webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/out/Ch-086.md.tex

\hypertarget{disjunction}{%
\chapter*{Bonus Chapter: Disjunction}\label{disjunction}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{disjunction}} \chaptermark{Bonus Chapter: Disjunction}

\epigraph{``Hate, earnest hate, requires understanding of yourself and your
enemy. Anyone can despise a scarecrow of their own making, but to truly
loathe another you must first recognize in them some part of yourself
that you deeply detest.''}{Extract from `The Covenant of Iron', a philosophical text by Dread
Empress Foul II}



People were already calling it the Peace of Salia.

The capital letter rolled off the tongue, as if the Gods themselves had
designated this particular to be more momentous than old ones. Now the
Principate's capital was celebrating that peace with great enthusiasm,
for a city that'd been aflame not a month ago. The streets had been
adorned with flowers and streaming banners, tables brought out from
houses and taverns and shops as the people gathered under torchlight.
Simple but plentiful foodstuffs -- paid for by the First Prince, under
her title of Princess of Salia -- had been freely distributed, and
everywhere cellars doors were cracked open and a few choice bottles
produced. It was as if the capital had turned into a massive summer
fair.

The Peace had been a balm for the Principate's soul, one direly needed
for these days Procer was feeling rather more fragile than it was used
to. For the greatest empire on the surface of Calernia, that was a shock
difficult to swallow. Unlike her own people, it had been centuries since
the Procerans had been made to look the possibility of annihilation in
the eye -- save for the Lycaonese, of course, though that people had
never hid their disgust for the behaviour of their southern kin. For now
the fear had made honest folk of these princes and princesses, but the
heiress knew better than to expect that would last. The fear would fade
with time, and when it did the scheming would begin again.

When it did she would be ready. Part of that, unfortunately, meant doing
violence against her own patience.

Vivienne would have preferred taking to the streets with the commons,
but as the heiress-designate to the throne of Callow her absence at the
ball would have been very much noticed. Catherine's clever, bloody gift
from the Princes' Graveyard carried few privileges that Vivienne
Dartwick had not already possessed, and brought with it many, many
duties. In a twisted way, it was why Vivienne considered it a gift at
all: her queen, her friend, only ever thrust such heavy burdens onto
those she trusted. The warmth of that trust still lingered and made the
evening slightly more tolerable than it would otherwise had been.

Still, even so spending a few hours surrounded by drunk Blood and the
cream of Proceran nobility wasn't exactly Vivienne's idea of a pleasant
evening. Cordelia Hasenbach could throw a party, mind you. The food and
décor made up for the chore to some extent, since if she was to dirty
her hands smiling at fools at least it would be in beautiful
surroundings. \emph{Le Palais Joyeux}, this place was called, which if
she remembered her Chantant well meant `the Joyous Palace'. Unlike most
kinds of Proceran ostentation, which the baron's daughter in her could
not help but find garish and vulgar, she could not help but find this
particular indulgence striking.

Save for the great marble pavilion at the heart of the palace, the
grounds were entirely a great open-air garden. Terraces and gazebos
provided islets of food and drink, but the talking and even the dancing
was done on the grassy green. Topiaries and sculpted flower beds --
prizing pale and purple blooms above all -- sprawled out in loose rings
emanating from the great pavilion, occasionally revealing bronze statues
whose rust has been artfully and carefully managed. Lanterns hung from
great ropes above, cast warm light, and enchanted motes of light drifted
across the night like little stars. It was quite the enchanting sight,
and for all their many flaws the western nobles had come out just as
beautifully adorned.

Fortunes had been spent on brocade doublets for the men, as they were
the current fashion in Salia, while the women favoured instead layered
dresses with split skirts and long stockings. Powders and cosmetics were
used to accentuate beauty, for few here were ugly. Visibly so, at least,
for though Procerans nobility publicly held distaste for mages it was
quite eager to use their sorceries on matters like appearance in
private. Still, for all their splendour the Procerans were not the
centre of attraction: it had been a very long time since either Blood or
Callowan highborn had visited Salia, and so both were treated as
something between prey and honoured guests.

