Camille IV: The Storm
Currents of cold rage flowed through Camille as she moved, freezing the ends of her eyelashes.
Half the city was on fire, and the worst of it was far enough inland that it was doubtful a simple wave could quell it. The ones who’d started the fires, though, were somewhat easier to deal with. Several had required a reminder of their duties to their Empress or the promise of a pardon if they returned to their homes without further disruption, and one had even needed a smack on the head with a whip of water for the message to sink in. But every other rioter she encountered directly fled when they saw the furious look in her eye, suitably chastened. If only scattered posses of drunken urbanites were the real threat.
Why did it have to be the Blues? But for that, everything might have gone perfectly. If Camille had only been there...
The deep divides at court were obvious even before they’d chosen their teams and colors: Malin and Guerron; Occupied and Exiles; Merchant and Aristocrat; the King’s Lot and the Queen’s Lot. Camille had bridged the gap as well as anyone possibly could have, a conciliator without peer beset by a challenge without equal.
But every time a courtier felt the slightest discontentment, they ran crying to their allies. They’d decry the incompetent councilors at the palace, brutish peasants or haughty nobles as the case may be, and plot to raise their influence at the cost of their foes’. Chariot races and tax law reforms were only the latest grievances, so petty it was hard to believe they had been the thing to set them off.
Of course Camille had considered that it might come to violence. To do otherwise would have been the height of naïveté. She’d been carefully shaping the dynamics of her courtiers to ensure a loyal core that could be turned against the first to break the peace, maintained a neutral stance to ensure that such nonsense was not encouraged, and run her bureaucrats through as much of an asset seizure procedure as she could let on without raising suspicion.
Considering the behavior of the chariot fanatics in the past, a cumbersome eruption like this was, while far from ideal, not wholly outside of the worst-case parameters she’d planned for. Done right, it was an opportunity to consolidate power and purge Malin of disloyalists while benefiting from their wealth.
But why did it have to be the Blues?
When Camille was nine and her old clothes from Malin had finally become too small to fit, Madeleine Lazarre had taken her to the dressmaker in town and helped her recover from another layer of familiarity and comfort, another link to Mother, being wrested away by the relentless march of time. She’d told Camille stories of the old days before everything had gone wrong. Now she was with the rioters, teetering on the edge of abject treason over a few snubs and a tax law.
Most of the rebel knights had a similar story: Raoul de Montgallet had kept his wits during the fall of Guerron and dispatched that boy to warn them early to prepare a response. After the Treaty of Charenton had released him from the rebel dungeons, the wizened Winter War veteran had bent down in front of her and kissed the hem of her dress, more profuse in his thanks for freeing him than Camille had ever seen a man be. Alvis de Sableton, suspicions of treachery under the occupation aside, was popular for good reason, strong and courageous, embodying everything that nobility stood for.
Not to mention the legitimacy they could call upon from foreign allies. Plagette and Condillac had no reason to care about Malinois merchants biting at the Fox-King, but there was a real risk that they might arm these rebels if they saw any opportunity for themselves in doing it. Whether they personally cared or not, few sages in the South were willing to support Camille openly after her usurpation of Levian’s domain lest they endanger their relationships with their patrons. Doubtless, whether as an excuse or a genuine belief, many of the rebels felt the same way.
They were organized and trained at arms, for another thing. The knights were small in number, the levies they could once call upon to bolster their forces largely a thing of the past, but they’d been trained at arms since they were children. Their social power rested on martial ability. Soldier-for-soldier, they could stand with the best of Lucien’s professional army, few of whom had ever seen battle.
And far too many of whom are away right now, escorting the Red Knight and Princess Mars under false flags. He kept a tight, disciplined, and discreet force out there, and Malin remained well-defended, but every soldier counted at the margins now, and the latest detachment sent to bolster Mars as she marched on Salhaute could not have been more poorly timed if someone had planned it.
Which is worth examining, if and when things settle down. I’m not the only skilled schemer on the continent, and there are many who would see the Empire further sundered. Any such investigations would have to wait, however.
“They’re gathering up on Old Castle Hill, calling on all leal subjects of the Fox-King to rally to their side.” Ysengrin was breathless in his third report of the evening, eyepatch askew as he emerged from the tunnels. He still looked slightly dazed from the blow to his head, but at least his words had begun to find surer footing. Now of all times, Camille couldn’t afford to rely on an incapacitated agent.
“How many of them made it up there?” Camille took the opportunity of the open tunnel entrance to pull a stream of water forth and splash it against the burning corner of a nearby rooftop. “The hooligans can be arrested and dispersed—they don’t have the discipline or the morale to keep this up for long—but the knights pose a serious problem.”
