Vlad’s brow wrinkled. Her eyes flashed around the table, as though trying to ascertain whether they were all playing a joke on her.
“They would wake me up for a fight?”
“No,” said Roman, “they wouldn’t. They’d just sneak into your bedroom and cut your throat or something.”
“Impossible.” Vlad shook her head. “My hearing is too keen, no one can walk quietly enough.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Plus there’s the Lebendervlad. One of them watches over me always, and they do not sleep.”
“That’s true,” said Greta, with a pointed look at Vlad. “It’s creepy.”
“That’s not the point!” Roman exclaimed. “The point is that they work in shadow, and enemy of your enemy or not, you cannot call them a friend. They can’t be trusted, and they won’t meet you on the field of battle. They’ll attack in secret, and by the time they’ve done their worst, it will be too late.”
“What sort of cowards won’t take the battlefield?” Vlad laughed. “If they won’t show their faces, we have nothing to fear from them.”
It was becoming apparent to Sloot that Carpathians didn’t truck with things like stealth and subterfuge. It was a wonder they had an intelligence service at all. Trying to kill someone without telling them first seemed as ridiculous to Vlad as telling Vlad you wanted to kill her would seem to anyone else.
“I will hear no more of these cowards until you can prove that they exist,” said Vlad.
“I’ve seen proof,” interjected Sloot.
“What? Really?” Roman’s mouth was hanging open as he stared at Sloot. Hearing that Sloot knew anything about the Serpents of the Earth may have been the cause of his shock, or it may have been that Sloot had just made himself the center of attention. On purpose.
“Well, yes,” said Sloot, just realizing his folly himself.
“What proof?” asked Vlad. “Show me.”
“Well, it was in the library.”
“Ha!” Vlad rolled her eyes. “In a story book, no doubt.”
“All books tell stories,” Sloot responded, “though some have to be read more closely than others to find the truth.”
“Be that as it may,” said Vlad, “I will hear no more of these Serpents of the Earth until someone can show me some real proof. Now, tell me about this Lord Hapsgalt that all of my servants want to murder so slowly.”
Luckily for Sloot, Vlad found his input very valuable on the matter of Willie’s ransom. Vlad wanted to demand a high price for her hostage, one that would hurt the Hapsgalt coffers, but not so severely that old Constantin might decide he could just churn out a new heir instead. Sloot wasn’t able to give any sort of accurate accounting of their wealth, but he’d seen enough ledgers between his time in the counting house and as Willie’s financier to make some estimates regarding the number and height of piles of cash they had available.
The conversation then turned to settlements close to the Carpathia/Old Country border, and Sloot noticed that Myrtle was trying to hide a pained expression.
“What’s wrong?” Sloot whispered.
“It’s nothing,” Myrtle whispered back. “It’s just taking all of my concentration to keep Arthur from dissertating aloud about the superiority of socialism, and whether a righteous assembly of the proletariat should rise up against their oppressors and― Stop it! Sorry, he’s leaking out a bit.”
Sloot was suppressing his own urges, namely the ones compelling him to report Arthur’s heresy to Uncle. Simply speaking to Vlad about the height of the money piles of a subject of the Domnitor, long may he reign, made him want to turn himself in. Would this ever get any easier?
“Lord Wilhelm will write his ransom letter,” said Vlad, “assuming he knows how to write.” She looked at Roman and Sloot.
“I couldn’t say,” said Sloot. “The wealthy of Salzstadt are usually well-educated, but I’ve never actually seen him do it.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Roman. “I know how ransom letters go, anyway. I’ll make sure it has the right hint of desperation.” He stood, bowed to Vlad, and left.
In a peculiar lapse in standard Carpathian meteorology, the clouds parted in the early afternoon and a glorious sunny day slipped past them. Everyone else was otherwise occupied, so Sloot and Myrtle took the opportunity to visit The Witchwood.
