Camille VIII: The Instigator
Camille still felt dirty. That was inevitable, really, with the bay too cold to bathe in and no time to draw a bath, but it rankled. This would be better done presentably, and at the moment she was anything but. Even her clothes were far from fresh, being the warmest things she had to wear. Standing in the cold street hardly helped either, as she peered down the road through the arches of the arcade.
He deals with lowlives and thugs, she forced herself to remember. I’ll be immaculate by comparison.
Eloise and her dashing friend had made that point all too clearly, covered in grime and blood that was no doubt a result of her ‘professional disagreement’ with one Jacques Clochaîne. It was a lucky thing that word hadn’t had time to get out, or her scouting at the Convocation of Commerce would be just as impossible as Camille trying it herself.
Still, it’s far from ideal. Who could know what Simon would think of a mere lieutenant without any prior familiarity, and one who worked for a living at that? It almost didn’t bear thinking about, and yet it remained the best chance of learning Luce’s whereabouts.
Whatever else happened, he needed to be freed and restored to power if Camille didn’t want to spend the next eternity enslaved to the spirits. Fenouille might not have the heart to treat her ill, perhaps, but he had made a vow, and could easily trade her soul to another who would, so that he might abide by his words.
And Levian will have no such compunction, should I fail him.
The walls were closing in from all sides, fates worse than death waiting behind each. Such a promising plan had almost been ruined because the Prince of Darkness had been stupid enough to get himself caught, and now everything was on the verge of falling apart. That infuriatingly passive little princeling hadn’t even managed the most basic level of self-preservation in a city that his grip on was so tenuous and fragile. What kind of idiot couldn’t even—Ugh.
It wasn’t productive to think that way, but it was hard not to, sitting here waiting like this. One of Cadoudal’s had known the route, but not the exact timing, and the cold conditions meant that the candlemaker would want to be giving himself plenty of time in advance.
Which means I have to show up here even earlier to be safe.
Camille had grabbed a journal to try to help pass the time, but it lacked any printed text, showing only an engraving of a swan paddling across Paix Lake, advertisement for a new opera that might now never see the light of day. Scott came through, and it could make all the difference, but of course it also had to make things harder for me too.
Doing things the right way could be such a thorough pain sometimes, even if it was entirely necessary, as it was here. And indeed in most situations. And so it falls to me.
Camille spent a moment straightening her horridly greasy hair under her warm woolen hat, one of the few things Mary had lent where the fit wasn’t an issue. She’d even had it in green.
It might not be a bad idea to give her some lands if she’s still standing when the dust settles, and on the right side of things. Perhaps a marriage too. Good service deserved rewards, so long as loyalty was without question. Something to think about, at least.
But the carriage was coming, and it was time to get to work. No way to tell the time, but it certainly feels as if he didn’t give himself all that much extra. It seemed fitting, really, that he would take the course that left Camille lying in wait for as long as possible.
Clochaîne’s coterie for the Convocation of Commerce centered on a creaking carriage containing the candlemaker and his closest cronies, crowded by criminals, certainly cutpurses and cretins, clearly contrasting the candlemakers at the core.
Camille sighed, taking in the merchant’s motley entourage. It was relatively easy to see them even at a distance, with so many lanterns adorning the carriage. It was absurdly wasteful, and gaudy besides, but apparently neither was an obstacle to Jacques Clochaîne.
The carriage would only have room for maybe four at most, Clochaîne himself and whomever he planned to take to the Convocation. Ten of his thugs were walking beside it, each carrying a lantern of their own that served to illuminate their ragged winter wear and glint off the steel at their side.
Does he truly expect to show up before Simon Perimont with the very people he’s been using to flout Avalon’s laws? No doubt he was valuing security above appearances, not a totally senseless thought, but it failed to reckon with the fact that appearances were a sort of security in and of themselves. Power wielded deftly, softly, would be far more effective in a circumstance where his conventional arms were so outmatched anyway.
Really, I’m doing him a favor.
There wasn’t much spiritual energy left at her disposal after guiding so many people past the Guardian’s gaze, and the few hurried offerings to Levian she’d managed to make with a couple of Cadoudal’s acolytes amounted to a raindrop in a tempest.
Already, Camille would die long before her time, half her years stolen away by that bastard Lumière. Already, she might never live to see her children grow up, never grow old together with Lucien. At worst, never reclaim her birthright and country for her people.
No matter how much I try not to think about it, it’s always there, lurking in the deep, waiting for me.
No, as much as it would make things easier in the moment, drawing wantonly on her life could only be the very last possible option.
