The Pulver Chronicles – 36. Proud Like A God

When Archcourtesan Rakshasa woke up in the morning, she knew this was going to be a bad day. Maybe it was something in the atmosphere; some crisp quality to the air, maybe. Maybe it was a bit of superstition; she did see two stars near the rising sun, which was alleged to be a bad omen. Or maybe it was just experience. After all, the previous days had been nearly all bad -in fact, several of them had been terrible-, so why should this day be any better?

She rose from her bed, parting her yellow silk sheets and waking the young man by her side as she did. His name was either Rodande or Ronamde, or something similarly Narrian-sounding. Rakshasa wasn’t sure whether he actually was Narrian, now that she thought about it. He had the dark hair and the olive skin typically associated with his people, but his accent and his vernacular was closer to the one spoken in the Southern Marches. As soon as he emerged from his sleep, he went to kiss Rakshasa on the neck, while his hands gently stroked her shoulders. She shrugged him off with barely a look. Not yesterday, and not this morning either, she thought. In fact, not ever again.

The previous times had been… lackluster, enough so that she decided not to give him another chance. He had looked promising when she had first laid eyes upon him, but what should have been nice moments of bliss and distraction turned out instead to have been boring. She blamed his lack of endurance and imagination.

Well… She wanted to blame those flaws. It was easier to believe that the fault was his, and that replacing him would solve the problem. Certainly, it was a lot easier than admitting that said problem pertained to other factors. Factors that, unfortunately, she could do little about.

The young man understood he was being dismissed before Rakshasa had to say anything, and briskly left the bedroom after collecting his clothes. Two servants came in after he was gone, to help the Archcourtesan through her morning rituals. The morning wash was done a bit faster than usual, as she didn’t feel like she had the patience for the whole thing; still, she made sure to be clean and presentable, only skipping the perfume. For her bagages, she had her servants pick out her clothes, and instructed them to pick elaborate outfits. It would not do to look at her disadvantage in front of her peers.

She showed more patience during the morning meal, during which she was joined by two members of her small council. Nurio, her finance counselor, had probably sensed that she wasn’t in her best mood, as he made sure to focus on positive topics as they ate. The first subject discussed was of course the Houses of Opal, which had gotten more profitable over the last month. His aquiline nose flared a little when he quickly mentioned the drop they had taken at the beginning of the war; he hurriedly added that they were well on their way to recover. He then went on to talk about trade, which was still going strong with the rest of the Hexacracy. Nurio tried as best he could to disguise the fact that the trade with other lands, however, was not going quite so well. Between the fact that many of the ships had been mobilized to supply the Hexacracy’s armies and fight the Empire’s fleet, and the ongoing problem of piracy, trading by sea was getting increasingly difficult. Still, Nurio insisted that the overall picture was optimistic.

On another day, the Archcourtesan might have called him out on this, and demanded he be more forthright, but that time she kept quiet. Nurio, in spite of his great qualities as an economist, had always been a bit cowardly, and never one for confrontation. It might have sterned from his low birth, added to the fact that he had lived among higher society for many years. When he was done, Rakshasa simply thanked him.

Her military counselor Tshari nede Bodoro, on the other hand, showed considerably less hesitation in broaching the negative points of her report. The woman was used to confrontation, and not just because of her military education: unlike many at the Archcourtesan’s court, she actually had a spine, and didn’t mind showing it. 

She went through her report quickly and concisely. The conscription called for in the early spring was going slowly; less than two thirds of the expected numbers of recruits had been gathered, even though the recruitment had been going on for longer than originally planned. In addition, several of the islands’ tribes had protested against it, leading to some fights with the local garrison. With a little sigh, Rakshasa decided that the manpower they had gotten would have to suffice and to end the conscription there.

“I agree it’s probably for the best, my lady,” Tshari said. “Villages will need men for the seeding anyway.”

“And boats will need fishers,” the Archcourtesan said. “The last thing we need right now is a food shortage. What of the pirates?”

“We are dealing with them as much as we can, my lady. As I explained, with fewer ships, we cannot give an escort to all of our merchants.”

Rakshasa sighed as a servant approached her to serve her more orange slices.

“However, there is another way we could handle the problem, my lady.”

“What is that, counselor?”

“We could hire some of the pirates to hunt the others, my lady.”

The Archcourtesan rubbed her chin. “Privateers, eh? An interesting idea. What would it take to motivate a pirate to fight for an Archdemon instead of against one?”

“Coin, of course. And… the promise of an amnesty, my lady.”

“An amnesty!” Nurio said, half-coughing the water he was drinking. “For these rapers and robbers! And you think to pay them, as well!” Surprised by his own outburst, he cleared his throat, and spoke again with more affability: “My lady, I would suggest that this may not be the ideal way of handling the issue.”

“No, the ideal way would be to gather a big enough fleet and hunt them in their lairs,” Tshari retorted. “Only we don’t have a big enough fleet, and we don’t know where their lairs are.”

Rakshasa suppressed a smile. “So be it. Counselor Tshari, send the word out there: service for any pirate captain willing to go after other pirates, in trade for remuneration and a pardon for all previous offenses.”

“It will be done, my lady.”

