One of the benefits of being part of High Command, Swain decided, was the good food. In a way, it made all the politicking, battles, hard decisions and assassination attempts worth it. Of course, having been born into a poor peasant family, he would never have been able to eat any of the delicacies on the table before him had he not joined the Noxian Officer Corps, which was itself a small miracle given that cripples hardly had a reputation as good soldiers. It was depressing, he thought, how a suitably cynical observer could argue that he'd started his career by luck and succeeded by luck. Still, he supposed he could, if necessary, make a pretty decent case for his rise to power being attributable to his own natural abilities as a thinker, leader and spell caster.
All he'd have to do would be to point out his long list of achievements and the conditions under which he'd had them—usually outnumbered, frequently outgunned, on various occasions low on supplies, exhausted, hungry, thirsty cold, isolated, or all of the above. His detractors could say whatever they wanted, but ultimately, Noxus was a nation that valued results, and Swain's track record said it all.
The only problem, he mused in between mouthfuls of pan-seared foie gras, was that he had trouble convincing himself of that.
"Grand General?" A low, gruff voice interrupted his reverie. Swain looked up into the cold blue eyes of General Konstantin Karkov Rokossovsky.
"General Rokossovsky," he said politely, allowing a slight smile to show. The general was another member of High Command, a veteran of the last rune war and one of Boram Darkwill's old guard. A soldier to the core, he'd worked his way up from the position of private, generally avoided politics, and had a reputation for his direct, straightforward personality.
"Congratulations on your promotion, sir," Rokossovsky said, removing his hat and offering a hand. Swain shook it, holding back a wince as his knuckles and fingers were crushed by the general's iron grip.
"Thank you," he replied, measuring his tone so that it would convey just the right amount of politeness. He searched for something else to add, something that would be just nice enough to win the general's favour without sounding soft or patronizing. Rokossovsky was an excellent general, but he was also a bit of a traditionalist, and suspicious of shrewd politicians. Swain didn't want to risk alienating him.
"I look forward to working with you," Swain said at last, retrieving his hand and resisting the urge to flex his fingers. He finished the plate of foie gras, relishing the way the fattened goose liver seemed to melt in his mouth, and was just reaching for a serving of escargot when the next well-wisher stepped forward.
It was customary for prominent Noxian citizens to pay their respects at the Grand General's table during his coronation feast. When an aide had first informed him of this, Swain had thought it a little meaningless, seeing as the congratulations were often insincere and many of the well-wishers would have probably loved to kill him. The upside, however, was that it was a pretty decent way for the new Grand General to gauge quickly who his potential allies and enemies were.
To his surprise, Swain found the first few visitors quite encouraging. They were all members of the High Command's old guard, Rokossovsky's peers, and while they were suspicious of Swain's occasionally unorthodox methods and un-soldierly appearance, they respected his track record and seemed quite okay with him being in power. Then again, he'd never had much trouble with any of them. The difficulty would lie with the younger generation, like Keiran Darkwill, who was fortunately deceased, or—
"Congratulations, Grand General."
It was amazing how those three words could be made to sound like an insult. But of course, it would have been churlish to take the bait, at least in the way that was expected.
"Why, thank you, Katarina," Swain responded casually, again allowing a light, pleasant smile to creep onto his features. That, he knew, would annoy her more than any comeback insult could. "I was wondering when you would turn up."
The black-clad assassin paused, taken aback by the calm, pseudo-cordial response and at a loss for words, but unwilling to back down. Swain looked past her, nodding at the man who stood at her shoulder, his features hidden by a dark black cloak and a blade strapped to a vambrace on his right arm.
"Talon," he said by way of greeting. The man nodded back. Unlike Katarina, he had no personal dislike of Swain. The two of them had worked together previously, and there was a certain mutual respect between them. Swain turned back to the unhappy redhead before him.
"Any word on your father?" he inquired. Katarina's eyes narrowed. Her father, General Marcus Du Couteau, had gone missing not long after the death of Swain's predecessor.
"We haven't found him yet," she said, her tone guarded. Swain hid a sigh. Katarina clearly suspected that he'd had a hand in a father's death. The idea was preposterous, of course. If anything, Swain would have backed Marcus if he'd made a bid for the throne. He wished he could have told Katarina that, but of course, there was no way she would have believed it.
"Well, keep looking," he said instead. "Let us know if you need any assistance." Katarina nodded curtly (there was no other way she could really have responded). Then she spun on her heel and stalked away, Talon gliding silently after her.
