Fernan IX: The Cooler Head

Fernan wasn’t shot out of the sky as he flew towards the mercenaries, which seemed like a good sign at least. It was impossible to know what they’d heard, but if he had the chance to explain things first, there might actually be a way out of this.

He descended slowly, a fair distance away from their camp, then walked the rest of the way. Best to avoid even the possibility of provoking them. He’d left Mara behind for the same reason, though she’d practically begged to come. If anyone had the right to confront the private army trying to restart the theft and exploitation of her homeland, it was her, but the risk of a confrontation was too high.

I must walk the knife’s edge, warding them off without making them feel threatened… Otherwise it could mean open war with Malin. If the orders Guy had given Félix were indicative of any kind of larger Imperial agenda, and every council meeting and consultation with Félix himself seemed to indicate that, then these coal deposits would be vital to the Fox-King’s initiative to match Avalon in mechanical might.

The mercenaries had been dispatched to restart the mining, to ensure no disruptions. King Lucien considered it important enough to hire out a private army, even as Avalon burned the Arboreum mile by mile, creeping ever closer to Malin. Discouraging them would not be easy, and if Fernan had any hope of managing it at all, he needed to use a light touch.

Meanwhile, Michel and Mom are preparing for my failure, fortifying Guerron against a full scale assault. Fernan couldn’t even say that they were wrong to do it, much as it pained him.

“Fernan Montaigne,” Ysengrin greeted coldly at the camp’s entrance. “Returned to laugh at us, have you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Fernan said, though he suspected that he did.

“No? Lying about snowfall closing in the mines slipped your mind? I had to explain to a few dozen hardened mercenaries why they wouldn’t be feasting and fêting at the Count’s wedding, as a favor to you, and it was all to send me on some doomed dragon hunt.”

Fernan winced, his mouth already moving to apologize before he shut it. I’m sorry, but if Guy Valvert had received an entire mercenary company right before the Montrouge trial, I doubt we’d have been able to stop it. Saying that wouldn’t do any good though, so after a moment, Fernan responded with a lie that wasn’t technically a lie.

“The weather has been shifting strangely ever since the sun was restored, especially with Gézarde trying to keep the autumn going long enough to squeeze out another harvest. Inconveniencing you was never my aim.” Even if it was a necessary part of achieving our goals. “There’s no cause to be angry, Ysengrin.”

“No?” He scoffed. “The mountains were cleaned out completely. A few frozen bodies in some of the houses, old enough to have seen the last darkness, but not a single living soul. No supplies, either, stores and crates and wagons were all conspicuously gone. Even most of the mining tools.”

Well, we weren’t just going to leave our only possessions behind. “I led my people into Guerron before the fall of darkness. Most of the other miners followed. Duchess Annette granted us space in the city to settle. None of that should be a surprise to you.”

“Then why did you send me off?” Ysengrin let out a wolf’s growl. “You had all the miners and equipment in Guerron already, you knew our job to get things running again, and still you sent me on a dragon hunt into the mountains. Why?”

Because I didn’t want you reinforcing Valvert as he trampled over Guerron. Because your job is to restart the thievery from the geckos that was so painful to stop. Apparently, that wasn’t as important as getting Valvert more fuel for his fanciful airship, or Leclaire more grist to build her war machine.

“Damn it, Montaigne! What is your game here?”

“A dragon hunt is for something that doesn’t exist, but the mines were there, right? It’s not playing a game—”

“At least respect me enough not to lie to my face. You wanted to get rid of us for a while, and you’re refusing to say why. Tell me, or I’ll have the answer from the Count of Dorseille.”

Well, that would be just about the worst possible way to deliver the information. If Fernan were a better liar, maybe he could have sold Ysengrin on the unpredictable weather and his good intentions, but it seemed it was too late for that now. “I already told you. That coal belongs to someone else, not you or me or Leclaire or Eloise. I was just buying enough time to get word back and work things out.”