Nurio’s shoulders dropped, but he made no comment. He didn’t so much as shake his head.

After the meal, Rakshasa signed a few documents, gave a few parting instructions to her castellan in her absence, and finally got in her carriage, waiting for her in front of her castle. Tshari joined her soon after. Another carriage would depart after them, carrying five servants. Eighteen riders in total ensured the safety of both vehicles. 

As Rakshasa’s driver spurred the horses on, the Archcourtesan gave her home one last look, taking in the view of the white stones shining in the morning sun, and the large, rich garden in the bailey. Even the view of this great building and the reminder that it had been built entirely with the fortune made by her courtesans only lifted her mood somewhat.

Rakshasa had picked a book for the journey, a copy of Vicissitudes of the Ocean handwritten by master Vik Kozol himself. She managed to focus long enough to go through the second chapter and begin the third, but dropped it soon after.

“You’re nervous,” Tshari commented.

“Does it show?” Rakshasa said.

“It never does, but I know you. You’re anticipating the reunion.”

“It’s really Elyonn I’m anticipating. That hard-headed man takes to complications rather in the same way a grease fire takes to water.”

“And this war has been nothing but a series of complications,” Tshari said.

Rakshasa sighed. “That’s putting it mildly. Unexpected complications, too.”

The carriage passed on a bridge. The wheels’ noise on the wood forced both women to speak louder.

“You mean what happened with the Archmaster?” 

Rakshasa nodded sharply, the nails of her left hand rapping on her book’s cover, her head leaning slightly out of the window to better take in the sights. Tshari pursed her lips and scratched her neck.

“It’s true, then,” the counselor said. “I’ve heard the rumor, of course, but… Who killed him? The Empire? Do we know?”

“We do know. It’s not the Empire.” The Archcourtesan sighed. “It seems that this Southern Alliance actually did it.”

“That bunch of peasants and militias? How?”

“In battle. It seems the Alliance is more than just peasants and militias. The Archmaster died fighting, along with his son. And not particularly bravely, I’m told. What that fool Namtar was doing on the frontline, I’ll never know.”

“Doesn’t the Archcommander also fight on the frontline?” Tshari pointed out.

“The Archcommander is a trained, experienced warrior. He’s seen more fighting than Yulro has seen cocks.”

Yulro nede Yulnaro was the administrator of the Houses of Opal. While the Houses were the property of Rakshasa, it was Yulro who actually handled most of the day-to-day tasks, from maintenance to recruitment. She was in charge of collecting the money, but also less officially of gathering the intelligence. It was a charge she handled loyally and diligently, even though the Yulnaros considered it unbecoming for the youngest child of a noble house. Far more becoming than anything they had in the cards for her, though, the Archcourtesan thought. I had her fuck some greasy, slimy old bastards, but I’d never have her marry any of them. Indeed, even though Yulro was not officially a courtesan and thus under no obligation to do so, she had insisted on handling some of the courtesans’… field work, in order to gather some important information from high-value targets. She had proved surprisingly competent at that, too, more so than Rakshasa expected given her -apparent- lack of experience.

“Besides,” Rakshasa added, refocusing her thoughts on the current conversation, “the war was his idea to begin with. Spirits, his idea… His obsession, more like. Or his destiny, he’d say if you were to ask him, I’ll bet.”

“All six of you agreed to the war, though,” Tshari said.

The Archcourtesan turned away from her window and smiled at Tshari. Rakshasa had precious few friends -rather, she had precious few people she truly considered her friends, beyond appearances-, and only one person she saw as a confidant. For a woman in her position, entrusting any secrets to someone had the effect of turning that someone into a potential threat. This had in fact been Rakshasa’s predecessor’s mistake: confiding the wrong information to the wrongest person. A wise Archcourtesan should know to keep anyone at arm’s length, and not let any one person learn too much about her. But Rakshasa couldn’t help it: she liked Tshari, and she liked having her as a close friend. Part of the reason why was her sharp tongue. 

Where most people, nobles especially, preferred to still their tongues around her, or keep their comments strictly laudative, Tshari had no compunction just speaking her mind. She wasn’t brutally honest to the point of idiocy, like her older sister -heir to the noble house Bodoro, much to said noble house’s chagrin- who had achieved regional fame for her ability to commit some faux-pas in every circumstance, but she rarely held back. This was in fact how Rakshasa had first met her: the woman had tossed a comment at a gathering, which some noble house’s head had taken as a slight. And not because it was untrue. The Archcourtesan still remembered how the man had turned purple, and sputtered a weak retort amidst anger and embarrassment. Without her intervention, no doubt Tshari would have gotten into a heap of trouble. The two women bonded that evening, and soon after Rakshasa named her the head of her castle’s guard. A couple of years later, she became her military counselor, replacing her aging predecessor now too old to walk on his own.

“We did, true,” Rakshasa replied. “There was simply no other choice. That young Emperor had made it clear he wanted the Southern Marches back, thus preventing us from gaining them. We had to go on the offensive as well, lest we watched as the Empire grew stronger at our expense.” She sighed. “I had worked hard over the last decade to sway as many marquesses as I could. With a few more years, the Marches might have been ours without war.”

