Part 1 Chapter 1 - Mission Control

* * *
Gerude
* * *

The palace wards go down with an audible snap, as if all Iaen had to do to make it happen was snip a wire.

'Sssst. I told ya, Rudie, don't talk about me in your writing! Nobody's supposed to even see me!'

The folks in black ops are always so paranoid. Like anyone reads my stuff anyway. I'm sure the official people give it a dusting with their eyes, but come on. Gerald's the real Poet. I'm just the real cowboy. I mean, he gives that a good shot and all, but in the end he's just playin' dress-up.

...Man. He really knows how to make a proper mess, too.

I mean, look at all this. This throne-room, which is already starting to look like a fancy rummage sale/barracks combo. The ornate banners and rugs have gotten real dinged up and frayed, even burnt, by some of the random fights that have broken out. The servants keep on rushing us from out of nowhere, man. And some of those people know what they're doing when it comes to impromptu weapons. Aside from the expected stuff like knives and spades and staves, we have been attacked with ladders, broomsticks, candleabras, tea services, spike-heeled shoes, aprons (makeshift garottes), wigs, torches, torches made out of wigs, spaghetti, plates, saucers, teaspoons, pepper shakers, mousetraps, and corn. Not to mention the tamed animals that Faun didn't get to. They keep siccing them on us. I bet you didn't know that squirrels make capable guard dogs.

Now, it doesn't take too long to find a garden in this place. Say what you want about the creepy buzzard, (and Caerig and Kennit grumble in agreement with that particular description of the Peek) but he has good taste in decor. I keep forgetting that this place is enclosed at all. Everything's so airy and relaxing, feels so open - especially in these little pockets of garden I find in the rooms. One problem with it, though - well, besides mosquitoes. Easy to lose sight of where you came in from, and where you're going. The wards are down now, which makes it easier to, you know, breathe in this place, but that makes my tracking sense even rougher. All the astral stuff around here's pretty broken up, after all. I guess that's my excuse for why I didn't see the damn thing coming until it was on top of my head. To be fair, neither did my Arms.

There's the most horrible screech, like a baby being dropped onto a brazier. Then, without further warning, my ears burst into flames. Well, that's exactly what it feels like, and I'd know since I got so used to the feeling when Stevie learned to ignite people's hair at the age of three. (Look, I don't know. Dad thought it was funny.) They feel strangely wet for being on fire, though. So at first I think it's some sort of, I don't know, operatic tyrotyle, but then fire rakes down my face, and I realize it's talons attacking me.

I lose my balance between all the thwaps my head is getting. Like two guys are just hammering it with pillows as hard as they can. And whatever this thing is, it's heavy, and it's got a curtain over my head or something. I almost get knocked over. Trying to pry whatever's on me off of me just results in more of those spine-shredding screams, and a stab to the back of my hand. So, I figure I'll look for help, while this thing's eating me alive. I run back to the throne room, or at least where I think it might be. For all I know, I'm on the moon with this thing. Can barely see through the blanket or whatever it's got tossed over me. What the hell is this?!

I hear a couple exclamations of surprise, and they're not accompanied by cheers, so I'm pretty sure they're from Armed and not the Peek's servants (or from someone who knows me well enough to find this funny). I hope for some assistance, flopping around while this thing just keeps SCREAMING on top of my head, and then the fire is in my eye and I can't see binocular-style anymore. After that, my arms move on my own. I ignore the fire raking along my scalp as I rip the thing away from my head. It lands on the throne. Then Caerig and Kennit dispatch it like lightning, which tends to be the way Arms dispatch anything.

It dies in a flurry of feathers.

"Gerude? Oh god Gerude, your eye." A couple people rush up, try to dab at my wounded eye, try to give me some medical aid. I don't so much notice. I'm still gaping at that thing I killed on the throne. It's mostly a splatter of red, now, with blue and green down sprinkled around its carcass like horribly-timed confetti. The fan-tail sprawls over the throne like a drape of silk.

Bloody my bones, I've killed one of the Peacock King's peacocks.

