“In the name of Queen Glaciel, I sentence you to die!” The spirit-touched man had four red rings around each arm, his skin darker and less shiny than some of the others she’d had to deal with. The butt of his spear still froze the ground it touched, though, and his charge towards Florette was still pretty fast.
Not fast enough, though. She was already stepping out of the way, letting him pass her by without landing a scratch. ‘Evasive maneuverability,’ the Fox-King had called it, prioritizing getting out of the way above everything else. The Great Binder had echoed a similar sentiment, assuming that book was actually hers. Time after time, her compatriots would die trying to absorb an attack with armor or artifacts, only to be undone by a magical effect bypassing it.
Considering that the icy gash on Fernan’s leg still hadn’t fully healed, even a nick from that spear wasn’t something she wanted to risk.
Instead, let them expend themselves. Lucien Renart had beaten Lumière in duels with only a sword, while Camille had lost despite all her power. Different circumstances, perhaps, but it was telling.
Florette advanced in profile with her sword drawn, keeping her exposed area slim. “Catherine Valois was Third-Ring, and she still ran from me in fear. What’s your plan, exactly?”
He only growled in response, leveling his spear in her direction.
“No plan, then. I suppose that’s not a surprise.” Florette stepped closer, approaching the spear’s stabbing range. “I let her live, but do not think I will be so quick to show you mercy.”
The display of confidence was important. Every hunter deterred was one less that she had to fight, or worse, use the pistol on. Between stuffing the black powder packets and metal balls and resetting the mechanism, the damn things took so long to get in working order again after a shot that they were effectively only viable once per fight, and that was assuming they even hit.
So far, Glaciel’s minions wouldn’t have had any reason to pick up on that, since every shot she’d fired had ended the fight, but that could only work so many times before an inevitable miss ruined her reputation, likely seconds before ending her life.
Unfortunately, it looked like this one wouldn’t be so easily scared away. He slammed his spear into the ground between them, sending an advancing sheen of ice across the ground, probably intended to trip her the same way Camille had used it in that duel.
Florette was already moving though, taking the opportunity of the misdirected weapon to close the gap, plunging the tip of her sword through the man’s shoulder. “Yield,” she ordered.
She wasn’t sure what she expected next, exactly. Probably more defiance, since he’d proven stubborn, but it wasn’t the anguished cry that escaped his lips. “Agh! Glaciel, why?” He slumped to his knees as Florette pulled her sword back.
The blood that coated it was as red as any human’s, just the same as the torrent spilling out of the hunter’s shoulder. The same as the pool on the wooden floor of the boat.
“Are you going to live?” she asked, an instant before realizing that it might not be the best idea. Showing mercy or kindness could paint her as a softer target in the future and only draw more of them towards her. “I don’t know how well you can heal something like this. Catherine Valois seemed relatively fine after a gunshot, so I thought—” Stay in-character. “What possessed you to start a fight you would never win?” Even if you probably could have if you’d done it a month ago.
“You’ll not have my blood for your gecko spirit, girl. I yield.” He clutched his hand over his bloody shoulder, spewing unrecognizable curses from the southern dialect the spirit-touched used, apparently a perfect preservation of spoken language from 600 years ago, though it was probably easy with Glaciel right there to correct them when needed.
“And you’ll live?” She wiped her sword on her new winter cloak, whose red color had already proven useful an unfortunate number of times.
He choked out a sound that resembled a laugh. “It would take far more than that to take down Henri Valois, you fool. I am of the Eighth Ring, a descen—”
“A descendant of Glaciel herself. You all are. It’s not impressive.” Another Valois, too. So far that made six of them, plus three Capets, two Grêleaux, and one Deneige. Either Glaciel hadn’t sent representatives from very many families after her, or, more disturbingly, there just weren’t that many different families in Hiverre at all. The fact that one of the Valois had claimed to be Catherine’s great-granddaughter while being Fourth-Ring rather than Sixth seemed to point towards the latter.
“Should have just gone after the geckos…” he muttered.
“Oh, I see. I look like an easy trophy by comparison.” Florette leveled her sword at his eyes. “I’m not.” Not that she particularly wanted to shirk her share of the Ice Queen’s ire, but the geckos usually stuck together, which made them far better at handling situations like this. Mara had helped in the past, but she would draw too much attention for what Florette was here for today.
