Chapter Text
Kurt is a life-long advocate of marching. Long treks cross country, over hill and dale, climbing up mountains and slogging through swamps—marching is a soldier's bread and butter. They're called "marching orders" for a reason. In his experience, marching is the perfect way to build patience and stamina in young princelings, who up until his arrival in their lives had gotten almost everywhere they were going under the power of others. This had been unacceptable.
One of the first things Kurt had done, early in his tenure as Master of Arms, had been to make Constantin and Conrad walk from the city of Serene all the way to the nearest hamlet, a distance of about twenty miles, just so they could learn it was possible. It had taken four days, but they had done it, and learned an important lesson: that the size of the world around them was always divisible by the length of their stride. It's always an option to just set out and walk. Sometimes the best way forward is also the simplest, and sometimes that's as simple as just putting one foot in front of the other. The lessons to learn are endless, and they mostly boil down to just doing the work and getting it done. Kurt is a great believer in the power of a long, hard march. It's good for body and mind and character, and if there is such a thing, then probably also good for the soul.
Kurt wants to take a caravan back to the capital.
Not for his own sake. Kurt has walked his way to Hikmet, he can damn well walk his way back, and if he were on his own, he likely would. He'd been glad to leave New Serene, even if it was a much cleaner and fresher shadow of its predecessor on the continent, it's still a city, and Kurt prefers to have the earth beneath his feet, rather than cobbled stone. Back out in the wild, in unconquered country, with two trusted comrades and a mission to complete. He'd gladly do it again. Living by the edge of his blade, sleeping rough in the woods, conquering the miles on strong legs with a straight back and clear eyes—it's almost his idea of a vacation. It's not even that much of a march, he could probably do at least half of it while asleep on his feet, which is a unique skill of the career mercenary. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. He's more than up to the journey.
Captain Vasco, likewise, has proven sturdy and reliable, hasn't once complained about the wear put to the soles of his boots, though he still hasn't quite lost the rolling cadence of a lifelong sailor's gait, even after a month confined to land. It's not for his benefit that Kurt wants to pay their way back to New Serene. Hell, if not a caravan, then the Naut's influence might be enough to snag them passage on one of the ships bustling in and out of the port, instead. It's an island, after all. They could be back in New Serene by morning, if by sea, or in two days if by caravan overland, along well-traveled and well-patrolled roads. Quick. Easy. Safe.
Because it's De Sardet who could use a break from hard travel, and De Sardet who's least likely to want to take one, because De Sardet is currently poring over a hand drawn map, spread atop a crate on the outskirts of the Al-Saad outpost, tracing carefully inked lines with his fingertip and muttering softly to himself. Captain Vasco sits atop a rock nearby, humming an old Naut shanty to himself and sharpening his saber, in preparation for the trouble they will almost inevitably meet on their trip back to New Serene. There was trouble on the way out, there'll be trouble on the way back. They've crisscrossed this side of the island several times now, in the weeks that they've been here, and there's been trouble at every turn so far. It's not that big an island. It seems to Kurt like a disproportionate amount of trouble to solve, and a disproportionate amount of trouble to go to, for an odd little rock in the middle of the sea.
But, this is what the Prince D'Orsay had wanted. To give his two merchant princelings a taste of power, and of the business of being the trusted right hand of those in power. The pair of them are closer than brothers because they've been made to be, raised in tandem from childhood to be the twain halves of the D'Orsay dynasty, and the isle of Teer Fradee is to be their proving ground. In New Serene, Constantin governs, and everywhere else, Conrad does what Constantin can't. Where Constantin is silk, Conrad is steel; when Constantin forgives and forgets, Conrad remembers and avenges. His are the sharp eyes and pricked ears to go with his dear cousin's honeyed tongue and open hands. Conrad takes the chaff of the island's myriad problems, winnows his way through them, and then spins the results into the gold of good will with the island's various factions, for the Governor to spend with impunity and aplomb, for the material benefit of the Merchant Congregation.
