Conquest of Avalon

What is it now?

Claude had intended to take her on his ‘rounds’, whatever exactly that entailed, but his punishment from the Acolyte leadership had put a stop to any of that for the time being.

After he’d recounted the absurd scheme that had seen him imprisoned, Camille thought it a wonder he was even getting off that easy. If Avalon’s schematics were needed, far better to pay a pirate for the privilege and keep as much distance between yourself and the operation as possible.

Duke Fouchand had done much the same with Robin Verrou, and Avalon had never been able to connect Guerron to any of the thefts, even as he indirectly funded them. Whatever Claude thought he was getting out of following this ‘Florette’ character, it surely was not worth the risk to his reputation and freedom.

Camille had considered entering the temple with him, but introducing herself as a companion of a member in poor standing seemed a less-than-ideal way to make introductions. That much would have to wait.

Instead, she’d managed to grab ahold of a number of journals so she could finally figure out what had happened in Guerron without relying on mere jailhouse rumors — crucial to planning her next move.

And the portrait they painted…

Fouchand dead, Lucien and Annette imprisoned, Lumière ascendant, Magnifico the bard so incredibly honored a guest he was being mentioned in official announcements in preparation for the approaching Summer Solstice festivities…

The fact that Lumière felt he could hold a festival at all in the wake of everything that had happened spoke to a confidence that, for once, seemed horrifyingly well earned.

And every part of it had sprung from Camille’s bloody defeat.

Even returning from the dead could not fix all of that.

A part of her wanted to return anyway, no matter the cost. This time, she would know exactly what power Lumière would be bringing to bear, with no compunction about ending the threat he represented once and for all.

But that meant getting to him at all, slipping past or defeating an entire temple of sun sages and acolytes with nary a scrap of power of her own.

A thousand curses to that moronic knight.

If the last two months could have been spent preparing, building allies and gathering power instead of rotting in a cell so monotonous she had lost all concept of time passing…

And what allies, Camille? The foreign delegations from Condillac and Plagette that Lumière sent fleeing for the hills? The Acolytes here that curse your family’s very name? Apathetic merchants and weary peasants?

And now, once again interrupting even the slightest moment to plan, Mr. Clochaîne was sending for her. No doubt he would have demands of his own, but his influence with the Acolytes was not to be disregarded. Certainly, he would make a better point of introduction than Claude, whose very membership remained imperiled.

It still does not excuse sending imperious demands of my presence at this horrific hour of the morning. One simply didn’t request someone’s presence until at least an hour after sunrise, save for the most dire of emergencies.

But she had no choice but to humor it. Right now, Clochaîne was still her best hope of an ally.

Camille rubbed her eyes as Clochaîne Candles came into view once more, illuminated in the pre-dawn twilight through the hordes of candles gleaming through the windows.

Despite the hour, it seemed to have a patron, a slim, dark-haired girl, with a single blue earring hanging from one side of her head.

Higher class of clientele than I would expect. I have a pair of earrings exactly like that. But then, fashions would be different here, and the asymmetry certainly spoke to a lack of care towards appearances, as did the far more plain shirt and trousers she wore.

“Good morning…?” the girl said with a hint of befuddlement to her voice, as if she were asking a question rather than giving a greeting.

“And to you,” Camille replied absently as she passed through the door. Within, the shop was empty save for the flickering candles, probably a result of how horrifically early in the morning it was.

Although, candles might sell better in the dark. Not being a merchant herself, it was impossible to be sure, but there certainly did not seem to be a rush at this moment. It was a wonder Clochaîne could keep the florins to maintain his level of influence with his store so empty all the time, but the ‘how’ of it was immaterial.

For the moment, he had to be addressed.

After a few minutes of waiting — a classic demonstration of power — the door behind the counter opened and a one-eyed man emerged, casting a long shadow in the flickering light. The arms of his shirt were slightly torn, exposing thick muscles practically gleaming with puissance. His hair had clearly once been fair in the way only a child’s truly could be, now giving way to the sandy brown that blonds developed as they grew older. And the patch over his eye only accented his appearance, adding an air of danger. If only he grew his hair out longer...

“Good morning!” Camille smiled. “I was summoned to see Mr. Clochaîne. Is he available?”

The man’s single eye widened as he inhaled sharply, but he didn’t respond.

“Well? Should I come back later?”

