Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  “I wonder how Artanna handled all that,” he whispered thoughtfully to himself, looking at the first prisoner.

  He turned out to be as dumb as a board. From what he said, Jert learned that he mostly did grunt work, everything that required brute force. The big oaf wasn’t in the kitchen that often, and he definitely didn’t take the trays to the manor chambers. He also wasn’t allowed to help prepare food.

  The second prisoner was getting up there in age. His hands shook, and he had a hard time remembering things, so Copper couldn’t imagine anyone giving him a job as important as poisoning the ambassador.

  That left two more: a young man and a woman. The Ennian had his doubts about the kid. He’d just recently arrived at the castle, showing up with a bunch of other villagers. And judging by what the archchancellor had told him, the boy had been doing his utmost to curry favor and keep his cushy job. There wasn’t much reason for him to bite the hand that fed him. Still, he was worth checking out.

  Copper slid the bolt back noiselessly and slipped inside the cell. The smell of fecal matter and dampness practically bowled him over, and he paused to curse his sensitive nose. Hanging his torch on the wall, he went over to the twisted kid. The latter had an arm up to shield him from the light.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re feeding you that well,” the mercenary started in Ennian as he pulled out a parcel of bread and cheese. “I got you something while the servant girls weren’t looking.”

  The prisoner’s sunken eyes widened, and he shook his head.

  “What?”

  “So, you don’t know the language,” Jert frowned and continued in Ennian. “That’s not what I was hoping for.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Have some bread, I said.” The mercenary switched over to the language the boy understood. “How long has it been since they fed you?”

  “Two days. And they beat me…”

  “Yes, they aren’t that refined around here, I already noticed,” the Ennian replied with a nod. “Let’s say that I’ll let you eat and drink, and you’ll answer my questions. Everything you know. And I won’t hit you.”

  The boy nodded his agreement, his mouth full of the long-awaited food.

  “Easy, otherwise you’ll get an upset stomach.”

  “Forgive me, Master. I’m so hungry, there isn’t anything left to shit out.”

  Copper squinted at the corner of the room that had served as his bathroom.

  “You don’t say. Okay, boy, tell me your name and how long you’ve been here in the castle.”

  “I’m Royko from Crodden.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The Disputed Lands, which is why I left. We had a small village, and the whole thing went up in flames in a single raid.” Royko stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth and swallowed with barely a chew. “That’s why I came south, looking for work on a farm or in the army.”

  “But it doesn’t look like you’re in the army.”

  “I’m not,” the boy said with a nod. “There was work here in the castle, so I loafed around doing odd jobs for the servant girls. Carry a bucket here, feed the horses there, clean turnips. Little things, whatever people needed. I’d stay, but now I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. Maybe they’ll hang me. I just wish I knew what for.”

  “If you help me, I’ll ask them not to hang you. Just don’t lie to me,” Jert whispered, handing the prisoner a skin of water.

  The boy gulped it down, precious drops clinging to his chin. Once his thirst was quenched, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, though that just served to smear the dirt on his face around.

  “I get that! Ask away, good man. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Jert smiled crookedly, wondering what the boy would have called him if he’d known what happened to the healer in Givoi.

  “Tell me what you saw and where you were the evening the ambassador was poisoned.”

  “I already told the duke,” Royko sighed. “I was helping in the kitchen, hauling buckets over from the well, carrying wood, kindling the ovens, plucking partridges. The cook was on me, yelling that I was taking too long.”

  Jert peered attentively at the boy.

  “Go back—who did you give the birds to when you were done plucking them?”

  “I didn’t give them to anyone,” the prisoner said with a shrug. “Inya took them, said she’d finish the job, and sent me to the cellars for pickles. The baron enjoys them.”

  “So, you gave the partridges to Inya.”

  “Yup.”

  “And that was the last you saw of them?”

  “Yep,” the boy replied, shaking his head. “Can I have some more bread?”

  The mercenary tore off a good chunk and handing it to the boy.

