“You’re in,” the Vagran said hoarsely. “But I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Yes, I’m a sight for sore eyes, aren’t I?”
“While I was falling off the balcony, I realized I missed you already,” the Vagran relied, though she quickly turned serious. “You’ll sign the contract tomorrow. And remember, from now on, my enemies are your enemies, Copper.”
“Easy, Commander! Why Copper?”
“Have you seen yourself in the mirror?”
The Ennian chuckled shortly. Artanna picked herself up and signaled her troops to head back to the manor, though she didn’t even have time to button her cloak when a noise broke out behind her. As onlookers scattered, a rider pounded up on a pureblooded chestnut Belterian stallion, a popular horse among couriers serving the elite. Artanna took one glance at the crest sewed into the rider’s cloak and knew exactly who his master was.
“Shit,” was all she said as she watched the young man hurry over.
“Who is that?” Shrain asked, walking over.
“That, Baby, is a problem. The untimeliest of all possible problems.”
The rider came up to them and addressed the crowd.
“Where can I find Artanna nar Toll?”
She stepped forward. “Here I am. Tell me what I have to do.”
“In the name of Gregor Voldhard, Duke of Highligland, son of Rolf Voldhard, you, Artanna of House Toll, have been summoned for your service.” He unrolled a small scroll and glanced over it. “Eight years ago, you were found guilty of treason and were to be executed by order of the ducal court.”
“Well, it wasn’t quite like that…”
“Silence! Your sentence was substituted for exile in exchange for your pledge to come to the aid of any of the Voldhards at their first call. Gregor Voldhard has sent for you to come at once along with all your available people, and I am to accompany you to Ellisdor.”
“I thought he forgot about you,” Shrain said. “Any way you can say no?”
Artanna shook her head.
“Nope. I gave an oath. And I warned all of our troops that this might happen one day.”
The problem was that she couldn’t have picked a worse time to leave the city.
Chapter 21. Ellisdor
“Would you care to explain what happened to her?”
The windowpanes shook under Gregor’s wrath. Aldor cringed as his friend stared icy death at him—just as he’d expected, news about the attempt on the ambassador’s life had reached the duke’s ears when he got to Gorf. Worse, rumor had embellished the story with a number of extraneous details, even as the truth of the matter was bad enough for Gregor. Aldor took the brunt of young Voldhard’s explosive temper as was usually the case, having sent away the other witnesses to the event ahead of time.
The silence hung thick in the castle Shrine.
“What happened to Irital?” Gregor asked again.
The baron looked steadily at the duke.
“There was an attempt made to kill the ambassador and me. Whoever did it waited for the moment when we were dining together.”
“So, why didn’t anything happen to you?” Gregor barked, throwing caution to the winds and hurling his friend against a wall. A nearby nun jumped at the sound of the yelling, threw a handful of small candles right at the feet of the statue of Gillenai, and hurried away.
“Completely by accident,” the baron replied with a pained grimace. “They changed out my food at the last moment.”
“I put you in charge of her! I trusted you!”
“Are you sending me to the executioner right now or would you like me to finish the story?” Aldor sighed. Sometimes, unmitigated gall was all that would bring his friend to his senses.
A reasonable expression returned to Gregor’s face. He let the baron go.
“I’m sorry. I should have been ready for something like this to happen. Curses! What was I thinking? Have you been able to figure anything out about who might have done it?”
Aldor breathed out noisily and held his breath. A dull pain was shooting through his back.
“There isn’t much to say. The second poisoned dish, the one I was supposed to eat, killed two refugee boys. The cook gave it to them out of the goodness of his heart.”
Voldhard turned and stared at the narrow stained-glass window.
“Curses, Aldor… They could have killed me, could have done it at any moment in Missolen. You and Rhinhilda tried to warn Irital and me, but I wouldn’t listen, and she was the one to suffer. I was too careless. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s just strange that it happened so quickly,” Aldor said. “When we were attacked, you were probably halfway home, so somebody knew Irital was here. And they knew how much you care about her. It was a warning, Gregor.”
