The Palace was not a proper fortress; its walls were tall, but thin, the crenelations perfunctory and walkways barely wide enough to navigate, not suitable for defending archers. Walls were useless against dragons, and it was not the Verdi way to fight to the last. Boisverd’s multiple rings of defensive walls served chiefly to buy time for the monarch holding the Palace to negotiate favorable terms of surrender should the outermost ramparts be breached. The innermost ring, these walls of the Palace itself, were designed not to repel intruders, but to provide a commanding view of the city, so that whoever held the Palace could see and direct the battle.
Standing at the midpoint of a straight stretch of wall equidistant between the soldiers manning the two nearest watchtowers, Cora thus provided her own defenses. Wards shielding her against eavesdropping, projectiles, and those types of spells she knew how to ward against hummed in the back of her mind as she held onto them. Not that there was much risk of any of the above—except eavesdropping, which itself didn’t even matter as she was alone and silent—but more and more, lately, she had felt…vulnerable. Leery of unseen watchers, hunters, enemies unknown. So, when standing exposed atop the battlements, she maintained magical defenses, because to be without them was to feel…naked.
Cora had come to learn, lately, what kinds of things might be lurking, whispering from any shadow.
As secure as it was possible to be behind her wards, she watched the developments in the city as night fell. The last redness of twilight had faded, but the sky was still a pale purple. According to tradition the processions began when the shadows of the westernmost mountains stretched across the valley to cover Boisverd itself. They were just now getting underway.
Lit by candles and lanterns, the vigilants had begun their march. By custom, they would keep at it until dawn, and Cora was torn between disbelief that all or even most of them would, and curiosity what the city would look like tomorrow if they actually did. It wasn’t everyone, obviously, not even close, but this was far more civilians than she’d ever have imagined would turn out for this.
The details of individuals she could not see from up here, but the standards bristling above the throng of mourners were clear. The banners of Boisverd and the House of Holtzmann, of course, but also many banners of the House of Clairmont. In most other circumstances, a crowd of people brandishing the standards of the previous ruling dynasty were asking for a military response, but…this was different. She knew the Queen would not even consider it; there was no rebellious intent here, and Henrietta was neither paranoid nor belligerent.
Religious standards were in evidence, too, far more than Cora would have expected. The upraised crooks of Anessima the Shepherd, of course, but also poles showing the cogwheel of Machann, and even a few racks of antlers symbolizing the Huntsman’s faithful, all of these icons threaded through with thin black pennants of mourning. The Flock were one thing; those other two faiths had little to do with funerary duties, as a rule. There was no iconography of the Jongleur, of course, but there wouldn’t be. Those goofballs who followed him would show respect by staying well away tonight.
She continued to silently watch the procession as he approached, not looking up; she’d of course felt him enter the region of her wards long before he climbed the staircase into physical view. Clarent still paced slowly along the ramparts toward her, moving at a carefully measured pace. Verdi of a certain rank were instinctively careful not to startle each other; Cora read nothing into that.
At least, she tried not to. Lately, she was less and less sure. What did Clarent know? What did he plan to do?
“Your ministry’s doing, I assume?” she finally said, once he had stepped up beside her and leaned forward against the battlements.
Smiling faintly, Clarent shook his head. “Well…the groundwork has been carefully laid for years, of course. But this? No, this is quite spontaneous. It wasn’t even the Flock who organized it, I believe, but a coalition of several of the adventurer guilds. It’s only happening now because it takes a while for a rabble of peasants to organize anything. Also to have that many Clairmont standards sewn in a hurry; I doubt there were that many still in the city.”
Cora narrowed her eyes, squinting down at the procession in mounting confusion. “But…why? What would the common folk possibly care? At all, never mind…this much.”
“Her Highness was quite popular among the citizenry,” the spymaster said mildly.
Cora jerked her head up to give him a stare of such disbelief that it bordered on accusation.
“Oh, not entirely unprompted,” he acknowledged, his thin smile widening by a hair. “Groundwork, as I said.”
