer was to welcome into Salia officially for the peace conference at
the capital, and while I would have been happy with being ushered in
through the city gates without first needing to bribe the guard that
just wasn't the way diplomacy was conducted between great powers. No,
this had to be a \emph{show}. So everyone had come with their nicest
banners and their armour freshly polished, prepared a hundred empty
courtesies and now Procer was going to parade us one after another
through the large Griffon Gate and the broad avenue it led to. Callow
had not been invited to proceed first, naturally. The Principate might
be in dire need of my help but it wasn't going to own up to that before
the eyes of gods and men: no, instead it was the Dominion of Levant that
was invited in first. Levant was an ally, after all, and a member of the
Grand Alliance too. Still, at least we were second. General Rumena was
third in line, which I took to be a rather blunt slight to the League of
Free Cities in general and likely the Tyrant in particular.

It'd been made clear to me that we would be signaled when the time came
for my delegation to proceed, and I'd sent Adjutant ahead to make sure
everything went smoothly. That left me with rather little to do, to my
rising irritation as time went by. General Abigail was, as usual,
finding work for herself so she would not have to remain in my immediate
vicinity and while the Third Army was laden with old War College
acquaintances of mine -- it had, after all, initially been raised from
Nauk's old command in the Fifteenth -- there were none I could casually
approach for conversation. With Archer still out there somewhere, having
sent a single message through Robber's marauders that she was `onto
something', that left me rather light on choices. Moreso than usual
since it'd been decided neither Black nor Akua would accompany the
delegation on the first day, as that was when there'd be the most eyes
on us, and sadly Vivienne was further ahead of our procession. I could
go to her, but it'd disturb arrangements that'd taken the better part of
an hour to put in place and it felt a little pitiful to do that out of
mere boredom.

There were around three hundred of us, arrayed in our finest. A full
cohort of legionaries in their parade grounds best made up the heart of
it, veterans from a half a dozen fields most of which were old to my
service. Thirty knights of the Order of the Broken Bells added a dash of
Callowan flair to it, though their hymn-inscribed armour and long lances
had been proved to be anything but decorative in conflict against foes
of Creation and beyond. They brought with them tall streaming banners,
numbering three. The Third Army's own golden numerals on blue, carrying
with them the cognomen of \emph{Dauntless} I'd granted them at Sarcella
as well as the fresher addition of crow wings at the bottom corners. The
broken bells of bronze set on black that were the heraldry of the sole
chivalric order of Callow trailed in the wind besides it, and last of
all of all my own. The laden silver balance on black, what Hakram had
told me my people now called the \emph{Crown and Sword}. And under it
words I now longer called my own: \emph{justifications matter only to
the just}. I'd been considering having them struck for some time now,
but it would draw questions I was not entirely ready to answer.

I'd been made just as gaudy as the rest of this procession, put up in
full plate for the first time in ages though it was one without a helmet
-- my hair had been put up a long elaborate braid and I'd put on a crown
for once. Silver set with emeralds, the practical crown I'd worn when
actually moving around in Laure instead of sitting on the fancy chair in
full regalia and attempting to look wise. It was not a coincidence that
Lady Vivienne Dartwick, herself sitting astride her mount in a beautiful
blue dress, wore a crown as well. A slight circlet of silver, without
jewels and much less ornate than mine, but a crown nonetheless. She was
heiress-designate to the throne, after all, and though still a lady in
title arguably she had higher status than any Proceran royalty save for
Cordelia Hasenbach. I'd begun to consider the virtues of outright
sending for General Abigail so I could entertain myself at her exp- to
consult with the senior commander of my escort, I meant, when Adjutant
finally dragged his carcass back to me instead. The Procerans had
finally given the signal, so as soon as Hakram was standing by my side
our procession began moving forward.

