Work Text:
Assurances
Harlan, Lord of Pennsa—and acting husband to Queen Maghra—descended the palace stairs, heading towards Tamacti Jun’s quarters. He would soon leave Pennsa to travel with the Trivantian ambassador, on a mission to stave off their annihilation, yet again. But he needed to ensure one thing before he left his city in the hands of its royal usurpers.
Though they were no longer officially at war, their victory at Greenhill had been little more than a breather before the Trivantians turned their full attention towards Payan land. For almost a year, he believed he had been extending a fragile ceasefire with his negotiation skills—and a special deal on certain resources—without realizing how desperately those resources were desired, and to what purpose they would be used. Now, with their enemy’s plan discovered, his task became even more critical: To convince them the benefits of peaceful trade outweighed another bloody war. It would be risky—any hint of weakness on his part would further reinforce the notion that Payans made better slaves than partners. But despite their treachery—and the murder of his brother Kerrigan—he felt he understood the Trivantians better than some of his own people. They were more rational than the Kanzuans had been, with their sacrifices, and god-mongering. It had been partly to escape the stifling traditions of the capital that he had first made his way to Pennsa. The city had given him room to grow into his role as a noble. If he could save Pennsa, one way or another, he might truly be deserving of the title of king—or so he hoped the queen would realize.
The inner hallways were muggy with the summer's heat, even after the God Flame was extinguished for the day. His footsteps creaked loudly on the floorboards. He took no effort to hide his approach, but halted before the guard at the end of the hall—his progress suddenly impeded by a spear shaft.
“Excuse me,” he said indignantly, “but I must speak to the general.”
“He’s not here,” came the dull reply.
They might all be called Royal Guard, after the merger of his army and the general's, but he could easily tell the difference between his Pennsan soldiers, and the few remaining Witchfinders. Not only did the former queen’s personal army always smell of dried blood and burned beechwood, they were also a rude lot. Being so long outside the bounds of civilization had done nothing for their manners, and he imagined Tamacti’s attitude towards him did not help.
He tried again. “Then do you know where he is?”
“Can’t say.”
He huffed impatiently. “Is that because you don’t know, or because you’ve been instructed not to tell?”
As the guard’s silence grew insufferable, he twisted his staff under his palm, grinding the tip into the aged wood of the floor. “Could you at least give me a hint when he might return? Because my business is rather urgent,” he continued, “and Queen Maghra told me to come here.”
The mention of Maghra seemed to stir something in the guard’s slug-swift brain. “You can wait inside.”
“Thank you. Don't mind if I do.” Since it’s my house, Harlan did not bother to add. No matter how often he reminded everyone, it never did any good.
The soldier retracted the spear only as he moved forward.
Entering the room, he tapped his staff against the floor, listening. It appeared the place had changed little since being commandeered by the general, though the moment Harlan stepped inside the doorway, the scent of musty fur assaulted his senses. Stifling a sneeze, he reached tentatively towards the source hanging by the door—which turned out to be a bedraggled ram skin cloak—appropriate, its wearer being a grim old goat.
Wiping his hand on his sleeve, he tried not to fault Maghra for putting her trust in such beastly people. Though they had both been raised in the king’s court as children, the years she spent in wild mountain lands must have hindered her from developing the finer sensibilities he had. Instead, she put too much faith in pitiless soldiers like Tamacti, while also acquiring a taste for bull-headed barbarians, like Baba Voss.
But, thought Harlan, these tactless folk had their uses—fighting their enemies being the main one. His own Captain Gosset had always been a capable and congenial leader of the Pennsan forces, but it had taken the addition of actual savages to keep them all alive. Between Tamacti’s witch-obsessed zealots, and Baba’s primitive rabble, they had defended his city against the army of Edo Voss.
And, he had to admit, it was fun finding how far back he could rub their fur before getting bit. Baba had bristled at the first contact, while Tamacti took longer to aggravate, but had more than made up for the slow start.
The general refused to give him the respect that a king would expect—even a pretend king—and with Baba having returned, it grew even worse. He got the impression Tamacti believed there were one too many husbands-to-the-queen, and it was obvious which he preferred.