That meant she had to be sparing, expending each drop of energy in exact accordance with the level of need. Diverting a candlemaker so a sour rapscallion could glean information was probably vital, yes, but also so far from where things needed to end that Camille couldn’t justify allocating much power on it.
That meant getting creative.
A thick layer of snow coated the ground already, freshly fallen in the days past, and Camille had tried to add to it in advance, too, though she hadn’t made it further than a few shovelfuls before having to give up. Collapsing of exhaustion wouldn’t help anything, and the work was surprisingly draining, not to mention something she was manifestly unsuited for.
Hopefully it would do.
Clochaîne’s carriage emerged from underneath the covered arches of the arcade, out onto the open street. His horses hardly missed a beat, transitioning onto the snowy cobble with the sort of grace that could only be bred through generations of cultivation.
They made it only a little ways down the road before a cobblestone gave way beneath a horse’s hoof, propped up by nothing but loose slush. And thank Levian for that. Preparing the entire row had been utterly exhausting.
Perhaps that would be enough on its own, but there was no need to take chances.
The animal was whining and stumbling, trying to pull itself free, but with ice hardened around its leg, it seemed it never would on its own.
Seeing it thrash in pain and distress was a disturbing sight, certainly, but Camille couldn’t help but smile as she watched the coachman try and fail to salvage the situation. It took him a good ten minutes of calling and stomping and hacking away at the ice before he gave up the cause, and another few minutes before he mustered the courage to give Clochaîne the news.
Accustomed to comforts as he was, the candlemaker ruminated for another ten before finally deigning to get out and walk.
Apparently he had been the only one in the coach, because no one else got out when he did. Two thugs remained with the coachman, with the rest of the candlemaker’s subordinates flanking him on all sides as he proceeded toward the meeting hall.
Camille watched the vapor from her breath float out into the air, waiting for the right moment to strike. The further she let them get, the better, within reason, as it put distance between them and the horses and carriage. The former would serve as direly-needed sacrifices and transportation, if they could be recovered discreetly.
She lifted thin sheets of snow into the air, filling them with energy until they became water, then vapor. Even using as little energy as she could manage, this was by far the most expensive step, so Camille took care to ensure she only had to do it once.
The streets filled with fog, growing thicker and thicker until even the copious lanterns were insufficient to see beyond a few feet. Camille certainly couldn’t make the party out any more, but as long as they remained in the same formation, lines of five on either side of Clochaîne in the center, guessing would have to be good enough.
Camille tried to pick them off one by one, starting at the outer edges.
She couldn’t see it, but she could picture it, following their pace through the fog. First, a thug took a step, expecting another patch of crunchy snow. When instead his foot landed on a slick sheet of ice, with no warning at all, of course he would struggle to keep his footing.
And sure enough, Camille heard a groan of pain an instant after she sprang her trap. Shattered glass sounded as well, the lantern winking out. The snow he’d have landed in hardened to ice, hopefully trapping him in place.
The next one kept hold of hers, by the sound of it, but that wasn’t enough to save her.
Clochaine called out for the remaining six to condense, but that confusion only resulted in more and louder cries of alarm. Hopefully none had died, since that would pose difficulties with the next phase of the plan. Once again, she tried to keep Clochaine clear of the slick, but erring on the side of caution was hard with no way to see for certain.
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She waited to hear his voice, to see if she needed to soften the ground to let him free, at risk of also letting some of his underlings go. Or perhaps he would stay with them, trying to pull them free or get them help.
But Camille needn’t have worried. After a moment of pause, the candlemaker stumbled out of the fog alone.
Up close, splashed with light by the lantern in his hand, Clochaîne was easier to take in. With gloves hiding his gaudily massive collection of rings and what had to be one of the only proper jackets left in the city, a sharp dark blue no less, he actually looked significantly better in the frigid dark. Perhaps I should tell him that, just to see his reaction. But enough people probably had already, and there were more important things to discuss.
“Lady Leclaire.” He didn’t look surprised, which made sense. Camille was the most obvious culprit. But he didn’t look scared either, and that could become a real issue. “If you wanted a meeting, you might have simply come by my shop. You were willing enough when you were still using that pathetically dull disguise, the name barely even different from your own.”
“Wearing your wealth on your fingers is pathetically dull, Clochaîne. It’s the provenance of mercenaries and criminals, needing their wealth always about them.” Needling him probably wouldn’t succeed where her prior efforts had failed, but it remained possible, and it couldn’t hurt considering her priorities here. “You can take the bell-ringer out of the slums, but apparently the inverse eludes you.”
