Conquest of Avalon

When did Malin get so damnably hot?

Even the worst days Camille could remember from before the Foxtrap hadn’t felt nearly so unbearable.

The sea had always been right there to take a swim, or the misters dispersing cool clouds throughout the city, fueled by Mother’s magic. Most likely gone to rust, now.

Not that it would have done her any good in this cell anyway. That idiot inspector had dropped the news of Duke Fouchand’s death with the dignity and grace of a lumbering bear, then suddenly departed, leaving Camille to rot.

Weeks, and he still hadn’t returned.

Often her cell would be opened to others, shared with every lowlife and scoundrel the city had to offer, heating up the tiny windowless space even faster. Most were gone within a few hours, and a few were even passing friendly, in their own coarse way, but none could give her a way out.

Strength. Discipline. Poise.

It took every scrap of willpower she could call upon not to escape with her magic, but she couldn’t afford to, not without a source of energy. Else it would consume more of my life, and what is more precious than that? Better to wait for the clueless inspector to return and grant her a way out.

Still, the tradeoff was looking less and less favorable with every passing day. Time here was wasted, to the point any escape which cost less time would be worthwhile. Had she known that these weeks would go to waste in such a fashion, she might have spent those weeks of life to break free, but doing it now would only double the loss.

And break free with what water, Camille? With what, exactly, would you call down your magical might?

There was drinking water, stale and foul tasting, which left a hard white residue at the bottom of its basin, but little more than a bowlful. Add to that sweat and, if it were really necessary, blood, and it would make escape somewhat feasible.

But costly. That was the problem, ultimately.

Every new cellmate brought a new scrap of news, though much of it was irrelevant. “Prince Luce stopped here on his tour of the territories,” one would say, only for the next to claim he had actually turned his coat and become a pirate, and a third to say he had been killed and replaced by a shadow doppelganger.

She’d even heard news of her own death, amusingly, which had through time and distance shifted into a tale of Lumière shooting her out of a cannon into the sun, only for the resulting fire to engulf northern Guerron.

There had been a fire, at least. Accounts were fairly consistent about that, although the reported scope varied wildly.

She couldn’t even be sure that Lucien was safe. She had breathed a long sigh of relief to hear that he had escaped the city safely, only to be told the next day that he was chained in the dungeons of Château d’Oran. Then a man had tried to say that he had moved his court under the sea, his undead wife ruling at his side. That one had definitely still been feeling the effects of marigold wine.

So it went: “Duke Fouchand threw himself from the balcony in sadness” would be contradicted hours later with news that “his granddaughter pushed him to hasten her inheritance” and then, from one of the nicer prisoners: “Lord Lumière killed the Duke in self-defense.”

Between the last two, it was easy enough to make a guess about what had happened, but it was scant comfort.

It had been Fouchand who had taken her in when all seemed lost, Fouchand who had respected her need to reclaim Malin, and worked tirelessly to restore what had been broken.

And now he was dead. Either from grief or foul play, either way her fault. She had failed, and left him vulnerable to it. Failed, when he’d trusted her.

I might as well have granted Lumière those concessions back at the council table, for all the good that resisting did. Even a loss in the duel could have been managed better than this, if she could have stayed to manage the fallout.

Now, she had nothing and no one. No Fouchand, no Lucien, no Annette, not even that village boy who’d proved so surprisingly useful, if not quite enough to win her the duel. And as for her magic…

“One thousand,” she had promised, “carried out to you at sea before the next time I speak with you, at the year’s end.” Levian would be no further help, not without his sacrifices. She couldn’t even call him forth to make offerings, not without speaking with him too early.

Early. As if the year’s end wasn’t already far too soon. Why had she picked that deadline? In Guerron, with Fouchand and the raven lord behind her, it had seemed generous, buying her more time if anything, but now…

Now she simply had to wait, until she could be sure it was even worthwhile to attempt otherwise.

Her next cellmate strolled in as if he hadn’t a care in the world, not even looking back as the door slammed behind him. His right eye was bruised and darkened, clashing horribly with the dyed blue streak of hair that fell over it, a jarring contrast to the dirty-blond mop splaying out from his head.

“Hello,” Camille greeted him. “By any chance, is there any news you could share? It’s maddening, not knowing what’s going on outside these walls.”

He smirked. “Nothing I should be too open about. The leadership would have my tongue. But I’m sure you’ll read about it in tomorrow’s journal.”

Camille narrowed her eyes. “You think they give those to prisoners?”

“Wouldn’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ve never had to spend more than a night here. We take care of our own.”

“Who, exactly?”

The man raised the eyebrow above the bruised side of his face. “The Acolytes of Levian, obviously. I would have assumed you of all people would know, wearing what looks like an entire cerulean snail’s worth of dye on your head. Not a great use of money, if you ask me.”