Long before Carpathia and the Old Country had erected enormous walls, invented taxation and generally complicated the concept of human existence, there were witcheries all over the place. Wherever a witch makes a circle of stones and starts yelling at other people to leave her alone is a witchery. There are very few of them around now, or at least very few that most people are able to find without doing a bit of scrying, or maybe having a cousin who knows someone. Witches are, among other things, professional introverts. They usually throw up wards to interfere with people’s ability to see their witcheries when they become too popular. The bar is often set and met at the appearance of their first customer.
This makes the Witchwood something of a rarity. It’s the oldest―and only―known witchery in Carpathia, having been in continuous operation since before the Year of Reckoning. Upon completing their apprenticeships, witches who take over operation of the Witchwood are those rare gregarious ones who enjoy things like making eye contact with people and engaging them in conversation. Beyond that anomaly, the Witchwood had everything that one would expect to see in such an enchanted place: talismans of feather and bone hanging from the trees, otherworldly fog clinging to the ground, ethereal flashes of eyes and teeth in the corners of one’s vision.
Nicoleta had mentioned that the witch who currently ran the place was named Agather. There was no one else there, so Sloot assumed she was the old crone with the pointy black hat.
“Don’t be shy, dearies,” said Agather, not taking her attention off the cauldron she was stirring. Sloot hesitated. He hadn’t thought he’d come across as shy, but had he? Perhaps something about his regular walk betrayed an innate hesitation. He’d always thought that Willie affected silly walks because the ridiculously wealthy had nothing better to do with their time, but maybe there was something else?
“I said don’t be shy.”
“Sorry,” said Sloot. He caught up to Myrtle.
“And what brings ye to The Witchwood, Sloot Peril?”
“How did you know my name?”
“I didn’t,” said Agather. “Not really, until just now.”
“A very clever guess, then.”
“A witch never guesses,” said Agather. It was a lie, of course, but Agather had guessed that Sloot wouldn’t know that. “The future becomes clearer the closer it gets. This morning, I knew someone would come. After breakfast, I knew it would be two of ye. A minute ago, I knew it would be ye in particular, and just before my mouth started to make the shape of your name, it was made clear to me.”
“That’s incredible,” said Myrtle.
“Thank you, Arthur. Unusual name for a woman, isn’t it?”
“My name’s Myrtle.”
“Nice try,” said Agather. “Ye’re too young to be a Myrtle. Plus, yer name’s Arthur.”
“No, my name’s Arthur.”
“Ah, I see. Bad luck that. Hard to sleep when ye’re possessed by a philosopher. Wait, ye really are named Myrtle!”
“That’s the part you find surprising?”
“That’s a reserved name for the elderly! I just renamed a ‘Lily’ to ‘Pearl’ last month, and a ‘Timmy’ to ‘Murray’ the month before that. Can’t get on with being old if yer named ‘Timmy,’ can ye?”
“I suppose not.”
“Yer parents were frugal, I’ll give them credit for that, but witches have to eat, you know.”
“Sorry,” said Myrtle. “I’ll bring you any hexes I need done, shall I?”
“There’s a good
girl,” replied Agather with a smile. “So what’ll it be? I can do fortunes if ye believe in that sort of thing. Also dentistry, midwifery, livestock exorcisms, and there’s a special on talismans if ye’ve prebottled yer own blood.”
“Do you sell brooms?” asked Myrtle.
“Of course I do,” said Agather. “Ye’re a tall one, what are ye, a number seven?”
“W-what?” Sloot’s look of abject terror coaxed a cruel sort of grin from Myrtle, the likes of which one would expect to see on that strange kid who lives a few houses down and has an alarming collection of fireworks.
“Relax,” she said. “Anyone can buy a broom in Carpathia, or so I’m told.”
“Truth,” said Agather. “Oh, then ye must be from the Old Country! How fortunate that ye’ve managed to defect.”
“Defect? Never!” Sloot wasn’t about to add defection to the list of heresies he’d committed against what may or may not still be his mother country. He was still considering his next move and had not yet removed his finger from the piece.
