Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  “You think I’m trying to get something out of this?” the ambassador whispered.

  “Aren’t you? You could have just done your duty, but instead, you got scared that you’d spend your best years with the hideous Burned Lord if he became emperor. Incidentally, you shouldn’t have. They say he’s an educated and courteous man, even attractive if you catch him from the right angle. It could have been worse, believe me. But still, I don’t doubt that you were the one who whispered into Gregor Voldhard’s ear about his right to the throne—he wouldn’t have thought of that himself. Yes, Lady Irital, I think you have your own motives. The problem seems to be that you underestimated his enemies.”

  “But what about the feelings Gregor and I have had for each other all these years?”

  Artanna laughed shamelessly and stared emphatically at the ambassador.

  “He’s an idiot, that’s for sure. The government couldn’t have cared less about your love until it started getting in the way of politics. What you’re paying for right now, Lady Irital, is your own efforts to break down the way things are going to work. It’s already started—you’ve been through two assassination attempts, and my Hundred is here in Ellisdor thanks to your intrigues. You managed to kick things off in an unpredictable direction that ended up costing me enormously—you do realize that you aren’t going to get sympathy or understanding from me, don’t you?”

  “Forgive me. If I’d known how everything was going to turn out, I wouldn’t have asked Gregor to send you that message. It’s just that—”

  “There’s no going back,” Artanna jumped in. “What happened happened, and neither you, nor I can change anything. As far as His Grace is concerned, he trusts people too much and has a bad habit of listening carefully to just a few friends. You exerted quite a bit of influence over him until just recently. Think—perhaps someone turned up who’s more charming than you?”

  Irital nodded knowingly.

  “Yes, I thought about that. You’re confirming my suspicions.”

  Artanna shrugged wordlessly. She had enough problems of her own without taking on more.

  “I do have one request,” the Latanian said timidly as she came even with the Hundred leader. “It’s a personal one. I understand that I’m indirectly to blame for a tragedy in your life, and I’ll understand if you don’t want anything to do with me, but—”

  “Out with it already!”

  “Gregor and I are getting married soon. I turned my back on my vows, my family is going to disown me, and there aren’t any other women in Ellisdor who can walk me to the altar.”

  Artanna started at the woman in stunned surprise.

  “And you want me to do it?”

  “Yes. If Lady Rhinhilda were here, I would ask her, but she might not make it in time. You’re a noblewoman…”

  The Hundred leader turned away and took an instinctive pull at her pipe.

  “I don’t have a house or a title anymore. We’re going to be similar in that regard soon enough,” the Vagran said with a sad smile. “Besides, I have a terrible reputation. Again, not the best company for the future queen of Highligland.”

  For the first time during their walk, Irital perked up.

  “The future queen can make sure your reputation changes,” she replied, her eyes narrowing slyly. “Walking Gregor Voldhard’s bride to the altar is a great honor and a sign to everyone else that you enjoy a powerful position next to the duke. Even if you don’t want to help me as a friend, which I wouldn’t expect, given everything that has happened, I would at least like to do something to make your life easier here. I do have some influence.”

  Artanna took a long look at the girl’s beautiful face in search of a catch, but she couldn’t find one.

  “Fine,” the Hundred leader finally replied. “I just have two conditions.”

  “Anything!”

  “You don’t stick me in a dress, and you let me have a weapon on me during the ceremony. After all, my job is to protect you, and it’ll be easier that way. If you’re going to do this all wrong, do it really all wrong.”

  Irital grinned broadly and clapped her hands.

  “I like you, Lady Artanna. I really do. Can I ask you for one more small thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you teach me how to drink firewater?”

  Chapter 41. Missolen

  It was noisy in the Devaton residence, though Demos still hadn’t been able to get in without catching his mother’s watchful eye. Appearing out of nowhere, almost like a bout of indigestion, Lady Eltinia blocked his path. Demos stopped in his tracks.

  “Your ward passed on her thanks for your magnificent Fecunditata gift,” his mother said with cold disdain. “She just regrets that you weren’t able to give it to her personally.”

  “I gave her something?”

  “A luxurious harp decorated with gold ornaments. After all, you know very well the fabulous talent for music Lady Vittoria has.”

  Well…I do now.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  “You could’ve stopped by for a little, at least,” the dowager duchess hissed. “All the elites were here. It was Fecunditata! The fertility festival!”

  “A pagan festival.”

  “Still, the church allows it.”

  “It wouldn’t be wise in our position to annoy the great master any more than we have to. I’m glad Lady Vittoria appreciated…my present.”

  The duke was going to step past his mother and walk off down the corridor, but Eltinia grabbed him by the arm before he could. Her grip turned out to be surprisingly strong.

  “Demos!” The duchess was wearing a gold bracelet, and the clasp caught her son’s sleeve, yanking painfully on the skin. “You need to stop by more often. In all the time Lady Vittoria has been enjoying our hospitality, you haven’t once shown her the respect she deserves. You haven’t invited her for a stroll, you haven’t organized a reception in her honor, and you haven’t even written her a letter. I’m the one who has to do everything! Enrige expects her to be showered with attention.”