“They could have outpaced us. Any Gatson or Ennian ship would run circles around our fastest tub. Everyone knows our Highligland sailors are terrible, and the spy could’ve already been in the castle. He may have just been waiting for the signal to act.”
The baron went over to the altar and lit a slender candle.
“I was able to learn something. The poison they used to try to kill the ambassador and me is called Drinna’s Blessing, and it’s Ennian.”
Gregor tensed and slowly turned to look at his friend.
“Are you sure?”
“Most likely. There aren’t any other options.”
Aldor carefully placed his candle in a low candleholder at the foot of the statue and made the divine sign over himself. The duke’s eyes darkened; his jaw tightened.
“My cousin Demos is half-Ennian,” he said. “His mother is from an ancient family with a lot of influence in their magistrate.”
“I already thought about the Flavieses,” Aldor replied with a thoughtful nod. “But that’s strange. The Burned Lord is said to be a skilled politician, so I wouldn’t think he’d pull a dirty trick like that.”
“Maybe he just didn’t need to be delicate this time?”
The baron sighed and lowered himself onto a bench.
“Even so, it’s hard to believe. Why would Demos want to get rid of me and Lady Irital? With all due respect, we’re not a threat to him; you are. If that were the case, he would have come after you, which makes this look more like a provocation. Maybe someone wants to push the two of you apart. But why?”
Gregor paced the room nervously, glancing at the altar as he did.
“I’m not sure, my friend. I’m not sure. Guessing already has me worked up,” he replied, finally coming to rest on the bench next to the baron. “This trip really did me in. Curse me, Aldor, but I’ve had to go up against a crowd of savage Runds, and I survived. I was tortured with fire and beaten, and I survived. After everything that happened in the Order, I’d think I wouldn’t be afraid of anything, but Missolen was worse than a horde of barbarians. I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”
The baron shrugged, his eyes still on the statue in front of the altar.
“You’re used to honest battles with simple weapons. No wonder politics knocked you for a loop. But if you want my opinion, I think you’re off to a good start—you came back alive.” Aldor ran his fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his head. “And hey, you had every right to do that to me. I should have called for help right away, the way you said, even if I don’t think Artanna could have saved us from the poison.”
“You have everyone who had access to the food?”
“Of course. But I’d still rather leave the interrogations to a professional, and we don’t have any of those.”
“In that case, find me a good torturer, the kind that can stay on someone who’s guilty for days.”
“I’m in the process.” The baron unhooked the massive ring of keys on his belt and held it out to Voldhard. “Here, I don’t need these anymore.”
The duke shook his head.
“Keep them. You did good work managing the castle, and you’re the most responsible person I know. I want you to st
ay close to me. And that’s especially true right now, with the Runds breathing down our necks, and the imperial elite playing their dirty tricks.”
“You finally figured out that I’m a terrible fighter and gave me something to do that I’m good at?” Aldor asked with a smile.
“This is a challenge, and I need to understand how best to use the talents of the people around me. There’s only one person I can trust to manage Ellisdor, and I trust him completely. You, Archchancellor Aldor den Grauer. From now on, that’s your title. Tomorrow, you’ll get a great seal and take up your new chambers—I want you to be my eyes and ears. Gather information no matter the cost, cover my back, and protect my weaknesses. You know me better than anyone in the castle, so you’re more than capable of carrying that load.”
The baron said nothing for a few seconds, not believing his own ears.
“Not everyone is going to like the news,” he said when he finally mastered his emotions.
“What does that matter?”
“But I’m just…”
“A landless baron? I’ll make you a count if that will help you feel more confident in yourself. You swore fealty to me, you’ve done your duty beautifully, and you’ve never asked for anything in return. But I do always remember everything you’ve done for me, and I know how to show appreciation.”
