That had to be easily the best bath Camille had ever taken. It had taken hours, but the weeks of grime, salt, and death had finally been cleansed from her skin under the nearly-scalding water.

When at last she could examine herself in the scuffed bronze mirror in her chambers, it was finally her own face staring back.

The roots in my hair are showing, though. Ass that he might have been, Claude had been telling the truth about that much. Tactically tying her hair back managed to mostly hide the dark gold and brown, at least, though that wasn’t a solution that would last forever.

The clothes she’d been provided weren’t quite her usual color palette either — a ruffled white shirt sized for a man twice her size and hide pants far too hot for this weather — but they were nonetheless substantially better than the torn and soggy under-armor padding from her duel that she’d been forced to wear for the last few weeks.

“Huh, you cleaned yourself up a lot better than I expected.” Claude was waiting outside the chamber, the black bruise across his eye still extremely visible.

Camille scoffed. “I look like a child trying to sneak into the opera.”

“You do, don’t you?” He smiled. “Well, still better than looking like a corpse caught in a fisherman’s net.”

That’s practically what I was. “What was that place, anyway? It’s far too small to be a temple.”

Claude raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what kind of decadent temples you have in Guerron, but that’s about what you can expect here. A room in the front for offerings and quarters for the acolyte running it in the back are about as big as anyone would be able to afford down on the south side. Even with generous benefactors.”

“Why not use the actual Temple of Levian? No one seems to be occupying it save impudent ragamuffins whom I’m certain have no legal claim to it.” Those vile children threw rocks at me for asking a simple question. “I would be delighted to help you clear it out, if that’s the issue.”

“Nah.” The acolyte waved his hand, as if swatting an imaginary insect aside. “Not my decision, but I’m sure the elders have a reason. Probably way too expensive to maintain, if I had to guess. Why bother with that crumbling monstrosity when small temples in town are closer to the people anyway?” He shrugged. “Or there’s some other reason I don’t know about. Maybe it’s cursed.”

This whole fucking city is cursed, blighted by the stench of failure. And despite springing from her mother’s temple, these acolytes seemed to have little interest in doing anything about it. “You can’t neglect symbols of power, even if it’s expensive or inconvenient. Even if it’s haunted by the failures of sages past.”

“Why not? It’s not like they do anything real.”

“Are you serious?” Camille narrowed her eyes. “Symbols inspire. They sway the will of the masses to carry a cause, to support their rightful liege. Do you think tens of thousands of levies would march for their lord without his crest? Support a sage without the magic of the spirits behind them?” Do you think you could rouse anyone to action, after failing horribly and coming within a hair’s breadth of ignoble death?

Claude simply shrugged. “Like I said, not really a decision made at my level.”

“Well, turn your thinking around. You’re nursing a black eye and spent hours in jail because you pushed a Guardian into the sea.”

“Allegedly.”

“Allegedly,” she repeated as she rolled her eyes. “Why, exactly? What motivated you to risk your safety and freedom?”

“None of your fucking business.” He sighed. “Not some bloody symbol though, that’s for sure. It was concrete. Something you could touch.”

“Palpable,” she supplied.

“Palpable, sure.” He reached for the front door. “Speaking of, grab that bag. I’m a day behind on my rounds, and seeing as I just pulled your ass out of jail, I figure you can help.”

She bit her lip. I’m not your servant. There was no reason she had to help him, and not all that much to be gained by doing doing it.

He had helped though. It didn’t cost much to show a bit of gratitude.

She bent down to pick up the satchel lying against the wall next to her and followed Claude out into the street.

The sight of it was almost blinding. The short buildings of square cut stone seemed much the same, but each of them looked as if it had been scrubbed free of grime this very morning. And the people! Camille could not boast the same knowledge of Avalon fashions that she might of her homeland, but the elaborate trim and glistening jewelry on the collars of passersby could hardly belong to the same sorts that had once lived here. “Did you say this was the south end?”