But while Maghra could have publicly annulled their marriage of convenience—on the claim she had not known Baba still lived—she allowed the situation to continue. Harlan occasionally entertained the idea that the ceremony in the freezing depths of winter had actually meant something to her, while his gut cautioned him not to bet on it. She was not quite as manipulative as her sister, but she must know his continued support would be her key to keeping power.
Even Baba had accepted it on some level, slinking off to the woods for almost a year, rather than following up on varied promises to dismember his rival. It seemed to him that Maghra’s original husband had only come back to warn them of doom. He wondered, had it not been for the threat of “god thunder”, as Baba called it, would he ever have returned?
He imagined Maghra must have asked herself the same thing. During Baba’s extended absence, he had been vigilant for any shift in her behavior. But instead of turning to him for solace, she had erected a barrier of queenly pride, and continued to treat him in a utilitarian manner, while encouraging his liaisons with another woman. Perhaps, he speculated half-heartedly, she wanted to make herself jealous enough to act upon her latent feelings for him.
He caught himself turning the ring on his little finger, something he did when considering possibilities. Kerrigan had never missed an opportunity to joke about how the band was nothing but the end of a spoon, twisted into a symbol of nobility. Which was true. Except it was not just any spoon, but a remnant from the set their ancestors owned before the Fall. Over the generations, they had been forced to sell the pieces of rare god-bone in order to survive. But having vowed to turn his fortune around, he made the final one into a ring—a reminder that one could also twist one’s fate into something greater, with a little imagination.
His musing was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, followed by Tamacti’s signature snarling outside the door.
“It smells like the Lavender Road! What’s Harlan doing here?”
The Lord of Pennsa grinned, having purposely worn a generous amount of what he hoped would be his most offensive cologne.
“Ah!” Harlan exclaimed, sweeping back through the doorway. “I’d recognize that delightful death-rattle anywhere!”
Ignoring him, Tamacti addressed the soldier. “From whom do you receive orders?”
“Apologies, High General. Lord Harlan said it was orders from Queen Maghra.”
“Does this,” he hissed in Harlan’s direction, “sound like the queen?”
“No, sir.”
“If your ears are no longer reliable, I can remove them for you,” came the dire offer.
“Yes, sir,” the guard acknowledged stoically.
Harlan felt both amused and sorry for the guard’s plight. Tamacti truly was an unpleasant man, he thought, as he took a step closer, hoping to cause enough distraction to prevent bloodshed in his hallway—it always attracted too many flies.
“Well, it wasn’t really an order,” Harlan clarified. “Maghra just said I might find you here.”
“Might find me? Had your business been that important, she could have told you exactly where I was.”
Harlan knew it would be hard to argue about that—when she put her mind to it, Maghra could hear anything nearby.
“I warn you not to waste my time,” Tamacti continued caustically.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, considering you must have sooo little left,” he replied smoothly.
“Would that were true,” the general said sourly, as he brushed by him to get into the room.
Harlan followed before he had a chance to bar the door—then nearly collided as the taller man turned abruptly.
“Get to your point,” Tamacti snapped.
Taking a step back, Harlan straightened his vest. Obviously his host wanted this over fast—so he would take as long as possible. Though no invitation had been extended, he found a chair, and made himself comfortable. “Now,” he began, “I know you don’t care much for me, and I can’t say I’m in love with you either, but it would be foolish of us to underestimate each other. For my part, I appreciate your help removing that vile woman from the throne, and preventing our being slaughtered by Baba’s brother. And I’m sure you can acknowledge what I’ve done for Maghra, and the Payan people, here in Pennsa?”
Had he been hoping for any sign of gratitude, it was not forthcoming.
“Okay. Pretend I’m irrelevant if you must,” he continued, “but you know it isn’t true. Maghra does not have the full loyalty of the people. She’s gained more than her sister, but many still believe in your wrathful god punishing them for harboring the ‘mother of witches’—your own Witchfinders especially. They’re more loyal to their beliefs than to yourself, or even to their que—”
“As I expect them to be,” Tamacti cut in.
“So you expected them to walk out on you? To encourage assault on the children of the queen?” he asked pointedly. When the general refused to answer, he imagined it must be due to a lingering conflict of interests, one which had rendered the old Witchfinder impotent in dealing with the rebels. That weakness meant Harlan’s own strength should be respected all the more, though he doubted it would be.