``- it was added at the order of First Princess Armande Rohanon, in
truth, who it is said was very fond of \emph{le Palais Joyeux},'' Simon
de Gorgeault finished.

Armande Rohanon, Vivienne dimly remembered, had been the last ruler of
Procer before the one whose death had begun what the westerners called
the Great War. The last of the three from the House of Rohanon to have
claimed the high throne in row, explaining the line's sharp descent in
fortunes since -- since the death of the last Merovins, the princes of
Procer had not been inclined to allow another house among them to rise
too high again. Vivienne's eyes moved away from the statue she'd
inquired about, a piece allegedly meant to represent Clothor Merovins
but carved in a style so severe it was nearly Callowan. It was why she'd
asked about it in the first place.

``I have never known a man to have even half as many statues as the
Principate's founder,'' Vivienne dryly noted. ``They would make a forest
of their own, put together.''

``Procer is the youngest of the great realms in some ways,'' the lay
brother smiled. ``Even the Dominion can claim descent from the Eighteen
Cities, after all, while no single predecessor state ever occupied more
than third of our lands. Our shorter history has accrued much gilding to
offset that\ldots{} insecurity.''

He really was good, Vivienne thought. Simon de Gorgeault, whose company
she much preferred to younger men incapable of understanding she had no
interest in a flirtation, was at first glance at an attractive older man
with a pleasant speaking voice and interesting conversation. He was also
one of the three highest-ranking spymasters in Procer, though his Holy
Society was more diplomatic in nature than its rival Silver Letters and
Circle of Thorns. He'd also emerged from the botched attempt to removed
Cordelia Hasenbach from the throne as a very influential man high in the
First Prince's trust, on account of the red-handed loyalty he'd
displayed to her during those mad hours.

He was charming enough it was easy to forget he was here to take her
measure and report every word and nuance to Cordelia Hasenbach.

``Not a word I would have associated with your people until tonight,''
Vivienne mildly replied, ``but I thank you for the insight.''

The silver-haired man looked faintly amused.

``You don't trust us at all, do you Lady Dartwick?'' Simon de Gorgeault
asked.

Vivienne smiled pleasantly, knowing it would not reach her eyes. \emph{I
trust your rapacious pack of fellows not a whit, spymaster,} she
thought. \emph{I haven't forgotten that even begging was not enough to
stay your hand, when you thought you were winning}. There was a greater
war than any mortal squabble waiting up north, but she would not let
that delude her as to the nature of the empire she was clasping hands
with. Its only saving grace, as far as she was concerned, was that it
was not as prone to doomsday horrors as the one laying to the east of
Callow.

``Trust is much like this grand garden, Brother Simon,'' she calmly
replied. ``Years in the making, even when carefully tended to.''

It was a diplomat's answer, but then they were both diplomats of some
stripe. The man excused himself with a bow, sensing the conversation was
at an end, and Vivienne took to the garden paths again. Catherine was
easy enough to find, considering there was never anything less than a
crowd around her. Her victories on the field followed by a sudden turn
allying with Procer would have made her fascinating to this lot even if
she'd not been wildly charismatic -- and, in small doses anyway, that
she was `Damned' only leant a scandalous appeal to her company. With a
bottle of wine in her and Hakram at her side, though, Cat would be able
to handle it.

The wave of laughter that passed through the assembled crowd of Proceran
hanger-ons and Blood in her pavilion suggested that the Queen of Callow
might have dusted off a story perhaps best left buried, but then that
wouldn't be the first time. And Vivienne was inclined to bet that it'd
been a calculated move if she had.

Catherine Foundling had been eerily prescient since joining the fray in
Iserre, and measured in a way she'd not been before. The Everdark had
changed her, and perhaps everyone else who'd gone down there with here.
Indrani's changes were perhaps more subtle in nature, but nothing to be
sneered at either. Vivienne had once doubted anything of what lay
between her and Masego would be voiced before the Last Dusk, but even if
she'd not been the mistress of the Jacks she would have noticed the
changes slowly taking place there. Though Vivienne was not certain Zeze
had it in him to offer what Indrani wanted of him, she wished them well
in the attempt.

