"Unpopular choices, I will grant you."
Fiamme chokes on her wine, almost spitting it back up onto the table. "You /what/?"
Culver explains patiently, "Looked up what it'd take to make myself Chancellor."
Culver says, "It's not so strange is it? I'm not mad, am I?"
Fiamme leans forward and says, "Plague in Amber? Being, perhaps, the last literate and numberate man available for the job?"
Fiamme corrects herself, "Numerate."
Fiamme carefully avoids answering the previous question.
Culver waves a hand, "It'd already be an intraregnum. I'd be a spacer. If you think about it, being obviously unsuitable for taking it long term is my best recommendation."
Fiamme squints, and says, "How about being, I don't know. /Not/ having led an army of zombies across the Golden Circle?"
Fiamme says, "That would also recommend a candidate."
Culver scoffs. "Corwin butchered old Bentham, knew him for years. Cut his head off like it was nothing. Bleys did for -- oh, hell. Can't remember their names. Anyway, he's putting his name in. There's a continuum, my dear."
Fiamme tilts her head, "You just made that up, didn't you." She looks suspicious.
Culver denies it with easy conviction, "Never. Surely you remember Bentham? Can show you his old lands if you like. Postage stamp of a place. Good cherry tree out front. Yes he was almost a commoner, and yes it was war -- or something close to it -- but he was one of ours."
Culver says, "Actually it being sort of war is somewhat the point, isn't it? I never declared war on the Crown. Take that as a job recommendation."
Fiamme's brow wrinkles and she says, "Yet."
Fiamme says, "Honestly, what would you want it for?"
Culver taps his lips, and gets a dreamy look a second. "Yet. Indeed." He clears his throat to break the expression. "Political answer, or real answer?"
Fiamme's eyes flicker off to one side for a moment, tracking something unseen, then she says, "Both."
Culver laughs a silently wheezing laugh. "Really political answer it is, then."
Culver says, "You'll hear a lot of talk about how they want to serve Amber, and how their agenda is really best for it."
Fiamme puts her glass warily to her lips, and is careful to take a mouthful that will not be easily inhaled.
Fiamme nods, slowly.
Culver says, "I don't subscribe to such things. I went five hundred years -- give or take -- for my King, taking what I could, pushing where I was ordered and where I fancied."
Fiamme's brows twitch up, and level off. "So, a platform of honest and circumscribed corruption. What it says on the tin?"
Culver makes a face. "I was going for the idea that I am comfortable making unpopular choices and have some small success at making them stick."
Fiamme considers that. "A year ago perhaps -- but a year ago is a century, lately. Unpopular choices, I will grant you. But will not Aunt Irene and the Prince Marshall both see any such move crushed?"
Culver says, "Obviously Benedict. He's irrelevant, however, in this discussion."
Culver says, "But Irene, now there's an interesting question. I don't think so. Not if framed right."
Fiamme blinks, and says, "He has a loyal following. Amongst the nobles. And why should the Duchess support you? Or are you relying on her occupying herself with little Anathema, and ignoring what she may?"
Culver waves a hand to dismiss Benedict's followers. "Lightweights. And why should she?"
Culver says, "Because Corwin. Because Julian. Hell, because Oberon. And now these others?"
Fiamme ventures another taste of her wine, during a pause in the conversation. "I don't follow you."
Culver says, "We look at the throne, and we know that we should give it our all. We should pour our soul out before it. We should hold with the last gasp of strength to defend it."
Culver says, "A King must demand these things."
Culver says, "But now there are three who might make that claim. And four? No. No more. Let there be a time to take stock."
Fiamme closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. "King ... or Prince Corwin claims he never stepped down. And that King Oberon himself bid him take it. Interesting, no? But others feel that the changes in rulership add to the decay that besets us. Myself ... well. I wonder when a mere year's absence was reckoned a sign of abdication in Oberon."
Culver sighs, and looks pained. "I regret I had a hand in getting that through. For some reason I cannot recall I valued my neck more than my spine at the time."
Fiamme looks to the empty space around Culver's neck, then back to his face. "Things were different then. I remember working with Prince Gerard to cover up his brother's condition... both of us, then, believing a stable rule was important."
Fiamme says, "Perhaps the fact he was taken should point to the truth of that."
Culver says with an edge of wistfulness, "How I hated Eric."
Fiamme chuckles, suddenly. "I cordially disliked him, as a person. But he was the King. And Prince Gerard ... he's easy to believe."
Culver notes sharply, "He owes me money."
Fiamme rolls her eyes, and says, "Are you truly going to call in debts, given the circumstances of your departure from the Treasury role?"
Culver smiles lightly . "Of course. Nothing is ever forgotten. To toy with the throne, to make it something to hold a debate -- ah, but this King said this, or that King said that -- is dangerous. We all know it is."
