Chapter 18 - Benko Gambit

AUDIVA ROCALE

* * *
Julia
* * *

I nudge a piece of broken pottery aside with the toe of my boot. Hm. Rather nice, from an early Lyiannethe dynasty. Such a shame it had to go this way. No real tragedy to me, though - the only reason I'm such a pottery expert is from the amount of estate treasures that have been broken in the course of my duties.

I'm called in when there's nowhere else to go with a situation, when everyone else's skills and options have been exhausted. It's nice to be called in right at the beginning of an incident - but rare. Makes me wonder just what that Poet King thinks is gonna go down here. Not that he could tell us, though. Poets are good for fair warning, which is why I'll still stand to take one or two along with me on a mission, even after seeing what a mess they can make of things. But when it comes to specifics...they can be fucking mysterious, man. Something about 'ruining the suspense', or 'making it a good story'. I've lost good men in 'good stories'. I'd be bitter, but it's my job, and it's my black, hidden world of intrigue. Grisly death is a part of that territory - sometimes, a welcome part.

We're still trying to comb through this entire complex. Something tells me we'll never see the end of it - the Peacock King's got a few dimensional rifts set up as wards, and they make for a lot of complex space to deal with. Nothing we can't crack, but it takes time and effort that might not even be worth it. There's evidence of his misdeeds here, to be sure, but like that'll really matter for anything. The Judge already split Ebrellin-i's head open and looked in himself. There's more evidence between the monarch's ears than we'll ever find in his Palace.

Not that it made his Trial very satisfying, but I don't question the Judge when it comes to his decisions. That's not my place at all. It's just my place to do all the things on behalf of Justice that he'll never admit actually happened. A fun job, to be sure, with not much glamour, a bit more quiet than the uninformed would expect, and not without some small bit of satisfaction.

Lute grins from the shadows. "Took out more of those hiding guards." I hear a blade wipe itself clean against soft fabric, and know that the only reason my ears register it is because Lute allowed the action to be audible. "They're gettin' pretty clever. I'm proud of 'em."

I nod. "Glad you're having fun." I tilt my head, listening to the shadows. "And what of the rest of your division?"

"Split up. Everything's runnin' that can run. Groups aren't a good idea. Everybody's scattered everywhere. I guess to the casual observer it seems like the whole Palace is empty. 'Cept for the audience hall. We ever gonna finish clearing that out?"

I sigh. "I have priorities. We've moved out the most important ones. I'm not going to risk the whole mission for a couple of wayward pixies. Besides, we can't even get some of them to move, even if it's for their own good. Fucking Ebrellin-i. Couldn't just play with his toys like a nice boy. He had to break them just to see the pieces scatter." My voice is just as even-tempered as it always is, even though the conversation's struck a nerve. "I'd like to know just how we're gonna ask a dragon to talk to the King's 'pets' while we're already busy mopping this infernal place dry."

"Eh, one thing after another, just like Dad would say. Hey, at least we got plenty of time, right? Anybody that knows what happened to this place is already dead. By the time word gets around to somebody who can do something about it, we'll be gone." He sounds so happy, so confident.

So much like the now-dead boys I've fought beside. I don't comment, and think back on the Judge's instructions. Clean the place up. Make it presentable. Have Iaen greet whoever shows up that's of enough importance not to kill. Don't betray what we have done, at all costs.

Be prepared to revert things to a more permanent solution if Radia cannot return Audiva Rocale's King to her soil.

I sigh, dragging my fingers through my hair. Gwen rattles politely, reminding me that we have things to do. I pat the razor-sharp length of chain hanging at my side.

"Time to start drawing things together. Perimeter fortifications first, then we gather the floorplans, and we can eat before we start drawing them all together. I want to know this place inside and out. We all will, before the night is through, or we don't sleep."

Lute's already off before the last sentence is through. He knows how that one always ends. Speeding things along, is he? Well, good. He's too lazy not to feel motivated to catch more z's.

* * *
Lute
* * *

Now's a good time to case this place, just to check for anything amiss. I always have the feeling there's something wrong that I just can't quite sense, or that somebody's hiding somethin' from me. Julia calls it healthy paranoia, befitting my job. Sometimes I think it's somethin' else. But I have too much of a job to do to be a Poet, too. Let my brother fulfill that half of our potentials. I'm certainly the only one out of us two pod-peas that's ever gonna be Armed.