It seemed to make them both happy, which settled the matter as far as
she was concerned.

Vivienne knew her station had obligations, and that it was important to
forge ties now so that she might have existing relations with the
princes to the west of Callow in years to come, but at the moment she'd
had as much of this as she could stomach. She'd been a thief long before
she'd been the Thief, so it wasn't too difficult to slip into an elegant
hedge maze and shake off her few `pursuers' -- nobles a little too eager
to speak with her, or a little too drunk to realized she was not
interested in flirting with bloody Procerans. The maze wasn't too
difficult to figure out, as though the walls were tall there were towers
and bridges to orient herself with. Twice Vivienne kept to the shadows
as she passed couples a lot more interested in each other than their
surroundings, which gave a good hint as to what all these alcoves maze
might actually be meant for.

She'd skimmed the edge of the labyrinth while allowing herself time to
breathe, so eventually Vivienne was forced to admit that duty beckoned
once more. There was only so long she could allow herself to disappear
for. From what she recalled glimpsing from one of the higher tiers of
the garden, one of the several way outs of the maze should be not too
far ahead. When grassy grounds gave way to small tiles -- checkered
black and white, an unusually simple pattern by Proceran standards --
she knew she was on the right track, as the tiles were surrounding a
small fountain of silver and marble. Vivienne's steps stuttered,
however, when she saw who was waiting by the edge of the fountain.

The shade sat by the water, trailing gloved fingers against the surface
as she sat artfully arranged on the chequered stone. The long wrap dress
she wore was more Praesi than her usual fare -- the vivid patterns of
red, yellow and blue drew the eye to the slim waist and the red sash
below it, tumbling down into a large patterned red skirt. Matching
elbow-length gloves and veil coming down an elaborately tied head wrap
finished the ensemble. Akua Sahelian was an eastern dream, tucked away
in a hidden corner of a western court. Vivienne felt her fingers twitch,
wishing for a knife.

``They'll really let \emph{anybody} in, these days,'' Vivienne drawled.

The shade turned eerie golden eyes to her -- a shade unnatural, that no
mortal should have -- and offered a charming smile under the gauzy veil.

``Lady Dartwick,'' Akua pleasantly said. ``What a fortunate
happenstance.''

``It's neither,'' she replied. ``What do you want, Sahelian?''

``Why, can I not simply seek the simple pleasure of conversation with a
peer?'' the shade asked.

``I've yet to see another snake in the garden,'' Vivienne coldly
replied, ``but should that change, I'll be sure to send it your way.''

And yet she did not move to leave. Not because she enjoyed insulting the
other woman, although she did, but because she very much doubted that
Sahelian's presence here was without purpose. Vivienne would not take
off before having first learned it -- or, should the opportunity appear,
frustrate it instead.

``I thought we might reach an accord,'' Akua Sahelian lightly said. ``If
not for each other's sake, then for what it might cost others for us to
remain at odds.''

Vivienne laughed. It was sharp and immediate, withholding no barbed bite
in its utter scorn.

``It's a clumsy game you're playing,'' she replied. ``You'll not muzzle
me through Catherine, Sahelian. If my gaze burns when she enjoys you, it
is because she knows it \emph{should}.''

Not that the dark-skinned shade could understand that. It wasn't the
Wasteland way for the empress to suffer judgement from one she ruled,
and Akua Sahelian remained the Wasteland's creature beyond even the
calls of flesh and blood. Vivienne watched the golden eyes, saw how the
skin tightened around them as the -- heiress, the diabolist, the --
shade mastered her irritation. As always, the thief itched to peel back
that control layer by layer until irk turned to anger and the garter
snake at last revealed its viper's fangs. The shade smiled, fingers
coming down across her long veil and unmaking it in wisps wherever they
touched.

The bare face left behind was lovely, but it was a poisonous sort of
loveliness. Not the kind that Vivienne would ever find herself envying
in another woman.

``I've always wondered at the hate you keep for me, Vivienne Dartwick,''
Akua mused. ``You claim it a matter of principle, earned by my folly,
but I know what personal tastes like.''

