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“I can’t believe he did it! The son of a bitch actually went and did it!”
Natchua glanced over her shoulder at him, then returned her gaze to the manor window, with its view of Veilgrad spread out below. The city’s predilection for tall buildings and decorative spires meant there was no unobstructed view to be had of any of its public spaces, but the Leduc estate’s altitude provided a sufficient angle to see parts of several. Even from this distance, her elven eyes could make out bigger crowds of people milling about than she would have expected for the time of day.
There had been protests all over the Empire in the last few days, in Veilgrad more vehemently than most. As of today, there were now counter-protests. So far, it didn’t seem the two groups had crossed paths and exploded into conflict…here, at least. She had no way of knowing what was happening in other cities.
Archpope Justinian’s dawn address—or parts of it, at least—had been snapped up by reporters, telescrolled to all corners of the Empire, and printed off in special editions which had already been read by countless citizens. Natchua would likely have found the story soon in any event, but Embras Mogul had gleefully shadow-jumped right to the gates of Leduc Manor with a stack of papers to brandish under her nose.
“So,” she said quietly. “This story is true, then?”
“Oh, that’s just the most delicious part,” Mogul said with sadistic relish. She’d never seen him grin so much. “It’s a brazen lie, and the absolute gospel truth. Those are the best lies, you know. The ones made entirely of pure, unimpeachable facts. Selectively pruned from important context and presented just so that they present a very specific impression of what happened, regardless of what actually did.”
“Embras,” she snapped, “if you can find it in your shriveled little soul to provide information without editorializing or bardic melodrama, do so. Otherwise, shut your mouth and fuck all the way off.”
“Your pardon, dear lady,” he declaimed, sweeping off his hat and executing a florid bow that very nearly earned him a shadowbolt to the face. Probably sensing that, he continued in a much more brisk tone. “The Archpope’s account contains no inaccuracies, but it prevents only a partial description of that night’s events, designed to mislead the public about what went down. What he’s trying to present as an Imperial initiative that he chose to tolerate for the greater good, despite his…” Mogul’s grin grew to psychotic proportions. “…troubled conscience, was in fact a fully mutual Church and Imperial joint operation. Most of the actual demons were brought into Tiraas by holy summoners answering to Justinian. It was the Church which actually succeeded in capturing several of my closest allies, and the Church which detained and gratuitously tortured them over the following months.”
He paused, tilting his head slowly to one side in a posture of thought. Natchua waited.
“What really fascinates me about this account,” Mogul finally continued, “is one all-important name which is nowhere near it. The entire thing was Antonio Darling’s idea. His plan, suggested for his own surreptitious purpose—he exploited the chaos to wrangle himself a brief audience with Elilial. Now, don’t let me overstate the man’s involvement; he hadn’t the power to institute an action like that, the blame must rest squarely on the Church and the Empire. Still… Darling is a former close confidante of Justinian’s, who went on to start the rebellion of the cults against the Church. It’s very odd to me that his Holiness would so carefully refrain from throwing him of all people under the carriage.”
“Darling,” Natchua mused. “I know that guy. He fought at Ninkabi. Along with Snowe; I thought that was an odd business for a couple of Bishops to randomly show up in.”
“Oh, Darling has his sticky little fingers in a lot of pies,” Mogul cackled. “He’s an Eserite, after all. Either the best or the worst of the lot, I truly can’t decide.”
She turned fully to face the room. “Jon? What do you think?”
“Well, for one thing, some newspaper offices are about to get mobbed,” he noted. Jonathan was seated in one of the room’s armchairs, with Hesthri on his lap, holding open one of the papers Embras had brought so they could both read it—along with Melaxyna, who was leaning over his shoulder. The other papers lay in a haphazard stack upon the end table at his elbow. “The editorial slant in these is just about as brazen as I’ve ever seen; every one of these rags is either calling Justinian a liar and a heretic or pushing right up against the line of calling for rebellion against the Silver Throne. When the press is this divided and this agitated, popular sentiment is going to be even worse.”