Aldor shook his head, still not believing his friend’s decision.
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep my title,” he said, eyes dropping in embarrassment. “My appointment will cause some…consternation as it is.”
“As you wish,” replied Voldhard as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Archchancellor. And now, take me to Irital.”
***
Brother Aristid kept his vigil at the head of the ambassador’s bed. The monk’s long, greasy hair was combed smoothly back and gathered in a ponytail, while the skirt of his once-white robe was stained with dirt from the road. One hand worked its way down a long string of beads; the other held a book open. Seeing the visitors step in, the monk pulled himself away from his prayers and smiled amiably.
“Allow me to introduce Brother Aristid to you, Your Grace,” Aldor announced ceremoniously. “We are in his debt for saving Lady Irital’s life.”
The monk put his book aside and stood up to greet the duke.
“I am immensely happy to meet you, Your Grace,” he said with a bow. “May you be blessed by the Keeper.”
The duke looked around, paused for a second when he caught a glimpse of his beloved’s golden hair lying on the pillow, and replied to Aristid.
“I cannot find words to express my gratitude. If there’s anything I can do for you, simply ask. Gold, an offering for the temple, whatever you would like…”
“I’ve already spent many years following the path of poverty, Your Grace,” the monk replied as he fingered the silver disk hanging around his neck. “Nothing gives me more pleasure than to help the suffering, for that is what Gillenai has for us to do. Allow me to stay near this woman, and nobody will touch her life. I will be at ease if I can watch over her.”
“Of course,” Gregor nodded. “Still, I am in your debt.”
“In that case, give your praise to the Keeper and pray to him with all your heart. I need nothing. Good deeds are not done in search of payment—that is a step in the Way we should all be following.” The monk spread his arms, and the metal balls in his rosary clacked together.
Gregor turned to look at Irital as she slept.
“Will she regain consciousness soon?”
Brother Aristid shrugged.
“It’s difficult to say. She could wake up tomorrow, or it could be in a few days. The only way she’ll recover completely is if she has absolute peace and quiet, though that day is, in fact, imminent. Her Grace’s breathing is regular, her heartbeat is mild, and her color is starting to return. By the grace of the Keeper, she will rejoin us.”
“I hope so,” Aldor said quietly.
The monk closed his eyes and picked his book back up.
“It’s time for the afternoon prayers. I will pray for Your Grace’s health.”
Chapter 22. Missolen
“Good morning, Your Grace.” Lahel touched Demos’ shoulder gently.
With one quick motion, Ihraz threw open the heavy drapes, flooding the treasurer’s chambers with bright, pitiless light. Demos groaned.
“Curses! I asked you not to do that!”
“Forgive me, Master, but yesterday you asked us to wake you up early. Breakfast is ready, too.”
“If my head splits into pieces, food won’t really help.”
“A migraine again?”
“Yes,” Devaton wheezed as he crumpled back onto the bed. “You know what to do.”
Ihraz propped his master’s head up with a few pillows while Lahel pulled a tin box full of medicine out of an enormous oaken cabinet. The only thing that helped Demos with his headaches was an Ennian potion that cost a small fortune—it was worth it, however. The prayers of the masters, no matter how hard they tried, did nothing for his head.
“How strong is the pain today?” Lahel asked.
“I wish I were dead.”
“Ten drops, in that case.”
The Ennian woman poured some water into a glass, pulled out a dropper, and measured out the medicine with a practiced eye. Devaton took the mixture from her with shaking hands and downed it.
“Not too much?” he asked with a grimace. “What do they make that poison out of?”
“A secret recipe from your Uncle Esmius’ personal apothecary.” Lahel placed the empty glass on the table and helped her brother ease Demos back onto the bed. “At least, Lady Eltinia swears that’s the truth.”
“Thanks,” the treasurer said, closing his eyes and trying to relax. “What would I do without you?”
Ihraz covered his master with a thin blanket and got to work cleaning up with Lahel.