Culver says, "The time is for courage from the Houses. The courage to say no to the Princes. The courage to say yes -- to me."
Fiamme squints her narrow eyes even more, so they're almost slits. "Well. You had me at 'say no to the Princes'." And she gives a smile that's mostly teeth. "Not that I ever do."
Culver murmurs, "Oh, how casually you put your spotless reputation at risk."
Fiamme's eyes widen at that, and her cheeks colour. "Uh." Her face becomes a lemonish one. "Crass."
Culver inclines his head. "Thank you."
Fiamme laughs then, properly. "You're incorrigible."
Fiamme tips her head sideways a little, and says, "Mandrake and Karm do not have any great incentive to say /no/."
Fiamme says, "To at least two of them."
Culver smiles a little at her laugh. Then, "I see what you mean. If I had been paying better attention I would have had Lucretia whipped for even thinking of it. But that boat has sailed. I don't suppose I could prevail on you to assassinate Lilith, could I?"
Fiamme shakes her head, and says, "Neither the skills, nor the inclination, uncle. I'm very certain the Karms are necessary, doing what Karms do. Sealing. Locking. Generally spoiling the fun of those to whom chaos and unrule are sweet."
Fiamme says, "Just as Chantris, Feldane and Mandrake have their roles. Not, to be honest, that I've ascertained what use a Mandrake is if you're not wounded, or short of a dinner companion."
Culver says, "Strike the last, surely."
Fiamme says, with a small smile, "They have a certain charm."
Culver ripostes with, "Which they keep tucked underneath their mattress, I'm given to understand."
Culver says, "No, it must be made clear to them in the strongest possible terms that one way they will be promised things, and the other they will have demands made of them, and which do they believe?"
Culver says, "And one way and only one way can they work together: to tolerate me."
Fiamme's brows draw together, and she says, "I very much like the Duchess of Mandrake, you know. I rather thought you did too." She pauses. "You might pitch your idea to Quina. She's at least shown an interest in politics, if rather lacking in humour at times."
Fiamme adds, "She was chatting with Baron Gozar the other day, making unwise remarks about the Princes."
Fiamme's rather self-deprecating smile suggests she's aware of the irony in making that statement.
Culver says, "I like her well enough as a distant relative, I simply despair of her lack of rapacity in her most hallowed role as one of the interlocking pillars of self-interest that comprise our noble state."
Culver asks, "Quina? Her line?"
Fiamme ahs. "I see. It's her /lack/ of rapacity? Quina made a political marriage into Mandrake. Her speciality is horses. But I'm fairly sure her palace job is not equine related, currently."
Culver says, "Oh, yes, the Chantris that ... yes, um tiddle um. That one. Fine."
Fiamme nods. "Compliment on her pretty daughter, Julia. If you can do it without licking your chops."
Culver says, "I do almost recall that it is kissing little waifs that is required, not devouring them, when about such campaigns as I am."
Fiamme regards Culver over the rim of her glass. "It's your instincts I doubt, uncle, not your knowledge."
Fiamme risks another sip, as Culver formulates his reply.
Culver clears his throat. "Yes," he concedes, without adornment.
Fiamme releases her glass to flex her fingers for a moment, idly. "What did you do with all the dead things, anyway? I thought you were pressing on to Jade."
Culver makes a pass with his hand. "Jade is ripening. I want you to help Caine there, actually."
It is too late. The wine has gone down the wrong way /again/. Fiamme wipes the back of her hand against her mouth. "At the risk of repetition... you /what/?"
Culver raises his eyebrows coolly. "You are shot through with Road. As long as you're so handicapped, make yourself useful, why don't you. Pour it out into one of the Gates with him if you can."
Fiamme's eyes flash with anger, then. "For what purpose? Infect their gates with the Black Road? Why spread it further?"
Culver matches her anger with annoyance. "A sacrifice throw. It's almost there anyway."
Culver says, "And once it's there, I can burn it out at will."
Fiamme lifts both her hands to her temples, and says, "No."
Fiamme says, louder, as if drowning something out. "No. No. No. No. No."
Culver narrows his eyes. "Must I show you my power? Or will the reminder that you agreed to help me be enough?"
Fiamme gets to her feet, and her eyes are not focussing well. Her face seems more drawn than when she sat down, and the black circles under her eyes stand out against the pallor. "Don't. Threaten me. It's not safe."
Culver balls a large fist. "When they come to you, weeping and asking how this could happen to them, they were so careful -- you will know it was me." He smiles with no humour in it. "And then we'll talk again. I do not give you permission to be mad, Fiamme. When you return, remember that."
Culver wins a consequence from Fiamme. He chooses comprehensively demolishing the livelihood of an invalided comrade from Garnath by sparkly economic fairy dust.
Fiamme's hand closes convulsively on her sword hilt. Then, perhaps, she remembers she is not a Feldane by blood, because she lets it go.
