webcrawl/APGTE/Book-6/tex/Ch-065.md.tex

\hypertarget{interlude-reprobates}{%
\section{Interlude: Reprobates}\label{interlude-reprobates}}

\begin{quote}
\emph{``And so Dread Emperor Irritant did shout thus: `Leave him to me!'
And then he did ignore the Knight Errant, and brawled with a common
soldier instead, and triumphed over him.''}

Extract from Volume IX of the official Imperial Chronicles
\end{quote}

He'd been among the first few to arrive after the Black Queen and her
attending pair, so the high seats were still largely empty, yet he was
not disappointed in the slightest. Instead Lucien Travers, who some knew
as the Rapacious Troubadour -- though he personally left the epithet out
of the introduction unless pressed -- studied those empty seats circling
the crown of the hill with great interest.

Many of his fellow Damned would not spare a look for the arrangements
beyond learning where their seat had been placed, but Lucien would not
make that mistake. The Rapacious Troubadour knew himself a feeble enough
sort compared to many among his kind, and so it behooved him to always
consider the undercurrents of the situations he involved himself in.
Lucien was all too aware that his skill with the sword was no match for
the likes of the Red Knight, or his dabbling in sorcery more than a
pittance compared to the arcane powers of a man like the Hierophant.
He'd always been a man of scattered interests, and so while his learning
was broad it might be said to be comparatively shallow.

It was his eyes he'd paid for with his travels, his ability to read a
room and the underpinnings of it.

Some arrangements were only to be expected. The mark of favour he'd
earned through his labours in Hainaut, the seat by the Archer's own, was
one such. The Black Queen was not shy in offering honours to those that
served her purposes well, so long as they played by her rules as well.
The rumoured red hate between the Headhunter and the Barrow Sword had
led to them being split apart, and the Troubadour was amused to see that
the Summoner had been neatly contained between two scholarly sorts. Dear
Cedric did have a sharp tongue, it must be admitted. That his Callowan
ancestry had failed to bring about favoritism at his advantage remained
a frustration to the wizard.

It was the layer beyond the obvious that was interesting. Once it was
grasped who their common shepherd saw as the individuals in need of
containment, from their surroundings it could be deduced who she saw as
reliable -- the true favoured, not those merely honoured in public. The
Concocter and the Harrowed Witch, it seemed. Both of which had ties to
the Archer. Ah, how he admired the Black Queen's cleverness in expanding
her influence: if she'd gathered attendants herself it would have had
the Chosen up in arms, but who would suspect the \emph{Archer}? The
Beastmaster was still out of favour, which was pleasing, but the
Berserker's placement was what drew his attention.

She was fresh blood, and her seat of honour not unexpected given her
record against Revenants, but that was mere window dressed. She has been
seated by the Adjutant, who was now a mere crippled shadow of his old
self. A test of restraint, perhaps, of attitude? It would pair nicely
with having given her the notoriously unpleasant Headhunter as a
neighbour on the other side. The Berserker might just be undergoing an
audition for greater trust and responsibility, Lucien mused. That made
her someone worth keeping an eye on.

The Rapacious Troubadour strolled to the highest of seats, the Black
Queen's own, approaching under the calm, cool stare of the greatest
villain of the age. Two great crows were perched above her shoulders,
their feathers as if woven from shadow. The slight tension at the
knowledge he was occupying the full attention of the same woman who'd
been the architect of both the Princes' Graveyard and the Salian Peace
was delicious, for all that the fear behind it was genuine. Lucien was
not a man who'd been born for dull times, for pedestrian appetites or
the safety of righteous choices. What worth was life, if not lived on
the razor's edge? He swept back his long hair as he offered a deep bow.

``Your Majesty,'' the Troubadour smiled. ``It is ever a pleasure to be
in your presence.''

``Rapacious Troubadour,'' the Black Queen replied as she cocked her head
to the side, her Chantant easy and lightly accented. ``You seem in a
pleasant mood. Finally back in familiar waters, yes?''

Seen through already? He'd been in too fine a mood, it seemed. Gods but
how delicious it would be to have but the slightest taste of such a
soul, barely more than a nibble really -- Lucien felt the attention on
him, and turned to meet the Archer's unblinking gaze. The sharp-faced
woman offered him a lazy grin, all the while idly tapping the side of a
knife against a finger. He doubted that grin would waver in the
slightest as she slit his throat. Ah, he'd ben forgetting himself.