She glanced back down at the city. “I think I can see the beginnings of that from here. I’m not sure how to… I mean, obviously I ought to do something. I just don’t…”
Hesthri carefully extricated herself, crossing to Natchua and slipped a comforting arm around her waist.
“Lovely, maybe you should sit this one out,” she murmured. “You’re good at working up a crowd; working one back down is a completely different skill set. And a lot harder.”
Natchua grimaced and leaned her cheek against Hesthri’s armored forehead plate. “Yeah, you are…definitely not wrong.”
“Wouldn’t hurt to check in with Malivette and Lars, though,” Jonathan suggested. “Specifically, before doing anything proactive. We should probably all keep in mind that House Dufresne actually rules the province, and taking initiative in supporting them can accidentally stray into undermining them. You and Vette tend to dance on each other’s patience at the best of times, kitten.”
“Yes, well, in my defense, you’ve met us both. Kheshiri.”
Natchua, of course, knew exactly where she was at all times, but Kheshiri made a habit of lurking invisibly whenever Embras Mogul was about. The two had a complex relationship. She now materialized seemingly from the air while slinking up toward Natchua—causing Hesthri to instinctively tighten her grip. Mogul did not visibly startle, but instantly fixed his attention on the succubus.
“Mmmmistress?” Kheshiri purred.
“You are easily the worst, most destructively minded person here,” said Natchua.
Kheshiri grinned widely, her tail waving. “I love you too, mistress.”
“What’s your take on the situation, as a…let’s call it a professional.”
“Oh, it’s a succubus’s playground out there,” Melaxyna commented from across the room.
“She asked me!” Kheshiri snarled, rounding on her. Melaxyna threw up her hands in exasperation and turned her back. Mogul glanced uncertainly between them, and Natchua carefully kept quiet.
Individually, Melaxyna and Kheshiri were mature and fiendishly intelligent women, full of pride and poise. In combination? Well, in public, they squabbled very much like toddlers, while in private they spent their time sharing the kind of imaginatively kinky sex that would kill anyone who wasn’t a shapeshifter. And thus the both of them remained…stable. Diligent, helpful, and not causing problems behind Natchua’s back. She had figured out that whatever twisted relationship they had, they were using the stress of it to satisfy the Vanislaad itch—which meant it must have been deeply twisted indeed—and so she carefully watched them, from a safe distance, and let them do what they needed to. It was a weird but functional compromise and that was probably the best result anyone had ever gotten out of a pair of succubi.
“If this is what it’s like across the Empire,” Kheshiri continued, turning back to her, “then the situation in and of itself is…barely stable. The kind of thing that could, in theory, be calmed down again. But leaving aside the active powers that won’t let it be calmed—and oh, yes, every one of those crowds just needs one person with a silver tongue and a good set of lungs to turn it into a riot—leaving that aside, this is Justinian very cleverly turning the Empire’s position against it. All yesterday, people were out demonstrating in front of cathedral against Justinian’s actions, and that on the strength of mere accusations. The Empire let them, without a peep. Now? If they crack down on this, it will look so hypocritical it will agitate those who believe Justinian’s allegations, and possibly alienate some of those who are siding against him. And yet, they cannot ignore this kind of social disorder. It’s an impossible position for the authorities, not to mention an absolute smorgasbord of opportunity for creatures like me. Hell, not even creatures like me; anyone with the aptitude and inclination to cause serious trouble in this climate.”
“And more specifically?” Natchua prompted. “You worked directly under Justinian for almost two years.”
“Less…directly than you may think,” she said, grimacing. “I rarely saw him in person, and his operational security was annoyingly tight. I wasn’t the only capable member of that crew very interested in prying out details of the Church’s surreptitious operations, but we all came away with nothing except some unhelpful personal details about the specific Holy Legionaries set to watch us. What I can tell you, mistress, is that this is a move of pure desperation. That tight control is the absolute core of Justinian’s strategy, his entire mindset. He’s cautious, conservative, meticulous and detail-oriented; he never exerts force into a situation unless he either has full control of it from all sides, or is cornered and has no choice.”
