“I’m going to the capital to announce at the Council my right to the imperial throne. Irital and I have loved each other for a long time, and neither she nor I are willing to sacrifice our feelings at the whim of a clutch of corrupt clergymen. Once I’m the emperor, I can make her my wife to keep everybody’s honor clean. But it’s better than Irital stays here in Highligland until I get back.”
Aldor’s stomach dropped. Of course, he wanted all the best for his friend and would have given anything to make sure Gregor enjoyed the happiness he so richly deserved, only Gregor’s plan threatened to plunge not just the empire into chaos, but even far-off Highligland. For if Irital decided to decline her destiny, the Latanians would hunt her—the laws governing women with the Mark of Gintare were strict. Defying divine will was a capital offense.
“I don’t even want to hear about that!” Rhinhilda shrieked. She slammed a fist down on the table, forgetting that her chalice was full and sending the ruby liquid curving neatly through the air until it splashed against the wall. “It’s madness, Gregor. You’re not going to get anything at the Council, and you’ll just line everyone in the capital up against you.”
The duke simply shrugged indifferently.
“For a start, I’ll just announce my candidacy. Nothing’s illegal about that, and nobody will trust me.”
“But you’re not going to stop there. You need to become emperor for your plan to work… Oh, god, Gregor, do you even realize the kind of people they are there? Do you know who you’re going to be up against? Just take the Burned Lord—he was Margius’ favorite. Before you have time to open your mouth, he or his allies will eat you alive!”
Rhinhilda’s consternation couldn’t have been more heartfelt. Even Aldor was alarmed. He would never have imagined that his friend could be foolish enough to bet everything he held dear, even for the sake of the most beautiful woman in the world.
“I know the risk, sister. But I made my decision.” Gregor turned icy eyes on Rhinhilda and held out a hand, motioning her to be silent. “I value your love and advice; I’m thankful you stayed with me and came to my aid when father brought me back from the cloister. But Aldor is right—you’re leaving soon, and I have to live on my own. The Keeper as my witness, I didn’t want it to go this far, but you’re forcing my hand.” He stepped over to his sister and placed a hand on her shoulder. “I, Duke of Highligland and Lord of Ellisdor, order you to submit to my will. I will go to Missolen and carry out my plan, and any attempt to impede me will be considered treason.”
“But—”
“And if you find it so unbearable to live with someone just trying to avail himself of the chance fate offered, you can set off for Gatson earlier than planned. The crown prince, I imagine, will be only too happy to see his betrothed.”
Rhinhilda stared silently at her brother, unable to believe her ears. Finally, she pulled her shoulder away from his hand, adjusted her sleeve string, lifted her chin proudly, and looked back up at Gregor.
“As Your Grace wishes,” she replied coldly with a ceremonious bow. “I will leave for Gatson as soon as possible and attempt to find allies there. God only knows, we’ll soon need them.”
“Thank you.”
“Before I leave, would you allow me one last word of advice, Lord Gregor?”
“Of course.”
“Give Highligland an heir before the capital elite grinds you into the dust.”
Her piece said, Rhinhilda grabbed her cloak and left the hall in a hurry. Irital got up from the bench as soon as the door slammed shut behind her.
“Let me talk to her. I’ll try to explain—”
“You’ll be wasting your breath.” Gregor slumped down onto the bench and drained his goblet. “She won’t understand. Rhiny always put duty above everything, possibly because she’s never known love.”
“I’m still going to try.”
Irital stepped hurriedly through the door, finally leaving the two friends alone. Aldor nodded quizzically toward the pitcher; Gregor slid his empty cup closer without a word.
“You were too hard on her,” the steward said. “Rhinhilda didn’t deserve that.”
The duke took a long pull and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“She forced my hand. God, Rhiny is so like mother sometimes! She didn’t love father for a second, though she stuck with him until the very end. Even with the mistress he had. She spent her life focused on her duty, and I don’t think she was happy for a minute.”