``Who would dare claim familiarity as such a gathering, Black Queen?''
Lucien smiled. ``I am simply looking forward to the night's
festivities.''

---

The Berserker did not know how to read. Had the servants not told her
where her seat was she wouldn't have known, and she thought she saw a
mocking glint in the man's eye. Her fist was already clenching when she
remembered who was looking at her, that small woman on the seat with the
huge dark crows and the dead wood staff. Temper, Zoe reminded herself.
There would be better fights to pick tonight than some mouthy nobody.
She dropped into her seat, sending for ale. The sooner they got to
grievances, the sooner she could crack her knuckles on some fucker's
jaw.

---

The Summoner's lips thinned in anger. He was not late, he \emph{wasn't},
but everyone else had come early and so he'd been made to look in the
wrong. Again. Just another injustice in the long line of them forced
onto Cedric Ackland. He never got his dues, always got cheated of what
was rightfully his. He gathered his robes and hastened up the hill onto
the last empty seat, between a disturbingly silver-haired woman and that
idiot peasant who'd cursed herself with her own brother's ghost.

``Is he always that slow?''

The Summoner turned a glare onto the person who'd spoken. Some ruffian
in cuirass and cloth, with knotted brown hair freed from an ornate
spiked helmet and three leathery heads hanging from their belt. The
Headhunter, he realized with distaste. Their reputation preceded them.

``Silence is preferable to empty words,'' the Summoner sneered back. ``A
lesson you ought to learn.''

The savage -- only now did he realize the brown lines sliding down the
edge of their hair were brown paint and not dirt -- laughed, reaching
for one of the dozen knives and hatchets at their side.

``Insult was given twice, once for lateness and once by wagging
tongue,'' the Headhunter said. ``I will collect on your behalf, Black
Queen.''

Cedric's magic roiled at his fingertips. The things he was going to
unleash to discipline that wretch would\ldots{} his anger was
interrupted by a slight sound, fingers being drummed on a wooden seat's
arm. The Black Queen was studying the Headhunter was a mildly bored and
irritated look on her face, as if displeased by the noise someone's dog
was making.

``And who are you to me, Headhunter, to be collecting anything on my
behalf?'' the Queen of Callow softly asked.

The savage's cheeks reddened and the Summoner grinned. Finally he got
the support he was due by virtue of his Callowan blood. Has his own
father not once been a lord under the Fairfaxes? Cedric should have a
seat at her inner circle and his pick of assignments, not this mere
pittance, but it was a start.

``I only meant-``

``We know exactly what you meant to do, Headhunter,'' the Archer smiled.
``So shut the fuck up, yeah? Before we decide it's worth taking issue
with.''

The Levantine prick rose in anger, baring a long knife and reaching for
a rope.

``I will not be threatened by the likes of you,'' the Headhunter barked.
``A hound gone tame-``

``Sit down,'' the Black Queen said.

The Headhunter turned their gaze to her and hesitated.

``Sit down,'' Catherine Foundling mildly said, ``before I \emph{make}
you sit down.''

They swallowed their pride and did.

Perhaps there had been advantages to have arrived last after all, Cedric
decided as he smugly settled into his seat.

---

The Barrow Sword silently cursed.

The Headhunter hadn't been enough of an idiot to get himself -- for the
shape of the face paint told Ishaq they were a him, at the moment --
killed to make an example, or at least crippled, which was a damned
shame. It meant the old dogs in the Majilis would still be able to point
at the Headhunter and then wag their finger disapprovingly at the
bloodlust of those Bestowed by Below, helpfully ignoring anything the
Barrow Sword himself had ever done in favour of tossing them all in the
same cauldron to boil. There just weren't enough of them that weren't
head-cutting lunatics for the Blood to hesitate at crossing them, to his
continuing frustration.

The Marauder was a lot more careful than her Bestowal would imply but
she'd still killed an Osena -- on behalf of the Bandit's Blood, she
said, but it couldn't be proven -- so she was easy to dismiss, and the
Grave Binder was both reasonable and amenable but also\ldots{} less than
personable.The smell of living rot could be off-putting, not that Ishaq
was one to judge for the consequences of going barrow-raiding.The
closeness of the Bestowal to that of the Binder's Blood had also
triggered harsh enmity from the Tanja, who considered it a desecration
of sorts, but they'd not dared push the enmity too far when their young
lord was so close to the Black Queen.

