“I was shocked to see it, I must admit.” Camille picked up the journal on the table before her, libelous dreck better fit for the lining of a pig's pen. “Lord Lumière’s grip on the proceedings seemed quite firm.”
But Fernan broke it. That unassuming peasant had even managed to implicate Magnifico somehow. Camille had to admit that she had underestimated the boy, both in moral character and ability. The pressure from Lumière could only have been immense, the task nigh-impossible, the rewards for falling in line just like the others beyond compare, and yet Fernan had managed it.
Framing the guilty party, no doubt. Details were somewhat scarce, but it seemed as if the bard had snagged cloth on the Duke’s balcony and then kept the offending garment for months after, even wearing it to the trial. Either the journals were unreliable beyond their editorializing, admittedly likely, or the boy had moved past a great deal of his hesitance. It was hard to believe he’d had such a brazen act of fraud in him.
Annette and Lucien are lucky to have him by their side.
Meanwhile, I did nothing. Lumière’s pistol might have killed her, for all the difference it had made.
Her time in Malin hadn’t been wasted, certainly. Influence and knowledge, carefully built up behind enemy lines was an invaluable resource, but nothing in comparison to the life of a friend. I stayed because I thought I couldn’t help her, and Fernan proved me wrong. As much as it rankled to have made such a severe mistake, the more important thing was that Annette and Lucien were safe. For the moment, anyway.
Camille set the journal back down, leaving it folded to show an engraving of the missing prince in grayscale, a large circular scar visible over his eye and half his face. Or perhaps it was a smudge? “One might think a Prince of Avalon would merit a better quality of depiction than this.”
Across the table from her, Simon Perimont shook his head lightly. “Father owed a favor to the artist. A few words to the editor took care of the issue.”
Sounds about right. “I suppose he’s too dead to complain,” she lied easily. If I had to make this last longer, helping Perimont rebuke him might have been the pragmatic thing to do. With his soldiers gathering more conscripts by the day, the governor was helping rouse sentiment against Avalon better than Camille ever could.
Simon frowned. “I’d rather you didn’t joke about that. Prince Luce had a good head on his shoulders, the few times I met him. Nothing like his brother. Having his damned memorial announcements use a portrait that actually looks like him doesn’t seem like too much to ask, does it?”
“No, of course not. I meant no—”
“Let’s just eat. I’m sorry for the dour mood.” He snapped his fingers, summoning a servant to relay their orders to the kitchens. “Steak for me, in the usual fashion.”
Camille raised an eyebrow. “And what fashion is that?”
“Cooked through, half pink, and dusted with mushrooms.”
“Half pink?” Why am I even surprised? “You know it ruins the meat to overcook it like that.”
“Malins,” he scoffed. “You’d probably bite straight into the cow if no one stopped you.”
“It’s nice to taste the blood.” Camille turned to the servant. “Pork tenderloin, if you please, dusted with black truffle.”
“Nice choice.” Simon nodded as the servant scurried away.
Camille took a moment to straighten her posture, choosing her words carefully. “No offense was intended. I only meant that your father can do as he likes, no matter if it’s in poor taste. With the journal as with anything. It’s not as if there’s anything anyone could have done.”
“Nothing realistic, I suppose.” He sighed heavily. “This war is beginning to feel just as inevitable. If Malin had a wholly working harbor, I expect we would already have a blockade surrounding Guerron.”
“Why Guerron? Didn’t you tell me you expected the Crown Prince to invade the Condorcet Collective?”
“I did, then.” He exhaled ruefully. “As things stood, it was the most likely target amidst a sea of them. Wipe out a few cultists and expand Avalon’s influence to ‘avenge’ Luce without needing to make too much a mess of things. But now?”
Ah. “Now Avalon’s ‘friend’ isn’t going to let you roll into Guerron without spilling a drop of blood. Now the target is obvious.”
“Terribly obvious. Prince Harold is already sending troops to Lyrion as a launching point, to prepare for the inevitable while Father does his part here.” He drummed his fingers against the table. “It’s a shame it couldn’t have been done diplomatically. That’s how King Harold has always championed the acquisition of new territory.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“I suppose it doesn’t, not directly.” Simon shrugged. “But the markets abhor uncertainty. When war breaks out, it always upsets the apple cart. Weapons and warship manufacturers soar while all manner of other necessities descend — not exactly the underpinning of a strong economy. Trade gets disrupted with embargoes, passages and routes become unsafe or blocked off… It’s all a mess, even if it always settles out eventually.”
