* * *
Julia
* * *
Not much about this situation is coherent right now. I'm sorry. I try to make my reports as clear as possible. If it weren't for Cary I probably wouldn't be able to think straight right now. I can feel the touch of his quill in my movements and my Aim. That boy can make more sense out of a nasty battle than anyone.
Gwen whips around me in a razored spiral that flays several of the enemy. She's all I can see, really - all I can focus on. To be honest, she's doing the dancing here. I'm only following her steps. I've reached that point in a fight where the Armed is led by her Arms. It's an odd sense of detachment - relaxing. Arms always know what to do in a fight. There's none of that silly hesitation that lost me my arm earlier. There's only that gentle nip at my heels, reminding me to keep up the pace. Gwen is patient, but she is quick.
Why is Cary so prominent in my thoughts now? That's rare - he likes to stay back, not take the spotlight. He's more picky about not being seen than Lute is.
I need your eyes. Can you move to another room? His voice is soft and patient, less abrupt and more subtle than a whisper.
Now that's a strange request, especially from someone who knows just how many people I'm busy killing right now.
I'm writing the rest of the battle with my other hand. Already I've ensured that our forces will endure while you are away. I wrote it ahead of time. I really need you to be somewhere else right now. And just to sugar me up, Gwen disembowels some foolish combatant in punctuation of his statement. Aww, Cary knows the best ways to sweet-talk a girl, doesn't he?
Then write me there, if that's where I need to be. Asking questions would just waste my time. They're not necessary. Cary doesn't pull stunts, so this must be something important.
I press myself into against the shattered remnants of the ceiling, shadows pooling up over me and pulling me into the structure of the Palace. There's an abrupt shift signifying that I'm now in a different area of the Palace. Shadows rise up around me and lift me through the floor of the room Cary needs me to be in. I look up. Jhe o'Audiva Rocale looks down his nose at me. He does this from every angle of the room.
My apologies, mistress, but there's really no way to avoid him in here. Don't worry about the art attacking you as a security measure. It's all neutralized from your point of view - it's really a safeguard protecting this room from the dangers outside. In fact, this is theoretically the safest room in the Palace.
I raise an eyebrow. Ebrellin-i built a shrine to his own face? Typical of a Xaillyndesse. What good is this place to us, other than a safe room? It is remarkably safe in here. It's as if not even a mote of dust has fallen from the eaves, as much as our battle has shaken even the Palace foundations. It's impossibly quiet in here, as well.
It's a treasure trove, at least to its maker it is.
Really. I'd never have guessed. Good gods that life-sized statue is ostentatious. Is he really that tall? I'd never stood anywhere near the monarch, so the perspective is eerie for me. I only reach up to his waist. ...Given, I am what the Peacekeeper refers to as 'a wee lass', and so that says not-so-much about the Peacock King's stature.
It's not what you think. The paintings of himself are mostly a ruse, beyond the protective status they lend. The real treasure is hidden in the other artworks. I need someone to examine them. He pauses, trying not to phrase his words rudely. Carefully examine them. The artworks themselves will also be useful.
I snicker to myself. Does he expect me to destroy them so off-hand? Well, the fear is rather applicable to some of my soldiers, and our brigade is well-known for breaking the most shit on purpose. (Accidental damage is more a Poet dominion.) What am I looking for? My eyes scan over the many paintings, drawings and sculptures of the Peacock King's branch of the Xaillyndesse family. It's less well-represented than I thought. Ebrellin-i's distaste for his mother is well-documented through the discreet channels we listen through, but I still expected at least a miniature of her. Instead, I see only Jhe Katherine, her strange half-sister, and Jhe h'Logos. Something about these artworks is tugging at me, though - they have something in common. What is it?
My eyes widen.
You noticed too? I'm impressed, then. You see why these are so important?
My eyes narrow. What is the Jhe o'Audiva Rocale doing commissioning so many Poets? He's famed for being too secretive to allow that sort of art of himself and his close ones.
Up to no good, I'm sure. Look around the corner. Past the small oval-shaped portrait set. No, behind that one, in the shadows. Oh, my apologies - he's warded it from physical sight. Here-
I'm in a secluded nook of the room, rather out of the way and not obviously worthy of much notice. The space is surrounded by a mediocre little portrait set that convinces people to just overlook it. Cary's work reveals that the wall here isn't blank. There's a portrait here, but it's not part of the set. A stone drops in my stomach.