The Foundling Queen was known for keeping to a hard sort of honour,
after all, and she was not one to lightly cross. She was also beginning
to speak, so Ishaq set aside the thoughts and pricked his ear.

``There's only been a few times in the history of Calernia,'' the Black
Queen said, ``where so many of our kind have gathered. Consider that,
before we begin addressing grievances. Remember that the last time so
many villains were gathered around the same firepit, nations trembled.''

Ishaq grinned, watching the dark-haired queen closely as she spoke. All
knew that the Queen of Callow had been the one to tame the lord and the
princes, to force the hand of the Peregrine and the Sword of Judgement,
and so the achievement she called eyes on reflected glory onto her.
\emph{You sit here fat and safe instead of hunted because of me}, she
was reminding them. That dangerous little bastard the Rapacious
Troubadour was leaning forward on his seat to Ishaq's right, as if
getting closer would let him get his paws on the soul of the villainess,
but he was hardly alone in that. The Black Queen had a fine speaking
voice, and a reputation that demanded attention.

``There's enough skill and power assembled here tonight to topple a
kingdom,'' the Black Queen said, a hard smile touching her lips. ``That
it has been not been enough to break the Dead King over our knee should
serve as a reminder of what still lies ahead of us.''

``War on Keter,'' the Archer called out, baring her teeth.

Ishaq laughed and joined his call to hers, as did half a dozen more. The
shouting would buy him time enough to figure out how to bury the
Headhunter all the way to his neck instead of merely his knees.

---

The Beastmaster eyed the great shadow-crows again, biting his cheek in
irritation.

Their form, the power he could feel pulsing within them, it all called
to him. Yet Lysander had found that he could not \textbf{Master} them,
not even the slightest bit. His power was no immediate yoke, taking time
and skill to settle properly into the beasts of his menagerie, but when
he used it there was always a\ldots{} bite. Not here, though. He had
heard it said that the crows were shards of drow goddesses, not true
living creatures, but he'd not truly believed it until now. Wild gods
sometimes touched animals with their power, remaking them into something
more without fundamentally changing their essence, so he'd expected this
to be case here.

Not so, it turned out, and now the shadowy things had turned their black
eyes on him. Had they noticed? He could not tell, but caution was in
order. This was not the Woods, where he knew the paths and dangers.
Boldness had to be measured, lest it cost him more than he was willing
to give. The Beastmaster drank from the ale horn the servants had passed
him, wiping his mouth afterwards and listening without much interest as
the parade of grievances began.

``- deferred to her even though she is fresh to the front, and I was in
command,'' the Summoner whined. ``There must be punishment for this.''

\emph{Gods}, Lysander thought, \emph{what a useless prick.} His dislike
for the man had grown stronger with every comparison between them. The
Beastmaster brought servants to the fight as well, but unlike the
mageling he wasn't useless if someone got to him -- he fought
\emph{with} his menagerie, not \emph{behind} it.

``Are you,'' the Barrow Sword said, tone slightly disbelieving,
``complaining about Dominion warriors deferring to the \emph{Valiant
Champion}?''

The Beastmaster grunted in amusement. Ishaq had a good head and a better
swordhand, a respectable man. Too close to the Black Queen's party for
comfort, but without having turned into a minion.

``I held command,'' the Summoner insisted.

``No one who has to say that holds anything,'' the Headhunter dismissed.

There was a murmur of agreement around the fire. The Headhunter wasn't
liked -- no one wanted to ally with someone who'd stick you in the back
for your head and a shadow of your power -- but he wasn't wrong.
Lysander glanced at the Black Queen, who was lounging on her throne and
idly sipping at a cup of wine. She seemed less than impressed.

``What's your exact grievance under the Terms?'' the Queen of Callow
asked.

``It was disrespect,'' the Summoner angrily replied. ``Against the
Terms.''

``Disrespect is not against our laws,'' the Black Queen said. ``Were
your orders disobeyed or contradicted?''