“I trust you’re smart enough to know that a queen is only as secure as her army, and her army consists of…well, basically just you, and a handful of your old followers. You’ve lost your power, General. You're borrowing mine. The soldiers of Pennsa follow Captain Gosset, while the honorable captain is sworn to me.” Harlan knew it might be risky making it so plain, but he was never one to play it safe. “Think about it this way: You’re as much their leader, as I’m your king.” He waited for the logic of this to sink in, but upon hearing no reaction, prompted, “Since you aren’t shouting about treason yet, I take it you understand?”
The silence lingered. He could not tell if Tamacti was considering the undeniable wisdom of his words—or he had a blade poised to stab him—or both. He folded both hands over his staff, ready to unsheathe the hidden sword, if necessary. When nothing happened, he continued.
“Listen. I’m about to leave Pennsa, and I don’t want Maghra to be overthrown in my absence.”
“That won’t happen,” came the sharp reply.
He knew Tamacti believed in Maghra’s abilities to govern—far more than she did herself. While commendable, that overabundance of faith was proving unhelpful. There were many who would be pleased to deprive her of the crown if they were not proactive about its retention. Harlan had talked some of the council out of such ideas, and having always been popular with the people of Pennsa, his “marriage” had done much to endear Maghra to the population. But others, like these die-hard Witchfinders, he had no hope of connecting with. Unfortunately, the common folk were easily stirred to bloodlust by those who shouted loudest, and this army without a cause had nothing else to do but goad his otherwise placid citizens into a threat.
“You can’t sit on the fence forever,” he admonished. “You need to get rid of those rebels before they get rid of you…and Maghra.”
“I know what I need to do,” Tamacti said impatiently.
“Well, that’s good. Could I ask what that is?”
“I’ll talk to them.”
“You’ll…talk to them,” Harlan said skeptically. “Have you not already tried that?”
“Yes.” The answer sounded strained.
“And how did that go?” he asked, though he could guess the answer.
“I’m still alive, so better than expected.”
“Before you try again, I suggest you work on your people skills. I can give you tips,” he offered.
The general snorted.
“Seriously,” Harlan continued. “You’re far more abrasive than persuasive, while most would say that’s my forte. Haven’t you ever wondered why a stalwart soldier like Gosset would swear loyalty to a man like myself?”
“No.”
“You should. Might learn something useful,” Harlan insisted. “There’s other ways to gain peoples’ hearts, besides cutting them out.”
“It’s interesting you should say that,” Tamacti said, without any trace of amusement.
“Is it?” Harlan felt the conversation shifting unexpectedly.
“Mmn. I wonder…how do you feel about tongues?”
The general's voice had taken on an uncharacteristically sly quality, but even so, Harlan was intrigued by the random proposal. “In what capacity?” he asked gamely, even as a warning went off in the back of his mind.
“A body was removed from the palace, not long before I arrived in Pennsa. Throat slit. Tongue missing.”
That startled Harlan, and he hesitated a heartbeat too long. “It was….” He let it hang between a query and confirmation. The former Witchfinder’s intolerance for liars was infamous—denial would make it worse.
“One of the few survivors of Kanzua ended up dead in your dining room,” Tamacti accused.
“An egregious act,” Harlan agreed, hoping the little detail about him committing it could be left unspoken. That murder seemed no more than a trifle at the time, when Sibeth had been ruling. But now that a woman with a sense of decency had taken charge, it might come across as a crime.
“Perhaps you should remove your servants’ tongues, if you don't want them talking, rather than those of loyal Kanzuan guards,” Tamacti advised.
So that was it, thought Harlan. He had killed not just an innocent citizen, but a soldier. He would not have guessed the general had such a soft spot for the rank and file, but he supposed even a cold heart could be sentimental about something. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said neutrally. “Does Maghra know?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And…why is that?” Harlan tried to sound nonchalant, despite his relief.
“She hasn’t asked,” Tamacti stated simply.
The general must have known putting the Lord of Pennsa on trial would endanger Maghra’s fragile hold on the city. But Harlan could almost hear the promise: If he ever lost the favor of the queen, justice would be waiting, with jaws gaping. Which all felt a touch hypocritical. If rumors from the early days of Sibeth’s court were true, Tamacti had made short work of any who risked a word against the young queen. But now, when that was just the sort of thing needed to protect Maghra’s throne, he had been letting things slide.