These are not easy jobs. After a month of watching them done, Kurt knows this. The last time they'd been in New Serene for an audience with the Governor, Conrad had broken off in the middle of his report to note, with sincere and tender concern, that Constantin was not looking well—that he seemed tired and drawn, and that business could perhaps wait until later. The Governor had only flashed the cheeky grin of the twenty-four year old boy that he is, and said, "My dearest cousin, do you have the temerity to suggest that you look much better? I'll rest when you do." Conrad hadn't had an answer to that, and after a brief pause—perhaps to consider the outlandish proposal of taking some rest—had dutifully carried on with his report.
And now it's early morning on the day of their departure from Hikmet after a long two weeks spent running errands for the Al-Saadian governor, in order to cement relationships and prove that the Congregation's famous neutrality was alive and thriving. The young legate was still awake at his desk in the lavishly appointed bedroom of his consular residence, bent over a stack of reports and missives by the lamplight, when Kurt had gone to put his head down around midnight. When Kurt had risen with the sun, he'd found his Excellency's bed unslept in, his lantern burning low, and the stack of missives not much diminished. His Excellency himself was still exactly as Kurt had left him. When pointedly asked if he'd slept, Conrad's expression had twisted into a wry grimace, and his answer had been, "Not on purpose." Then he'd gathered up his papers and began packing up to leave, and now, about an hour later, they're leaving.
For another long, arduous trek back to the capital, and from there they'll set out once again, this time for San Matheus.
"Kurt," De Sardet says aloud, with his map pinned beneath the point of a fingertip, in the middle of a blank section of parchment as yet uninked by the careful script of his relentless quill. "We passed beneath a ridge on our way through Magasvar, and the locals told me that there used to be a pass to take up from the plain below as a shortcut into the forests above. I was thinking we might cut closer along the foothills on our way back and see if we can discover it, and then perhaps make a detour to see what we can find on our way back. What do you think?"
Kurt can see the caravans from here. He can see the lead hostler—or whatever the position is called in the absence of actual horses—readying his beasts for the next departure. The driver is checking through his cargo. There are no other passengers in evidence. It would be so easy. And yet—
"Hard travel through upward country," is all Kurt says, though he says it critically, and knows it won't do a damn thing to discourage the young legate.
"All the better reason to look for this rumored pass," Conrad counters smoothly, though he hasn't looked up from his map, tapping his fingertip speculatively atop a prospective location as he continues to muse, half to himself, "The Alliance haven't pushed terribly far in this direction; none of the maps they were willing to show me detail anything beyond that ridge. Nor does the one I stole from their archive. To my mind, if we can beat their expansion to the pass and secure control of it, we can open negotiations with whatever islanders occupy the region and open the route for trade. Word's beginning to get round amongst the various tribes that we're a new presence here, hopefully there's been nothing done by the Bridge to taint any relationship we might hope to establish. Talk of your hard upward climbs, I begin to feel as though everywhere I go, I must fight against the mistakes made by those who came before me. Do you think, Kurt, that—"
"I think we should take a caravan straight back to New Serene," Kurt says, blunt and unsubtle.
And shocking, evidently, because this finally tears Conrad's gaze away from his map, and his expression is faintly bewildered, as though he's not quite sure of what he's just heard. His head turns slightly and his brow furrows, before he looks back down at his map and then back up to Kurt, like the problem might be that Kurt has failed to understand what Conrad was actually after when he'd asked Kurt for his opinion. "I shall never get Mr. De Courcillion's map finished from the back of a caravan," he explains, with that overly patient tone the highly educated sometimes take with those of a lower academic class.
