Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  The Hundred leader regretted leaving the castle once again.

  “What can I say? I’m sorry Ekkehard didn’t wait for me to come back, and instead, threw your friends right into the enemy’s arms,” Artanna said gruffly as she let a thin puff of smoke trail up toward the ceiling. “Will it make you feel better if I tell you that the Runds just about gutted me several times, that just about their entire horde had their way with me in positions and combinations you wouldn’t imagine?”

  “You don’t dare wear that crest after what you did!”

  The veteran reached for it, but the Hundred leader grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove his face into the bar.

  “That’s for Lord Gregor to decide,” she hissed into his ear.

  “Duke’s whore!”

  A clay mug flew past her head. Artanna ducked, the missile crashing against the wall. Several patrons, sensing a fight, hurriedly beat a retreat, while a few of the locals jumped up and headed over.

  “Hey, Commander, you sure you don’t want us to jump in?” Belingtor called loudly, placing his mug on the table.

  “Quiet,” Artanna shot back, throwing her arms up. Her smoking pipe was left to lie on the bar. “I’m not looking for problems.”

  “Oh, no?” replied one of the locals as he pulled out his knife. “Interesting, how did you work up the courage to come here the same day the veterans were getting together?”

  The Vagran let go of the guy with the scar, leaving him to slide off the bar and grab at his sprained arm. Her fingers drummed on the hilt of her sword. Really, she was just buying time, hoping for discretion to win out. But there was no sense left in the furious men, all of it replaced by pain, hurt, and a thirst for revenge. They were just looking for someone to take it all out on. Of course, living with loss is easier when you have someone to blame, and Artanna fit the bill perfectly.

  “Oh, come on, this is ridiculous.” Copper had gently slipped the whore off his lap, giving her a slap on her ample hindquarters before heading down to the lower floor. “Not very manly of you to jump one chick all at the same time.”

  One of the veterans glared at Jert and flashed his knife.

  “Shut your hole or you’ll be next.”

  “Hardly convincing,” the Ennian replied with a smile, pulling out his scimitar.

  “Copper, quiet,” Artanna barked. “Put your weapons away. All of you.”

  Shrain slipped his blade back into its sheath. Cherso handed his cittern to a servant girl and hid his hands under the table, Artanna knowing full well that he was pulling a dagger out of his sleeve.

  “I had no idea what this place was or what today was,” the mercenary woman said as she gazed at the men in front of her. “I happened to hear the music and wanted a drink, but I’ll ask your forgiveness and take my leave.”

  “Too late for that, traitor,” a tall veteran with a crooked nose said, shaking his head, pulling a long knife out, and stepping closer to Artanna. “We’ve been waiting for almost nine years. You’re not getting out of here, not today. And there are a lot of people who are going to thank us.”

  Steel flashed through the bluish air.

  “Stay back!” the Vagran roared as she parried the blow.

  “Are you crazy? There are seven of them!” Jert shot back. He jumped in to stand next to his commander, his sword at the ready. “I owe you one, so let me help, at least.”

  Artanna squinted at the Ennian.

  “I don’t want to start off my service to the duke with bloodshed.”

  “He won’t hold anything against you when he hears how it happened.”

  The Vagran dodged another blow, ducked under the crooked-nosed veteran’s arm, and struck at his throat with all her strength. He croaked and dropped.

  “True—why would he?” she replied grimly.

  What happened next was a common occurrence when it came to taverns in the poor district of any town. Shrain, Daches, and Belingtor bared their weapons and came in from the flanks. Of the seven attackers, five remained on their feet, and the rest of those present preferred to watch from the second floor or leave the suddenly dangerous establishment. Some even leaped out of the open windows. Everything mixed together—crashing furniture, women screaming, cursing in multiple languages, and clanging weapons.

  “Don’t kill anyone!” Artanna yelled.

