Chapter 92: Cold Front

One day the black hound came to the white wolf, complaining that the raven had been taking its fill from the fields. He said that he had been tasked with guarding the grain from the raven, but with its sharp eyes and broad wings it fled before the hound could draw close.

The wolf said that the hound should stop hunting the raven. Further, the hound should gather some grain and present it to the raven every day as a tribute.

The hound refused, saying he would not cede victory to the raven so.

The wolf laughed, then, and said that the raven who was being hunted would never be caught, canny prey that it was, so the hound should not hunt it. The raven who had won would be a much easier quarry.

- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

Michael sat at the lodge’s opulent dining table, watching the snow fall outside. It had continued all night, though at a lesser rate than when Luc had touched off the storm with his use of power. The windows were half-obstructed by drifts, and the road to the lodge was buried under a thick blanket of white.

It would have been relaxing in other circumstances; in the moment, however, it had put Michael in a foul mood. Most of the others were still asleep, though Richter was up making breakfast. True to his word, the cook had managed to throw together a rather wonderful meal from the stores on hand when they had returned.

The men had needed some form of distraction - or, rather, Michael had needed to distract them from looking at him, darting glances and muttering under their breath. Their focus was impossible to ignore; the sense of their emotions through Spark a persistent drone in the back of his mind that threatened to drive him from their company altogether.

In the end, he managed to put up with the attention long enough to finish the meal. There had been remembrances, then a toast to the four dead men. Afterward he had made his excuses and gone to bed, but mere hours later he found himself restless and awake.

The dining room was at least visually interesting enough to divert him for some time; he had sat alone in the dark studying the rows of trophies until he was fairly certain he had them memorized. It had soured as a distraction when Michael’s mind supplied the image of Jeorg’s cabin lined with dead faces, the men and women whose souls had come to Michael staring glass-eyed into the dark. He had turned his attention to the snow, then, and waited for the others to rise.

A noise prompted Michael to raise his head; the Webels’ butler reentered the room to look nervously down the table. “More tea, milord?” he asked.

Michael nodded, the man disappearing almost as soon as his head began to move. Despite his frosty reception at their arrival, the butler - named Alois - had emerged as an attentive, albeit very confused host. The man seemed to sleep even less than Michael, and had been bringing him tea since before the sun rose.

He leaned back as Alois placed another steaming mug in front of him, watching as it shimmered in his sight. Not with a real light; it was more akin to the jeweled quasi-color that appeared when he drew on Vincent’s soul. Even when he looked away, the heat remained present in his mind, an instinctive awareness of the warmth just in front of him.

“Thank you, Alois,” Michael said, taking a sip. “I hope we won’t trouble you for too much longer.”

The butler gave a shaky laugh. “It’s no trouble at all,” he said. “Not Master Webel’s standard sort of guests, for sure, but then again it isn’t the standard Master Webel bringing them.” He paused, the false cheer on his face diminishing slightly. “Nor is he the same young master I’d known. His previous appearances here were more inclined to revelry and dissolute vice; seeing you at the door I expected much of the same.”

He looked at Michael - then froze, perhaps realizing that he might have offered offense.

Michael raised his hand placatingly. “We’re not the most savory group,” he admitted. “It was a fair expectation. Honestly, I’m as surprised as you that the men haven’t torn through the place. There’s a gravity to our situation, though, and I think it’s put a damper on their mood.”

“I heard what you said last night,” Alois said. “And I saw the young master, and the Mendiko representative-” He paused. “It seems as though you’re engaged in a dangerous business.”

Michael snorted. “Fair to say. It could have been worse last night, a lot worse. As it stands, the-” He paused, then took a sip of his tea. “The enemy was only trying to send a message.”

Alois stood in silence for a moment, though Michael could feel the quiet dread as he processed the implications of that statement. “Then I will leave you to your work,” the butler said quietly. “Please take good care of the young master. Even with his long absence and past lapses in behavior, he is dear to many in the family.”

Michael nodded and watched the butler walk away. The room returned to its silence, save that his head was now echoing with a word he had thus far avoided saying.