The Beastmaster chuckled under his breath, as all here knew the answer
to that. The Summoner went on to bluster for a bit before it became
clear the villainess patience had been exhausted. She glanced at
Indrani, who cleared her throat loudly and called for the next grievance
to be spoken. Lysander's eyes narrowed at the sight. He wasn't Alexis,
to rage at the sight of that or even Indrani at all, but it was still
hard to believe Archer had bound herself to others in such a way. The
Beastmaster had long believed that Alexis might have inherited the
Lady's thirst for challenges but that it was Indrani who'd learned their
teacher's restlessness, her wanderlust. It was a belief difficult to
pair with the reality of her serving as the Black Queen's enforced, and
it had done much to unravel the respect he'd once held for Indrani.

``I have a grievance,'' the Concocter spoke up.

Lysander's brow rose in interest. Cocky was not one to dip her toe into
these things without reason, so this ought to be interesting at last.

``Did you lose a cauldron?'' the Headhunter jeered. ``It's not like you
know how to use anything else.''

The Beastmaster's knife came down on the arm of his chair, blade biting
into wood with a hard thunk, and the Levantine's own hand twitched
towards his blade as he turned to match eyes. Lysander shrugged.

``My hand slipped,'' the Beastmaster shrugged.

Fucking Dominion shithead. Lysander wasn't some sentimental pissant, but
there were lines. Cocky was a lot more useful to have around than a
second-rate tracker who used an aspect to make up for lack of skill.

---

The Harrowed Witch winced.

Merciless Gods, why did all these people have to be so violent? Julien's
shade muttered angrily in her ear, his half-heard imprecations rather
distracting, but she focused. If this turned into a brawl, she'd throw
herself backwards and flee under cover of illusion -- the latter part of
which would take some concentration. Although, she thought, it was not
the Archer who led here but her own mistress. Unlike Lady Indrani, who
enjoyed a spot of mayhem between `comrades', the Black Queen was known
for her stern disposition and sharp tongue. Perhaps she'd take this all
in hand.

``Your grievance, Concocter?'' the Queen of Callow asked.

That bear of a man, the Beastmaster, ceased glaring at the Headhunter
and they returned the favour. Both pretended nothing had ever taken
place between them. Sweet Providence but Aspasie had lucked out with her
seat, having the rough woodsman between her and the Headhunter. Even
Julien's shade avoided getting too close to that one.

``I have had supplies brought in from the Arsenal,'' the Concocter said.
``And twice now the crates have been opened and inspected by Proceran
soldiers before being passed on to me.''

Aspasie felt it more than she saw it. Like the weight in the air before
a storm, a pressure had gathered atop the hill. The fire dimmed and
breaths came shorter as the Black Queen straightened from a lazy sprawl
to sharp-eyed alertness. The Witch had seen it once before in the
Arsenal, the subtle metamorphosis that turned a mouthy young woman into
the Arch-heretic of the East. It was all in the way she held herself, in
the intensity of her. The roiling power around them that had them all
shuffling uncomfortably in their seats, those dark eyes -- almost black,
in the evening light -- growing cold with displeasure at what she had
heard.

``Those crates, had they been inspected and sealed in the Arsenal?'' the
Black Queen asked in a clipped tone.

``Yes,'' the Concocter replied, tone admirably steady.

``You will pass on descriptions of those soldiers to Adjutant,'' the
dark-eyed queen said, drumming her fingers against the arm of her seat.
``They will be swinging from gallows by dawn, and your supplies will
never be touched again.''

Aspasie shivered, for she did not doubt the other woman's word in the
slightest.

---

The Rapacious Troubadour weighed his options.

While he'd be most pleased by a greater monthly supply of Binds to take
from -- their souls were ancient but worn, tasteless and colourless --
he doubted that the Black Queen would be amenable to the request. She'd
never hidden her distaste for his inclinations, and she'd been quite
blunt in warning him of the costs of returning to his old practices. A
restriction that he chafed under, even knowing it was only temporary.
Still, Lucien was not an unreasonable man and he knew that the Terms and
their looming successor, the Liesse Accords, were much to his advantage.

He thrived in society, when navigating hierarchies, and the Black
Queen's ambitions would herald the creation of a society of the Damned.
The sheer \emph{potential} of that had him giddy, sometimes. So long as
he was able to limit his predations to victims deemed acceptable under
the rules, heroes would have no real call to hunt him and he'd even be
able to move through the civilized world without fear of being hunted.
No, the prize was well worth a few years of lean and tasteless pickings.
He ate more than enough to avoid desiccation, and he'd begun to pick out
the people that would be of use after the war.

