In the Company of Night

by Mitch H


A Gift Fit For Royalty

SBMS077

"Who are you?" asked the great empress.

She towered over us, her long black horn waving far above our heads. She was almost twice as tall as the Captain, who wore a puzzled expression as if she couldn't quite parse what was standing in front of her. The Bride was still three heads taller than the Lieutenant, who by her narrowed eyes had caught on much more quickly than the Captain, who seemed to be suffering from a slight case of cognitive dissonance.

Gibblets was hyperventilating, which I found disconcerting. He was supposed to be more phlegmatic than this. And apparently I was volunteered to be the voice of the Company by nopony else having the nerve to speak to the sudden outbreak of imperial lichdom.

"We are the Black Company, Your Majesty," I said, breaking into the uncomfortable silence.

"Ah, and evidently not a conspiracy of mutes, which was one of my lesser theories. How is it that I have heard nothing of your existence from my bureaucracy?" asked the great mare, her dark, dull-feathered wings fluttering in irritation. I found my attention inappropriately focused on those great wings, having seen no wing'd sapients outside of the Company other than Cherie since we had passed through the portal.

I recollected myself, and attended to her question. "Your Majesty, I cannot answer for the communication issues of the ponies in your government. As Dior Enfant must have told you, we have been attempting to contact you, our ultimate employer, since having been abandoned by the pony which hired our services and brought us into your empire."

"The Marklaird is no pony, and she does not simply abandon pawns. They are always at hoof, to be used for the next prank, the next plot. Until, of course, they break, or revolt, or die. Or all three. But she usually puts her toys away when she's done with them. She isn't Walker or a Stump, to leave her messes all over the playroom, to be stumbled upon or cleaned up. Do I look like a parlour-maid to you?"

"No, your Majesty. You look like the Empress of All Tambelon. Alone, without attendants. In our fortress. What can we offer your Majesty? Our architect did not build proper suites when we laid out Dance Hall, but we can probably clear one of the smaller barracks-rooms and make a first-order approximation of a queen's suite if somepony gets the process started?" I met the Lieutenant's eyes, and she nodded, and made for the door. She gave a look at the Bride, who rolled her eyes and let our executive officer leave.

"So you did name a fortress after a joyhouse. I was positive Dior Enfant and my sources had been jesting. I begin to see why the Marklaird imported you. You certainly sound like one of her pranks."

"Your Majesty, central Pepin was dispiriting enough when we arrived, and the ponies of Mondovi were so kind as to give us a bit of music to lighten our moods as we got into the swing of butchery. How could we not respond in kind, and name Dance Hall appropriately? The acoustics here are marvelous. When the musicians strike up a tune, you can hear the music from one tower to the other."

She snorted, amused despite herself. Her dead eyes were remarkably lively, for a lich. She retained most of her fur, and her mane was as kempt as wealth and care could afford, although weeks on her Roads and a long hike through the autumn rains had conspired to leave her in less than Court condition. I resolved to find a pony to attend to her bodily needs, although I had no idea where to find such a creature in the Company. Were there any surviving veterans from Rime with a background in cosmetics or servantry? I didn't think so.

"As for why we're not in a toy-box, perhaps the Marklaird intended us to remain in garrison in Rennet after we secured it from your enemies. It is difficult to say, as the legate left us no instructions, and failed to pay us properly. As Dior Enfant no doubt has told you, we spent the past year fighting a rear-guard action against the legate's bankers for our back-pay."

"So, lacking instructions, you chose to invade the Riverlands? Is this common practice among private military contractors where the Company comes from? From whence does the Black Company hail, while we're at it? My inquiries returned answers, too many answers. Everyone seems to hold a different opinion as to where the Black Company came from. A plurality holds that you hail from Tartarus."

I paused, uncertain which of the questions were serious, and which were rhetorical. I turned to the Captain, and tried to pass the conversational baton back to my alleged superior. How did I end up running this meeting? She narrowed her eyes at me, and gestured at me, indicating voicelessly that I was to answer the nice alicorn abomination.