“Buying time? Like we couldn’t have waited in Guerron for you to send your messages? You wanted us out in the cold.” He exhaled sharply. “And I’m not convinced those geckos are the full story either. Florette mentioned them, vicious little blighters, but nothing a good set of guards couldn’t hold off. Your pissant mining towns still managed it; I’ve no doubt the Châlice Mercenaries could.”

The heated words were beginning to draw mercenaries out of their tent, each of them slowly massing behind Ysengrin, hands ready to draw their weapons.

Why can’t you understand? “They’re not enemies anymore. This needs to be negotiated, not contested with force. I’m sure your employer would agree.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy with you pulling any of this.” Ysengrin glanced back at the mercenaries assembled behind him, then nodded to himself. “I see your bad faith, Fernan Montaigne, but I’m still willing to give you a way out. Open the gates to Guerron and let us inside. We’ll explain your conundrum to Count Valvert and wait for word from Malin before rounding up the workers. Satisfied?”

Maybe something like that could work, if Valvert were still in charge. Though if he were, he’d probably tell them not to bother waiting. As a prisoner, he wouldn’t be likely to put on any kind of ruse on the Montaignard behalf either.

The way out was closing, if it hadn’t sealed shut already.

“Guy Valvert is no longer in charge of Guerron. But if you’re willing to wait until—”

“Who is, then? His wife?”

“No. It’s…” What do I even say? “I can have the gates opened, if that’s the course we decide.”

A flash of confusion lit up Ysengin’s aura, but he stood firm. “I’ve seen thieves at the noose less evasive than you. If you won’t tell us, we’ll have to find out for ourselves. Mirielle! I want everyone ready to march before sunset. We’ll be returning Guerron to its rightful authorities and shoring up their command until further orders arrive from Malin.” He gave Fernan a burning, one-eyed stare. “With or without your cooperation. So I suggest that you fly off and get those gates open, or you’ll have to explain to whoever is in charge why a party under royal authority was denied access to do its duty.”

“Wait, please, you don’t have to—”

“Stop begging and get out of this camp before I have you removed.”

Despite himself, Fernan felt his eyes glowing brighter, burning hot enough that Ysengrin stepped back slightly.

“Careful, Montaigne. Fucking with a royal party is one thing, but if you lay a hand on us while we’re on the Fox-King’s business, Leclaire will probably feed you to Levian herself.”

“You’re making a mistake.” Fernan suppressed a snarl. “Gézarde is the sun, and he won’t take kindly to this.”

“Mining his lands? Maybe. That’s for Lady Leclaire to decide. Setting foot in Guerron though? I doubt it. You certainly won’t like the result, but spirits are beyond such petty human affairs. Now begone!”

Fernan turned his back on the mercenaries and blasted off the ground before they could have a chance to force the issue, wishing desperately that he could have convinced them better. This was growing into such a mess it was hard to see any way out.

What if we do let them in? Fernan considered it seriously, since it would mean averting a battle, but the fact was, as soon as they saw Valvert imprisoned and the Montaignards in command, they’d contest it then and there. And we would have invited them past our defenses to do it.

It was so unreasonable! All they had to do was camp in the pass long enough to work things out with Camille, who for all her faults would surely understand the need to respect the spiritual claims, and avoid incensing the sun…

Yeah, just like she did when Lord Lumière opposed her. Soleil’s claims had been a brutal dominion over deaths, not enriching food stolen by a lying charlatan, but would Camille Leclaire see the difference?

Fernan had to get back to the city, had to warn Mom and Michel that he’d failed, but he found himself flying the wrong way, towards the familiar crater where Lumière had grasped too far and lost everything. They’re expecting a fight anyway. I won’t be telling them anything they don’t already know.

Even months out, the scars of the fighting remained. Peaks and plateaus at odd angles littered the mountaintops, marred and carved apart by the power of the sun, thick dust still clouding the air whenever the wind picked up.

He found Mara exhaling thin lines of fire through her nostrils, writing her name on the ground.