Gluttony would not help him here. It'd be much more useful to earn a
favour or two from his fellows, and he had just the trick for that. One
need not be brilliant to realize that the Berserker was itching for a
fight, and she was not so thuggish as to fail to understand when she was
being helped. It'd give him an in with the Barrow Sword as well, if he
played it well.

``I have a grievance as well, if we are to clear the air,'' Lucien
drawled.

Rather obvious bait, but given the precedents\ldots{}

``A bard insists on speaking,'' the Headhunter snorted. ``There's a
surprise.''

Like a fish on a hook.

``This,'' the Troubadour airily said. ``This is my issue, Black Queen.
The constant pricking from the prick, so to speak. Can they not be
disciplined into a semblance of politeness?''

The Foundling Queen eyed him for a moment, and Lucien felt naked. As if
seen through once more. It was exhilarating, in a terrifying sort of
way.

``I'm not here to hold your hands,'' the Black Queen acidly said.
``Petty disputes are not breaches of the Terms, they are yours to
resolve.''

``Ha!'' the Headhunter sneered, ``You-``

Lucien discreetly winked at the Berserker, whose flat face and broken
nose split into a brutally gleeful grin as she grasped the chance she'd
just been given. A heartbeat later the Headhunter's jaw popped with a
beautiful sound as the Berserker's knuckles smashed into it, the seats
of the two warriors toppling as they brawled.

---

That Troubadour was a useful sort for a fucking singer, Zoe approvingly
thought as she let out a hoarse shout and smashed the Headhunter's head
through the seat even as they slipped a knife into her ribs. She'd
remember the good turn and return it in kind. As she was thrown off by
the Headhunter the Berserker felt her back begin to crack as the Haze
seeped into her, shuddering into her limbs as the strength and anger
hardened her muscles.

The Headhunter got to their feet again, as did she, and Zoe ripped out
the knife in her side before letting out a blood-curling scream.
\emph{Finally} she could cut loose and just \textbf{Rage}.

---

The Barrow Sword turned to study the man sitting by his side, a
dark-haired sort with insolent good looks and slightly crooked fingers.
The cithern strapped to his back seemed as natural to him as the sword
on his hip, and though the Rapacious Troubadour did not have the
reputation of a great swordsman, there were many kinds of battles. The
way the Berserker was spasming wildly and turning red even as the
Headhunter stuck her full of knives and hatches to little avail made the
point plainly enough.

``Have you ever been to the Dominion, Lucien?'' Ishaq casually asked.

``I've not had the pleasure,'' the other man replied with a slender
smile.

``You should visit, one of these days,'' the Barrow Sword said. ``I'm
sure you'd find much there to your liking.''

If he could not find enough allies within Bestowed of Levant, Ishaq
thought, then perhaps it was time to broaden his horizons.

---

The Summoner laughed at the brawling fools, voice high and mocking. The
Headhunter had been thoroughly obnoxious and the Berserker was a rude
thug, so he had no horse in this race. Let them smash each other to
pieces, for all he cared. His mood significantly improved, he offered a
charming smile to the silver-haired woman at his side. The Concocter,
she was called. She'd taken his rightful place in the Arsenal -- her or
one of her \emph{colleagues} -- but Cedric was willing to set that aside
for the sake of polite conversation.

``I am told you have spent much of your time in the Arsenal,'' the
Summoner said.

Her eyes, he only noticed then, were not of the same colour. One was
silver, the other blue. It was disturbing to behold, though he was
well-bred enough not to comment on this.

``I have,'' the Concocter said. ``And I am told you sought admission
there yourself?''

He grit his teeth.

``Mere rumours,'' Cedric dismissed. ``My talents as a war mage are too
precious to squander, I've always known this.''

``Are they?'' the Concocter said. ``I have not been told of the shape of
your Gift in any detail.''

Was she doubting him? Cedric scowled. A demonstration was in order,
then. Hand rising, he seized the threads of his sorcery and pulled out
one of his lesser summons. He might as well force apart the two brawling
idiots while he was at it, and establish his skills for all to see.

``Come forth,'' the Summoner intoned.

---

\emph{Merde}, Aspasie thought.