Ysengrin swallowed. “I’d guess maybe a thousand total, with a few hundred knights. Every third one had a sword and armor, half of them a horse, but the rest didn’t look any different from the thoughtless rioters still roaming the streets. Aside from the fact that they’re backing the Blues, anyway.”
“Fuck!” Camille surprised herself by saying it aloud. This is dire.
On a fortified hill which had housed the Fox-Queen’s fortress, nigh-impregnable for six centuries, there was a very real chance they could repel Camille’s attack with enough luck. More likely, defeating them would still cost her decades of spiritual power and hundreds of Imperial forces, all of which were needed to protect the Empire from its enemies abroad.
Without other spirits and sages willing to deal with her, spiritual energy had to be conserved carefully. All the more so when her deal with Gézarde required her to promote offerings to the sun above all, leaving a more limited slate for herself. If I burn it all on killing my own people, where does that leave me? How can I possibly recover from the Empire tearing itself apart from within? I’ve already lost Guerron. What kind of laughingstock of an Empress will I be if half of Malin rises up against me, too?
If she’d returned even a few hours earlier, it might have been possible to crush them into submission before they had a chance to organize like this. Perhaps even minutes would have made a difference, but it was too late to dwell on it now.
Camille’s eyes got stuck on a middle-aged woman weeping at the sight of the café burning in front of her, to children huddled close under her arms. Redirecting her water allowed her to quiet the fire, but the blackened remnants of the woman’s shop did nothing to arrest her despair. My people are suffering. They need me, and I’m distracted by these loathsome rioters. Order meant more than the spears that kept the peace, after all.
Camille spent another few minutes quelling fires and intimidating rioters into returning home, but this sort of piecemeal treatment wasn’t going to get them anywhere. The fires were only continuing to spread, the Blue rebels only growing further entrenched in their position. And every second before order returns will cost me. The people looked to their Empress for leadership, for prosperity, but above all, for safety. Subverting those key pillars of support had enabled Camille to take Malin from Luce in the first place. If they were to fall now...
“Camille!” Margot ran out from an alley, hair and face covered in a grey sheen of soot. “Duchess Annette gathered up the first legion around the Old Castle Hill and is preparing them to attack. My sister lent some regulars to the city police to help them bust heads elsewhere.”
“We say ‘restoring order’ in public, Margot, but very well done.” Camille wrapped an arm around her stagière, relieved to see she’d made it out safely. “I’m surprised your sister let you run the message to us alone. You didn’t run into any trouble on the way?”
Margot laughed, holding out a folded-up journal. “She didn’t let me do shit—they were arguing about who should go when I ducked out. I did see this though. Strange, isn’t it?”
Camille looked at the journal, printed with the usual Quotidien title and date but no other text. Instead, the articles had been replaced with an engraving, shaded artfully enough to suggest a fading light behind it. “The swan... Scott had them print this when Lillian Perimont tried to take over instead of letting Eserly print her libel.”
“So why print it now? Especially in a late edition. Lillian Perimont is dead, isn’t she?”
“Short of the Face-Stealer resurrecting her visage, yes. This isn’t about Perimont or the Guardians, it’s about Malin. They don’t know who’s going to be in charge in the morning, so they’re refusing to print anything that might be seen as taking a side.” Neutrality has a treachery in its own way, Scott Temple, but I always knew you were a feckless little worm. It was understandable enough as a self-preservation measure, but it didn’t bode well that anyone thought the rioters stood such a chance.
A crack sounded across the stones as a flaming wooden beam tumbled from the overhang of a nearby shop, startling Camille out of her thoughts. Instead of dousing it, she turned to Margot. “Where are Annette and the others? This spot-by-spot treatment isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to make one decisive move now and wrap this all up.”
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“They’re gathered at the railyard at the foot of the hill. I’ll grab Étienne and we can—”
“You brought the Duke of Condillac with you?” If anything happens to him, it could mean war with the Duchy. As if this situation weren’t unravelling enough.
“Yeah, relax. He was feeling stifled waiting around an empty train station, so I asked if he wanted to get into some trouble. I figured—”
“Where is he now?” Camille interrupted, trying not to sound too judgemental of her stagiére lest she create a rift between them.
Margot pointed around the corner in the direction she’d come from, prompting Camille to rush into the alley just in time to see a massive drunken man loomed menacingly over the Condillac lord with his red, spitting face and puffed-out chest. “Y’alright? Fuckin’ weakling Queen-loving cunt? The fuck you think you’re doing?