“Ye poor dear,” said Agather, “I imagine that after living in a cage for most of yer life, all of this freedom must seem rather frightful. That tree over there’s got a hollow in it that ye’d just fit into, if ye need to collect yerself.”
“The Old Country isn’t as bad as all that.” Myrtle shrugged. “Though I must say it’s refreshing, not having people follow you around taking notes.”
It seemed to Sloot that Carpathians were very fond of telling lies to their children about the Old Country. He hadn’t really expected anything less, not from a culture where etiquette is only taught so that people can intentionally use the wrong forks when eating their murder victims raw.
Agather wasn’t all bad, though. She took a few measurements from Myrtle, stripped a nice oak branch, and started making her a broom. It was a slow day, what with Carpathian witches doing nothing to abate the common belief that direct sunlight causes them to burst into flames. Witches don’t like having to resort to magic for every little thing, so when superstition offers to do the heavy lifting, they don’t argue.
“There ye are.” Agather smiled at the gold coins in her hand. “Keep that handy if ye find yerself back in the Old Country. Yer goblins won’t stand a chance.”
“It just isn’t right,” muttered Sloot.
“Well ye wouldn’t think so, would ye? All that brainwashing they do to ye poor sods.”
“It’s just … brooms are supposed to be for weddings! It makes them less special if anyone can just go and buy one.”
“A broom is a wonderful thing,” said Agather. “Why would it bother someone that someone else has one?”
“It just does,” Sloot replied.
“That’s no reason to keep someone else from having one,” said Agather with a shrug.
“I heard witches can fly on brooms,” said Myrtle.
“Oh yes,” said Agather, who was taken at her word. “But that’s years of practice and lessons, not for a fledgling sweep such as yerself.”
“No,” blushing, Myrtle gave a wave, “I wouldn’t even presume to try.” After a pause, she made her although face.
“But won’t it cause goblins,” questioned Sloot, “giving a broom to an unwed woman?”
“Not in Carpathia, it won’t,” said Agather. “Tell me, has it ever done so down south?”
“As far as I know, it’s never been attempted. Why risk the goblins?”
“The better question would be why not risk the goblins? Think about it! If goblins are such an affront to yer Domnitor, why not put a broom in the hands of every man, woman, and child? Even if doing so causes a few goblins to turn up, everyone is armed!”
Sloot opened his mouth to accuse Agather of blasphemy, but was blasphemy supposed to make so much sense? Anyone in Carpathia can buy a broom, and there are no goblins in Carpathia.
Sloot said a swear word.
“Sloot!” Myrtle raised her broom high, looking all around for goblins, but none appeared.
Agather laughed. “For a silver, I can teach ye much better cussing than that.”
They spent the rest of the day walking through the streets of Ulfhaven. Myrtle kept her broom over her shoulder, strutting around like one of the Salzstadt city watchmen with their long pikes. The afternoon sun eventually got bored and wandered off, and they returned to the castle. Myrtle seemed singularly interested in seeing Sloot’s apartment, for reasons that Sloot’s complete lack of experience with women failed to make clear to him.
She started kissing him the moment the door closed behind them, then stopped abruptly and gave a groan of disapproval.
“It’s the cost of freeloading in the mind of a woman,” said Myrtle in agitation, while staring at the ceiling. “No, you haven’t got rights! Those are for the living! Sorry, Sloot, give me a minute?”
Sloot nodded, at once disappointed and grateful for the momentary reprieve. He was worried that the kissing before may have been a one-time thing, yet it seemed to be about to happen again! The only problem was his unrelenting certainty that he was sure to fail at it somehow, either by not knowing what to do with his hands, or perhaps his lips would spontaneously become ticklish.
The potion! While Myrtle was giving Arthur what for, he could sneak a sip. He’d be sure to not miss her face with his!
He walked over to the bookshelf in a way that he thought would seem casual, worrying the entire time that he would instead look as though he were trying very hard to seem casual. This was exactly the sort of reason he needed the potion!