“Is that all this is about, though? The Southern Marches?”

“Yes… and no. The Marches are important, of course. Beyond their strategic value, there is the land, the people, the resources. But there is also what conquering the Marches represent. You’ll remember your lesson about the Southern War -well, the First Southern War, as we’ll probably start calling it soon.”

“I remember my teacher telling me it wasn’t truly a victory for either side.”

“I suppose he’s right. The goal for the Empire was to keep the South in its realm, and they failed. Our goal was to see them join us, by oath or by sword, and we failed as well. True, the Empire lost more men and money in this venture than us, not to mention they lost the South, but that doesn’t really make it a victory for us. Even Banbridd didn’t see it as one.”

“Banbridd,” Tshari repeated. “I think I remember that name. That’s the previous Archcommander, isn’t it?”

“It is. Do not speak his name in Elyonn’s presence; the memory drives him into fury.”

“That and about a thousand other subjects.”

“True.” Rakshasa scoffed. “Banbridd went to war expecting -and promising- to bleed the Empire of either land or tribute. He ended up with neither. His position was weakened as a result, and… You know the rest.”

Rakshasa had not been present for the Defiance, but witnesses told her it’d been both short and brutal. In barely a few minutes, Banbridd went from the respected and honored Archcommander to a mangled corpse whose name would barely ever be spoken again. Come to think of it, the same held true for many Archcommanders. It was to the point where Rakshasa wondered if the Gold and Crimson Legion knew most of its own history, given how quite a few new Archcommanders had erased the portions of it that concerned their dishonored predecessors. Maybe the current Legionnaires were being taught that Elyonn had always commanded the Legion?

“So, conquest and revenge,” Thsari said. “Is that all?”

“What more would there be? Justice?” Rakshasa blew air out her nose.

“I don’t know. The way Elyonn speaks of this war, I keep thinking he has another goal in mind. Something… grander, maybe.”

“Ah. You mean our fate.”

The Archcourtesan leaned back against her seat, enjoying the feel of its velvet against her neck. Thsari uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, joining her hands between her knees.

“Our fate?”

“Well, his fate, really. The man thinks he’s the Armilus.”

“The…?” Tshari’s eyes grew wide. “Truly?”

“Oh yes, truly. He believes the whole thing, from beginning to end. The incarnated birth, the breaking of the Tyranny, the new order, everything.”

“Clearly you don’t share that belief.”

“It is safe to say that I’m not exactly a fanatic. But the people believe it, especially his Legionnaires. Yerleg and his warrior-monks nigh-on worship Elyonn much like the cultists worship the Tyrant. If we win the Southern Marches, they might well build temples dedicated to him.”

“If we win?”

Rakshasa rested her chin on her hand. “Things have gotten complicated, as I’ve said.”

“To the point where you’re no longer confident in our victory? I take it the Archcommander is unaware of these doubts.”

“He’s aware that some of us have… reservations, though he little cares about them. As far as he knows, we still believe in the inevitability of a victory in the Marches, it’s just we’re not as confident as he that it will be as simple as the prophecy proclaims.”

Outside, a small rain began falling, rapping on the carriage’s roof. Both women closed the curtains before any water entered.

“But it goes beyond that,” Tshari said. “You actually think we can lose.”

“We still outnumber the Empire. While that is no guarantee, we also control much of the Marches, its forts, and its castles. We failed to take Atvello, but we will try again. I don’t know that we can lose, precisely, but going further may well cost us what we gained so far. Perhaps the second war will end much like the first one: with a victory so tainted, it barely deserves the name.”

“You think we should sue for peace?”

“Do not let Elyonn hear you speak such profanities,” Rakshasa said. “And to answer your question… I do not know. Not yet. At the very least, we should make an attempt to regain the upper hand for the negotiations, as we did during the first war.”

Silence fell between the two women, interrupted only by the sound of the rain as it grew heavier. Wind was now blowing from the west as well, shaking the curtains on the left side of the carriage until Tshari locked them in place.

“Going back to that business with Namtar…” the counselor said. “What of his lands? I understand his only issue died as well. Who shall succeed him?”

“From what I understand, in such a scenario, the guilds of the Silver Ridge congregate to name a new Archmaster.”

“Can’t imagine that’ll be a brief affair.”

“No, probably not.”

“And in the meantime, other Archdemons might ogle those lands,” Tshari pointed out.

“Aye, they might. It would be the worst possible time for that, though. The ogler would cause a lot of anger among the Six, maybe even lose their place among them.”

“So you think none of them will try? Not even Bakasura? His lands border the Silver Ridge… and its mines.”

“The only wealth that gluttonous bastard cares about is the one that grows in fertile soil, or on trees. Or the one that runs through the forest.”

“I heard he has other appetites, as well, and that mere animals are not savory enough for his hunger for meat.”

“I heard that too,” Rakshasa said.

“Should I refuse any food he offers me?”

“In his culture, it is considered terrible manners. Fake an illness, rather.”

Tshari snickered.

“What about Azazel, then?” she asked after another moment of silence. “Her lands -what little of it she has, anyway- also border the Silver Ridge.”

