by Stina Leicht
She stooped and then tossed a small object into the flames. Firelight shone through and around her, limning her small form in gold. Her friend said something, and Ilta looked back over one shoulder. At that moment, she could have been an Acrasian saint from a painting. He longed to run his hands over her—
“Care for some punch?”
Blackthorne froze with his heart in his mouth until he recognized Slate. It didn’t take terribly long, only an instant, but it was long enough to cause embarrassment. Blackthorne allowed himself to breathe and willed his heart to slow. If you’re so damned alert, how is it Slate surprised you?
You’re not worthy of life. Not—
“You’re jumpy this evening,” Slate said. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, and his eyes seemed to be clearer than they had the day before. “Afraid you might have a good time?”
Shrugging, Blackthorne didn’t speak. This must be one of his good days. I’m glad. It’s a terrible thing to lose one’s sight.
In Acrasia, blindness without means led to begging in the street, not that the misery was long-lasting. Malorum feasted well upon the poor and infirm. There’d been a time when he hadn’t questioned the rightness of it. Now he felt disgust for having believed such a horrible thing.
“Here. Drink this.” Slate handed off an earthenware cup. “It will make the prospect of socializing less daunting.”
A Retainer’s honor is in following orders without hesitation. Accepting the drink, Blackthorne tasted apples, cloves, cinnamon, and honey. Then he raised an eyebrow. “The punch has a great deal of alcohol in it.” It wasn’t an admonishment, merely a statement of fact.
“Both cider and mead. I’m not supposed to know,” Slate said, watching the dancers and tapping his foot to the music. “It’s called apple snap. It’s a First Winter tradition.”
Blackthorne paused. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Certainly,” Slate said.
“Are you a Moralist?” The duke had been a Moralist, perversely enough, and Blackthorne had been registered as such, although he was no believer. He recognized the signs. Yet Slate danced and sang. He wasn’t married, which would’ve been considered unseemly in a man his age.
Surprise lifted Slate’s brows. “Intolerance isn’t something I encourage in myself or others. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Your public sentiments regarding alcohol.” For a start.
Slate paused and then said, “As a naturalist, I’m more interested in science and philosophy than religion. I must say Humanism—”
Blackthorne controlled a wince.
“—is more to my taste even with its religious overtones,” Slate said, looking out into the crowd. “Although I’m not much for the title. Humans aren’t the only beings worthy of respect.”
“Then why ban drinking and then actively ignore when it occurs?” Or encourage it in me? Blackthorne thought. “It’s hypocritical.” Or depraved. He noticed the judgemental tone and grimaced. “I intended no insult, sir.”
Slate smiled a small knowing smile. “Sometimes, a little harmless hypocrisy is required to grease the day-to-day functions of a community. We are, all of us, complex creatures, after all. In any case, I never said I banned alcohol. I merely frown upon it. And as I am one of the leaders of this little band of refugees, frowning is all that is required. It’s the most practical solution.” He nodded at another resident as they walked past, heading for the refreshment tables.
“I don’t understand.”
“We distill a great deal of whiskey here. It would be best for everyone if we sold more of it than we consumed. Don’t you agree?”
Blackthorne shrugged again.
“This way, the whiskey is used to support the Hold as intended, and consumption is kept to a moderate level, or at least a discreet one,” Slate said. They both watched as one of Hännenen’s troops stumbled and fell to peals of laughter. “Well … that’s my theory, anyway.”
To build one’s actions upon lies is to build one’s house upon wet sand and expect it to stand against the sea. Uneasy, Blackthorne frowned and then nodded.
“You should get out there, you know,” Slate said with a motion to the dancers. “Show the others you’re no different from they are.”
“I don’t dance.”
“Are you going to lie to me and tell me that you don’t know how?” Slate waved to a couple who shouted a greeting as they skipped past. “Oh.” He paused. “Are you a Moralist?”
“Hardly, sir,” Blackthorne said. His presence in church each Sunday had been mandatory. His whole life had been constructed of lies. Why should the afterlife be any different? He hadn’t believed a single word. Impure. Unworthy. Damned.
“Well?”
Blackthorne was uncomfortable going against Slate’s wishes, but he was also highly motivated to retain the ability to chew his own food. “I—I don’t dance. Not anymore.”
“I see.”
Downing the contents of the punch cup, Blackthorne stared into the bottom. The paint used to color it seemed to pool there into a beautiful splash of bright blues, greens, and reds in the otherwise drab, handleless cup. For a fleeting moment, the sight dredged up a fuzzy memory of his mother, who had made such things.
“You’ve not wintered in the Hold before,” Slate said. “We’ll be trapped indoors for five months. That’s a very long time to share a small space. They’ll be afraid of you as long as you hold yourself apart. And that fear is not going to result in a comfortable winter for either of us.”
Blackthorne nodded to indicate he’d heard.
“Right now you’re an unknown quantity. If you don’t give them something with which to fill in the blanks, they’ll do so themselves. This isn’t Novus Salernum, you know. We depend upon one another for survival. We have to. No one can do everything that is needed for themselves. There isn’t time enough in the day. You won’t be able to hide—”
Acting on an increasing need to flee the conversation, Blackthorne asked, “Do you want anything from the refreshment table, sir?” He turned before Slate could answer and walked directly into the one person he couldn’t afford to be anywhere near.