“Looks good,” Fernan said, suddenly aware of how strange it was to be able to glean the meaning from text again. No one would ever write a book that way, but it was something, and it gave Mara a way to learn the letters at all.

She didn’t look up, continuing to spell out letters next to her name, not leaving enough space to make it immediately clear that they were different words. But after a few moments, the message became clear.

Mara will fuck you up.

Reuniting her with Florette had clearly been a terrible idea. “Impressive,” Fernan nonetheless said, since it was true and Mara deserved the praise. “You’re picking this up really fast.”

“I have to! Eleanor and Michel are working out all these contracts and terms and I need to understand it! We’ve been tricked before; it can’t happen again.”

It can’t happen again. She wasn’t wrong about that, yet it looked like several dozen armed mercenaries were about to try. “Mara, I couldn’t get them to back off. I think I only made it worse, if anything. It could mean a fight.” It could mean killing human beings because I didn’t leave when I was asked.

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Fernan tore himself away from the thought, since it wasn’t productive. There had been more at play, anyway, unless he’d been willing to let Montrouge die for Valvert’s whim.

“Good! We can make them pay for even trying.”

“Mara, this isn’t like the White Night. They don’t even care about the coal itself, it’s just a mission for them. If Malin ordered it, they’d stand down and forget your coal even existed.”

“If Lucien ordered it, they’d kill every last one of us.”

Also true. But he wouldn’t.

Right?

“Does the fact that they would follow orders they haven’t been given mean that they deserve to die? Do you think Florette and I would have been above that, even a year ago?”

“You weren’t a threat a year ago. And Father wasn’t the sun! He could wipe them all out before we even made it to their camp.”

And if that isn’t a terrifying thought… Fernan was not going to be the one to encourage Gézarde to go back to killing humans, even if he could understand why Mara didn’t have the same aversion to the idea. “He doesn’t like to get involved, Mara. If it really must come to that, I’m sure we can handle it without him.”

“I bet! We’ll burn them to ash!” Her point was accented with a puff of green fire from her mouth, strong enough to hold together until it slammed against the crater’s edge.

“Do not be so eager to slay with your own person, child of Gézarde. You may yet regret the blood that ends up spattering your mouth.”

Fernan nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound, flipping around to see Lamante’s sharp spirit body gazing down at him.

Is she really the one on my side in this?

“You can’t un-kill someone,” Fernan agreed cautiously. “Anything else can be taken back.” All the more so when you steal the face from the victim. If she hadn’t presented the lookalike face to them, Laura’s reputation would never have suffered. She wouldn’t have burned up her life and fled to ignoble exile.

And that face had a life once too. How would the girl whose form I took feel about her face being twisted into a weapon? Every mask on Lamante’s pack had some story, a human being who’d wanted to live and couldn’t even be granted respect in death. It was unnatural, preserving parts of a corpse instead of giving it to the fire, and disrespectful.

“It better serves our interests not to provoke open war with Levian’s girl across the river at this time. The conditions are far from ideal.” She lifted a mask from her pack, a brown-haired child barely older than Aubaine, and put it to her face. “I’ve been informed by reliable parties that you’ve been having some trouble, so drawn to conflict as humans are, and wished to stop Gézarde from sending his children into the fray. It would be wasteful and unnecessary.”

“Fighting usually is,” Fernan agreed. “I appreciate you giving that message to Gézarde.” If that’s actually what you’re here to do. I have my doubts.

“Fortunately, I’ve already dispatched a solution.”

“Really.” Fernan asked incredulously, his tone flat. What could you possibly have done to solve this, face-stealer? It was strange that she even wanted to, given who she was.

Smoke curled up from Mara’s nose. “You sent a message?”