“What groundwork? Clarent, I can’t imagine anyone truly disliked the girl—she was at her absolute worst annoying, and that made her a damned sight more agreeable than most of the people with whom we have to deal on a daily basis. But let’s not trouble to pretend she was actually good for anything, functionally. Those people’s taxes paid for her to sleep all day and stargaze all night for years. Why would they feel anything but resentment?”
“Groundwork,” he repeated, giving her a gently indulgent look. “Oh, you’re not wrong, Cora, that would be an eminently reasonable attitude for the public to have toward Princess Perseverance, which is why I had my people head that off from the earliest opportunity. It’s all about working with what’s there—so much more effective, not to mention easier, than trying to spin a narrative from whole cloth. You recall some of her Highness’s more…embarrassing moments, meeting the nobles and diplomats she did before the Queen began keeping her out of the way?”
“I try not to,” Cora admitted. “There’s no pleasure in seeing a hapless teenager humiliated. We were all that age once.”
“Well, those incidents were all witnessed by a host of servants and functionaries in addition to the dignitaries involved. From that, with a smidge of guidance from my hand, her Highness has acquired a reputation throughout the kingdom as an eccentric truth-teller who stubbornly says what she actually thinks, right to the faces of the powerful. That’s something that resonates with the lower classes, even if you and I know that wasn’t why she did it. Heard thirdhand, shaped by agents of the Crown, a princess’s social ineptitude can be transmuted into vicarious indulgence. She is the girl who got to say right to all the stuffed shirts what all those millers and blacksmiths and bricklayers would never dare.”
Cora stared at him, mouth slightly open.
“It would have been harder, had a different opinion prevailed among those who actually knew her,” he continued, turning back to gaze out across the city and the procession of lights and banners now moving slowly through its streets. “A palace requires enormous numbers of personnel to function; it is impossible to truly control what rumors escape. Fortunately, her Highness was quite popular among the servants. The natural gossip thus tended to complement my carefully crafted story, rather than contradicting it.”
“Popular? Percy?”
“I didn’t just pull that cover story out of nowhere, you know. Even to those who know she was being rude only out of innocent failure to figure out how to be polite…well, just for example, nobody likes Marquis de Vallaire. The sight of him going red as a beet when Princess Perseverance asked him out loud what the point was of him holding a border fief when he spent half the year socializing in the capital is a cherished memory for many a clerk, footman, and maid. Among others.”
Cora blinked twice and belatedly remembered to close her mouth.
“Besides,” Clarent murmured, “those who did know her were well aware she meant no harm. That…general social obtuseness might not be acceptable in an acting royal, but to know her was to know she was earnest and kind, beneath the blunt disrespect. Her chambermaids have been absolutely distraught. One had to be sedated for two days.”
The mage mulled this in silence, staring out at the procession.
“Servants are more perceptive than we well-bred few like to think,” he continued after a few seconds. “I suspect that is true everywhere, but particularly among we Verdi. You know, Cora, the Palace servants don’t hate you, either. They like you less than the Princess, but everyone can tell you’re just not very interested in other people, not cruel or unreasonable. Two years ago when you defended that girl who dumped wine on you to the head maid, you gained a generous measure of sympathy that’s forfended a lot of the resentment you might have otherwise accrued by being so brusque to everyone.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Wh—that? Who even remembers that? It was obviously a freak accident, anyone could see it wasn’t the girl’s fault.”
“Your mage’s regard for what is true supersedes your noble’s regard for what is proper, and commoners appreciate that. Even when they can see you generally not paying them any attention. They deal with enough outright cruelty to value the difference. And if I may be so bold as to offer a word of advice, Cora, it would do no harm to cultivate some amity among the people who have the most opportunity to poison your food.”
Cora worked her jaw slowly, metaphorically chewing on that.
“I’ll get her back, Clarent,” she finally said in a quieter voice. “That, or…we’re all doomed anyway and none of the rest of this will matter.”
He nodded. “I am sorry to lay so much of this on your shoulders. I know your own priorities are generally more academic. Soldiers and spies are accustomed to risking their lives. The Court Mage…”
“I did not apply for this position without understanding in full what it entails, Clarent. Tangling with the damned dragons when the need arises is the price I pay for getting to pursue my personal research at the Crown’s expense, and I’ll have no one call me a thief. What worries me is that my skills may not be…the most applicable to some parts of this. I know you’d rather send a proper agent to handle everything, but if I must be the spearhead…well, coach me as best you can and I’ll do my utmost not to bungle it.”