“Lady Viviana fulfilled her duty to the empire and Highligland. It’s no wonder she raised her daughter to do the same—Rhinhilda only cares about her homeland, and she’ll do anything to ensure peace here. You, Gregor, take after your father. You have his recklessness.”
“Well, I don’t have a mistress, at least.”
“You’re only twenty-three, with your whole life ahead of you,” Aldor replied. “Seriously, you have me worried. I’m just some guy who happened to go to school with you, but I share Rhinhilda’s opinion. You’re jumping into a very dangerous game.”
“You’re going to start that, too?”
Aldor took a drink of wine before placing his cup down on the table with a hollow thud.
“I know my place,” was his calm response. “I’m the younger son of a baron, and all I have is what you’ve given me. You have my oath of allegiance—I’m here to follow your orders.”
Gregor peered attentively at his friend, his icy stare sending a chill through Aldor. It was a look he’d seen on several occasions back in the Order, when then-Brother Gregor got into fights with his tutors and the elder friars, when he took his punishment for insolence with stubborn tranquility. It was in that moment that Aldor realized the duke had long since made up his mind—he cared more about Irital than he did about his ancestral home, one he was still unused to calling his own. Irital was his dream. Even with just the most elusive chance of making her his own, Gregor Voldhard was not about to rethink his plans no matter the consequences.
“Good,” the duke said stiffly. “Your first order is to prepare for my departure. I will be leaving Ellisdor tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I have to hurry. The sooner I leave for Missolen, the better my chances are of making some useful friends. Maybe there will be someone prepared to support my claim.”
“That’s wise. At least, as much as anything about this whole idea can be wise,” Aldor muttered. “Will there be anything else?”
“As long as Rhinhilda is here, the castle is hers to command. But as soon as she leaves, Ellisdor belongs to you. Prepare the documents for me to sign.”
Aldor was dumbfounded.
“Are you joking?”
“Oh, stop it! There wasn’t anyone at the Order better than you at stewardship. What I need right now is for the castle to be under the watchful eye of someone I trust, and for someone to keep Irital safe. As soon as the crowd in Missolen realizes she’s breaking her oath, they’re going to try to punish or at least get their hands on her.”
“You can only have trusted people taking care of you. And there aren’t many of those.”
“Exactly. Count Urst and his son are still in the Disputed Lands bogged down in all their fights with the Runds. Ekkehard is full of crap—it’s just an accident of birth he’s my cousin, and I wouldn’t trust him with a secret like that for anything. My personal guard is out of the question, too, unless we want the whole world to hear about this. We need someone without a horse in this race. Can you think of anyone like that?”
For the first time that evening, Aldor smiled as he felt some semblance of confidence grow inside him.
“It’s a good thing your family has old debtors outside Ellisdor.”
Chapter 3. The free city Givoi
Why was he there again?
It was a warm night, but Vezzam was thrown from chill to fever and back again. Once again, as he did several times a week, he’d come by to hide in the shadow of the annex. Vezzam himself wasn’t sure
why it was a habit that had already been going on for an entire year. His legs carried him there on their own to watch as Artanna stealthily saddled her horse. Over the years, he’d come to know her habits like the back of his hand: when she headed toward the city on foot, she was on her way to grab some drinks at one of the taverns; when she rode off on horseback in an effort to get away unnoticed, she was going for a romp in the sack with Guiro.
That evening, she was on horseback.
Vezzam pulled his hood down almost to his nose. His hair, already gray the way all mature Vagrans turned, was shaggy and hanging down over his eyes. That was okay though—there wasn’t anything to see right then. About an hour before, Artanna nar Toll, his commander, had flown lightly up the steps of the building in front of him, disappearing behind the iron-fettered doors.
He stood there staring at the window of the well-lit bedroom, on the other side of which, he could hear the cheerful clinking of glasses, Guiro’s baritone, and Artanna’s gruff laughter.
