Chapter Text
What makes a woman stand out in a crowded room? It could be beauty, certainly; a rare and exquisite ensemble of features that caused the beholder to hold their breath. Still, in the Courts of Chaos, the homeland of shapeshifters, beauty wasn’t a valuable commodity. Here, nearly everybody could change their appearance in a thousand ways, and often did. If anything, plain faces were a fashion statement.
A temper, perhaps? A unique mix of character traits that formed an endearing personality one wanted to be around. But what about strangers? One might know nothing about a woman and still be enthralled.
It could be, of course, her words and attitudes, her knowledge of the world, her ability to weave a story. But what about a case, like the present, when her speech so far had been pure legalese, with more caveats than substance?
In the end, there might be nothing to go by, except for a gut feeling. A missed heartbeat at the sight of her green eyes, full of pride and promises. A sense of challenge behind the polite expression on her perfectly sculpted face.
Such were the thoughts of Mandor of House Sawall as he watched Fiona Barimen, fiery-haired and porcelain-skinned and barely five feet tall, giving her speech in the middle of the Thelbane, the Grand Hall of Chaos.
Others were standing next to her: a man in black and silver, a man in black and white, some stout, dark-haired Shadow dweller who looked like he was still awed by his position in her entourage. The delegation from Amber had come to the Courts to sign the treaty, and they had come on their terms. They had just won a war no one expected them to win.
Mandor had his own opinion about the war, but his notions were, at this point, irrelevant. All that mattered was that the war had brought Fiona Barimen here. For that, Mandor was grateful.
Purists of various types would quibble over whether the Princess could be considered an actual descendant of Barimen bloodline. After all, her father, Oberon, can’t have been anything but a construct, a ghost created by the Pattern, albeit a very high-quality one. That was the only way a practitioner of the Arts could interpret the whole ‘son of the Unicorn’ conundrum. Mandor knew most Chaosites didn’t care. Oberon’s brood were offspring of Dworkin the Madman, whatever means of reproduction, and that was enough.
Mandor didn’t ask to be introduced. On the contrary, he made sure the Princess never saw him, never heard his name even. A first impression is far too precious to leave up to chance. A gentledemon ought to do his homework before coming face to face with the lady of his desire.
A metal ball dropped from Mandor’s hand. It didn’t hit the black marble floor. Instead, it floated in the air at knee level, starting a slow journey around the hall. It was as if Mandor himself was walking around, listening to the soft conversations between the courtiers… only much less noticeable. He didn’t expect to hear anything important. Those who were truly discussing sensitive topics had probably taken care to set defences. Still, even innocuous rumours, when used correctly, could make decent leverage.
After five minutes, he had six rumours that he might be able to apply to other ends. Then he found what he was looking for. Gliding through the hall, his metal ball picked up a familiar voice. Lady Dara, Mandor’s stepmother, was talking to the High Priest of the Serpent, Bances Amblerash. Mandor sometimes wished he could plant a spying device on Dara permanently without her noticing. Such conversation was worth his attention even if the two only spoke of the weather.
They weren’t speaking of the weather.
‘... not how I envisioned their arrival,’ Dara was saying.
‘You did what you could, milady,’ Bances replied politely.
‘Not enough… not enough. It was a mistake to send Jasra after Prince Brand. I should have been working the man myself.’
‘Forgive my openness, Lady,’ the High Priest said, ‘but I am of the same opinion I was back then. It was a mistake to go after Prince Brand in the first place. The man was dangerously unstable even before the Fount. We should have cultivated one of the other two. The Princess showed great promise. She could have been forged into a rather fine weapon. And she was so knowledge-starved she’d jump at any…’
'The Princess is far too canny,’ Dara interrupted. ‘At any time, she is likely to have six different plans that get her what she wants none of which actually get us what we aim for. No, I still think we were right to go with the youngest of the brood. He was so perfectly unhinged that he didn’t even need much pushing from us. Just a gentle nudge. Just a hint of promise of greater power…’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I sense someone working certain forces near us,’ she said.
Lady Dara could make life at home unpleasant. Mandor picked his battles carefully, so he withdrew his ball quickly, hiding it behind the skirts and swallowtails of the courtiers around.
In the privacy of his alcove, he tallied his findings. So, this was not the first time Princess Fiona had visited the Courts. She had been here before, along with her brothers, Brand and… Bleys, was it? The War of Patternfall itself was a distant echo of that visit.
They had been looking for power… looking for teachers. This was surprising. Back in Amber, Oberon’s children could learn from one of the masters of the craft: Dworkin himself, the man who stole the Eye of the Serpent, the man who challenged Logrus and succeeded. How could the Princess be in want of knowledge?
Whatever was the reason, this was golden. If there was something Princess Fiona needed, that fact opened a path for interaction.
The game was on.