Jonathan cleared his throat. “You paint a very different picture than the one we saw in Ninkabi, assuming we still believe that was ultimately his doing.”
“Oh, you are damn right,” Kheshiri agreed with a particularly ghoulish smile. “Plus, there was that predecessor event of his, with the Tide cult. I haven’t heard any proof, but I’m positive the remnants of that were what he used to set up the hellgate altars in Ninkabi. Think about what that means. He deployed massive force when he was cornered—but in a very Justinian way, using an asset he had developed surreptitiously, able to be leveraged with the full element of surprise however he leveraged it because nobody even knew it existed! The necro-drakes are more of the same. That’s what Justinian looks like when on the back foot. This? This is something different, something entirely new. Riling up civil unrest? Leveraging popular sentiment to undermine the overall stability of the Empire? He’s creating a situation he cannot possibly control. Justinian is all about control. If he’s doing this… Then either he is desperate, with his master plan hanging by a thread…or it is so close to its ultimate completion that he no longer needs to be careful about collateral damage.”
She returned her full focus to Natchua, eyes burning avidly. The succubus chewed her lower lip for a second in an expression of uncomfortably carnal delight.
“I can’t say definitively what’s in his mind, mistress, but… I have been around more than my share of plots, schemes, and carnage. My gut tells me this is both.”
“Both stronger and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, hm,” Jonathan murmured.
Embras cleared his throat. “Just throwin’ this out there: a meticulous planner like Justinian is at a disadvantage in a situation like this. What’s called for here is the ability to move fast and scheme on the fly. And…well, we know someone whose aptitude is right along those lines, don’t we?”
They all turned to look at Natchua, Hesthri pulling back just enough to study her face.
The Duchess of House Leduc drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She gave Hesthri a last squeeze and kissed her temple, then gently pulled away.
“All right. Melaxyna, I’d like you to go check in with Malivette. She’s in charge here and it seems like a good time to emphasize that I haven’t forgotten it. Don’t…just do whatever she tells you, but bring her instructions back here. Jonathan, Hes, you’re on point on that. I trust your judgment. House Leduc needs to be ready to be of service to the province in whatever way its Governor decrees. Kheshiri, I want you snooping among those Narisians we just sponsored. Don’t interfere with them—in fact, don’t let them find out about your presence at all. We’re looking specifically for anyone among them planted by the Houses in Tar’naris. Jonathan thinks we may have a mole.”
“Boy knows his work,” the succubus said with approval. “Yes, that’s exactly how I’d put a listening ear in your camp, if I were running House Dalmiss.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be out, exactly, but I’m not planning for it to be long,” Natchua continued. “I need…some perspective, and an outside opinion. You!” She pointed belligerently at Mogul. “With me. And mind your damn manners for once, Embras. We are going to make a state visit.”
As decreed by the lady of the house, upon shadow-jumping into the grand entry hall of Madouri Manor, Natchua and Embras were swiftly met by servants and escorted to the Duchess herself.
Ravana was ensconced in a solarium in a chair positively stuffed with cushions, a plush quilt covering her legs and a shawl draped over her shoulders, a tray of tea and cookies upon her lap, and bearing it with wry good humor as three of her guests fussed over her while Yancey stood impassively in the background. The mood in the room switched instantly upon the entry of the new arrivals.
“What is this doing here?” Trissiny demanded, baring her teeth.
“I’m in the process of housebreaking him,” Natchua said, giving Embras a single disparaging glance over her shoulder. “By all means, feel free to give him a kick if he needs it.”
“Natchua,” the paladin began in a warning tone.
“Come on, Trissiny, you were there. What’s left of the Wreath fought to protect Veilgrad. I gave my word and I’ll keep it: as long as they continue to behave, they’re my responsibility. And I was dead serious about what I said at the time: I welcome anyone willing to help keep an eye on them. What about your pushy dragon friend, what’s he up to? For some reason he hasn’t taken me up on my invitation.”