Claude nodded. “Not what you expected?”

Not what I remember, she stopped herself from saying. But even that wasn’t true, not when Mother had forbidden her from ever venturing south of Fuite Gardens by land. “I had always thought it was…”

“A broken garbage heap of poverty and despair?” Claude chuckled. “You’d be amazed at how far being the only intact part of the city gets you, especially once all the Avalon gentles started settling around the Governor’s Mansion.”

“Gentry,” she corrected. “A commoner by legality, with no noble peerage of their own, but who still has sufficient lands to live off of the incomes thereof.” In practice, that mostly meant weak sages of lesser spirits, their lands centered around tiny creeks or modest forests and hills, small enough that it had never been politically advantageous to grant them enduring titles. “Actually, I think a few of the old acolytes were gentry.” It was only a lucky few whose parents had cultivated the right relationships with the right nobles to see their child sent to the greatest temple of the greatest spirit in the Empire, but hardly unheard of.

“So like merchants then.” He nodded, confidently wrong.

Camille sighed. “A merchant works for their living. Like your Mr. Clochaîne, for example. No matter the bounds of his wealth, he remains of common birth, with all of its associated impediments. Backing the Acolytes is likely an exercise in gaining legitimacy, really. He has a surname, which indicates a certain level of—”

Claude laughed loudly enough to cause her to stop. “He didn’t inherit that. State papers were destroyed along with the castle, and the Leclaires took all the temple records with them when they fled. Those records are gone.” No, they lie, carefully organized, in a faded blue tent by the side of the Coulée in Guerron. “When Avalon came calling, Mr. Clochaîne gave them a name. Who’s to say where it came from?”

“He made it up? That sort of ruse can only ever last so long.” Just like Fernan, undone by sloppy table manners. He had probably made out almost as well as Lumiere from her ‘demise’, getting his sundial and favor with the most powerful remaining sage in the city. Lumière might even have granted him lands in the bargain, if the sun priest had been sufficiently grateful.

It was strange to think that if they met again, it might well be as enemies. The boy had a gentle spirit, and had performed admirably in the task she set before him.

“There weren’t many living nobles around to contest him,” Claude answered, jarring Camille out of her thoughts. “Wish my parents had thought of it.” He brushed the blue strand of hair from his eyes. “Baron Claude has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? Oh, or Count Claude! Get those sounds to… sound… similar. To agree with each other?”

“Alliteration,” she supplied, her mind elsewhere. “Indeed, ‘Count Claude’ could consider compulsory commands, codified to cultivate cooperation in crushing countless cravings, certain to consecrate your control as competent, and celebrate the contentedness of Count and country in conjunction.”

“Nicely done.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “The Baron title is only used in Avalon, anyway. It’s descended from the old northern dialect of their language, roughly equivalent in prestige to a Count.”

“Uh… alright?”

Camille bit her lip. “Are you sure it’s mostly gentry from Avalon that settled here? Not wealthy commoners or proper titled nobles?”

“I don’t know; I think so, yeah. None of them make us call them Lord or Lady Whatever, but I’ve never seen any of them working either. What difference does it make, anyway? Gold is gold.”

She sighed. “It’s not about gold; it’s about society. Structure.” She picked up a sharp rock and began sketching a drawing onto the stone wall next to them.

“Why are you drawing the entire continent?”

“To make a point.” She finished the sketch and circled the area around Malin. “Armies aren’t easy to pay. Even peasant levies need to eat, and the favor of their liege must first be won before they can be fielded under your banner. Absent a strong state, numerical superiority can only be amassed through cultivating noble favor. Even those sworn to your service must be placated lest they turn their coat, or simply sit the war out.

“The Fox Queen had more power centralized in her own hands than was common for the time, but she still relied on retainers to make up the bulk of her army.” Camille drew an X slightly to the north of Malin, over the area of Onès, then a long ellipse down to the south, over the Micheltaigne Mountains. “How do you convince a Leclaire of Onès to risk their livelihood in a far away land?”