Culver explains patiently, "Looked up what it'd take to make myself Chancellor."
Culver says, "It's not so strange is it? I'm not mad, am I?"
Fiamme leans forward and says, "Plague in Amber? Being, perhaps, the last literate and numberate man available for the job?"
Fiamme corrects herself, "Numerate."
Fiamme carefully avoids answering the previous question.
Culver waves a hand, "It'd already be an intraregnum. I'd be a spacer. If you think about it, being obviously unsuitable for taking it long term is my best recommendation."
Fiamme squints, and says, "How about being, I don't know. /Not/ having led an army of zombies across the Golden Circle?"
Fiamme says, "That would also recommend a candidate."
Culver scoffs. "Corwin butchered old Bentham, knew him for years. Cut his head off like it was nothing. Bleys did for -- oh, hell. Can't remember their names. Anyway, he's putting his name in. There's a continuum, my dear."
Fiamme tilts her head, "You just made that up, didn't you." She looks suspicious.
Culver denies it with easy conviction, "Never. Surely you remember Bentham? Can show you his old lands if you like. Postage stamp of a place. Good cherry tree out front. Yes he was almost a commoner, and yes it was war -- or something close to it -- but he was one of ours."
Culver says, "Actually it being sort of war is somewhat the point, isn't it? I never declared war on the Crown. Take that as a job recommendation."
Fiamme's brow wrinkles and she says, "Yet."
Fiamme says, "Honestly, what would you want it for?"
Culver taps his lips, and gets a dreamy look a second. "Yet. Indeed." He clears his throat to break the expression. "Political answer, or real answer?"
Fiamme's eyes flicker off to one side for a moment, tracking something unseen, then she says, "Both."
Culver laughs a silently wheezing laugh. "Really political answer it is, then."
Culver says, "You'll hear a lot of talk about how they want to serve Amber, and how their agenda is really best for it."
Fiamme puts her glass warily to her lips, and is careful to take a mouthful that will not be easily inhaled.
Fiamme nods, slowly.
Culver says, "I don't subscribe to such things. I went five hundred years -- give or take -- for my King, taking what I could, pushing where I was ordered and where I fancied."
Fiamme's brows twitch up, and level off. "So, a platform of honest and circumscribed corruption. What it says on the tin?"
Culver makes a face. "I was going for the idea that I am comfortable making unpopular choices and have some small success at making them stick."
Fiamme considers that. "A year ago perhaps -- but a year ago is a century, lately. Unpopular choices, I will grant you. But will not Aunt Irene and the Prince Marshall both see any such move crushed?"
Culver says, "Obviously Benedict. He's irrelevant, however, in this discussion."
Culver says, "But Irene, now there's an interesting question. I don't think so. Not if framed right."
Fiamme blinks, and says, "He has a loyal following. Amongst the nobles. And why should the Duchess support you? Or are you relying on her occupying herself with little Anathema, and ignoring what she may?"
Culver waves a hand to dismiss Benedict's followers. "Lightweights. And why should she?"
Culver says, "Because Corwin. Because Julian. Hell, because Oberon. And now these others?"
Fiamme ventures another taste of her wine, during a pause in the conversation. "I don't follow you."
Culver says, "We look at the throne, and we know that we should give it our all. We should pour our soul out before it. We should hold with the last gasp of strength to defend it."
Culver says, "A King must demand these things."
Culver says, "But now there are three who might make that claim. And four? No. No more. Let there be a time to take stock."
Fiamme closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. "King ... or Prince Corwin claims he never stepped down. And that King Oberon himself bid him take it. Interesting, no? But others feel that the changes in rulership add to the decay that besets us. Myself ... well. I wonder when a mere year's absence was reckoned a sign of abdication in Oberon."
Culver sighs, and looks pained. "I regret I had a hand in getting that through. For some reason I cannot recall I valued my neck more than my spine at the time."
Fiamme looks to the empty space around Culver's neck, then back to his face. "Things were different then. I remember working with Prince Gerard to cover up his brother's condition... both of us, then, believing a stable rule was important."
Fiamme says, "Perhaps the fact he was taken should point to the truth of that."
Culver says with an edge of wistfulness, "How I hated Eric."
Fiamme chuckles, suddenly. "I cordially disliked him, as a person. But he was the King. And Prince Gerard ... he's easy to believe."
Culver notes sharply, "He owes me money."
Fiamme rolls her eyes, and says, "Are you truly going to call in debts, given the circumstances of your departure from the Treasury role?"
Culver smiles lightly . "Of course. Nothing is ever forgotten. To toy with the throne, to make it something to hold a debate -- ah, but this King said this, or that King said that -- is dangerous. We all know it is."
Culver says, "The time is for courage from the Houses. The courage to say no to the Princes. The courage to say yes -- to me."
