“Never know who’s listening,” she said with a conspiratorial wink.
“It was just us in the parlor.”
“As far as we know, but it’s easier in here to be sure. Goblins like to hide under furniture. Nowhere to hide in here.”
“Now you’re being paranoid,” said Sloot. His mother was ferocious with her broom, and he’d never seen a goblin in her house. “Besides, what could you possibly have to say that would be made worse by a goblin overhearing?”
Sladia sighed. “I’ll just come out with it then, really no good way to deliver it softly. Sloot, I’m a Carpathian spy.”
Sladia continued talking, but Sloot could hear nothing but a high-pitched whine. He’d expected the sound of his life as he knew it bursting into flames to be more dramatic, yet there it was. A sort of highly efficient eternity passed, during which he managed to have a mental break, lose the power of speech, and rehabilitate himself before Sladia finished speaking.
“You were doing that thing again,” said Sladia with a smirk.
“I was— What thing? What?”
“The thing where you go all the way ’round the track of an existential crisis. You used to do it when I left the crusts on your sandwich. Glad to see it takes a bit more these days.”
“You’re a spy?”
Sladia nodded. “Okay, you remember that part. That’s good. And you’re able to speak, that’s an improvement.”
Sloot sank to the floor, his legs splayed out in front of him. Sladia shrugged, and gently lowered herself to sit across from him.
“It can’t be true,” said Sloot. “I’m a proper salt! I’ve got papers and everything!” He started rifling through his papers, looking for any inconsistencies or forgeries. He’d always heard that Uncle could tell a forgery from a mile away, so surely a good salt like Sloot could spot one from within a foot.
That wasn’t a reference to an actual uncle, of course. Every salt knew that “Uncle” was the new moniker for the Ministry of Truth, following its rebranding by the Ministry of Propaganda. It had worked surprisingly well to soften up their image, though the annual rate of citizens disappearing due to affairs of state had increased significantly.
“Everything I’ve ever told you has been true,” she began again. “Coming to the city when I was a little girl, working in the mines, all of it.”
“Well, not all of it!” Sloot exclaimed. “You didn’t tell me you were spying on the Domnitor, long may he reign, on behalf of our most loathed enemy!”
“That’s right, I didn’t. I also didn’t tell you that I wasn’t a spy, so it still works.”
“Semantics.”
Sladia shrugged. “Perhaps, but I can still say that I’ve never told you a lie. And I haven’t been involved in any daring-do since before you were born.”
“Born! Yes!” Sloot rifled through his papers again and brandished a yellowed and creased page in the air like a sword. “I was born right here in Salzstadt, and here’s the proof! And if you hadn’t done any spy work since before I was born, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Well, just a bit. The fighting had died down by then, and the cold war was on. Just a bit of message-passing, that sort of thing.”
“The sort of thing you might have done while carrying your infant son around with you?”
Sladia cringed, pausing just long enough to admit to the accusation by not denying it.
“Oh, that’s just perfect!”
“You were never in any danger.”
“Says the woman who was committing high treason between diaper changes!”
“Neither of us ever set foot in the gulag. I was very careful.”
“But there was always a chance! Tell me, Mother, what was the acceptable level of risk for bouncing me on your knee while passing secret missives to men in dark cloaks on wharfs at midnight?”
There was silence then. Between this, the scrutiny from Mrs. Knife, the physical abuse he’d endured from his dinner coach, and everything at stake with the younger Lord Hapsgalt, Sloot was having trouble wrapping his mind around the enormity of it all.
“Don’t try to consider it all at once,” said Sladia.
“Yes, I know, you know me better than I know myself.”
“That’s right!” Sladia was suddenly on her feet. It was uncharacteristic for her to weather that much conflict with her calm intact, and Sloot saw that he’d just found the limit. “I’ve seen bits of you that you’ve probably taken pains to avoid viewing yourself! You came out of me, and I got you through every skinned knee and hurt feeling since then. I know you, Sloot Gefahr Peril, and I know that you’re capable of doing great things, once you’ve stopped whinging about the risks and applied yourself!”
Middle names are a special curse with which all mothers enchant their children, to be used when they need a good filling with dread. If there had been any goblins in the room, they’d have fled at that, wishing the child good luck in whatever fate had in store.
Sloot stood up. Sladia dusted him off, took his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead.
“I know it’s hard,” she said, “but it’s the truth. It’s not fair, but neither is life. You are more than capable of handling this. Do you believe me?”
Sloot nodded. “You’re Carpathian?”
“We’re Carpathian.”
“But I was born and raised in Salzstadt!” He brandished his papers again. “I’ve never been outside the walls!”
“More than likely, that will continue to be true. I’ve not heard from the spymaster in nearly twenty years now. He may be dead, for all I know. Anyway, it’s a cold war now. Nearly nothing left to it.”
“But it’s still there,” Sloot countered. “Why do I have to be a part of it?”