Flammare’s presence in the sky cast a thin shadow in front of her as she slipped out of the alley she’d led the spirit-touched into and returned to her route. The air was brisk and the light faint compared to the sun, but it was still remarkably better than the climate by the harbor, outside the area of Flammare’s primary attention.
Finding a person who didn’t want to be found was difficult. If they had some kind of access to darkness magic, all the more so. It didn’t help that Fernan couldn’t give a real description of what he looked like, though the information he’d had was still valuable.
Jethro’s aura was dark; he would be more at home in the cold than most, and thus it would be less of an inconvenience for him to move about on the outskirts of the city, or during the simulated ‘night’ when Flammare vacated his position in the sky to move about the earth.
According to Laura Bougitte, the noble girl always hanging around Fernan who was Flammare’s premier sage in the city, Flammare’s sacrifices had grown more than ever as people looked to thank him for his aid. Especially with so many who were used to giving to Soleil now left without a patron spirit. Also according to Laura, he’d been a good friend of Soleil and his handpicked successor, which was less than comforting as far as the next sun went.
The Singer’s Lounge was even livelier than it had been in Spring, with so many trying to while away the crisis in a warm place with friends and drink. Back at the port, it had been easy to blend in, using nautical knowledge and drinking capacity to subtly work on the sailors and stevedores between shifts.
A spy, especially a spy used to communicating with pirates, would definitely want to keep his ear trained towards the port and the words it carried from the world at large, and probably send reports and missives of his own out. All Florette had to do was catch him at the right time, which wasn’t going well so far.
A week of rotating through spots by the harbor, and she’d learned that most ships couldn’t make it through the steadily-freezing water; only the largest and most durable could even get around by hugging the coast. Avalon, of course, had the best vessels for the job and was keeping nearly all of them to itself.
She’d also learned that Camille being alive was now public knowledge. The Fox-King had sent out an official proclamation and everything, though it was intended more for other nations than Guerron. Apparently she’d been sent as an aid worker in an act of charity towards the poor dispossessed Malin, a city so poorly prepared to take on the challenges of darkness.
It had Camille’s signature all over it, plotting and scheming even from miles away without ever giving up deniability of her own involvement. Oh, to be a bird looking down at the Avalon nobles when they see that.
No one had seen a creepy guy with an aura of darkness about him — Florette had phrased the questions more obliquely than that, of course — although a few sailors mentioned a ‘fine young man’ coming through to ask questions about the arrival of certain spirits like Lamante and the Fallen, which might have been Jethro.
Even if it was him, he hadn’t come back, and it was beginning to look less and likely that he would.
Thus, the Singer’s Lounge. After the castle, where Florette had limited access and Fernan was already keeping an eye, this seemed like the next best spot to try to find him. Magnifico had chosen it, after all, and Jethro seemed to be an infiltrator of much the same mold.
A blast of otherworldly static greeted Florette as she opened the door, the pulsebox beeping and chirping along to Edith Costeau’s new composition. Copies of the device were springing up all over the city, but as many of them as there were, there was still only one Edith Costeau.
I wonder if she’d even recognize me now. After almost half a year and darkness falling, it wouldn’t really be fair to expect it, but it would be nice for her part in things to be appreciated. Either way, that’s not what I’m here for.
Florette ordered the cheapest ale of the bar’s offerings, which was still an outrageous twelve florins. Grain was legitimately sparser now, and being directed towards subsistence uses like bread, so it did make some amount of sense that existing stock would go up in price. Some. It was hard to ignore that costs that should have been entirely unrelated, like the entry fee, had gone up just as much. No one’s wasting the chance to gouge with an excuse.
It wouldn’t have been so annoying if she’d had more money left, but doling out the upfront payment for the train job had nearly wiped her out, and weeks of reconnaissance after hadn’t exactly filled her coffers back. If she could find a trustworthy buyer for the guns, that would be one thing, but who would that even be?
