Chương 89: Joint Operations

There is a tendency among the politically-inclined to be mercenary in matters of friendship and alliance, coldly-calculating where other men would feel the bond of fellowship. I maintain that not only is this practice abhorrent, it works against the aims of its adherents in the end. In practice a friendship differs very little from its political equivalent; in both instances one is expected to support their friends, to engage in reciprocity and altruism, to value their needs and wants when making decisions.

The sole apparent difference is that in a political friendship, there is the expectation that a twist of circumstance may dissolve the bond as though it never existed. I have never seen the utility of such a practice. Men of principle should not dissemble where friendship is concerned. Love your fellow man unreservedly, with no thought of betrayal or deception in your heart. Support your friends even to your own detriment, that your strength might be tested to its utmost.

And if circumstance demands that you act against those you hold dear - weep, kiss their brow, and drive the knife in from the front. - Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687 Michael walked in to find Sobriquet waiting for him, alone in a foyer with a truly astounding number of mounted antlers, horns, whole and partial game animals, birds, fish and sculptures of the same. He blinked, looking around.

"Ghar's bones. Fancies himself a hunter, I'd say."

"It's macabre," Sobriquet sniffed.

"Downright creepy. I don't trust a room with this many eyes watching you." She paused, and Michael felt the gentle touch of her veil return.

"And speaking of…?" Michael sighed.

"I said my piece. You weren't listening?" Sobriquet cocked her head to the side.

"I'm all-powerful, not rude."

"Since when?" Michael scoffed. She made a face.

"I'm not rude to you. Also I don't know if she can tell when I'm observing something. Given that she's somewhat touchy already, I decided I should keep my distance, so to speak."

"How oddly considerate," Michael said.

"But you didn't miss much. I gave a brief summary of our purpose here and said that we weren't opposed to working together against Luc." Sobriquet gave him a flat look.

"We're not?"

"We're not." Michael shrugged.

"Or more accurately, we can't afford to be. You've seen how successful we've been at tracking Luc down alone. I see no reason to think that will change overmuch in the future. We need to know where he is, precisely, and Sofia can give us that." Sobriquet gestured towards the sweeping bay windows, through which Korbel was distantly visible.

"We do know where he's going to be," she objected.

"Isn't that why we came to Korbel in the first place?"

"There's still a lot of room for things to go wrong," Michael sighed.

"We have a better chance working with Sofia than not."

"Since when?" Sobriquet shot back, matching his earlier inflection precisely; Michael felt a hot flare of anger from her, like peering into a furnace.

"Doesn't she hate you? There's every chance that she'll send a regiment rather than a liason as her reply." Michael nodded slowly.

"She may. I explained about Vincent, and Vera. What I could feel of her presence - changed, somewhat, although I'm not sure how to interpret that. It's possible she's still set on killing me, but that's not mutually-exclusive with deciding to work together against Luc."

"How wonderfully reassuring. So we're meant to wait and see if she finds forgiveness in her heart, or if she'd rather rip yours out and look for it there." Sobriquet gave him an exasperated look.

"Some people make an art of bearing grudges, you know."

"And some people move past them. We were on friendly terms once. We'd have an easier time catching Luc if we were again." He walked over to pull Sobriquet into a hug.

"But that'll never happen if both sides remain guarded. She already knows we're here, it costs us very little to extend our hand."

"Costs us very little?" she said, pushing him away with a glare.

"Let me restate. I make an art of bearing grudges. The hateful bitch paraded my sister's corpse through the streets of Leik, and when the locals put a stop to it she arrested half the town. Her pursuit of us is the reason Clair died in the first place." She shook her head.

"There will be no friendly terms with her. Not for me." Michael blinked. Points of nuance expanding on her statement occurred to him and were immediately vetoed; Sofia had not been personally responsible for the entirety of that list, but her involvement was enough that he was not going to argue in her favor.

"You didn't seem so opposed when I first mentioned it," Michael said.

"If you felt so strongly about it-""I'm not a child, Michael. I've spent most of my life working with people who were monsters of one sort or another; Saleh was worse still by any measure, but he was necessary." She looked to the side.

"Reconciliation is not necessary, so I'll thank you not to talk about it."

"Wishing her dead isn't mutually exclusive with working together either, not where Luc is concerned." Michael paused for a moment, his words slipping in the face of her radiant anger.

"I'm not asking you to have tea with her. The situation is uniquely suited for her soul, though, and we can't ignore that."

"It's the only reason we're talking civilly after you suggested making nice with the woman who murdered my sister," Sobriquet said icily.

