Chapter 775: Soft power
The story went in circles, chasing its own tail like a half-starved cur.
Prince Nibadur of Habadia set the letter down, the way one might place a dead rat on a clean table, with a lot of distaste.
One might expect irritation after reading such news, perhaps even outrage. But no,he felt better than that. A quiet certainty had taken root in him.
It is now perfectly clear, he thought, that I could find more success teaching a drunk ape to dance than expecting any of these mongrels to stand as a true challenge to that man.
Not that he was without vexations of his own. The coin he had poured into this venture, golden and silver rivers sent to fill empty hands, was now wasted, evaporated in the heat of another’s incompetence.
This was the second time his investments returned nothing but empty air.
Gods! The man killed his father, and he freezes up at the slightest danger.
He would have killed his son, if he grew up limp as that one.
But what was he to do about it? Shout at the clouds? Shake his fist at a storm? The peasant may curse the tornado that tears away his roof, but he will not see the wind punished.
The difference here, however, was that Nibadur’s problem was no act of nature. And men, unlike storms, could be hunted.
“Just a man,” he muttered under his breath, “A cat among mongrels.”
His gaze slid to the side, settling on the only man in the room he trusted enough to be a shadow in his plans. “How are our proceedings? Any breakthrough?”
The man that Nibadur relied since he took the throne , Zayneth, stood straight but could not keep the flicker of shame from his eyes. He gave a small shake of his head. “Unfortunately not, Your Grace. They are still more than willing to court us with warm words and gifts… but they will not grant us safe passage through their lands.”
Nibadur leaned back, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Unfortunate, yes… though hardly surprising. Show me a ruler who will cheerfully invite a foreign army to march through his lands and I will show you a madman with a taste for his own ruin. Still… I had hoped, you never know truly the depth of human foolishness… sometimes human behaviour flies away from its reason.”
He reached for the wine on the table but did not pour, letting the silence breathe before continuing. “Bribes, trinkets, promises. Even the news of Herculia’s fall… I thought that would shake a few into my plan . I see now my hopes were placed in the wrong hands. Or perhaps,” his mouth curled faintly, “in the wrong pockets.”
Since the fall of Herculia, Prince Nibadur had exhausted every lever of persuasion at his disposal to coax, bribe, or pressure his neighbors between Hashandeia and Oizen into granting him safe passage, passage for his army and supplies.
Not one had yielded.
And in truth, he could not entirely fault them. It was one thing to exchange pleasantries, to send tokens of goodwill, to offer the hollow gestures of “friendship” that cost nothing but ink and couriers. It was quite another to throw open one’s gates and allow a foreign host,armed and provisioned, to march across one’s soil.
It would be the act of an idiot.
A sovereign who allowed an army to pass unchecked risked seeing that same army abandon its stated destination and instead turn its appetite upon the very land that had welcomed it. Today’s guest could be tomorrow’s conqueror.
One wrong turn and you might find your granaries emptied, your castles under siege, your people enslaved, and your enemies raising their banners over your own cities.
There was also the question of face. Even if the passing army behaved like monks, the ruler who permitted it would look weak, beholden, incapable of safeguarding his borders. Such an image could be as deadly as any blade.
In truth, there were only two circumstances in which a realm would permit another’s army to cross its lands: when the two states were bound in genuine alliance and the host was answering a call for aid, or when one was so thoroughly the subordinate of the other that refusal was unthinkable. Not necessarily as a formal vassal paying tribute, but as a lesser power inside the greater’s sphere of influence—a “younger brother” whose every diplomatic breath was drawn in the rhythm of the elder’s will.
Such was the case with the Princedom of Ezvania. Gods knew, Nibadur had spent years worming his fingers into its court, sowing favors, debts, and quiet threats until he had bound enough of its nobility to his cause. The final knot had been tied when he forced the Ezvanian prince to marry his daughter, a wedding dress concealing the iron chain of political servitude.
And he had no choice but to respect the fragile balance; if war came, Ezvania would face both a civil war and a foreign invasion.
Still, a “big brother” could not afford to be reckless. It was one thing to have Ezvania send troops under the guise of alliance, quite another to push them past their breaking point. Demanding tribute, for instance, would strain the bond to snapping, every younger brother has a limit to how far he can be pulled before he bares his teeth.
Nibadur had hoped Yarzat’s rise would ignite deep anxiety among the neighboring states. It had,just not to the degree he needed. And Habadia was hardly a realm of saints to begin with.
Nor did Nibadur’s own past inspire generosity. His reign had been carved out through expansion at the expense of others, and now those very conquests had come back to bite him hard in the ass.
The rewards of his past triumphs had turned to ash, and the roads he wished to march lay barred by the ghosts of his own making.
Still, just because this was the state of things now did not mean it would remain so forever.History had no shortage of examples, France, for instance, had been shackled for nearly a century beneath the weight of its post-Napoleonic infamy.
Of course, that had required a crisis and a failed war against Prussia that caused it to nearly become communist…. but that was beside the point.
The truth was simple: the only constants in the world were interests. Friendships, rivalries, grudges, these were but the colors on a banner that time would bleach and repaint as the winds of gain demanded.
Slights could be forgiven, rivalries buried, but such things rarely withered away on their own. They needed careful pruning, the deliberate effort of those who stood to profit from reconciliation.
“Perhaps it was naïve of us to think that would work,” Nibadur admitted at last, his fingers drumming idly on the armrest where he sat. The words were calm, but there was a myriad of thought behind it, “I am certain that whatever caution or suspicion they nurse toward the Peasant Prince is at least equal to what they feel for me…” He allowed himself a faint, humorless smile.
Zayneth, ever eager to ease his sovereign’s pride without coddling it, leaned forward slightly. “With respect, Your Grace, I believe the urgency they feel toward us is greater still. After all, between them and Yarzat, there is still Oizen, they do not feel the effect of the Peasant Prince present yet….”
Nibadur’s gaze shifted to him, dark and sharp. “Still Oizen has just suffered a heavy loss and is, as we speak, having its cities besieged.”
“Yes,” Zayneth conceded smoothly, “but it still stands. And so long as it does, we are the more immediate danger in their eyes. To them, Yarzat is a storm on the far horizon. You, Your Grace… you are already at their gates. Unfortunately, that makes us the more threatening presence.”
Nibadur leaned back, his expression unreadable. The reasoning was sound, irritatingly so.
Could the man never bring him good news?
He let the thought turn over in his mind like a whetstone in his palm. Oizen did still stand, battered and gasping though it was. And perhaps… if it fell…
He pushed the notion away almost instantly.
No, Oizen could not be allowed to collapse. If Alpheo swallowed that kingdom whole, his lands and resources would rival Nibadur’s own, and the balance would tilt in a way that could not be undone. Worse, Nibadur had already seen enough of the man to know what he could do with such strength.
No, Oizen had to remain upright, bloodied, yes, weakened, certainly, but standing. A bulwark to drain Alpheo’s strength, to sap his momentum before he could turn his gaze eastward.
Not, of course, that Sorza made this easy.
The name tasted bitter in his mouth. The debacle at Apurvio still stung like a fresh burn, but Nibadur had never been one to wallow over spilled wine. There was no profit in mourning a failure when the next move was already pressing for attention.
He had failed to stop the flood. But that did not mean he could not contain it, divert it, and leave the Peasant Prince’s ambitions mired in the mud.
route
Perhaps if the direct route was not open, it was time to take the path through the mountain.
It was time to use some softer power than that of steel.