I’m not your enemy, Michael.

His tea was down to the dregs before the others in the house began to filter in, drawn by the waxing light outside or the smells of Richter’s cooking. Vera was first, looking as though she hadn’t slept well; her hair was in disarray and her eyes bleary. One hand trailed its fingers along the wall as she walked, the other holding the Mendiko radio.

She offered Michael a wan smile, then sat quietly at the table. Others filed in - Charles, Lars, and most of the soldiers were present before long. Lars was still red-faced and peeling from Luc’s attack the night before, which did not stop him from seating himself directly next to Vera.

Sobriquet came in last, speaking with Unai; the anatomens already looked much-improved from his prior state, though his arm was still a burnt mess. Much of his hair had gone, and his steps were unsteady. Zabala helped him to a seat and went to fetch food.

“You look dreadful,” Sobriquet said, sitting next to Michael. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“About as much as before,” Michael sighed. “It’s not the lack of sleep, it’s everything else. We’re going to finish our meal, and then they’re going to look to me for direction.” He looked at her. “So do I tell them that we repeat the plan that got four of their number killed, or the plan that involves me flailing against thousands of soldiers while Luc runs? Nevermind that Sofia has apparently decided that I’m not useful enough to talk to, so we have no way of actually finding him.”

Sobriquet gave him a flat look. “We don’t need her. Luc still has to go through Korbel, there’s no advancing past it with the garrison intact. We go there and wait. Sooner or later, he’ll show.”

“He’ll run again,” Michael pointed out. “And if he wants to shake me off, he’s found a method that works.” He shook his head. “I can’t use you and the others to screen his troops. It makes you too vulnerable.”

“It was blind luck that he caught four of us at that distance,” Sobriquet said. “But I think it’s better if I focus on attacking Luc directly. I won’t be able to take him down on my own, at least not quickly, but I can probably prevent him from rabbiting off like he’s been doing.”

Michael sat up, giving her a disapproving look. “And when he attacks you?”

She smiled at him - then disappeared, only to reappear in the corner of the room. Another Sobriquet smiled at him from the door to the kitchen, while others populated the empty seats at the table. Soon the whole room was filled with smiling, identical copies.

Then they vanished, leaving the original still in her seat. “Don’t underestimate me, lordling,” she warned him. “I am Sobriquet.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Michael sighed, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Fine. Smaller team, though. You, plus Zabala for protection.”

She scowled. “Not necessary, but you’ll only fret if he doesn’t come. Are we sorted?” Her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to enjoy your breakfast, or is that going to be an ordeal too?”

Michael’s mouth was half-open to reply when she stood from her chair. “Never mind, don’t answer. I’ll get your plate, then you’re going to eat it - all of it, and I’ll be watching.”

He thought about replying, but down that path lay nothing he wanted to deal with at this hour of the morning. Michael sighed, sat back in his chair and waited for breakfast.

They were back at Korbel before the sun had risen far. Snow blanketed the city, and the trip would have been slow save for Michael and Zabala’s souls lending them the strength to essentially ignore the heavy, wet snow blocking their path.

The snow had also extinguished the fire on the hillside, though the discontinuity in the trees was still visible underneath. Michael’s eyes stuck on it for a moment, wondering if the bodies of those they had lost were still there, cold under the snow.

Sobriquet elbowed him in the side. “If you run through a tree while you’re distracted, you’ll alert them to our presence. It’d be hard to veil.”

“I was just looking,” Michael sighed. “And wondering. He never attacked me with that much force before. He certainly could have, but he didn’t.”

“If you’re trying to wring logic from his actions you’ll need to work hard.” Sobriquet slowed, turning to face him. “Could be he was holding back so as not to draw too much snow ahead of his advance. Could be he’s laboring under the presumption that you’re still friends, you said he was surprised when you tried to kill him.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he’s just gone absolutely fucking crazy, and there’s no use in trying to determine what he thinks.”