For all its fame, Salia had yet to impress me. This far west it was
hardly rare for a great city to expand far beyond its walls, especially
if it had seen little war as the capital of the Principate had. Even
southern Callow had dabbled in that bad habit. Salia, though, seemed to
have more territory outside the distant Yearning Walls than behind them.
It wasn't slums, at least not near the road we were led through. But it
was certainly a chaotic mess, since it seemed construction was only
overseen by the sides of the large roads that led to the deeper city
gates. The smell of mud and shit was staggeringly potent even in winter,
and chimneys were belching smoke upwards seemingly endlessly. By the
looks of it all the cattle and workers that would be out in the fields
around the capital during fairer seasons had migrated to this riotous
outer-city for the snows. Houses were wood and mud, rarely stone, and
they'd been built in tight clusters like a thousand strange little
islands separated from one another by muddy street-moats. The stone road
that led towards the Griffon Gate was clean, though, and swept clear of
snow. No house was every built less than forty feet away from either
side though merchant carts of food or trade goods filled much of that
empty room instead.

Small crowds had gathered by the side of the road, though they dared not
approach soldiers. At least they seemed more in the mood to stare than
throw stones. The deeper we went into Salia the more it began to
resemble the Proceran towns and cities I'd seen, as if order was
radiating from the centre of the capital and waned the further from it
you stood. Streets began to have a semblance of order, shops with
hanging signs and neat little houses raised in stone with tiled or
thatched roofs. It all looked rather prosperous, though not the kind of
wealthy the stories about the beating heart of Procer had led me to
expect. Oh, I'd not deny the city was damned large but then so was Ater
and the Wasteland's capital was a treasure trove of grand architecture.
Mind you, large swaths of Ater were half-abandoned and only filled when
famine drove the desperate to the Tower's shadow while it looked like
every damned inch of the capital of Procer was crawling with a dozen
people. Still, the looming cathedrals beyond the Yearning Walls in the
distance were distinctly less impressive than the gargantuan horrors of
the City of Gates. Procer was a younger nation than any on Calernia save
for Levant, I thought, for all its great wealth and power.

It was almost an hour all told until we stood before the Griffon Gate,
the great panels of bronze on its wood listing every First Prince and
Princess to have ever reigned. It opened to the sound of trumpets, and
beyond it was revealed the sweeping Merovins avenue. Great statues of
marble flanked on us on both sides, beginning on my right with the stern
gaze of Clothor Merovins -- the first to ever be elected to the office
of First Prince. I suspected the man's actual furs had not been quite so
rakishly cut, or offered glimpse of what was admittedly an impressively
muscled chest, but that was the Alamans for you.

``They're not all royalty, did you know?'' Hakram said.

I glanced at him and cocked an eyebrow.

``Famous generals and officials can earn one as well,'' he gravelled.
``One of Rozala Malanza's ancestors is further up from the days before
the Malanzas were royalty. He conquered most of northern Levant for the
First Prince of the time.''

``I don't suppose anyone's told the Blood about that?'' I drily asked

``I believe it might be one of those inconvenient truths we must all
politely ignore,'' Hakram replied, clicking his teeth in amusement.

The brassy call of trumpets jarred us out of the conversation. The
Proceran welcome was laid out before us, a riot of silken banners under
brightly armoured horsemen and even more colourful highborn. Every line
with a seat in the Highest Assembly had sent a representative, by the
looks of it, because that was a great many banners. And an infuriatingly
large amount of very nice warhorses. They could have outfitted a good
company of heavy horse with that, the wasteful fucks. Ugh, this was
going to be as bad as the Tower wasn't it? All rubies the size of a fist
used a bloody bench decorations and gold slapped onto things that had
absolutely no need of being made of gold. Which, to be fair, was
essentially everything except certain coinage and maybe crowns. A
representative for the First Prince herself, an old man that carried the
title of Master of Orders -- one of the important officials in the
Assembly, as I recalled, though he shouldn't be royalty himself --
formally greeted us. I forced a smile through the greeting and let
Vivienne answer it in my place. That drew attention from our hosts, but
then it'd been meant to. The sooner it was made clear to people that
Vivienne was truly meant to be my successor, the better.