“Quite a tragedy.”
“Well, you asked why it mattered to me in particular. Really, all this farce of a trial did was ensure that Guerron will be destroyed instead. Their grain stores will run low, their animals slaughtered, the florin soon worthless…” He clicked his tongue. “What horrid timing, too. This Fernan fellow sprung up out of nowhere so conveniently I’d almost wonder if he’s working for the Harpies.”
“With the flow of information so unreliable, almost anything is possible.” Not that, though.
“Ugh, exactly. Somehow we’ve ended up with the fog of war before the war even begins. I asked for a copy of the journal that hadn’t been through the censors yet, but it read almost identical to what the public got.”
“They know what will make it through and what won’t. Most of that editing probably happens before they even put their pen to paper.”
Simon nodded glumly. “This is where it would be useful to have a spy in Guerron.”
“One not in the public eye after being accused of murder, anyway.” Depending on Magnifico’s pedigree, it wasn’t impossible that he would have some use as a hostage, but none of the reports had mentioned him being captive after the trial, so it was impossible to tell if he was even in the city anymore.
Simon didn’t get a chance to reply before the servant returned, an austere woman in white clothes walking beside him.
“Master Simon, Lady Carrine, you have my sincerest apologies, but I will not be able to make the pork tenderloin you requested.” The chef twisted the pipe in her hands. “The Governor’s stores of pork are entirely depleted.”
“How is this possible?” Simon stood from his seat. “Lady Carrine made a very specific, reasonable request. My hospitality demands that I provide her with it.”
“Does your father not keep pigs aside to supply this place?” Camille asked, hiding a smile.
“Of course he does. Any self-respecting nobleman would—” He turned his head back to the chef. “Please explain how this could have happened.”
The woman lit her pipe with a nearby candle. “Master Simon, your father’s entire drove of hogs disappeared today.”
His eyes narrowed. “Disappeared? Did they grow wings and fly away?”
“It appears they were stolen, Master Simon. Their keepers were in the process of moving them to a quarantine pen after they all suddenly took ill.” She inhaled from her pipe, breathing deep, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Apparently hogs have been going missing all over the city, the past few weeks. Your father has already dispatched a Guardian to apprehend the culprit. That these brigands struck so close to home will only get them caught faster, I’m sure. The Guardians take this business seriously.”
Already? That could be a problem. “Say Simon, remember that Charlotte girl who was helping poor Sir Gerald through his investigations? Perhaps she could use a reprieve, assisting whoever your father dispatched.” Not as subtle as I might have liked, but…
“That’s an excellent idea. I believe Gary’s business here is done anyway. I’ll put in a word with Captain Whitbey.”
The chef stifled a cough, smoke trailing from her nostrils. “Master Simon, other pigs can be had from the surrounding farms. Cost certainly isn’t an issue. But bringing them here and slaughtering them is likely to come with a delay that your lady companion would rather avoid.”
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Why hadn’t you already purchased a set to have on hand?”
“Master Simon, I spoke with the quartermaster and—”
“It’s fine.” Camille held up a hand to stop him. The point was never the food. “I’ll have the same as Simon, only cooked blue rather than burned to oblivion.”
≋
“You’re welcome.” Florette stood at the mouth of the tunnel, silhouetted by the bright sunlight behind her. At her feet was a collection of almost three dozen pigs, all tied together. “Wasn’t exactly easy to wrangle this many. Way harder than when we were doing two or three at a time. Harder to slip the berries to them all, too.”
“Thank you,” Camille said.
“It’s still so weird that that works. Goats could eat the head of a pickaxe without getting ill, but I guess pigs are more fragile.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about goats, but you’ll be glad to know that taking all of these hogs was worthwhile. Everything played out exactly as planned. Apparently Perimont already put someone up to finding the culprit, but Simon’s going to make sure Charlotte is put on the case and out of our hair.”
“Does that mean we can be done with this? I don’t think I’m cut out to be a tunnel rancher.” The statement was all the more absurd for the massive collection of pigs just behind her. “The route you gave me through the tunnels worked perfectly though, got to say. Did Claude tell you about these before he left, or something?”
“Is that a joke? My family built these as a way to help cool the city down. Our sages and acolytes were the ones running through them spraying mist on mercilessly hot summers like this.”
