H - 80: At Least They're Feeding Her (Patreon)

Champion lowered the sheets of paper to the top of his desk, gazing above them at the far wall of his office, now lost in thought.

“Sir?” his secretary prompted after almost a full minute of silence.

“He has hired a chef,” Champion said, still staring into space. “And plans to accommodate approximately a dozen people of refined taste.”

Lucille remained in a ready position, clipboard held up and her pen hovering. “Do you wish to…take any action on this information?”

A brief, infinitesimal quiver passed through Champion’s form, the gentlemanly echo of a dog shaking off rainwater. His expression sharpened and focused upon her face.

“Only that which we are hired to, Lucille. The Silver Hound is not in the information trade, nor do we wish any tension with those who are. Make the arrangements with the messenger services to ensure privileged status of any further communication from or to this client, organize this list for the warehouse pickers to fill, and summon that team from the Verdi Herons that Lady Roa prefers. I’d like this to go out today, if possible.”

“Very good, sir. At what rate do you wish to bill the client?”

“Current market rate,” he said firmly. “And in fact, pull and copy the daily price reports and attach them to our records of this transaction. It may be paranoia, but for this client in particular, I have a suspicion that it may prove…advantageous at some point in the future to be able to attest that we have treated him with scrupulous fairness.”

“Yes, sir. That being the case, do you not wish to offer the client a small discount?”

Slowly, Champion shook his head. “A good notion, Lucille, and just how I would handle many clients. This one, though… There is a prospect that taking a submissive posture could be taken as weakness. The kind of weakness which invites attack.”

She paused in jotting down notes, raising her eyes to study her employer closely. “Sir, is there a…risk in doing business with this client in particular?”

He was once more staring at the wall, but grinned humorlessly at her question. “There are always risks, and they must always be managed. In this case? I think this client less likely to turn on us than many others, and our relationship too profitable to walk away from on the grounds that on the off chance that he did, it would be the end of everything. You’ll never make any money if the prospect of a local apocalypse puts you off your game.”

Lucille’s eyebrows shot upward. “Sir?”

“Forgive my indulgence in a little hyperbole,” Champion said smoothly. “And for my…lapse, there. Sometimes I forget for a moment that I’m a businessman, and become simply a man, wondering what the news means for me as someone who lives in this country. It’s a hazard for those of us whose trade is the lifeblood of economies. Let’s fill the order, Lucille, as promptly as we can, and move on to other business. We must keep this client and not keep him waiting, but we have too many irons in too many fires to focus on him exclusively.”

***

“At least they’re feeding her properly,” Princess-Consort Etienne sighed, looking torn between relief and stress. Henrietta nodded, squeezing the back of her hand momentarily.

“It does bode well for her Highness’s immediate prospects,” Clarent said diffidently, picking up the list now that the Queen had set it down upon her desk. “We are still in the dark concerning the reason the dragons wanted our princess in the first place, but this does help rule out several of the worst possibilities.”

“It does, I suppose,” Etienne agreed, grimacing. “I know what Cora said, but I’ve been unable to help…thinking.”

“On this matter I support Cora’s interpretation,” said Clarent. “Schools of magic do exist which may call for the spilling of royal blood, but of the elder dragons involved in this, all have a long-standing and well-documented disgust toward such practices. With regard to the here and now, however, you will of course note that this provides for far more than Princess Perseverance’s favorite meals, not to mention in a much greater quantity than would be required to support her and that godling. The choice of supplies ordered makes no sense unless they have also acquired a professional chef of some considerable skill…of which we of course have no record. And in quantity alone, they must be preparing to host either eight to ten individuals of highly refined taste on a permanent basis, or provide far more occasional meals to a much smaller number over a longer period. Without knowing with whom else they have been in contact, we of course cannot deduce numbers. What is clear is that the dragons are beginning to foster diplomatic relations with…someone. Someone they wish to impress.”

“Not to play dragon’s advocate,” said Etienne, “but what are the chances this is only for them?”

Clarent shrugged. “It’s hard to say anything is truly preposterous, since this entire debacle represents a departure from all their established habits. It is likeliest, however, that only the goals of the dragons have changed, not their personalities, appetites, or beliefs. None of them have ever shown an interest in fine dining before.”

“It is hard to imagine them all being so charmed by Percy that they wish to sit down with her at meals,” Henrietta whispered. “Gods uncounted. I do hope that godling, at least, treats her kindly…”

“I have my people analyzing the full list,” Clarent reported, “to attempt to find any likely targets for…political courtship. If they bothered to assemble a menu that will please Princess Perseverance, they can do so for anyone else. With luck, cross-referencing the possibilities raised here with the favorite meals of other known players, in the Vales or elsewhere, may give us some idea who is colluding with the dragons. My people are also studying another possibility which concerns me: between the foodstuffs, spices, and very specific woods being ordered, at least some of this may be an order for spell components concealed as groceries. I plan to soon produce a list of possible magics such supplies could be used to cast.”