  The chancellor availed himself of all his remaining self-control to keep from saying something he knew he would regret.

  “I don’t doubt that she receives plenty of attention,” he replied. “Allow me to explain myself. You’re the one who gave your permission for her to visit, and you did so behind my back. You hoped I’d fall for her blinding Gatson beauty? You were wrong. All of this is your doing, you didn’t consult me, and now you have to live with the consequences! There’s a scandal of imperial proportions threatening to come crashing down on the country. Soon, we’ll have the Ecumenical Court, and you…”

  “But that doesn’t change—”

  Demos didn’t let his mother finish.

  “Next time you try to get me in bed with a noble beauty, ask if I have time for your games. Lady Vittoria isn’t going to miss me.”

  “You’re horrible!” the duchess shrieked, her long nails digging into the burns on his arm. “Show her respect as a guest, at least! It’s not the girl’s fault.”

  “Agreed. And I’m sincerely sorry for her.”

  “She asks about you, Demos!” his mother said, instantly switching tactics. “She feels unwanted and unneeded. That’s not what Enrige was looking for when he sent us his beloved daughter, and he’ll also be at the Ecumenical Court, don’t forget.”

  Demos looked at his mother coldly before yanking his arm away and heading wordlessly toward his favorite blue office. The damn bracelet clasp tore a piece of cloth off his sleeve.

  ***

  “So, you didn’t find any of Anrey Konlaokkh’s work in Irving’s office?” Demos asked, glancing at Ihraz. The latter was relaxing in a chair.

  “No, though I did see something else interesting.” The bodyguard stretched luxuriously.

  “Out with it.”

  “Your Anrey Konlaokkh was a poet, yes?”

  “How do you know?” the chancellor asked in surprise. “I didn’t think you enjoy
ed poetry.”

  “Not at all, master.” Slipping his colorful scarf off his head, Ihraz ran a hand through his hair to ruffle the black curls. “I just saw something strange. The dead lord’s office is in perfect order. You noticed it, yourself—even the work records were in even piles, and the scrolls were tied up with different colored ribbons to make them easy to look through. The books were the same—they were sorted by genre. One cabinet had historical tomes, another was for travels, and a third for codes of law. State, church, even foreign. Of course, there was a cabinet with poetry, too. The books were in alphabetical order, though the spot where Anrey Konlaokkh’s work would have been was empty. The book was definitely there. Someone just took it, and a while ago, judging by the dust that had settled.”

  “Interesting,” Demos replied thoughtfully. “In that case, my theory turned out to be correct. Good work.”

  “Also, the book is a big one.”

  “An old copy, possibly. They didn’t have thin paper back in Konlaokkh’s time.”

  Demos got up from behind the desk and started looking through his own library. Running over the spines somehow calmed him, though this time, he stopped suddenly with eyebrows shooting skyward.

  “Wait, how did the old Osvendian get onto my shelves?”

  “I’m sorry, Master?”

  “Look.” Demos pointed at the spine of a thick book. “Anrey Konlaokkh himself.”

  A true miracle, seeing as how I definitely didn’t use to have any of his work here.

  Ihraz carefully pulled the heavy tome off the shelf and placed it on the table. Devaton pulled cloth gloves out of a drawer, his father having taught him to never touch rare pieces with his bare hands.

  “It really is old. Judging by the design, about a hundred and fifty years old, definitely made in one of the small cloisters on the edge of Osvendis. See?” The chancellor pointed at a particularly rough ornamental pattern. “An excellent example of the Osvendian monks. And the material…pigskin. They were the only ones who kept using it. At that point, they’d switched over to shagreen in Beltera.”

  Demos gently unhooked the protective strap holding the book together.

  What ornaments and designs…each a work of art.

  The chancellor turned a few pages and suddenly gasped.

  “Well, I’ll be cursed! Ihraz, see that?”

  “Yes, Master,” the Ennian croaked, swallowing loudly.

  The book’s pages had been cut away barbarically in the middle to make room for a large, stunningly beautiful casket. They were called Targosian riddles, because you had to press the inlaid elements on the top in a particular order in order to get the lock to pop out. Only then could you use the key.

  “Now I get it,” Demos said with a sad smile, pulling the octagonal pendant on its chain out from under his collar. “We’re going to have to get to work.”

  Ihraz looked shocked.

  “So, this whole time, we were hunting for a secret…”

  “That was right under our noses,” Devaton said with a nod. “The ways of the Keeper are inscrutable, isn’t that what they say?”

  The chancellor pulled the casket out and held it up to the light, eying the inlays carefully. There was a right octahedron on the top, with a rhombus made out of two triangles in the middle. Both triangles were made out of an expensive kind of wood, one light, and the other darker.

  Happy is he who, upon going, sees his peace. The quote from Irving’s letter rang in his mind.

  “Quite the riddle,” Demos said. “Although, now I understand why I recognized the key. My wife had a box like this one.”

  Think, Demos! There was only that one phrase in the letter, so it has to mean something. You have two pieces you can press, and a line from a poem. Irving wouldn’t have written that for no reason. Find the common thread! Some owners use numerical designations as their code, even and odd. But there aren’t any numbers here. Duality… What kind of duality could there be in the quote? Consonants and vowels? Maybe.