What about Azazel? That was a question Rakshasa regularly asked herself. Sometimes, it was just an idle venue of entertainment, the way one would wonder about the next day’s weather. Other times, there was a point to these ponderings.

“Hmph. Azazel is the last person I’d see do such a thing. Hers is the smallest territory of all Archdemons because she cares little for expansion or conquest; she has land enough to feed her people, and has never shown any interest in acquiring more either by war or by diplomacy. She has no interest in power either, it seems. She barely takes part in our councils, and it is mostly because she is required to do so.”

“If that’s true, why is she part of the Six at all?”

“The simple answer to that would be: because she was not given much of a choice. Joining the future Hexacracy meant she was protected by its covenant. Her territory borders the Empire, though that border is mostly mountains. Should we go to war with the Empire, she had better be on our side than on her own. Any Archdemon is as bad as another to the Imperials.”

“Especially one that is well-versed in the Obscure Arcanes.”

“You’ve heard those rumors as well.” Rakshasa smiled.

“Are they true?” Tshari asked.

“Ask her,” the Archcourtesan snarked.

In truth, Rakshasa didn’t know either. She strongly suspected it was true. From what little she knew of the Archmage, she was one of the most powerful and most knowledgeable magis of the continent, possibly the world. And there was not a single powerful mage alive who hadn’t at least dabbled in the Obscure Arcanes -the Forbidden Arcanes, as the superstitious cultists called them. But beyond those speculations, Rakshasa had precious little. In fact, it had been uniquely difficult to find out anything of substance about Azazel, even for someone with Rakshasa’s connections and influence. Azazel lived as a recluse most of the time, and certainly didn’t frequent any House of Opal -even her magis seemed to avoid those establishments. As a result, very little of her was known. Nobody knew where she came from, for instance, nor how old she was.

It had taken Rakshasa years just to find people who had so much as met the Archmage. They had described her personality in vague and often contradictory terms. She was eloquent and taciturn, affable and distant, warm and cold. Ultimately, those testimonies had brought nothing consistent, and were of little use. 

As to Azazel’s appearance, it was even worse: not one of them had seen her without her mask, or even without her gloves. Not one of them could describe so much as her skin color. To make matters even more complicated, most of these people had not actually seen her in person, but through scrying.

Many people had secrets, and those secrets often had value. This, Rakshasa knew better than most, given that these secrets were the basis of her trade, the foundation of her power. As such, she made it a point to know everything there was to know about the important players of Varda.

This was why she had come to learn of Yerleg’s brush with death when he had been but a child, and how that experience shaped him into the fanatic he was today. This was why she had found out that Elyonn once had an elder brother whom he hated, and who died at sixteen or seventeen, allegedly when an unruly horse threw him down then trampled him. This was why it was no mystery to her that Bakasura had a secret room under his castle, nor what happened to the hapless fools he lured there. This was why she had felt compelled to find out that Namtar had crushed an important peasants’ rebellion on his domain, a couple of years before, and had worked hard to keep the whole thing a secret -apparently, the peasants had gotten a few humiliating victories over him before he could regain the upper hand.

Yet of Azazel, she knew almost nothing for a fact. The idea that Rakshasa could ignore so much about someone so important in the Hexacracy -one of her peers, no less- did not sit well with her. The Archmage cultivated this mystery around herself with as much care as prized dahlias. Why? What secret did she hold so dear? Why did she avoid public appearances as much as possible? What was it about her very appearance that she made a point to always hide it? It couldn’t simply be that she was ugly. There had to be something more. Something bigger.

Was she herself an Awvel, and afraid that revealing this secret would lead to persecutions? Certainly, it would explain her affinity with those strange and contemptuous creatures, allegedly the unnatural progeny of Human and Demon. But… No, no, it didn’t make sense. The other Archdemons would have sniffed out an Awvel among them. And who had ever heard of an Awvel becoming an Archmage? Their affinity for the Arcanes was weak, this was known.

Ah, yes, the Awvels… Several of Rakshasa’s spies and informants had reported on how the Archmage indeed employed quite a few of those things. Abhorrent though they might be, the Archcourtesan had to admit they had the potential to make good agents. Stealth was practically second nature to them. It had been hard to confirm that Azazel did employ Awvels, and harder still to identify one of these creatures with certainty. But with some time, a lot of money, and much work, one was found to be active in Atvello, busy on some unknown mission apparently confided to it by the Archmage herself. The Archcourtesan’s curiosity had been piqued: this was the perfect opportunity to finally learn something of value. She had ordered one of her own agents in Atvello there to capture him.

Unfortunately, the Awvel had proved resistant all through the interrogation. Even as the pain started to alter its mind, it kept its secrets. The most its captors got out of it was a name: Jackson Pulver. A strange name, that didn’t seem to befit any known culture. The Awvel would speak no more, not about that person, not about what Azazel wanted with him, not about anything. Rakshasa had ultimately decided to turn the Awvel. She had managed, through torture and secrets of magic that had cost her even more money, to make it loyal and subordinate to her instead of Azazel. Still, the creature wouldn’t talk, possibly barred from doing so by its former owner’s magic.