Camille narrowed her eyes. That must be what the stupid knight had thought she was part of, but given his track record for investigation, she’d half assumed him to be making the entire affiliation up. The blue streak was somewhat telling, though.

“Your roots are starting to show,” the man said, leaning back against the wall. “That’s the problem with running through dye like that.”

“They are not!” She stood up. Acolytes were not even supposed to use that dye, nor did they even have the magic to gather it in the first place. But bringing that up risked giving away who she was.

“How’d you even get that much dye?”

Camille sighed. “An old cache in the temple, hidden under the water. The Leclaires left dozens of them.”

“Dozens?” His eyes widened. “We only found fifteen. How did you find one not even known to the Acolytes?” He scratched his chin. “Who are you?”

“Carrine,” she replied. “A sage of Levian, not a mere pretender.”

He snorted. “A sage, really? Move that water, then.” He pointed to the dirty basin. “Just a little ripple would do.”

I’m not wasting even an hour of my life to prove myself to the likes of you. “No.”

“Of course.” He smirked again. “Because you can’t.”

“I can, I just won’t. It’s not worth the cost.”

“You’re a bad liar.” He shook his head slightly. “Probably how you ended up in here, if I had to guess. No one’s made a pact with Levian since the High Priestess deserted us. He’s refused to even approach.”

Deserted? “They were protecting the most important pact with— It doesn’t even matter.”

“You’re from Guerron, aren’t you? One of Leclaire’s lot? Mr. Clochaîne said we should expect some of you to come crawling back now that Lumière’s in charge there.

Fucking cowards couldn’t show your face in this city until your little rat-hole got just as bad.”

“I am here now!” Not by choice, admittedly. “The least you and your powerless cronies could do would be to show some gratitude. Think about how someone with actual magical power could help your movement. With Camille dead, I’m probably the most knowledgeable remaining sage of Levian alive. Finding more caches is the least of what I could offer you.”

As she said it, she found it a more and more appealing prospect. Liberating Malin with nothing and no one would be impossible, but here was a movement ready and waiting for her with open arms. The very acolytes her mother had trained, carrying on the spiritual traditions even in a city under occupation…

“Camille, eh? You’re on a first name basis with the High Priestess?” He rolled his eyes. “I suppose anyone can claim that, now that she’s lying on the seafloor with a cannonball in her chest.”

“But only a few can claim it and speak the truth. Emile Leclaire himself trained me after the Foxtrap.” Not even a lie. “I’m the only one in this entire city who’s made a pact with Levian myself. With the appropriate energy, I can call upon the full wrath of Levian. Why would you turn down my help?”

“Not really my call, but I can think of a few reasons the others might. For one, you have no idea how things actually work here.”

“Like the Mr. Clochaîne you mentioned. Is he an acolyte himself?” Could the idiotic investigator have actually been correct about him? It wouldn’t ruin her plan to escape. If anything, it might help. But if she were actually playing the Guardians against a real force with real power, it could complicate things far more than just slipping away in a watery tunnel.

The man shook his head. “Not himself, no. Mr. Clochaîne is a fixture at the Convocation of Commerce, with no official ties to the Acolytes. He does believe in justice for everyone, however, even the lowest of criminals. As such—”

“As such he’ll have your tongue out for blabbing about his criminality? Please. That has to be one of the thinnest veneers for support I’ve ever seen.” Complicated it is, then. Fantastic. Regardless, any lapses in my knowledge are easily remedied. For example, I’m now aware of Avalon’s prohibition on spiritually enriching substances.”

The man laughed. “That’s what got you locked up? One of the guardians caught you with it?”

“Actually, he was the one trying to sell it to me.”

He doubled over, laughing even harder.

“It’s not funny! That fool of a knight said they might try to execute me for it, since it was at the site of an execution.”

It took what felt like an eternity for the other prisoner to calm down. When he finally did, he held out his hand.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You shake it. I never properly introduced myself. My name is Claude.”

Hesitantly, Camille reached out and grasped his hand, which was warm enough to exacerbate the unbearable heat. After a token jerk up and down, she hurriedly pulled it back. “What a filthy custom.”

He shrugged. “It’s just what people do.”

No it’s not. No one ever performed such an act here before the Foxtrap. But if Claude didn’t know that the custom was from Avalon, Camille didn’t have a good way to tell him without revealing that she was from Malin. “You must not remember what things were like before.”

“Before the Foxtrap?” He shrugged. “I was only three years old when it happened, so no, I can’t say that I do. People make too much of those days, honestly. They seem great now because of what came after, but they had a lot of their own problems too.”

“You say, having no memory of the time.”

“Some of the older Acolytes do. The leaders even learned from Leclaire herself. The mother, I mean, not the one who just died. And they saw her bar them from the boats because there wasn’t enough room, leaving them to Avalon’s mercy.”