“Oops,” Ilta said.
“I’m sorry.” Blackthorne struggled not to breathe in the scent of her hair and failed. Winter roses, rosemary, and mint. His heart hammered against his eardrums, and his skin tingled.
“My fault,” Ilta said. “I should be more careful. Good thing my punch cup was empty, or I’d have spilled it all over my dress.” She smiled up at him. Although she was nineteen—two years younger than he was—she seemed older. It was her demeanor, he supposed. Her features were angular, with high cheekbones and a stubborn set to her jaw. This close, he noted a small scar in the middle of her chin. Her nose was a touch too sharp and long, and there was a gap between her front teeth, but her eyes made up the difference. They were an intense black that practically sparkled when she smiled.
The fact that she was smiling at him made his skin feel tight.
“You’re standing on my foot,” she said.
He glanced down, registered the problem, and removed the offending appendage. The sole of his boot had scuffed the toe of her slipper. Lifting his gaze from her foot to her face, yet another apology lodged in his throat.
“No harm done,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
He nodded and then attempted a second retreat.
Blocking his escape in one graceful step, she asked, “Are you avoiding me?”
“A—avoiding?” His throat closed, and his cheeks heated. He was suddenly thankful he hadn’t shaved the beard.
“Because, if that’s the case, a girl could get the wrong idea, you know,” Ilta said.
He blinked, unable to speak.
“Slate said you would like to dance but you’re too afraid to ask,” she said. “Is that true?”
Blackthorne felt his mouth drop open. He looked to Slate only to find that the man had vanished into the crowd.
“Well?” she asked.
“I … I don’t dance.”
“He said you’d say that.” She now appeared to be mocking him. “However, he also said you wouldn’t be familiar with Eledorean country dances. Don’t worry. I’ll teach you. It’s easy.”
She snatched the empty punch cup from his numb fingers and deposited it on a refreshment table in deft motions. She then captured his hand and dragged him into the dance pattern. Her grip was stronger than expected. For an instant, he tried hard not to think about where else that grip might be employed. She was close. So close. Her fingers were warm against his, and her perfume filled his nose. It threatened to make him dizzy. The spare grace with which she guided him stirred more thoughts he knew he couldn’t afford. The other dancers whirled around them like a noisy stream, fluidly avoiding the obstacle they presented.
Blackthorne swallowed. Congratulations. You’re well on your way to getting yourself killed. He could feel the others’ stares as word began to spread.
Fear is the enemy. Fear hinders action in the final moment. Fear—
“You’re shaking.” Ilta positioned his hands so that one rested on top of her shoulder and the other was at her waist.
He could feel her warm, firm skin under the cloth. Another bout of heat spread throughout his body—this time nowhere near his cheeks.
“There’s no need to be nervous. We’ll take this slow. And don’t worry about mistakes. Everyone is clumsy at first.”
“I’m not nervous.” You might as well enjoy your last moments.
“Sure you’re not,” she said. “Everyone trembles like a leaf when they’re calm.”
Deeply shamed, he cut off his feelings and scanned the room, alert for danger. “I can’t do this,” he said. The Ghost stood near the musicians, talking to a few of his men. He hadn’t noticed yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Sure you can. This is the easiest of the country dances. It’s what we call a farmer’s waltz,” she said. “Skip three times in the same direction as the others and then turn together clockwise. One-two-three. Turn. One-two-three. Turn. That’s the whole thing. Simple. Oh, and I’ll let you in on a secret. Once you’ve got the steps memorized, Elen Stål would be thrilled if you asked her for a turn around the floor.”
“You don’t understand.” Blackthorne glanced again at the Ghost.
Colonel Hännenen had abandoned his plate and returned Blackthorne’s gaze with a hard glare.
Shit, Blackthorne thought. I’m done for.
“Pay attention,” Ilta said, grabbing him by the jaw and turning his head so that he faced her.
Her fingers burned against his skin for an instant and then vanished.
“You’re making this harder than it is,” she said. “Here, watch my feet.”
The noise level in the room noticeably diminished. A number of the dancers dropped out. The musicians played on as the atmosphere shifted from happy to tense.
“I thank you for the instruction,” Blackthorne said as formally as he could. One of Hännenen’s men was forcing his way through the crowd toward them. Blackthorne recognized him as the one he’d met at the entrance the day he’d returned. On your knees, crow. “But I shouldn’t monopolize your time.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m having fun. Aren’t you?”
Couples discreetly retired from the dance floor until only a handful remained. The crowd grew silent and watchful. When the song ended, it was met with abrupt silence. No one clapped or cheered as before. No one moved. A cough ricocheted off the high ceiling like a stray musket ball.
“Oh, well,” Ilta said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait for the next song.”
The Eledorean officer with long blond hair and a pox-scarred face didn’t halt until he stood uncomfortably close to Blackthorne’s elbow. When he spoke, he did so in Blackthorne’s ear. “I believe you’re finished here.” The underlying threat was obvious.