That got him to frown, but not to blow up. Shouldn’t this be easier? He was perfectly willing to chew out Claude right in front of me the first time we met. Perhaps he hadn’t felt the need to control himself then, in the presence of no one of particular import. Or maybe he’d simply learned in the time since.
He certainly still didn’t look worried. Content, Camille realized. He’s gotten everything he wants since Soleil died.
“Could you please get to the fucking point, your ladyship? Obviously you’re not going to kill me, and I have a meeting to get to.”
I should kill him just to prove him wrong, the upjumped prick. But there was still information to be gained, and offers to be made. The last thing I need right now is to pull a Florette.
“I’m trying to decide whether I can use you,” Camille told him, honestly. “Your position is not insignificant, nor the underlings you can bring to bear. You’re aware of the goings-on here, finger in the stream of the city’s lowlives. And experienced working around Avalon.”
Clochaîne laughed. “Use me? You’re overvaluing yourself a lot there, girl. Right now you’re a wanted fugitive, a ‘practitioner of espionage working to subvert Malin from within’. Lady Perimont put six thousand mandala on your head, double if you’re alive so she can ransom you back to that buffoon of a fox-boy like a sack of flour.”
“That price is awfully low. If she thinks I helped kill her husband, especially, you’d hope she wouldn’t underestimate me so. Regardless, I’ve had to hide before, and look at me now.”
He laughed again, doubtless forcing it to look confident. That sort of thing could be powerful in a negotiation, or even a simple conversation, elevating the perception of your dominance and power. That was part of the reason belittling people could so easily disarm them.
That was, of course, provided that your opponent didn’t realize you were doing it.
“Where did you spend the night, just before we met for the first time? Wasn’t it the city jail, because you couldn’t make it one day in the city without getting caught? I had my people dig around a bit, once you tore off your mask. You arrived as a fucking wreck, some incoherent wastrel walking the beach in rags. Then you asked a bloody knight where to buy contraband, and managed to get yourself arrested by Gary fucking Stewart.” He snorted, shaking his head slowly. “Then you showed up at my store practically begging for my help, looking for any excuse to earn a few coppers for yourself. Claude had to lead you by the nose the entire time you were doing my bidding.”
Camille felt her lip burn, and realized she’d been biting it again. The urge to knock sense into him was strong, but that could close off useful avenues for later. He was just playing the same dominance game, shoving old failures in her face, as if she could ever forget them anyway. But perhaps there was something there…
“You’re admitting to knowing Claude, then. The same one they just hanged for treason to kick off this entire coup. I should tell the Guardians; I’m sure they’ll be interested.”
His eyes widened for a second before could compose himself again, easy to miss for someone who wasn’t actively studying his reaction. “I don’t know any Claude, and if you imply otherwise, it’s your word against mine. I don’t imagine it’ll count for much when you’re their prisoner.”
So he’s going that way. It wasn’t certain, but that probably meant he hadn’t been the one to give away Claude’s location. Otherwise he’d simply be a trusted informant, rather than having to feign ignorance. If so, that meant he at least hadn’t been working with the coupists from the beginning. There could be room to maneuver, perhaps.
“So you’d betray your future queen to a pack of wayward Avaline nobles? They broke their word with the Lyrion Emperor. Do you think they’ll be more honorable with a brigand?”
“With a trusted pillar of the community, perhaps they might.” He’d flinched again a little there. “That’s what you imperial aristos don’t understand. You demand my help as if it’s yours by right, while Avalon will pay for it honestly. My business is legitimate, and it’s been carrying this city on its back for months.” He waved his lantern to demonstrate the point. “My accountant is indisposed right now, but last I checked, I’ve profited more in the time since darkness fell than I did in entire years, across all of my businesses. Lady Perimont seems to recognize the importance of that, and appreciate it.”
“Wouldn’t you rather continue all your business, with all of it legal and respected? You’ve kept spiritual materials like psyben and nightshade flowing through what I can only imagine are enormously difficult circumstances. You could continue under significantly easier ones, if that prohibition should end. ”
“After you conquer the city yourself?” Clochaîne scoffed.
“That’s one possibility, but I believe Prince Lucifer might be persuaded as well. He’s not a fool, and all too aware of the goals behind that prohibition. Once he’s been recovered, it shouldn’t take much convincing, and he’ll have all the leverage he needs over the hardliners.”
“Amazing. ‘Once he’s recovered.’ As if he’s not hours away from joining Claude on that gallows. Neither you nor me have the slightest idea where they’re even keeping him. Anywhere predictable means idiots like you trying to rescue him there. That means if they’re smart, he’s not at the Governor’s Mansion, not in the city jail, not anywhere you would ever find him before it’s too late.”