Fiamme squints her narrow eyes even more, so they're almost slits. "Well. You had me at 'say no to the Princes'." And she gives a smile that's mostly teeth. "Not that I ever do."
Culver murmurs, "Oh, how casually you put your spotless reputation at risk."
Fiamme's eyes widen at that, and her cheeks colour. "Uh." Her face becomes a lemonish one. "Crass."
Culver inclines his head. "Thank you."
Fiamme laughs then, properly. "You're incorrigible."
Fiamme tips her head sideways a little, and says, "Mandrake and Karm do not have any great incentive to say /no/."
Fiamme says, "To at least two of them."
Culver smiles a little at her laugh. Then, "I see what you mean. If I had been paying better attention I would have had Lucretia whipped for even thinking of it. But that boat has sailed. I don't suppose I could prevail on you to assassinate Lilith, could I?"
Fiamme shakes her head, and says, "Neither the skills, nor the inclination, uncle. I'm very certain the Karms are necessary, doing what Karms do. Sealing. Locking. Generally spoiling the fun of those to whom chaos and unrule are sweet."
Fiamme says, "Just as Chantris, Feldane and Mandrake have their roles. Not, to be honest, that I've ascertained what use a Mandrake is if you're not wounded, or short of a dinner companion."
Culver says, "Strike the last, surely."
Fiamme says, with a small smile, "They have a certain charm."
Culver ripostes with, "Which they keep tucked underneath their mattress, I'm given to understand."
Culver says, "No, it must be made clear to them in the strongest possible terms that one way they will be promised things, and the other they will have demands made of them, and which do they believe?"
Culver says, "And one way and only one way can they work together: to tolerate me."
Fiamme's brows draw together, and she says, "I very much like the Duchess of Mandrake, you know. I rather thought you did too." She pauses. "You might pitch your idea to Quina. She's at least shown an interest in politics, if rather lacking in humour at times."
Fiamme adds, "She was chatting with Baron Gozar the other day, making unwise remarks about the Princes."
Fiamme's rather self-deprecating smile suggests she's aware of the irony in making that statement.
Culver says, "I like her well enough as a distant relative, I simply despair of her lack of rapacity in her most hallowed role as one of the interlocking pillars of self-interest that comprise our noble state."
Culver asks, "Quina? Her line?"
Fiamme ahs. "I see. It's her /lack/ of rapacity? Quina made a political marriage into Mandrake. Her speciality is horses. But I'm fairly sure her palace job is not equine related, currently."
Culver says, "Oh, yes, the Chantris that ... yes, um tiddle um. That one. Fine."
Fiamme nods. "Compliment on her pretty daughter, Julia. If you can do it without licking your chops."
Culver says, "I do almost recall that it is kissing little waifs that is required, not devouring them, when about such campaigns as I am."
Fiamme regards Culver over the rim of her glass. "It's your instincts I doubt, uncle, not your knowledge."
Fiamme risks another sip, as Culver formulates his reply.
Culver clears his throat. "Yes," he concedes, without adornment.
Fiamme releases her glass to flex her fingers for a moment, idly. "What did you do with all the dead things, anyway? I thought you were pressing on to Jade."
Culver makes a pass with his hand. "Jade is ripening. I want you to help Caine there, actually."
It is too late. The wine has gone down the wrong way /again/. Fiamme wipes the back of her hand against her mouth. "At the risk of repetition... you /what/?"
Culver raises his eyebrows coolly. "You are shot through with Road. As long as you're so handicapped, make yourself useful, why don't you. Pour it out into one of the Gates with him if you can."
Fiamme's eyes flash with anger, then. "For what purpose? Infect their gates with the Black Road? Why spread it further?"
Culver matches her anger with annoyance. "A sacrifice throw. It's almost there anyway."
Culver says, "And once it's there, I can burn it out at will."
Fiamme lifts both her hands to her temples, and says, "No."
Fiamme says, louder, as if drowning something out. "No. No. No. No. No."
Culver narrows his eyes. "Must I show you my power? Or will the reminder that you agreed to help me be enough?"
Fiamme gets to her feet, and her eyes are not focussing well. Her face seems more drawn than when she sat down, and the black circles under her eyes stand out against the pallor. "Don't. Threaten me. It's not safe."
Culver balls a large fist. "When they come to you, weeping and asking how this could happen to them, they were so careful -- you will know it was me." He smiles with no humour in it. "And then we'll talk again. I do not give you permission to be mad, Fiamme. When you return, remember that."
Culver wins a consequence from Fiamme. He chooses comprehensively demolishing the livelihood of an invalided comrade from Garnath by sparkly economic fairy dust.
Fiamme's hand closes convulsively on her sword hilt. Then, perhaps, she remembers she is not a Feldane by blood, because she lets it go.