“Lord Ampophrenon has been somewhat busy,” Trissiny said pointedly, “as have the rest of the Conclave, and all of us. For all the socializing we’ve been doing lately, it has been mostly strategic in purpose.”
“Right, fair enough,” Natchua agreed, grimacing.
Ravana cleared her throat. “Speaking of strategic socializing, I gather from the presence of your companion, Natchua, that this is not a strictly congenial visit?”
“You gather correctly. But first, how are you doing? Did Justinian really poison you?”
Iris snorted, loudly and derisively, finally tearing her gimlet stare away from Embras. “Oh, please. She poisoned herself.”
“Oh.” Natchua’s eyebrows rose. “Oh! That’s actually brilliant. I don’t think I would’ve had the orbs to do that.”
“Do not encourage her!” Iris yelled.
“I’m fine,” Ravana insisted, reaching up to squeeze Iris’s hand. “Seriously. All of this was planned, and has been firmly under my control. Barnes does excellent work; even had it run its course the poison would not have been lethal.”
“I have to say you’re not looking great,” Natchua observed. “Someone with your complexion really doesn’t need to get any paler.”
“How kind of you to take an interest, Natchua dear,” Ravana said sweetly. “I once had a bad cold as a child; that was worse than this. I’ve suffered no permanent damage, it’s just that the need to create sufficiently dramatic symptoms placed quite a strain upon my body, however briefly. Some rest, fluids, and proper nutrition, and I’ll be good as new in a few days.”
“And may I just say,” Embras interjected, “that was an impressive move, your Grace. That kind of daring and slyness in one gambit? You’d have done brilliantly in the Wreath.”
“I shall assume that was meant as a compliment, and in the interest of precluding needless hostility, accept it as such.”
“No hostility here is needless,” Iris hissed, gripping Ravana’s shoulder and glaring at Embras.
“Ow,” the Duchess protested.
“He was there,” Trissiny said, also staring at him. “The Archpope’s accusations… Allegedly the reason the Empire summoned demons into the capital was to trap the Wreath. Is that why you brought him, Natchua?”
“Exactly. We need to discuss…this development. Embras has filled me in on his version of what actually happened and I wanted to bring you all up to speed. And then… I’m at a bit of a loss what to actually do about this, ladies. I’m open to advice.”
“Well—”
“Not from you!” she snapped at Embras. He grinned and held up both hands placatingly.
“And we are to trust what he says?” Scorn asked. She was far less tense at the sight of Embras Mogul than Trissiny or Iris, simply looming protectively over Ravana’s chair from behind.
“Now, now,” Mogul himself chided, grinning and tucking his thumbs into the lapels of his trademark white suit. “I would never dream of maligning the intelligence of any of you fine young ladies by suggesting that I would hesitate to lie right to all your faces if it suited my interests. I will simply issue a gentle reminder of what my interests are. As of Ninkabi, my cult has no hostile business with any of you Pantheon lackeys. Thanks to Vesk’s information, we know that it was Justinian himself who meddled with the archdemon summoning and killed my Lady’s daughters. And with the insight our good paladins have brought forth that the Archpope is clearly acting against the Pantheon’s interests, not only is he our sole remaining enemy, there is nothing in the truce forbidding us from going after him. We don’t need to like each other, ladies. We need only acknowledge that none of us can afford to turn down valuable help.”
“How valuable, though?” Scorn asked mildly. “The Wreath now are…what? A dozen traumatized warlocks?”
“Less,” said Natchua.
“This one’s value would seem to be chiefly in what he knows,” said Ravana, “as I gather is the reason Natchua brought him here. What have you to contribute, then?”
“According to Embras,” Natchua said as Embras himself opened his mouth to answer, “Justinian’s account is only partially true. The Church is at least as much to blame for the attack on Tiraas as the Empire, and it was the Church who actually defeated and seized most of the Wreath. And also,” she added directly to Trissiny, “your buddy Darling was involved in that and working some angle of his own.”