Advance resumed with the additional escort, though still at an
agonizingly slow crawl. Salia itself was worth a second look this deep
in, though, I'd admit to that. The Yearning Walls were well-built and
apt to weather a siege, I'd say that much, and their shockingly
rose-gold stone shining like a mirror under the sun. Hakram continued to
speak in a low voice as we passed through, his own research on the city
far dwarfing the few books I'd opened in expectation of my visit. Salia
itself was often said to be split in two parts, the City Yearned and the
City Yearning -- a reference to some ancient poem that'd established the
name of its walls, with the city behind them being yearned and the city
outside being yearning. Passing the gate had brought us into the City
Yearned, and into the portion of it known as the low districts. So named
not for the poverty of their inhabitants but rather in contrast to the
high districts to the west, which had been raised on high hills. The low
districts covered nearly a third of the City Yearned, stretching across
its south, and the knowledge that it wasn't even the wealthy Salians
that lived in these parts had my stomach clenching in envy. The houses
were all stone, often several stories high -- Adjutant noted that
renting was common practice in these parts, and very lucrative -- it was
not rare so see coloured glass windows. These were artisans, I thought,
traders and officials. Yet their wealth clearly rivaled that of the
minor nobility of Callow, if not outright surpassed it.

How much richer would the nobles be here? I'd read that Procer was
arguably the wealthiest nation on Calernia, some of its princes
surpassing even the famously rich High Seats of Praes, but I'd never
really understood until now how far down that wealth went. When Vivienne
had told me, before the Tenth Crusade, that'd it'd been brutally
expensive to bribe even the servants in the holdings of the Prince of
Iserre I'd assumed the Jacks were had, or that she was exaggerating some
for effect. Now I could believe that even the servants in the capital of
that principality had been well-off, by my people's standards. It was a
bitter pill to swallow, that the Principate had been basking in all this
while my ancestors were dying in droves just to keep Praes in its shore
of the Wasaliti.

Merovins avenue led directly to the old palace and the Highest Assembly,
but that was not our destination. We diverted northeast through another
broad avenue, going through the districts known as \emph{Les Vendeuses}.
Great open-air markets, I'd been told, though we skirted the edges of
them only. The route we took led through pleasant sights instead. Some
streets seemed to be bordered entirely by great winter gardens
artistically adorned with glasswork and sculptures, others filled with
guild halls and mansions that competed for the most elegant manner of
opulence. It was with some amusement I noted that not once we passed in
front of a House of Light. The crowds were something of a surprise,
having thickened the further in we went. I'd expected jeering and rocks,
but while there certainly wasn't any jubilant cheering we were being
treated as a show rather than, well, the Enemy incarnate. The knights
probably helped, I decided, for they were a popular sight with children.
Orcs were as well, though more in fascinated horror than positive
appreciation.

They'd probably never seen orcs before today, I thought. Or goblins, or
Taghreb and Soninke. Even Callowans were rare this far west, these days.
\emph{It's another world}, I thought. One that knew nothing of the
blood-soaked Fields of Streges, of the eternal back and forth between
knights of black and white and their grand armies that clashed every few
decades. They did not understand the dread of seeing a city rise into
the sky, heavy with death, or the way greenskins still flinched at the
call of our knight's horns being sounded. All we had in common with
these people was worn history, slights and boons long past, and how
little did that really weigh\emph{? I understand you less than I
understand Praesi}, I thought, watching the people of Salia\emph{. I
know their truths and their conceits, their mad ambitions and dark
splendours. But you? I know so little of you it could be said I know
nothing at all.} It was a humbling thing, to know that. A daunting one
as well. The world was large and even this meagre sliver of it was vast.
Could anyone really change something that\ldots{} immense? A troubling
thought, and not one I wanted to linger on.