To some extent, Vezzam did understand why he went there every time. Guiro knew how to make her happy, something Vezzam and his doleful demeanor, not to mention his conspicuously absent sense of humor, was unable to do. It was only when she was chatting with the consequential Gatson that Artanna really and truly laughed, turning the clock back to when her precious Lord Rolf was still alive. Vezzam would have given a finger, any finger, to hear that same carefree laugh when she was with him.
Rolf Voldhard had died three years prior, and only Federigo Guido had been able to make Artanna come out of a mourning period she didn’t even have a right to in the first place. For that, Vezzam was appreciative of the viceroy’s aide. He hated him for everything else.
A gaunt, towering Vagran woman with tousled gray hair stepped out of the bedroom onto the balcony. She looked youthful, though Vezzam knew she would be turning fifty the next year. It was that way with their people—they turned gray early, though they lived for a century and a half. Artanna was only wearing a shirt, her bare feet padding across the cold stone. Settling herself on the railing, she pulled out a pipe and set to work packing it full of tobacco.
Right behind Artanna, grabbing a robe as he came, was Federigo Guiro himself. He had dark, curly hair sprinkled with white on the temples, an aristocratic face, and a well-groomed beard trimmed in the Gatson style. While he wasn’t as tall as Artanna, he was still built better than the average person who’d never seen battle and had recently turned fifty. The viceroy’s aide was carrying a small tray of drinks, a miniature candle, and a match to light the pipe.
Vezzam crept through the shadows until he was right under the balcony, in the perfect spot to overhear the conversation.
“The port, Federigo,” Artanna said slowly. “I want the port.”
“Tanor has that.”
“I know, but his fighters have their fingers in everything that’s going on, and Tanor himself pockets a percentage of the bribes. The city is losing a lot of money.”
“Like you’re not going to skim a little,” Guiro said with a grunt as he handed the woman the burning match. Artanna carefully lit her pipe.
“Of course, I’m going to. But my people actually do their jobs—they’ll be able to keep things quiet at the port. And with the fair season coming up…”
“What about just splitting it down the middle? You can have the northern half of the port; Tanor can take the southern half. Sounds fair to me.”
Artanna snorted.
“Yeah, right, so I’ll be up there guarding the crap while Tanor gets the cash cows? No, my dear signor, that will not do.”
The Gatson sighed heavily before draping an arm lovingly over the woman’s shoulders.
“Enough business. You and Tanor have my head spinning between the two of you.”
Artanna let out a perfect circle of smoke and watched it drift upward toward the cloudy and blue-gray sky. The crescent moon cast its rays over the gabled peaks of the trading district, threatening shadows of towers and weathercocks stretching across the houses. Only the enormous silver disk atop the sanctuary in the square shone like a lighthouse amid the darkness.
“The viceroy himself wanted to sign contracts with two mercenary groups,” the Vagran woman said. “My Hundred does better work, it’s just that there aren’t enough of us to cover all of Givoi. On the other hand, Tanor’s Brotherhood is exactly the kind of fodder you want the arrows hitting if something goes south. Signor Kirino knew what he was signing up for. Givoi is a free city, something’s always going on, and competing mercenaries just add color. But that happens everywhere there are people like us.”
Vezzam’s legs were falling asleep. He tried to stretch them, but in the process stepped on a dry twig. It snapped; he froze.
Happily, the commander was focused on more important things. Artanna nar Toll turned her face toward the city and let one leg dangle. Guiro set two glasses of wine down on the stone ledge and leaned his elbows on the railing.
“Hey, have you ever thought about giving up the mercenary life?” he asked thoughtfully.
“Why?”
“Wouldn’t you like a quieter life?”
The Vagran woman laughed hoarsely.
“Signor Guiro doesn’t get that for Artanna nar Toll, this rat race is a quiet life! Signor Guiro has never been farther north than Ellisdor, never taken on the Runds, and never been taken captive by them. Signor Guido just doesn’t have anything to compare this with.” She chuckled. “No, my dear Federigo, I enjoy my life. My job, my estate, the mercenary contract, and a hundred well-trained cutthroats. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything as quiet as this past year.”