He reached behind the books, felt around, and … nothing.
Gone! The potion was gone! Myrtle had just finished yelling something at Arthur about exorcisms, and then she was smiling at Sloot. He felt the familiar grip of panic at his throat.
There was a knock at the door.
“Sloot! Are you there?” came a woman’s voice, muffled by the thick wood of the door.
“Yes!” shouted Sloot, a bit too eagerly. He didn’t know if that was why Myrtle was wrinkling her brow at him, or if it was just that another woman was knocking on his door unannounced. He could not fathom how he was going to survive whatever was about to happen.
The door opened, and Nicoleta burst in. Her cape sent up a shower of sparks.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” Nicoleta stopped and gaped at Myrtle. “And you, too, Myrtle!” She shook her head to chase off the scandalous grin.
“What’s going on?” asked Sloot.
“You both need to come with me,” said Nicoleta. “It’s Roman! He’s fine, but we’ve got big trouble!”
Flight of the Dandy
Sloot had been dragged into dungeons twice in his life: once by Mrs. Knife’s goons, and again by the Lebendervlad. Historically speaking, they had not been happy visits. He had a sinking feeling that this time would be no exception, but followed Nicoleta and Myrtle down the dark stairwell nonetheless.
“This way,” said Nicoleta, “Roman’s waiting.”
Why would Roman be waiting for them in the dungeon? Sloot racked his brain for a sensible answer but came up empty. He’d have to settle for the old-fashioned practice of waiting for things to happen in due course, the bane of the worrier’s existence.
“Took you long enough,” said Roman from up ahead, in the vicinity of a torchlit glow. Sloot wondered how he’d known it was them, somehow having forgotten that he was following the most flamboyant wizard in Carpathia. She was wearing her comet robes, which bore a sufficient rating to warn ships away from craggy outcroppings on moderately foggy nights.
“What happened to you?” asked Myrtle. One of Roman’s eyes was swollen shut, and the side of his face was all purple.
“Willie happened,” said Roman. “When I went to get his signature on the ransom note, he blindsided me with a chair leg! When I woke up, I was locked in his rooms, and he was g
one.”
“Willie hit you?” exclaimed Sloot. “I wouldn’t think he’d even know how! It’s not fashionable to fight your own battles, not with his crowd.”
“He didn’t seem himself.” Roman sneered at Sloot. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said he seemed rather more heroic than usual.”
Sloot’s eyes went wide. The hero’s potion!
“But how would Willie have gotten it from my room? He was locked up, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” said Roman, “you tell me! Been up to visit him? Maybe you had it with you, just in case you got nervous?”
“I didn’t! Honestly, I don’t even know where Willie’s room is! I haven’t seen him since the throne room.”
Roman shifted his gaze to Nicoleta.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I only made the one potion, and Sloot had it last.”
“Never mind,” said Roman. “We’ll figure it out later, now we’ve just got to find him.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Myrtle. “It couldn’t possibly have been the exceedingly clever philosopher, the brains of the bunch. Why would he have motives the likes of which no one could foresee?”
“You got something to confess?” asked Roman.
“Sorry,” said a distinctly more Myrtle-ish Myrtle. “He feels left out.”
“I’ve got to go,” interjected Nicoleta. “I’ll stall Vlad for as long as I can, but she’s going to go berserk when she finds out. Possibly literally, she minored in berserking in college.”
“Really?” asked Myrtle. “I mean, I know she’ll be miffed about losing her hostage, but―”
“He’s got Greta,” said Roman.
“What? Are you sure?”
“We can’t find her anywhere,” said Nicoleta. “A sip of hero’s potion and I wouldn’t put it past Willie to knock a few heads, grab the girl he thinks he loves, and head south as fast as possible.”
“Oh dear,” said Sloot. “When Vlad finds out―”
“She won’t,” said Nicoleta. “She mustn’t! She’s grown quite fond of Greta, and I have no doubt she’d ride south on her own to rescue her.”
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