“Good idea, not to burden her with such knowledge,” Harlan said, teetering between sarcasm and sincerity.
“The queen has enough concerns. As do I.” Tamacti moved towards the door, clearly pressing to end the exchange. “You’ll be leaving.” It sounded more like a strong suggestion than a question.
“Not just at this moment,” Harlan replied, casually holding his ground, “but I will be traveling with Ambassador Trovere tomorrow.”
The general’s harsh exhalation hinted at displeasure.
“I take it you don’t approve?” Harlan said, unnecessarily.
“Not of you, speaking for us, in Trivantes,” Tamacti confirmed.
“Then tell me who else is qualified?” Not waiting for a suggestion, Harlan pressed on. “We wouldn’t want the queen to go there herself. Plus, I have…special connections.”
“Of what sort?” Tamacti demanded.
Harlan doubted his long-running camaraderie with the smugglers of Trivantes would be appreciated. “In all honesty, the less you know, the better. But rest assured, bonds of self-interest are often stronger than any imposed loyalty to crown or country.”
“That’s exactly what concerns me.”
“Really, there’s no need for concern,” Harlan soothed. “I’m fighting for what we hold dear, as much as you are.”
“Fighting?” Tamacti questioned. “I don’t recall you at Greenhill.”
“You have your ways. I have mine,” Harlan explained. “As everyone knows, I’m more valuable on the political frontlines—or in the bedroom. Which, come to think of it, are often one and the same.”
The excuse only aggravated the general more. “Of course. You’re too busy cheating on the queen with our enemies, you’ve no time to fight them.”
Harlan assumed that was a reference to Trovere. “Now that’s completely unfair! Those were direct orders from Maghra. What was I to do?”
“Even as a fake husband, you should have been more discreet,” Tamacti said reproachfully.
“I was being…quiet,” Harlan insisted. “The ambassador…less so. But you can blame Baba Voss for alerting the whole city.” Like an untethered bull, Baba had blundered into his efforts to keep the peace. It had taken all his talent as a lover to bring Trovere back from the brink of declaring war. “Honestly, you should be thankful I've had ample training for this…assignment. I never thought the fate of Pennsa would depend on my prowess, but….”
“Maghra’s making a mistake trusting you,” Tamacti said bluntly.
“And I assume you’ve told her that?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Yet trust me she does,” Harlan replied smugly. “Imagine,” he continued more diplomatically, “if we can avoid another battle. If we could spare the lives of Pennsa’s remaining soldiers. Would that not be worth a little…dishonor?”
“It’s a soldier’s duty to defend their home,” Tamacti countered, “not wait around while politicians decide their fate between the sheets. Whatever the odds, I put more faith in my sword than in your…dick-plomacy.”
Harlan bit back a reply. It was challenging dealing with the narrow-minded, but his intuition told him the best way to get the assurance he needed would be to risk a bit of candor. “Let me tell you a story,” he began, ignoring the discouraging grumble from his audience. “Long ago, as children in the royal court, my little brother and I would play hide-and-find with Princess Maghra. I knew she had the advantage as an ayura, but it only made me more determined to hide well. I once managed to evade her for a whole hour. I felt ridiculously proud, as you might imagine. Except I was unaware—until my brother revealed it much later—that after she found him, she told Kerrigan exactly where I was hiding, and to leave me there. So he had a fine laugh, while I was making friends with the things crawling around inside of a cupboard. But as I recall, Maghra suffered through my triumphant boasting, letting me have my little moment. I think she realized she might have nobody to play with if she didn't let others win, occasionally.
“It may seem trivial now—just child’s play—but unlike her sister, she never considered herself too important to need friends, and I've done all I could to be one.” He almost laughed at how innocent it sounded. It might no longer be that simple, but neither was it a lie. “She had been the only positive being in that miserable court—the one thing worth staying for. At least, until Jerlamarel came along.” The bitterness leaked from his memories, like blood through a bandage. All his plans had been scrapped upon the arrival of that surprisingly knowledgeable servant. It had been a strange relief to learn the man was a witch—a way to explain his success in stealing the princess away. “Had it not been for him….”
“Everything would have been different,” Tamacti finished for him. While the general’s tone was mocking, there was no way to deny the truth of it. Jerlamarel had affected all their lives.