It's Jhe o'Radia.
Take it. Keep it as safe as you can. They'll need it soon--
I hear Cary curse so strongly that I almost hear the words aloud.
I wanted us to have more time, but you're needed outside, and if I distract myself with this then I might lose us the battle. Quick, take a painting of Rocsui-ehellenae. Any one will work. It'll be needed too.
I do so, smirking. Finally pulling that flaky 'I've got a hunch about something spooky' Poet shit, Cary?
Just do it and get out there. He sounds so annoyed at it that I don't even want to prod him any further. He needs his focus. And he's no good in bed when he's cranky.
I slip out the same way I came in, stash the paintings in a pocket space, and then sink once again into the cacophany of battle.
* * *
Lute
* * *
I'm incredibly lucky that the Kommissar doesn't expect to be followed in a teleport from his own carriage. I'm also lucky that because of this, I can stick close enough to him that I can slip by the wards we pass through. Wherever we are is pretty damn tight when it comes to security, but teleports are kind of funny. They weaken wards easily enough on their own, just as they easily give away travelers if anyone's paying proper attention to things. This is why Dad tends to just walk to most places in Radia. It's safer. For us in Black Ops, shadows make for a much easier, much more secure mode of transport.
Xen Xaillyndesse isn't so subtle, though. He's wearing black, yes. Big black coat, thick leather gloves, black boots. But it's not a very subtle sort of dress, especially with the crisp green armband bearing the seal of Audiva Rocale bisected with a military fork on it. His troops wear it as well, to signify that they're his. The Kommissar does have spies under his command, but when it comes to himself and his shock troops, he's not afraid to advertise at all.
We're in a large room shaped like a circle with the ends cut off. It smells like a laboratory, but it's not like the Jhe o'Sul's labs. There's less chemical smells in here, and more the subtle spice of incense, with faint background hints of metal and leather. It's extremely neat, and almost so tastefully decorated as to be a room in a house, but it's too sparse. The walls are dark mahogany wood, the floor tiled in circular patterns and spirals of ivory-gold and dark brown. After a glance or too, I discern that the floor pattern isn't just for decoration. Spells are laid into it and woven into the pattern. I'm not sure of their nature yet, but I take care not to actually step on the floor. This room is dark enough that I can stick comfortably to the shadows and not be detected.
A countertop cabinet sketches a broken circle around the room, the ivory surface of it clean and shiny. A few prods at the cabinet doors prove unfruitful - they're locked. I could get in if I wanted, or look in on their contents, but I'm afraid of giving myself away to the management. He's still in this room, after all, headed to one of the flat-walled ends. There's a huge black laquer cabinet and rack assembly there, covered in hooks and hangers and brackets. It's sandwiched by two apothecary cabinets. There's also--
I didn't just drop my knife in shock, I caught myself in time, I double-check myself just to make sure I'm still alive, and then I grab onto my nerves as tightly as I possibly can. Kuroroi mutters something in my ear, deep-voiced and worried. I nod to him, only half-listening.
Arms. Ah, that's what he said. I'm too busy trying to stay still and not heave. There's Arms stacked and hung all over that giant cabinet thing. I recognize at least twenty of them. My mind's filing quickly through missing agent reports. None of our core shadow squad, I think, but we've been told that some long-distance correspondences could have been forged, so what if they just weren't reported missing? It's been a damn long time since I've seen Avery, and that crossbow-dartgun hybrid looks like his.
I feel Kuroroi's query before he makes it audible to me. We usually communicate like that - all subtlety, not so much anything you could really write as speech. It's quicker.
There's more than twenty Arms on that cabinet thing. It's just...
Sorry, I just now felt Kuroroi try not to puke, and I didn't even know Arms could puke.
The rest of them are...broken. Mangled. Crooked. How the FUCK. How is that even possible?
I look at Schiphael in the Kommissar's hand and I have the awful aching realization that I might be about to find that out. I realize Kuroroi is clasped in my hand with an intent to be used.
I frown down at Kuroroi. We can't. We'll lose.