Lucien Renart was an able combat instructor, but his hesitancy with the Glaciel thing hadn’t exactly inspired confidence, and his gaggle of creeps, ready and eager to throw Florette to the wolves, weren’t exactly the kind of people she wanted to hand those weapons over to. Leclaire, especially, seemed like he had all the family bastardry with none of Camille’s flashes of remorse, let alone restraint.
Captain Verrou, maybe, but I doubt the Seaward Folly can even navigate these waters. He’s probably busy trying to steal an icebreaker or something. In any case, his potential arrival here was completely outside her control. Not something to be counted on.
Although, come to think of it, Jethro might know a way to reach him. Florette picked one of the few seats at the crowded bar and waited until she could get the keeper’s attention. “Woods Nymph, please.” Guerron had no trouble sourcing the correct ingredients every time, which made it a more reliable prospect than it had been in Malin.
As she waited, Florette scanned the lamp-lit faces inside, most of them red-faced old people ranging in age from around thirty to fifty. Some of them even had children with them, shyly hiding in their seats or creeping through the crowd for a better look at Edith Costeau.
No one looked particularly like a shadow-y figure, though, and Fernan had guessed mid-twenties for Jethro’s age, which no one here seemed to fit.
That was fine. These things took time. She couldn’t reasonably expect to find him on the first day in here.
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“You look frustrated, Miss. Buy you a drink to cheer you up?”
Florette turned to face the voice, ready to politely decline while inquiring about Jethro, only to find the half-circle glasses of that solicitor Fernan’s mom had hired. “Michel?”
He nodded, unashamed. “I hope you’ll forgive me forgetting your name, but I remember you accompanying Sire Montaigne from a trip up into the mountains. I can only assume it was important, confidential business.”
“Correct.” She shrugged. “If you’re buying, sure, I’ll have another.” The first was nearly empty anyway. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have heard about anyone hanging around asking questions, would you? Probably a young guy, possibly cloaked in shadow or otherwise disguised?”
Michel shook his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye out ever since Sire Montaigne asked to put out feelers, but no luck as yet.”
“Of course.” She sighed quietly into her drink. “How did those contracts go, anyway? Didn’t a lot of it depend on the ice trade that’s now pointless and the geckos that Glaciel’s court are now preying on? Can’t imagine that made for a great bargaining position.”
“Alas, no. I managed to negotiate excellent provisions with the Crown and several vendors once the sun rises anew, but until then, we are unfortunately dependent on Lady Debray’s generosity.”
“Oh, please. That food isn’t a gift; it was part of the deal Fernan made for freeing her. And it’s not like we’re exactly top of mind, either. Flammare’s light is on the center of town; most of the Malinoises are bundled up tight by the castle; and of course, no one’s lifting a finger to help the geckos that helped make sure we didn’t starve.” Even among the villagers from the mountains, few wanted to renounce their protection from Glaciel’s ire to stand with them, though they were happy enough to benefit from their warmth.
“You don’t need to tell me.” A glint of light shone off his glasses as he pushed them into position, gone almost as soon as it appeared. “The Imperial Crown protects its own power above all else, whatever the Fox-King’s supposed virtues, just as merchants support only the mechanisms for profit. It’s the nature of institutions to sustain themselves first, with their alleged goal only following after.”
“Sure…” That’s a long way to go without much prompting. It did make a certain amount of sense though, considering how stubbornly Perimont and his ilk had clung to the system they knew, far beyond the bounds of practicality. “That doesn’t mean that stuff going on the way it has is inevitable, though. If you have rotten boards in your retaining wall, you don’t resign yourself to living above them, waiting for the day they collapse. You tear them out, come what may.”
Michel smiled, setting a green pin on the counter. A burst of flame fashioned after Fernan’s eyes, just like she’d suggested when she’d first gotten back here. “Montaignards have to look out for each other, because they certainly won’t.” He stood, clutching a leather folder close to his chest. “I heard you were in town right when Governor Perimont suffered his accident. Based on when you arrived, you would have to have left right after to make it in time.”
If you’re trying to fucking blackmail me, I swear it will be the last thing you do. “Your point?”
“Keep up the good work.” He patted her on the back, then began pushing his way through the crowd towards the door.
