“Canedans.”
“Yet another reason to visit. They look strange, but they’re delicious.”
“I’ll pass on your thanks.” Lahel pulled a few coins out of a chest and slipped them into the pocket of her wide pants.
The more generous Demos was with the palace cook, the looser the latter was with his tongue. And that was helpful.
Ihraz collected the dishes and addressed his master.
“You’ve had a visitor waiting since early this morning. He’s still here.”
“Who?”
“Brother Lasius from the Collegium. He says he has a message from the great master for your ears only.”
“Did he mention what it’s about?”
“No, the monk didn’t share. I let him know you weren’t feeling well, but that didn’t stop him. He’s still downstairs somewhere.”
“How stubborn,” Demos sighed. “You can’t turn the great master down, though. I’ll have to start feeling better quickly and go for a walk.”
He was feeling strong enough to move around on his own, if not without his cane.
I’m almost thirty-five, and I’m already falling to pieces. The older I get, the worse it is. Something’s eating at me from the inside, and I don’t know why.
After leaving the closed part of the palace, Demos crossed the noisy atrium. Life in the inner courtyard was bustling once again, having paused only ever so briefly when the emperor died. Just like before, noblewomen strolled along the narrow alleys between fruit trees. Noble girls twittered gleefully, their voices cascading with the crystalline sound of water in a fountain. The shady corners saw deals being made and negotiations being held; curt orders were given in the galleries by the palace guard. It was as if there had never been a mourning period. Someone, perhaps a young nobleman in love, was even reciting modern retellings of verses written by the poets of the Ancient Empire.
Wimp. Gadaris only sounds good in the original. It’s sacrilegious trying to conquer the hearts of women with such pretention and tastelessness. It disgusts me to watch, not to mention listen.
Still, the young seducer had, in fact, picked up an entire gaggle of admirers, and he was continuing his enthusiastic recitations. Regardless of the many tears shed on the square by Eclusum when goodbyes were being said to the emperor, in a word, his parting had not changed courtier life in the least.
Honestly, what’s the point in grieving? When the tragedy doesn’t affect you personally, memory becomes phenomenally short. That’s probably the only unwritten rule of the palace that is scrupulously followed in all times and ages.
Sitting on a marble bench in the shade of some orange trees, there was a man wearing bright silk. He even had a peacock feather stuck in his cap. When he saw Devaton coming over, he jumped up.
“Could I have a few moments of your time, Your Grace?” he asked courteously.
“Ambassador Ruchi?” Demos recognized the court regular and pulled his burned face into an amiable smile. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Enrige the Gatson sent me his most dodgy freeloader. And he’s alone, too, without all his attendants. Why? Smile, Demos. Smile.
“I was sent to ask a small favor. Of course, I am but the dirt on your feet, unworthy of attention, but my sovereign—”
Demos stopped the Gatson flatterer with a gesture—the trickle of ornate phrases threatened to turn into a roaring river.
“Please, my friend, without the formalities. How can I be of service to His Majesty?”
“My sovereign would be happy to speak with you in private and alone before he leaves for home.”
I can’t ignore Enrige. What is that Gatson rascal up to?
“Unfortunately, I can’t visit His Majesty today,” Demos replied, leaning harder on his cane and doing his best to avoid grimacing from the pain. “However, I would be happy to invite him to walk with me tomorrow in the imperial gardens if he insists on a confidential conversation.”
“For a friend, my master would do far more than delay his departure. I’ll pass your invitation on to him. Goodbye, Your Grace,” Ruchi said with a deep bow. He turned toward the gate, the long feather in his luxurious hat bobbing as he went. It made him look even more silly.
A friend, sure. Only Arzimat knows what Enrige is looking for this time, though Ladarius is the priority right now. The great master doesn’t send his people over for no reason.
“I hope Brother Lasius isn’t here to accuse me of heresy,” Demos said aloud as he watched the Gatson ambassador go.
Although, he has plenty of reasons to do so.
Chapter 23. Ellisdor
The majestic Ellisdor towers loomed over the city in the rays of the setting sun. Set on a hill, the castle was a dark hulk against the orange-gray sky, its ramparts casting blind eyes on travelers. The city gates were left open, though the guards were already rushing the locals through with curt shouts. Wealthy citizens, ragged refugees, riders, and those on foot—everyone was in a hurry to shut out the cold night on the other side of the capital’s walls.
Jert looked the commander over furtively. Artanna was sitting so upright in her saddle that it looked like she’d swallowed a spear. Her gloved hands gripped the reins tightly, and Jert knew her thin brown skin hid broken knuckles, reminders of her fight with Tanor. The mercenary woman was nervous even if she did her best not to show it. Her head was held high, and her hair waved in the light breeze. Artanna didn’t smile. Instead, her eyes were focused straight ahead of her.
“Something wrong, Commander?” the Ennian asked.
“What?”
“You look like you’re riding to your death.”
“Who knows, Copper? Who knows…”
“Not friends with the duke?”