Magic to her right and a violent death match to her left: the Harrowed
Witch had no intention of staying in the middle of this. She tipped back
her seat until it fell and crouched behind it, just in time to see some
sort of leonine creature in a shimmering ghostly glow leap out of blue
circle hanging in the air. The summon would have tackled the Berserker
-- now red-veined, hulking and screaming -- from the back if a sinuous
thing had not suddenly struck at it in midair, sinking fangs into its
flank. It shimmered out of existence. A snake, Aspasie realized. The
Beastmaster had hidden the largest snaked she'd ever seen under his
furs, and it'd attacked the leaping summon without hesitation.

``You trifling sneak,'' the Summoner snarled.

The snake, striped and sinuous and looking all too smart for such a
creature, retreated and loosely coiled around the Beastmaster's neck.

``Say that again,'' the large man challenged. ``See what happens.''

At the bottom of the hill, Aspasie felt creatures begin to stir. The
Harrowed Witch began to weave the strands around her, ignoring the
furious wails of her brother's shade even as she drew on the essence of
his death to hide her existence. The two who'd begun brawling, the
Headhunter and the Berserker, had almost tumbled off the edge of the
hill. Though the Berserker had clearly hurt the other villain, punching
in a rib, the Headhunter had sunk over a dozen blades in their
opponent's flesh. Even now they were trying to tie the villainess limbs
with some sort of rope, though the Berserker's strange spams made it
difficult to achieve.

Something was slithering along the grass atop the hill and for a moment
Aspasie thought it was yet another snaked, but in the heartbeat that
followed strings of shadow shot up. They latched onto the Headhunter,
who jerked in surprise and tried to rip away their hand only to find
that the string moved with them. Yet it tightened, after, almost like
toffee. Within heartbeats the Dominion prick was covered in shadowy
strings and vainly struggling on the ground, mouth covered. The
Berserker milled about uncertainly, then let out a furious scream and
turned towards the nearest target: the Adjutant. The crippled orc in his
wheelchair did not so much as bat an eye while on the ground under the
Berserker a shimmer passed. The Witch caught a glimpse of something and
the Berserker was \emph{gone}. As if fallen into the ground.

Dusk had arrived, Aspasie saw. The world was dimming. And nowhere was it
darker than around the Black Queen on her throne, looking bored as she
rested her chin on her palm and watched them all.

``Summoner,'' the Black Queen idly said. ``Beastmaster. The two of you
appear to have left your seats, no doubt by mistake.''

The magic that had been sharpening the air with the smell of ozone
winked out. The creeping creatures that had been making their way up the
hill froze, then withdrew. The Beastmaster offered a jerky nod and
slumped back onto his seat: the snake disappeared under his furs, as if
it'd never been there at all.

``Your Majesty-'' the Summoner began.

There was a sound like a rope being tightened, and the Headhunter
hoarsely screamed.

``I dislike,'' Catherine Foundling said, ``repeating myself.''

The Summoner sat down. The Harrowed Witch dragged her seat back up and
sat down on it, hoping no one had taken notice.

---

The Black Queen had seen through him.

The thought struck the Rapacious Troubadour and would not leave him even
as he studied the Headhunter's futile struggles against the shadow
bindings. Her putdowns had been too smooth, too perfect. The gate
beneath the Berserker had already been woven, just left dormant. She'd
known Lucien was going to incite a brawl and let him, so that she might
use the erupting chaos to her own purposes. What these purposes were he
did not know, but he was hungry to find out. If she'd planned it all
ahead this far\ldots{} A dangerous woman, this orphan queen. She'd
played the oldest living hero of Calernia like a fiddle, it was said,
and so far they were faring no better against her wiles.

A dragonbone pipe in hand, she leaned to the side so that the Adjutant
might strike a match and light it for her. Taking a deep breath, silence
falling among them as she did, the Queen of Callow spat out a long
stream of smoke. She flicked a wrist. A slit opened in the air to the
side of the hill and the Berserker came out screaming, hitting the
ground as if she'd been thrown down from a cliff instead. There was a
crack of broken bones and the villainess ceased moving. Not dead, he
thought, but her legs had broken even with all the power of her rage
strengthening her.

``Archer,'' the Black Queen said, ``drag that enthusiastic young woman
back to her seat. I still have a use for her.''

The tall villainess rose to her feet with a lazy grin.

``Nothing like two broken legs to put things into perspective, I've
found,'' the Archer mused.