Finally, she couldn’t help but think over the next few hours. Smoothly sliding into conversations and subtly asking about Jethro only really took half her attention, anyway. Better were the implications of the ‘Montaignards’, which it wasn’t hard to guess that Fernan hadn’t had too active a hand in shaping. He was spending most of his time focusing on spirit stuff, these days, and he was honestly welcome to it. Nice for someone with an ounce of decency to be involved in all of it, anyway.
In Malin, people had been cowed in the face of obvious evil, but here, it seemed, some were willing to acknowledge even the subtler oppression of the Empire and spirits like Glaciel.
Florette examined the pin as she left in the cold night air, Flammare having left for the evening. Montaignard, meaning a follower of Fernan Montaigne, the stupid surname he’d probably picked in five minutes before that trial so he could have one at all. Still, the design is cool.
She put it in her pocket rather than affix it to anything, then pulled her cloak tighter around herself.
“You, my lady, are quite persistent.” A shadowed figure stood on a rooftop in front of her, silhouetted by moonlight. “If you wanted a conversation with me, you might simply have asked.”
“Jethro.” Florette couldn’t contain her smile, and so simply let it show. It worked! No spy would want their sources of information primed to be suspicious, and so she’d couched every question she’d asked to slowly pour poison into his well. In theory, it would only be a matter of time before he decided to address it himself. That or leave town, which while unsatisfying would at least mean he couldn’t work his mischief here. And with travel being what it was, a confrontation seemed the more likely solution.
“Florette,” he greeted back, remaining in position on the roof. “Or is it Celine?”
How did he—No, of course he’d be in communication with people in Malin. Whitbey or Stuart probably dropped the name in some letter before darkness fell and Jethro just guessed based on that. Especially with Camille’s identity coming out. “You’re not in a position to criticize aliases, ‘Jethro’.”
As her eyes adjusted more, it was easier to make out his confident smile and what looked like black-haired bangs hanging over his eyes, but most of his face was hidden under a hood and its shadow. “It wasn’t a criticism. Simply an observation. Notice how one can observe without disrupting a delicate ecosystem of information-gathering like a blundering walrus.”
“I wanted to get in touch, and it worked. Answer a few questions and there won’t be any need for me to continue doing it.”
“Very well, provided you answer mine first.”
“Sure.” What? What could she possibly have to tell him that he wanted to know?
“Prince Lucifer Grimoire of Avalon. He was alive when you saw him last? Unharmed?” Oh. That.
“Yes. Despite you selling out the position of his ship.”
“And despite your crew slaughtering its way through it. Was he acting suspiciously? Paranoid about anything?”
Mostly just anxious. “No.”
“He didn’t suspect any foul play in setting up your attack? He remains ignorant that anyone tipped you off?” Was he scared?
“He’s as ignorant as one of your citizens. Don’t worry. None of us ratted on you. Nothing worse than that.” It was theoretically possible Eloise had, she supposed, but as much of a prick as she’d turned out to be, she wouldn’t do that. Even without morals, giving up a source like that meant you couldn’t use it again. Poor business sense to do it. “But, you know, your plan to kill him failed. Badly.”
He took a short breath, straightening his posture slightly. “You assume I did this knowingly, but I was simply following my orders from the royal family. Luce was called over after reading a letter calling him to come immediately in the name of the King. A king with no particular compunctions about disposing of unwanted progeny, at that. Did it occur to you that perhaps I’m simply trying to get to the bottom of things, just as you are?”
He didn’t deny it, though. “Fernan tells me you don’t lie, be it by choice or some other limitation. Can you tell me, right now, that this was all just an accident? You didn’t know you were setting Luce up by tipping us off? Because I think you’re just trying to assuage your guilt. Why else go to all this trouble? Your plan failed and now you’re stuck dealing with the aftermath, trying to find someone else to pin the blame on.”
“Would you believe me if I did?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “It is true that I refrain from lying, but that doesn’t do anything to lend me credibility, at least not in this identity. Better you talk to the man whom Luce was traveling to aid. ”
“The King of Avalon? Yeah, I’ll just waltz into Cambria and call for an audience. Brilliant plan, Jethy.”
