Ever since the war had begun, nigh a decade ago, all Robert Wisser seemed to do was wait. For the next battle, his next orders, the next meeting, he was getting rather bored of living his life by another's schedule.
Even now he waited, listening to muffled words behind a thick wooden door. Designed by Vovequians, it was quite a thing to behold. Elegant, ornate, with carvings of dancing badgers, bears and deer along the wood. There was nothing quite like it in the cold of Uttoll. Most things were bland there, and if there existed colour and life, it was often manufactured, an imitation of the vibrance of another land. Still, Robert had come to appreciate the beauty in blandness. Blandness was honesty, as far as he cared. Anyone or anything bold enough to be boring was better than one who tried to make themselves interesting at any cost.
The door, pretty as it was, could not draw Robert's eyes away from the window, and the distant crashing of waves visible from it. The Black Coast it was named, on account of the dark stone that shielded Vovequia's south from turbulent seas. In the strong winds of Autumn, the waves were more relentless than usual. They crashed and crashed against the stone, putting up quite the scrap. Spanning as wide as the eye could see, the dark stone would not be overcome today, nor any day, as far as Robert could guess. Still, he watched, leaning out of an open window, to feel the air as the stone could, tasting the salt of the sea on his lips. He watched, because as much as he knew it wasn't a possibility, he'd not dare to miss the sight of a collapse in the stone's impenetrable defence.
He let his hair loose today. Robert never tied it back unless he knew he'd need to be fighting. He looked better with his hair down and he knew it. It behaved well, too. Even high above the ground, facing blusterous winds, his amber locks refused to sway anywhere near his face, his most prized possession.
"Lord Courtesy," rasped a voice from behind, ruining Robert's peace. "The Countess Uttoll is ready to see you."
Robert Wisser did not reply. He did not recognise the voice, and liked to play this game with new faces. He would wait as long as it took for them to speak again. He knew how worrisome it made them, to have to bother their superior once more.
"Lord Courtesy," the voice repeated. It was a quick reply. By the sounds of it, the voice belonged to an older man.
Old, Robert pondered. They don't have patience for anything. Numbered days and all.
"Thank you," Robert said without turning. "I'll be but a moment. I'd like to memorise this view."
"Ought to be careful leaning out that far," the voice said. "You could fall. Or be pushed"
Robert spun on his heel. "Was that a threat?"
Now he saw the man, Robert realised he was mostly correct in his assumptions. The stranger was old, very old. He had liver spots decorating his forehead, and a scraggly, unkempt beard dangling down to his chest. His eyes were the only thing about him that did not look old. They burned with a youthful passion; the ambition of a man who wishes to be great.
"Oh, I don't have time for threats," the old man said. "If I'm to do something, I simply do it."
"Sod off before I throw you down the stairs."
The old man glanced at the stone steps and smiled. "As you wish, Ser Robert." He stepped away slowly but did not look back.
Robert twirled a lock of hair between his fingers. It was a habit he'd kept since he was a boy. At the slightest stress, his hands instinctively reached up for something to do. He supposed it was better than picking his nose, or biting his nails.
Now, there would be more waiting. Only a minute or two, this waiting Robert enjoyed greatly. It was a small revenge at the Countess. The woman who always had him wait for her, could at least wait a moment in return.
His momentary revenge at hand, Robert took one last glance at the Black Coast before opening the heavy, ornate door.
For what had not a week ago been another man's space, Anne Dreor had certainly grown accustomed to her new office. It was a small, functional room, shaped like an oval. The Vovequian decorations, trophies and jewels sat unmolested, though the walls had now been covered in strategic maps of Quenasses, the immediate area and the South of Vovequia. In the centre of the room sat Anne, behind a small but functional desk, flanked by two Gunners. Hailing from Uttoll, women, any person guarding Anne had to fit those two categories. Apart from Robert, and perhaps the Patriarch himself, she didn't let herself near anyone outside of those two groups.