He gulped, shoving his way past without answering the question, then practically sprinted to the door.

What an odd fellow.

He couldn’t possibly have recognized her — Camille could scarcely manage that herself — but nothing else particularly explained his behavior.

“Ah, Carrine. Thank you for your prompt arrival. If you would follow me into the back room,” Clochaîne’s voice called out through the door.

The candles in the backroom were nearly as plentiful as the storefront, though mounted in sconces on the wall rather than displays, and casting light only over numerous crates of varying sizes.

Clochaîne looked much the same, with his expensive coat trying too hard to appear polished and gaudy collection of rings wholly ruining the effect, altogether lacking in the subtlety necessary for a truly refined appearance.

The largest difference was the enormous grin he was sporting.

“To begin with, I would like to apologize for my behavior last time. Claude was in sore need of that admonishment, but it ought to have been done once our introductions had concluded and you had left the premises. It was undignified.”

It was. But there was no point in lingering on it. “You have nothing to be concerned about, Mr. Clochaîne. Though for your own sake, it is a lesson I’m pleased to see that you have learned.”

“Indeed,” he replied through a thinly stretched smile.

Camille bit her lip, trying to find the best way to phrase her question to follow. “Incidentally, do you have any idea why the gentleman who just left seemed so terrified to see me? I’m certain we haven’t met.” I need to be sure he does not know who I am. If Camille were revealed to be alive to the world at large right now, before any of the necessary preparations had been conducted, the results would be disastrous.

Clochaîne chuckled slightly. “Nothing to be alarmed about. I gave him much the same talking-to as I did our dear Claude, only from the other end of things. I expect any blue-haired Acolyte walking through those doors would have terrified him after I made the consequences for breaching the separation clear.”

“Ah.” Nothing I need to worry about, then. “Shall we move on to the reason you invited me here?” Ordered, really, but it only helps me to tilt the phrasing in my favor.

He nodded. “Pierre Cadoudal of the Acolytes will tell you much the same once you meet him, but the mission of that organization will be somewhat different from what I imagine you are used to in Guerron.”

They play at pageantry to avoid even looking threatening to the brutes occupying their homeland. “That’s only natural,” Camille lied, her voice as calm as the ocean breeze. “With an event like the Foxtrap, adaptation is necessary to thrive.”

“I’m pleased you understand.” He tapped the rings on his hands together, making a slight pinging sound. “Still, I imagine outreach and diplomacy are one area of considerable overlap. In Guerron and Malin alike, the devotees of Levian must spread his influence to the people.”

“We must show them he has the power to grant them justice,” she agreed, thinking back to that fateful harbor robber that so thoroughly escalated the tension between herself and Lumière. “The mandate to punish the wicked and grant them purpose even in death.”

“Oh…” His face fell. “I had something rather more interpersonal in mind.”

“The principles are the same,” Camille assured him confidently. “The message may have changed, but the core of it is winning hearts and minds to our cause. I’m positive that I’m more than capable of whatever task you have in mind.” More capable than the frightened children playing at being sages here, most likely. “Why don’t you explain the situation and I’ll explain my intended approach in turn?”

“It’s more difficult than one might imagine to be an upstanding businessman in this city full of grievances and mistrust. Even so far out from the Foxtrap, many in positions of authority are wary of a man who comes from outside of the systems they know and understand.”

“They’re worried you’re plotting rebellion?” Please, please, please be plotting rebellion. Someone in this place had to be trying something.

Clochaîne shrugged. “Myself, I hail from Port Lumière, on the Isle of Soleil. I only arrived in Malin shortly before the Foxtrap. Even a sense of loyalty to my countrymen would produce no compulsion to act.” He sighed. “But not everyone here understands that. They see a man speaking their tongue as a second language, more familiar with the structure and customs of those they occupy than their own. It makes them wary, Carrine.”

Camille bit her lip. How very disappointing. But she could not let it show, that would accomplish nothing.

“And the Acolytes can help with that,” she supplied. “Demonstrate your goodwill, and indeed the goodwill of one of Malin’s premiere institutions.” You have corrupted the entire system, turning my mother’s Acolytes against her and my family, all for your own selfish ends. “It’s brilliant.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head sadly as he did. “It took me nearly half an hour to explain that to Claude, and I’m still not entirely sure he grasped the particularities. He was one of the Acolytes I turned to for work in that area, but it’s become clear that he’s too uncouth for that aspect of their duties. I need a more delicate touch.”