  “Here, you earned this. Tell me about Inya.”

  “There isn’t much to say—we aren’t really friends,” Royko replied, his face falling. “She keeps me running around and yells at me when I’m slow. But she was nice that day, even offered to finish the birds for me.”

  “Why didn’t you tell that to the duke?”

  “I didn’t have time. They hit me so hard, I lost consciousness, and there wasn’t anybody there when I woke up. The guard came later to tell me that they’d interrogate me more later.”

  It turned out that Lord Gregor hadn’t even gotten to the most interesting part. And that Inya just happened to be the last prisoner Jert had to question.

  “Has Inya been in the castle long?”

  “A couple moons for sure. We came at around the same time, though she’s from the south, Gatson or Givoi. She’s definitely southern, always freezing and bundling up. She says it’s cold up here. But she’s good at her job, good with a ladle. I’d love some of her chowder right about now…”

  Jert would have given quite a bit to warm up, as well. Even the wool cloak he’d borrowed from Artanna wasn’t enough to keep out the cold, and his stomach flipped at the thought of a steaming bowl of rich soup.

  “Always bundling up?”

  “Yes, she always has a scarf wrapped around her neck. And that’s so…impractical! What with the steam in the kitchen… My face is always red. I told her one time that she should take it off to make sure it doesn’t accidentally unwrap one day, and she just yelled at me and told me what I could do with my advice. She and I are always like that. But otherwise, she’s fine. Her hair is beautiful—long, black, shiny. A braid the size of your fist!”

  “Hiding her neck,” Jert said thoughtfully.

  “Could be. Maybe it hurts. Maybe she has some kind of scar.”

  The Ennian stood up and dusted himself off.

  “Okay, I think that’s everything I needed to know. Thanks, Royko—you were a big help.”

  He grabbed the torch and opened the door before pausing for a few seconds and tossing the boy the remainder of the bread.

  “I like you, brainy. Do your best not to die before we get this thing figured out.”

  “I will, good man,” the boy mumbled indistinctly, his mouth full. “My life was just starting to get better.”

  Jert stepped out of the cell, closed the door quietly, and stopped to think about the information he’d gotten from Royko.

  Baron Aldor, to give him his due, was either lucky or not such an idiot given that he’d managed to nab Inya and locked her up in the dungeons. The mysterious servant girl fit perfectly: she was on her own, she was a foreigner, she covered her neck, and she had access to the kitchen. Even more, she’d taken it on herself to help with the ambassador’s dinner that evening.

  And she kept her neck hidden.

  That served simply to confirm a guess and give Jert something to think about. And thinking was a favorite activity of his.

  Neither the duke nor his aides knew about the poison they’d had thrust so rudely into their lives. The monk had been fast enough on his feet to grasp what was going on and react in time to save the Latanian’s life. Jert, in fact, had questions for him, too
. For example, why had he spent time in Ennia? Everyone knew how much the clergy and Ennians couldn’t stand each other, so if Brother Aristid really was just a simple preacher, the impression he did his best to leave, where and how had he learned so much about ancient poisons?

  And, of course, neither the duke nor the baron knew that Drinna’s Blessing rarely left Ennia. The price was sky-high due to how incredibly difficult to make and impractical to use it was. You couldn’t just throw it in anything—it showed up in wine and water, and it had a characteristic smell you had to disguise with herbs and spices. All of those nuances had really turned Drinna’s Blessing into more of a ritual weapon over time. Aristocrats used it to find a peaceful end in sleep, though it hadn’t been used to take out political opponents since the days of the Ancient Empire. And Jert couldn’t help but notice that the monk had left out those helpful details when he’d told the Highligland ruler about the poison.

  One thing Jert knew for sure: whoever had selected the poison had something to do with the upper Ennian elite. Only representatives of the magistrate and their inner circle could have availed themselves of the services of the Rex Gerifas masters, the ones who knew how to make it. The poison itself wasn’t sold. Instead, it was a service offered to people in that society. And the masters never worked with foreigners.