It was a relief when the procession ended at last and we entered the
restricted district where our provided lodgings stood. It was called the
Lineal, for it'd once been the ancestral grounds of the Merovins
chieftains-turned-royalty of Salia. They had kept large grounds to
themselves, the seat of their power when another line claimed the title
of First Prince or Princess. Now that the Merovins were long gone, the
Lineal stood as almost a city within a city that was under the sole
authority of the ruler of Salia. Its significant attached incomes were
one of the great boons of the title, and as the old seat of power of
royal line it was a beautiful place. I'd expected a manse and some
attending barracks for my soldiers, something along the lines of the
noble's houses you could see in Laure's Whitestone Quarter, but instead
we were directed to what was effectively a small palace. The grounds
surrounding the structure alone were larger than the palace in Laure,
and I suspected this was a winter pleasure palace and not anything
\emph{official}.

I reined in my horse after passing through a pretty copper gate sculpted
like a flock of chubby naked Cherubim playing laughingly, slowing
Zombie's stride in the courtyard. There were servants swarming all over
the place, which were most likely spies, and I almost bit the inside of
my cheek. It was going to be a damned pain keeping track of all these
people with my limited escort, so I'd probably have to cordon off a part
of the palace and have it guarded and warded at all times.

``Any chance at least \emph{one} of them isn't spying for Hasenbach?'' I
sighed and asked Hakram.

``Of course,'' Adjutant amusedly agreed. ``There's probably a few
working for other royals.''

I accepted his offered hand to dismount, wincing at the impact, and when
a stablehand hesitantly approached Zombie I suppressed a grin. I glanced
appreciatively at the sandy-haired man, who while approaching a winged
undead fae horse looked more like he was wondering if she'd fit in the
stable than if this was in any way wise.

``Don't touch the reins, she'll bite you,'' I said. ``Zombie, the man is
going to show you where the stables are.''

My mount huffed, displeased.

``You can't come in with me,'' I patiently replied, ``this is a very
nice palace. It'd be impolite.''

I glanced at the stablehand, who was now seemingly wondering what he'd
gotten himself into. I could sympathize.

``She'll follow you to the stables,'' I said. ``Leave a stall open for
her, but she'll wander around for a while still. If she gets anywhere
she's not supposed to, send for me. But she'll be good, won't you
Zombie?''

I scratched her mane and she whinnied.

``Liar,'' I muttered, not entirely without affection,

I flicked a glance at the stablehand one last time.

``Don't feed her anything,'' I instructed. ``Even if she whines. She
always fills her stomach, but she doesn't actually need to -- you know
what, just don't feed her anything. Let's leave it at that.''

I'd hastily amended my approach when even implicit discussion of
necromancy made the man look like he was about to faint. He bowed,
looking like he was one stern talking to away from weeping.

``It will all be done exactly as you say, Your Majesty,'' he said.

It would have been polite to call what followed retreating, but I knew
what it looked like when someone legged it.

``Don't you say a damn thing,'' I grunted without turning.

``I would never,'' Hakram lied, the filthy traitor.

``I can feel your mockery without even looking at you,'' I complained.

``Would it help your mood to terrify a gardener as well?'' my
\emph{loyal right hand} said.

I turned just to flip him off, though the deepening amusement on his
face -- like the world's ugliest green cat had just caught a bird
seasoning itself -- warned me I'd just missed something. A young woman
in Salian livery had been approaching, and was now looking like she'd
had no idea queens could gesture obscenely and she wasn't sure whether
she should pretend she'd never seen that or not. \emph{Godsdamnit,
Hakram,} I thought. \emph{You know Hasenbach's going to read about that
in a report, don't you?}

``Just say whatever it is you were sent for,'' I tiredly told the woman.

She bowed.

``I was sent with a message scroll, Your Majesty,'' she said.

As I recalled, in Proceran etiquette people weren't supposed to hand
things directly to royalty. I glanced at Hakram, who stepped forward to
accept the scroll. He broke the seal -- featureless, a mere press of wax
-- and glanced at the contents.

``An invitation,'' Adjutant said.

``For?'' I asked.

``Tea with the First Prince of Procer,'' Hakram said. ``She awaits us in
this palace's own parlour.''