Camille smiled, chaining her anger deep within. “You came to exactly the right person.”

“So I hoped.” He tapped his fingers together in a fan shape, rings glinting in the candlelight. “I do need to verify your ability first, of course.”

“Of course,” Camille managed to say without sighing. “I would be delighted to prove my abilities in that realm.”

Clochaîne smiled slightly, gone in an instant. “Simon Perimont is the son of the Territorial Governor, and Liaison of Commerce for the city. He is charged with regulating the affairs of merchants such as myself; maintaining positive relations with him is critical to the continued success of my operations.”

“I’ll charm him.”

“See that you do. I know him well, but with that Fortan knight poking around on Prince Harold’s orders, it would be better if I could minimize my in-person involvement to the greatest extent possible. Caution is, as ever, preferable”

So you can throw me out to sea if anything goes wrong. Camille bit her lip. “Eminently sensible.”

“Simon is fond of parties, as you shall soon discover. In fact, there is a fête in Fuite Gardens tonight where he is expected to be in attendance. Befriend him as an Acolyte, and keep my name out of it. I’ll feel him out later to make sure that everything went well. Then we’ll know what you’re capable of.”

“Fair terms,” she admitted. Camille would not benefit materially, or he would have offered as much, but influence was the more valuable currency, now as ever. Still, one might have expected a merchant to offer a bit more than that in exchange for work on his behalf.

“Although…” She looked up into the light of one of the candles mounted to the wall. “For such a social engagement, I will need suitable garments. My stipend from Guerron was stolen on my first day in this city.”

Clochaîne waved his arm dismissively, his rings sending a glittering pattern of light darting across the room as he did. “I’ll send you out with a few hundred mandala to get your appearance right. If things don’t work out, I’m sure you can find a way to pay it back.”

Truly, your generosity knows no bounds. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Clochaîne.”

He nodded, scratching his chin for a moment in consideration. “Please, call me Jacques.”

≋

Already, Camille felt better.

She’d chosen a light green dress with a high collar and short sleeves to better conceal the scar on her shoulder. Blue would have been too expensive, and tempted fate with regards to keeping her identity hidden. This was a better fit for summer, anyway.

Seeing the girl with the blue earring again outside had also put that thought to her mind, so she’d added a modest pair to the ensemble, inexpensive metal that gave the appearance of true silver, and in the circular shape of Avalon’s mandala coins.

It was not the real thing, but it would still be enough to accomplish the needful.

The state of Fuite Gardens was appalling, an overgrown mess that made an absolute mockery of the carefully landscaped masterpiece the capital had once boasted. Even the small ropes keeping spectators to the proper path were gone, though occasionally one of the ropes could be found wrapped around the base of a tree or tangled in a hedge.

Without her family, the irrigation systems had collapsed in on themselves, causing massive patches of overgrowth wherever they leaked and dry, brown vegetation everywhere else, as if the garden spirit had chosen his favorite spots and cursed the rest.

Pierrot, the lesser spirit in question, would have died before allowing it to come to this.

And perhaps he has. Avalon’s binders specialized in the murder of spirits, binding their power into artifacts at their disposal. They had not made much of a showing at the Foxtrap, eclipsed by their cannons, but that would not have stopped them from pecking over the aftermath like vultures.

The party within gave the place no sense of cohesion, either, though that much was to be expected. Tendrils of attendees spiralled out from the roasting pig at the center, sending smoke high up into the night sky.

Even though the sun had set, the humid air was holding onto the day’s heat, which, aided by copious drinking, coated most people she could spot in a gleaming layer of sweat, though Camille took care to avoid allowing the same to happen to her as she slowly walked forward.

Simon Perimont was the Governor’s son; he would be at the center of a cluster of his own, one of the more important people there. Whether he willed it or not, a man of such stature was bound to draw attention in that fashion.

If this were a regular occurrence for him, he would likely take pleasure in it, though, which helped further.

Her eyes scanned over the crowd as she approached further, illuminated by lanterns faintly engraved with a square insignia reading CC.

So Clochaîne exerts his influence even here.

Camille continued looking, casually wandering by several clusters of people reasonably distant from the smoke, until she spotted a well-dressed man close to her own age, sprawled back over a settee someone must have dragged out here, the center of attention despite his plainness.