So hey, we have...lots of broken stuff around the entryways. That really ain't gonna do. You know, it's our job to be the cleaning crew, but nobody ever cleans. Is it my job to mop up after everybody like this, pick up the loose ends? Cuz it feels just like home, man. Next thing you know I'll be cookin' the bacon.

Here I am, then, Mister Superspy, all decked out in black with shadows stickin' to my clothes still, and I'm weilding Arms? Nope, I've got a hand-broom and a dustpan. Hey, somebody's gotta do it. I start sweeping porcelain statue chunks out of view from the main entrances. If somebody that we can't just kill off checks in on the Palace, they're gonna notice if stuff's broken and if the rugs are all twisted up and ripped.

A soft clap, as if through leather gloves, applauds my labors. A low whistle lends itself to the fanfare. "You should really have gone into interior decorating." The tone's down-to-earth enough, considering the speaker, but it's still so haughty that I wanna punch the guy. Ahh, Aaren. The only Xaillyndesse Armed I think we'll ever have, and thank the Creator and all his really annoying servitors for that. I mean, Aaren's okay and all. He really doesn't prance around like his family does, just keeps it to the same level we all do it at. He doesn't even claim Xaillyndesse heritage, took his mother's surname, Voitre, instead. Not that changing his name got rid of all the snootiness, but hey, it was a start.

Anyway, he's pretty understated for one of them. Shaggy black hair, chin-stubble that's halfheartedly trying to arrange itself into a goatee formation, droopy blue eyes that the girls go crazy for. Can't really blame them, he's a pretty good catch. Too bad he swore he'd never go out with me again after I stabbed him in the ass with Kuroroi. It was just a poke. Shit, you'd think he'd never tried to make a pass at an Akribastes before.

I flick a shard of porcelain at his stubble-swarmed face. "Yeah, well, I figure a few throw-pillows and maybe a skylight, and this place'll be good as new. Maybe switch out for some spring fabrics and go for hardwood floors instead of all this marble tile. Give it some atmosphere, ya know?"

He raises an eyebrow at me, then goes back to his work. "Yeah, well...whatever," he grumbles. He carves a line over the threshold of the doorway he's working in, etching sigils and words of power into the wards he's building for us. Must be nice to be a Poet, sometimes. There's a lot of knowledge you can control, if you go through all that training. Guess Aaren's lucky - he did all that before he ever trained for Armed. He was a little skittish of Dad, you know, but Jhe Elete's been a good friend for Aaren, and I guess he helped convince him it was all gonna be okay, and if Dad killed Xaillyndessen on sight, we'd be minus one Poet King.

S' probably how it went down. I'm glad, anyway. It's hard to find Poets that blend with Black Ops. Poets who go Armed usually end up like...well...uh, Gerald.

You know. All "let's go to jail every three days and make a whole city explode just to prove there's something messy going on that shouldn't". I'm not saying he can't be subtle, or that Poets can't. It's just...well, Mixed are usually kind of...not-very-subtle. They can usually stay by themselves and be quiet and do their duty, but with teams...things get a little messy, you know? I guess Gerald was kinda screwed when Lyric showed up here all of a sudden. If he hadn't, well, maybe Gerald would have stayed undercover. None of us would be here, and he'd still be spying. It sounds a lot less messy, and a lot less interesting, and a lot less crazy. Therefore, a lot less like a job a Mixed would do.

What was I sayin'? Oh yeah - Aaren. Aaren's a damn subtle guy. I'm not sure how he landed the Poet schtick in the first place. But he's fucking good with words and signs, and he can always manage to be quiet, and I've never heard of any explosions happening around him that were his fault. Or that even weren't his fault in that way that they probably, through some crazy causality nonsense, actually were. He's the real deal. Always gets his job done, super-dedicated, always thinks of the team and watches our backs. Super-quiet, almost too quiet, but hey - you can't be too quiet in our division.

So yeah, that's what I'm thinking about right before the fucking doorway explodes, rubble flying inwards through the newly-formed dust.

Fuck. Isn't that always the way? Everybody's gotta make a mess after I sweep.

* * *
Xen
* * *

Cleanup is a dirty job. I'm sure you've heard that before. It goes double for myself, however - I get the dirtiest jobs, doing Jhe Thelea's personal work. I wouldn't have it any other way, though. I love it.

I toe a piece of rubble to the side. That was Ebrellin-i's front door, wasn't it? Well, it was just crawling with roaches. I nudge a hand to the side, which is in fact attached to a wrist, and that wrist leads underneath rubble.