“Isn’t that Cora’s domain?” Etienne said pointedly.

“If your Majesty wishes, I will of course consult the Court Mage,” Clarent said, inclining his head courteously. “However, we must also consider its impact upon her own ongoing project. There is another matter concerning this which I must report.”

Both women straightened up, turning expectant stares upon him.

“After this list passed through the hands of a messenger service guaranteed to disseminate it to all interested parties,” he explained gravely, “the Silver Hound Trading Company, upon request by the sender, made arrangements to ensure the privacy of all further such communication.”

“What, only after this one?” Etienne asked, frowning. “That seems…uncharacteristically careless.”

“Indeed,” Clarent agreed. “From an inexperienced player, I might take it for an error quickly corrected. But this is Izayaroa. And, of course, the other two, but it is she whom I feel we must consider here.”

“Exactly,” Henrietta said softly. “This…is a favorite ploy of hers, in fact. During her periods of active rule in Rhivaak, she will summon the diplomats of nations which have displeased her and speak to them politely—in her greater form, looming over them with claws and fangs on full display. And, in unrelated incidents, descend herself on dangers to her people. Izayaroa does not issue threats. She carries out her own violence when she finds it needful, and lets the threat echo thereafter in her gentlest of statements.”

“Hence, this,” Clarent said, nodding. “It is also in her nature to accomplish two goals with one careful action—in this case, to signal to every player curious about the Silver Hound’s mysterious new patron that they are establishing a power base, and to us that Princess Perseverance is being well cared for. For now.”

“Obviating the need to suggest, outwardly, how swiftly that may change,” Henrietta whispered, clenching her fists.

Etienne glanced back and forth between them. “I don’t mean to second-guess your expertise, either of you, but this feels to me almost like reading too much into a single message.”

“Skepticism is warranted, your Highness,” Clarent acknowledged, nodding. “In our current position we can do nothing but extrapolate from the thinnest slices of information; it is wise to be wary of too much conjecture. The point to which I was leading is that there is at least a plausible interpretation that this is a warning from the dragons not to retaliate.”

“Which makes Cora’s strategy even more relevant than I realized,” Henrietta said, permitting herself a sigh. “All countermeasures against them must be plausibly disconnected from the crown.”

“Do you actually think that will protect us from retaliation, if Cora’s plan succeeds?” Etienne asked quietly.

“It is another point of uncertainty,” Clarent admitted, “but I think it at the very least probable. These three are not the Dread; this entire business is more indirect and complicated than anything he would have done. We can only lay our plans carefully and enact them as well as can be done, but in any outcome, there will be inevitably a measure of hoping for the best.”

Henrietta inhaled, exhaled, straightened her spine, and smoothed her expression. “Indeed. Thank you, Clarent. Keep me abreast of any further developments, and report when your analysis of this list is complete.”

The spymaster took one step back from her and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

***

The Sovereignty had designated summoning facilities, of course, but on this occasion, the summoning had been prepared in none other than the grand throne chamber itself. This was, in a sense, a diplomatic overture to a being whose dignity demanded nothing less. It afforded space for the Sovereign to greet the Shamissar’s guest in his own greater form—a sign of respect and intimidation, both. And of course, this chamber was the most heavily defended spot in the nation.

That would hopefully not become relevant, but it would have been reckless not to consider that it might.

Preparations were both simple and extravagant. Rather than a summoning circle, there was only a single emblem scrawled upon the polished marble floor—the sacred sigil of the invocation’s target, an oval glyph of interlocking and divided rings fashioned to resemble both an eye and an open mouth. This simple decoration was huge, though, rendered at a scale that rivaled the great dais upon which the Sovereign himself sat to hold court. The chalk in which it was drawn, further, was infused with powdered quartz and alchemical agents to make it glitter bewitchingly in the chamber’s lamplight.

Guards lined the walls, both soldiers and mages, and only two functionaries were kept at hand by the dragon’s throne. Aside from them, two of his children were present—only two, and specifically the quietest two. Princess Nashma he trusted most of them all to be diplomatic in the face of provocation, and Prince Sadeem, well… Sadeem didn’t talk. Not that he was unable, just powerfully disinclined. He listened, though, and one of the few things that could get him to speak at length was describing to his father the things he had observed and deduced while others chattered.

“All is prepared, my Sovereign,” one of the two officials present declared quietly, bowing.

“Very good,” Savasmittar rumbled. “Begin, please.”