“In a manner of speaking, though those of us bound to truth must take care how far we stretch our meaning. Better to say that one Citoyen Courbet is currently stealing into the mercenary camp to bring me Mirielle Delune’s head. I expect I’ll be joining her shortly, in an appropriately unassuming guise. Once Delune’s words are ours to command, the group can be ordered back with minimal issue, and no further spilling of blood.” She, with the little girl’s soft face, gave a dissonant, wicked grin. “So you see, child of Gézarde, there exist more elegant ways to solve problems. Indirect actions are often stronger than stepping in. If you wish to get ahead in this world of spirits and humans, you would do well to remember that.”

“No,” Fernan said incredulously, hearing the pitch of his voice spike. “That’s cold-blooded murder of people basically on our side. They haven’t actually done anything. You can’t do that!”

“It’s dangerous to lie in front of a spirit, sage of Gézarde. You would do well not to make a habit of it. I can, and barring unforeseen complications, I will. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a band of killers at hand when needed, and it accomplishes your goals of a near-bloodless victory.”

“Nothing about my goal has the word ‘near’ in it. Order Courbet back!”

Lamante pushed out her lips into a child’s pout, shrugging her shoulders. Her expression shifted to a grin that lingered on the mask as she removed it, setting it back in place on her pack. “I will be going now. I hope that you heed my words, child of Gézarde.”

“Wait, damn it!” Fernan jumped into the air and blasted himself past Lamante’s path, landing in front of her, but she continued walking right past him as if he wasn’t even there.

“This is our fight, Fernan.” Mara quickly skittered towards him, closing the gap that had opened between them. “If anyone else tries to steal what’s ours, they need to know they’re dealing with us. Not the face-stealer.”

“I told them, Mara.” It clearly didn’t sink in, at all, but they do know who they’re dealing with. “Please don’t start anything. There’s got to be another way out of this. And tell Gézarde?”

Lamante had been right to pass the message along, at least. The last thing this sizzling fire needed was a douse of oil on top.

“Fine. But if they come after our coal…”

“I know you’ll do what you have to do.” I just don’t want it to come to that.

Mara began calling down her father as Fernan made his way back, nearly too heavy to fly under the weight of his dread and regret.

There was more he could have done to try to stop the face-stealer, but he hadn’t. He didn’t know what to do, but picking a fight with Lamante now wasn’t it. As long as he found another solution before anything happened to Delune, it wouldn’t matter that she’d tried it.

Yet another shifting hourglass of destruction, time limited enough that Fernan knew he should be acting now, if only he knew the right thing to do.

Gézarde was still high in the sky when Fernan returned to Guerron, the midday sun illuminating throngs of Montaignards manning the city walls, some of them aiming pistols down at the pass below. Several large cauldrons were bubbling with sizzling oil atop their cookfires, ready to be poured onto any unsuspecting trespassers.

Fernan could see Michel helping to lift sacks of what looked like straw onto the battlements, probably for the decoy dummies they’d discussed making to thin out any arrows from below. Mom was talking to Charles about something too muffled to hear, and Fernan didn’t care to impose himself on them.

He found Maxime standing alone in the ruins of the court chamber, where Valentine Valvert had almost killed him less than a week ago, though it felt like far longer.

“Hard at work?” Fernan asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“I completed my objective: warning the people of Guerron of the impending assault and advising them to cloister indoors until the conflict is resolved. And—” He stopped speaking, turning his head to look out the shattered window, feeling the autumn winds whipping in from outside. “I wasn’t sure I could conscience another task, when all that remains are preparing munitions, or drilling soldiers, or boiling oil… Helping people secure themselves was easy enough, but I find it difficult… I… Well, I can understand the need to fortify, but such tasks are not the sort that I’d hoped to find myself doing, even after the tunnel assault on Valvert’s guards.”

“I understand completely.” Sometimes it feels like you’re the only other person who does. “I wish I had better news for you, but the mercenaries were completely obstinate. They want bodies in the mines or an aristocrat to tell them why they should stop, and we can’t give them either. And now Lamante is sending assassins after the mercenary leader so she can steal her face and call them off, and I couldn’t even articulate why she’s wrong to do it. I should have tried harder to stop her.”