* * *
Camden
* * *

While they're mopping up Gerude, I cast my gaze to the heavens and then prop up my glasses. Gestures such as that tend to make them slide off of my face.

I hear Jenny watching me from the side. Hear really isn't the word, I suppose. She can be so quiet. I should recommend her for Julia's squad, when the time comes. Though I wonder if she and Lute would get along, or if sibling rivalry would turn their black ops to gray.

I turn to her, raising an eyebrow. She returns the glance with a wicked grin. I shake my head and tap the space between my eyes, then point to the commotion around the throne. Have to watch for trouble, now. There's no time for fun.

She sulks, and I'm reminded of how much younger she is than me. ...Not all that younger, by other comparisons. Her parents themselves had quite the differential in age...though, I don't really want to think about that. I don't want to think about her parents. I don't want to become a red smear on the floor - though of course, I can brave any danger. Survival, however, is another story.

There is, altogether, far too much happening right now. Thankfully Dooley and Keith and their team are keeping track of things when it comes to the writing. They're all a touch Poet, but not too strong in the art. What I need now is focus, not foolishness. Gerude's incident just now makes me wonder if he's got extreme Poet potential, in fact. I'll have to approach Jhe 'hLogos Elete about that. He's always far too thrilled to take yet another Armed into that loony fold.

Not that I wasn't one of those aforementioned Armed. I just don't let it show. Dooley and Keith are also the same in that regard. Between the three of us, we might just get some sort of grip on what is going on in this madhouse of a Palace. It's time to get organized.

"Alright. The shadows can keep an eye on things up here, but I'd appreciate some also casting back to the places Jhe Gerald and Gerude have reported, such as the labs and the cage-rooms. Hold on the Jhe o'Audiva Rocale's bedchambers and personal living spaces until the rest is cleared out. I imagine we'll have the most trouble there, and it's always best to drive all the pests into one spot instead of letting them spread back and forth between areas. That goes for the rest of you lot as well." I clap my hands. "Remember! We're not here to conquer or siege. We're here to prevent chaos while the King of this land is taken to Trial. Until after his sentence, nothing definite can be planned. We are here to bring Justice to those who have been stolen away from the sight of it for too long. We are not here to kill anyone, so try not to make it necessary." I sweep a glare over Gerude's way. He's not paying attention. Well, fair enough, he's missing an eye now. Not that it'd matter to some warriors I've known. Everyone's different.

...Poet potential.

"I want three groups. First group is to follow the shadows very slowly and secure the rooms in the Palace to prevent incidents. Second group, focus on these newly-freed people and spirits and see what assistance you can be. We will be organizing an exodus soon. Keith will be leading you. Third group, form up under my command. We'll be ensuring that the people of this Kingdom don't riot." That will entail something a bit more elaborate than summary demands. "Dooley will be staying here at base, and I'll want a core of soldiers staying here with him to keep it secure and watch over the wounded. If you are wounded, see to it that you heal before you're up on mission again. We need focus and precision now, not just a bunch of live bodies who're liable to be clumsy and light-headed. Do you hear me? No heroics. I've had my damned fill of that today." I push up my glasses, letting that sink in. "The leaders of each team will pick their men. If you're not picked, stay here with the core team. Now, let's work."

* * *
Rocsui
* * *

The Peacekeeper organizes his ducklings very well. And good for him. This place needs organization. Management. Control. It needs it very much, because this palace was born to combat outside forces, no matter if Father's wards are hanging about all broken and shredded.

I shiver. This is my home. This is my home and it's beginning to dislike me, too. I've banded with the invaders, after all. Taken their sympathy, their aid. Their...company.

"Are ya feelin' alright, Roxie?" I suppress the crawl at the back of my neck from someone renaming me. It's nothing he meant like Father meant it. And really, it's nice to be called something that isn't what my Father branded me as.

"I'm fine." I stand, prim, posture perfect. There's so many strangers around me. They don't stare as much as I expected, but they do stare.