Carried away by her thoughts, Artanna didn’t notice Guiro’s hand creep toward the folds of his robe. She couldn’t have seen his fingers encircle a piece of cold metal in his pocket. Of course, neither could Vezzam, frozen as he was in tense silence right under the balcony.
Sweat broke out on Guiro’s brow. He was nervous, his shaking fingers gripping what he thought would free Artanna from all her worldly cares. The Gatson eased closer to the woman, her scar-covered legs swinging over the railing, and slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket.
She didn’t even turn. Not so much as an eyebrow was raised when he got to her; to the contrary, she just pressed her back against his chest.
“Turn around, Artanna,” he said in a strange voice. “I want to see your face.”
The mercenary woman grunted, slipped her legs easily over the balcony railing, and turned around to gaze deeply into Guiro’s eyes. It took a special person to appreciate Vagran looks, but their women knew what they were doing. The gray hair framing the slowly aging and still-young face, the slanted gray eyes, the facial features practically chiseled out of bone, all of it was repellent until the moment it sucked you in. At least, that was the case until Artanna opened her mouth.
“What’s that crap, Guiro?” she hissed indignantly, staring at his hands.
The viceroy’s aide froze for a second as he did battle with his emotions.
“A ring with a diamond mined in the Shungar Mountains,” Guido replied steadily, pulling back the cloth the piece of jewelry was resting on. The gem was as large as one of Artanna’s nails. “The Tears of Luweyn—that’s what these stones are called.”
“Pink, yes? Are you kidding me?” the mercenary burst out as she looked mockingly at the Gatson.
“I’m tired of all of this. We’ve been sleeping together for a year; we get along great. And I’m tired of watching you torn between your brigade and me. Let’s make it legitimate. You’ll be a signora, you’ll join the city council, and you can start doing something aboveboard. Obviously, you’ll outlive me, but that’s fine—you’ll be a respected widow. With me, you’ll have money, and I’ll make sure you have a good life as well as the children we can still have if we hurry.”
Vezzam was numb. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Something crushed down on his chest, he suddenly felt like vomiting, and it felt like he w
as at the end of his rope. Wobbling, he grasped the wall to keep from falling. Guiro’s words pounded over and over in his head.
The mercenary woman took her time before replying. Vezzam strained his ears in the darkness.
Finally, Artanna took her glass and emptied it in one gulp.
“Children, Guiro… We have a problem there.”
“It’s too late for you?”
“After my imprisonment… They did all kinds of things to me there. My healer doesn’t think I can have children after my adventures in Rundkar, and even if I get pregnant, I might not be strong enough to carry it through,” came the gloomy reply. “And really, I don’t think I’m a good match for a person as respected as you.”
“I don’t mind a childless marriage.” Guido sat down on the carved bench and started filling his pipe with tobacco. “At the end of the day, I have three sons from Luchia, the Keeper rest her soul. If that’s the only thing holding you back, you don’t have any reason to worry.”
“But what’s the point, Federigo?” Artanna stared at him dubiously. “Things are great as it is.”
The viceroy’s aide smiled.
“I knew you’d say that. It’s not just that I’d like to see you more often, although, let’s be honest, I certainly would. But even more than that, I know you break the law on a fairly regular basis. Stop looking at me like that—you’re not going to turn me into stone. Of course, I know, otherwise, what kind of viceroy’s aide would I be? And at the beginning, your tricks really bothered me. But then, I found out that you don’t get anything out of all of that. You set up your little showdowns, you run your little kangaroo courts, and you pocket everything left lying around, though none of it is for you. Have you never wondered why you have yet to get caught?”
Artanna shrugged, her eyes on the ring lying on the bench by Guiro.
“I usually just count on my brains and good luck. But that’s not all I have going for me, I guess?”
Dancing on the Block Page 3