“I’ve no q-quarrel with you, good sir. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” While he’d worn all black when visiting Guerron, the Duke had added small purple accents to break up the monochrome monotony, likely at the request of his tailor, which greatly improved his look. He’d also grown a foot, his features stretched and gaunt, with long brown hair tumbling down his shoulders. Above his shoulder, the raven familiar Tiecelin was flapping and squawking furiously, blowing gusts of wind back in the aggressor’s face.
But the hooligan didn’t back down, instead raising his fist with one hand and firmly gripping the Duke’s shirt with the other.
Camille flicked out a razor-sharp whip of water from her finger, slicing the assailant’s throat before he had a chance to follow up. “I’m pleased to see that you’re safe, Duke Étienne. My sincerest apologies for this commotion.”
The Duke’s eyes went wide as the man toppled to the ground in front of him, his posture shrinking back even further. “I seem to come across this sort of thing every time I chance to visit your fair city, Empress Leclaire.”
“But you make it out safely every time!” Margot punched him on the shoulder before Camille could get a word in. “Didn’t you tell me that conflict is a chance to prove your mettle? Granting the release of death to the unworthy? What’s a big strong sage of Corva got to worry about?” Margot whispered a hurried offering over the man as he bled out on the cobblestones, and Camille felt the power flow into her.
“Yes... Well... You see, my experience with death is of a more philosophical nature, r-reflecting the poetry of life...” He frowned, realizing he’d been bested. “This seems poor hospitality no matter how you look at it, and it isn’t even the first time!”
“I’m inclined to agree, but I can assure you this will be the last time.” Camille grit her teeth. Getting him on our side is going to be so much harder now. “If it wouldn’t trouble you to join us, we need to get moving.”
They made quick time, wind and water extinguishing any fires that blocked their way. But despite their efforts clearing a path, the fires had spread across half the city by the time they reached the foot of the hill.
Camille had spent most of that time planning, irritatedly trying to maintain her focus on the plot through every interruption: smothering fires, commanding her subjects, and directing Margot, Yse, and Étienne through the burning city.
She came upon Alvis de Sableton before Annette, a plain brown cloth waving from his hand to signal parley. Somehow, despite the riots and the fires, his blue racing uniform, modified from the traditional officer’s garb, still looked crisp and pristine.
“Empress.” He dipped his head in a bow, his tone as respectful as any courtier. “I regret that such destruction has come to pass. The peers have selected me as their representative to discuss our terms. I hope that we can end this unpleasantness quickly.
This better be good. The very concept of a parley seemed absurd amidst the backdrop of a flaming city and riotous imbeciles determined to make it so. What could there possibly be to say? “Very well. But first, Margot, allow me to examine your notepad.”
Camille removed the pen from its spine and flipped it open, refreshing herself on the details of the fighting in Margot’s own words, then scribbled down a set of instructions, her penmanship just a hair less immaculate than usual. “See that Annette and your friend the Duke read this,” she said, then followed the Blue representative to a table he’d pointed out by the side of a currently-abandoned café about halfway up the hill, just high enough to have a view of the sea.
“Before you begin, allow me to offer you a deal more generous than any rebel deserves.” Camille narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge the racer’s inscrutable expression as she marshalled her concentration for the task before her. “I have offered pardons to rioters who returned to their homes when bid, or assisted in combating the fires. So far, these have been simple farmers, urbanites, people of the land and the sea. Noblesse obliges the likes of us to do better, Alvis de Sableton. The drunken hooligan has not sworn a personal oath of fealty to my husband for all that he owes it to him, but you and yours have. You understand the importance of a knight’s honor, making it all the more despicable that you would break it.
“Nonetheless, I shall extend to you the same courtesy I granted all my people on this sorrowful day. You, Lazarre, and Montgallet will make personal apologies to me and to my husband, accompanied by reaffirmations of your fealty. The rest of your rowdy band shall disperse immediately to receive their pardons. Per the terms of the Code Leclaire, the three of you will be granted a trial. Should you cooperate now, I will personally appear to speak to the honor you showed on this day. Refuse, and you will be destroyed.”
Alvis nodded slowly, taking in the offer without any clear objections on his face, but when he spoke, it wasn’t acquiescence. “A generous offer for a traitor, Your Grace, but you wound me with such an accusation. We Blue knights are loyal to the Empire and the Fox-King; we simply object to the egregious disloyalty from councilors close to him.”
“To me?” Camille laughed. “Lucien is my husband. There’s no one in the world more loyal to him. That is precisely why he appointed me to rule in his stead while he continues his royal progress.”
“Royal progress? Does that not mean the King being seen before the people, making every corner of his domain familiar with him? No one has seen him for months. There are those who whisper that he’s dead.”
If things get badly enough out of hand in Salhaute, it’s not impossible that something could happen to him... But Camille couldn’t bear to think of that. Lucien would never appreciate being coddled, nor a moment’s hesitation in her confidence in him. Camille would be just as offended if he ever underestimated her in the same way.