I raise an eyebrow. Is that one of my own...why, yes. I recognize him very well. Aaren. It would be a pity if I had actually killed him. I check around, but there's no other bodies, and nothing alive in sight. Good. I'd not want any of the invading forces to see this. I push aside rubble, taking care not to get my cloak too dirty. I hate getting dust on the fine silk lining. It leaves such inelegant marks.

I pull Aaren out by the shoulders, looking over his long black-clad body. He has suffered no harm - no major harm, that is. Good. He's always served me so well.

I take him back to Thelea and I's little carriage, then, to see how much more use I can have from him. Every war must be fought with specialized tools if it is to be won.

The next bits of destruction can carry on without me for now, in any case. This is only the opening movement - I shall conduct the crescendo directly.

* * *
Lute
* * *

Bastard and a half - not just a good curse, but an adequate description of the two people I just watched leave the scene. Lucky for me I'm so good at hiding myself. I'm barely even hurt - a broken ankle won't hinder me nearly enough to make me useless in combat. Especially if even Kommissar Xaillyndesse didn't see me just now. I cloak myself in shadows once again and follow him directly, after communicating with the tiniest nudge to Julia that I am all right, I am leaving in pursuit of a suspect, and I will not communicate anything again to her until it is safe to. All de rigueur, but I prefer to be polite in my comings and goings, just as Dad taught all of us. Also, I'm fleeing from an imminent battle, and I feel very bad for that, but I know my place, and it's in staying unseen while witnessing secrets that our enemies don't want told.

So that's why I'm not there when the bloodshed starts. I still feel torn about it, but I am confident that I performed my duty adequately, as the Judge would have wanted.

* * *
Dooley
* * *

It's a bit of a privilege that we were even allowed to remain here when Jhe Wysthaven's squad took over and the Peacekeeper departed, so I'll make no complaints abut our roles, or how much danger we might be in. It is the life of the Armed to be in the way of harm, to live in danger so that others will not have to. I have no regrets at all, something I'd like stated up front.

We were considered expendable because we were Camden's regiment. No love lost there, yes. We're the first to die when Lyiannethe forces close in, flooding through the broken front gate and the nearby side entrances. There's a scuffle that I hear of from the entrances farther down from the front, but that's shortly before everything goes black.

We're outmatched, and we all know it. There's too many, and the soldiers who hang in the shadows have the advantage over those of us who fight in the open. I wish the best of Jhe Wysthaven's squad, then, as we don't put up much a fight in the grand scheme of things. As I said, however, I have no regrets. I take down as many of the enemy as I can. My lance cuts into as much flesh as it can before I fall, and Harper grumbles no bitter things into my ear as I die.

I suppose, in the end, we're very simple creatures, we Armed. We fight, and we die. But we fight well. It's all that distinguishes us from the rest of humanity, and it's all we need.

* * *
Iaen
* * *

The fighting's finally on, much sooner than anyone expected here, and what do I do? I immediately get shoved back into a safe place, something that disgruntles me in no small way. But it's my role, and I knew that when I came here. I'm supposed to pose as the King. I can't be out there drawing blood with my knife. Gotta hang back. Protect the role. I could be invaluable, later in the game. That's what castling the King's all about, isn't it? In the opening movements, the endgame lays itself out.

At least, I hope so, because I hate a game where the Kings never get much play. It's always boring, and I didn't choose this job for its scenery.

Can't say much about what happened on the front lines, though, since I'm in the Jhe o'Sul's personal study, heavily protected, while all of this is going down. I get so antsy during this part, even as I outwardly keep the composure that the Peacock King himself would present to the rest of the world.

* * *
Julia
* * *

The remnants of the Peacekeeper's division would argue that I tell lies if I said that I was sad to see all of them die. It is the truth, though. I wish it didn't have to be that way.

This, however, is my battle, which is why we cleared the field of Camden and his wounded lads in the first place. I overlook the end of the slaughter, silently giving orders to my soldiers even before the last of Camden's ceases to breathe. We counter just as quickly and quietly as we do everything else.

These are Xen Xaillyndesse's men, that I can tell. I recognize the heavy black coats and the curt, brusque movements of his enforcers. They're tough bastards, damn good at shielding, and perceptive demons to boot. We wait for their next move. It's expected, but brutal all the same.

"Erase them." One says it. It's the only words I hear spoken by any of them. An enforcer follows suit by holding his two-pronged military fork against Dooley's neck. The soldier's brows knit as he focuses the energy of the weapon. Then he loses his fucking head before he can 'erase' anything.