In the meantime, Rakshasa had used her agent in Atvello on a different but related mission: recover a C’fan ring, property of a Prince Merchant, and the box it opened. That box, she had learned from other agents, had once been the property of Azazel, given to her by Namtar, only to somehow end up in the hands of the aforementioned Prince Merchant. This would have been an excellent opportunity to learn what had been going on between the two Archdemons. Sadly, while the agent had managed to steal the ring, that ring had in turn been stolen from him. He had blamed the Awvel, but that was impossible: it could no more betray its imposed loyalty to Rakshasa than it could fly by flapping its arms. Most likely, the agent had lost the property, or failed to ensure its safety from other thieves.

Angered, Rakshasa had decided then that her association with her agent would not last long. Without informing him, she had the Awvel tasked with a new mission: capturing that Jackson Pulver, and bringing him to her alive. She would get the information from the horse’s mouth.

Meanwhile, the Archcourtesan had discovered something else: Azazel had travelled to Atvello recently. Shortly before the war, in fact. Supposedly, it was to try one last time to convince the city to join the Hexacracy or remain neutral in the future conflict. While the Archcourtesan no longer had a fifth column in place in the trading city, she still had a few passive observers. They reported that the Archmage had indeed met with the Gilded Council, though they couldn’t tell what had been discussed. She had then met with one of the Prince Merchants in a more private setting over the course of a few days; the two, it seemed, had become fast friends. Ridiculous, Rakshasa had thought. Azazel had no friends. She never frequented anyone, especially not for prolonged periods of time. No… The whole thing was obviously a pretext. In truth, Azazel had gone there to meet with her agent, possibly to retrieve it. Of course, for her to do that in person, that meant the Awvel’s task was of great importance. Whoever that Jackson Pulver was, he was important to Azazel. And that, in turn, made them important to Rakshasa.

Unfortunately, it was around that time that her main agent in Atvello had decided to cut his strings and act out on his own, taking the Awvel with him. And then, on top of that, the damned fool had gotten himself captured by the Gilded Council. He would later be executed by hanging, his body tossed to the sea like a common fisherman. As to the Awvel, Rakshasa had received no news, though there was little doubt in her mind it was dead as well. She had managed to find some information about Jackson Pulver through her other informants, but nothing she could use. As poor luck would have it, it seemed that although a man going by that name used to live in Atvello, he had left the city soon after the Archmage’s visit. An interesting -and infuriating- coincidence. After that, it had been impossible to track him. And then, the war had begun, and she had been forced to focus her attention and her efforts on more important targets.

Rakshasa cursed under her breath at the memory. She had gotten so close! So close to finding out something capital about the Archmage.

“What’s wrong?” Tshari said.

Rakshasa blinked and looked at her.

“You’re gnawing on your lip. Something has you irritated?”

“Yes, but… Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, I suppose.”

She tried once again to read her book, but gave up again and elected to sleep through the rest of the journey instead.

The carriages arrived at Starkberth after twilight. Rakshasa emerged from her sleep, still stressed and cranky. She stretched as she got down, then asked her driver why they were so late. The man apologized profusely, blaming the inclement weather. The Archcourtesan walked off in a huff, heading to the city’s port. The Eagle Ray was moored at the westernmost dock. Its crew, waiting idly by, hurried to their feet as they saw Rakshasa approaching, followed by her entourage. The captain rushed to meet her, and advised her to delay departure until tomorrow. Rakshasa had none of it and insisted they leave now.

She sighed to herself as the crew got to work. She knew the virtues of honey over vinegar when it came to leading, but the lateness had put paid to what little patience she had that day.

Rakshasa remained in her cabin for the entirety of the trip. Tshari, who slept in the same cabin, left her alone through the day, only joining her for the midday’s meal. The wind was not on their side through the journey east, but thankfully the weather remained calm. Three nights and two days later, the Eagle Ray arrived at Port Varvi. The town was located very near the border separating the Opal Coast from the Southern Marches, and usually saw a lot of transit for it. Since the war, however, trade had dwindled, and now the port was half-empty. From Port Varvi, it was a seven summer hour ride to Redfield Keep.

The Archcourtesan hated that place. She had never liked military forts in general, due to their ugliness and their lack of comfort, but this one she particularly loathed. It was big, unsightly, and built atop a steep and difficult to access hill in a region known among other things for its terrible winds. It had been constructed with strange dark red stones from a quarry nearby, which had been found to be uniquely resistant to both damage and the elements. Under the sunlight, the color simply looked gaudy, but under the moonlight, it made the whole place look even creepier.

And, of course, there was the history of the place, and the superstitious beliefs that had birthed from it. Indeed, like many military forts with a past, Redfield Keep was said to be cursed, haunted as it was by the ghosts of the many who had died in its prisons. Rakshasa was not the superstitious sort, but still she had never slept properly one single night in that fort. And she probably wouldn’t that night either.

She and her people were the last to arrive. It was really as if everything had conspired to make this a bad day for her. Before she entered the dining room where the meeting was set up, a young woman came out of a servant’s door, quickly and without looking where she was going. She collided with Tshari, and avoided a bad fall by gripping her left arm.

“My apologies, my lady!” she squeaked, her embarrassment mixed with fear.

