Fernan V: The Disregarded

“My first lesson, Fernan, is to look for the little things. You need to take in every detail. Most of them won’t be important, but a few of them will, and you’ll never find them if you aren’t looking everywhere.” Jerome held up his hands over eyes, exaggeratedly looking down the mountain path. “What do you see?”

Fernan squinted, trying to give every errant thing the attention his alderman was asking for, from the overcast grey sky above to the rocky dirt below. The yellowing green of the shrubs by the road, the hardy trees jutting out nearly sideways from the mountainside.

“Cracked earth?” Geckos got most of the attention, but according to Jerome, collapsing ground was even more dangerous, since it could close off the path entirely and leave the village trapped.

Jerome didn’t shake his head or say a word, but Fernan could feel his disappointment in the guess.

What else was there?

He tried going even smaller, spending minutes just on bugs, looking from insect to insect, following the path they traced over the dirt as it disappeared down the hillside.

Then he found it. A predator. “Geckos! The little ones have a nest in the hillside.”

Jerome smiled warmly, patting Fernan’s hair. “Very good! And why do we worry about the little ones?”

“Because they can become big ones,” Fernan answered.

Jerome nodded. “That hardly took you any time at all.”

“Really?”

“Chanteclair took twenty minutes to find it when I took him out here. Either his eyesight is going, or his discipline.”

“Both,” Fernan muttered, sharing a smile with Jerome. “Are you saying I’m a better scout than our scout?”

“Not yet, but you could get there. Next month you turn fifteen. Your mother made me promise not to offer this until your anniversary, but I just had to show you this. I had to show you how good at this you are.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so. If you want it, the job is yours. Chanteclair can go with you the first few times, or I will, while you get a hang of it. And if you don’t take it seriously, I reserve the right to—”

“Thank you!” Fernan practically shouted as he pulled Jerome into a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Jerome chuckled, stroking the back of his head. “You earned it yourself. Now stand back.”

Fernan backed away from him a bit, watching him raise his arm towards the nest.

“Don’t worry,” Jerome said as green flames blasted out from his hands. “I’ll still handle this part.”

≋

“It appears that our lady of Bougitte is bringing a rather extreme number of guards with her for a bride-to-be marrying a close ally,” Maxime noted, looking down at the massive assortment of warriors gathered in the pass below.

“Well, can you blame her?” Fernan had told him the basics of the story, obviously leaving out his own involvement, but even under that version of events, Laura being wary was more than warranted. Instead of getting into all of that, though, he added, “She already knows Guy Valvert. If it were me stuck marrying him, I’d bring twice as many.” Honestly, he gave it better than even odds that her plan was to slit his throat in his sleep on the wedding night, probably shortly before going after Fernan himself.

“Well, perhaps it is not yet too late. Valvert would have to listen to you then. Could it be that we have found the solution to our innumerable woes?”

“Our woes? Does that mean you’ve decided to stay?” The way Florette had made it sound, Maxime would have left on the same boat that had taken her. But, weeks later, here he still was. The harbor was abuzz again, so free of ice and obstruction that you’d never know Glaciel had been there. The roads were clear, the flooding subsided… If Maxime wanted to leave, he had plenty of options.

Fernan cracked a smile. “Alas, I don’t think I could afford a retinue like that. Look how shiny they are.”

The Bougitte guards shimmered even at this distance, but the wealth on display was even more obvious on closer look. Fernan only saw the heat from the sun reflect off them, different in hue from the warmth on their bodies, but Maxime was happy to explain the details:

Jewels of green, red, and blue were set into their armor, embedded into golden earrings set into most of their ears, and pressed into the golden armbands that the guards wore four or five to an arm, so many that it was a wonder how they even moved. Many had similar bands around their legs, colorful patterned trousers kept short above the knee to make more space for their riches.

“Maybe it’s how they’re carrying the wedding gifts?” Camille had mentioned once that Torpierre was a wealthy holding, the gate between Paix Lake, Condillac, and the Coulée Bleue waters. But even so… “I’ve seen my share of guards in Guerron, and none of them ever dressed like that, nor do I imagine they were paid nearly enough to even try.”

“Exactly…” Maxime pushed his head forward slightly, leaning towards the spectacle. “As usual, you are quite correct, Fernan. Those aren’t guards; they’re mercenaries.”