“There is a logic to his actions, even if it’s askew,” Michael frowned. “And if we’re hoping to intercept him, we should invest some thought into understanding that logic. Otherwise we’re limited to guesswork, and look where that’s got us thus far.”

Sobriquet sighed. “I’d say that he’s been restraining himself so as not to have an undue impact on the weather. Troops are vulnerable to cold, and his more so than most.” She gestured ahead, her hand taking in the snowbound valley. “He may still be able to advance on Korbel, but he won’t be able to do so at speed - and if he doesn’t advance, he’ll have to deal with the toll of attrition on his men, who can’t take care of themselves well. He took a loss last night, despite appearances.”

“I don’t disagree with any particular point,” Zabala said. “But this isn’t just about the movement of troops in Ardalt anymore. This is about Luc’s overall behavior. His assault on the Star, then on Saf, then his flight to Ardalt.” Zabala frowned. “And his obvious antagonism against the Institute, despite aligning with them. It doesn’t add up.”

Sobriquet laughed. “So we’re back to insanity, then.”

“Not necessarily.” Zabala tapped his chin. “He attacks the Safid, in what is arguably a loss. Yes, they pulled out of the War, but he was driven off well before that was certain and never attempted to reengage with their forces. Instead he sails across the ocean to Ardalt. He seeks out the Institute, kills their leadership and assumes command of their forces.”

Michael hummed, his vision again straying to the massive scar on the hillside. “If a trend jumps out, it’s that he’s attacking leaders - Leire, Saleh, Amira, the Institute director. Or perhaps the director was just a show meant for me, and he was going after members of the Eight instead?”

A chill went down his spine. “And if we follow that line of logic, Sofia and Friedrich are easier prey than Saleh and Amira. They’re vulnerable.” He turned to look at Sobriquet. “And Sofia is in Korbel, thanks to us.”

She paled, but a moment later shook her head. “If that was his goal he didn’t need to suborn the Institute. He could have found them easier alone, with less forewarning. Sibyl might have even sought him out, if she recognized him from our travels. But - he didn’t go to Calmharbor, where they both were. He stayed in Stahm instead, and chose to integrate himself into the Institute’s plans. Why?”

Zabala’s steps slowed; his brow furrowed in thought. “The obvious answer is that he needed support, and the Institute was one of the few groups left where he had an avenue of entry. Of the three major powers, Mendian and Saf are closed to him; he’s attacked both.” He pondered for a moment more, then shrugged. “Still an open question what he wants their support for, though.”

“To save lives,” Michael muttered. The others looked at him, and he spread his hands helplessly. “It’s what he said. That he wanted Ardalt to ‘spend their war’, whatever that means.”

There was a pause. “That doesn’t make any sense to me,” Zabala admitted. “Saf is the threat, not Ardalt. Consensus opinion was that the Ardans were going to be confined to domestic issues for the next decade at least while they sorted through the aftermath of their participation in the War.”

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“So,” Sobriquet said. “Once again, insanity. I’ll continue to extol the virtues of the simple, reasonable explanation over some convoluted plan.” She gave them both an exasperated look. “Some men build a world in their head that resembles ours very little, yet they act according to its rules.”

“But there are rules, still,” Zabala insisted. “We’re not trying to justify him, only to predict him - and to me, it seems as though he’s engaged in-” Zabala’s brows knit together; he gave an exasperated sigh. “Reconnaissance. That’s probably the closest word. He’s trying different things to get him closer to his goal, variations on a theme.”

“And what is his goal?” Sobriquet asked.

“I have no idea.” Zabala raised an eyebrow at her. “The goal doesn’t have to obey logic; it doesn’t even have to be possible. But his actions must be, so we may extrapolate from there.”

Sobriquet opened her mouth as if to speak, then frowned. “Well, gentlemen, I think we’re about to get another clue. A small party just emerged from the woods in front of Korbel - Luc isn’t close, or I wouldn’t be able to see them this clearly. A dozen men, no more.” She looked up at Michael. “They’re holding a white flag.”