"I can see the sense in it. If she manages not to stab us in the back, I can even tolerate coordinating with her. Temporarily. It changes nothing about my wish to watch her choke on her own blood." Michael paused again, then let his hands drop to his sides.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Are you?" Sobriquet shot back.

"Or did you really mean to reconcile with her after everything she's done? Did it cross your mind that she passed that point a long while ago?" She made a futile, angry gesture, turning to glare at a glassy-eyed trophy elk.

"Your habit of arguing for the best merits of horrible people is endearing, until suddenly it isn't."

"What do you want me to do?" Michael looked back at her.

"To hate her? Would that make any of it better?"

"I want to understand how you can do anything else, after what she did." Sobriquet turned to face him, her hand balled into a fist.

"She's done her best to earn it."

"I know," Michael said.

"I don't have a good answer for you. She's been selfish and cruel, and takes every move we make as further incitement. I think it'd be easier if I did hate her. The fact remains that I'd be dead or worse without her." He held up a hand as he felt Sobriquet's anger swell.

"It doesn't forgive anything. After Leire killed Galen, someone very wise told me that a person's good and evil acts both persist, that they don't balance each other out." Sobriquet gave a sharp, cold laugh.

"You ass, I was trying to make you feel better about misjudging her."

"You made a good point," Michael said, stepping closer; he reached out to take her hand.

"I didn't hate Leire either. She was only - worse than I thought she was, and I can't force her to shoulder too much blame for not living up to my incomplete impression. What I saw in her was based only on the good, on Jeorg's hopes." He pressed his lips together.

"But Jeorg was right in the end, at least to some extent. I fully expected to have to cut Leire away from myself, just as I did with Galen. Leire surprised me. Surprised herself, I think." She froze.

"Is that what this is about?" she asked.

"You think her soul will come to you someday, and you don't want to be put in a position where you're forced to destroy her." Michael hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"I'd be lying if I said it hadn't occurred to me," he murmured.

"I want to leave the door open for her, is all. A favor for a favor, as she opened the door for me. I wouldn't mind if she stopped trying to kill me every time we're on the same continent, if that's on the table, but-" He paused.

"It would sit ill with me if I didn't try. For all that her motivations were selfish, without her there was no escaping my father. No Jeorg, no Stanza. I would be what Spark wished to make of me." Sobriquet stood quietly for a moment, then nodded.

"Then I won't interfere. I won't help, but I won't interfere. As long as you understand that you're being entirely too generous with her," she said.

"I worry sometimes that you hold too high an opinion of others."

"I won't be turning my back on her anytime soon," Michael said.

"She has good reason to hate me. I've taken something precious from her. She'll probably try to kill us at some point during our stay here, but that's hardly new." He looked out the window, where the distant city sat on the horizon.

"I'd like to try all the same."

"Because you're unreasonable," Sobriquet said. Michael snorted, then shook his head.

"What's the point of all these souls if I don't get to be unreasonable from time to time?" he asked.

"People keep telling me that I can do whatever I want. I think it's about time that I listened." She stared at him, then walked up to let her head drop against his chest.

"Of all the idiots who could have gained your power," she said, her voice muffled, "we got the one who wants to use unlimited possibility to make friends with a murderous lunatic. Why?" He kissed the top of her head.

"Just lucky, I guess." The next day found Michael sitting on a log overlooking a meadow; the far side of the clearing bore a simple dirt road that hugged the treeline until it vanished once more into the forest. It was empty of travelers - for now. Michael sighed and tilted his head upward.

"I thought you said they were nearly here?" he muttered.

"They were," Sobriquet's voice replied, sounding nettled.

"I'm not responsible for the pace of their travel. If you want to go down and see if one of them broke a bootlace, go right ahead."

"I'll let them figure it out on their own," Michael sighed.

"What of the other groups?"

"Also waiting. Charles and Unai might make contact before you do if your target delays much longer; Zabala's group will probably engage last." She paused.

"By a fair margin, I'd say. If your engagement goes quickly, you can perhaps link up with their group before the fighting starts."

"I'd say I'd hope it does, but that would mean that this is yet another decoy," Michael sighed.

"All right. I'll let you know if there are any surprises." He massaged the bridge of his nose, leaning forward on the log. It was icebound, and should have been manifestly uncomfortable as a bench; it was another hidden benefit of his potens soul that he could rest comfortably in any circumstance. The crunch of snow drew his eyes upwards; he saw Lars approaching.

"Any news?" Lars asked. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Michael shook his head.

"Nobody's engaged yet. Not that it matters. I don't expect that we'll find Luc in the vanguard, but every decoy we strike makes him easier to find, in the end. Moot point if Sibyl can help, of course, but I'm not going to rely on her aid even after she offers it."