“Really?”

“It isn’t simply that they possess such riches. A particular household favorite might be rewarded in such a fashion and keep their spoils in their home, be it lands they were awarded or the keep they serve. Mercenaries are always on the move, always ready to change sides the moment the appropriate money changes hands. Individuals might desert their company, or flee a losing battle. So they generally keep their wealth in a form easy to keep on one’s person. Sensible, in a profession such as theirs, but it certainly does lend their appearance a motley quality.”

“Good eyes, Maxime.” And thank you for explaining what they looked like without me having to ask. “Where’d you learn to see a mercenary on sight?”

His aura warmed, head tilted back in satisfaction. “The High King offered a reward for the heads of any Exiles delivered to him before they rotted. Most of the local residents gave up trying a long time ago, but there will always be new faces drifting in on the wind, believing they can succeed where others have failed.”

And they haven’t yet, despite half a century passing between the Winter War and now.

“The true question,” Maxime continued, “is what, precisely, they are doing here. Glaciel is long fled, Lumière dead and Leclaire gone, even the troubles between the temples of flame and light are abated.”

“Well, they see money in it somehow. Would mercenaries get anything out of attending a wedding?”

“Nothing overly substantial…” Maxime rubbed his chin again. “But then, if a large company of armed and dangerous men and women arrived at a celebration and asked for a share of food and wine, most would be inclined to take their request seriously. It could simply be that they want for warm beds and full stomachs.”

“They are still people, I guess. Little comforts like that are always nice. But they wouldn’t come here from afar just for that. And I can’t imagine what else they’d be around here for. All the fighting is on the other side of the continent.” But if anything happens to Magnifico, Guerron will be the first place to go up in flames. “Camille Leclaire said never to trust a mercenary; they have no allegiances but to their own wallet, and those fortunes can change for a penny.”

“Indeed, Camille Leclaire is a boundless font of wisdom on the subject of loyalty. For that matter, I seem to recall her treating you as a hired hand in the runup to her fateful duel. Or was it another blue-haired aristocrat that threw coins at your face?”

“They were in a purse,” Fernan clarified ambivalently. “It’s not like I was pelted with metal. It doesn’t mean she’s wrong, either. Magnifico is the only thing keeping us safe, right now. It would take a lot less than a band of mercenaries to risk messing with that.”

“Are we indeed safe right now? Tyranny is static, but it remains a bloody thing. We must always take care not to mistake what is common for what is right.”

This again. “You sound like Courbet.”

“Well, she is not wrong about that. What she fails to grasp is that turning to violence to remediate oppression simply recreates the problem with different actors in different roles. Condorcet has executed far more people than Plagette ever took from us, for all that the Thirteen reflect the will of the people. The Montaignards would do well to remember that, come what may.”

“We will,” Fernan assured him. I’ll make sure of it. It was only getting harder, though. The month he’d been granted was close to running out, and in that time tensions had only risen. Support for fighters and families of the White Night remained denied to them, though Fernan had roused the Montaignards to take some of the sting out of it by organizing a common fund from member donations. Michel and Mom had done the real work there though, making sure that people actually contributed. And it was still nothing compared to what most people really needed.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Two weeks ago, a merchant named Phillipe Montrouge had been jailed without warning, snatched right off the street by Bureau guards. Allegedly, he’d been arrested for conspiring with Avalon to free the king, but Michel had spoken with the man, many of his friends knew him, and they all vouched for his integrity. Fernan was inclined to believe them, though not quite certain enough to permanently burn his ties to the Duchy leadership by defending him in his trial unless there were no other options. Michel was pushing to remove the sage requirement to represent an accused in trial, which seemed like such an obvious thing to fix, and one Guy had personally seen the wrong end of, but that didn’t seem to be getting anywhere either.

The real reason for Montrouge’s abduction, the Montaignards whispered, seemed to be the three hundred thousand florins he’d lent to Maréchal Augustin Valvert, held in abeyance pending his trial. Quietly, all the Montaignards had enacted a policy not to lend to aristocrats, which was only sensible for their own protection, but word was starting to get around and it risked escalating things even worse.

Nor was there even a celebration to take peoples’ minds off things. The wedding had been delayed, probably because of Laura getting entirely warranted second thoughts, but it meant that the massive festivities that could have built goodwill had been pushed back as well.