The smiled broadened almost mockingly.

``And this, my dear lady, positively \emph{reeks} of the intimate,'' the
golden-eyed shade said, her voice smooth as silk.

``That so,'' Vivienne said, unimpressed. ``Well spotted. Putting that
expensive noble upbringing to good use, you are.''

``Your compliments mean the world to me,'' Akua assured her, tone
without the faintest trace of irony. ``After all we've had such
entertaining talks, you and I.''

What was it she was after? Going round and round in meaningless spars
would accomplish nothing but wasting the time of the both of them. The
dark-haired heiress saw no need to step lightly, though, which
simplified things.

``What do you want, Sahelian?'' Vivienne repeated. ``And try a drop of
honesty, this time -- I know it doesn't come naturally, but you ought to
be able to fake it convincingly by now.''

``I have always been honest with my desires, if not how I intend to
seize them,'' the shade easily replied. ``Is it so unbelievable I would
seek at least a truce between us, even if peace is beyond our reach?''

Vivienne's eyes narrowed. True, she figured, or close enough.

``A truce,'' the dark-haired Callowan slowly said.

``I understand that there is bad blood between us,'' Akua calmly said.
``I would have it set aside, at least for the time being. And so I
wondered how I might make redress, but found answers eluded me. Who then
to ask but the woman herself?''

She shrugged, languid, and for a heartbeat Vivienne grasped why
Catherine's eyes so often strayed in that one's direction. She was
utterly disinterested in the fairer sex, herself, but even so the
fluidity of the movement had caught her eye. There was more to seduction
than sex or showing skin.

``You remind me of a girl I used to know in Southpool,'' Vivienne
smiled. ``She, too, somehow came under the impression that when she
threw coin at trouble she'd cause it made up for the act.''

``I offered no such thing,'' the shade said, tone grown sharper.

Offended that Wasteland pride, had she? She'd get over it. Or not.
Hardly her problem either way.

``A bribe's a bribe,'' Vivienne flatly dismissed. ``You want to know
what it'll cost you to buy civility between us, let's not pretend this
is anything more.''

``Ah,'' Akua hummed, voice melodious, ``but let me ask you this -- if it
\emph{had} been, would you have cared?''

``No,'' Vivienne replied, bluntly and immediately.

That took the other woman aback, though she hid it well.

``There's nothing you can do to dig your way back to daylight after the
Folly, as far as I'm concerned,'' the heiress to Callow said.

Elegantly, the shade rose to her feet. She took a step to the side,
light, and Vivienne matched her the other way.

``There must be some bare measure of courtesy offered and received,''
Akua said. ``Else all we do is darken our standing in our queen's
eyes.''

Vivienne smiled, a cold slice of pale teeth bared.

``I used to be afraid that you'd edge me out of the Woe,'' she idly
said, watching the other woman's attention sharpen. ``That you'd slither
your way into their affections and then steal my place among them.''

``No longer?'' Akua asked, just as idly.

``It was weakness,'' Vivienne said. ``I didn't trust myself, didn't
trust them. I should have known better.''

It'd taken Hakram carving through his own hand to yank her out of the
downwards spiral, but he had. And now she was no longer afraid of
shadows she'd painted in the corners with her own hands.

``Heartwarming,'' Akua said. ``Perhaps you might, then, from the depths
of-``

``You haven't slept with her,'' Vivienne suddenly said. ``You wouldn't
be\ldots{}''

\emph{This afraid}, she didn't say, \emph{this insecure, if you'd shared
a bed.} The shade leaned forward, eyes mocking. But the mockery was
brittle, the heiress decided.

``Would you have been jealous, if I had?'' Akua asked, tone suggestive.
``It must have been flattering, all those lingering looks. Even if you
weren't interested. And it must have stung when they ceased.''

She could have lied, or refused to answer, but why bother? The truth
would not hurt her, not here. There was nothing about that relationship
she was ashamed of, and she felt more certain of it than she ever had
before. Catherine had entrusted her with \emph{Callow}. Merciful Gods,
what could any words or doubts possibly mean in the face of that?