Swain decided between caviar and calamari as the next courtier came forward. Somehow, Katarina's unfriendliness had ruined his appetite for well-wishes. He would have liked to maintain the support of one of Noxus's most prominent families, but clearly that just wasn't likely. Briefly, he wondered if ordering the main course to be served would send the rest of his visitors back to their seats.
"That one might be dangerous," Darius observed.
Swain nodded and turned to face his new right-hand man and staunchest supporter. "Indeed," he agreed. "It's a pity. Her father was one of my oldest and best friends. Still is, in fact. I hope we find him soon."
Darius turned away. "General Du Couteau was a good man," he said finally. As Swain had observed some time ago, Darius was not fond of discussing personal issues. Most Noxians weren't. Apparently it was a sign of weakness or something. There was actually some basis in that viewpoint, of course, but it also tended to greatly limit one's capabilities as a conversationalist. Swain personally had no problems with discussing personal issues—so long as they weren't his.
"Congratulations, Jericho," said a new voice, low and coy. The new arrival had seemed to materialize right out of thin air. Swain lifted his head slowly to effect a casual, almost lazy air. Before him stood a stunningly beautiful woman in a dress that could probably have been rated more aesthetic than functional. She was young with a youth that seemed it would be eternal, and yet her eyes and face seemed to belong to one with decades of wisdom and maturity. Perfection, some would have said. Swain sighed.
"Evaine," he said, his voice a blank, gravelly slate.
"So," Evaine offered her hand, "how does it feel to be the youngest Grand General in the history of Noxus?" Her voice seemed to wrap and coil around Swain, filling his head and burrowing into his soul. It was sweet yet powerful, and he had previously found it rather unnerving. Now, however, he was experienced enough to ignore it. He paused, glancing at the proffered hand, then reached out and shook it.
Evaine Leblanc's features shifted into a pout. "No kiss?" she teased. The customary greeting was for a gentleman to kiss a lady's hand. Swain shook his head. "Too conspicuous," he replied, although the truth was that he simply didn't like the practice and wasn't in the mood for playing along. He considered saying something more, if only to delay the inevitable.
"I expect you will honour our agreement." Leblanc's voice kept the same sweet, light quality, but there was no mistaking the cold steel in her words. Any hint of reluctance, Swain knew, would be foolish.
"Of course," he replied calmly, making sure not to sound cold or unhappy. Their gazes locked, and in Leblanc's dark eyes Swain saw neither youth nor sweetness, just terrifying power and relentless cunning. Leblanc nodded at him, then turned and disappeared just as suddenly as she had arrived.
Swain leaned back, reaching for a cup of water. The main drink at such events was wine or ale, but Swain didn't enjoy the taste of alcohol and he liked the thought of being inebriated even less. Still, he contemplated as he studied the glass and the clear liquid within, he'd probably gotten himself into far worse situations than drunkenness. This whole business with Evaine, for instance.
The simple truth was that he never would have risen to power without her. In a sense, he owed her everything, but that there was more to Evaine Leblanc than met the eye. There were so many things that were just so obviously off about her. The fact that she hadn't aged in the past sixteen years, at least not visibly. The way her eyes seem to change colour from time to time—dark tonight, but he'd seen them light blue, green, amber, hazel… They didn't call her the Deceiver for nothing. Leblanc the Deceiver. Leblanc the Eternal. Leblanc of the Black Rose.
Swain was a member of the Black Rose too, that ancient organisation that had previously controlled Noxus in secret. When Boram Darkwill's military government had seized power and purged Noxus of the old aristocracy, the Black Rose had seemed to disappear. Centuries later, however, it seemed membership still counted for something, as evidenced by Swain's meteoric rise. Unfortunately, membership also had a price.
Swain took a deep breath and carefully relaxed his facial muscles to avoid a frown. Suddenly, everything seemed to irk him—the noise of the crowd, the slightly rowdy behaviour of some of the partiers, the fact that he just knew Leblanc or her agents would be watching.
It was no fun being a puppet. No, Leblanc might have been a master manipulator, but two could play that game. He'd have to move quickly, stealthily, building up a power base independent of the Black Rose before they realised his intentions. The problem was that his Black Rose connections would likely be rather off-putting for many of the militarists. And there was still the matter of reforming Noxus to deal with this new, peace-crazed world. The euphoria of victory and success, it seemed, would last less than a day. Then again, he'd always known that it would be like this. Such was life. Such was power.
Swain considered the options for the main course: ribs, steak or leg of lamb. Why not a bit of each?
Yes, there was a lot on his plate. But it would be all the more satisfying for that.
The game is afoot. Play well.