“Have you spoken with Leclaire yet? About Valvert?”

Fernan sighed. “I can’t just talk to her whenever I want. There’s a schedule, we have to coordinate beforehand. And of course she reduced it to once a month right before I really needed to talk to her. Just hold on a few more days.”

Maxime nodded slightly, still staring down at the pass, his mind clearly elsewhere. “You would do well to speak to them now,” he murmured after a moment’s contemplation.

“What? You mean the mercenaries? I’m sure they have a meeting scheduled with Guy or something.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“And yet, there they remain, waiting outside the gate, just like Florette when the two of us first met. Surely, in a planned encounter, they would have been let inside faster, wouldn’t you agree? And a mercenary’s loyalties are never fixed in place.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to get in the middle of all of it. Let’s just head back home and figure out what happened tomorrow.”

“Fernan, whoever they are, I don’t doubt that they’ve treated with lords before, though perhaps none so elevated as Valvert of Dorseille. Wealthy commoners with a grudge to settle, perhaps. But the Montaignards? Imagine what—”

“You want us to hire mercenaries?” Fernan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Didn’t you just finish talking about the problems with using violence to—”

“I just want you to talk to them. Introduce yourself, and the broader concept of the Montaignard coalition. It may well be that they have never seen its like before. Make them aware that there are other players in Guerron than merely Guy Valvert. It could save us in a crucial moment by opening up an opportunity to negotiate.”

I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to make a good first impression if they are let inside for the wedding. At this point, though, even that seemed uncertain.

“I suggest that you make a suitably impressive entrance,” Maxime added, clearly reading the acquiescence on Fernan’s face. “If you are not pleased by what they have to say, simply disappear in a puff of flame, and we can discuss our options.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Fernan said, eyeing the distance down to the floor of the pass. “Thanks, Maxime.”

In response, Maxime swept his arm down in an overly-elaborate bow. “The pleasure was all mine. I’d accompany you, but I think carrying a passenger would rather reduce the dignity of your appearance. May fortune follow you down.”

Fernan tensed, ready to jump, then dove from the cliff face.

These days, with Gézarde’s new role, power was plentiful, and Fernan wasn’t wasting anything by putting on a bit of a show, so he filled the air with fire, slicing out green crescents as he spun into a more stable position. Choosing his spot carefully, he landed in a massive circle of fire, erupting upwards the moment his feet touched the ground.

Casually, knowing he had nothing to fear from his own flames, he stepped through the circle of fire towards the gathered mercenaries, all of whom were focusing on him with auras of red alarm. I could have just said no. Maxime was offering a suggestion, but…

Fernan stifled a sigh. I’m here now, might as well make the most of it.

“You must be Fernan!” a broad-shouldered man called out, standing slightly apart from the other mercenaries. “Nice to finally put a face to the name. Cool eyes, too.”

Fernan tried not to look too bewildered as the man walked up. “Name’s Ysengrin. I did a bit of work with Florette back in Malin. And I helped out Camille Leclaire and Eloise with those Avaline rat-fuckers trying to take over the city. So I guess we’re friends of friends three different ways, even if we’ve never met.”

“Two ways,” Fernan muttered, thinking specifically about Eloise. “Maybe just one.” He brushed off some of the dust from his landing and took Ysengrin’s offered hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, too. Care to introduce me to your friends?”

“No problem! First up, this is Cawdor Delune.” Ysengrin pointed out a boy who looked maybe fifteen or sixteen from his stature, his aura muted. “Boss’s son, so feel free to give him shit. He’s earned it. Next is Rosen, can’t do magic like that, but he’s got some, which is more than most can say.” He began leading Fernan around, pointing out more and more of the mercenaries as they went. “Buffles, Guillaume, Shorty, Boyd, Mule, Whiskers, Sonia, Oberon…” Fernan liked to think he was pretty decent at remembering peoples’ names, but this was just too much, all the more so without being able to put a face to any of them. It certainly wasn’t an imposing impression to leave.

“Finally, the boss herself, Mirielle Delune. Worked with her a few times back in Malin when Jacques hired her, and apparently Eloise even fought her once when she was with Verrou. Haven’t seen her in action myself, but you don’t found a company that lasts fifteen years if you’re bad in a fight.”