Camille spoke through gritted teeth, trying to explain the obvious to this obtuse merchant. “I’m not asking you to commit now, but simply imagine the possibilities. Consider if this coup does fail. Or it succeeds, only to meet an Imperial army before long. If suddenly trade and cultivation of your premier products were legal—”
“Then my services would lose their value. Security, transportation, distribution… Any dick or jane with a regular merchant ship could decide they’re my competition, and prices would plummet. As a legitimate venture, it’s worth less to me than before.”
“I also wouldn’t mind a controlled eye on the criminal element, nor a good source of information. You could rid yourself of rivals that way, while I could ensure that the law would only be broken on my terms.”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t have any opposition left in the city. They’ve all been killed or made to bow. That’s a lesson you could learn from, girl. In Guerron you hesitated, and that sun sage nearly killed you for it. You spent the next half-year riding one coattail after another, never accomplishing anything in your own right except pissing off the real rulers of this city.”
Camille took a deep breath, centering herself. I have to remember why I’m doing this.
The most important thing was to keep him occupied so that pirate could get Luce’s location, with learning anything useful from Clochaîne as a secondary possibility. Demonstrating her strength and making any deals were distant concerns, by comparison.
“So what I’m hearing is that you intend to go over to Perimont, because she treats you with respect, and it’s more profitable. You have no idea where the Prince is, and wouldn’t tell me if you did. It’ll never be in your interest for Malin to return to the Imperial fold. Which is all you care about, because you’re a dirty, money-grubbing pig without a speck of nobility to your character. Why, exactly, shouldn’t I bury you beneath the waves?”
“Really?” He was still doing it, trying to throw her off by sounding amused instead of scared. “You sages need fuel. Energy. But every speck of it is limited, until you’re drawing on your own life instead. You might have survived a plunge in the ocean, but you’re not special, not exempt from the basics. Those ‘experiments’ of yours with the prince gave that much away, to anyone paying close attention. You can bluster all you want, but you’re going to need every drop to make it out of this alive, and I sincerely doubt you hate me enough to waste your own life killing me. It’s an empty threat.”
Blustering scum. The worst part was that he was right. Hesitating with Lumière really had cost her everything, and the days after that largely scrambling from one mess to another. That Fernan boy had saved Annette and Lucien; the King of Avalon had rid the world of Lumière; even now there was a fight against eternal winner going on that Camille had nothing to do with save giving advice.
Everything in Malin is depending on this going to plan. And it already hadn’t, with Luce captured. Now it falls to me to salvage the wreckage and seize victory. She’d cut herself off from all other options.
But killing the candlemaker really wouldn’t be worth it, not at the cost of her own time on earth. Enough of that was gone as it was, all the more if she couldn’t fulfill her deal with Levian.
All I had to do was distract and delay him. Remember that.
“What happens to the Acolytes?” Camille found herself asking, though she felt she knew the answer. “You coopted them, took what should have been the burning heart of resistance and twisted them into an impotent instrument of petty trade games. If you’re so certain that I’ll fail and Perimont will win, what becomes of them?”
Clochaîne merely shrugged. “Whatever happened to your mother and the rest of them, I imagine. After that Claude debacle they’re too toxic to be of any use to me.”
Camille pulled her knife from its sheath at her side and pointed the tip towards the candlemaker.
“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” Clochaîne said as he pulled a pistol from his coat and pointed it at her. He took marched confidently forward—
—and slipped on the fresh ice beneath his feet, suddenly solidified at the last possible moment. Comically slow, compared to Lumière, and this time I know to expect it. He could barely gasp in surprise before Camille’s knife traced its way under his chin, drawing the red line between sacrifice and murder.
What choice had he left her? He’d made it completely clear that there would be no collaboration. He was beholden to Avalon, practically enamored of it. There would be no accord, and then what was left?
Leaving him to his own devices? Letting him supply the coupists and serve at their pleasure?
If he’d shown the slightest bit of empathy, of care, of regret, anything to make him more than a sniveling trader and criminal…
Flecks of red dripped onto his coat, staining the blue and ruining the pristine pattern. The lord’s portion flowed down to the street, tainting the snow with its bloody touch.
Granting Levian his due had a peace to it. Most people would be resigned to their fate by that point, marching calmly into the water, never to be seen again. Their lives were ending, but it didn’t feel like killing to send them. Even if it truly is no different.
Camille forced herself to remember the sight, to hold it in place whenever the time came to do her duty. Levian had demanded a thousand lives by the end of the year, and providing them would be the only way to live beyond that.
If men like Clochaîne keep showing themselves, perhaps I’m even capable of it.