“Be careful, girl,” Rakshasa said.

The servant bowed deeply and disappeared. Tshari watched her go, her right hand massaging her arm, the other balled in a fist. She turned to Rakshasa, and opened that fist, revealing a small piece of paper.

“She just slipped me this,” Tshari whispered. “I think it’s for you.”

There was indeed a message written, in very small characters: Oppose my proposal about the SR, then make your own. It was simply signed “A”. Rakshasa read it twice before tossing it over a lit torch nearby. Her stomach twisted. It was a message from Azazel, it had to be. Oppose her proposal? What was she playing? What did she want?

“Finally,” Elyonn said as the Archcourtesan entered the room and took her seat around the table, the last of the Six to do so. “All right, let’s do this quickly, I’ve been waiting long enough. The first matter to discuss is the Silver Ridge.”

Brilliant, he’s already peevish, Rakshasa thought. Wait, the Silver Ridge? She had already figured out what the “A” from that message stood for, now she believed she knew what the “SR” meant.

“What is there to discuss?” Azazel said. 

As usual, she was not physically present, participating in the reunion through her usual magic. Rakshasa knew Elyonn did not like this, but only tolerated it as it was a non-negotiable condition to Azazel’s participation. Yerleg had also made it clear he disapproved, going so far as to name the Archmage a coward “hiding behind her tricks”.

“His lands, his people, and what’s left of his armies need a ruler,” Elyonn said.

“They’ll have one,” Rakshasa said. “The guilds are gathering to nominate one.”

“And how long will that take? The last time an Archmaster was elected, the guilds bickered for weeks before they even came up with a list of candidates. We need their resources and their craft now, today.” He rapped on the table. “I’ll be leading the Legion on a campaign soon, and I’ll want every sword, shield, and arrow my soldiers can carry.”

“A campaign?”

“The Empire has set siege to Llorysport,” Yerleg explained. “The city is expected to last maybe six months. With it, the Empire’s ships will have a port in the Southern Marches, and its armies will have another point of entry. The Archcommander will take four armies to relieve the city.”

“Six months?” Rakshasa said. “We can wait six months for the guilds to come up with another Archmaster.”

“Wait?” Elyonn sneered. “No. There’ll be no waiting. The Emperor made a move, we must make one in turn. I’ll not let that boy dictate the course of my war.”

Of course this is about control, Rakshasa thought. When is it ever not, with him?

“Very well, so what do you propose?”

“Simple. Each of us will raise one of the armies we have in reserve, and send them to occupy the Silver Ridge’s capital city, as well as its main castles. The guilds will be forced to accept our rule.”

“Really?” Azazel said. “Your solution is to invade Namtar’s fief? In the middle of another war? The guilds and the nobles will certainly rebel, and that will add to our losses.”

“There will be no rebellion,” Elyonn retorted confidently. “We will move quickly and strike mightily, putting out any fire that dares rise. Facing this show of force, no one will dare to resist us.”

The Archcourtesan bit her tongue. Elyonn had been a warrior his whole life; the military life was all he had ever known -along with that destiny of his. It was no surprise then that the military solution was the only one he saw to any problem. Now, how to convince him that there was a better solution, one that was far less likely to backfire?…

“And you would annex Namtar’s fief, then?” she prudently asked. “Add it to your own?”

“No. It will be divided evenly between us, of course. We’ll discuss that division at a later date.”

“But our covenant specifically says…”

“Our covenant says we are not to attack one other. But Namtar is dead. As such, we’re not attacking any one of the Six. Well, the Five, I suppose.” He smiled at his own quip.

“If I may, there may be another way. One that won’t require losing any men.”

Surprisingly, it was Azazel who had said that before Rakshasa could.

“And what is that?” Elyonn said, annoyed.

“We know which noble men and women will vote for each guild. I could influence them to elect a candidate that will be loyal to us, and to do so soon.”

The Archcourtesan balked. That was the solution she was about to offer. She had quite a few well-placed spies and informants in the Silver Ridge, especially among the guilds. Pushing the vote in a certain way was definitely something she could do. But how could Azazel do the same? Using those Awvels of hers?

“Influence them,” Elyonn repeated with a scoff. “And how do you think you’ll achieve that?”

Before Azazel could answer, he went on: “By buying their votes? Certainly those guilds are notoriously corrupt. But unreliable! They’ll take your coin, and then vote for whoever they want anyway. Would you threaten their lives? You would have to send as many assassins as your candidate needs votes.”

“And those assassins would have to stay until the elections are over,” Rakshasa intervened. “An army would be just as subtle. No, I move that we reject this idea.”

Yerleg spoke against it as well, while Bakasura abstained. Elyonn turned to the Archcourtesan with an appreciative smile. Rakshasa met his gaze, but quickly reported her attention back to Azazel. All right, I’ve opposed your proposal, as you asked. And now what? I’ll make mine, also as you asked, and you will oppose it in turn? No, Rakshasa didn’t know what the Archmage’s endgame was. There was an endgame, though, of that she was certain. That in itself was very strange. Since when did Azazel care for political games?

