Fic: Web of Fate, Chapter 4

[rodo]

Title: Web of Fate
Fandom: Carnival Row
Author: rodo
Chapter: 4/17+E
Length: 4,238 words (77,000 in total)
Rating: 16+
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Worldbuilding, Adventure
Characters: Rycroft Philostrate, Jonah Breakspear, Vignette Stonemoss, Runyan Millworthy, Darius Prowell, Absalom Breakspear
Pairing: Philo/Vignette
Warnings/Labels: war, and mentions/occasional depictions of associated atrocities; canon-typical fantasy racism
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to Amazon, of course
A/N: I started this story in August 2021, and I finished the draft in 2022, so this was all written prior to the second season. So some of the worldbuilding contradicts what was shown in season 2. Still, I had so much fun re-reading this lately that I thought I’d polish it up some more and post it anyway, in case some of you will like it as well. Since it’s an AU, the plot of the second season is not that relevant anyway.


Summary: A year after the attempted assassination of Chancellor Absalom Breakspear, The Burgue is at war, and it’s not going well. In order to break the stalemate at the front, some unlikely soldiers are recruited to fight in a place nobody expected, and Philo and Jonah find themselves caught up in it against their expectations.



Chapter 4: The Mission



The Year of the Martyr 647


Eavesdropping had become a bad habit that proved difficult to shake for Jonah Breakspear, if only because most of his usual entertainments had fallen by the wayside of late. He could no longer frequent the brothels on the Row – they’d lost their charm for him anyway. Sophie – well, that was something he still felt sick thinking about. There were his studies, and while Jonah studied with a zeal that surprised his tutors and father alike, it was done to forget about other things, as a distraction, not out of dedication. And when he couldn’t take it any longer, he eavesdropped on his father, who was finally well enough to sit in his study again.

“Sir, we’ve found a letter in your wife’s things when we started cleaning them out. The letter is quite… sensitive in nature,” Winetrout said, followed by a rustling of paper and silence from his father.

“It’s a forgery,” his father finally pronounced. “But at least now we know why she did it. She was always so protective of Jonah. The idea that there might be someone else who could threaten his future or his place in my heart must have been too much.”

He’d listened leisurely at first, but the mention of his mother had made Jonah sit up straight. Her attempted murder of his father had been a mystery for months.

“So, this story of a half-blood son is completely made up?”

The silence was thick enough to cut with a knife. Thick enough for all those listening to the conversation to understand what it meant.

“Sir, if that is going to be a problem in the future…”

“It won’t be, Winetrout. He’s nobody, with no interest in me or my money or power,” the Chancellor said, brooking no argument, while Jonah’s mind did somersaults.



*



Jonah arrived at Fort Pembroke at midday, while the base was as busy as a beehive. Few people cared that the commanding officer of the company they were currently training had arrived. He tried not to let it bother him. Mr Millworthy had arrived quite a while ago, he’d been told. His formal title was “strategic advisor” to Operation Retribution.

General Maldrake sniffed in distaste when Jonah presented himself with manners that were probably not up to code. He’d served in the last war and lost an eye to the Pact, earning himself a promotion and a safe post away from the front, but at heart, he was a soldier.

“It’s a stupid idea, if you ask me,” he confided in Jonah while he walked him to the command centre. “These… people, if you want to call them that, are the worst fighters I’ve ever seen. No discipline, no bite, nothing. I don’t know what the Chancellor was thinking, going along with that madcap’s plan. And the marroks… well, at least those two were Burguish soldiers once, with a good reason to hate the Pact. Still, not sure why you want to use them.”

“I assure you, General, if my father didn’t believe the operation merited a try, he would have never let it get so far. We should try everything we can to win this war, don’t you agree?”

The general harrumphed, but evidently didn’t want to argue with the Chancellor’s son. He didn’t say a single word while he led Jonah out of the building and towards the yard, where the strangest group of people Jonah had ever seen was running laps in what should have been a military fashion but which decidedly was not.