“He’s sending a delegation?” Michael asked. “They’re hardly going to surrender the city to him without a fight.” He sent his own sight up, barely able to make out the minute forms of men marching down the snow-laden road to Korbel. The garrison at the town’s gates was present, but for the moment there was no great stir of activity from within.

After some time, they stopped.

“They’re speaking,” Sobriquet murmured. “Saying that - oh, Ghar’s ashes. The Institute is requesting a peace conference with the Assembly in Calmharbor to discuss the cessation of hostilities and the reintegration of the Institute as an independent arm of government.”

Michael’s heart began to race. “They’ll accept the conference,” he rasped. “If only to buy time; they can position more troops to Korbel, let the weather work against Luc’s forces.” He looked at Sobriquet. “Stop veiling us; I need to talk to Sofia.”

Sobriquet made a face, turning to him. “She’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want to talk to you,” she said.

“She just needs to listen,” Michael said. “Please.”

“For all the good it will do.” Sobriquet sighed, then gestured irritably; Michael felt the veil slip away. For good measure, Zabala withdrew Vera’s radio from his pack. She had been loath to part with it, but Zabala had insisted - partly because it made good sense, but Michael had felt Zabala’s inordinate satisfaction at reclaiming the scrap of purloined Mendiko technology. He turned it on and waited for Michael to speak.

“Sofia,” he said. “The offer is a trap. I’m not sure how, yet, but you know it’s not a good move for them to make unless they’re getting something else out of it. You may have seen parts of this, but I don’t want to leave anything to chance: Luc is like me, he carries multiple souls. Currently he has at least an auditor soul and several potentes within him, in addition to Stellar. Any soul the Institute has access to, he could potentially have.”

He paused, but only silence came over the radio. Michael licked his lips.

“Advise the Assembly against meeting him, Sofia. He could have Shine souls, more than a few. He could kill them all silently with Stellar, or rampage through them - Ghar’s blood, Sofia, the Assembly has some of the most powerful ensouled in Ardalt aside from you and Friedrich. This could turn into a disaster.”

The radio sent back only a mocking hiss of static. Michael cursed and turned towards the city. “Come on,” he said. “We need to get to Korbel.”

Sobriquet broke into a jog to keep up, glaring at his back. “And do what, precisely? You’ve already pointed out how good of a deal this is for the Assembly, they’re hardly going to reject it on your advice alone.”

“I know,” Michael snapped. “But what else can we do? Should we sit back and watch? This isn’t just about Sofia or Ardalt anymore. There are powerful souls in the Assembly, and he’s shown he’s not averse to killing in the name of strength.”

She had no reply for that; they ran on until they emerged from the treeline not far distant from where the delegation still stood waiting for their response. There were none of the obruor-led soldiers among them; most of the men present had the look Michael associated with Institute men - an odd sameness in their stance, a bland manner that made the eye slide away from them with unnatural ease.

“So, now what?” Sobriquet scowled. “They’ve made their offer, I doubt murdering the peace delegation is going to pose a convincing argument in our favor.”

Michael shook his head and began to walk out towards the waiting men. “When have I ever had a plan going in?” he muttered. “Come on. We can at least insert ourselves into the conversation.”

Some of the men turned to look at Michael as he drew closer, though they did not seem concerned at his approach. One of them, a portly fellow who bore sweat stains on his jacket despite the chill, turned to face them as they approached.

“I should warn you,” he said, his voice quavering slightly, “that we have the means to detect mental tampering. If you use Spark on us, it will be detected and reported to the Assembly during negotiations as an attempt to interfere with the peace process.”

Michael drew up short, looking bemusedly at the sweaty man. “You know who I am?” he asked.

“Of course I do,” the man retorted. “You’re Baumgart’s son, the one who killed the director - and the director before him, I might add.” His tone was somewhat at odds with his pale face and the shaking of his hands; Michael could tell the man was terrified - but resolute, for the moment. “You can tell your father that no number of assassinations can slow the work of progress. We’ll continue our mission regardless of his attempts to destroy us, and see him cast out instead.”