"Fair enough," Lars said, leaning against a tree.

"Better for the lads to be engaged with productive work than idling around my father's house; as entertaining as it would be to see them break all of his hunting trophies out of boredom, we should probably refrain."

"Ghar's bones, I had determined not to say anything," Michael groaned.

"But there's really no end to them, is there? I had to sleep with a damned rabbit staring at me from the bedside table. Who takes a rabbit for a trophy?" Lars laughed, taking off his cap to run fingers through his hair.

"It's something of a mania with the old man," he said.

"Sport is a proud Ardan tradition, everyone will agree - but most of the old guard in the Assembly aren't actually all that fond of traipsing around in the woods. They like the idea of hunting more than the practice, and it's a dirty secret that none of them will admit to for fear of seeming soft and unmanly."

"It's true," Michael chuckled, thinking of his own father's profound distaste for the outdoors.

"I expect half the assembly can barely sit a horse. Of course, I'm among that number; I shouldn't judge too harshly." He shook his head.

"I begin to see the sense of it. He invites important partners up to the lodge, then?"

"And makes them feel like they're the softest dandy that ever wore silk," Lars confirmed.

"I expect that it's one of his most cherished pasttimes. Quite counterproductive, though, as it makes people disinclined to associate with him further. I stand as a case in point." He tapped his chest, his smile turning wry.

"I can sympathize." Michael stood up, brushing chips of ice from his trousers.

"Is he in Korbel now, do you think?" Lars shrugged.

"Haven't the slightest idea. He wrote me twice in my time on the continent, once to tell me my sister had married, and again to congratulate me on my captaincy. I don't expect he'll be eager to be seen with me now that I'm a deserter." He blinked, considering.

"And likely a traitor, though he doesn't know that part yet. He'll be very disappointed when he learns I surrendered rather than dying in a heroic defense of Imes."

"If you see him again, be sure to let him know that he's the very model of an Assemblyman," Michael said.

"Truly, he's outdone himself."

"I can almost see the look on his face, yes." Lars put one foot up on a stump, gesturing grandly.

"Father, I've returned. Your son the faithless mercenary, traitor to Ardalt - but here's Michael Baumgart!" He let his arm drop.

"Poor fool wouldn't know what to make of it. He idolizes your old man, you know." Michael looked up.

"You're pulling my leg."

"Stand me in front of a verifex, it's true. He always was enamored of the Klingenfraktion in the Assembly, nevermind that they're the ones least likely to admit an upstart merchant from Korbel into their ranks. Old Carolus in the Rabenfraktion probably would have seated him if he hadn't been so intent on impressing the old guard." Lars waggled his fingers.

"He was beside himself with joy when I got a scalptor soul. Said it was the key to greatness."

"And he thought that would get him in with my father's faction?" Michael said.

"Scalptors are everywhere. If anything, my father always voted against seating more of them because he didn't want a more powerful scalptor than himself in the chamber. The Klingenfraktion only cares for Sever." Lars spread his hands helplessly.

"I believe my sister tried to tell him that at least twice; I never tried, because I knew he wouldn't listen."

"Well, any time you need to throw your social weight around, let me know," Michael chuckled.

"As my father apparently never got around to disowning me, and nobody here seems to have heard what we've been up to on the continent. I had assumed I'd be a criminal in Ardalt. As it happens, only the Institute wanted to find me. The rest of the government apparently couldn't care less." There was a silence after that, rather more melancholy than Michael had intended it to be; he was surprised at how much that truth stung, even now.

Certainly his father could have sent envoys, and he likely knew of Michael's exploits despite the public's ignorance - but there had been nothing. Lars opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He turned toward the meadow, squinting, then nodded.

"And with impeccable timing, that'd be our target." Michael sent his sight over to peer at the small group of men who had emerged from the treeline. There were a scant dozen of them: two obruors, eight ragged soldiers and two more men who Michael presumed were the decoy team's lucigentes. He dropped his head and sighed.

"Not him." Michael worked his shoulder around, preparing to run towards the distant group; Lars tapped him on the back.

"Let us take this one, eh?" he said.

"It'd do the lads some good to put in work for a change, else they'll get rusty." Nonplussed, Michael nodded. Lars turned and walked a few paces over to where the rest of his team sat.

"All right, gentlemen," he said.

"Lord Baumgart has asked if we'd mind routing that crew of misfits over there. They'll draw within a hundred paces, I'd say; we'll set up by those rocks. I'll target the obruors in back. Herschel, Richter, take the lucigentes ahead of them. Arn, Brant, the men in front. Fire at will after your primary targets are down. Clear?" There was a chorus of nods and muttered affirmations; Michael watched as the men took their positions next to a jutting spur of snow-covered rock.

