“Oh my,” said Nicoleta. Then she giggled. “Someone needs to work on his tolerance, either for booze or for pain.”
“Please go away,” whined Sloot. “I’m dying, and I’d like to do it in peace.”
“You’re not dying. But by the looks of it, I’ve arrived just in the nick of time.” She was holding a glass bottle filled with a dark blue liquid. She set it on his nightstand.
“Hangover cure?”
“Better. Roman told me about your troubles with Myrtle and asked me to brew it for you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a hero’s potion.” Nicoleta beamed with pride. “All you need is a little sip, and you’ll have all the pluck and courage you need to face your sweet lady.”
“Thanks,” said Sloot. “That’s the nicest thing that anyone’s ever done for me. I’ll take a sip as soon as my eyes can focus.”
“Do it now, it’ll help! I promise!”
“It cures hangovers, too?”
“Not exactly. Just trust me.”
Trust. Sloot would have laughed, had he not been absolutely certain that doing so would cause a rupture in what was left of his brain, or worse. Still, he had to acknowledge that Nicoleta had been completely upfront with him thus far, and the worst the potion could do was kill him. That would be a pyrrhic victory in terms of hangover cures, but it would do the job.
He uncorked it. It smelled like oiled leather and victory. He took a sip, and without blinking decided that it was time to get up off the floor and bend something to his will.
Nicoleta was right. It didn’t cure his hangover. It was still as robust as it had ever been, and in fact may have gotten a bit worse, but he found that he simply didn’t care. The entire concept of a hangover seemed insignificant, a thing that wasn’t worth crying over if you were a day over two years old.
“There,” said Nicoleta as Sloot stood up, “feeling more like yourself?”
“Well, yes. More like myself than I’ve ever felt, in fact! How long does it last?” His voice had dropped to a velvety baritone.
“Your first sip will last a day or so. You’ll build up a tolerance to it, so try to use it sparingly. Oh, hello!”
Sloot glanced down to find that he was naked. He’d started getting changed without regard for the fact that he had company. And why shouldn’t he? This was his room after all, and she could go along with the program or find herself elsewhere!
“See anything you like?” asked Sloot, nearly startled at his own boldness, but that was the sort of reaction that sissy men went in for, with a glass of warm milk and something called a “good cry.”
“That was a particularly strong batch,” she said with a giggle. “Do try not to fight anyone, will you?”
“I can’t make any promises.” He’d felt an urge to promise he wouldn’t, but lying is the comfort food of the weak! The only thing he was serving up was lean, rare steaks of truth.
“Fine, just remember that punching isn’t frowned upon here. Roman’s told me all about salts and their kicking.”
Freshly shaven and feeling like he could take on all of Carpathia, Sloot strode from the castle more boldly than he’d ever strode in his life. The sky was still grey, but it seemed a more promising shade of drab than it had the day before.
Straight to Myrtle’s house, then. Why had it been so hard for him that night? It was perfectly simple! She’d wanted a kiss, and he’d wanted to give her one.
Something had prevented him. What was it? And why did he never let his chin jut like it was doing just then? His stride was longer than usual, owing no doubt to the fact that he was keeping his shoulders back. Posture! He was practically marching through the streets now, a warning to any lowlifes within striking distance, and a “you’re welcome” to any appreciative onlookers.
There was her gate. He’d been terrified of that gate! Why? It baffled the imagination. He marched through it now, up the stone steps and knocked on the door.
A man answered the door, but said, “Can I help you, sir?” with such deference that he could only have been a butler, and not another suitor to challenge him. A pity! Sloot would have easily thrashed him within an inch of his life.
“Sloot Peril,” he said in a forceful baritone. “I’m here to see Lady Myrtle, and I take my whiskey neat!”
Unfortunately, Myrtle was out of the house. The butler, whose name Sloot didn’t bother to learn, didn’t know when she would return. He made Sloot very comfortable in the sitting room with a large quantity of sausages and a decanter of whiskey. His instincts, which were now speaking to him very forcefully, advised that it would be just the thing for forcing his hangover, mild as it was, into submission. Lesser Sloots might have asked what role whiskey played in a hangover cure, but did well to keep quiet.
As the hours rolled past, he contented himself to leaf through a book on one of the shelves, the title having caught his eye: Carpathian Invasion Theory.
According to the book, several hundred years earlier, the nineteenth Vlad the Invader had found her horns locked so ferociously with King Oskar of Nordheim that the father of the gods of Nordheim had to intervene. Impressive!
Unfortunately, the intervention closed on an oath being sworn on Gungnir, Odin’s spear, by Oskar and Vlad. Odin’s spear is enchanted with deep magic, and an oath sworn upon it is unbreakable. The oath brought an end to nearly two centuries of war between Carpathia and Nordheim. A shame, but Sloot supposed all wars must end eventually.
It seemed that Odin had finally become unsure of a Viking victory over the bloodthirsty Carpathians. He wasn’t usually one to intercede in such matters, feeling that the Vikings shouldn’t get into wars they couldn’t win on their own; however, the gods hadn’t managed a single good night’s sleep since the war began, and enough was enough.
