Eragos Feareborne (proscribed) wrote in caeleste, @ 2009-07-07 12:16:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | npc, the grey riders |
old fire (agrippa)
His boots scraped against stone and loose gravel when he stopped before the great white wall. The young Rider who was his company stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. Eyes thinned. No doubt he thought Vargis was a country Rider, one of those who never came to Simanel. Vargis thought he remembered training the lad in front of him. There were enough names and faces to fill a thousand lives. And ever since Agrippa had pulled them both out of the action - Vargis thought for good - it made up the whole of his life, training people to do what he did. Vargis was still wearing his mask, while the boy had tied it to his belt. That was the new fashion. Full masks were another new fashion. One he could not fully endorse. His stopped beneath the eyes, with a tent that seemed to fold up over his nose, so that only his eyes and forehead were visible. There were no designs or artistic flourishes on his mask. Young people. They were too concerned with appearances these days, and what those appearances meant
Vargis gestured impatiently at the young man.
It was like a castle, but they called it the Castel. Named for who-knew-what. He wondered if old Beit-Hnon had ever looked up at that imposing wall and considered what he was loosing on the world. If there were no White Riders to oppose those in search of power, how many would have died? How many would have needed to die? A gruff sound in his throat answered the question to his satisfaction. And then he moved on. The boy was gaining ground, but measuring his pace carefully, so that Vargis was neither too close nor too far away. Gave them both time to think. Simanel was abuzz with the rumor that someone had made an attempt on the Captain's life not two days gone. Vargis doubted the truth of the rumor, but he would have known if Agrippa had died, and short of that the attempt was nothing more than proof of his thesis. It wasn't like High Lord Gavrie of Beit-Orane to rush. Not when he had the whole of the Free Cities' future laid out before him. A spider, that one, but a dangerous spider. If it came to it... Vargis could count on one hand the number of persons who might have the skill to do for such a spider.
Better not to think about it. One way or another, Gavrie would never let a hangman's noose touch his neck. Nor would he go quietly to the headsman's axe. Short of that, there was nothing to know and nothing to think about.
After all, he might still win.
Sweeping courtyards were bland to his eyes now, but the Castel always invigorated him. To see so many young people striding about with purpose, fools or not, gave him hope for the future. And they were full of purpose as they hummed in this direction or that. Vargis was reminded again of how old he was. Of how dry his knees felt at keeping up this pace. He wouldn't ask the young fool to slow down. Not yet. Full of purpose but lacking in direction. Agrippa did not use the tools at his disposal. Perhaps because he was still convinced that he could somehow make this into a fair fight. Or a legal one. Vargis imagined Conlan with his forehead pressed against Beit-Arnil's, the both of them trying desperately to find some way of saving the tenth of the half that would survive an all-out war. What loomed now was an unwinnable war. The White Riders versus the whole of Beit-Orane's military might? Twenty years ago, when Vargis was still fighting this war, it might not have come to that. But what they knew in the here and now did not help them twenty years ago.
It was easy to guess what Beit-Orane's targets would be. Harder to see how the strike would come, and when. Who knew that all of Hatharida would burn? Well, Vargis had suggested it, but he wasn't going to prattle on about that all day long. With Sarta dead they might have slowed somewhat. That didn't mean they were going to give up without a fight. What mattered was how important Sarta was to their overall command. Not very, if Vargis didn't miss his guess. The only this string of half-victory, half-defeat had caused was a response from Beit-Orane. They were struggling now to keep things from striking the public eye. And they might make a mistake. How sad, that success depended - hinged entirely - on the hope of their enemy's folly. Vargis had been in closer shaves than this one. It was just that none of them came ot mind. If he'd been asked he might not have known what to say on the matter. A sad state of affairs in which to find the future of your country. They had to hope that it would be enough to keep them from losing the day a while longer.
"Vargis," a voice called out from behind.
It was Doret. One of his old comrades who'd never quite learned how to retire. Here in the Castel he was a Teacher, and a good one. Out and about he was muscle such as the world had never dreamed of seeing. That big fellow, Grees, had been one of his students. And even though Doret was growing old the bastard seemed to lose neither hair nor the muscle he'd heaped onto his frame in their younger years. Conlan was probably using Doret for one end or another these days, above and beyond training. Not for the first time he imagined one of those meaty fists closing around his throat and choking the life out of him. Not hard to imagine at all. Although Doret was in the full dress of a White Rider Vargis couldn't resist the opportunity to say something rude. It gave him a feeling of power, insulting a man who would so clearly savage him if it came to blows.
"You still look like an ugly woman," Vargis laughed with an outstretched hand.
"It doesn't insult me," Doret took the hand, and shook it harder than was necessary. "When you laugh right after."
"Right," Vargis drawled as he shook out his suddenly numb hand.
"Your prodigy is quite the hero these days. There are already stories spreading about him."