She'd pretended not to notice him as he entered, her head deep in writing what was probably nothing legible, just to make it seem as if she was busy. Robert grabbed a chair from the corner of the room – he wouldn't be made to stand as she sat – and dragged it over, letting the wood scrape noisily against the naked stone floor, before sitting lazily in front of his wife.
"How do you fare, cousin?" Anne asked. She took her eyes from her paper immediately, fixing their cold glare on him.
"I've told you not to call me that. It disgusts me."
"Why?" she asked. "Are you embarrassed to be related to me?"
"I am your husband."
"You think so? I thought husbands usually had to fulfil a certain… criteria."
"Please," Robert leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the desk. "I won't let you act as if everything I've done was not by your own order. If you'd like a husband perhaps you ought to stop using him like a whore."
"I don't know," Anne mused. "I pride myself on knowing what someone is best at, then using them for that purpose."
A pistol at her hip, his sabre at his, Robert wondered who would kill who first. Guns were powerful, yes, but at the closest of ranges, they were easily outmatched by a blade. Even so, Anne's guards would always be the ones to strike first. It's what they were paid to do after all. As soon as the Robert's sabre escaped its scabbard, he'd have two equally sized holes in his heart and head. That was a simple fact. Still, it was nice to ponder other possibilities sometimes, for Robert to have the fantasy that he could make a move against his wife.
Husband and wife stared at each other for a moment longer. Robert glared with anger, while Anne smiled at the revelation of it.
"Sorry dear," she said, clasping a gloved hand around his. "I didn't mean to strike a nerve."
"You didn't," Robert lied. "We're just joking, are we not?"
"Indeed," she squeezed his hand lightly.
"Although," Robert said, releasing himself from her coil. "In regard to another matter, I suggest you hire some more…" he looked to the guards. They stared back, unblinkingly, like reptiles. Their eyes were almost as cold as his wife's. Almost.
"Yes?" Anne asked innocently.
"Obedient servants," Robert finished. "The old man outside I found frankly to be bothersome, arrogant even."
"That old man was no servant of mine, he was the Ambassador of the Sommeliers."
"Since when did you like wine?" Robert asked without thinking. His wife cocked her head, letting him know he was an idiot.
Oh shit, he thought. Those Sommeliers.
"He was bothersome, you say?" Anne said. "And how did you find that out exactly?"
"No reason in particular," Robert lied. "Just a man's intuition, I suppose."
"Good," Anne said. "I would hate for there to already be a problematic relationship there. They're not the most forgiving people, you know. Wrong any Sommelier, you're more likely to end up with a slit throat than a second chance."
There was no way she believed her husband, but she wouldn't call out his lie now. Despite their games, their hateful games, she preferred not to entirely embarrass him.
"Let the red flow, as it were," Robert said. It was a quote often shared among the Sommeliers – Vovequia's intelligence force – their name deriving from their methods of disguise and communication. By posing as actual sommeliers, the Vovequian Sommeliers could hide messages within wine bottles, move them up and down the country, and find their ways into the courts of noblemen and women. They were an odd but effective bunch. Intimidating in their ability to move unseen and strike from anywhere. You never knew when you were interacting with a Sommelier, and that was enough to fear them.
"Moving on," Anne said. "The reason you're here; how fares the Lady Nanet?"
"Fat," Robert said bluntly. "Perhaps fatter than I last saw her, though I'm not sure that's possible."
"Well," Anne chuckled. A fake chuckle, Robert wasn't sure of the last time he saw his wife laugh. It was probably after someone she disliked had died. "That's what Dolpon does to a woman I suppose. When you live with so much food, why even I'd be tempted. Any word of the Lord Ammon?"
"Loyal," Robert replied. He gestured to a jug to his left. Anne nodded and he poured himself a glass. Water. Of course, it was water. "He remains loyal. Plans to fund the army, give us grain, for as long as he's alive, and he's training his sons to do the same."