The same official, the highest-ranking mage currently attached to the Sovereign’s court, bowed again, then stepped back to the prepared summoning area. Directly in front of it was laid out a low altar, an elegant construction of alabaster embellished with hammered gold. Upon this the mage laid a single scroll, upon which was written a state secret of Shamissar which the Sovereign had judged could be sacrificed to public knowledge. This done, he retreated again, returning to his place next to the other functionary before the throne—this one an elf, also carrying a rolled-up scroll.

“Djraaeisz,” Savasmittar intoned, his voice seeming to make every stone of the chamber resonate, “I ask the favor of your presence.”

For most petitioners—for nearly any other, in fact—such a cursory summons would have been ignored if not punished. Beings of her caliber demanded more ceremony from mortal supplicants, as a rule. No mere king could entice such as she with so brusque a request. Savasmittar, however, was no mere king.

Also, he had pronounced her name correctly, a feat which few speakers of any language consistently achieved.

Light flashed across the scroll upon the altar, the ink itself blazing with pale violet luminescence as the very words disintegrated. Then the paper caught, alternating patterns of green and purple fire spreading out across its length as it curled up and disintegrated. It was gone in seconds, not even ashes remaining.

For a second, all was silent and still.

Then the process was repeated, this time on the sigil itself. First the lines began to glow, then to burn, the rare and expensive spell chalk dissolving into multi-hued flame, its smoke rising and congealing to gradually form the shape of a single, towering figure, standing directly above the center of what had been her own sacred emblem before it was annihilated by the cost of drawing her forth.

A loose gray robe floated there, its height more than three times a human’s; only the dragon himself was taller. There was no sign of feet below its ragged hem, nor of much in the way of a shape beneath its folds. The hood was pulled to far forward, its crown hanging too low, to betray any hint of her visage, but skeletal hands of black bone emerged from her sleeves, one holding her staff: a single, slender shaft of blackened wood as tall as some trees, its head a mass of mismatched eyes constantly shifting to stare in every direction.

More such eyes floated about her, wreathed in smoke—a wide variety of colors and even pupil shapes. Watching everything and everyone.

“Djraaeisz, Goddess of Careless Whispers,” said Savasmittar, bowing his head. “I thank you for the gift of your presence. Be welcome to my halls and the protection of my hospitality.”

“Savasmittar…Sovereign of Shamissar, now.” Her voice was smooth, low—as resonant as his, but sibilant, carrying a faint rasp. “How the mighty do rise and fall, when out from under my eyes. Ah, yes, I think I know what secrets you would hear me whisper. You have already heard whispers, have you not? A slithering shadow has been slinking about your domain, hissing in the ears of your subjects. I know truths about this being—of course I do. But such a well-studied personage as the great Sovereign Savasmittar must know that the eyes of Djraaeisz are everywhere, yet her lips speak in but one place at a time. And not for free. Tell me, o Sovereign: what, to you, is the worth of this truth?”

“Yes, there is that matter,” Savasmittar agreed, nodding. “Perhaps if this meeting goes well I will solicit your aid thus. My own people are working on it, however, and that was not the reason I requested your attention.”

“Ohhh?” the goddess hissed. That simple utterance was laden with as much meaning as her entire previous speech, an “oh” which changed pitch thrice and stretched to make four syllables.

“I would seek an accord with you—a standing deal, upon mutually beneficial terms.”

“Ohhh?” That one was even more profound.

“Those famous eyes of yours.” Savasmittar smiled and shifted his wings. “I wish to hire them.”

For a moment, silence. The eyes in question all ceased their endless shifting, pivoting in unison to glare directly at the dragon.

“You…what.” Djraaeisz’s reply was an incredulous whisper, and a warning.

“To man my customs offices,” Savasmittar clarified, still smiling. “We’ve had some breaches recently, and the beginnings of a smuggling problem. Regrettably, the resources of my Border Ministry have proved inadequate against certain types of intrusion I anticipate.”

Again, there was silence. This time, the room grew faintly darker.

“The arrogance,” Djraaeisz finally replied in a hiss. “All the hubris of a king and an elder dragon both, in combination not added but multiplied. Not even the Empress Izayaroa has ever been so conceited, and you, Savasmittar Shimmerscale, are but her faded reflection!”

“You will not wound my pride by stating facts I already well know,” Savasmittar replied, still smiling. “Very well, however, I would not wish to injure yours, having brought you here under my hospitality. If such an arrangement is off the table, perhaps I can still solicit your aid with the matter you previously mentioned.”

“That is more in keeping with my gift, and your station,” she agreed, her low voice still full of warning. “State your wish, then, Savasmittar. Speak it plainly, and I shall see what my whispers will cost in terms of your secrets.”

