Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  Of course, quite the shame. But it’s okay, any old servant can keep tabs on me. You’d like to know where I’m sticking my long, burned nose, wouldn’t you?

  The ruler of Osvendis rang a silver bell, and the familiar servant with the shifty eyes appeared a few seconds later.

  A good steward should be like a fortress. Enduring. Reliable. Irreplaceable. Prepared to give their life to protect their master from unpleasant guests like me. And what is this? He whined, stuttered, and ran off to beg you to come down without even putting up a fight. Disgusting. Get rid of him.

  “Michil,” Bryce said to the servant, “take our guests to father’s office.”

  Allantain stood up with a groan and said goodbye. Michil bowed deeply and invited Demos to follow him, the latter shooting a withering glance at the servant and slowly conquering the stairs to the second floor. Steps were still a challenge. Walking down a long corridor after Michil, the stone walls lined with dazzling portraits of the Allantain dynasty, they finally arrived at a massive oaken door. The steward pulled out a large ring of keys and started muttering to himself as he searched for the right one.

  “Please, Your Grace,” Michil squeaked when he unlocked the door. “Lord Irving’s office, may the Keeper accept his soul.”

  A musty smell hit the chancellor, tickling his nostrils unpleasantly. He sneezed.

  “Please, be so kind as to open the windows,” he said, turning his annoyance on the servant. “I can’t breathe in here.”

  “Immediately.” The steward pulled a long pole out from behind the brown curtains and started pulling them back. “Nobody’s been in here since the old lord was laid to rest. All we did was carry him out—he passed away right here, may the Keeper—”

  “Thanks, got it,” Demos interrupted.

  When the warm light from outside broke into the spacious office, the chancellor started looking around. An entire wall was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Next to the shelves, which stored codes of laws, travel notes, religious books, and the memoirs of past rulers, there was a ladder. A fireplace occupied the opposite wall. A large, invitingly soft chair stood on a sheepskin spread out over the floor, and cabinets loaded with glasses and drinks were on either side.

  Like lots of Osvendians, Lord Irving had a reputation for loving that firewater. I remember, even at imperial receptions, he preferred the Belfurian stuff. The aristocrats were shocked.

  Firewater is what the Runds called the intoxicating result of distilling beer. They included everything that would ferment, which was why the firewater in every different area had its own taste and traditions. The most popular flavor was horseradish, and it was made from the horseradish root. When farmers and other poor distillers made it, the drink lost its rich bouquet of flavor, being reduced to its ultimate purpose—getting drunk fast. For noblemen, on the other hand, special blends were made that some collectors were ready to pay good money for. Irving’s cabinets featured some interesting examples demonstrating their creators’ ingenuity and brilliant imagination. The collection was worth a fortune.

  Why do I feel the urge to sneak a bottle out? Maybe because the old man doesn’t need it anymore?

  Demos pulled himself away from the collection and headed over to the desk, which took up a good quarter of the room. The dead lord’s workspace was in perfect order—the papers were stacked neatly, while the scrolls and maps were arranged in a pyramid of tubes.

  “You said nothing was touched in here, is that right?” Demos asked the steward suspiciously.

  “Precisely, Your Grace. Nobody touched the desk—Lord Irving liked this to be in order.”

  “And do you know where he kept the documents he was working on?”

  “Sadly, my lord Chancellor,” the servant squeaked, “his aide was the only one who knew that. And he…went missing.”

  I might know a little something about that.

  “I’d like to take a look around.”

  “Lord Bryce gave his permission, so I wouldn’t dare get in the way.” Michil bowed and went over to the door, shivering under the cold glares of Ihraz and Lahel.

  Demos stepped over to the table and started looking through the first pile of papers.

  Loans to his vassals… Nothing here. A draft amnesty order for when the new emperor takes the throne… We’ll need that sooner or later. What else? A petition from Ulfiss with a request for more prisoners to work the quarries… Useless. Could the most interesting thing in the room be the Belfurian firewater in the colorful bottles?