He took a closer look at the Institute team while they approached, shifting his sight down towards the soldiers' faces. They were a horrific sight, mottled with frostbite and blood. One man's nose was black and waxen on his face, another's ear ended in a ragged fringe of rotting flesh. In the back, one of the men hobbled along with a clear injury to his foot, though he made no sign of pain. Behind them, the four ensouled walked with their heads down against the slight breeze, hands stuffed into pockets.

There was no warning; Michael heard the faintest rustle of cloth as Lars began the attack. Two thin coin-slot marks appeared on the obruors' foreheads. They dropped instantly. The men they had controlled trudged onward, uncaring. The lucigentes spun at the noise of falling bodies, only to join them a moment later as bullets struck them in the chest. More fire tore into the shuffling soldiers, dropping one and wounding another. Most did not react, obeying their last command slavishly until bullets found them.

One man near the rear of the column stopped, though, his rifle dropping from limp fingers. Drool hung from a slack mouth, and his head slowly pivoted to face the noise of the guns, uncomprehending- Then he, too, fell. Michael jogged out to the fallen, reaching down to brush his fingers over any that still drew breath. The men stilled under his touch, sighing, relaxing into the embrace of the snow beneath them.

There was a sheaf of papers in an obruor's coat, though it contained nothing they could not have already guessed - the scouting team was to assess the road to Korbel, and to let the lucigentes participate visibly in any combat. Michael turned to see Lars walking unhurriedly across the snow behind him, the men in tow. He nudged one of the obruors with a boot.

"I thought you said you had a weak scalptor soul," Michael said.

"You caught two targets dead-center in the forehead at that distance, I think you're not giving yourself enough credit."

"I'm rather useless against anything armored," Lars demurred.

"But I didn't get into the Swordsmen on my dashing looks and dubious family connections alone." Richter's head came up.

"You paid a bribe, too?" Lars frowned.

"Well, naturally. But it was rather less than it should have been." Michael chuckled and turned aside.

"Sera? How are we doing?"

"Charles and Unai took down a decoy group as well," she said.

"Zabala is waiting for his, still. You might be able to make it if you hurry - north-northeast, past that tall tree and over the next ridge."

"Got it." Michael turned to Lars.

"Head back. We'll likely catch up halfway." He was off before Lars could do more than nod in response, snow kicking up from his feet as he broke into a full run. For a span of time there was only the muffled sound of footfalls in snow, the gentle creaking of trees shifting from his path, and the slow cadence of his breath. Before he came into sight of the others, though, he heard gunfire from beyond the trees. Michael cursed and sent his sight up, looking for Zabala's group.

A flash of light drew his attention; he saw Zabala and five of the men dashing across a field towards a larger Institute group. The obruors had fallen, as had a handful of their enthralled soldiers, but there were three more ensouled among their number. One, a lucigens, scythed a thin ray of light across the charging men; Zabala glared back, his soul spread in abject denial. The beam played across the soldiers, leaving no more than mild scorchmarks on clothing, their charge unhindered.

Two more of the Institute's ensouled met them with shattering punches - potentes, by the power behind them, but not particularly strong ones. Zabala's protection was proof against the blows. The Mendiko captain shot the lucigens in the face, then twice again in the chest; the rest of his men paired off against the potentes.

There was another flare, this time from Voss, his hand clamped over his opponent's face for an agonizingly long count as the potens seized, twitching - then slumped; when his head struck the ground it shattered into icy chunks. Zabala finished off the remaining unensouled men, who were milling around uncertainly in the wake of their obruors' death, while his subordinates forced the last potens down, jammed a rifle barrel into his eye- Michael let his sight drift back; he didn't need to see the end of the fight.

The sound of the last shot echoed past him as he turned and began to run back towards the hunting lodge. His detour had taken him farther out of his way than Michael initially thought; he did not encounter Lars or Charles on the way back to the lodge. In a way he was thankful. Michael's life had become an oscillation between sleepless, silent night and the brutal violence of day.

Having a stretch of chill, clear daylight to run unbothered was a welcome respite, and the hills outside of Korbel made for a pleasant sight as he thundered across the snow. All too soon, though, the gaudily-rustic profile of their temporary base cleared the treeline. Michael sighed and began to run up the path - then paused, noting hoofprints in the snow. They looked fresh, to his inexpert eye, numbering too many for one horse but few enough that each remained distinct. Confusingly, some led away from the hilltop.