The medicine did the trick. Demos started to shake, his limbs went numb, and it felt like a lead plate was crushing his chest. Groaning intermittently, he gulped air until suddenly a calm came over him. The duke’s mouth opened to let a trickle of drool down his scorched chin.
“Maybe less would have been better?” Ihraz glanced at his sister, who was gathering papers carefully. “I hate to see him like this.”
“He’ll be fine,” Lahel replied, her eyes fixed on Demos even as she fiddled with some scrolls. “The potion helps, at least.”
“Sure, but—”
“There’s nothing else we can do,” his sister cut in. “Oh, his breakfast is cold.”
Ihraz nodded and picked up the tray. “I’ll heat it up.”
Demos could differentiate between migraines and a dozen other kinds of cranial pain. It started with a light buzzing in his head, gradually intensifying and concentrating in one half of his skull. A little while later, the buzzing turned into pain. Looking at the light became unbearable, strong smells turned his stomach, and the littlest movement sent spasms through him. He couldn’t even think when he was having an attack. The migraines sometimes lasted for days, sapping his strength and turning him into a helpless cripple, and that was happening practically every day of late. The older he got, the more often it happened.
The pain was receding, marking one more temporary victory. Demos opened his eyes. Lahel was sitting at the head of his bed with a pitcher of water at the ready.
“Thirsty?”
“Absolutely,” the treasurer croaked with an attempt at a smile. “I’m parched.”
A few swallows later, he was feeling better. Life once more seemed colorful and appealing, even if the weakness still hadn’t left him.
“You’re beautiful, Lahel.”
“Thank you, Master,” the woman smiled sheepishly. “Should I visit you…well…this evening?”
Devaton choked.
“No, by the Keeper! You don’t have to.”
It looked like an embarrassed flush passed briefly over Lahel’s face, t
hough it was hard to tell with her dark skin.
That cursed Ennian indoctrination. The slightest hint, and slaves jump to please you. But I’m a decent person, unlike what people say, and you should know that better than anyone.
“Thank you for the offer, but better not,” Demos whispered. “I’m not in the mood.”
The girl nodded and smiled stiffly.
I saw something in her eyes. Regret? No, probably, relief. I’ll be honest with myself.
Demos put the thought of Lahel out of his mind. Of course, he wanted her to stay—anyone else would have taken advantage of the situation.
But I need a true friend and bodyguard more than I need a lover.
“I’ll admit, sometimes it bothers me. Working in my service means you don’t get to have a normal life, but I’m going to free you and Ihraz when everything calms down. I’m just afraid that won’t be soon.”
Lahel placed a dark hand on Devaton’s shoulder.
“Don’t do that, Master. You didn’t brand my brother and me, but you’ve given us a good place to work. It’s almost like freedom. We don’t want anything else.”
Freedom, sure. Neither you nor, really, I can call ourselves free. But that’s your choice. Sometimes, I think I need my faithful Ennians much more than they need me.
“If that’s really the case, I’m glad.” Demos tried to get up from the bed, but he settled back down when he felt the weakness in his legs. “I’m very sorry, but I need to ask you to help me get dressed.”
“Of course.” The bodyguard smiled and pulled her master up without the slightest effort. “The water in the washbasin is still hot, and I have your clothes ready. Ihraz is warming your breakfast up.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Mother could never have imagined what she did for me when she gave me you two. She probably thought you’d be a frivolous change of pace in the ducal boudoir, a southern exotic the way the free Ennians like it. But that craze is long since gone, and you’re still here. And I’ll be doubly cursed before I lose the pair of you.
***
“Give the cook a few extra silver coins. The fish pies with the greens were wonderful.” Demos finished his breakfast and sat back in his chair with relish. The weakness was gone for the time being, and Ihraz was pouring water into a tall glass. “Fish pies. Who would have thought of something like that?”
Dancing on the Block Page 17