"You know," Anne said, having a guard pour her a drink. "I do like it when the important ones behave. Felland and the Arch can battle over meaningless land as much as they like. They don't matter. They don't make guns, or food. Just men, and we can find those anywhere."
"When you're done with politics, have you ever considered philanthropy?"
"I am no politician," Anne declared. "Politicians understand nothing yet continue to play with lives and countries as if they are all pieces on a gameboard."
"You do the same."
"Perhaps, but in the end, I will have given something to the world. I, alongside our glorious Patriarch, may we be humbled by his glory."
Robert echoed the praise.
"Will drag the world into a new age," Anne finished. "Even if it must come kicking and screaming."
"It seems they'll do more than that. Your inventions can only get us so far, the bodies are already piling up."
"Don't exaggerate dear, it makes you look foolish. Were anyone to match our current weaponry, I would simply create something else, something better."
A knock at the door. Swift and efficient it silenced the pair's conversation.
Anne straightened her short jacket and checked the medals on her shoulders and chest were still in place. Her tongue, pink and thin, circled around lips she'd coloured a deep, crimson red. Under her eyes and cheeks there was a tint of similar colour. Most folk of Uttoll, if they chose to wear makeup at all, would wear pinkish colours, or darken themselves slightly so they looked as tanned as the rest of the Drevonish population. Robert did not share in the grey skin of his cousin and father, due to a mother from The Arch he'd been blessed with only a slight paleness. Anne never shied away from her heritage though, except for her lips and other odd spots she kept her hair and eyes white and her skin grey. The red, she used to draw eyes to her more handsome features, high cheekbones, and full lips.
"Expecting someone?" Robert asked, noticing the sudden effort his wife was putting into her appearance.
"You know me darling, always make a good impression."
"Lady Courtesy," an authoritative voice said behind the door. "There is something-"
"Oh, do just come in," Anne said. "I can never hear from outside the door. I spend most days standing by cannons, you know."
A man with a grandiose, styled beard peeked his head around the opened door. Though a man of late age, and one of such a strong voice, he cowered behind the door like a toddler behind their mother's leg.
"My apologies," he said. "I was not sure if you'd be busy presently."
"We're just finishing up," Robert said. "But for Atoth's sake man, get out of the doorway, come stand in here. Despite what you hear, she won't bite."
"Aye, alright," the stranger entered the room, letting the door shut awkwardly behind him. His pot belly was barely contained by his uniform. He wore no armour, carried no weapons. By Robert's eyes, that made him a commander, also known as a trumped-up nobleman who was too old or too fat to be charging headfirst into every battle. In this man's case he was both.
Meritocracy my arse, Robert thought.
"Your name, sir?" Anne asked.
"Bartholomew Knicht, Earl of Tweeburrow."
"Right, and you have some news, I presume?"
"Aye, Lady Courtesy. It is both a wonder and a source of confusion."
"Spit it out man," Robert ordered.
"There is a survivor from the ambush at Low Wood. Walked right in through the city gates this morning. Of the Eighth Zweihander regiment, Lady Courtesy. The Pups."
"A survivor?" Anne rested a finger under her chin. "But the last few trickled in days ago, the battle ending long before that."
"Wasn't really a battle," Robert commented. "More like a massacre."
"Have this survivor brought to me," Anne said. "I'd like to purposefully commend him for his bravery, see to it that he knows whatever he has endured is behind him."
"Aye, Lady Courtesy."
"Thank you, Bartholomew," Anne said abruptly. "That will be all."
Bartholomew may have been an old lout, but at least he understood social custom. Not needing to be told to leave, he bowed as soon as he heard the order and left without another noise.
Robert sat silent while Anne pondered. He didn't need to say anything he hadn't already said before. Still, he opened his mouth, because he wanted his wife to know he'd been right.
"Poor choice, sending them to die," he said, still watching the unmoving door. "Young men, most of the Pups."
"I am aware."