  It looked like someone in Ennia had paid Rex Gerifas so well that they’d gotten them all the way to Highligland. And that was unheard-of.

  The light from the torch flickered intricately across the stone ceiling. Jert looked carefully through his keys, found the one he needed, and quietly pulled back the enormous bolt. The door yielded to him. It was already a risk, sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong—if he was right, Ellisdor was in for some very interesting times.

  It was ironic: the very thing Jert was running away from had found him in that backwater.

  Inya was sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the damp wall. Her eyes were closed, her black hair tangled, her clothes torn and bloodied, but the expression on her battered face was one of complete tranquility. She was a living embodiment of the stories they told about how the Rex Gerifas people didn’t feel pain.

  The time had come for a small bluff.

  “An embarrassing failure,” Jert said quietly in Ennian as he watched the prisoner’s face. “They’re not happy with you.”

  Without opening her eyes, the woman slowly turned her head toward him. The mercenary crouched down across from her and held the torch up to her face. The Highliglanders did a far better job with their fists than they did with their heads.

  “She’s alive,” he continued.

  “They’ll still finish the job,” the woman replied hoarsely. “And kill me. That’s the way we do it, I’m aware. Are you here for me?”

  “Not right now, though I’ll let you pick the death you want later.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Inya replied before breaking out in a bloody cough. “My time is almost up, regardless—consumption.”

  “Everyone’s time comes sooner or later.”

  “You talk a lot.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started. Take your scarf off.”

  “You know what you’re going to see, don’t you?” A slight smile flickered on the woman’s swollen face.

  “I want a better look.”

  Inya turned her back and slowly rolled back the dirty piece of cloth. Jert pulled her hair to the side to see a familiar—painfully familiar—brand.

  “I was impressed that there was someone in this hole who knows what’s what,” Inya croaked. “If it weren’t for that monk…”

  “You couldn’t have known about him,” the mercenary replied with a shrug.

  There was no way he could let her go alive.

  “Happy?”

  “More than. But why the Blessing?”

  “They ordered an easy, pain-free death. The woman wasn’t supposed to suffer.”

  “Who is they?”

  Inya just smiled before blinking and looking over at Jert.

  “If you know who I am, you should also know that we don’t give names.”

  “Even if I really push you for it?”

  “You can try. I’m just afraid that you’re not going to have time for me very soon. How many days has it been since she was poisoned?”

  “Seven.”

  “And the sun already set?”

  “Yes.”

  Inya started laughing, though her laughter quickly turned into a gurgling cough. She bent over double, gasping for air.

  “What are you so happy about?”

  Once she’d caught her breath, the woman wiped her lips with a dirty hand.

  “The job went south from the very beginning, from when the monk showed up and the baron turned down his food. But that’s all I’m telling you.”

  “I think I’ll still ask.” Jert’s hot breath seared Inya’s neck. “It’s been a while since I tortured anyone, but if it comes to that, I’m not squeamish.”

  The prisoner laughed again, a nasty rattle in her chest that meant nothing good for her.

  “While you’re chatting with me, your ambassador is dying,” she croaked. “They’re going to finish the job. Today. Right now.”

  Jert cursed and jumped up.

  “Go ahead, run,” Inya said quietly as she turned away. “You’re still going not to make it in time.”

  But Copper didn’t hear her. He was sprinting off as fast as his legs would carry him.

  ***

  “Everybody up!” Jert roared as he hurtled into the room where everyone else was waiting. At the top of the stairs, he slipped on the polished stone and very nearly drove his face right into the top step.

  “What happened?” Artanna asked in surprise.

  “They’re going to try to kill the ambassador again today,” the Ennian said, trying to catch his breath. “Right now! Come on, go!”

  Without saying a word, Voldhard took two leaps that carried him right over to the mercenary. He turned out to be much nimbler that Jert expected despite his size.