"The modern Company was last in the employ of the Hidden Council of Openwater Bay. Before that, a series of short-term contracts for various city-states across the breadth of Crossroads, and before that, the Eastmaark. By my count, the Company has served a hundred masters in the last five hundred years, on dozens of the worlds of the Chain. Like all private military contractors, our first allegiance is, of course, to ourselves. But as far as the world is concerned, our contract is our honour. And we found ourselves last spring in the peculiar situation that we were not precisely sure what our contract stipulated. Our previous commander had failed to get our terms in writing, and then suffered an accident which rendered him non compos mentis. And the Marklaird was nowhere to be found, not that we were particularly inclined to trust its – her? word on the matter. You've obviously met your own legate."

"Much to my regret, yes."

"Then you know what I mean. Our position, of necessity, was that the death of our previous Captain either meant that we were without a contract, or that we were in your Majesty's direct service. We could not find a way to get in direct contact with your Majesty at the time, and determined that the best method for gaining your attention would be to find a proper courting gift.

"May I present you your Imperial Fortress, Dance Hall?"

The Captain let out a small squeak. Her poker face had always been somewhat lacking, which is why she was never to be found at the table, even before her rank had rendered that pastime inappropriate. But damn her anyways if she was going to leave me dangling like this. The gambit had always been one of our options, albeit a minor contingency. Not that we'd ever planned on having the Empress of All Tambelon stroll unheralded through our gates.

The Bride strode closer, seeming somehow twice her actual height - when all of it was leaning over your ears, it made more of an impression. But then, I had been loomed at by mares scarier and taller than the lich, even if only in dreams. I stood my ground.

"You invade two of my provinces, squat in my vassals' lands, leave a string of peculiar fortifications across my landscape like a fickle hermit-crab abandoning shells hither and yon, and then you squat upon one of my precious Roads, half-bury it in earthworks, and DARE TO PRESENT YOUR VANDALISM AS A GIFT?" She had a nice roar. Not exactly first-class, and I'd heard better, but nice. As tall as she was, and horrifying in her undeath, there was a certain jollity to her manner that undercut the effect.

"Yes, your Majesty, exactly. We also purged one of your provinces of the rebels denying your sovereignty, and we are mostly done clearing the second of the ghoul infestation which was in the process of wiping all inhabitation from the landscape. Did you spend much time in Charred Horton?"

A half-smile tugged at her bluish lips, and she admitted, shortly, "No, just a night's rest. We were incognito."

"Just as well, the council of that town was a great disappointment. We found the villagers and grange associations to be much more effective partners in the clearances. I presume you passed the Little Ridings blockhouse? It should have been in the hooves of the grangers' militia."

"We bypassed the blockhouses," Dior Enfant interjected. "The Empress wanted to confront you in your place of power."

"As I have said, the Company has no place of power. We are wanderers; our only places are those given us by those in whose service we are pledged. Since we found ourselves pledged in the service of a personage we had never met, we of necessity were compelled to engage in… imaginative assignation. What commands would an empress, an empress who built Roads like this one we perch beside, what commands would she issue? Presented by a rebellion, we put it down. Finding an undead apocalypse brewing down here beside the river, we extinguished it. We somewhat overextended ourselves building Dance Hall, but then, our engineer and architect can run wild when he's given free rein. It is somewhat eccentrically arranged, pointed in perhaps the wrong direction, and unduly constricts traffic on the main Road, but we hope with effort and time it can be improved for your service."

"Well, you certainly don't lack for nerve," the Bride granted. She looked around the hall. "I will need to be shown the facilities. If the weather ever breaks. I had forgotten why I avoid the northlands in this season."

"Might I offer your Majesty a bath? We've got the hypocaust up and running, just in time for the rainy season. It's almost a luxury, especially given Dance Hall's filthy origins. And, given the season, I'm expecting a visitor from Monsieur Influenza any day now. Not… that this would be a concern for your august personage, now that I think of it."

"No, certainly not," she smirked. We left for the baths, trailed by a deflated Dior Enfant, clearly looking to escape her inevitable interrogation and tribunal before the officers. And maybe to get in on the offered warm bath.