  Shrain’s build attracted two of their assailants at once. The first, who came at him with his fists, was sent flying across several tables. As he landed, he smacked his head on a massive bench, brought a shelf loaded with clay bowls down on top of himself, and was knocked out cold. The second tried to come around from the side, though a precise hit to the nose from Belingtor’s elbow stopped him in his tracks. Cartilage crunched, eliciting a howl. The minstrel turned and finished the job with a hard kick to the gut. In the meantime, Daches ducked away from a pair of strikes thrown by a third opponent before stepping into an uppercut, knocking his opponent so far off balance that the latter dropped his knife. The shark kicked the weapon away and buried a fist in one of the guy’s kidneys. The fourth, who didn’t look nearly old enough to be a veteran, nimbly landed a shot to Belingtor’s jaw. Cherso groaned, seized the moment, and drove the toe of his boot into the kid’s groin. He doubled over and crumpled to the floor. Artanna took the fifth, crouching and smashing a sharp elbow into his open side, and then breaking his nose with her knee.

  Two more ran up behind them, both with long knives. The first blade etched a long but shallow line across Copper’s face. Jert cursed, turned, flashed his own dagger back at the level of his shoulder—Artanna hadn’t seen him put his scimitar away, but she approved of his choice. His attacker jumped back, stepped on some clay shards, and lost his balance. Copper finished the job with a kick, then landed another to his face once he was down.

  Shrain took the second, sending his fist crashing into the guy’s mug with all his might. And when everything fell silent, Artanna looked around slowly before stepping out into the center of the room.

  “Anyone else want to second-guess the duke’s decision? Let’s go, bastards! Where’s the famous metal you Highliglanders have in your balls?” the Vagran asked, shooting a withering faze at everyone gathered. Nobody had the nerve to reply. Spitting on the floor, Artanna dropped her knife back in its sheath. “Pussies.”

  Jert touched his commander’s shoulder gently.

  “Breathe, it’s over.”

  Belingtor emptied his cup and went back to playing a cheerful melody on the cittern that was handed to him as if nothing had happened. The patrons gradually returned to their places.

  The tavernkeeper stared at Artanna calmly.

  “Who’s going to pay for all this? Gillenai?”

  “How much?” the mercenary asked. “In imperials.”

  “One denne.”

  “Highway robbery.”

  “That’s to make an example of you.”

  The Vagran pulled a large silver coin wordlessly out of her purse and sent it rolling across the bar to the tavernkeeper.

  “As long as you already have my silver, bring me something to drink,” she said wearily. “And to eat, too, whatever you have left. Oh, and a clean cloth, please.”

  The keeper nodded quietly, called a girl over, handed her a broom, and told her to get to work on the floor. Artanna settled onto a stool near the kitchen. Copper sat down next to her.

  Most of the patrons weren’t really bothered by what had happened—it was just life in the lower quarters. Shrain and Daches, after throwing the troublemakers out onto the street, returned to their game. Artanna took the cloth the tavernkeeper handed her and gave it to Jert.

  “Why’d you jump in, you idiot?”

  “What do you mean?” the Ennian asked in surprise. “I was sticking up for you.”

  “I told you not to get involved.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t stand quietly by and watch you get killed.”

  “They don’t have the guts to kill. And you disobeyed an or
der,” the Vagran said with a frown. “Thanks for the help, but next time, do what I tell you to do. Got it?”

  “Got it, Commander!” Jert grinned. “That was the last time.”

  Artanna sighed and shook her head.

  “You’re impossible. But whatever, it’s done. Drink?”

  “Only if it’s something stiffer.”

  “I’m with you there—go big, right?” the mercenary woman replied with a shrug. Then, remembering her pipe, she picked it up and breathed in the fragrant smoke.

  Their drinks were brought over quickly. Copper held up his mug.

  “To a good fight!”

  “You’ll get one.” The Hundred leader took a long pull and bit into a chunk of dried meat. “It was my own fault. I knew nothing good would come of heading into the city, but I was hoping I’d get lucky. Turns out, my reputation is worse than I thought.”

  “But is it true? Did you lead the troops into an ambush?”

  “No, not that that matters.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Commander?”