The voice of my Arms slices through my head, stubborn and precise. I can't let my comrades fall like this. I can't watch silently. If we're to be here skulking about, we might as well make use of it.
We can't be caught. Why is it I'm the one steadying you, anyway? It's the other way around, most times.
There's a chilly silence from him, and a feeling of being measured. They're not your kind. If they were Armed, would you stand by like this?
I contemplate that. ...Yes, if the stakes were the same. The Judge taught me to do my job.
And what is your job, then?
I smirk. He's playing with me. He never meant for me to jump out there and intervene. Kuroroi is making sure that I'm prepared to face whatever happens in here. To watch. To learn. And, at the right time...to sabotage.
Good. Then wait, and I will watch for the right time.
...I hope that time comes soon.
I inch along the walls towards Xen Xaillyndesse, trying to get a better view of just what he's going to try. We watch, tense, strung tight like catgut on a violin. Xen stares down at the countertop area of the complex cabinet. It's clear of Arms, and seems to be set aside as a workspace. He doesn't set Schiphael down, though. He lifts the handle of the whip up, staring at the Arms. The chain of the whip has retracted into the handle, its knife-barb tip standing up from the handle's end. In this form, Schiphael looks almost like a shortsword.
I don't understand why Schiphael doesn't attack, but I cannot ask him. Kuroroi's voice is gruff and angry.
I bite my lip. I really don't want to be on the business end of whatever Xen might have done to Aaren. On the other hand... Do you think Aaren could have made Schiphael stay still like that? That seems weird, though. Schiphael acted like he was protecting Aaren. I don't see how either of them could be traitors, but I don't understand why they let this happen to themselves.
Kuroroi twitches in the knife equivalent of a shrug. It's nothing I want to find out by watching, but I suppose we shall.
Xen smiles at the blade, his grin warping across the reflective surface. "So you say," he says in reply to something the whip must have said to only him. Then he sweeps the whip downwards in a snapping motion, stabbing the blade into the countertop. "Stay," he says, smirking, and then he turns his back on it.
Schiphael does nothing. Arms are fully capable of attacking without their Armed. Why isn't he doing anything? The Kommissar should be dead twenty times over by this point! Instead, the whip stands silently on the counter, as if it were an inanimate object. Not some sacred key to deadly arts, not some piece of my Father's self melded with the soul of an Armed. Just a regular weapon. That's the most sickening thought of all.
Kuroroi prods for my attention, then directs it towards the other Arms adorning the cabinet's shelves and hooks. I try to see what he's looking at. I could just use his eyes, but I'm trying not to. I don't want to use my Aim in here unless I absolutely have to. It might grab attention. The Arms that aren't mangled don't look abnormal. I can't talk to them and neither will Kuroroi - Xen might hear us. Still, they look...dead. That's the best way I can put it. Immobile, voiceless, unusable. Worse than Schiphael, who is just behaving and staying still for some reason that's beyond my reckoning. When I look at him, at least I get the feeling that he could move, if he chose to. These other Arms...what happened to them? I've never seen a weapon look like that.
Xen approaches the cabinets set in the broken circle, gloved fingers whispering over the smooth countertops. "Failure is so disappointing, Schiphael. I know you know this. Your patron feels failure quite keenly, especially when I'm the cause of it. Isn't that correct? Tesynnodai Akribastes takes things so very personally. I empathize. I, too, despise failure. Do you see the failures of your comrades around you? Those Arms are useless for what I want to do. But, they did serve their purpose to me. Tongueless and barbless as they are now, at least they had a point to their lives. You, too, will have one. Hopefully..." He draws up a vial, set with heavy brass fittings on each end of it. The substance inside of the vial is inky and black. "Hopefully you will serve it out fully. Hm. Don't need much of this, do I?" He squeezes out a tiny drop of the stuff onto his fingertip. It looks a bit thick for ink, but seems inert as it doesn't eat through the glove or anything. Its surface isn't shiny, either - it is leaden and grey.
I blink. I've seen that before. That's...that's the type of inky blackness that marks Nul's presence. I feel chilled inside. Kuroroi tenses like a bloodhound that's found its scent.
Xen only smiles, eyes full of malice as he inspects the droplet closely. He leaves the contraption on the countertop, then walks back to the cabinet rack. Schiphael glints up at him. He inspects the Arms with a cool stare, the smile gone from his face.