“Company?” Fernan asked, though thanks to Maxime he already expected to know the answer.

“Oh, right. These are Châlice Mercenaries. Eloise hired them to protect her investments out here, to make sure Avalon doesn’t try anything.” He leaned back over his shoulder towards them. “Easiest fucking work in their lives! She’s paying fighting wages for guard duty.”

Eloise… Florette hadn’t said too much, clearly smarting, and Fernan had tried to be sensitive. He hadn’t even said “I told you so” once, which considering the caliber of the pirate’s character, he considered a minor miracle.

But he knew she’d broken Florette's heart, and that was enough. In a way, it was probably good for her that she’d already left before getting swept up in all of this.

“So… Eloise has ‘investments’ in Guerron?”

“Technically just outside of it. There’s a few mines that have been dormant in the darkness and it’s time to get them running again.”

Stealing from geckos again. “Which mines?”

“Uh… I have the names of the towns written down somewhere, but I think it was pretty much all of the ones around here. Enquin, Villechart, Calignac, Bergère, um—Wait, not Villechart actually, that was the only one crossed out. The Duchess gave the lands to someone else before she could trade the rest to Eloise.”

“Yeah, me. Villechart is where I was born. Enquin is where Florette grew up.”

“Really? Huh, she never talked about it.”

No surprise there. “She might have mentioned The First Post? That’ll be what greets you at the pass before you have to go up.”

“Oh, that’s here? Cool. I’ll have to buy you an ale when we head over. But we need to talk to the Count first to get things squared away, otherwise it’ll look like we’re taking over. Planning to meet today and head out tomorrow.”

“To mine?”

“To assess. The miners will do the mining.”

No, they most certainly will not. “Ysengrin, you seem nice. I’m glad Florette had a friend in Malin.”

“I’m glad she came. She’s a brave one.”

“She is.”

“But that land is sacred to the geckos. Coal is their food, and we spent decades stealing it out of their mouths before finally settling up. No one’s going to be doing any mining.”

“Geckos?” Ysengrin peered closer. “The spirit-touched? I think Florette mentioned them once or twice.”

“They are allies, friends. We, all of us who lived there and mined and benefitted from their suffering, we did them an egregious wrong. The only way to rectify it is to leave those hills around.”

“Hmm… Eloise didn’t mention anything about that. Isn’t there something else you could offer them.”

“Me?”

“Or her. I don’t know. Need to figure this out.”

“Are you in charge here?”

“Mirielle commands the mercenaries. Eloise is the client. I’m her representative. As long as they’re willing to honor the contract, I am.” He opened his hands. “But… you know mercenaries. And they smell the money in this whole thing.” And they’re about to meet with Guy, who could probably outbid Eloise and send them off to force the issue.

Fernan couldn’t tell whether he was furious or just desperately worried. Guerron was already so tense, and now this?

“Whoa, you alright?” Ysengrin asked, looking at the smoke trailing up from Fernan’s blazing eyes.

“I’m not sure… Ysengrin, I know we just met, but can you do me a huge favor?” Need to think about this carefully… “Have Mirielle take everyone for the assessment right now, instead of meeting with Guy. I’ll explain the situation to him.”

“I mean… I guess I could. I don’t know, it’s getting dark. We’re at the gates of a city. It’d be nice to sleep on a bed again.”

“That’s why it’s a favor I’m asking. I just need a few days to sort this out. Once I talk to Camille…” Fuck I hope it works. But that was for later. One problem at a time. “Can you do it?”

Looking skeptical, Ysengrin shrugged, then whistled. “Alright, small fries!” he shouted. “We’re going to be spending another night under the stars. Get your shit packed and maybe we can make it to this tavern Fernan recommended in time to sleep there.”

“Why?” asked, if Fernan recalled correctly, Rosen. “Is the Count scandalized by a few soldiers of fortune entering his precious city?” Others followed him with similar questions, though much ruder in vernacular.

“It’s just timing,” Fernan said, hatching an idea. “I grew up in these mines. The longer Autumn winds on, the more likely you get snow. Unless you want to dig your boss’s investments out from a ten foot pile of it, I’d get there as soon as you can. The last thing you want is for it all to be snowed under for the whole winter.” Of course, the snow didn’t usually start falling in earnest before the eleventh or twelfth month, and with the doors barred, the equipment inside the mines wasn’t at too much risk either.