“So be it,” the dragon agreed. “Vizier?”

His second functionary, the elf, now stepped forward, unrolled her scroll, held it up before herself, and began to read.

“Described herein is the wish proposed by Sovereign Savasmittar of Shamissar, referred to hereafter as Supplicant, to Djraaeisz, known also as the Goddess of Careless Whispers, referred to hereafter as Grantor, according to the following conditions. Preamble: terms to be defined include—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” All her gravely menacing demeanor vanished as the goddess’s previously low voice cracked shrilly; she threw her staff to the ground and her robes shifted for a moment, as if one of her nonexistent feet had been stomped petulantly. “Really? You bring out a goddamn lawyer? Come on, man! You called me here!”

“Your pardon,” said Savasmittar, his own calm unruffled. “I can see how this would be…an uncomfortable reminder of your own recent struggles. I regret that, truly. But surely you cannot begrudge me the basic, necessary, obvious precautions to secure my own interests?”

The goddess made a throaty, rattling noise, clenching her skeletal hands; all around her the smokey eyes were now swirling about in agitated patterns.

“Nor can you deny the need of every other figure who might call upon you to secure their needs,” the dragon continued relentlessly, “and that is your entire fundamental problem, Djraaeisz. Your…very specific divine calling was certainly unique, when you first burst upon the world’s stage. The meticulous gathering and then reckless spread of information—there had surely never been a deity before with such an aspect. There cannot have been many people of any kind who would even think to do such a thing. The sheer surprise catapulted you to great early success. I remember those days well.”

He rose from his seated posture, stepping forward and down from his dais; his offspring and court officials shifted aside as the Sovereign approached the goddess, who stared at him from the inscrutable darkness of her hood and gave not an inch.

“I remember them being a long time ago. That…very specific aspect is terribly easy to counter, once it becomes known how to do so. Who was the first to get the better of you in a deal? A bard? It’s usually a bard; little pests get into positively everything, to the detriment of everyone, often including themselves. But then the word spread. The Goddess of Careless Whispers is careless herself—fundamentally and intrinsically. Define your terms, phrase your deal carefully enough, and you can thwart her.”

He stopped just before her. She glared up at him in silence.

“How long has it been since you had actual followers?” Savasmittar asked. “How many centuries has it been since you made a successful deal for any significant stakes, and managed to unleash your characteristic havoc? How many decades since you were even approached for one? I flatter myself that my knowledge of theology is relatively thorough for one who is not a god, but even I do not know what happens to a god who so fades from relevance that they diminish entirely from existence. I confess, I do not truly want to see it. I have a bias against the loss of powerful, eternal beings, you see.”

Savasmittar paused, studying her. She stared back, still silent.

“I truly cannot imagine how frustrating it must be,” he continued after she offered no response, “to so clearly see the solution to your existential dilemma, and be unable to enact it. To be an entity of such singular purpose that you cannot act against your fundamental nature—and thus, cannot take the necessary steps to forfend your own oncoming doom. To have to watch its agonizingly slow approach, across whatever centuries it takes, when the answer is simply…out of reach. I would go mad; I am impressed that you have not. This is a chance, not to defeat that doom, but to sidestep it. If you cannot act against your nature, cannot make your bargains with the same care as those who would exploit you… Unless I am wrong, your fundamental nature need not preclude you from allying with someone who can.”

The dragon grinned.

“Someone who has lawyers.”

“You would use me for your own purposes,” Djraaeisz whispered icily. “My powers to befuddle your enemies and serve your agenda.”

“We would use each other,” Savasmittar corrected. “Under terms we can both bear. Let us not confuse alliance with friendship; you are not my idea of an ideal partner, either. No, I will not enable you to gallivant around the world, enacting random mischief over my signature; nor, I presume, would you tolerate me exploiting your precious eyes without constraint. We shall have to hammer out mutually beneficial terms.”

He seated himself again, folding his wings; in that posture, even on the ground, he was still taller than she.

“Ours is a world both ancient and vast, Djraaeisz. Secrets and powers abound in every distant corner, and right beneath the feet of the oblivious masses. I have a…particular need. I will find something, or someone, to help me fill it. My resources, both as head of state and as a dragon who has been collecting as is the wont of our kind for many centuries, are considerable. That personage will profit in turn from what I and my resources can offer them in return. And that personage need not be you. But…perhaps it will?”

Dragon and goddess stared at each other for another long stretch of silence, their wills matched. After a few seconds had ticked by, the unnatural darkness pressing against the great chamber receded.

Djraaeisz held out one bony hand, and her staff rose back to her grasp. She set it back in an upright posture, the butt impacting the marble floor with an echoing thump. Her voice was once again low and sibilant…and now, cautious.

“What…terms?”