``I missed it, at first,'' Vivienne shrugged. ``But even when I still
did, never as much as I enjoyed our relationship being simplified.''

Catherine had never made advances and Vivienne never refused them, but
the attraction had not been hidden either. It'd been a relief when it
had faded as she'd figured it would, freeing her from being unable to
return the feelings of someone she cared deeply for in other ways. It'd
never been love, anyhow, just a passing torch. And while it had never
been unpleasant, or made her feel pressed, she was glad the complication
was gone.

``You want it to be a loss, something you took,'' Vivienne continued.
``But there was nothing there to lose. We are not in \emph{competition},
Akua Sahelian.''

``You asked an oath for the end of my existence,'' the shade replied.
``We very much are, though you might prefer to pretend otherwise: you
never were much good with a knife in hand, were you? That sort of work
was always best left to others.''

A comment that would have drawn blood, a year ago. No longer.

``What I had to say on the matter of your fate, I have said,'' Vivienne
said. ``It's out of my hands, now, and entirely in hers.''

She was surprised to found she meant it. She'd spent most her life
trying to take from Praesi to make for what they took, trying to get
even with hard words and grasping hands. But she'd left that life
behind, she really had. Her Name would not have left her otherwise.
Tormenting Akua Sahelian, taking vengeance on her, wouldn't make her
home better. And she was, in that moment, glad that the long price there
was not hers to take. Because it would be a burden, a vengeance of that
magnitude. A crushing gone.

``You're not my rival, Akua,'' Vivienne said. ``You're not even my
enemy, not really. You're just someone else's charge, until you get
what's coming to you.''

She almost laughed, feeling oddly uplifted by it all. It was matched
only by the fury she saw on the face of the woman she'd dismissed.
\emph{And it's working}, she thought, watching those troubled golden
eyes. \emph{Whatever it is Catherine's doing to you. Else you would not
have come here tonight, unsure why you did. She's turned you all upside
down. And that might have given you a hold on her, because this is a
two-way street, but if the emotions are genuine she'll always win.
Because she can kill her own heart, if she needs to, and you don't even
know what yours is.}

``And once again, your pretty pale fingers stay clean,'' Akua Sahelian
said, eyes hard. ``What a comfort it must be, to have always had others
to bleed and be bled for you.''

``You're going to cost her things she loves,'' Vivienne quietly replied,
ignoring the slight. ``Respect she took years to earn, trust she's still
not entirely sure she deserves. You'll cost her Callow, too, in some
ways. She'll stand by you anyways.''

\emph{``Why?''} the dark-skinned woman asked.

It was, Vivienne thought, the rawest she'd ever seen Akua Sahelian. The
eagerness, the desperation, the dread: they'd all had a piece of that
one word, like hounds gnawing at the same bone.

``I don't know,'' Vivienne softly laughed. ``It is not my price to
exact, however long the taking. And why would I tell you, Doom of
Liesse, even if I knew?''

The shade's smiled turned rueful, her face mastered once more. The mask
had returned and it still fit, however cracked it might have gotten.

``I could have every Choir and every Fairfax from Eleonor to Robert
singing of my redemption before you,'' Akua said, ``and you would still
not care a whit, would you? You do not believe the scales can move.''

``It's not something you can learn, Sahelian,'' Vivienne said. ``It's
not a trick or a spell, to become more than the sum of what they made
you. You're trying to stay the same and be loved, hoping charms and
favours will get you there, but that's not how this works.''

She shrugged.

``You have to genuinely want it,'' Vivienne said. ``To do good, even if
it does nothing for you. And for all your brilliance and your poisonous
cleverness, Akua, at the end of the day I just don't believe you have it
in you.''

``You know precious little of me, Vivienne Dartwick,'' the golden-eyed
woman replied.

Her face had gone blank, like a mask of clay.

``Prove me wrong, then,'' Vivienne smiled.

And she had, at last, what she came for. So Vivienne left, whistling a
jaunty tune, and returned to the evening awaiting her. Behind her
reigned only silence, though an even more careful ear would have heard a
fait sound. A step.

Like the first step going up a hill.