The Berserker was dragged by the crook of her neck, hair gone wild and
looking in a great deal of pain but not entirely displeased with the way
her evening had gone regardless. Shadow strings dragged the Headhunter
back onto the wreck of their seat, and only then left withdrew. The
armoured villain cast wild-eyed looks all around, as if trying to find
where the strings had gone, and their breathing was unsteady. It'd
escaped absolutely no one's notice that it would have been trivial for
the Black Queen to snap their neck, if she'd felt like it.

``I find myself disappointed in you all,'' the Queen of Callow slowly
said, trails of smoke curling up above her. ``The information's there to
be found, I made sure of it, so it must mean that not a single one of
you thought to look.''

The Archer leaned back in her seat, looking amused. The Adjutant
remained the same mirror he always was, unreadable. Lucien watched the
others, but found only puzzlement and veiled faces. No one was quite
sure what she meant, then. Good, he'd not been left behind.

``How many villains have signed onto the Truce and Terms?'' the Black
Queen asked. ``Does a single one of you know?''

Lucien hid a frown, counting silently. At least twenty, he thought, but
he was uncertain of the numbers in Cleves so it was likely higher.
Besides, had the First Prince not taken one of the Damned as an adviser?
She had kept this quiet, but not so quiet the likes of the Troubadour
could not find word of it.

``Twenty eight,'' the Adjutant said, his voice like rough gravel.

The Troubadour blinked in surprise. Was this true? It seemed\ldots{}

``Some of you are putting it together, I see,'' the Black Queen thinly
smiled, eyes passing over him and then to his surprise onto the
Headhunter. ``There are seventy-four Named who have signed onto the
Terms, you see.''

Less than half. Lucien would admit he was surprised. He'd expected, if
not quite even halves, then at least something close to it. This was
sharply imbalanced in their disfavour.

``And what is that to us, Black Queen?'' the Beastmaster replied.

``Look around you,'' she replied. ``Then think of the heroes and their
own firepit. How, unlike you, they are \emph{making allies}.''

---

``Let them hold hands,'' the Headhunter dismissed. ``It will not save
them when the night gets dark.''

The Barrow Sword almost laughed, for as usual Saidi was missing the
point. All that power, all that skill, but not a bushel of wits to go
with them. When the war on Keter ended, things would not return to what
they had once been. That was what the Queen of Callow was telling them.
How many of these Bestowed by Above would have met, if not for this war?
Now they knew names and faces, had struck friendships and alliances.
When the war ended, when the truce came at an end, the heroes would
prowl in \emph{packs}. Magelings from Ashur allied with duellists from
Procer, priests from the Free Cities with the Blood of Levant. They
would be fighting an enemy that had learned, that had grown, that was
\emph{ready for them}.

``You warn us of annihilation,'' Ishaq bluntly said.

---

``Petty alarmism,'' the Summoner said. ``They cannot turn on us after we
carried the war against Procer. It would be dishonourable.''

The Harrowed Witch swallowed a hysterical giggle. They were going to bet
their lives on \emph{honour}? The man was blind. She'd not thought it
before, but the Black Queen was right. They must come to terms with the
Chosen, or perhaps band with a few others for protection. If they were
too many to be easily slain, or perhaps hidden\ldots{}

``The Grey Pilgrim would poison every single one of you and lose not a
wink of sleep over it,'' the Barrow Sword flatly replied. ``We all know
what the years before the Uncivil Wars were like. The Peregrine and the
Saint, picking every flower before it could bloom. They'll do the same
now, only with bands and training and coin.''

---

``There's no need to fight them,'' the Beastmaster said.

And meant it, too. Lysander saw no need to spill hero blood, or have his
own spilled by them. What did they have to fight over? Let them keep
their cities and their temples, his own home was far beyond their reach.

``We can keep to our places, and they to theirs,'' the Beastmaster said.

``And so we go back living in a fucking hovel in the woods?'' Cocky
said.

He blinked in surprised. Had her years in the Arsenal truly softened her
so much, \emph{weakened} her so much?

``They'll keep it all,'' the Concocter warned. ``The Arsenal, the
secrets and the libraries and the wonders we made. If we disperse back
into the wilds, after the war, then they keep the world and we exile
ourselves to the fringes.''

``The Accords ensure they cannot simply hunt us,'' Lysander sharply
reminded her.