“So that I can retire,” said Sladia. “Your employment with Wilhelm Hapsgalt means you’re in a position to be valuable to Carpathia, which means my work is done. I can live out my remaining days in peace, in the knowledge that the spymaster will never knock on my door again.”
“So I’m your retirement plan.”
“You might be a little bit more grateful. I’ve set you up with a career.”
“I already have a career.”
“Accounting? That’s just your cover! A very clever one, too. If I were anyone else, I’d never be able to tell.”
“No, Mother, I’m a real accountant. I’m good at it!”
Smiling, Sladia nodded with pride. “Brilliant. You’re ready for this, Sloot.”
Sloot had never performed an act of bravery in his life. Better to leave that sort of thing to soldiers, who probably had lessons in charging headlong into things, and were flush with things like grit, mettle, and moxie. But what sort of son leaves his mother—who was due to get on with doddering any day now—to spend her declining years skulking in the shadows?
Not the kind of son that Sloot Peril was going to be, by the Domnitor, long may he reign!
“I’ll do it,” said Sloot, surprising himself. “What do I have to do?”
Sladia threw her arms around Sloot’s neck and hugged him. “There’s nothing to do, really. The spymaster will already know who you are. If he ever needs to call on you—which, again, he probably never will—he’ll ask you if you’ve seen the pencil that he was using on Thursday.”
Sloot couldn’t entirely suppress a mischievous grin. That was real cloak-and-dagger stuff there. He was more averse to danger than most, but he’d never felt more rough-and-tumble since the time he’d lied about brushing his teeth. It had made him feel guilty at the time, but he didn’t agree with his mother that his teeth were strong enough to go without.
They had dinner, and then it was late. Sladia hurried him through the door and reset all of the locks behind him, having reminded him numerous times to look both ways for anyone carrying the tools necessary to make off with several gall
ons of blood.
By the time he’d made it back to his little apartment above the butcher, he’d found himself making significant progress on a new ulcer.
In his initial panic, Sloot had somehow entirely ignored the fact that his mother had been committing high treason the entire time she’d lived in Salzstadt. A lifetime of exposure to the clever posters and slogans of the Ministry of Propaganda told him that it was his duty to report her to Uncle immediately.
But how could he turn his own mother over to Uncle? Now that he knew about his Carpathian heritage, wouldn’t he be betraying it?
It was late, and he needed to be up early in the morning to get to work on Whitewood. He got into bed, largely convinced himself that his mother was right and he’d never be called upon to commit high treason, and resolved to resume panicking over his entire life having been a lie in the morning.
He’d nearly managed to drift off to sleep when his closet door burst open, and a scruffy-looking, bug-eyed old man dressed all in black leapt onto the bed. One of his hands had pulled the front of Sloot’s pajamas into a fist. The other was covering his mouth to prevent the high-pitched screams it was making from reaching the ears of his neighbors.
“Calm yourself!” the old man hissed. “I just need to know if you’ve seen the pencil I was using on Thursday!”
Sloot’s panic was replaced with the relief that comes from knowing he wasn’t going to be brutally murdered and robbed of his blood. Then he realized what the old man had said, and his panic returned to play an encore.
“No!” said Sloot. “This has to be some sort of mistake. My mother told me that she hasn’t been contacted in years!”
“Well, that’s true,” said the old man. His eyes were enormous, and he never seemed to blink. “I’ve been waiting for her to retire for some time now. Your mother started getting messy, see? Blood like you wouldn’t believe, hard to cover up. Got to keep things quiet nowadays. That’s how cold wars work.”
“You don’t mean the bloodless murders!”
“Not even close. Really messy, blood everywhere. The people doing the so-called bloodless murders are much worse.”
“How did you get in here?”
The old man tsked at Sloot. “I can see that we’ll have to start by teaching you to ask the right questions. How’s ‘how did you get in here’ going to get you out of danger when the person who’s just burst from your wardrobe is an enemy operative with a big knife, instead of a dashing spymaster just saying hello? You’ve got to be quick if you want to be a spy.”
“That’s all right then. I don’t want to be a spy.”
“Then you shouldn’t have accepted your mother’s resignation.”
“Well, it’s not like I had a choice.”
“Of course you had a choice,” said the old man. “Carpathia’s a constitutional monarchy. You have rights.”
“I’m sorry, a what?”
Salzstadt is the seat of fascist rule in the Old Country. Fascism is a tyrannical form of government that gives the ruler absolute power over the people, which makes it very attractive to the tyrants who elect to use it. The first order of business in a new fascism is to restrict their people from learning about all of the other forms of government.
“A constitutional monarchy.” The old man snapped his fingers. “That’s right, you’ve never been outside of Salzstadt before, have you?”
“Certainly not,” said Sloot, straightening his pajamas. “Nothing but wolves and Carpathian savages out there! Oh, sorry.”