But they didn’t know that.

Ysengrin’s aura flashed, either impressed at the lie or bewildered Fernan hadn’t mentioned that when he’d asked. “You heard him! All hands on deck!”

The lie seemed to mollify them a bit, probably because no one wanted to have to wade through the snow to do their job, but no one moved until the leader exited her tent and gave one silent nod.

They were all gone before nightfall. Fernan knew because he stayed to watch the back of every last one of them. If a single mercenary entered the city, if they talked to Guy, the whole thing could blow up.

Right now, he had a bit of time, but not much, and far too much to do.

He quietly told his mother and Michel, who were spending so much time together that it felt silly to leave him out. Maxime too, since he’d been right there. Félix had come for two more Montaignard gatherings, but he still technically worked for Guy, and this wasn’t an area where they could afford to take risks.

They’d walked through every possibility, looked at the problem from every angle, but they couldn’t do anything overt until they were sure it was the only option.

There was still a peaceful way out of this.

Camille Leclaire had her flaws, but she was a dutiful sage and respected the spirits. Once she knew everything that was going on, she would stop it. She had to. Even if Lucien and the rest didn’t care, she would cut through and get what she wanted just like she always did. They could work together.

Otherwise…

Fernan barely slept the next few days, despite the warmth of Mara curled up beside him. Every time he felt like he could catch his breath, the reality of several dozen armed mercenaries preparing to war with the geckos returned to him.

Mara had been the first he told, after Maxime anyway, and the hardest person to break the news to. And yet she’d had the mildest reaction.

“Fernan, Father is the sun now! No offense, but we were beating you before, and now we have all this power and you’ll back us up! They can try, but they’ll be a warm puddle before they take a single bite of coal from us.”

And she wasn’t wrong, exactly. For this, Gézarde might very well intervene himself. Certainly, ousting any new miners would be a foregone conclusion. But a few miners and even the mercenaries weren’t the problem, just representatives of it.

But you had to look at the little things to take in the full picture.

Ysengrin had mentioned the Duchess as the original owner the land, which hinted that she’d be involved. Guy had delusions of building his own airship and known fuel problems on the topic. Lucien saw himself as the hero, and he could be one, sometimes, but if he thought the source of fuel for his army was in jeopardy?

The nobles had doubled down at every opportunity so far. Who was to say they would ever stop? If the geckos took a stand here, over this, the aristocrats would bring every bit of force they had to bear against them.

And Fernan would back them up, no matter the cost.

But that cost… It would mean making himself an enemy of the Empire. The Montaignards too, if they stood by him, tarred by association. Even if they didn’t, Guy would be unlikely to see the distinction.

And they’ll come after us. It didn’t matter if they won that first battle, because it would mean committing to a war they could never win. All the hard work mending bridges between geckos and humans, lost. And Gézarde was formidable, but he couldn’t really win, either, unless he wanted to push out from his seat to fight. After what had happened to the last three suns, he might even die for it. And I owe so much to Mara, but I won’t commit myself to an eternal war for her.

How many people would die?

It was a good thing he could trust Mara to wait, trust her to listen, to understand what they’d be risking, what they’d be giving up. She would wait, just like the Montaignards, and caution Gézarde to do the same. He would listen to her, Fernan hoped. It certainly had a better chance of working than trying to talk to Gézarde himself.

Now I just have to hope Camille and Lucien can do the same.

His hands were shaking as he tipped back the flask of marigold wine, trying to keep his focus straight.

Reach out to Camille. I want to see Camille Leclaire, right now…

He had more trouble finding her, probably because of his taxed focus, sliding across visions of glass towers and underwater panthers, flying creatures mounted by white-clad soldiers with bows, and blood on the sand.

When he finally found her, he saw her with Lucien, shouting. He reached out to her, as he had so many times before, but got nothing back. No signal, no connection, no recognition.

She hadn’t even bothered. Hadn’t even cared enough to talk to him once a month.

I wanted so badly to find another way. I did everything I could.

Fernan felt tears in his eyes as he leaned back against the glass roof of the temple, looking up at the cold dark sky.