``You depend on \emph{ink} for safety, now?'' Cocky replied just as
sharply.

---

``The Accords don't say we can't fight,'' the Berserker said. ``They
only say \emph{how} we can't. They'll come for us, Beastmaster.''

Zoe would never have considered signing them, if they did. It was a pack
of rules about how violence could be done, and much about magic, but the
only parts that concerned her were no different from duelling rules. She
could stomach that.

``She's right,'' the Headhunter said, to her surprise. ``There are some
among them who will want to hunt. They'll follow us, wait for an
excuse.''

``And they'll have backers in the courts,'' the Rapacious Troubadour
added. ``Nobles behind them, soldiers and safe places. We all know the
Mirror Knight was in bed with the House of Langevin, and he won't be the
last.''

\emph{Fucking nobles}, Zoe thought, anger welling up. With their tricks
and their lies and their\ldots{} biting into her lips, she forced
herself to push down the rage. The Black Queen was likely to do more
than just break her legs, next time.

---

``They know who we are, now,'' Ishaq said. ``Don't forget that. They
know our names, where we rose to power. They will know where to look for
us.''

That struck home with more than a few, he saw on their faces. It was a
dreadful thing that'd been revealed to them, the Barrow Sword thought,
but it was also an opportunity. There were some here who would make
useful allies, and to who he would be of use in turn. Bargains could be
had, favours traded.

``It's worse than that,'' the Concocter flatly said, pushing back her
silver hair. ``Think of the weapons the Arsenal has been able to make in
just a few years. They have the numbers and the coin to keep making such
things, greater ones. What do we have, a handful of forges and libraries
dispersed across half the continent? How many of us even have a roof to
sleep under?''

\emph{Ashen Gods}, Ishaq thought. A grim truth, that. He had territory
in the Brocelian, but it was only his so long as no other Bestowed came
to take it from him. He looked at the three on the other side of the
fire, the dark-eyed queen and her hands on each side -- the fang and the
steel, waiting and silent and expectant. They had known all this from
the start. Where this would lead them. The Black Queen was waiting for
them at the end of this road.

``You have shown us a doom, Black Queen,'' Ishaq said. ``Will you also
show us how to avert it?''

---

Lucien leaned forward, eyes alight. Now was the time for the reveal, he
thought.

``After the war, under my auspices a hall will be founded in Cardinal,''
the Black Queen idly said. ``It will have workshops and armories,
libraries and artefacts. Its doors will be open to any of Below's who
sign the Liesse Accords and agree to a few additional\ldots{} rules of
engagement.''

The Summoner began to speak, but the Archer's black glare silence him.

``This hall will also offer its services as intermediary between all who
belong to it,'' the Queen of Callow said. ``Should they seek allies
within our kind, or to trade favours. It would serve as guarantor of any
such deal made, naturally.''

And so enable the making of alliances through the threat of the Black
Queen herself taking offence at the breaking of a pact made under her
auspices, the Troubadour thought. He could not resist, letting out a
soft peal of laughter. This would not disappear all their troubles, but
it would give them the tools to solve them by their own hands. And all
it would require of them was to follow the Black Queen's rules, to heed
her Accords so that they might all reap the benefits of her peace.

\emph{All hail the queen}, Lucien Travers amusedly thought.

``I might be interested in such an arrangement,'' the Troubadour said.

---

It could be of use, the Summoner thought. Since the Arsenal was barred
to him, and likely to remain so\ldots{}

---

If nothing else it would make the trading of favours a more reliable
thing, Lysander admitted to himself.

---

Word of who to hunt, and who to avoid, the Headhunter thought. Always
the hardest of knowledge to gather. It would depend on these rules, but
as things stood\ldots{}

---

The Concocter would have opened a newborn for what was being offered,
what were a few damned rules to her?

---

The Berserker frowned. More rules. Not pleasant to hear, but if this let
her avoid being hunted by the White Knight after the war she would have
to consider it.

---

It would let her find another band, the Harrowed Witch realized with a
sigh of relief. Safety in numbers, with a powerful patroness behind
them.

---

``Oh yes,'' the Barrow Sword grinned, all sharp teeth bared. ``This
would be of interest to me as well.''

---

As the pieces fell into place Catherine Foundling blew out a stream of
grey smoke, and smiled a devil's smile.