  The chancellor slipped the amnesty order into a folder and moved on to the next pile.

  Reports from Khats. The military situation on the borders… Already out of date.

  Demos lost interest in what he was read, went through and put a few other folders off to the site, all having to do with Osvendis’ internal affairs, before starting in on the last pile of papers. It was especially neat.

  Now, there’s something! Statements from Belterian and Gatson banks on the Allantain accounts. Things with Irving weren’t as good as he made it appear.

  The rest of the papers and scrolls turned out to be completely useless to Demos. The chancellor sighed in disappointment.

  There has to be something! The slightest clue. He gave me the key, so there must be something telling me what it unlocks. Think, Demos, faster!

  Suddenly, it hit him.

  He wanted to laugh and hit himself for being so stupid all at the same time. Instead, he just started breathing heavily. His legs buckled, leaving his arms grasping for the edge of the enormous carved desk. Almost instantaneously, Ihraz appeared next to his master to keep him from falling. Demos’ eyes rolled back.

  “Your Grace!” the steward shrieked. “Are you okay?”

  “Water!” the Ennian barked with an accent. “Quickly!”

  “Keeper have mercy! Right away,” Michil gasped quietly as he disappeared.

  Demos opened one eye slowly.

  “Is he gone?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Look for anything on the shelves written by Anrey Konlaokkh. Hurry! We don’t have much time.” The chancellor leaped nimbly over to a locked lower drawer and pulled out a key. “How could I have forgotten that Irving himself gave me this a while ago?”

  Ihraz climbed the ladder and started looking the shelves over quickly. Giving Lahel an order to delay the steward, Demos unlocked the drawer and pulled it open with relief. There were several scrolls inside, all carefully tied with ribbons.

  Interesting… Excerpts from Rajimnar Roduisky’s Treatise on Sorcerers, Their Accomplices, and Their Helpers. What did Irving need this nonsense for?

  The next scroll was a complete copy of a chapter from Reverend Master Vernando Ermenekhili’s A History of Witchcraft: From the Ancient Empire to Today.

  A second book on sorcery? That can’t be a coincidence.

  The third scroll was full of different notes written tidily in the ancient tongue. Demos didn’t know what the source was, though there was something about the place of sorcerers and healers in state society.

  The same thing again.

  The chancellor scooped up the rest of the scrolls and handed them to Lahel, who shoveled them into her bag. Footsteps approached. The Ennian girl glanced at her brother in alarm, though he leaped off the ladder to end up right next to his master. A concerned look appeared on his face. Devaton barely had time to collapse into the chair when Michil burst into the office, splashing water as he came.

  “You came to!” the steward exclaimed with sincere joy.

  “It’s this stuffiness,” Demos said slowly. “And the dust. Thank you—I’m already feeling better.”

  “Praise Gillenai that it passed.” The steward placed the water on the desk. “I was starting to think this office was cursed. First, the old lord, Gillenai rest his soul, and then, if you…”

  The chancellor forced a smile.

  “There’s no need to worry, though I should put an end to
the search for today.” He took a sip of the liquid and grimaced—it was actually exceptionally bitter limunada.

  Michil bowed.

  “Whatever is best for Your Grace. If you wish, we can have the rest of the papers sent to the palace.”

  “Thank you,” Demos replied with a curt nod. “I was able to find a few documents, and that will do for a start. If we need anything else, the chancellery will send servants. Please, pass on my thanks to Lord Bryce. He was incredibly helpful.”

  Today’s visit just has me more confused.

  The steward bowed again, flashed his most courteous smile, and opened the door. Ihraz stepped out first, followed by the chancellor, and then Lahel. The latter met her master’s glance, winked slyly, and pointed Demos toward the neck of a collectible bottle of Belfurian firewater poking out of her pocket.