  He started pressing the triangles, going off the theory that the dark one was for consonants and the light one was for vowels. But when he finished, nothing happened. Cursing, he reversed the order—dark for vowels, light for consonants. Again, nothing. He tried a couple more times, but still, it didn’t work. It did feel at some point like something moved inside the casket, though nothing happened after that.

  What about just the first letter of each word?

  Obsessed with the puzzle, Demos pressed the triangles: dark, light, dark, dark, light, dark, dark, dark, dark. The box stubbornly refused to open. Cursing again, he tried the reverse: light, dark, light, light, dark, light, light, light, light. Something clicked loudly. The mechanism froze. But a second later, an unusual lock appeared out of the top. The chancellor took the key off its chain, carefully placed it in the recess shaped like a right octahedron, made sure the edges all matched, and twisted it. He just about said a prayer, even.

  The stubborn mechanism finally gave in and let him open the lid.

  “Curse me,” Demos Devaton exclaimed when he saw what was inside. “Out!”

  “What is it, Master?”

  “Leave, quickly!” the chancellor ordered.

  Without asking any more questions, the bodyguard left the office. Demos took a few irregular breaths and extended a silk-encased hand to finally see what old Irving had given his life for.

  “This would be the time to have mercy on me,” the chancellor said to the god he’d long since stopped believing in, his eyes on the ceiling. “And I thought handing power to Izara was too much!”

  There were two orders resting under a layer of cloth, both signed by the late Emperor Margius. Demos looked down nervously at the first thick sheet of paper, which featured lines of flowery script, and breathed in the smell of dark wood that had seeped into the pages…

  Starting now, I have good reason to fear for my life. What did you suck me into, Irving?

  The first order drew a hard line between the church and state, limiting the former’s role in the management of the empire. The great master lost his place in the Small Council, the clergy were stripped of a number of privileges, and their income sources were cut. Getting to the end, Demos collapsed in a chair, dropped the paper onto his knees, and covered his eyes with his hands.

  Obviously, Ladarius would never have allowed this order to be published. But killing the emperor… How far would that hypocrite with the crystal crown go to hang onto his power? I’m not just risking my own life; I’m risking the lives of my entire household. Mother, Renar, even the fornicator Lindr… They don’t deserve to die. At least, not the way they would.

  Once he got his emotions under control, Demos got started on the second document. It legislated a halt to the persecution of sorcerers across all of Criasmor. He suddenly felt the urge to smoke, the way he always did when he was nervous. It even took him a while to notice that the tips of his fingers were starting to glow with a familiar heat.

  No, not right now! Why does that accursed power always have to show up at the worst possible time?

  His gloves flared up and immediately burned away. He dropped the piece of paper, but it was too late—the lower edge was charred even after Demos hurriedly tamped it out with the skirt of his tunic.

  It would be so nice to end this nightmare I’ve been living for so many years. Summon the Large Council, announce the orders, and never have to hide again… But I wouldn’t live another day after I pulled a trick like that. All us Devatons have our secrets, and Ladarius would find and make us pay for each one. He wouldn’t stop until my whole family was destroyed by his immense and bloody revenge. I don’t mind it for myself, but my family… No. I don’t even want that for mother.

  The chancellor carefully placed the papers back into the casket, locked it completely, and slipped it back into its hiding place. Even all-knowing Lady Eltinia wasn’t going to find it there.

  We’ll see if I can stand up to the wrath of Eclusum. Either way, I’m definite
ly not going to let Ladarius touch my house.

  After putting out the candles, Demos grabbed his cane and left.

  One day… One day, I’ll publish them. Absolutely. But not today.

  Chapter 42. Ellisdor

  Jert didn’t like the heavy Highligland swords. The hefty monstrosities couldn’t hold a candle to his scimitar’s light, whistling steel.

  Step to the left. Half turn. Slicing upward blow. Leap to the side. Quick lunges designed to distract his opponent. Jert went after her like a flash of red lightning, sliding into an uppercut. Artanna hopped backward and blocked his swing.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “What now?” Copper wheezed. They’d been going at it since early that morning.

  The Vagran, for her part, sidestepped the Ennian’s deceptive attack and duked toward his open side. She preferred the Highligland weapons, standing strong and buying time to deflect Jert. The dull end of the blade dug into the Ennian’s ribs, strong enough to elicit a gasp of surprise without causing real pain. Seizing her momentary advantage, Artanna drove the hilt of her sword into the space between his eyes. He staggered backward and dropped his weapon.

  “That’s not fair!” Jert howled, holding up a hand to call a halt. “You just about broke my nose!”

  “Poor foreign baby.”

  Artanna let her sword fall and leaned back wearily against the ancient bench propping up the barn wall. A fat cat warming itself in the sun opened a yellow eye lazily, lost interest in the noisy pair, and turned over.

  “You usually fight fair,” Jert said when he caught his breath. “Rough, like the northerners. But not today. You got me good, you cheating bastard.”

  “You weren’t expecting it, which is why I made the move. You think you know me, Ennian?”