“Not exactly.” Her slender lips curled into a crooked smirk. “The Voldhards and I have a complicated relationship going back a ways, but I’m not in the mood to talk about it. If you want to know, ask somebody else. They’ll tell you more than you could ask for.”
“Color me intrigued.”
The Vagran didn’t reply, instead, pulling her hood down to her eyes and pushing her horse into a trot. Jert watched her go for a few seconds before turning his horse toward Belingtor.
Artanna was on edge. She hated Ellisdor just as strongly as she was bound to it, the cold and unwelcoming Highligland capital the center around which all her misfortunes and gloomy memories circled. And she was about to dive right into all of it.
To that day, Artanna didn’t know why House Toll had fallen into disgrace in Vag Ran, though discretion had kept her from digging into the past. It wasn’t her fight even if she was its victim. But Rolf had started a different fight. He’d married Lady Viviana and done his conjugal duty as a Voldhard, though the rest of the time he preferred to share with Artanna. He didn’t hide that preference, either. And with Rolf’s death, everything Artanna cared about in Highligland also died, though the oath she’d made to the duke before leaving for Givoi still bound her.
And why had she made the promise? Because she was sure Gregor would never contact her after what she’d been responsible for? To ease Rolf’s suffering after the loss of his firstborn? To soothe her own conscience? Or was it because she was so desperate to live? Whatever the reason, it no longer mattered. Gregor had summoned Artanna, and it was time for her to do her duty.
Two squads of guardsmen stepped out to meet the mercenaries. After exchanging formal greetings, they crossed the bridge together and found themselves in the castle courtyard. The Ellisdorian warriors commanded respect. They were all wearing quality chainmail, they were armed with swords and axes, and they had helmets on their heads and shields on their backs that were polished to a shine.
“Nice equipment,” Shrain said with an approving nod. “Just like in the good old days, no?”
“There’s no point fighting the Runds with a bad weapon,” Artanna replied hoarsely. Her mouth was dry, her stomach cramping with hunger.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes!” she snapped. “Leave me alone.”
The giant faltered.
“Well, last time, you weren’t here under the best of circumstances…”
“And you think reminding me of that will cheer me up?”
“You’re snapping at me, so you’re definitely worried,” the Third muttered. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“Everything here is a reminder, Baby. Don’t put that all on yourself.”
“Someone has to,” Shrain replied with a crooked smile as he scratched his shaved head. “The mercenary life is too short to live in the past.”
Artanna snorted.
“Screw me, you’re no mercenary; you’re a philosopher! Stop it and get to work.”
They were in a hurry. The grooms led the horses away, the servants helping unload them. Two women wearing aprons dragged an enormous sack of oats over. Artanna nodded silently to the servant who took her horse, herself walking off toward the manor house.
Gregor was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs with a radiant smile on his face. It was one he’d gotten from his father. But Rolf had had the surprising ability to trade his good mood in for unfettered rage at the drop of a hat, something that had kept the entire Highligland court on edge. After taking one look at the young duke, Artanna couldn’t help but ask herself if he’d inherited that dangerous trait.
A copy of his father, Gregor had changed, though his hair was much darker as a result of his imperial blood. But everything else about him couldn’t have been more similar: the same blue eyes, the same powerful build, the same oafish lack of delicacy. And it hurt how much she loved that determination.
Artanna stepped closer and bowed airily.
“Your Grace.”
The duke’s smile spread still wider.
“Lady Artanna nar Toll.”
“Let’s skip the title,” the Hundred leader replied coldly.
“It’s not for us to decide who we are. You have the right to the name you were born with.”
“And I’d prefer not to exercise that privilege in Highligland. Especially after everything… Just please, do me a favor.”
“Up to you,” Gregor replied. “You got here quickly. Aldor wasn’t expecting the Hundred for another few days.”
Artanna shrugged.
“We got lucky—the shit on the roads was dry.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.” Voldhard looked at the Vagran gleefully and scooped her up in an embrace. “Exactly the same as eight years ago.”
The Hundred leader’s laugh was constrained as she tried to wiggle free of her former student’s powerful arms.
“Flatterer! Throwing compliments around like that…” she grumbled and then touched her hair. “I do have more gray, and you’ve changed, too—let’s be honest. Those shoulders are wider. Can you still fit through doors?”
“I make it around, somehow. And you still curse like a stevedore.”
“I humbly beg you to forgive me, Your Grace,” came the reply, the mercenary’s hands clasped over her chest. “The people I’m forced to spend time with don’t let me speak cleanly.”
Gregor laughed and gripped Artanna even tighter.
“I miss you all the time. When you stopped visiting me at the Order, I wasn’t sure what happened. The battle, the imprisonment, you left… Father told me everything.”
“Everything?” The Vagran turned around, hiding her eyes.
“At least, I know why you left Ellisdor.”
“Speaking of reasons, how is your mother?”
“In Agaran, spends all her time in prayer. We rarely talk.”
“Maybe that’s the best place for her. Lady Viviana has enough sin on her back to spend the rest of her life in front of an altar.”
The duke’s smile disappeared.
“I’m sorry it turned out that way,” he said quietly. “There was nothing I could do back then. But I missed you and father, and often needed your advice. Especially when it came time to remove the robes.”