  Chapter 40. Ellisdor

  The black steed Artanna was riding threw intrigued glances at the ambassador’s mare and snorted impatiently—he was aching for open space and tired of how slow his mistress was. Indignant, he squinted his golden-brown eyes and shook his head. The poor guy had had enough of the duke’s stable. And right there, he had a wide field open in front of him, only the Vagran wasn’t cutting him loose. She wanted to, too—he could sense it. But it wasn’t the time. How could she, when she’d been hired to protect and entertain a half-dead Latanian aristocrat?

  Artanna made for a poor jester. She was starting to regret not bringing Belingtor and Copper with her—one would have sung while the other would have cracked jokes. On the other hand, remembering Jert’s weakness for golden-haired girls and Voldhard’s immense temper, the Vagran decided to just miss Cherso.

  The women rode for a while in silence. The ambassador was engrossed in the pastoral scenery, Artanna with her job. With that said, the open field near the Ellisdor castle didn’t pose a threat, so the mercenary was simply looking around lazily. Soon, the two women turned onto a wide trail leading into the underbrush and slowly made their way through the greenery.

  “Why did you ask me to come with you, Your Grace?” Artanna finally had to ask.

  Irital jumped at the sudden sound of the mercenary’s voice, then looked around and pulled her mare closer.

  “I prefer spending time with other women, though sometimes even the wonderful companions I brought with me from Latandal can get old.”

  A smile played on the Vagran’s lips. Irital’s group of servant girls was running thin—one had been killed by the Rex Gerifas Ennian; a second had succumbed to a cold, what with the drafts in the castle, and given up her soul to god after failing to visit the healer in time; and a third had managed to run off with one of the duke’s squires. There had been quite the scandal.

  Given the fact that the lady ambassador still couldn’t move around freely, Artanna completely understood why she would want a little variety in life. Still, the Latanian’s choice surprised her.

  “We both know very well that I’m not the kind of woman you’d like to spend time with,” Artanna replied. “But Baron Aldor mentioned that this walk was your idea. And so, I’ll repeat my question: why were you looking to spend time with me, Lady Irital?”

  The ambassador looked around, trying to tell how far back the guards the duke had insisted on were.

  “They can’t hear us if that’s what you’re worried about,” the mercenary added.

  Irital let her reins drop a tad, appearing to relax slightly.

  “I’d like to speak with you about Lord Gregor,” the Latanian said, goading her horse on along the path. “He’s really changed.”

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “You don’t understand, Lady Artanna. Just a few moons ago, he was a completely different person. And now…”

  The mercenary shook off a leaf that caught on her jacket collar.

  “I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t understand, my dear. Gregor is growing up. Unfortunately, that’s a challenge both for him and everyone around him, though it is something everyone goes through.”

  “Was it the same with his father?”

  “Yes.”

  “How was that?”

  The Vagran frowned. She preferred not to dig up the past even with Gregor, not to mention his overly curious sweetheart. No matter how pure she tried to seem, the ambassador was not someone Artanna trusted. There was no such thing as purity, and her experience had told her that the people who try to seem the most righteous are the ones most capable of giving you unpleasant surprises. And Artanna didn’t like surprises.

  “What do you mean?” the Vagran asked, pulling herself away from her thoughts. “You’ve read the biographies of lots of great leaders, and Lord Rolf’s biography is in the castle Shrine, too. It’s very detailed—I doubt I’d be able to add anything to it.”

  Irital nervously brushed her hair back over her shoulders. Several roses fell out of her styled locks, and Artanna’s horse snorted in annoyance.

  “I’d like to know who Gregor is going to be. They say he doesn’t just look like his father; he has the same personality, too. Perhaps your story could help me with that.”

  “People all change depending on their environment. Don’t you know better than anyone that His Grace suddenly found himself with lots of responsibilities he wasn’t used to?”

  “I get that. But it still doesn’t explain everything that’s going on.”

  “What do you want from me?” Artanna asked. They’d come to a fork in the path, and Artanna picked the wider option, motioning the Latanian to follow her. “I’m neither a fortuneteller, nor a prophet. How am I supposed to know where things are going? Lord Gregor and I aren’t that close.”

  “But you were close with his father.”