“Yes, I think it might have been,” Harlan said, almost wistfully. “But when Maghra walked back into my life, into my city…,” he let a little of the surprise he had felt lift his voice, “…it was like a second chance—at joy.”
“Don’t you mean at power?” Tamacti asked, apparently unmoved. “Maghra told me that you proposed to her sister first.”
“Well, yes,” Harlan allowed. “When I realized I let a maniac in through my gates, I had to come up with a plan.”
“Which was?”
“Marry her,” he answered seriously.
“You could never have controlled Sibeth.”
“I was lucky she turned me down,” Harlan admitted. He imagined his lifespan might have been shortened considerably had that proposal been accepted. “In the end, I got the better queen—who is also a beautiful woman,” he added cheekily.
“She’s married,” Tamacti chided.
“Yes, to me,” Harlan laughed.
“To a man who would bite off your face if you tried anything,” he corrected.
“Oh, Boo-Boo growls a lot, but I think even he knows that I’m good for her.”
The general scoffed. “Fool around and find out.”
“I would,” Harlan confided, “but she’s remorselessly faithful to him. Now, maybe, if he dies, doing something tragically heroic….” He knew it might be wrong to imagine a catastrophe befalling the great warrior—and yet, it had become something of a daily ritual ever since Baba had returned.
He heard no sound, but felt a change in the air as the door opened, and realized the other man was no longer there. “Wait!” he shouted, rising in pursuit. “I still have something to ask of you!”
“Then say it,” Tamacti barked, having not quite escaped beyond the hallway.
Harlan found it awkward putting into words the complicated matter of his fears and desires—made more so since the palace guard could not help but overhear everything. But he had to act before he lost the general’s attention.
“I’m telling you all of this because Maghra matters to me, a lot. I don’t want to leave her. For all we know...I may not come back.”
“Because you’ll turn traitor,” Tamacti offered.
“No,” he replied, wounded, “because I will die before I turn traitor.”
“One can hope,” the general muttered.
“Can you not understand?” Harlan said in frustration. “This city is me. As…fond, as I am of Maghra, I must go do this for Pennsa. I built the place up, I inadvertently endangered it, and now I’ve got to try to save it. But in my absence, I’m asking you to preserve my city.”
When there was no immediate response, he began to suspect he had wasted his time begging help from an unsympathetic bastard—the man had been a Kanzuan, after all. But if he could secure a commitment to Pennsa, he would sleep easier—in whoever’s bed he happened to lie in from then on.
“I can’t promise that,” Tamacti said at last.
Harlan felt an unexpected surge of despair, not only at the refusal, but the tone of resignation behind it. He wondered if he was making a mistake in leaving, when the survival of the population might depend on a little trick only he knew about. But secret strategies were not very effective if widely shared, and it would mean abandoning the city to the enemy—he was loath to reveal it.
Having been quiet for moments on end, he was surprised when Tamacti spoke again.
“But,” the general said reluctantly, “I’ll do my best.”
Harlan knew a lackluster agreement would have to do. Tamacti Jun was nothing if not diligent—he would likely die before giving up the city—which was some small comfort.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely.
“There anything else?” Tamacti asked with brittle patience.
“Yes. Keep Maghra safe.” He knew it should go without saying, yet he felt better having said it.
“That’s what I’ve always done,” came the curt reply.
“Of course…,” Harlan said knowingly, “...except that one time you lost her for eighteen years,” he could not stop himself from adding. “Do try a little harder this time.”
Whatever common ground they had been standing upon crumbled away.
“Haven’t you somewhere else to be relevant?” Tamacti asked coldly.
Harlan thought about the many places in Pennsa that could use a final visit. “Actually....”
He heard the general’s staff strike the floor, and the guard moved back into position in front of the doorway, while Tamacti walked away without further word.
“Right,” Harlan told the soldier. “I think that went rather well.”
If the guard agreed, he did not let on.
Harlan smoothed his beard thoughtfully, though there was little question which lucky establishment would get his patronage tonight. Ever since his so-called marriage, he had avoided some of his favorite haunts, lest such visits be deemed inappropriate. But if he was already being condemned for cheating on the queen with the enemy, it seemed only fitting to cheat on the enemy with an old friend. Or two…or more.
Taking leave of the guard, he touched the smooth surface of the ring once more, and strolled out of the palace into a night full of possibilities.