Trissiny narrowed her eyes to slits. After a second, though, she shook her head. “First things first, and Darling is obviously far down the list. If we are taking Mogul at his word—and I will reiterate that he is a known conniving backstabber—that means that the Emperor took advantage of the hellgate crisis in Last Rock to unleash demons in the streets of Tiraas, toward his own political purpose. Which, I should hope it goes without saying, is unconscionable.”
“Okay, but…” Iris finally tore her glare from Embras to look at the paladin. “What exactly do you wanna do about it? Even at the best of times, it’s not like we can go…punish the Emperor. And these aren’t those times, Trissiny. It sounds like Justinian is just as guilty of that, and what with all the other stuff he’s guilty of, he needs to be our sole priority right now.”
“There is the obvious fact that he said this now to deflect anger from himself,” Scorn grunted, folding her arms. “I am thinking we should not give him what he wants. Deal with the Empire after he is settled.”
Ravana cleared her throat. “I concur with Scorn and Iris. And further, I venture to suggest that we should take steps to learn more—from, it must be said, more reliable sources—before presuming to chastise our Emperor.”
“Oh, let me guess.” Trissiny turned on her with a tone of weary disgust. “You think unleashing uncontrolled demons in a major city to trap the Black Wreath is a fine plan.”
“No, I do not,” Ravana replied instantly, meeting her eyes with a level stare. “Speaking as someone whose aggressive tactics have become something of a running joke in my social circle, that is not a call I would have made. The weapon of choice is both unreliable and diffuse—in short, impossible to aim. The strategy would be to target it generally at the Empire’s own subjects and hope that its intended targets were among the collateral damage. It can be justified to cause collateral damage in pursuit of a strategic goal, but I consider this a categorically different act. And above all, the Black Wreath has always been a religious issue; for all their virulent opposition to the Church and the Pantheon cults, they have very rarely attacked secular authorities or forces, and were known to be useful in cleaning up demonic incidents.”
“It sounds,” Trissiny said very evenly, “as if it’s the nuances you object to, rather than the basic strategy.”
“Yes, precisely.” Ravana did not look away from her eyes, but leaned back in her chair as if the effort of sitting up were beginning to tire her. “Rulers are not paladins, Trissiny. A ruler must frequently make decisions in the full knowledge that they will cause direct harm to their subjects. To rule is to constantly apply one’s best judgment in pursuit of the greater good, with the ever-looming certainty that one will inevitably misstep as all mortals do, and that countless innocents will suffer for one’s errors. I will not malign my Emperor for making a hard choice. On the contrary, the fact that the entire Tirasian Dynasty and Sharidan in particular have pursued a notably gentle and hands-off approach to governance tells me that if he approved such a scheme, then his Majesty knew something of crucial importance which I do not.”
She barely made it to the end of her sentence before the increasing rasp in her voice suddenly broke entirely, resulting in a hoarse cough. Scorn and Iris both reached to lay hands on Ravana’s shoulders, but she impatiently waved them off, clearing her throat and shifting her intent stare to Embras.
“What about it, Mr. Mogul? As you have come here specifically to tell us the truth of that night. Perhaps you can tell us why, of a sudden, the Silver Throne deemed the Black Wreath a sufficiently important target to diverge from its entire established policy and embrace such a moral compromise and massive strategic risk.”
All eyes turned to the warlock, Natchua folding her arms and raising her chin with an expectant look.
Embras put on a disarming smile, and a theatrical shrug. “Now, now, kids, be reasonable. A truce is a truce, but I’m still a servant of my goddess. You must know I can’t just go spewing her secrets willy-nilly.”
“And silence gives assent,” Ravana said wearily. “Frankly, I am surprised you did not deny it outright—which you surely would have, were the suggestion untrue. So we do not know why the Emperor agreed to this scheme, only that the Wreath did something to make him believe it necessary.”
“Now that,” Trissiny said quietly, “I believe. Natchua, I understand the position you’re in. Just know that he had to have put you in that position deliberately, and this is exactly why.”