Mercifully, Kurt has had most of Conrad's lifetime to grow accustomed to this, because it would get most people punched squarely in the face, regardless of their respective levels of class. Conrad, at least, doesn't mean anything by it. In turn, Kurt assumes the stern command of the Master at Arms, giving an order he expects to be obeyed, explaining with exaggerated simplicity the reasons for his decision. "There'll be plenty of time for that on another journey. But we're a long ways from the capital, and we're meant to make for San Matheus almost as soon as we get back, so as not to slight the churchmen for having made them wait their turn. We'd best take a caravan."
"Patience is a virtue," Conrad intones with mock piety, and the slight play of a smile around his eyes indicates that he's trying to lighten Kurt's mood, though all the attempt earns him is a derisively amused snort from Captain Vasco. If Constantin were here, the pair of them would already be off to the races, both slipping into pantomime and pastiche of their favourite members of the clergy, theatrically opining on the many virtues of a devout Thelemean, and Kurt would be hiding his amusement behind a disapproving scowl, shaking his head at them both for their antics.
Constantin is not here, though, and in his absence Kurt can see the same things about Conrad that had drawn his cousin's concern, and that was two weeks ago now. The situation has not much improved. Knowing how little he must've slept and how much he's done with his waking hours, it's that much easier to notice the hollowed shadows beneath Conrad's eyes, the place just above his jawline where he's clumsily cut himself shaving this morning, and the little divot of stress knit between his brows that seems to be making itself a permanent fixture. It deepens as Kurt answers dryly, "So it is, but even virtue will only take you so far. I wouldn't be testing the limits of Theleme's patience if I were trapped on an island in between them and the Bridge o'Lions, but what do I know?"
"About diplomacy?" Now there's a flicker of a smile from his young charge. This is a deliberate but still playful jab, as Kurt has more than once said that he thinks diplomacy is just a coward's way of solving problems that could be hashed out much more quickly if put to the sword.
Kurt just folds his arms across his chest, and then regrets it, because it means he has to watch Conrad's smile fade, watch him wilt just ever so slightly at the prospect of an argument, before wearily drawing himself back upright and squaring up, with his jaw set and an eyebrow skeptically arched. "Since when do you care about the expectations of the clergy? We'll be there. They can wait."
"Master De Courcillion can wait, and with greater patience than Theleme." It's not the angle Kurt had expected to take, but it's the one he's got, and he's feeling his way towards the beginnings of its successful use, as he swiftly counters, "Missives about your tardiness and lack of respect for the church won't be reaching you , they'll be stacking up in front of your cousin , and causing him no small degree of distress. We're not out here at your leisure."
Conrad balks visibly at this prospect, and Kurt sees the blow land as doubt flickers across the younger man's features. He glances back at his map, trepidatious now, and wavers. "But…"
"But what?"
It's very rare to get the upper hand in a straight argument with Conrad, and he doesn't quite know what to do in the situation. It's a symptom of how weary and overworked he must be that Kurt's handily outmaneuvering him. Still, he rallies, and makes one last attempt, glancing rather forlornly between his map and the road stretching out ahead of them, and appeals to Kurt's sense of efficiency, "It just seems a shame to waste the trip."
"There'll be other trips," Kurt reiterates, and then moves on to the second part of his point, the greater reason for his insistence. "And anyway, how late were you up last night, burning the midnight oil? You've not even made it through half of the paperwork I saw heaped atop your desk, and you think it's a wise idea to walk back to the capital? I know we're far from home, Greenblood, but there's still the same number of hours in the day. We haven't the time."
This argument, the appeal to practicality, finally seems to defeat him, and Conrad's shoulders slump and he permits himself a sigh, as he turns to gather his map back up, folding it away and stashing it in the satchel he carries. "Very well, Kurt," he says, and it credits how keenly developed his sense of diplomacy is, that he manages to take the loss gracefully. "I suppose it must be urgent, if you'd insist that we take a caravan. See if you can secure us passage within the hour."
Kurt's already waved to catch the attention of the caravan leader, but he reaches out to fondly clap a hand on De Sardet's shoulder before he goes to make arrangements. "Consider it done, my friend."