During a drill like the ones Jonah had been subjected to, a soldier was supposed to wear his full uniform and his kit on his back, with the rifle held in front. About half the people in the rectangular yard could pass for soldiers during a drill at a casual glance. Some, on the other hand, didn’t wear boots. Others wore their backpacks up front, exposing their wings, with the rifles awkwardly clutched in one hand. And yet others didn’t wear their kit at all, instead dropping it into the arms of the giant in the group, who didn’t even carry a rifle. The group didn’t trot in an orderly line of two abreast either. Instead, they ran in a drawn-out line, with one pix flying back and helping a fellow struggling under the weight of his pack.

“Tell me again that this is a good idea, Lieutenant Breakspear.”

Jonah was tempted to roll his eyes. “We’re not training them for a conventional war, General. What I’m seeing here is some creative problem-solving and teamwork. Both of which we’ll need on our own in Anoun.”

The General stared at him, and Jonah stared back. Try as he might, the one-eyed general would never out-terrify his mother. In the end, it was Maldrake who broke eye contact first and turned, walking past the recruits, who, on closer inspection, contained at least one man better at being a soldier than Jonah, before turning towards one of the other administrative buildings. Inside, he was led to the command centre for Operation Retribution. It was empty, save for Runyan, who was bent over a giant map of northern Tirnanoc and scribbled something on it with a pencil.

“Lieutenant Breakspear! With you here, we’re finally complete!” he exclaimed when he finally deigned to notice them.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the general said. “Good luck, Lieutenant. You’ll need it.”

Jonah raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He didn’t allow himself to relax until the door fell shut behind the general, leaving the two of them alone with their maps and files.

“How bad is it really?” Jonah asked.

Runyan Millworthy shook his head. “The army is supposed to teach them to fight, but they’re trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. I see potential, but you need to observe them as individuals, not as a group. In fact, why don’t we do that right now? You’ll need to figure out how best to manage them sooner rather than later.”

Jonah sighed but nodded in agreement.

And so he found himself in the yard again, watching the relative chaos that so aggrieved the general. They were still doing their drills, each at their own speed and according to their own ability. A drill sergeant’s nightmare, he supposed.

“What do you see?” Runyan asked him.

Jonah thought for a moment. “A lot of half-bloods on quite a spectrum.” And what a spectrum it was. Some passed well. Others… made Jonah wish he’d passed on this “chance”.

“There are three fae as well. See that one?” He pointed at a male pix who took to the air. “Ash Greenstone – a very accomplished lixir smuggler with a lot of in-depth knowledge of the northern coast of Tirnanoc, but not the type who does well with authority, not too keen on working with others. Then there’s the two women – Primrose,” he pointed at a blonde pix with a long face and a large mouth that didn’t quite fit in it, “and Vignette. Primrose survived on her own in occupied Anoun for years. And Vignette used to be a sparrowhawk for seven years until she decided to leave for The Burgue – a job with an average life expectancy of a year. We’ll need their local knowledge, or this operation is doomed from the outset.”

Jonah watched each of the fae. The man would be difficult. Even now, he mostly seemed to be on his own, looking down on the half-bloods around him. And the loner – Primrose – didn’t look like much of a team player either. The half-bloods laughed and joked with each other, but she always stood slightly apart.

“The sparrowhawk,” Jonah said. That was their best option until they could win over the others.
“I would have thought so too, but she doesn’t trust Burguishmen, although I don’t know the reason why. None of the fae are particularly trusting of our kind, with good reason these days. But with her, it runs deeper.”

Jonah mulled it over while watching the recruits. He didn’t think himself particularly against the fae – rather to the contrary. But he had to admit that it rankled him that they’d lump him in with his peers, with the likes of his real father, not because he felt insulted but because it made his job so much more difficult. Damn pixies, he thought. That word alone made him pause and consider if maybe he wasn’t that different from Ritter Longerbane after all – until he shoved the thought away. This wasn’t the time.

The longer he watched the recruits, the more one of them stood out – it became especially obvious once the shooting drills started. The sergeant in charge only did his work half-heartedly, cursing his students more than teaching them. It was one of his recruits who helped those of his fellow half-bloods who couldn’t hit their targets – the one who could pass as a soldier, if he wanted to. It was he the others looked to for guidance, rather than a human.