“So shall we all,” he agreed. “For Crown and country…and for that poor girl. As it happens, I came looking for you on business, not that this hasn’t been a pleasant chat. My people in the city have arranged the first steps; if all goes well, you’ll be needed to make the opening play at dawn, just as the procession is breaking up.”
She straightened and drew in a breath, flexing her fingers. Flexing her will, examining the wards surrounding her for any point of failure, any interference.
“All right, I’m all yours. What’s the plan?”
----------------------------------------
Full dark found Kaln at a party, surrounded by laughter and music and dancing—chewing methodically on the single juiciest steak he had ever experienced, and sipping at a strong drink made of fermented goat’s milk and some kind of cactus nectar, chilled by conjured ice. This was the life. If he had to spend his evening somewhere other than the embrace of one of his lovely spouses, this was a decent substitute.
The satisfaction of a day’s work well done topped it all off nicely. Their discussions with the Hiiri had gone quite well. Tomorrow, the real quest was to begin.
Truthfully he was only sitting here at this table rather than still circulating because steak wasn’t a very portable food, and this was just too good to abandon. He could live with letting the others come to him for a little while. Everyone else who wasn’t working on a similar cut of meat was in motion, circulating if not joining the dancers around the bonfire. Naaren and Isabet had only just stepped away, giving him a few moments of silence in which to appreciatively chew before his next conversational partner approached.
Vadaralshi sauntered over, holding a pipe of something fragrant and slightly acrid that the Hiiri smoked in one claw, and some kind of drumstick in the other.
“What, you’re eating poultry?” he chided playfully as she flopped onto the bench beside him. “After the way Zhiiji was raving about these steaks? You’ve gotta try these, Vadaralshi, this is amazing.”
“Pssh, I eat aurochs all the damn time. Now, proper traditional Hiiri festival food, I haven’t had this shit in…gods, it’s been at least sixty years. I have missed these little guys. Thanks for having weird deity problems, Pants, getting to come here’s been exactly what I needed.”
“If you’re here, by the way, who’s supervising Vanimax?”
“You’re the head of household, mister. Anyway, Max has his own harem now. There’s like eight huntresses over there fawning on him; he is absolutely reveling in the attention. I give it even odds whether he manages to figure out they’re actually trying to flirt. Hiiri don’t just come out and say it, and Max…well, can’t blame a boy for being clueless, considering.”
“As long as he’s not burning the place down, I guess.”
She chuckled and tore off a big bite of her drumstick; he followed suit with his steak. Kaln washed it down with a swig of the creamy, sour alcohol, for which he found himself developing a taste. Also, in addition to stamina and physical resilience, it seemed godlings gained strong resistance to mind-altering substances. This stuff was strong enough that he was keeping the fumes carefully away from the fire, but rather than being knocked on his ass as seemed natural, he was barely feeling it. Vadaralshi took a long draw from her pipe and blew smoke into the air—different smoke than usual. Kaln leaned away pointedly. Smoking was not a vice of his; one of his drinking buddies had tried to introduce him to it back home, and he’d come straight to the conclusion that the lungs were the worst possible vector to imbibe anything.
“The imbalance isn’t quite this big, most places,” Vadaralshi said. “Riincroft is a special place; everyone here is either in the care of the Croft, or serving a season helping run it. In their actual communities you’ll see a lot more men. The birthrate difference is, like… Hm, about six or seven to one, I think? Something around there.”
“I noticed the arm cords,” he said. “It’s been interesting, watching their family dynamics without understanding the details.”
“And don’t think I didn’t see you carefully refraining from asking prying questions,” she said, grinning and pointing the pipe stem at him. “Good boy, Pants! You are officially a respectful guest.”
“A worthy title to add to my list of accolades,” he said solemnly.