"Your comrades suffered. You can behave like a good puppy. I'll let you keep your Armed then."
Schiphael responds with the barest chinking sound as the chain of the whip rattles inside its hilt. But the whip does not attack the Kommissar.
You're not worth that much to me, says Kuroroi, and I learn for the first time just what Arms sound like when they lie.
You said you'd kill me before I ever turned. But would you...turn for me?
Turning is different than standing up under torture. The strangest things can become worth it, if you wait. Even now, Kuroroi sounds unsure. ...I wish I could ask him why he's doing this. Maybe if the Judge...
I blink. Is this truly an undercover mission? Would Father set up something this elaborate? Perhaps that's the most outlandish explanation for this scheme yet. Are we going to let this happen?
Kuroroi sends a cold chill through me. There's very little good I can find in not interfering, but it's marginally better than meddling right at this moment.
Xen reaches down, pointing towards Schiphael. He traces a thin line of Nul down over the hilt of the Arms. He continues all the way down over the shining blade. Schiphael does nothing in reply.
Kuroroi and I wait for something to happen. Time passes. Nothing. Xen smiles. "Good boy," he purrs, stroking his fingers down the unpainted side of the blade. He's treating the Arms like a pet. Kuroroi growls in the back of my head. "Now just keep staying still, and nothing happens to your dear sweet Aaren Voitre. Alright?" His voice is a mocking coo.
Schiphael doesn't move.
The inky form of Nul creeps over the weapon, wispy tendrils of shadow feeling out the texture and angles. The darkness concentrates around the hilt of the whip, encircling it as if it's taking a grip. There's a strange flex in the darkness of the Nul, as if it's squeezing.
Schiphael jumps, the tip of the blade not quite pulling all the way out of the gouge in the surface of the cabinet. The weapon shakes, the trembling almost restrained, as if the Arms are desperately trying to stay still. Xen only watches and tsks. "Now, now. You don't want me to do to your Armed what I did to their Armed," he gestures to the deadened Arms hanging around Schiphael, "do you? Stay still and let it take hold."
Schiphael continues to shake. To its credit, it never falls out of the gouge in the countertop. The Nul spreads over its handle, claiming more space, engulfing the entire hilt. Then, inexplicably, it retracts to a single bead on the surface of the blade.
"Very good. You're halfway there." Xen looks pleased as he grasps the hilt of the Arms, pulling it from the countertop. As he does so, the Nul swells over the blade, engulfing it in one swift sweep.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, forcing myself not to retch aloud.
Xen flicks the blade with his fingers, and with a 'ping' the Nul retracts into a tight little ball, like one of the bullets we load into flintlock pistols. It's roughly the diameter of a dainty woman's pinky nail. Xen palms it, the bead of seeming liquid now solid.
"There now. It's all over with." He holds the bead up in his line of sight, examining it. "Very, very nice. You did a good job. I daresay the Judge would be proud, disregarding a few key details." He raises his eyebrow at the Arms. "Oh? I didn't know you could be that eloquent. Still, you have no place saying such things about my mother. Aaren's her grandson, you know. That makes you related to her." He smiles. "And me, of course. Isn't that such a twisted family tree? In any case, you've fulfilled your use. I suppose the good thing to do would be to return you."
Xen stares at the whip, and the whip resolutely stares back.
"Such a shame," Xen says, and then cuts through the air with it before Schiphael can respond. Can I see the barest hint of effort in Xen's eyes? Is he actually suppressing the Arms with his willpower? I actually hope so. It would mean that this didn't happen because something's wrong with Schiphael. Even though that would mean that the Kommissar could do this to Kuroroi as well.
Kuroroi makes a gagging sound in the back of my mind.
I don't see what the cut has done, and then I do. He cut the very air with Schiphael. Arms are sharp. There's a bit of a rift in reality. My stomach lurches as the room...twists. Through the hole that Xen has cut is a space something that just looks wrong to me, and looking makes my ears pop and my balance go awry. He tosses the whip in. The rift seals itself.
Schiphael is gone.
"Goodbye," Xen whispers. He turns back to the workspace, balancing the little bead in his palm.
* * *