The absurd tirade left Michael at a momentary loss for words. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “You think I killed Spark on my father’s orders? Have you gone entirely mad?”

“It’s certainly led to a convenient political situation in Calmharbor for him,” the delegate sniffed. He looked behind him to the other Institute men, as if for support; they stared ahead, their eyes disinterestedly focused on Michael.

“Yes, well,” the man said, mopping at his brow with his sleeve. “The truth will out on the Assembly floor.” He nodded smugly towards the city.

Michael followed his gaze and saw the doors partway open. A few soldiers were coming across the field to meet them under a small white banner. At their head walked Isolde Altenbach.

Isolde was different than Michael remembered, her fine, sharp features now unpleasantly severe. She was rail-thin, her skin drawn tightly over the bones of her face and her hair bound up at the base of her neck. She wore a voluminous white fur, and as she drew close her eyes fixed onto Michael.

Even at a distance he felt the stab of her hatred, red-hot and acidic. It was like staring into an open furnace door; Michael imagined his eyebrows crisping away as she drew closer. The delegation from Korbel came to a halt some distance from their group.

“If it is agreeable,” Isolde said in a clipped, brittle voice, “I would propose holding discussions inside the city to prevent interference from undesirable parties.”

“I concur,” the Institute representative replied. “We’ll be in your care.”

“Don’t do this, Isolde,” Michael said, taking a step towards her and spreading his hands. “There’s no peace to be had with them. If you let Luc into the Assembly, people will die.”

She turned to him, glacially slow. “I died two months ago,” she said. “If you wanted to intervene, it should have been for Vincent.”

Michael balled his fists. “Isolde-”

“Fuck you, Michael,” she hissed, taking a step towards him. “Take your murdering friends and go back to Mendian. You shed enough blood getting there, you should enjoy it. Ardalt doesn’t need you.” She made a sharp gesture to the Institute delegation, who began to walk forward. The soldiers with Isolde kept a wary eye on them until their charges had advanced a good distance away, at which point they followed them back towards the gate.

Michael watched the gates of Korbel swing closed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this angry - perhaps the last time he had met Isolde, and had found Vera toying with his mind. He wanted to barge through the gates, grab Isolde by her brittle shoulders and make her see-

And he could. Spark stood there, ready; he did not have to flail against the barriers of anger and confusion while Isolde and Sofia led themselves to certain destruction. He clenched his fists, straightened his back-

Michael let his breath out in a slow rush, feeling the blood thundering in his ears. A moment later, he turned and began walking back towards the lodge.

“So?” Sobriquet said. “Now what? I presume we’re not going to let that scarecrow lead Luc straight to the Assembly floor.”

“No, we’re not.” Michael looked back at her. “It’s going to take some time for them to organize the conference; nothing ever gets done right away when the Assembly is involved. I figure we have a week, at least, and that’s only if they start organizing before the Institute’s representatives arrive in Calmharbor. More likely, it’ll be two weeks.”

Sobriquet nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. “So we have time before Luc kills everyone in the Assembly.” She swept her hand to the side, palm up. “I doubt we’re going to make any headway with Sibyl.”

“We’re going to Calmharbor,” Michael said. “We’re going to warn anyone who will listen.”

Sobriquet snorted. “Somehow, today’s showing doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Will anyone listen?”

Michael turned, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you hear what the man said?” he asked. “I’m obviously in league with my father. My father, who is effectively leading the country at the moment. I am Michael, Lord Baumgart.”

“You’re stealing my bit,” she noted. “And not very well.”

He let his arms drop to his sides. “It’s not really my style, I admit,” Michael sighed. “But yes, there are people who will listen - even if it’s only out of self-interest.”

Sobriquet’s eyes narrowed. “You’re thinking of going to your father.”

“Perhaps not immediately,” Michael winced. “I’m hoping that if we make ourselves known in town, using his name, that he might come to us instead. That would be preferable for - a few reasons.” He paused, his feet crunching against the snow for several steps.

“But, yes,” he said. “I think we’ll probably have to.”

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