“Trissiny, kindly refrain from implying that I’m stupid, at least while I’m in the room. Obviously I’m aware the Elilinists will take full advantage of any scrap they’re given. Considering you don’t know anything about how it came about than I told you, I gently suggest you climb down out of my business.”
“I am trying to spare you having the exact experience I did at the hands of this—”
“The Black Wreath must die!”
Silence fell, everyone turning to stare at Embras Mogul in astonishment, Trissiny and Natchua both deflating from the squared-up posture they had begun adopting toward each other.
Mogul reached up and pulled his hat off, the motion uncharacteristically lethargic. In fact, his entire bearing was suddenly out of character. He stood straight and still, his expression grim and intent.
“I wonder if you kids have any idea what it’s like,” he said quietly, “to be given a divine charge and utterly fail it.”
He looked directly at Trissiny; she visibly tightened her jaw but refused to look away.
“I am not just talking about the Dark Lady being forced into surrender on my watch,” Mogul continued. “Oh, believe me, that would be enough to haunt my every dream for whatever remains of my life. To be the last, the worst leader of the Wreath, the one under whose guidance it all came crashing down? Yeah, that’ll weigh on a guy. But… Somehow, amazingly, that wasn’t even the worst of it.”
He shrugged, helplessly, turning to Natchua.
“We’re not cunning. That is the crucial thing I never even suspected, that I’ve only been made to understand in the aftermath of the surrender at Ninkabi. She’s the goddess of cunning, and we… What we do, our meticulous subterfuge, our lurking in the shadows and weaving of webs? That’s not what cunning is. You know who’s cunning? Natchua Leduc, Ravana Madouri…Antonio Darling. People who stay on the move, who act aggressively and scheme while pushing forward, who are constantly doing bonkers bullshit that makes everyone around them think they must be stupid or insane no matter how consistently it works. That’s not us. And considering what I now know about how gods work…”
Mogul dropped his eyes, staring a the floor for a moment. No one interrupted him.
“I have to wonder,” he finally continued, more quietly. “Was it truly our fault? Did we weaken her—her mortal followers, twisting her aspect into something that damaged her own strength? It really does seem like that’s what happened.”
Natchua looked away, frowning through the glass walls at the snow-covered garden outside.
“Justinian is a creature like me,” Mogul continued after a moment, straightening his posture again, some of the steel returning to his voice. “Smart. Devious. Above all, careful. He isn’t cunning, either. The fact that he’s out kicking hornets’ nests left and right to keep people off his back… Well, not to underplay the damage he’s causing, but you need to realize what it means. The man is cornered and desperate; he has completely ceded the ground on which he’s strongest. The more chaotic it is out there, the more the terrain favors you: adventurers, not entrenched powers. When an opening comes, what’s left of the Black Wreath will be there, ready to avenge the Lady’s daughters and wipe the smug motherfucker off the face of the earth. I don’t have to tell you that warlocks with nothing to lose can kill just about anything, at the expense of everything else in the vicinity.”
Trissiny drew her lip back, but Mogul pressed on before she could interject.
“Because that’s how it has to be. Justinian is going down, no matter what it costs. And we are going down with him. The Black Wreath…has failed. We’re an anchor around Elilial’s neck. Once we’re gone… Then she can start again, with somebody new. With a fresh cult that won’t… That suits her. Those of us in the old guard, we just don’t have what it takes. It’s time to clear the way for the next generation.”
He carefully placed his hat back on, tugging the brim down to conceal the pained expression in his eyes.
“Take it from an old failure, girls. Do not let Justinian goad you into squabbling and infighting. Take the fight to him. Stay moving and think fast. It’s time to listen to your crazy Duchesses, not to the likes of me. Time for you to put aside parade formations and draw on what the Guild taught you, paladin.”
One by one, they tore their eyes from him, looking instead at each other.
“Natchua,” Ravana said after a heavily loaded pause. “Inspired by one of your own more surprising gambits, I have a…reckless idea.”
Iris winced, Scorn smiled, and Trissiny pensively chewed her lip.
Natchua just tilted her head to one side expectantly.
“I’m listening.”
The Gods are Bastards 