  The ambassador’s obstinacy was starting to get to Artanna.

  “Gregor isn’t Rolf,” the Hundred leader replied sternly. “Yes, he looks like his father. He really does, to the point that it hurts to see him sometimes. Of course, His Grace inherited a few familiar traits: he’s as stubborn and unpredictable as a bear that just woke up. Like his father, he switches back and forth between rage and mercy. But that’s it. Gregor is different.”

  “What’s different about him?”

  “Lord Rolf never had great ambitions.”

  “Are you talking about the religious reforms?”

  Artanna squinted at the Latanian.

  “If only that were it,” she replied thoughtfully. “Lord Gregor has only been in power for three years, and look at all the dust he’s already kicked up. He announced his candidacy for the imperial throne and stole the future emperor’s wife. It gets worse from there. He made up his mind to leave the Criasmor Treaty and announce himself king of Highligland. He’s praying, fasting, and translating the Holy Book into Highliglandian… None of that would ever have occurred to Lord Rolf. All the old duke cared about was the war with Rundkar, though I think Gregor Voldhard has had his imperial ambitions since he was drinking his mother’s milk. He’s a Tallonid on one side, after all.”

  Irital stared at Artanna in surprise when the latter spat out that last phrase in disgust. The mercenary felt no need to explain.

  “So, you don’t approve of his politics?” the Latanian asked.

  “I’ll leave that up to His Grace,” Artanna shot back. “It’s his country and his responsibility.”

  The ambassador’s patience ran out.

  “You really don’t care? You’re practically related!”

  “We’re not related, and we never will be,” the Vagran replied coldly. “I remember my name and my place.”

  Irital threw back a branch that had very nearly smacked her in the face.

  “But you just about raised him! And now you’re throwing up your hands as if you don’t want anything to do with him or his people.”

  “My friendship with Ellisdor ended a long time ago,” the mercenary replied, her voice sharper than she’d intended. “I served His Grace’s father, but I’m just working for Lord Gregor. I owe a debt, an
d I’m repaying it. Sentiment and flirting with the client don’t play well in my line of work. Although, I don’t think I need to tell you about what happens when you get too attached.”

  Irital paled when she realized what the mercenary was less hinting at and more openly referring to.

  “So, that’s why you won’t answer any of my questions?” the ambassador asked when she regained control of herself.

  The Hundred leader curled a lip into an unpleasant sneer.

  “I’m answering the best I can with my limited ability. And if you don’t like my answers, why am I the one you’re asking?”

  The Latanian’s face fell. Artanna had no idea what she’d been expecting, and she had no intention of finding out. It wasn’t her battle.

  “Who am I supposed to ask?” the ambassador asked a few moments later.

  “We all decide who we surround ourselves with. See who his friends are, think about what changed recently, and draw your conclusions. You don’t strike me as stupid, Lady Irital. At least, your lovely brains should definitely be enough for that.”

  “You’re making fun of me?”

  “I’m stating a fact,” Artanna replied with a shrug. “If you were smarter, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into this situation.”

  “So, what do you think I should do?”

  “Don’t pick a side. You know politics—why couldn’t you stay neutral?”

  “I love Gregor.”

  “And I loved his father.”

  “And what did that get you?” Irital asked, her eyes flashing. “Did he make you happy?”

  Artanna stopped and looked directly at the ambassador.

  “And you? Are you sure you’re going to be happy? I stayed alive, and my stupidity didn’t knock anything off balance,” the mercenary replied, choosing every word carefully. “I didn’t start a war, I didn’t stir up conflict between countries, and I didn’t try to get anything out of my relationship with the duke. Okay, maybe I did. But I never did anything that would’ve harmed Rolf.”

  It was hard to tell if the Latanian was going to fly off the handle or burst into tears. Artanna was openly enjoying her moment of gloating, having tried and failed to squeeze out just a drop of sympathy. After giving it a good bit of thought, she’d realized that the girl was to blame for everything that had happened to her. Artanna felt neither sympathy nor pity.