Prodigy. Must have been talking about Eragos. Doret's smile was friendly. His eyes held something else. Not malice. At least, not toward Vargis. People seemed to forget that Vera had been his instructor. How much had she actually taught him, when they weren't busy canoodling? All the bad habits, Vargis decided, came from her. There was no other prodigy that Vargis could think of. Most of the Riders he'd taught were the quiet and dependable sort - memorable for the stories they told over ale but not the stories they told in private. On their deathbeds. Sad to think he'd outlived some. It was a sudden cold stone in his chest, heaving against his heart, trying to displace it. Doret knew the look for what it was and proceeded in the story he'd been planning on telling. Dramatic pauses and telling eyebrow raises were abandoned for the moment.
"There are twelve dozen men ready to follow him wherever he rides," Doret informed him in a studied monotone. "They've taken to wearing blue scarves, tied around their wrists."
Blue scarves. Of course. That ridiculous pageantry that all Lords had to engage in. Eragos' flag was blue, wasn't it, with four white bars evenly spaced on one side? Vargis thought it sad that he could barely remember. The damned thing flew over Eragos' estates every day of the week and five times on the last. Blue scarves, tied around their wrists. It was an odd creature, this fame. Skill with a sword and the charisma of a rock. Yet he somehow inspired the people he met. Now, he was inspiring the ones he hadn't met. Odd to think that. Odd to hear that. Strangely Vargis' pride was replaced with something else. The boy didn't want this for himself. And Vargis did not want it for him. The Free Cities was beginning to pin its hopes on those it knew were right, and the list was short.
"That many? But no women," Vargis said slyly.
Doret didn't spare him a roll of the eyes. "They call him 'Dragon' now, when they're sure some House loyalist isn't listening. They say he's the hero of Agrippa's revolution."
There were a great many young men - and women, Vargis noted for his own amusement - with that affliction. They were glancing in Doret's direction. Many of them would not even know who Vargis was if he took off the mask. Suddenly, despite the violation of protocol, Vargis was glad he'd left it on. Close-shaved hair as white as his would no doubt spread stories. But Doret would tell anyone that asked. Vargis didn't know if he wanted to be associated with the blues publicly. His mind always worked in the direction of politics when it should have been thinking about other things. One of these young fools might get it in his head to go charging off after Eragos, or worse yet, try and call for Eragos to replace Conlan. That day might come, but the day wasn't today. Doret wasn't trying to warn him of possible reinforcements. He was trying to warn him of a potential problem.
"Conlan couldn't find a revolution with a map and..."
"I've heard that one before," Doret observed in the same monotone; he was studying Vargis with half-lidded eyes. "As for your prodigy, I met him once. He saddled my horse for me, and gave me a nod, and said nothing the entire time. Never even told me his name."
"I'm surprised," and Vargis spoke slowly. "That letting someone burn down an entire forest earns you a reputation."
"That and Sarta. They admire him because he fights. Something I admire, too."
So. Word of Hatharida had already spread this far? Vargis rode like a demon and he still hadn't beaten the rumors. They were the wind itself, apparently. How many rumors would he have to face down in that office? How much of the truth had come this far? Failing at a task did not avail you. Either someone had gotten the story very wrong, or someone's role in that story was being exaggerated. By a White Rider? Or someone who had something to gain? Doret was right. It was a potential problem. And a larger one than Vargis had first imagined.
"Are you going to start wearing the blue?" Vargis asked with a grimace. "Conlan won't like that. Especially since he sent that boy to rot on a farm."
Sunlight was an ugly thing when you were trying to read the shadows on a man's face. Doret did not have any. His face was all hard planes and open thought. Or at least, it seemed that way. In the tradition of the greatest muscle men, Doret seemed to have an unbreakable calm. You couldn't shatter him with a pick and a thousand years to do the work. Vargis suddenly felt hot beneath that burning sun. Not just for the heat but for the news that his friend brought. Beit-Orane might try to use this to their advantage somehow. Conlan was paranoid enough for ten men, privately, and with Eragos betraying his orders... it did not look good. Young people. They never did think about what they were doing before they did it. Doret's smile was in no way encouraging. Only vacant.
"So that's it," and the old man nodded; Vargis was annoyed by how every muscle in the bastard's torso seemed to ripple beneath his uniform at the slightest movement. "Conlan doesn't tell them to take the scarves off. But he did tell me he would have your head when he saw it next, and put it on the shelf next to a fine bottle of wine."
Just like Doret to save that bit for last.
"He said that, did he?"
"Bahamut take my eyes, he did. Blue scarves, Vargis. It wasn't this way before, was it? How much do you think the world is changed since fifteen years ago?"
"Too much," Vargis sighed. "And not enough."
Doret gave him a friendly and casual slap on the shoulder Vargis was certain it would bruise. So he followed the young Rider, who'd endured the conversation with bored indifference. This lad, Vargis noticed, did not sport a blue scarf. Perhaps he hadn't heard the story of Lord Eragos Feareborne's victory over ten men. Soldiers all, the elite of the elite. A sound of disgust in his throat. Vargis did not notice the entrance to Agrippa's office until he stood before it. The young Rider gestured without fanfare to the door. Then he moved off.
Vargis ground his teeth together for a half-second, and then strode through the double doors with palms outstretched in front of him. Very dramatic.