  “Let’s go,” he finally said as he dashed up the stairs. Artanna followed him; the baron trailed behind.

  “What’s going on, Copper?” the Vagran asked as they sprinted up the steps.

  “Later.”

  “Now.”

  “It’s bad. I’ll explain later, I swear.”

  Artanna let it go. After getting up to the ground level and making their way through room after room, they found themselves in the main hall. Aldor barked orders as they went, telling guards to shut the gates and not let anyone out. Gregor, in the meantime, crashed into some girl carrying a basket of laundry. The clothes went everywhere, but Artanna didn’t even turn when the girl complained about her running right across them.

  When they got to the ducal wing, the Vagran stopped Voldhard.

  “Copper and I are going first.”

  “But—”

  “We’re going first, Gregor. Forget the ambassador; do you want to catch a dagger in the ribs, too?”

  “Listen to Artanna,” Aldor said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “What if it’s a trap?”

  The duke agreed begrudgingly.

  “Do your job. I’ll be behind you.”

  The mercenary woman nodded and turned to Jert.

  “Cover me.”

  After checking his scimitar one more time, the Ennian followed his commander in.

  Everything was quiet in the manor wing. The large torches on the walls weren’t lit, which was unusual, and the only light was cast by the candles set in wall niches. The mercenaries crept noiselessly toward the ambassador’s chambers. Even though his boots were slippery, Jert couldn’t help but be thankful for the soft soles that didn’t give off a sound. But, of course, that didn’t make a difference—Gregor’s metal shoes clattered rhythmically on the floor and ruined his concentration.

  A guard’s body was lying near the door. Artanna bent over and glanced at the wound, noting that he�
��d been killed by an accurate dagger strike to the eyeball. It was a quick death bequeathed by a skilled fighter. Jert grunted appreciatively, while the mercenary woman stuck her ear to the door and listened.

  “Voices,” she whispered in a tone that was barely audible. “Two of them.”

  “We’re out of time.” Gregor shoved Artanna to the side and kicked open the door.

  The Vagran cursed to herself, pulled out her blade, and stepped into the room. Copper followed her, his scimitar in his hand. Artanna nervously gestured at Gregor to stay behind the two of them.

  There was another body right by the threshold, this time a Hundred fighter. It was lying face-down in a pool of blood that had yet to congeal.

  “Fresh,” Jert said on his way to the bedroom.

  With their back to him, her head lolling slightly back, sat a girl with a luxurious head of golden hair. He caught a hint of lilies of the valley—the same perfume his recent lover had been wearing. The servant girl didn’t move, with just a slight breeze moving her intricately styled hair. Jert went around to the other side and shook his head mournfully.

  “Dead?” Artanna asked noiselessly.

  The Ennian nodded and drew a finger across his throat, telling her how the girl had died. The dead Latanian’s fine silk clothes were soaked in blood coming from a deep wound in her neck. The job had been well done. Exactly the way Rex Gerifas liked to do things. A look of confusion was fixed on her face, her eyes still open. Jert wasn’t going to be having any more fun with that Latanian beauty. But even dead, with a second smile spread across her face, she was attractive. Copper shook his head to clear that thought—getting a stiff one from a dead body was the last thing he needed. With a tender brush, he closed her glassy eyes.

  Gregor stopped at the door to the bedroom. Fragments of the monk’s hurried speech could be heard from the other side.

  “Looks like god really does take care of his people,” Artanna grunted before pulling open the door.

  After jumping inside, she froze. Jert barely had time to stop behind her, and Gregor’s iron clattered to a halt behind him.

  Brother Aristid was shielding the ambassador’s bed. In one hand, he held an enormous candleholder; in the other, his metal rosary. And while his face was fixed in concentration, there was no fear in his expression. Artanna had to wonder suddenly what the monk had been through if even an opponent like the one he was facing didn’t bother him. A hefty guy armed with a long dagger stepped toward him. Upon hearing the noise, he turned and paused.