He frowned and redoubled his pace up the hill towards their accommodations. There was one horse tied up outside, though the snow again showed that more had been present. Yet there was no sign of violence, and the house remained quiet. Michael's heart began to beat faster. There were few things it could be, aside from Sofia's response, and if she had come alone - it was hardly an act of violence. His thoughts caught up a moment later; he paled.

If she had come alone, Michael realized, it was probably best that he join those inside as quickly as he could. Sure enough, the door opened to the sound of angry yelling. Sobriquet stood in the foyer with Charles at her side, looking impassively at Lars and his men. The soldiers were arrayed in a loose semicircle around them, their posture aggressive and angry. Michael could feel the frustrated rage pouring from them. Lars, in particular, was incensed.

"-won't stand for it, not in my family's home!" he shouted.

"This is not how a Webel repays a favor!" Sobriquet fixed Lars with a glare, unimpressed, then glanced over at Michael.

"As I said, it was a temporary solution until Michael gets back - and here he is. If you have an issue with me saving you from your own stupidity, we can discuss it when he's done." She walked over to Michael with an exasperated look, taking his hand and leading him back to where she and Charles had been standing - in front of a door to one of the side rooms, Michael realized. A door that Charles had bound in strips of metal, sealing it off from the foyer.

It was only then that Michael saw Unai, standing unobtrusively in the corner. He looked unbothered by the fracas, though Michael felt a small note of relief amid the oppressive anger as the anatomens made eye contact with Michael, nodded - and withdrew his hand from beneath his jacket, empty.

"Sibyl sent her response," Sobriquet said.

"And the damn Ardans are losing their minds about it. I'd appreciate it if you could talk with her." Michael gave her a quizzical look, sending his sight into the next room- He blinked.

"Ah," he said.

"She didn't cause any trouble?"

"Not according to Unai," she said.

"Charles slapped her in bonds straightaway, which set our gallant idiot off-" Lars took a step forward, red-faced; Michael held up his hands.

"If I step into the other room for a moment," he said mildly, "can I trust you all to behave?" He looked around at each of them. Some of the soldiers looked abashed, but Lars, Sobriquet and Charles still glared defiantly. Michael walked over to Charles.

"The door?" The artifex grunted, then turned to tap his finger against the metal bands around the wood; they flowed upwards to settle around his arm.

"All yours, lordling," he muttered.

"Good luck."

"I think I'll be fine," Michael sighed, stepping through the door. He shut it behind him. The room was a spare sitting-room, with an opulent chandelier wrought from antlers and hammered copper; there were chairs of lightly-finished wood and leather pushed against the walls, with one remaining in the center of the space. In the chair was the figure of a woman, bound in borrowed sheets of copper that covered her entirely save for a small gap over her nose.

Michael shook his head, flexing his soul; green spidered over the metal as it tarnished, growing brittle and dropping away. As the last of it clattered to the ground, Vera shook her head irritably, brushing pieces of verdigris from her clothing and hair.

"It's stained," she sighed, her sightless eyes turning towards Michael.

"Isn't it? I shouldn't have worn white."

"Hello, Vera," Michael said.

"I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised that Sofia would send you. I was under the impression that your relationship was somewhat strained as of late." She smiled, though it was not a happy expression.

"I'm afraid I've become a liability to her," she said.

"Exposed as a false Sibyl, and rendered untrustworthy by your intervention back on the continent. But you cannot render me less so, so I'm a rather perfect messenger. That it gets me away from prying eyes in Calmharbor is a convenient side benefit." Michael took a breath, then nodded.

"So she's open to cooperation?" Vera hesitated.

"She's - not opposed. I managed to prevail upon her to let me meet with you, but I imagine Isolde will have spent every moment since I left arguing against it." She blinked, slowly, her milk-white eyes turning aside.

"You came back at a complicated time, Michael." He snorted.

"It's becoming a habit," Michael muttered, offering her a hand. She didn't react; after a moment Michael let it drop.

"What's going on, Vera? I've only been away for a few months, and everything has upended itself."

"Nothing new," Vera said.

"Only new facets of existing problems. Even so, Sofia fears what's happening. Your father was bad enough, but the Institute with their borrowed Star is threatening to embroil us in war. Sibyl's curse is to watch, powerless, seeing our options slip away one by one until Ardalt is left a weakened, desperate state ripe for Safid conquest."

"And what does she want me to do about it?" Michael asked.

"Her goal, as ever, is to avert more war. The Institute taking Korbel would be an important symbolic victory, and would likely doom us to civil war even if this current uprising is defeated. She'll accept your aid in defending the city." Vera's smile returned.

"She'll be in Korbel by nightfall."