  “Go for it.”

  “What you said…about the Runds. Did that really happen?”

  “Some people would prefer death to what I went through,” the Vagran replied, stretching luxuriously. “And I get that. Sometimes, I wanted to die, though they didn’t give me the chance. All Nood Steelhead left untouched was my face. He said he wouldn’t be able to get it up if it were ruined. Sick bastard.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Gave me a new scar every day. Kept me there for at least half a year before I was able to make a break for it, and that was when I met Vezzam. But enough about that, Copper,” Artanna said, lifting her mug. “I don’t like thinking about those days.”

  “Sorry.”

  The Vagran glanced over at Jert suspiciously.

  “You’re not the pain you usually are. You aren’t sick, are you?”

  “Believe it or not, but I started thinking of you a bit differently.” Copper shrugged and tossed a piece of meat into his mouth.

  “As long as it isn’t pity. That’s worse than—”

  “No, it’s not that,” the Ennian said with a shake of his head. “I appreciated you trying to stop the fight peacefully.”

  Artanna snorted, almost choking on her drink.

  “What choice did I have? Cut them up and turn the whole city against the Hundred? Gregor may give himself liberties, but I can’t. I promised him I wouldn’t get into a fight. Oh, speaking of which, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Go ahead,” Copper mumbled through a mouthful of food. “It’s a night of discoveries.”

  “Why are you such a pain? How do you have enough energy to constantly clown around the way you do?”

  Jert motioned for her to wait until he finished chewing his mouthful. After washing it down, for the first time since they’d met, he looked at the Vagran with warmth in his eyes.

  “You’re not the first person to ask. You know, Commander, almost from the time I was born, I realized that my life would be one pool of shit after another, just some worse than others. And that’s what happened. Sometimes, it’s so bad that I’m nearly drowning in it, and most often, there’s nothing I can do. Cracking jokes at everything that goes on is the only thing that keeps me from going crazy. After a while, it became a habit, even if it did a number on my personality. Or, hey, maybe I’m better because of it. Depends.”

  “I’m not the only one with a tragic fate,” the mercenary woman replied with a crooked smile.

  “Oh, stop it,” Copper replied with a wave. “And don’t tell anyone about that, otherwise, you’ll scare away all the girls.”

  Artanna smiled.

  “Fine, I won’t tell anyone your terrible secret. Although, I wouldn’t mind hearing about what your youth back in Ennia was like.”

  Jert borrowed her pipe and took a puff.

  “Maybe later, Commander. Not today.”

  “In that case, another mug?”

  “A timely suggestion.” The sly flashes returned to Copper’s eyes. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Chapter 31. Roggdor

  Artanna hadn’t been kidding when she suggested that Gregor find out more about the lives of his subjects. No sooner had the commotion of the duke’s return from Missolen and the ambassador’s return to good heath settled down, than the Vagran reminded the duke of her suggestion. And Voldhard, unaccustomed to sitting in one place for too long, was only too happy to agree. A modest expedition was outfitted for a trip south. To the astonishment and indignation of his advisors, Gregor set off incognito, accompanied only by three companions: Kiver den Lange, Artanna nar Toll, and Jert the Ennian.

  “Look at that serf,” the Hundred leader said, jabbing a finger in the direction of a peasant bending over in a field. “There he is, your subject. He works from morning till night, cultivates the rough soil—both yours and his own. What’s on his mind is how to make sure all his kids don’t starve, not to mention his most likely pregnant wife. See all the little ones running around and doing their best to help? They already know that if they don’t plant anything now, they’ll die this winter. Gregor, how worried do you think they are by religious dogma and the salvation of their souls?”

  The duke shrugged.

  “If they’re having a hard time, they can go see the master. Or the baron. The elite and the Order should help them with the land if the serfs aren’t up to it. That’s the law…”

  The Vagran laughed so loudly that other travelers turned to stare. It was crowded on the road, which was muddy after the rain. Gregor looked at Artanna reproachfully, though he let her talk.