She blew another puff of smoke, gazing at the bonfire rather than at him. “I’ve always thought the arm cords were ingenious. A funny little holdover from back when they escaped Rhivaak. All the symbolism of a leash without subjecting anybody to the indignity of a collar. A man who touches his wife’s cord without her permission is asking to have his balls kicked right through the top of his head, which makes it a really meaningful intimacy when she offers it to him to hold.”
“Now, wait a second,” Kaln objected. “Nobody in Rhivaak was ever kept on leashes! I know the circumstances around the Hiiri leaving didn’t exactly look good, but slavery has never been a thing in the Empire. Izayaroa wiped that out before—”
“It was the Lost Century, Pants,” she said, tail twitching in annoyance. “Everything was falling apart. Rhivaak was doing well not to outright collapse like almost every other country on the continent; they did not have control over everything happening. Even if Izayaroa didn’t order what happened to the Hiiri, take note that she felt bad enough about it not to ever try bringing them back into the Imperial fold. It’s not every day you fail a group of your citizens so badly they have to elevate a brand new goddess about it.”
He grumbled wordlessly and swigged his drink.
“It’s cute that you’re so defensive of her,” Vadaralshi teased. “Probably don’t bring it up with her, though, I bet this is still a sore point. But yeah, the cords are a symbol at the core of their whole dynamic. In theory, or at least in principle, the man is the absolute head of the household. His wives are to obey him completely.”
“So…they’re patriarchal.”
“Oh, not even a little bit,” she chuckled.
“That is literally what you just—”
“See, the Hiiri raise their children communally, and divorce has no stigma and in fact no ceremonial component—not for a woman, anyway. There is nothing stopping a huntress from dumping her husband’s fluffy ass and taking his kids the second she’s not satisfied with him. Head of household means his full-time job is making everybody happy. Hiiri masculinity is all about being a pleaser, being diplomatic and kind and nurturing—not to mention flirty and sexy. Hm…actually, it’s basically you, Kaln. If you didn’t have enough wives already I’d suggest you try to go native here, you’d fit right in.”
“So…it sounds like the men have basically no power, then.”
“They have a lot of influence. That expectation that his word is absolute law within the family, I wasn’t kidding about that. And while being single carries no stigma for a woman, being a wife conveys a lot of status. The incentives are positive, not negative. A man gets to be the big boss as long as he’s a good boss. He can have as many women as he wants—which means, functionally, as many women as he can devotedly adore and lift up and generally keep happy, and their expectations are high. Men are also the priests, by default. So…yeah. It’s a tricky balance, but it works for them. They’ve been doing this for a long time. Basically ever since Hii-Amat rose and protected them from the raiders who used to roam these plains.”
Kaln thought about pointing out that it was Izayaroa who had had those raiders wiped out and made protections for the Hiiri and their sovereignty part of Imperial law, but Vadaralshi probably already knew that. She was probably half-hoping he’d give her an excuse to make fun of him for it. That, and there were more salient points under consideration here.
He had a sudden insight telling him where this was going.
“There are all kinds of people in the world, Kaln,” she said quietly, staring into the fire and for the moment just passively holding her pipe and drumstick. “All kinds of ways to live, and love. I think it’d be a real shame, to wall yourself off into one little viewpoint without giving anything else a chance. Who knows what you might miss out on, that way?”
Yep. Much more clever than she acted, this one.
“I’m here to tell you, Ralshi, I know that better than most people,” Kaln replied, also gazing at the flames, and the silhouettes of dancing Hiiri bounding back and forth in front of them. “I am living a very different life than anything I expected growing up. Literally every good thing in my world these days came because I was willing to embrace something that would’ve seemed inconceivably wild to me just a few years ago. What I’ve figured out is…you have to be open, but not so flexible you blow about with every breeze. In the end, everything comes down to each person, their identity, the core of who they are. Who I am. What I believe, what I feel…what I don’t feel. As long as I stay true to that, I can live with whatever comes.”
He chanced a sidelong glance at her. Vadaralshi’s lips curled in a rueful little smile before she stifled it by taking a big chomp of meat. Kaln sawed off and bit into another bite of his own.
“You’re a smooth one, Ar-Kaln Zelekhir. Even when… Well. I appreciate that about you.”
They ate in silence for a while, and to his great relief, it didn’t feel awkward.