“Do you know who that man is?” Jonah asked Runyan.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice him,” his former teacher admitted before getting to his answer, as if they were still discussing a poem back at Balefire Hall. “Rycroft Philostrate – although they’ve got him down under a different name, and pointing out his real one will make as much trouble for us as it will for him. He’s the son of a dear friend of mine, actually. And he’s been slowly but surely becoming something of a leader to them, although I don’t think he’s noticed it yet. He’ll be your sergeant. A little ironic, since he told me that that was his rank during the last war.”

“He used to pass? That’s a crime, especially with the army.”

Runyan smirked. The shark in him shone through again. “Only if you get caught. He didn’t.”

“You want us to work with a criminal?”

“Most of them are criminals,” Runyan scoffed. “A half-blood getting by without breaking at least one law is a rarity. And a criminal who doesn’t get caught will certainly be helpful, once we’re in Anoun. A half-fae that can pass this well… we might just get him a Pact uniform, in case it’s needed. And some training in espionage. He used to be an inspector with the Constabulary, too, and a good one at that. He’s already good at noticing things others dismiss.”

Jonah wasn’t sure if he was as optimistic as Millworthy. There was something about the man that irked him, like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. Maybe it was just that he appeared to be much better qualified for this mission than Jonah was. That he was also their best bet for a successful mission only made it worse.

The nagging feeling still hadn’t abated later that week, when Philostrate, the three fae, Runyan and Jonah met up in the map room – as Jonah called it – after supper. The three fae wore an unexpected mix of emotions on their faces: interest (the sparrowhawk), fear (the survivor) and barely disguised hostility (the smuggler). Philostrate, on the other hand, had a face so blank he might as well be a statue, and a boring one at that. Curiously enough, their reactions didn’t shift one bit through Runyan’s explanation of their (his) plans.

“If you think I’m going back to that shithole of a place, think again!” Ash Greenstone all but screamed. “There’s only death there for the likes of me. And you! You’re mad!”

Jonah was about to start arguing when Philostrate opened his mouth. “You should think about the potential,” he reminded the mulish pix. “And about what losing this war would mean for your life here in The Burgue.”

“I’m worried about something else,” the sparrowhawk said. “You want us to risk everything. Our lives, our people, and tell us your country will help us. Well, your lot made a lot of promises once, and you broke them then. What are your guarantees?”

“It won’t just be your lives,” Jonah pointed out. “It will be mine as well. Do you know who I am?”

The sparrowhawk and Philostrate nodded, but the other two shook their heads. “The Chancellor’s son,” Philostrate supplied.

Greenstone snorted. “Fat lot of good that’ll do us if someone offs the Chancellor. They almost managed it once already. Who says they won’t succeed the next time?”

“Now, now, young man, there’s no reason to be that pessimistic,” Runyan argued. “Just think about what we could achieve. Right now, the occupying forces in Anoun – in all of Tirnanoc and even Ignota – are weakened. The men and supplies are needed for the battle against our alliance. They can no longer throw all they have at anyone who dares to resist, and I have faith that small pockets of resistance are already forming. Don’t you want your countries back? Your homes?”

“Not particularly,” Greenstone spat.

“You’ve said what’s in it for us, me and Vignette and Ash,” the survivor said in a quiet, almost fearful voice. “You need us the most. Without us, you don’t know where to hide, where to steal. Which hidden paths to use and how to get information. But what’s in it for you, personally? Or the half-bloods?”

Jonah didn’t know quite how to answer that. Even he knew “glory” wasn’t a particularly good motivator for people who just wanted to stay alive. He was considering how to be diplomatic without lying when Millworthy sighed.

“I am an old man. I have seen many places, met many people. I lost quite a few, too. I have never been to Tirnanoc, but your people have always had a special place in my heart” – he looked straight into Philostrate’s eyes when he said that – “I merely want to make the world a better place, or try to, at least. Can you understand that?”

The answer was genuine, or at least a good approximation of it. It even fooled the smuggler. And maybe it even fooled Jonah, who almost regretted not having any ambition bigger than himself.

“As for the half-bloods – maybe this will be a chance for them as well. Martyr knows, there isn’t much for your kind here,” Millworthy added, looking at his almost-friend again. For a moment, the two men stared at each other as if they were having an argument none of the others understood.

“Now,” Jonah said, pointing at the huge map of northern Tirnanoc that the army had collated during the last war and which Millworthy and Jonah had worked to update. “How about we talk about what isn’t on this map?”