Jethro smiled. “He’s closer than you’d think. Ask the Fox-King, if you can’t figure it out yourself. They would have tried to execute him weeks ago if they hadn’t known, and I would have had to step in. Better this way, though of course some will remain in the dark.” He flipped around and ran away the moment he’d finished his sentence, a considerably less dignified exit than the way he’d disappeared for Fernan. Likely, that method only confounded his specific flame vision.
Florette didn’t call out as he left, since that would have been pointless. She didn’t chase him down, either, though there was a chance she might have scaled the rooftop in time even with the wounds on her back. No need anymore, now that I know I have a way to reach him.
No, the next step was comparing his story to the King of Avalon’s, seeing where they contradicted each other to properly determine the truth. And Khali’s curse, is it quite a story. If what Jethro was implying was true, King Harold of Avalon was none other than Magnifico, sneaking into enemy territory alone for his audacious sun-killing gambit, only for it to blow up in his face shortly thereafter.
If it was true.
One of them had set Luce up to die, and Florette had to know who.
She had just started walking again when a dark shape appeared back in the street in front of her. “Really, Jethro? Forgot a question before your ‘mysterious’ disappearance into the night? It would be easier if we just set up our next meeting.”
The figure stepped into the glow of the moonlight, illuminating a short body with a head consisting almost entirely of a mouth. Stranger still, his skin looked purple, and seemed to flow over his body like ripples through a steam. “I would rather avoid such a prescribed meeting, as I tend to find them a waste of time.”
“Are you affiliated with Glaciel?” she asked, trying to force her voice to sound casual as she reached for her sword..
“No more than you are with the Prince of Crescents. My path has crossed hers in the past, but broadly, our goals are at cross-purposes.” The gaping maw on his head tilted up at the corners, an impression of a smile. “That human-loving fool is in dire need of incineration, as I see it.”
“Agreed…” Florette stepped closer slowly, hand near her sword’s hilt. “And you are?”
“Corro, Spirit of the Wastes.” The smile curled higher. “Word of your works is beginning to spread, young one. The irritating vermin whom Glaciel cannot stamp out; too weak to justify more personal intervention from her upper rings, yet too strong for her toadies to eliminate. A slayer when needed, but not defined by it. And, as yet, unaligned with any of our kind.”
“Well, most of your kind haven’t exactly made the best impression.”
“No,” he chuckled ominously, the sound dripping out of him with a creepy squelch. “I imagine they did not. Still, I would like to discuss a proposal with you now. I imagine you’ll find it to your satisfaction, given your prior activities.”
Not getting any less ominous. “What is it that you want me to do?”
“To help overturn that which is believed to be immutable. To strike back against the order of things, that we might establish something better. To kill someone the world would benefit enormously from being rid of.”
Florette gulped, self-consciously pulling her hand away from her sword.
“I always regretted leaving the Queen of the Exiles to her fate, young one. She was poised to change everything, but it was my folly to believe that she would do it alone or not at all. Who was I to judge her inadequate, when I had accomplished even less in the Winter War? If we could simply have worked together, the face of Terramonde might be very different.”
“What do you mean ‘left her to her fate’? The Queen of the Exiles is still alive.” She was supposed to be, anyway. “Wait, did something happen to her when darkness fell?”
“Nothing so recent. In any case, while far too many of my peers seem to revel in their unchanging nature, I find it far more useful to learn from mistakes. That is my intent here, working with you. I met with your previous partner in Malin, and she gave an assurance while sworn to truth that you and I would be compatible partners.” He held out his hand in the Avalonian style, though where a spirit would have learned that was completely beyond Florette. “Are you willing to work together?”
Florette blinked, trying to process everything without tripping up. When the fuck would he have met Eloise, and why would she want me working with a spirit anyway? Spirits couldn’t lie, but the stories were rife with examples of hapless rubes condemned to fates worse than death because they thought they could get the better of one, or simply thought they could trust them. Add that to the cavalcade of pricks Fernan and Camille had mentioned, from Soleil to Levian to Gézarde, even if the latter had apparently mellowed of late, and there were a lot of reasons to be cautious.
But he was talking about changing things. Overturning the “natural” order. Ripping out the rotted boards. “I think, first, you should tell me exactly what it is you’re proposing.”