He cocks his head at me, eyes warm in that puppy dog way. He's looking at me strange. I fight down the automatic urge to tell Father that with my mind: 'Daddy, a man is looking at me with strange intent.'

I'm not his girl anymore. I'm probably no one's girl.

"I uh...Roxie, why are you lying about that?" He looks uneasy saying it. As you would.

I'm quiet, my voice stiffening in my throat. "You can...tell that? I thought you said you were only training as a Poet."

"First thing they teach us, and there's refresher courses if you go Armed, and plus...well that's a big part of being Armed, so...yeah. I can tell. You're not okay." He squeezes my hands. "What's the problem?"

"I..." My tongue won't move, as usual. He's gone, and the wards are in shreds, but some chains remain in place. "I can't talk about it. I'm sorry." I turn to look over at the Peacekeeper's group. "What's he trying to do? They're poking at the Throne."

"If you're hurt, you should stay with the wounded." He's the one that sounds hurt. I wonder what's upset him.

No matter about it, now. They're doing something important, but the Palace will eat them if they're not careful. "Come. Tell your commander I will help them. Be my Poet." His hand tugs away from mine, but I keep hold of it.

"I...Roxie, are you sure about that?"

"You're the only one here who gives a shit about me. Tell him I know where everything is." I know there's a way to put emotion in my voice. There should be a way. Father fixed that, is all. Maybe Jax can make it right, just as he made me right with his touch and his words and the way he moved. I can't even sound passionate about that, damn my Father.

"You do? Really?" He's incredulous. Was it so hard to believe?

"Yes. A canary knows her cage well."

* * *
Camden
* * *

A pity. I had almost managed to forget about Jhe Jaxhelshon. Now he comes marching up to me, like he actually has something of substance to contribute. Then again, the Jhe o'Audiva Rocale's daughter is following him, so that's likely an inaccurate assertion.

I level a look at Jhe Jaxhelshon. He immediately wilts, as he tends to do around me now, smoldering after he crumples. Then he balls his fists up and, to my surprise, looks me in the eye.

"Jhe Rocsui a'Audiva Rocale Xaillyndesse'ten desires an audience."

I raise an eyebrow. That was unexpectedly polite. I hazard a glance at the Xaillyndesse daughter in question. She hazards me one back, just as icy and calculating.

Hm. Perhaps I've underestimated her. Then again, her Father was quite cunning. Why shouldn't she have been granted that aptitude?

"Very well." I skirt a bow to the princess. "Would you prefer to take this matter to a more private antechamber, Jhe Xaillyndesse?"

Her eyebrows quirk together in something that is the skeleton of a dreadful scowl. "I need nothing formal out of you. You're poking around in my Father's Palace and as no one else is left to give a damn, that leaves me in charge of it. You could at least ask me where everything is, or what else I might know that could aid you." There's a sullen undertone to her voice, as if she's actually sulking over this. I wonder how old she is. She doesn't look much older than Jhe Jaxhelshon, but appearances can be deceiving, especially when the person in question has been so obviously altered in her essence. As strange as she may appear, with the feathers sprouting out of her every which way, I do wish my Armed would control their faces better around her. She looks strange, yes, but what in this place hasn't been strange?

I bow again. "My apologies, Jhe Xaillynde-"

A plumed fan stops me short with a tap against my nose. She unfurls it and then positions it in front of her face haughtily. "No-no, none of that, now. You may address me by what name I can call somewhat as my own. Rocsui. Everything else, given or grafted or otherwise, is useless and frippery, especially now."

I clench my teeth, then slowly work my jaws apart, keeping my words smooth with due effort. "Then I extend my apologies once again, Jhe Rocsui, and wonder how it is that you might aid us in our endeavor."

She's distracted now. Oh, blighted and blooded, she's completely scattered, isn't she? Her eyes cast over the throne, her brow furrows, and then she leans down and runs a finger over one of the peacock's stray plumes. "Thelea," she murmurs.

Quite a few starts and jumps go through our merry little group. I am the originator of one of them, truth be told. She looks up at me with a wicked grin.