“The idea of controlling the vote is not a bad one,” Rakshasa said, “but one would require considerable knowledge and influence to succeed. Maybe it is best to simply send some troops. It will cost money and manpower, and a garrison will have to remain in several places in the Silver Ridge until the situation has stabilized, but… Well, the Legion shall do.”

Elyonn leaned back and scratched his chin. “The Legion? I said each of us would send an army.”

“Archcommander, I must confess I had the greatest difficulties in raising another army. The art of war is not one I master, as you must know. Mine own specialty, as you know, is intelligence. You are a better strategist and leader of men than I am… and the idea to conquer the Silver Ridge was yours.”

She could see her little tactic had worked before she had finished her sentence. Elyonn usually enjoyed compliments, but not overt brown-nosing. Another thing he disliked was his peers not doing their part. He had no issues with being the center of attention and taking the lion’s share of the glory, but other Archdemons hiding behind him to have him do their duties was tantamount to cowardice to him -and he hated cowardice more than anything.

“Is that so?” he said. “I will, with mine own men only, take and occupy the Silver Ridge? And I suppose you’ll expect the Silver Ridge’s mines and smithies to benefit you while I’m the one making them work? No, Archcourtesan. I think you’ll be doing your share.”

“But, Archcommander, as I said, I simply don’t have the troops…”

“Intelligence is your specialty, you said? Then you shall use that. The noble men and women of the Silver Ridge that will vote for the new Archmaster, do you know them?”

“I do, but…”

“And certainly, you have ways to reach them? Influence them? Coerce them, if necessary? I often hear you brag that you have your courtesans in many beds, even as far as C’fa.”

“Maybe, but…”

“Well then, I propose that you follow those words with action. Use that influence of yours to have the guilds vote for a new Archmaster within one month. That should be in your purview.”

“I agree,” Yerleg said to the surprise of no one. “So far, your troops have only done a fraction of the war effort. Consider this a way to make up for it, Archcourtesan.”

Bakasura also voted in favor of this proposal. Azazel, after a moment of consideration, did so too, though her voice betrayed some reluctance. Rakshasa fought against a smile when she replied:

“Very well, then. I’ll see it done.”

“You will,” Elyonn said.

It took a lot of effort from Rakshasa not to bristle at his commanding tone or point out what she had done, rub it in his face. Well… what we have done, she thought, glancing again at the impassive mask floating atop a bed of flames across the table.

“Now, to the unpleasant matter of this… Alliance,” Elyonn said. “In regards to recent events, I say we make crushing it a priority.”

“Agreed,” Yerleg said. “The murder of an Archdemon shall not remain unpunished.”

“We now know that their fief lies in the Vertrisian Forest, where they enjoy the protection of Elven tribes and their Arcanes. A large part of our forces would be necessary to besiege them there, leaving us vulnerable to the Empire.”

“Then let us not reach them there,” Bakasura said. “Let us instead force them to leave their lair and meet us.”

Elyonn shot him an irritated look. Evidently, he was going to suggest just that, and did not appreciate having the grass under his feet.

“Precisely,” he said. “I suggest we entrust Yerleg with that task. His warrior-monks have performed admirably against the Inquisitors, who have now all but deserted the Marches and sought refuge in the Imperial territory.”

“It would be my honor,” the Archpriest said.

Of course it would, Rakshasa said. Doing Elyonn’s bidding and an opportunity for violence? This is practically a second name day for you.

This was approved unanimously. There were a few more matters to address, namely that campaign Elyonn had mentioned to relieve Llorysport’s siege, as well as the financing and construction of new war vessels to replace those lost at sea. As to the latter, Bakasura would furnish the wood from his fief’s rich forests to build them, while Rakshasa would furnish the crew. Thankfully, seamen worth their salt were still plenty along the Opal Coast, though few of them had ever sailed on a warship. It wasn’t until the night was late and the candles were nearly completely melted that they adjourned.

After an entire day on horseback and a long evening of planning a war, Rakshasa desired nothing more than a warm bed. But sleep would have to wait until she had clarified the mystery that occupied her mind. She locked herself in the room that had been given to her, and ordered Tshari to guard the door and ensure no one would try to eavesdrop. Now, how is it supposed to be done, again? she thought as she affixed a bundle of candles on a metal plate. She had learned that a certain ritual was necessary to contact Azazel through a lit fire, but she wasn’t certain on the details. Truth be told, magic and its Arcanes had never been her domain of predilection. In fact, much to her chagrin, she was perhaps the least gifted of the six Archdemons in terms of both knowledge and raw power, with the possible exception of Bakasura.

Leaning over the table, she lit the candles with a brisk hand, so brisk she accidentally singed the tip of her finger. Suppressing a curse, she focused on enunciating the arcane words, fumbling a couple of words and having to start over four times before she got it right. Then, she waited. Azazel was not a mere spirit: sending the summons was no guarantee that she would answer immediately -or at all. Several minutes passed before something happened. The joined flames of the candles grew bigger and somehow darker, and their shape changed to form an oval. Features appeared: two small holes for the eyes, and one bigger for the mouth.

“You have called for me, Archcourtesan,” the Archmage’s voice spoke, seeming to come out of nowhere. “It is quite a late hour for a talk.”