"You can train youth, mould it into whatever you want. However loyal, however fervent you or the big man want them to be, they'd be."
"It wasn't entirely my choice," Anne said. Rotating her wrist, she pointed to fingers up. It was a slight movement, one that only Robert would notice.
"Still," Robert contended, not caring where the order had come from. "You can always say no to these things."
"What? And get my head caved in?" Anne scoffed. "No thank you. Besides, dear, you're forgetting unity, the only reason we stopped warring among ourselves."
"But-"
"No more," Anne interjected. "I did not hate the manoeuvre. Think, if you will, for a moment. From the winds and grey clouds outside you can see Autumn is upon us. We don't war in Autumn, no one does. It's too close to Winter. Plus, by letting the Vovequians gain a victory at Low Wood, they have not suffered utter defeat. They end the fighting with their one win, meaning if we sue for peace, they'll accept what we give them."
"Surely you're just giving them false confidence? They might see Low Wood as a turning point."
"You see, I thought of that, and decided it was still a worthy risk. Arrogance will reign for a moment, yes, but then they'll remember the battles they lost, the bodies of their civilians, hidden by a cloud of smoke. They'll realise our courtesy, how we let them keep at least a modicum of pride."
Robert was astounded by her. How could she sit there and speak her ridiculous thoughts without even cracking a smile. A brilliant mind, Anne Dreor liked to think everyone in the world should have a similar mind to hers, or at least be convinced by hers. Yet, Robert knew there would come a day when his wife realised the unpredictability of people, that not everyone would think like her. He liked to think he'd smile when that day came, and all her walls of certainty came crashing down. He liked to think that indeed.
"Then," Anne continued. "I was given the logistical command of the battle, finding out where the Vovequians might be, how to leak information so we'd be in the perfect location to receive our loss without them attempting to retake Quenasses. The choice of the Eighth wasn't mine, though I limited the damage of it as much as possible. I removed the useful members, the efficient fighters, those with potential, and placed them into other regiments."
"And this man," Robert said, taking a sip of his water. It was cool, not cold, Anne couldn't stand cold against her teeth. "This survivor, was he not one you deemed useful?"
"I suppose not, though it's hard to know five hundred men. I did only what I could."
Anne slumped in her seat somewhat. She was tired. Of the war, of the fighting. Every battle she took command of the cannons, kept her precious Gunners and Shatterers as safe as possible while trying to avoid enemy skirmishers and cavalry. She'd fought as hard as any solider, while also keeping half of Drevon under control.
Robert placed a hand over hers. It was a stupid gesture, one that couldn't mean anything. Not really. Not now.
Anne smiled but pulled her hand away. "You'd best leave. It appears I'll have another meeting shortly, and you've the Torsello daughter to check up on."
"You could always shoot him," Robert said. "This fellow."
"No, he'll be a known man now. People will become suspicious if he dies. We need to be as excited as the people. Pretend we didn't just send a whole regiment to their deaths."
"Use the Sommeliers, they'll spread any rumour you want."
"Rob," Anne said. "I've barely begun conversation with them. I don't have a right to order them around, not yet. Go on now, stop trying to think of solutions, I'll find one soon. Who knows, this man might be as stupid as to not have realised his unit were set up."
Robert stood from his seat. He nodded at the two guards. Throughout the whole conversation, they hadn't once looked down at the couple. Like statues they stood, with eyes trained on the thick door.
Ugly, Robert thought, ogling the women. Though, can't really blame them for that.
He turned to walk out of the room.
"Hold a little," Anne said. As Robert turned back, she chucked her pistol towards him, along with a cartridge box. "I know you're decent with that sword, but it might be time for you to learn how to use one of these."
"Right," Robert said unsurely. "Thank you." He tucked the pistol into his belt along with the cartridge box. "I've never trained with powder before. I wouldn't know where to start."
"Oh, just point it and pull the trigger."
Robert nodded. He turned around once more, even going so far as to get his hand on the doorknob.