Did Lute do that? No, he's away. Some other soldier of mine, then, that's so good at hiding his identity that I don't recognize him. Then Xen's soldiers start dropping like flies for a few moments before they get the idea that maybe they ought to leave our fellow Armed's bodies the fuck alone. A few of my men are able to drag the corpses away, sinking them down through the floor in puddles of liquid shadow. It's very elegant. It's the last coherent part of this battle. I'm glad we got the bodies to safety before the next detonation, which makes the ceiling above us crumble and takes out two of my men who were using the buttresses as hiding places. One's gone permanently, but it's a weak one I won't miss. Maybe next time around, Camden can have him.

The other gets pretty badly hurt, but he can still fight, and that's all that matters.

My own arm wells up a line of blood, straight across my left bicep. Damn, the Kommissar's brought shadows of his own, and we've not warded this Palace well enough yet to have an advantage, it seems. Aaren Voitre was on that task - where is he? He's the type to be in the thick of it, all young and green and ready to hone his weapon on anything that moves. I'd love to see that spear-tipped whip-chain snake its way around a few of our enemies right now. Schiphael moves more beautifully than even Geillg'a, when Aaren takes the time to weild his Arms properly.

In any case, there goes the ceiling above us. This is a multi-floored Palace, though - the explosion carries up into the roof, sending not only more plaster, but also terra cotta roofing tiles, down on our heads.

Well, they would be on our heads, if we were anywhere that our heads could be seen from. The walls and doorways are safer, and the astral spaces between them even more so. Everything we do is punctuated by another explosion, though, and soon those spaces become less safe. Ebrellin-i's defenders are decimating his Palace, but it's a solid strategy - it's a good way of decimating us.

I feel Raven die, and I'm not even sure how he managed it. That's strange. He's always been pretty good at not dropping dead, so this is an uncommon slip, for him. But hey, I could be the next to go. None of us rule our own deaths out, ever. That would be foolish. I almost bite it, at that. The next blast loses me an arm.

But not an Arm, and I strike back at the enemy soldier who detonated that blast. Gwen bites into him, sinking her daggerlike links into his neck and turning his head a full 180 degrees further than it should naturally rotate. I'd be dead in the next second, by backstab, but a Poet nudges me right then, and I duck. Ah, that was Cary. You darling, I didn't think you cared. I whirl in a circle and take the neck of the man who almost carved a fucking hole in my back.

I get the barest sense of a bow from Cary, and then nothing. Smart boy. He's always been stealthy. Damn near fucking invisible, for a Poet. I'll never argue against posting a pure Poet with an Armed brigade again, not after having him on my team for this many years. He is a godsend and then some. He's giving us more than a fighting chance, I wager - there's too many near-misses and narrow escapes in this battle for him not to be doing his job. Shame there's only one of him - but he can't watch everybody's back, even if he's ambidextrous and can write with two quills at once. There's just too many of us.

But I approve of a bit of rank-trimming in these situations. Let the weak catch the bullets - it strengthens our ranks. Shame about Raven, though. I won't allow him to live that down, if he ever comes back.

Some don't, no matter how much we try. But some I don't really care to have back, and that's why I'm the biggest bitch to ever set foot in Tesynnodai's Hall, or so I'm told.

There goes the last remaining buttress, right into my shoulder. Doesn't even bruise, so Cary's still doing his job. I feel a bit shoddy, getting hit this many times. I shrug off losing a limb like it's merely a broken nail, but this is a bit perplexing. It's not sloppy, it's just...

...There are more severe casualties in this battle than would be reasonably expected. Cary? What are we dealing with? I dodge a few enemy shadows, snaring one by the ankle and dragging it into the open just in time to catch a few bullets with his throat. Perfect.

The voice that replies is barely a whisper. He's concealing himself, after all. I'm trying. Don't know what they're doing. Try to sing a tune in your head. Tends to work as a cheap counterspell. Cloaking again, Miss. And then I can't sense him at all, which means all is right with the world, really.

Hah. A song. Of course he'd tell me a Poet solution. But I chant the Radian anthem in my head, all the same, and pass on the word to the rest of my soldiers. It could just be my imagination, but after that, we stop getting hit so easily, and the stupid mistakes get a little smarter by comparison. The battle turns, or at least shifts a little, and we hold our ground.

We've got to keep our King piece safe. If for nothing more elaborate than the shock effect. That's something to work on, at least, until Xen Xaillyndesse himself enters the field. I sense him around, and I know of his taste for wetting his own military fork with blood. Sometimes that bloodthirst is so prominent that his own soldiers barely see battle.

* * *