Blackthorne jerked his hands from Ilta and took a half-step back. His heart slammed against his chest six times while he withstood the officer’s scrutiny. Underlieutenant. He’s an undernderlieutenant. The underlieutenant leaned in. Blackthorne kept his back straight. He’d have to walk a thin line between subservience and defiance. It was a familiar line, one he’d long lived on. Stray too far on either side and he was dead. It didn’t help that the death in question wouldn’t be fast or painless. He yielded again, silently giving ground but holding the underlieutenant’s glare with his own.
Slate said, “Perhaps we should—”
Blackthorne glanced to Slate, disrupting his concentration on the underlieutenant for an instant, but that was all it took. A blow slammed into Blackthorne’s face. Someone screamed. Blackthorne hit the floor, blind. An explosion of pain flooded his senses. He registered something was out of place. Wrong. There’d been an odd sensation at the instant of contact. Power. Magic. A great deal of it. There wasn’t time to ponder what that meant. Well used to violence, he rolled and then got on his feet. He forced his hands down to his sides. His left eye was already swelling. It was difficult to see. Don’t do anything that can be interpreted as a—
Three more punches landed. One in the jaw and two rapid-fire hits in the gut. All the air went out of him. The pain was tremendous. He staggered. Bending over to empty his mouth of blood, he threw up. It took him a moment to find the strength to straighten. He tried not to flinch as the underlieutenant prepared for the next blow.
“Are you a coward?” the underlieutenant asked. “Fight me!”
Two more punches landed—one in the face and one in Blackthorne’s bruised stomach. A third. A fourth. He lost count.
“Underlieutenant Nurmi, stop! That’s an order!” It was Colonel Hännenen. The blows ended. Stooped over and wavering, Blackthorne paused and then straightened again. Wiping blood and vomit from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand, he spit out the vile-tasting mess coating his tongue. Then he gathered as much dignity as he could and, without a word, made to back away. Unfortunately, he was brought up short when Ilta grabbed his arm.
“Please don’t go,” Ilta said.
“What do you think you are you doing?” Colonel Hännenen turned on her.
“Only what Slate asked,” she said.
“And what exactly did Slate ask you to do?”
“Blackthorne has proven himself a member of the community in good standing,” Ilta said. “I suggest you learn to cope with his being here.”
“Doesn’t the queen get a say as to who stays and who doesn’t? Did anyone consult her?” Hännenen gestured to a young woman in a bright red silk dress standing across the room. Her hair was light brown and swept up on her head in delicate curls with a matching red ribbon.
The queen is here? Why didn’t Slate tell me? Blackthorne hadn’t seen her before, and therefore he hadn’t known what she looked like. She was much younger and prettier than he’d imagined. I should’ve wintered with Mrs. Holton. I should’ve stayed in Novus Salernum—a cave—anywhere but here. His already-bruised stomach did a slow roll. This is bad. Very, very bad.
“Is something wrong?” the queen asked, and stood next to Hännenen.
Blackthorne could see the pair had certain facial features in common, the nose, the chin—
Hännenen said, “This community harbors a—”
An alarm sounded. The crowd seemed to hold their breath in fearful anticipation as they listened to the pattern for meaning. Two long, low bell tones followed by two short, higher ones. The signal was repeated three times, then it was followed with three short low tones.
“Intruder. The river dock,” Slate said. “Go! To your stations just as we practiced! Ilta, gather the children and take them to the larder. Your Highness, you should go with her. You’ll be safer in the larder and there’ll be food and water in case you must stay hidden for a longer period of time.”
A flash of anger passed over the young queen’s face. “You expect me to cower in a hole while the others fight for me? Thi
s isn’t Eledore of old. Give me a damned pistol. I’m a passable shot. But I’m better with a cutlass.”
“What?” Hännenen asked.
“You expected me to spend my time idling with my books and eating figs?” the queen asked. “I had Dylan teach me.”
“There are weapons and powder stores in the larder, Your Grace,” Slate said. “No cutlasses, I’m afraid. Ilta needs help protecting the children, if it comes to it. However, the choice is yours.”
“I’ll go to the larder,” the queen said, glaring at Hännenen. “This time.”
“We can discuss a better plan later,” Slate said.
The queen nodded.
“Come on, everyone,” Slate continued. “Stay calm. You know what to do. It’s possible that this is only a drill. Do just as we practiced.”
Blackthorne got up and dusted himself off. He was supposed to go with the troops, but he hesitated. He wasn’t sure of the wisdom in doing so. Now. He felt Slate’s hand on his shoulder.
“How bad is it?” Slate asked.
Blackthorne gingerly touched his jaw and winced. “Nothing broken,” he said through swelling lips.
Slate said. “Change of plan. You’re with me.”
Relieved, Blackthorne nodded, and watched Hännenen’s troops file out the doors. Hännenen lingered, apparently arguing with his sister, the queen.
“Colonel Hännenen,” Slate said.
“Yes?”
“You and I will discuss this matter later,” Slate said. “For now, I suggest you deal with the problem at hand.”