Claude blinked. “Ask ‘em at swordpoint?”

“That factor must always be considered, but it’s dangerous to do as a matter of course. If violence is to be the ultimate authority by which all other authority is derived, it can undo you just as easily. The coerced nobles might look to depose you rather than fight your wars, for example. How else?”

The acolyte massaged his bruised eyes. “I don’t know, money?”

“Certainly. The Fox Queen must ensure that she has the resources to fund her armies. But her personal lands draw only so much income. To overtax them could mean revolt at home, and diminish her own standing among peers. Thus, enter the spoils system.”

Claude tilted his head.

“Paying professionals to serve you is enormously expensive. Tipping favors towards nobles to gain the use of their household troops and levies, less so, but still overburdening at scale.” She drew a line between Onès and Micheltaigne. “By granting those under your aegis the lands they conquer in your name, and the greater part of their incomes, one can maintain an enormous array of forces for a pittance. Doling out lands that aren’t yours to begin with binds your subordinates to your cause without costing you anything in the near term. Do you understand?”

“Just forget I asked. Khali’s curse. I’m already a day behind on all of this.”

Camille sighed. “Don’t you see how this applies to the Foxtrap? It’s a measure of how centralized Avalon’s state apparatus is that this place isn’t crowded with Earls and Barons granted lands for their part in the Conquest. Lyrion was taken just a half-century earlier than Malin, but the place is crawling with Avalon’s petty nobility. If it is the gentry that bring their carpetbags to Malin, no doubt currying favor with Lord Perimont, then that tells us everything about the base of his power.”

Claude slammed the back of his head against the wall.

“It all descends from Cambria and the King, Claude. If what you’re saying is true, Perimont’s foundation hangs by a thread, propped up only by the Territorial Guardians connecting him to King Harold and Cambria. I would need a full tally of his household troops to be certain, but I think—”

“Be careful what you say, here,” he hissed, gesturing at the well-to-do milling about the street.

Camille took a breath. “Right. Of course. I got a bit carried away with the possibilities.”

“If you say so. Gotta be honest, not sure I totally understood that. But I’m glad you’re happy about it.” He held out his hand for the rock, which Camille gave him. “Too many people are willing to ignore Perimont just because it’s easier.” He scratched back and forth across the sketch until the map was completely unrecognizable. “It’s such bullshit. Half the acolytes are just happy as long as they can maintain some amount of stability. Even Ysengrin and the other people I know running with that crew all take their cues from the top. As long as they get paid, everything’s golden.”

Camille patted him on the back silently, not sure how much she should say.

“Let’s just keep going. Lots of time to make up for.”

“Where are we headed, then?” She felt the strap of the satchel bite into her shoulder. “What are we carrying, anyway? Cobblestones?”

“Please.” Claude held up his hand. “For now, just follow me. I can explain more once I know how much I should.” He continued walking, leading her further towards the water as the hot sun beat down on them.

By the time he called for a stop, Camille was slick with sweat to a distasteful degree, albeit still far more presentable than she had been a day ago. “What’s this, then?”

He smiled. “Got to explain things to the leadership first, and I happen to know they’re meeting here today. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was ratting them out.”

“Might they think that?”

He shrugged. “They sent Ms. Fields to pull me out, so probably not, but I suppose if they wanted to kill me they’d need me out of a cell first.”

Camille raised an eyebrow. “Kill you? That seems rather extreme for a mere… Well, I suppose I’m not quite sure what you did.”

“And it’s better if you don’t know. I’m probably going to be getting enough shit from them as it is. No need to make it worse by implying I blabbed too.” He stepped towards the door, placing his hand over the stylized Clochaîne Candles letters painted across the front. “Don’t worry, it’s not a big deal. You just always have to worry that someone will tattle whenever they get jailed. If I had, I’d deserve whatever they’d have coming. Nothing worse than a rat.”