“Oh!” Florette nodded in realization. “I’ve been trying to figure out why they were built ever since I got here. No one could give me an answer. It’s one thing for no one to know, but I couldn’t even find someone curious about it in Jacques’s crew.”
“Our lands in Onès are just north of Malin; we’ve been wrapped up in Imperial politics as long as there’s been an empire to speak of. Castille of Onès even built the whole palace out of blue stone as tribute for the Fox Queen.” Camille frowned. “It’s disappointing to see those contributions going so ignored.”
Florette shrugged. “Probably because the palace was totally destroyed, and no one’s used the tunnels for that since the Foxtrap. Who’d appreciate what isn’t even happening?”
“The more circumspect, I imagine.” Camille sighed. “It’s a travesty. Without maintenance and direction, the other ones set up for sewage don’t drain properly anymore.”
“Wait, are these not the sewage tunnels?”
“Obviously not!” Camille sighed. “These are designed for people to move through. You’ll note that they don’t smell foul or have liquid running through them. The sewage tunnels are sealed off, closer to the surface. A good rain, or a sweep from our sages, and the streets looked pristine. Back when it worked properly, it drained out to the surrounding farmland to irrigate and fertilize it. A bit of rotation and filtration, and the disgusting detritus of the street found another life helping farmers and such.”
“Speaking of disgusting, can you please take care of these pigs? There’s way too many of them packed in here.”
Camille nodded, squeezing out the tunnel and onto the beach. Hidden by rocky cliffs on all sides, this particular site had been set aside for the sort of sage business that required discretion, allowing anyone unfortunate enough to cross the Leclaires to give back to the spirits in private.
Camille helped Florette wrangle the pigs towards the water with one hand, clearing a path with the other.
The first time had required another expenditure of her life, though at least a small one, but each sacrifice thereafter had been fueled with the energy of the previous. Or rather, a fraction of it. Each time, Levian’s power grew, and with it, Camille’s.
It does nothing for the thousand souls I promised him, though. Unfortunate, that, but the risk of grabbing deserving targets for this was far higher, and would barely put a dent into it in any case. Even a full-scale invasion might not be enough. But that was a thought for later.
Right now she had a task before her that required focus.
“Great Spirit Levian,” Camille spoke calmly to the sea. “Lord of the Lyrion Sea, Guardian of Raging Waves, Torrent of the Deep, I call you forth to receive my offering.” The spirit would remain in the water, out of sight, as he often did.
This time it’s a necessity, though. I promised him a thousand souls before next I saw him, at year’s end. It had seemed so far away, then, but now the summer solstice was already on the horizon. “In accordance with our ancient pact, I present these living swine, the stock of high nobility. Fat and hale and hearty, may the energy of their life swell yours in turn.”
This part carried the most risk, watching the drove of pigs waddle their way down the path through the sea. It needed to stretch so far, as well. Pigs were surprisingly adept at swimming. Still, only the entrance needed to be exposed to the air, careful manipulation holding the water above their heads as the path proceeded deeper and further.
When she was sure it was safe, Camille collapsed her undersea tunnel, letting the water fall with a crack, and killing them all.
She didn’t release the breath she was holding until she felt the energy flow into her, confirmation that there had been no error in the ritual. A pig was nothing compared to a human, but quantity counted for something, and she only needed so much energy to get back to Guerron. “That’s it,” she told Florette. “I have enough.”
“What, already?”
“That’s what happens when you do three dozen at once.” Camille took a deep breath. “Lumière and Magnifico are next, once I make it back.” In an ideal world, she would have enough energy left to fight them, but the world was seldom ideal. Better to start by sacrificing one of the sun sages who’d hurt Lucien.
“Good. Fuck both of them for trying to screw over Fernan like that.” Florette turned her head out to the water. “So, what, are you going to swim back?”
“It’s closer to surfing. I still need to breathe.”
“Surfing?”
Right, she grew up in the mountains.
“With the right board, you can ride the water’s waves even without magic.” Unbidden, the image of Mother training her flashed to mind. Camille had fallen from her board what felt like hundreds of times, but each time there was a friendly face to lift her from the water. “In my case, there’s no need for the board when I can sculpt the water around my feet accordingly. You’d have to use magic for a long trip like this, anyway.” She took a moment to breathe in the soft sea air, chilling breeze cutting through the horrendous heat. “And it’s far safer than trying to book a ship right now. The Avalon navy’s taking a close look at everything going in and out right now, especially with the harbor still half a ruin.”