Artanna stared at the duke with interest.
“Then, why didn’t you ask for it? One letter, and I would’ve come. And you didn’t need to use the old oath to get me here.”
“I didn’t want to bother you. Instead, I decided to learn how to act on my own—imagine a ruler who can’t take a single step without his advisers.”
The Hundred leader shrugged. “That makes sense. But why did you ask me to come now? Did something happen?”
Gregor threw back his head and looked up at the stained-glass windows that marked Irital’s chambers.
“I made a big mistake, and the woman I love had to pay for it. She needs to be guarded day and night. I need spies, too. As far as you personally are concerned, I could use someone I trust. My father trusted you, which means I can, as well. Keep your eyes and ears open, sit in on my meetings, and tell me what you think of what you hear.”
“So, protection, intelligence, advice?”
“Yes. Can you handle that?”
Artanna smiled darkly.
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to hear the details before I can tell you.”
“You’ll have enough details to make your head spin. But that’s tomorrow—get settled, relax, eat. We’ll talk through everything alone.”
“As Your Grace orders,” Artanna replied with a short nod.
“And one more thing,” Gregor said, his voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. “There are a lot of people here who still hate you and think you’re a traitor.”
“Well, hey, some things don’t change.”
Voldhard stopped her with a gesture.
“You’re under my protection in the castle, but not in the city. Be careful, and don’t venture outside the walls alone.”
“What a long memory,” the Hundred leader sighed. “Thanks, Gregor. But could you at least give me the short version of what’s going on?”
The younger Voldhard shrugged guiltily.
“To put it the way you might, I’m up to my ears in shit.”
Chapter 24. Missolen
“You were told about me, I see.”
Demos turned to see a nondescript man in a snow-white robe step out from behind a massive column. His shaved head and silver disk glistened in the sunlight.
“Brother Lasius, I presume?” Devaton paused and gripped the knob of his cane tighter. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two armed brother protectors hanging back.
Why bring a whole convoy? I can barely move without help.
“We’ve never met,” the monk said as he came over. “I’m a senior investigator for the Collegium, and I’m on direct orders from Great Master Ladarius to escort you to him. Now.”
That’s out of the blue. And intriguing, too.
“I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you,” Demos laughed. “I imagine there isn’t much sense in me bowing and asking you how I came to be under the watchful gaze of the Collegium.”
“Right now, my only instructions are to bring you there.”
And later?
“I don’t mind in the least, Brother Lasius,” the treasurer replied with a nod.
Ihraz glanced apprehensively at the brother protectors as they stepped closer. The Order warriors were fully armed, the symbol of the Way sewn into their white cloaks with silver thread.
The monk came right up to the treasurer.
“I need to insist that you come without your servants.”
“I’m not well, and they help me where my cane isn’t enough.”
“Your cane will be fine where we’re going,” Brother Lasius replied.
Aren’t you charming! You’re great at making friends.
“Would you be so kind as to tell me where we’re going?”
“You’ll see, Your Grace. They’ll make sure you get back to the palace, but that’s all I can say.”
Demos turned to his servants and spoke to them in Ennian.
“Wait for me in my chambers. If I’m not back before sunset, tell the chancellor. And thank
the cook for the pies. They were delicious.”
“Take care of yourself, Master,” Lahel said softly. Ihraz nodded wordlessly.
Devaton smiled politely to the investigator.
“I don’t see any reason to keep you waiting.”
A carriage hitched to four horses was waiting for them in the square right outside the palace gate. There were no insignia or symbols—Ladarius was clearly looking to avoid attracting attention.
That’s anything but reassuring.
One of the brother protectors opened the door, let Demos and the investigator in, and then sat down himself. The second found a spot on the box.
There were neither windows nor pillows to cushion the ride. Worst of all, the box on wheels shook mercilessly, and Demos had to do his best not to slide right off the smooth wooden bench.
This is probably all to make sure prisoners don’t know where they’re going, so all they can think about is the futility of being and their own sins.
Brother Lasius remained silent, and the ride didn’t lend itself to conversation, either. The only clue Demos had as to where they were going was how uneven the road was. He was taken to the western bank, where they made quite a few turns, but that was all he knew. Finally, the bumps became more frequent, the horses slowed, and a little while later the carriage came to a stop. The brother protector leaped out first, followed by Lasius. Demos tumbled out awkwardly.
“Follow me,” the monk said curtly.
Devaton barely had time to take stock of his surroundings. It was an unremarkable three-story stone building, the kind Missolen had hundreds of, with a back courtyard full of trash. Demos looked around for the spire of the Great Shrine, but he was unable to get a bearing on where he was. The brother protector firmly but gently nudged him toward a modest wooden door.
So, I’m going to disappear ignominiously in the basement of an unfamiliar building. Lahel might miss me, and mother might even squeeze out a tear or two. Irving will possibly be sad. And meanwhile, hundreds of enemies and thousands upon thousands of souls I’ve never heard of will sigh in relief—the burned monstrosity is dead!
Dancing on the Block Page 18