“Hmm.” Camille followed him into the shop, practically glowing from all of the candles lit within. Many burned in different colors, emitting different scents, but the largest crates were simply for practical lighting, as were those in the sconces above.

Behind the desk at the back was a man in a tailored matte black coat, steepled fingers each sporting a golden ring. A deep green hat sat on the desk in front of him, the sort of green that only Arboreum dyes could reliably produce. Each item individually was bespoke, well-crafted and not without a sense of taste, but the net effect was too much. A ring on every single finger? It simply wasn’t done. He looked as if he had researched the most tasteful and expensive items in fashion and tried to wear them all at once.

“Mr. Clochaîne, I presume.” Camille dipped her head in greeting. “You have a beautiful storefront.”

“Thank you,” he responded, rising from his chair. “Claude, would you be so kind as to introduce this young lady?”

“This is Carrine,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “She’s a sage from Guerron who’s come to lend the Acolytes her support.”

“Very good.” Clochaîne held out his hand, which Camille now knew to shake lightly once before withdrawing her own. “I know Phillippe will be delighted to have the help. He can fill you in on things once Claude takes you to meet him. As for you…” He turned to Claude. “First, I would like to know what you were thinking.”

Claude gulped. “Well, I should start by mentioning that it was her plan. She came to us, and it seemed really promising. Ysengrin gave his full support, and offered to cut me in. It seemed like a good way to—”

“That’s enough.” He clasped his hands together. “The issue isn’t the plan, but the fact that you chose to involve yourself. Do you realize the importance of boundaries?”

After a moment passed and Claude didn’t answer, Camille realized that she was the one being asked. “Of course,” she replied, slightly unsure why he had turned to her. “Everything in its proper place. It’s the only way to keep things organized. Compartmentalized.”

“Precisely.” Clochaîne smiled. “When compartments which are kept separate for good reason find themselves melding together, it can cause all sorts of issues. Take the Acolytes, for example, a noble organization who have long outgrown their dubious roots as an arm of the Leclaires’. They protect the cultural heritage of Malin, they provide offerings and aid to those in need, and they keep themselves out of trouble.” He turned back to Claude. “Ysengrin is none of your business, nor any of his crew. How can I support the Acolytes before Perimont and his ilk with louts like you stirring up trouble?”

“I…” Claude flicked his eyes to Camille, but she had nothing to offer him. “If it helps, now I know that—”

“Fuck what you know now! If you want to run with those people and get yourself into trouble, you can do it without implicating the Acolytes. Phillippe will tell you the same. Maintaining the balance necessary to operate is difficult and expensive enough for both of us without this sort of idiocy.”

“I mean, I don’t think it’s that big a deal. Ms. Fields pulled me out in less than a day, and Ysengrin—”

“Enough.” His voice was calm, but it was enough to silence Claude. “An acolyte cannot engage in such schemes, especially one foolish enough to get caught. You have a very simple choice before you, Claude.” He held up a pair of scissors, tapping them against his head. “Make your order proud.”

“Yes, Mr. Clochaîne,” he squeaked out.

“You are dismissed.” He turned back to Camille. “I apologize for giving such a first impression. We shall meet again once Phillippe has filled you in on how things work here. We are grateful for your help.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

Camille thought it better not to speak more until they were outside the shop once again. “At least you’re alive,” she told Claude, who looked on the verge of tears. “That’s something.”

He sighed.

“Trust me, it’s easy to take survival for granted.” Being yelled at hardly compares to a ball of lead piercing your shoulder. “ He didn’t even cut the blue out of your hair.”

“Phillippe probably will, shortly before throwing me out onto the street. At best, I’ll have to spend the next year down on my knees, cleaning up all the offerings.”

“Sorry.” Camille shifted her eyes, checking that no one was close enough to listen in.

“Now that you’ve talked to him though, can you tell me what happened?”

“Ugh, yeah, I guess.” He slammed a fist against his forehead. “Fucking Florette. I never should have listened to her.”