The old man shrugged. “It’s hurtful, but you can say it if you want. You’re a Carpathian after all, it’s your right.”
“How many rights do we have?” Sloot wasn’t sure he was entirely comfortable with the concept. These “rights” sounded a lot like responsibilities to him, and he already had a great deal of those.
“I’ll get you a copy of the constitution,” said the old man. “But forget about that for now! We’ve got important work to do.”
“Hang on a minute! You said I’ve got rights, and that I have a choice in this whole spy business.”
“You do have rights, but you had a choice. You accepted your mother’s resignation, right? So you’re a Carpathian operative now.” The old man’s fist shot into the air. “Blood and honor!”
“Er, okay.” Sloot’d missed the opportunity to not be a spy, but was mildly comforted by no longer being responsible for making a choice.
“You’re supposed to say it back,” said the old man with a sulk, his fist slowly withdrawing to his side. “Never mind. Tomorrow’s a big day for us, so I should just give you your briefing and let you get some sleep.”
“Wait, tomorrow? No, that’s too soon! I have to be at Whitewood to hire the staff, and the younger Lord Hap―”
“Calm yourself,” said the old man. “That’s exactly how we get started. You’ll hire me as the younger Lord Hapsgalt’s valet.”
“And then what?”
“That’s all, for now. These things take time, you know.”
“What things? What comes after getting hired as the valet?”
“Above your pay grade, I’m afraid. I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
“I get paid for being a spy?”
“Not really,” the old man replied. “I mean, we in the foreign intelligence service traditionally forego our salaries, since we wind up getting paid by the enemy.”
“Oh,” said Sloot. His finances were already on a firm footing, but the prospect of extra income had his mind bubbling with annuities and other savvy investments. It reminded him of the giddy feeling he’d felt as a boy, when he’d sit on the steps of the bank and calculate interest rates in his head. He’d pretend he was a junior bank manager, advising his imaginary friends regarding their pensions. His mother thought it was odd, but at least he hadn’t taken up with boys who knew lots of swear words.
“How much blood?” asked Sloot.
“How’s that?”
“You said Mother started getting messy. Lots of blood.”
“Right.” sThe old man’s enormous eyes deftly shifted to avoid Sloot’s. “Well, a lady’s got to hang onto some mystery, don’t you think?”
“How would I know?” Sloot had never fared well in matters of the heart.
“Think it over,” said the old man. “If you’re sure you want to know, I’ll tell you over a pint.”
Sloot pondered for a moment whether he did, in fact, want to know how much Old Country blood his mother had spilled for Carpathia. He shuddered and searched the dark recesses of his mind for a spot to repress yet another terrifying thought, hopefully forever.
“I’ll be there bright and early,” said the old man. “If you think about it, I’ll have done you a favor. One fewer people you’ll need to interview.”
“Do you even know how to be a valet?”
“Well, I’ve posed as one several times.”
“Posed?”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “back when the war was still hot. Of course, back then, the poor sods who’d hired me didn’t live long enough to write me letters of reference.”
“You murdered them?”
“Not to worry, I’ve been to the forger. I’ll bring you letters for my file in the morning.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about! You’re going to murder the younger Lord Hapsgalt!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the old man. “We need him alive for the foreseeable future.”
“And after that?”
“Well, it’s unforeseeable, isn’t it?”
“You can’t murder the younger Lord Hapsgalt,” said Sloot.
“That decision will be made above your pay grade, I’m afraid.”
“Fine,” said Sloot. “But given that we’re paid by the younger Lord Hapsgalt’s estate, and that I’m employed by him directl
y, we’ll have to leave it up to him when and if he’s murdered.”
The old man raised a forefinger and started to speak, but Sloot cut him off.
“And since I’m hiring the staff, you work for me. That makes the decision above your pay grade, too.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see. In any case, I’ve no immediate need to murder him, and I’m proud to say that I’ve never murdered anyone without a reason.”
“Oh, that’s comforting.”
“Get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”
“One last question.”
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
The old man smiled in a way that Sloot imagined would have come across as dashing forty years ago.
“Roman,” he replied.
“Roman, I’ve always been told that Carpathians are bloodthirsty savages who glorify violence. Is that true?”
“Glorify? No. It’s a means to an end, that’s all.”
“So you don’t take surnames that inspire terror in the hearts of your enemies?”
“No. Well, sometimes.”
“What’s your surname, Roman?”
Roman hesitated. “Never you mind.”
“Oh come on.”
“It’s classified.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Mister Peril, really! Now if you don’t mind, you’re not the only one who could use a good night’s sleep.”
Congressional Infestation
The Hapsgalts owned a large part of Salzstadt, including a number of mansions that were regarded as true architectural marvels. They also owned Whitewood.
It was immense, and that was probably the nicest thing that anyone could say about it. Saying anything complimentary about it would call into question whether one had ever seen a building before. It must have been grand at some point in its history, but that would have been before the goblins got to it.
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