The Vikings were sad to see the end of such a well-balanced war, as were the Carpathians. Vlad was sad for the same reason, but she paid an even higher price.
To continue calling herself “the Invader,” she had to have at least one rival worth invading. Aside from Nordheim, the only nation that bordered Carpathia was the Old Country in the south. Nordheim was technically an ally now, as the oath sworn on Gungnir constituted a treaty.
To be sure, the world was full of other nations, all of which could use a good invading; but aside from Nordheim and the Old Country, invading would require boats.
Carpathians are not a seafaring people. They don’t like being in places that cannot be conquered, and the sea is singularly unsuited to the planting of flags, the garrisoning of troops, and the building of castles. Furthermore, it is utterly bereft of tracts of land to dole out to the generals who expect that sort of thing when wars come to an end.
Sloot kept reading until the light grey sky turned purple and then black. Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy, and then someone was shaking him gently.
“Wake up, Sloot.”
“Hello,” said Sloot. His voice had gone tenor again.
“I have to say that I was confused,” said Myrtle. “When Gustav told me that there was a Mister Peril in the sitting room who’d challenged him to wrestle, I wondered if you had a relative here.”
“Right.” Sloot shook the fog of sleep from his mind. “Sorry about that.” Oh, no! Sorry about that? The potion must have worn off!
“It’s no problem,” said Myrtle. “Carpathian men always talk to each other like that. Gustav would probably have taken you up on it if I hadn’t specifically forbidden wrestling in the house.”
“Did you?”
“Well, Carpathians are fond of wrestling, and I— hang on, don’t forget that you’re mad at him. Oh, right! What’s with you, Peril?”
Yes, thought Sloot, the potion has definitely worn off, and I’ve left the bottle in the castle. I’ll just open my mouth and see where the conversation goes then, shall I?
“I
was afraid of you,” answered Sloot, then instantly regretted it. What would the heroic version of himself had said? Not that, in any case.
“Afraid of me? Why, because I tried to kiss you?”
“Well … yes?”
Myrtle’s hands were on her hips. She squinted at him with her mouth open, her upper lip occasionally jerking up in a sort of sneer. Disbelief and something bordering on amusement were trying to negotiate terms of peaceful coexistence.
“That defies logic entirely,” said Myrtle, sort of. “In my professional opinion, he’s not worth the effort. I didn’t ask for your professional opinion, did I? Perhaps you should! You’ve been having some particularly scandalous daydreams about him lately, and I don’t know if he’s capable of— Would you please stop talking!?”
Sloot’s face felt hot. He could hear his blood rushing in his ears. He was likely as red in the face as Myrtle was at that moment, but he had the distinct impression that she was still entirely in control of the situation.
His mind raced to unlock the secret of that heroic version of himself that spoke in a deep voice and knew things about posture. He’d been summoned via magic, but he’d felt so genuine! Was he still inside Sloot somewhere, standing by to take control of this madness with practiced grace and the leathery hands of a man who knows how to make a bow and arrow if he found himself stranded in the wilderness?
If he was still in there somewhere, what would he do?
Whatever he wanted. Without bothering to think through all of the pros and cons first.
“Right,” said Sloot. The next thing he knew, his lips were on Myrtle’s, and they were kissing. His arms were around her and everything. In fact, he thought there was a very good chance that he’d done it himself, no hero potion involved.
Myrtle wrapped her arms around Sloot and kissed him back. He felt her lips smiling against his, and couldn’t suppress a smile of his own.
The Witchwood
It was nearly dawn when Sloot returned to the castle. His hangover had not yet entirely left him, but he didn’t really care. He was a man in love, and that’s just the sort of thing that could convince even the most seasoned of worriers that all was right with the world.
Maybe not. Real worriers are renowned for their lurking senses of dread, which are unflappable even in the face of the greatest strokes of luck.
“Nice pile of money you’ve just found,” Sloot’s lurking sense of dread might say under the right circumstances. “It would be a shame if it were to, I don’t know, push you up into a new tax bracket.”
Most things were right with the world, then. Well, that would require knowing most of the things in the world. Sloot didn’t want to take on the liability that goes along with blind optimism being interpreted as a guarantee.
Several things, then. There were several things right with the world.
Even with the chill of the castle’s drafty halls biting into him because his more heroic self had gone off without a cloak, he didn’t care. Even when one of the Lebendervlad seemed to be giving him a judgy look, he didn’t care. Sloot Peril was a man without a care in the world.
Without a care in his immediate vicinity, at least.
There was a note pinned to his door. He’d been summoned to breakfast with Vlad, a few hours hence.
His room had been untouched since he left. Clothes were strewn about in the style of a hero with a singular sartorial focus, who had neither time to clean up after himself, nor regard for his mother having raised him better.
The hero’s potion was still on the little table where he’d left it. Truly, that was a treasure that needed protecting! He squirreled it away beneath the clothes in his bottom drawer, then thought better of it. Wouldn’t that be the first place that a thief would look? He moved it instead to a high shelf behind some books. Poor people who needed to steal things were generally illiterate, according to the Domnitor, long may he reign, and likely to fear books for their seditious content, having been warned to that effect by the Domnitor. Long may he reign.
