Vol.6, Ch.1, P.11
“It is the ‘whom’ that most presses. With whom does Londosius seek to make amends? The Himmel? Us Vílungen? Whom?”
Airing those doubts was Volker, standing with a circle of fellow húskarlar and leaders of war. Of course, his office as Arbel’s governor-general kept him busy as ever; but by good chance was he in Hensen to formally meet the military officials so newly posted here.
But there we were: Vílungen leaders all crowded in a hasty assembly. Upon a table was splayed a missive-scroll, bedight with Londosian seal and ink. To it were all of our eyes drawn, not the least stern of which was Volker’s, who was right to ask the burning question; for it was perhaps inevitable that Londosius should come creeping close with a hammer behind its back, intent to smite atwain our fresh-out-of-the-forge confederation. And where better to drive the wedge first than the bonds between the constituent clans—by treating with one, whilst baulking all the others. But as we soon saw, that suspicion was off the mark.
“With but one person…” answered another húskarl. “…The Herr Rolf himself.”
The whole chamber stirred. “What? Absurd, that!” Lise cried. And beside her, I, too, found myself taken aback.
“Yet here it is writ,” the húskarl attested, taking up the scroll, “that ‘The Realm of Londosius seeks Reconciliation with Rolf Buckmann, War-Chief’.”
My brows creased. Reconciliation? With me? The sicarius? I pondered. But nay… Nay, it all rather made sense.
“For true… Little is absurd here,” said Volker, composed as ever and seeming to have guessed as I have. “Precept and policy both bar Londosius from treating ever with us, its enemy of old. But proffer the olive branch to its defiant son instead”—the war-chief looked to me—“and then would the treaty table not seem so profane.”
It was as he said. Rebel, heathen, and ungraced though I was, “Rolf” was yet a son of Man. And not just any, but one who had gained both rank and authority within an enemy alliance. Indeed, through reconciling with me was Londosius seeking to indirectly “treat with its enemy of old”, to use Volker’s words. And like as not, it would thence require I bid our swords and spears be laid down.
A triangular treaty, if ever a thing there was. Nay, perhaps not even so; given the sudden absurdity of it all, doubtless was one side to have the rug pulled out from under, and I suspected I was standing amidst them right now. Albeit duplicity is ever part and parcel with war and politics. What else was to be expected? “It’ll be a cold day in Hell when politics plays nice,” I could hear Sig scoffing, were he present.
“There is more,” said the húskarl, who then squinted as he scanned the scroll in hand. “It is their wish that the Herr Rolf comes… to parley in person.”
“A naked trap,” snapped Lise. But regardless did she raise a fair point. Never would Londosius admit it, but by now, I’d become quite the bothersome piece upon its play-board: being both a war-chief to Clan Víly and the slayer of its hero-knight Stefan Cronheim besides, I was as a flag of rebellion flying brazen afore its battlements. Safe to say, Londosius wanted me dead. Common sense should hence mark this development little more than a veiled attempt to fish me out and butcher me in its darkest kitchen.
“Plain it is,” agreed another húskarl with the jarl-daughter. “The battlefield has failed them. Thus they mean now to win with cloak and dagger.” A tinge of contempt stained his tone. But war being war, such scheming is hardly seldom. It may even prove the sole course, at times. After all, it’s certainly less bloody than loosing whole armies upon one another. All told, if this truly were a snare, we dared not step into it, of course. However, being so presented with the thing, I yet saw great need to poke and prod it, if only to learn a mite more of Londosius’ deeper designs.
“The proposal goes on, doesn’t it?” I said. “Pass it ’round. Let us all have a look for ourselves.”
“Yes, Herr,” obliged the scroll-holding húskarl. “It is their intent to make clear in due time the particulars of the pact. But for the time being, they wish to arrange the talks as writ therein.”
The scroll passed from hand to hand, till all in council had perused its contents. At length, one húskarl muttered, “Hmm. Strange…”
“Strange, for true,” added another. “To great lengths do they go to soothe our suspicions—too much so, by my measure.”
All the others rustled with like wariness. “Too good to be true” were, indeed, the words welling in each our heads. To start with, the talks were to be held at the Acadēmī̆a of Merkulov, a scholastic institution about which the grips of both Church and Central were loose at best. What’s more, the place neighboured Former Artean, meaning nary too deeply into Londosius were we being invited. And as if that weren’t enough, our Londosian counterparts would not only vacate all pupils and personnel from the premises well beforehand, but also suffer us to send forth a team to inspect the venue some days in advance.
“And here it states,” said a húskarl, looking hard at the missive as it now sat upon the table, “that ‘in attending, the Signatories may accompany Themselves with what Ancillaries They deem mete’.”
“A roundabout way to say they’ll not deny the Nafílim a seat at the table,” I noted, “nor their voice in the debate, even. Indeed, as a ‘signatory’, that does sound queerly accommodating.”
Yet absent such accommodation, doubtless had our Londosian counterparts prevised that we’d rather rip apart the missive than deign respond. Yes; some prior and calculated compromise had been made here. Were I to guess, reconciliation had been requested not of the Nafílim, but of me in large part to appease all the naysayers in the realm. But were it only me with whom the proposers would parley, they understood well that never would I overlook the discourtesy in excluding my Nafílim comrades. Calculated, indeed. Never mind “overlook”; I would’ve doubted the sincerity of this “reconciliation” itself, were that so.
Hence explains all the foresaid amenities; Londosius’ product of long and excruciating consideration. Yet one nail still stuck out: my counterpart signatory must suffer to sit vis-à-vis the Nafílim I would bring with me—that selfsame signatory being…
“…Serafina Demeter Londosius.”
The name issued with uncertainty from Volker’s lips. Sure enough, the representative to the Londosian side of the table was to be none other than Her Royal Highness.
One might note that a king, an emperor, or otherwise the one sat upon the highest seat would better serve as signatory to a conciliation so historic. But being long bedfast, Londosius’ own king was clearly out of the question. There was the lord chancellor, sure, who at present could boast of a most mighty grip over the realm’s reins, and who withal had a finger in many of its national affairs. As such, it was he whom we sooner expected to head the Londosian delegation, but nay… the princess?
To think: royalty and rebel-ungraced, both treating at the same table. And sitting there with them: Nafílfolk. Verily; never in all the centuries of this bloody game had Londosius seen the board so strangely arrayed.
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