“Citoyen Courbet?” Maxime shook his head knowingly. “I expect that all she asked in return were a few stories about Khali. Drawing blood for its own sake is more than enough in Condorcet, to my deep dissatisfaction.”

“I just feel like there has to be another way. If this breaks out into a fight, we could risk alienating Malin forever, drawing ourselves into a war we couldn’t hope to win, dividing ourselves when we need to be at our strongest to resist Avalon… If things go badly enough, Magnifico could escape, or die, and there’d be nothing stopping Avalon from invading tomorrow. They certainly haven’t had any inhibitions on that front for the other nations.”

Hands behind his back, Maxime spun around to face Fernan, aura burning a warm yellow. “Fernan, our positions are not dissimilar, but you must critically examine our situation, free of delusions. We stormed the palace and imprisoned the Lord of Guerron and his coterie. Lady Valvert is on the verge of death. We slew their guards.”

“I know… We have to find a better way.”

“You have to stop trying to solve yesterday’s problems, Fernan. You want peace, but what does that peace look like? Bowing before Leclaire and begging forgiveness? Hoping you can replace Valvert as a kinder soul?”

“It’s not what I want, but if it means avoiding a war with Malin—”

“I don’t doubt that you can do better, Fernan, but will your children? Your children’s children? In one hundred years, will the people of Guerron even be able to tell that once there was a revolution in their name?”

Fernan felt his eyes dim, struck by Maxime’s words. “This was never about throwing nobles in jail. We’re doing this to protect people. Isn’t an imperfect compromise better than bloodshed?”

“Fernan, you’re a Montaignard, and a kind soul, but sometimes it feels as if you’re a leaf in the wind. I hope you do not take offense when I say that you would do well to read more, by which I mean consume more books. I would be happy to read aloud to you, if time permits.”

“Um, thank you, but—”

“Kings convince us that their mandate is magical, blessed by forces far greater than humanity, but you’ve seen with your own eyes how little spirits actually care about our affairs. They claim that the hierarchy of our society is the natural and inevitable order, worth fighting to preserve, but the very fact that they must turn to violence to enforce it is proof of its fragility. Exalted leaders always employ such means if they feel that they must, and any challenge to their power demands it.”

“I don’t think that means we have to fight them.”

Maxime nodded. “With swords? No. But their words must be matched in kind, their grip broken. If you actually care about the people of this city, you’ll fight to build them a city free from callous misrule, to defend them from those who would exploit them, to ensure that the society we build does not decay and lapse into the perditious pits of immorality whose depths my homeland has plumbed so deeply.”

“I will. You know that.”

“I do now.” Maxime warmed, taking one step closer. “Blood has been spilled and enmity earned. We cannot pour out a tankard and then put the beer back inside. It falls to us to chart the best course available now, averting as much harm as we can. Letting our distaste stand in the way is only selfish, and I never took you for that.”

Could I bear to let Montaignards die because I wasn’t comfortable with Lamante’s plan to kill one mercenary, hostile to our interests? All they needed was for them to leave. Whatever it took to make that happen without bloodshed was surely worth it.

“I definitely try.” Fernan approached Maxime, feeling the wind bite into his bare arms. “You’re right. I’ve been keeping my head in the clouds as if this were a simple misunderstanding to be cleared up and resolved, but it’s not. We’ve already done the unthinkable, as far as they’re concerned.” He took a deep breath, resolving himself to his decision. “But Lamante’s plan won’t keep the harm to a minimum. It means killing someone, outside the battlefield no less, and weaponizing their form against them.”

Like we did with Laura.

“It does,” Maxime agreed. “An improvement over a siege of Guerron, but so very far from the ideals we strive for. But is there any alternative?”

“Yes.” Fernan nodded, mostly to himself. “I know a better way.” It’ll even give Mara what she wants. Like Maxime said, distasteful, but that feeling had to be set aside for the greater cause, and ensuring it lived up to its ideals.

But that was Fernan’s burden to bear, the only option left he could conscience.