He then kicked off his boots and fell into bed, feeling as though he’d earned a bit of sleep before breakfast. Giddy with the prospect of new romance, he dreamed of very few things that wanted to either kill him or smear all of the really good numbers in his ledgers.
Roman and Nicoleta were already helping themselves to steaming piles of breakfast when Sloot entered the dining room with a spring in his step.
“You look awfully chipper this morning,” said Roman.
Sloot grinned like he was being paid to do it.
“I’d say the hero’s potion did its job,” said Nicoleta.
“What’s this about a hero’s potion?” inquired the one voice that Sloot longed to hear above any other. He turned and smiled at Myrtle. She smiled back, but with a side of suspicion.
“Nicoleta brewed one for me,” Sloot explained.
“Oh,” said Myrtle, looking crestfallen.
“It had worn off by the time you returned,” Sloot hastened to add.
“Really?” said Myrtle, imploring it to be the truth.
“Really,” said Sloot. “Believe me, I’ve never been more terrified in my life than when I kissed you!”
“That’s the sort of romance you can expect from an accountant. Arthur! What? He’s as charming as the wax I used in my moustache when I was alive.”
“Do you hear that, Sloot?” asked Greta, who’d just entered the room with Vlad. “I think Arthur is jealous.”
“Hardly. And I’ll thank you for addressing me as Doctor Widdershins.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Greta was wearing a very elaborate dress in the Carpathian fashion, which meant that it had lots of studded leather and steel plates on it, and came with a matching sword at her hip and wolf pelt draped over her shoulders. Vlad was wearing steel on steel, and a hint of a grin that was the smarmy Carpathian equivalent of Sloot’s goonish one.
“Good, you’re all here,” said Vlad, as she and Greta sat. Her tone wasn’t exactly welcoming, given its association with her wandering stare that implied there would have been trouble otherwise.
Roman stood. “Her Dominance has asked for a formal briefing on the latest affairs in Salzstadt. I believe that everyone here has the proper intelligence clearance?”
It was commonly understood in every kingdom of the world that the court wizard was entrusted with enough royal secrets that her presence in an intelligence briefing would not be out of place. All eyes turned to Greta then, as she was the only other non-Vlad person in the room who Roman hadn’t recruited into the ranks of Carpathian Intelligence.
“Greta swore allegiance to my banners last night,” said Vlad.
“I did a lot of swearing last night,” murmured Greta, whose cheeks went a bit pink upon realizing how softly she’d failed to whisper.
“Get on with it,” said Nicoleta to Roman, with a shooing motion.
“Right,” said Roman. “Then let the record reflect that all in attendance are properly cleared to be … in attendance.”
“Is someone taking a record?” asked Myrtle.
“Of course not,” said Roman. “You can’t leave an official record of an intelligence briefing lying around! What if an Old Country spy got his hands on it?”
“But you just said―”
“I was observing traditions! There’s another one about interrupting the spymaster during a briefing, you know!”
“Perhaps if there were some sort of a written record of these traditions―”
“Do be quiet!”
Roman went on to explain, in agonizing detail, just how little things had changed in Salzstadt since his last report, which had been nearly a decade prior. That report had been made to the current Vlad’s father though, so Roman took great pains in elucidating those references, regardless of how relevant they weren’t.
&nb
sp; Sloot, Myrtle, and Greta were occasionally called upon to corroborate or give further details. Yes, the same families who had been insanely wealthy at the time of the last report were still insanely wealthy now. Most of them were considerably richer, in fact, owing in large part to the fact that the city’s poor were significantly poorer now. If there was one thing that the Domnitor—long may he reign—seemed to appreciate, it was a nice, stark contrast between the classes in his city. On the off chance that he decided to walk among them, it would help to ensure that he didn’t accidentally acknowledge the wrong sort of person.
The Hapsgalts were still chief among the wealthiest families, of course, given that there was not an industry or venture within the ken of any of the other wealthy families that didn’t rely on the shipping monopoly held by The Three Bells. Furthermore, Roman was sure that the Hapsgalts were very influential within the Serpents of the Earth.
“Don’t start on that,” said Nicoleta. “Where’s your evidence that they exist?”
“They’re very good at not leaving any evidence,” replied Roman.
“I don’t waste time grasping at wisps of smoke,” said Vlad. “Give me an enemy I can see, and I will tear out his heart.”
Greta’s eyelashes fluttered at Vlad. Who’d’ve thought a clockmaker would go in for that sort of thing? Roman, as it turned out.
“They’re very real,” said Roman, “and they’re at the center of every nasty conspiracy that goes on in the south.”
“Then they’re a southern problem,” said Vlad. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, is it not?”
“This isn’t the sort of enemy that would meet you in the field and try to stab you in the face,” said Roman. “They’d sneak up on you when you weren’t expecting it and stab you in the back.”
“They can try!” Vlad pounded the table with her fist. “I’ve been training with the Lebendervlad since I was a little girl. No one can sneak up on me on the battlefield!”
“They wouldn’t do it on the battlefield,” said Roman. “They’d do it when your guard was down, possibly while you’re sleeping.”
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