The tension in the room melted, replaced with resigned cooperation, at least for the moment.



*



Over the following weeks, Jonah grew a little more optimistic about his chances, in step with nature’s outlook for the future. The last sad flakes of wintry snow melted into muddy puddles. While it was still cold in the Republic of the Burgue, the trees’ leaves and blossoms began to carefully peek out of their hiding places, at least in some cases.

Philostrate was a good go-between; Jonah had to give him that. He knew how the Burguish army worked, and he knew how half-bloods and pix worked. When Jonah told him to improve a young half-puck’s shooting, he did so using gentle means rather than the gruff insults that drill sergeants the world over preferred. When he told him to get one of the men in line, he did so, too. But unlike the weather, Jonah didn’t warm towards him. He still couldn’t put his finger on why, until one day, about a week before they were set to deploy, a high-ranking visitor arrived at Fort Pembroke: the Chancellor, ostensibly there to inspect and motivate the troops. In truth, he had come to say goodbye to a son he might never see again. Absalom Breakspear didn’t show any doubt in the mission, though. He never did, once he’d made up his mind. Again, he acted like the proud father who was certain his son would succeed. It worked on his entourage, the adjutants, soldiers and even the grumpy general. It didn’t work on Jonah.

“Show me what you’ve worked on!” He all but beamed at Jonah. And so Jonah and Millworthy did, leading him to the map room, where the big annotated map rested in its place of honour on the wide table. They’d finally finished prying information out of the fae. The only real thing that needed work yet was the marroks – full moon had been ten days ago, and they had decided on introducing them – and their purpose – on a new moon. Just to be safe and put everyone at ease as much as possible.

Jonah’s father showed as much interest as he ever did when he was on official business – not that Jonah had seen him do it that often. Absalom Breakspear was a consummate politician and knew how to play a crowd like a violinist played his fiddle. In the end, he even insisted on visiting their involuntary volunteers. Maybe a good idea, even Jonah had to admit that. Neither fae nor half-bloods were fully at ease with their mission yet. They’d all been abandoned and let down by the humans in The Burgue, so their trust was hard to come by. Even Runyan Millworthy and his charming, harmless manner and knowledge of fairish tunes had been unable to crack that nut.

They found them in the mess hall. Like always, Jonah’s eyes sought out Philostrate first. He was sitting in the back. As usual, with the sparrowhawk – Vignette – Jonah had tried to memorise all their names in an effort to make them think he valued them as individuals. The two were laughing at something when none of the others did. Their own private joke, amidst idle chatter and earnest talk. It couldn’t be any more obvious that they were a couple if they were going at it right on the table.
General Maldrake cleared his throat, and slowly, the thrumming noise of the mess hall ebbed away. Instead, dozens of eyes were drawn to the same target – the Chancellor. Suddenly, the harmless recruits seemed a lot more dangerous, even with all the bodyguards and soldiers around. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah saw Maldrake tense a little.

Then, apparently undaunted, his father broke out into speech. It was the usual drivel. Jonah didn’t bother paying attention. A masterful mixture of ego-stroking, preying on the audience’s self-interest to manipulate them and white-washing their own motives. His tutors had wanted Jonah to learn this craft from his father. Jonah had, in his way. He just didn’t know whether it was a weapon he wanted to use.

Suddenly, there was a hitch in his father’s voice, barely perceptible. Others might think it nothing more than a dry throat, if they noticed it at all. But not Jonah. He looked at his father and followed his gaze. In the crowd, he saw Rycroft Philostrate staring back, his face as impassive as usual. But the eyes… in Jonah’s mind, the wheels began to turn. They didn’t stop when, afterwards, his father arranged to speak with the man on some pretext that everyone just swallowed for some unfathomable reason. Jonah watched from a distance. It wasn’t a long talk, but it left his father slightly subdued while Jonah put together the pieces of this puzzle.

He stared at the two men, compared their jawlines, mouths, noses. There were similarities, for those who knew how to look. For those who knew that Absalom Breakspear had a half-blood son. All of a sudden, the enigma of Rycroft Philostrate dissolved like a morning mist, leaving behind a man who was perhaps more like his father than either of them might think. A man whom people simply followed, while Jonah had to fight for such things. A man whom Jonah envied even while wanting to be nothing like him at all. Finally, he knew what had bothered him about Philostrate. Talking to him felt strangely like talking to his father, even though the conversations couldn’t be more different. Those eyes judged every single one of his actions harder than his mother ever had.