“Do not act surprised, Archmage,” Rakshasa said. “You must have figured I would contact you. How could I not? Would you mind explaining what happened at that reunion?”

“The Archcommander has tasked you with an important mission,” Azazel laconically answered.

“Right.” The Archcourtesan blew air out of her nose.

“It was rather well played on your part, Archcourtesan.” The respect in the Archmage’s voice had an aftertaste of sarcasm.

“Yes, yes. How about you tell me why you helped me play it?”

“Have I? I merely made a similar proposal and was refused.”

“Thus bringing the idea to his mind. He would never have agreed to it unless he truly believed it was his, and he also never would have let me put it in motion if he thought it was my plan all along.”

“So you let him convince himself the whole plan was his to begin with. Well played indeed.”

“We did that, Archmage,” Rakshasa reiterated, pointing an accusatory finger at the living flame. “You’re eluding. Why did you help me?”

“I knew Elyonn would not let the situation in the Silver Ridge resolve on its own, and I knew his solution would be to send armies. You and I both know it would have been a terrible idea, with dire consequences.”

“And you knew what my solution to that would be.”

“Indeed,” Azazel said. “Of the two, I decided it was the best by far.”

Rakshasa lowered an eyebrow. “You realize, of course, that this gives me the power to select the next Archmaster.”

“That is the nature of your task, yes.”

“Do not play coy, Archmage. This means I am free to name any Archmaster I want. I could name one loyal to me. Do not pretend you haven’t thought of that.”

“I have. It was still the best solution.”

“Oh, so it was pure altruism that motivated you, was it?” Rakshasa said with a laugh. “You were simply thinking of the greater good for the Hexacracy. I am not gullible, Archmage. There is something in it for you, something you want from me. I confess I don’t know what it is, and I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.”

Rakshasa had always considered seemingly free favors to be the most poisonous of all gifts. And with good reason: she herself had offered quite a few of those in the past. True generosity was the privilege of fools and paupers. Powerful, cunning people never gave anything without expecting something in return.

“You are right, Archcourtesan, I did want something from you,” Azazel said after a brief moment of silence.

“What?”

“For you to owe me.”

Rakshasa shook her head. “Is that it? And what would I owe you?”

“It’s simple. Today, I helped pass a decision that benefited you -and the Hexacracy. I expect the same in return.”

“For what decision, precisely?”

“It is no secret what I think of this war,” Azazel said, “and what I think it will do to us if we pursue it as far as Elyonn wants.”

“No secret indeed. I often wonder why Yerleg is not more openly hostile to you. You are a blasphemer, at least by his standards. I suppose Elyonn needs you, and Yerleg obeys Elyonn in all things. So what? You want me to support a decision to end the war early? I think not. I little believe in Elyonn’s destiny as the Tyranny’s ender, but all the same this war is necessary. Had we not moved to take the Marches, the Empire would have done so. And then, what? The Empire would have grown stronger and more united; an even bigger threat right at our border.”

“Oh, I know those rationalisations quite well. I’ve suffered them many times when Elyonn and Namtar attempted to convince me to cast every available resource in the fires of this war. But no, Archcourtesan, I expect no such thing from you.”

“What, then?”

“This war, unfortunately, is far from over, and you and I both know Elyonn will try to make other decisions like the one to invade the Silver Ridge; decisions that may be profitable in the short-term, but disastrous in the long-term. Simply put, I will need your help to counter him.”

“Manipulate him, you mean.” Rakshasa licked her upper lip. “Fair enough. So you are acting in the Hexacracy’s best interests, is that it?”

“I am acting in my own best interest. It would do me no favors if Elyonn leads the Hexacracy into a precipice.”

Self-preservation, then? That, Rakshasa could believe. Almost.

“All right,” she said. “I am in your favor. But what makes you sure I’ll honor that?”

“As I said, the war is far from over. This also means that opportunities like this one will arise. If you aim to seize them, you will need another vote in the Hexagon. The future Archmaster will guarantee you one, and I will guarantee you another… provided you continue to guarantee me your vote in exchange.”

Three votes out of six… That was certainly an interesting proposal. Of course, she would also need Bakasura’s vote to get anything done, and the bloated sloth usually sided with Elyonn out of safety. But that could probably be changed with proper persuasion.

Before she agreed, however, there remained the matter of Azazel’s motivation. Rakshasa still couldn’t figure it out, and that naturally made her suspicious. With this move, Azazel would make her one of the most powerful members of the Hexagon, effectively able to counter Elyonn. How very generous of her. Did the Archmage expect to be able to manipulate her, making herself the true power behind the power? If it were anyone else, Rakshasa would have laughed under her breath and wished them good luck, but it was Azazel… After her investigations on her, the Archcourtesan was beginning to wonder just what she was truly capable of.

For the time being, there was only one answer she could give:

“I will consider your offer.”

“Please do,” Azazel said. “Now, I must take my leave. I have much to do.”

“Yes, as do I. Fare thee well, Archmage.”

“Fare thee well, Archcourtesan.”

The flame was then extinguished, as if the air had been sucked out of it in an instant, leaving Rakshasa in the darkness, with more questions than she had before.

 

End of Part 3

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