“Hmm.” Florette nodded. “Sounds like a plan, then. Sure you can’t stick around to help with the train heist?”
Camille snorted. “I’m not going anywhere near that disaster, no offense. My Lucien’s been trapped in a tower thinking me dead for months. Annette was nearly just executed. I have to go back to them.” Go back to them a failure, the sage who returned from death only to accomplish almost nothing while the world moved on without her. “It’s… it’s time.”
“Alright, fine. Suit yourself.” She folded her arms defensively. “I think it’s time I go, then.”
“Are you going to see Eloise and that Prince?”
Florette nodded. “In a couple hours. Wasn’t sure how long you’d be.”
“Good. I want to check in with you on all that before I go. I don’t want my work with Simon Perimont to go to waste either. Not more than it needs to, at least.” I can hardly expect you to just pick up where I left off.
“Ok, we can meet here at sunset, then.” Florette turned around and began walking back into the tunnel. Camille waited until she was out of sight, then followed.
≋
“Eloise told you, right?” Florette was leaning against the rocky cliff face, rippling slightly through the blue. “Perimont even made sure to print a terrible engraving of you in the journal so no one would recognize you.”
“Yeah, she told me. She’s coming too, just going to be a bit late.” The Prince himself stood straight, head held high. So this is the meek scholar? “Getting me recognized isn’t the important thing. We could just find Simon if it came to that. But Lord Perimont holds dominion here. Even if I came forward, his Guardians could pack me on a ship to Cambria or a train to Lyrion before I could say a word. It could be weeks or months before I make it back.”
“And that’s not good enough?” The vibrations of Florette’s voice warbled, almost muted.
“It’s not! My brother’s on the warpath because he thinks you two killed me, essentially. I’ve seen those flags the Forresters put up on people’s houses.”
“Disloyalty.” Even through the water, the disgust was plain to hear in her voice. “It gets taken down when they get their conscript. Until they do, it’s supposed to be a mark of shame for the household.”
The Prince scratched his chin. “The King sent me here to help with Perimont’s mismanagement, but it’s not written down anywhere. And he’s in no position to help.”
“No kidding. That whole fucking Governship is a lost cause.”
“I’m not so sure. Simon may seem lazy, but he’s got an incredible grasp of economics and commerce. He wouldn’t stand for this, that’s for sure. But I need to step in now. It’s going to be impossible to demilitarize in two months, and it’ll be pointless anyway because Guerron will have been leveled by then. What a fucking disaster.” He let out a long sigh. “I claw my way back from certain death and it’s still too little, too late.”
So Prince Grimoire fancies himself a pacifist after all. Florette had hinted at his attitude being more relaxed, but it was another thing entirely to hear it from his own mouth. Reformers in Avalon weren’t unheard of, apparently. The dominant Owl group in their Great Council preferred economic supremacy and defensive armaments, and a splinter called the Jays even advocated outright pacifism.
But a Prince…
Perhaps he was a viable alternative to Perimont after all. Stirring up hate and discontent counted for a lot, especially with such an apathetic populace. But it was nothing compared to weakening Avalon’s grip directly. A relaxation of censorship, perhaps? Discussing the Empire no longer being considered treason alone could count for a lot, if the Prince intended to pursue it.
But that was speculation. If nothing else, his policies would make winning back control of Malin far easier in a direct, concrete sense. Fewer soldiers and ships guarding it might be the only way to wrest it back in a direct contest of arms.
More important, though, was Guerron. Lucien was as good a fighter as ever there was, and Annette was definitely up to the task of coordinating the city’s defense, but still…
“It’s not like it’s nothing.” Florette stepped forward, then stopped herself. “You’re alive. That’s what counts for the most.”
“I suppose.” He clenched his fists. “But at this point, short of storming the governor’s mansion, there’s nothing I can do to avert this war. We’re fucked.”
I can protect them better here. Guerron could wait a little longer.
Camille spun the water around her, bringing her bubble of air to the surface. With a vortex of water beneath her feet, she rose above the water, launching herself into the air.
She landed in front of them amidst a shower of droplets, the wave crashing down behind her.
“Then storm it we shall.”