A light-brown-haired girl sat next to him, drinking from a clear bottle with some manner of clear spirit within, and seemingly uninterested in the contents of the story. Not just one of the admirers, then.

The man himself seemed to be practically basking in the attention, monologuing some inaudible story to the utter captivation of the crowd surrounding him.

Hello, Simon.

Now she simply had to take the right approach…

Camille walked up from behind, leaning over the back of the settee and addressing the girl next to Perimont. “How is that drink? I haven’t tried it myself.” She did her best to hide any accent, but she hadn’t had much occasion to use the tongue with anyone but tutors. That should not matter though; I’ve no need to pretend to be from Avalon.

“What, gin?” The girl turned back to look at her, then held out the bottle. “It’s Cambria’s best. Here.”

Camille took a perfunctory sip, enough to assault her with the taste of juniper, but managed to force a smile anyway. “Impressive!” She passed the bottle back, walking around to the front of the furniture piece as she did. “I’m surprised your friend there isn’t partaking.”

The girl scoffed. “Not a friend. He’s my brother, and he’d rather get high on the sound of his own voice. He’s not even a good storyteller like I am, and his life is stupid boring.”

Next to her, the man interrupted his own monologue to turn to the girl. “Mary, do you have to do this here?”

She stuck out her tongue, waving her hands as she did.

The man sighed. “Apologies for my sister.” His eyes seemed to brighten as he got a better glimpse of Camille, then he held out his hand. “Simon Perimont.”

“Carrine Borbeau,” she supplied, holding out her own hand in turn. The Borbeaus were not much, as families went, their only real claim to significance being a distant kinship to the Lumières and their youngest accidentally falling off a boat. It seemed safe enough, and far more likely to draw results than not supplying a surname at all. That would mark her as common in a way that would be less than productive.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Carrine.” He kissed her hand lightly, then let go. “Would you care to join us? There’s plenty of room on the sofa. I was just recounting the harrowing tale of the harbor bombing. I was there myself, you know, saving people from grievous injury and death in the aftermath.”

Camille bit her lip. It’s a settee; they’re not the same. “It would be a pleasure, I’m sure, but I’m not certain that I have the time. There’s an engagement I need to attend to—” Always look busy, unavailable.

The sister, Mary, practically dragged Camille down into the center, uncomfortably close to both of them. “You can stay a few minutes! Have some more gin!”

Not part of the plan, but it couldn’t hurt to build a relationship with the sister as well.

“I suppose I could manage a few minutes.”

The drinks flowed heavily, and minutes turned into hours as Camille allowed herself to be pursued with flagrant boasting so heavily embellished it would give a bard pause. Mary seemed the more interested of the two, strangely, taking any excuse to make contact and batting her eyelashes so hard they seemed ready to catch fire.

I’ve gotten far more than what Clochaîne asked for, and it was almost insultingly easy too.

The Perimonts were so used to being fawned over that the slightest pretense to resistance had left them eating from the palm of her hand. It wasn’t the most tasteful work, but achingly familiar after nearly two decades wrangling aristocrats, trying to build an alliance to retake Malin.

“Alright, now I really must go.” Always leave them wanting more. Camille stood up slowly, extricating herself from the settee siblings.

“No! We’re best friends now, you can’t go! That’s so mean!” Mary pouted, slurring her words slightly.

“The lady needs her rest,” Simon countered, slipping a scrap of paper into the palm of her hand. “She knows to call upon us another time.”

“I’ll do my best. I did have a lovely night.”

Despite the late hour and the generous imbibement that had led her to it, Camille felt a spring in her step as she descended the hill out of the gardens. With the Perimonts amenable to her, Clochaîne would support her as well, at least with the Acolytes. It wasn’t a full plan yet, but the pieces that would be needed to form one.

She stumbled slightly, nearly tripping over a root.

In the morning. A plan can wait that long.

Her eyes were so heavy she almost failed to notice the sword pointed in her face, but the glint of steel sent her springing to alert attention.

Holding it was the black-haired girl from this morning, the one with the earring.

Did she follow me here?

“Look, whatever you want, I’m sure we can work this out.” Camille held up her hands, mentally readying herself to spend more of her life stopping the assailant.

“What I want, Camille Leclaire, is for you to explain what the fuck that was, and I’d better like the answer.”