That evening, Absalom Breakspear finally got to speak to Jonah in private. A dangerous thing, since Jonah had felt like a powder keg for the entire latter half of the day. The moment the door to his quarters closed, he knew that he was going to blow up.

“It has been good to see my son again,” his father confided after the trickle of meaningless small talk had dried up.

“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Jonah drawled, bile in his throat.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Jonah said, staring his father, who wasn’t his father, right in the eye. To his credit, Absalom Breakspear didn’t feign ignorance or protest. Instead, it was as if he shrank before Jonah’s eyes with a long, weary sigh.

“How did you find out? No, don’t bother answering. You’re a lot like your mother, always so clever. Yes, Philo is my son. This was only the second time we’ve ever met, and he doesn’t see me as a father, not like you do. And while he is my son, there’s something different to this kind of relationship if you barely know one another. I’ve told you before, Jonah. You’re my son. Nothing can change that.”

Jonah wanted to scoff and run away, as he had before, like an angry child. But this was his room. If anyone should leave, it was his father. And yet, he didn’t find the words that could express how angry, betrayed and lonely he felt. All those hours wasted on Arts & Letters, and he couldn’t put such simple emotions into sentences.

“Ask yourself this, Jonah: does it really matter? Really ask yourself.”

Since he was trapped with no way to go, Jonah did. He tried to think of Ritter Longerbane, a man he barely knew. A shadow that hung over his parents’ conversations, no more. He meant nothing to Jonah. When his mother’s words had cost him a father, he hadn’t gained another. And in his earliest memories, it was his father smiling at him. It was he who was standing with him now. But then there was Sophie…

“More than you know,” Jonah finally replied.

Absalom Breakspear put his hands on Jonah’s shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “If this is about the prophecy, don’t fret. He’s a half-blood; he’ll never be anything more than what he is now. Your mother didn’t believe it, but I always thought you were more reasonable than she was when it came to her hocus pocus. If it does indeed come true, it will be you, because you are my son. You’re the one who carries my name, the one I carried on my shoulders when you were too tired to walk as a child. There is more to you than you think. You have no reason to feel insecure.”

Jonah felt himself blink. “If that’s what you think, you don’t know me very well.” Or his other son, Jonah thought.



*



Assembling around the map table the day before they were scheduled to leave was a strange affair. The recruits – no, no longer recruits, soldiers – had been granted two days’ leave to settle their affairs and fetch what they needed from their homes. Clothes, for the most part. They were all dressed in their civvies now. When they returned, Philo – Jonah made an effort to use that name, at least in his mind – and Runyan wore battered Burguish suits, and the fae wore their faerish coats. Even Jonah had taken off his uniform and donned one of his fashionable suits. He had to admit, he felt more like himself in them than he had in months.

“Anything more to add?” he asked the assembled group in his most commanding tone.

They all shook their heads.

“I haven’t been there, but from what Primrose said, it’s our best bet for a base. We can always fall back to the caves at Ab Duinn if there’s an emergency or we need a second location,” Vignette added. Even the quarrelsome Ash reluctantly agreed.

“Then you’re dismissed,” he said.

They didn’t linger, not even Runyan, who had been exceptionally busy doing who knew what these past few days. He’d only told Jonah that it was about the second leg of their journey. In the end, Jonah alone remained, calmly rolling up the map and putting it in its case. During the night, all the boxes and the cages would be put on a train, bound for Bellmouth, where their ship waited.

There was just one thing left to do for Jonah; through the darkness, he walked to the general’s office. Despite the late hour, Maldrake was awake, reading reports by the murky gaslight. His eye glinted darkly when he saw Jonah.

“How many of your men failed to return?” he asked.

“Two. Johnson and Whipple.”

The general huffed in vague surprise. “Fewer than I thought. Good job, Lieutenant Breakspear. And good luck. Martyr knows you’ll need it. My men will take care of the rest; no need to worry. Hunting down two half-bloods shouldn’t be that hard.”



Chapter 3: The Barracks | Chapter 5: New Freehold