"Oh, yes. This was his first peacock. He named this one after his mother. The first animal he ever tamed." She practically coos that statement. "Given immortality for its prized status...or perhaps because his mother simply would be insulted if the dratted thing died." She snorts. "Thelea's name was just as much a curse in my Father's household as I hear it is in Crux Radia. It's a shame Father loved the bird so much more than his mother. Otherwise I think he might knight whoever had the blasted aim to kill the poor thing."

"We'll have no more of that talk about my men, in exchange for no more talk of your Xaillyndesse heritage."

She replies with a flutter of her fan and a flutter of her eyes. "Oh? Darling, so sweet of you. I simply must accept. Now," she closes her fan with a snap, tucks it away, and gestures for Jaxhelshon to attend her, all in one smooth motion. "What was it that you were trying to do before we were interrupted?"

"We are about to begin looking for accurate portraiture of the Jhe o'Audiva Rocale." I clear my throat. She certainly...abrades. At least her Father attempts not to snap at his enemies when tact demands it. "Would you like to be of aid, Jhe Rocsui?"

She's absolutely radiant with her smile in reply. I notice, then, that a couple of my men are falling for her besides Jhe Jaxhelshon, and that's certainly all I need, isn't it? "Of course I would. If you're looking for portraiture, well..." she chuckles, leading us away from the throne's dais and off into an adjoining parlor. "...you couldn't have picked a more convenient King for it. He simply loves his face, doesn't he? A shame he hates the Poets so much, but he's found artists enough to satisfy his ego from time to time."

* * *

I've never seen such a broad celebration of a single person's face, let alone busts and full-body studies. There are even sculptures and statues. The gallery Ebrellin-i's daughter has led us into represents such a broad range of medium and style that it could be a museum in itself. I wonder what the Poet King would think of that...and then am reminded of just how much these two sibling Kings detest each other.

Still, there are some of Jhe 'hLogos in here as well. Younger studies, most of them. Both of the Jhe o'Audiva Rocale's daughters are represented, though I notice that there are no images of Jhe Rocsui before the age of what appears to be twelve. There are no portraits of any other Xaillyndesse.

One of my Armed gazes up at a life-sized statue of Ebrellin-i in full imperial robes, carved out of marble so finely that it glows transparent through the more thin, delicate sections. "I'm pretty sure this room'll have enough for me to work with." He snorts. "There's even sketches of the gestures he makes."

I nod, propping my glasses up on the bridge of my nose. "Are you sure it will be adequate reference for you, Jhe Duhaine?"

Iaen grins back at me, his face already growing a nose too large and refined to be anything but Xaillyndesse (but only because the Akribastes line tends to produce a much girthier nose). "I've worked with lots less. This'll be a piece of cake. Hey, we found the kitchens yet? We're gonna occupy a Palace, we ought to set up base in its kitchen. Only goes to follow, right?" He's managing his hair now, trying to grow it out slowly so that it doesn't tangle up on the way down.

He's full of jokes today, isn't he? "We will see about provisions, but I caution you not to walk about as if we own this place." I cough. "Well, I would, if you were any other soldier with any other role... Now that I think about it, perhaps you should ask Jhe Rocsui for advice on that."

"Yeah, she's certainly a shadow of her Da', isn't she? Fine piece of work. And certainly not hesitant to contribute her suggestions to the conversation. I think I'll go do just that, before Jax thinks he can hog all the pie-ack."

I keep my grip on Jhe Duhaine's collar very firm. "Let's not repeat any of the mistakes the rookies make, yes?"

He coughs. "Sorry?"

"At least he can claim to be of a station to make the tryst permissible. She's a princess, Jhe Duhaine. Try not to cause a diplomatic incident. I hear-tell it is your duty to contain those."

He rubs his throat after I let go his collar. "Well, now," he grumbles, "can't see how anyone could take time to have fun, too many duties flying about these days." He's off to go consult with Jhe Rocsui, under the forbidding gaze of a hundred Ebrellin-i portraits.

Hell, I'd almost wish him good luck in his endeavors, just to watch one of those portraits flinch.

* * *