“I’m sure she took everyone that she could. It isn’t easy, making those decisions. You have to weigh the value of a life against—”

“Against what? What’s more valuable than that?”

A thousand answers jumped to mind, but Camille had a feeling that none of them would help, so she remained silent.

“That’s what I thought.” Claude sighed. “Look, it may not have been you on the boat yourself, but if we’re going to get you out of here, you can’t go around defending Sarille Leclaire or the other High Priestesses. The older Acolytes aren’t likely to forget being deserted like that, and it’s not like they’ve done anything for the rest of us either. Not everyone will take it as casually as I have.”

“If you’re going to get me out of here?”

Claude smiled. “It’s a possibility. We’d have to look into your charges.”

“What could you possibly have to look into for a breakout? Just take me with you when the walls come down.”

“Who said anything about a breakout?” Claude knocked his fist lightly against the walls. “I’m not saying we wouldn’t be capable of it, if the need arose, but a good solicitor is ultimately far less costly, when you take into account the damage to our reputation.”

“A solicitor? What, are they going to negotiate disputes with your charters and contracts? How is that going to do any good for us?”

“Uh…” Claude blinked. “An expert of law is useful, when that same law is being used to prosecute you.”

“Surely it’s the King’s authority under which we find ourselves imprisoned, not some merchant’s charter. I know Avalon doesn’t have sages to oversee sentencing and executions, but leaving it up to… professionals seems more than a bit troublesome. They work for their living; one can’t expect integrity from someone for whose motivation begins and ends with florins, rather than any higher ideals.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Claude stared dumbly. “Regardless, that’s the government ruling Malin right now. The way things are, it’s better to avoid anything so open as breaking down the walls unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Help me get my power back, and you’ll see just how cheap it can be.

The next morning saw their chamber being opened once more, a third person entering the already-cramped space. She looked to be in her forties, with her hair pulled back to reveal a hardened, severe expression.

“Please excuse us, Madame.” Her voice was deep, rich. “My conversations with my client must remain private.”

“Actually”—Claude held up a finger—“Carrine’s going to be helping us, once she gets out. If you could see about helping her, I’m sure our mutual benefactor would appreciate it.”

Camille rolled her eyes. “I already know it’s Clochaîne; there’s no need to be coy around me.” She held out her hand to the solicitor, copying Claude’s gesture from earlier. “I’m Carrine, a sage from Guerron. Before her untimely demise, the High Priestess bid me to come and assist our brethren in Malin.”

“Hmm.” The solicitor shook her hand once, firmly, before withdrawing her arm. “Cynette Fields. I’ll want confirmation from a higher authority than Claude by the end of the day, but in the meantime I suppose I can represent you.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Camille dipped her head in courtesy. “Claude tells me you are quite skilled with your craft.” He hadn’t yet, but a bit of flattery never hurt. Playing this right could save her weeks of life in an escape attempt that wasn’t even guaranteed, or even longer waiting for the return of the oaf.

The solicitor nodded. “To begin with, please tell me of any interrogation you might have received at the hands of the guardians.”

“They didn’t torture me, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

Fields blinked, her face remaining impassive. “They did question you though, I assume. Please recount the conversation to the best of your memory.”

Camille did, editorializing away any inquiries of her own that might have implied too much about who she really was. Claude looked reasonably impressed that she had managed to extract more information out of the investigator than the other way around, but the solicitor only narrowed her brow as the recounting of the interrogation continued.

“That’s not as bad as it could have been, I suppose.”

“What are you talking about? He completely made a fool of himself and gave me what I wanted, while he walked away with nothing.”

“He was asking about Mr. Clochaîne,” Claude responded. “That’s not a good sign.”

Fields nodded. “I’m sure he’ll have a talk with Perimont to deal with the issue, but it’s nonetheless cause for concern. And you, Carrine, would have done better to say nothing at all. Investigators are free to lie about what leverage they have over you, and this one did so more flagrantly than most. Trying to move forward charging you for ‘inciting rebellion’ would be a complete farce, and any Guardian with half a brain would know that. Yet you revealed the existence of the tunnels, and your affiliation with the Acolytes.”

In fairness, that last part was a lie when I revealed it. No point in contesting it though. “I understand.”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, then.” She turned to Claude. “You, on the other hand, are free to go. I made your importance to Mr. Clochaîne clear, and explained the misunderstanding that left you here.”

“Wait, how did you get locked up?”

“I pushed a Guardian into the sea.” He smiled. “Allegedly.”

“They don’t have any real proof though. One witness, whom we talked to first to ensure they understood what really happened. And the Guardian himself, who won’t be telling anyone anything.” The corner of the solicitor’s mouth turned up slightly. “You are in good company now, Carrine. The Acolytes take care of their own.”

Camille returned the smile. Perhaps freeing Malin by the end of the year wouldn’t be so impossible after all.