  “You got me with that one,” she said, sniffing and wiping the tears from her eyes. “What’s the master going to do for them? Pray? Or will he pick up a hoe, get that brown shit you call earth all over his snow-white robes? The only thing the church knows how to do when it comes to farming is take a portion of the crop. And that’s from free peasants renting the land. The serfs, well, they’re slaves who belong to it. But hey, it’s a good law. That kind of help is priceless.”

  Catching Voldhard’s glance, Kiver den Lange just sighed.

  “The monks work the land, too,” Gregor said. “Shoulder to shoulder with the serfs.”

  “You were in the Order. How many times did you have to work a plow?”

  “That’s different…”

  “Exactly!” The Vagran stared at the duke. “See? One group breaks their backs; another enjoys the fruits of their labor. Is that what Gillenai told people to do before the Keeper took him to the heavens after the Great Battle?”

  “It’s much more complicated than you think.”

  Artanna nudged her horse closer to Gregor’s.

  “Oh, really?” she asked quietly. “I think it’s actually much simpler. I get taxes—that’s the price of the protection the lord’s army provides when anything happens. Duties for the merchants make sense, too. But screw me on Remembrance Day, why pay a tenth of your income, give gold for prayers, pay to absolve yourself of your sins, give the cloisters vast lands, and send them people to serve? I don’t remember anything about that in the Holy Book.”

  Voldhard frowned.

  “You really read it often enough to remember all its precepts?”

  “I have a good memory, Gregor. After all, I went through the initiation rites and followed the Way. And I know the old tongue—I learned it just so I could read the Holy Book. I swear, Gillenai didn’t say anything about his servants being superior to the peasants. Also, there’s nothing in there about the aristocracy.”

  “Gillenai said that everyone is equal in the eyes of the Keeper,” Gregor replied.

  “And that isn’t exactly the way it is, is it? The church, the way things stand now, just serves to wedge the classes farther apart. They don’t do much to bring people closer to god, either. So, what’s the point?”

  Voldhard said nothing. Artanna barely had time to notice the muscles
tense in his face before he gave his horse a slap and rode off.

  “Quite the heretic you are, Commander!” Jert said, his red head competing with the setting sun. “You should go easy… He used to be a brother protector, after all, and I’m already used to you. I don’t want to have to find someone else to hire me.”

  “It’s good for him,” the Vagran replied with a wave as she watched Kiver ride after his lord. “Maybe he’ll rethink this shit and decide not to go to war.”

  “Or maybe he’ll give the order to collect firewood for your pyre,” Copper said quietly.

  “In that case, I’ll burn long and painfully.” Artanna looked over grimly at the peasants working the wet soul. “We’ve had a week of rain.”

  ***

  Kiver den Lange glanced apprehensively at Gregor, who was looking at Roggdor. The tall, slender towers, and the old walls spread out in front of them, the brown snaking road leading down from the hill to the old gate.

  The trip had taken longer than expected. From Ellisdor, they’d made their way to Mirvir, rested a day, and then headed on to Ultsfeld. They were on their way back via the small city of Roggdor, a day’s journey from the Highligland capital along the Gatson way. Everywhere they went, they were assumed to be mercenaries, which was understandable—two locals, a Vagran woman, and an Ennian. They were dressed simply, they spoke little in front of other people, and they asked direct questions. Kiver mostly stayed silent, caring only about the safety of his lord. After all, he would answer with his head if anything happened. Artanna drank, made herself a pain, and haggled even for pitchers of ale. Jert teased his commander so mercilessly that he very nearly took a shot to the face from her. Still, the hireling’s sense of humor was in fine form. Kiver had to do his best to not give away how funny he thought Jert was, as the masters had taught him not to trust Ennians.

  The travelers preferred to spend nights at inns, though one day they had to shelter in a forest. The fire had been smoky, the land still wet and cold. But Kiver didn’t complain—he’d frozen his rear end in worse conditions than those during his service on the border. The whole thing was made livable by a stiff and terrible drink bought at one of the inns.