“There are those who whisper treason, and those who shout it. Both are well-represented on Old Castle Hill. The fact of the matter is that my Lucien has never been healthier, so far as I know. He’s conducting diplomacy at a very high level, beyond your qualifications or comprehension. If you have issues with the way I’ve ruled in his name, you may address them to me. Respectfully. If you throw the tantrum of a traitor, I have no choice but to treat you as one.”
Alvis followed her words, but his eyes began to wander, as if already disbelieving her so deeply that it wasn’t worth his time to listen carefully. “Each and every one of us will swear their loyalty to you—in public, if necessary—provided our demands are met.”
“Demands?” Camille laughed. “You’ll be lucky to get a last request.”
“Nonetheless, I promised that I would present them to you if you allowed me leave to do so. May I?” Alvis watched Camille scoff, then waved him on half-heartedly to continue. “Excellent. I believe you’ll find them reasonable enough for us to end this brutishness here and now.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Alvis frowned, then continued. “First, your taxation decree must be repealed. The value and honor of your noble vassals shall not be impugned any further. The inheritance and property taxes previously imposed on Peers of the Realm shall likewise be abolished. None who possess a noble title shall be forced to provide tribute by such alien, ‘modernized’ means, but instead shall continue to send His Grace the taxes owed in the manner we have for the last six centuries.
“Second, the Empire shall permit us to create and operate a series of private military schools for young knights, that they might be educated in the traditional roles and responsibilities of knighthood, an elite and irreplaceable order of warriors guarding the masses and keeping them safe. The land stretching from Calignac to Sableton should suffice for housing and funding these schools, though once their success is proven, the Fox-King may wish to extend it.
“Third, any royal proclamations encouraging that offerings be made to the Sun Spirit, Gézarde, shall end. As a gesture of goodwill to the spirits, Empress Camille will step back back from governance and Levian shall be honored as behooves a peerless spirit such as he, including a statue of his likeness in the square and a formal declaration of apology for any wrongs humanity has wrought upon the spirits.
“Finally, the rules of the chariot races must be reformed to preclude the sort of wanton merchant influence that has corrupted this fine sport, including but not limited to purchase of horses and equipment, inclusion of mercantile insignias on horse apparel, and a detachment of knights present at every race to safeguard the process.”
Camille couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the demands, erupting into a full blown laugh when she heard the final one. “First of all, after the mess today, I doubt anyone will be racing chariots in Malin for a hundred years. We certainly won’t be coronating your team as a reward for this unacceptable behavior. The taxes are to be paid by every loyal citizen of the Empire, their contribution to our national prosperity. My family honored Levian for over six hundred years and it did nothing to stop him from attacking my Lucien and all of humanity in the White Night, nor did it prevent him from massacring Charenton. Allowing cretins like you to toast to his good name is already more than enough. And as for your private schools, you’re asking for leave to train an entirely separate army loyal to your knights instead of the Fox-King.”
“No.” Alvis shook his head. “We want to ensure that our class is educated and endowed with loyalty to the Fox-King instead of his bride.”
Bride? I’m the only reason you and all the other aristocrats that spent the occupation in hiding could crawl out of your hole and come back to Malin. Everything you have, you owe to me. I liberated the heart of the Empire and spent the last four years spurring it towards being a global power again, even an equal to Avalon. What back-alley imbroglio were you raised in to believe for even a moment that this flagrant disrespect would ever be tolerated?
But, with some effort, Camille kept her thoughts to herself. They wouldn’t lead anywhere productive. Instead, she made another offer. “None of us want Malin to burn. While your demands are absurd and unacceptable, I’m willing to grant you a day’s reprieve in order that we might all fight the fires together and avoid any further distraction in this crucial time before resuming negotiations.”
“Respectfully, Your Grace, we must establish now that our—What is that?” He pointed skyward at the gathering clouds, so dark they were nearly black.
Concentrating grew easier without the need to mask her hand in it, drawing on the majority of her remaining power to swell the sea and bring the rain. Étienne had done his part, fortunately, which bode well for future collaborations. The clouds were blown rapidly across the sky over the city as the first raindrops began to fall. Down at the coast, the sea was rapidly rising, further aided by the rain.
Alvis flinched under the assault, raindrops so thick in the air that he was soaked in a matter of seconds. And one by one, all across the city the Fox-Queen had built and entrusted to her descendants to protect, the fires began to wink out. A spiritual maelstrom to shield the people, rather than wreak vengeance upon them, no matter how much these Blues might deserve it. “My offer expires the moment you find dry shelter, Alvis de Sableton. Think carefully.”