"One last thing," Anne said. "Get that scowl off your face before you see that girl. You're a handsome thing and we don't want people thinking you're an angry one."
Didn't even know I was scowling, Robert thought.
He shut the door behind him and breathed a sigh of relief. Another encounter with his wife, another one he'd survived with his pride still intact.
Wind whistled through the still open window; the one Robert had left open. The sky outside was a deep, angry shade of grey. A powerful storm was brewing; the first drops of rain were already starting to patter against the glass. A miserable day to most.
Robert stuck his head out of the window again, exposing his handsome face to the elements. He relished in the feeling of cold water against his face, even if it did come quick and harsh. Gusts blew their way under his uniform, cooling his skin. He hadn't noticed how hot, how sweaty he'd got during his meeting, though he did not think it surprising. Anne had that effect on everyone, she exerted pressure like no one Robert had ever known, making any man in her presence feel as if he were trapped at the bottom of an ocean. The people loved the Patriarch, but they feared Anne Dreor. In that duality, there was all the governance Drevon needed.
And here I am, Robert pondered. A mere accessory to it all.
He pulled his head from the open air, deciding the wind was becoming far too restless. With a resounding click, the window was shut, and the sounds of the brewing storm were reduced to muffled howls.
Now began the long climb down, the descent through Quenasses' Bastille. It was a tremendous building; a castle-sized spectacle shoved at the back of the city. A wide, squat thing, the Bastille was no marvel of architecture. A large stone square made up its base, with two towers on either side of its entryway, climbing high above the building, so if one wanted to, they could peek down from the top of a tower and see through the domed ceiling of the main castle. Other than its long, spiralling towers, Quenasses' Bastille had one other distinguishing feature, and that was the art scattered across every inch of it. Well, perhaps art was a stretch, Robert had seen paint on the walls so basic it looked like the work of a child. Still, from huge canvases hanging around the interior, to paintings on the stone of the walls, every inch of the Bastille had some peculiar mark. Indeed, as with all of Quenasses and most of Vovequia, the citizens were freely allowed to create whatever they wanted, so long as it was not blasphemous or vulgar, and leave it as an eternal smear on their towns and cities. The roofs of the houses were painted, market stalls were painted, even the paths and streets were painted. As the rumours went, Vovequians coloured so many of their buildings so that were they, as a people, to die, then their mark on history would be more than dull grey buildings and statues.
A grim look on the future, Robert thought as he passed a rather impressive work depicting one of the many woodlands surrounding Quenasses. Though, it seems to have been a practical one.
Robert continued the rest of his walk in thoughtless silence. He listened to the rhythmic echoing of his steps against the smooth stone until he reached the bottom. There he joined a chorus of dozens more footsteps. Most were accompanied by the clanking of heavy armour, with one standing out above all.
There he was, standing at least half a foot above the rest. The Patriarch, armoured as always, was being swarmed by messengers, noblemen, and any knight seeking approval, or to join the Immortal Guard. He shunned most, barely acknowledging anyone as he stepped towards his newly-prepared chamber. Though, somehow, he spotted Robert among the hustle and bustle. The pair had met perhaps a handful of times, and only ever on official occasions, yet whenever they shared a room, the Patriarch's glaring eyes always found the Countess' husband. Robert hoped it was some odd sign that he was liked by Atoth's Chosen. Any alternative wasn't worth considering.
The Patriarch nodded at Robert. It was curt, formal. Robert returned the nod with one of his own before seeing the armoured hulk disappear down a corridor, into the bellows of the Bastille.
Though filled by natural light from a glass dome above, the entire castle seemed to dull after the Patriarch disappeared from sight. Moods lessened, faces soured, though there were a few, like Robert, who were silently glad to see the back of their leader. Those were the ones who knew the truth of the Patriarch, that the man within the armour was just as intimidating and brutish as his lion-helmet would suggest. The only solace within those men was knowing that the Patriarch was on their side. They could only pity those who could not say the same.