by Den Patrick
‘I hope you asked me to stand beside her,’ he muttered to himself as he crossed Academy Square. ‘Or this will be the most short-lived disguise in the history of the Scorched Republics.’ He sweated despite the cold and clank-clanked across the square. ‘Frøya keep me close,’ he whispered, taking a position a few feet behind the Matriarch-Commissar. He had no time to feel anxious, as the soldiers at the gatehouse snapped a crisp salute, closely followed by all the soldiers in the square. All except Steiner, who remembered a second too late. Only Marozvolk noticed, giving him a hard stare from the snarling wolf mask.
There was no question the black-clad soldiers had escorted someone and Steiner blinked when she appeared, stepping out from the shadow of the gatehouse with an easy confidence. This was the Envoy Silverdust had spoken of judging by her gown: a blue so vivid he’d never seen its like before. The fabric was not the familiar weight of wool, nor was it canvas or leather. There was a shimmer to it that drew the eye. The way it clung to the curves of her body brought heat to Steiner’s already ruddy cheeks. A belt of delicate gold links hung low on broad hips, while a dagger lay in a filigreed sheath across her backside. It was the stole of winter fox that seized Steiner’s attention above all else. That the stark white fur contrasted with the brilliant blue was cause enough, but the fox’s head remained attached. The eyes staring from the vulpine face were glassy and unfocused. Steiner wrinkled his nose in disgust, glad the helm hid his revulsion.
Felgenhauer descended the steps from Academy Voda and bowed, one hand on the pommel of her sword. To Steiner’s surprise the next words that graced the air were in Nordspråk.
‘I do so hate coming so far north,’ said the Envoy. ‘Such a dour climate. And the sea! Have I expressed to you quite how much I dislike life aboard ship? So cramped, no privacy, no luxury. And the smell!’
‘We all must play our parts, Envoy,’ replied Felgenhauer, her voice steady, but Steiner thought he detected a note of wariness. ‘The will of the Emperor must be obeyed,’ continued the Matriarch-Commissar, ‘even by those of us who enjoy a long leash.’ Both of the women were speaking loud enough for all to hear. A duel then, not of blades or the arcane, but influence and wit.
‘It is indeed the Emperor’s will that I journey here,’ replied the Envoy. ‘And I come from him directly at Khlystburg.’ Her accent was not one Steiner could place; perhaps she’d lived in Svingettevei once, or Vannerånd. There was no mistaking her tone. Arrogant. Bored. ‘This is no simple errand, one does not simply despatch an Envoy on whim.’
‘No,’ agreed Felgenhauer, her grip tightening on the sword. ‘I myself have never despatched anyone on a whim.’
Steiner couldn’t miss the note of challenge in Felgenhauer’s voice, nor the Envoy’s response; a mocking smile and raised eyebrow.
‘It has been some time since I walked Academy Square,’ said the Envoy, looking up to the novices from where they looked down from their dormitory windows. She gave a broad smile and a slow wave. ‘And what long and terrible years they were.’
Shirinov stepped forward from the shadow of Academy Zemlya, tottering down the steps. The cane clattered on the cobbles until he had interposed himself between the two women. Khigir followed, ever the faithful shadow, the tongues of fire flickering weakly at his boots.
‘How fares the most beloved Emperor, Envoy de Vries?’ said the hunched Vigilant.
‘Shirinov,’ purred the Envoy. ‘There you are. And so formal. Please, you know better than that. Call me Femke. I, unlike you, have no need for masks and epithets.’
A moment of awkward silence pulled taut between Envoy and Vigilant, Shirinov’s shoulder’s hunching a little higher. Steiner imagined he was seething.
‘We hunger for news of the Empire,’ said Shirinov, the silver mask ever smiling. ‘We are cut off from so many things on Vladibogdan.’
‘Hungry?’ said the Envoy. ‘I daresay you are. And what do you hunger for the most from the Empire?’
Shirinov turned to one side, one hand gesturing. ‘Why, its culture, its food, its influence.’ A pause. ‘Its discipline.’
‘Yes.’ Femke de Vries drifted around Academy Square as if conducting an inspection, stopping at soldiers every so often. She brushed snowy ash from a soldier’s pauldron with a petulant tut. ‘The Empire does not forget those who remain out of sight, even here, on Vladibogdan.’ She moved from one soldier to another, moving closer to Steiner. ‘The Emperor keeps those souls in mind, perhaps most keenly of all.’ The Envoy raised her eyes to the fiery statue. ‘And when the Emperor’s mind is turned to something, when the Emperor hears a thing that rouses his curiosity …’ She clasped her hands and shrugged, a girlish smile on her face. ‘Well! The Emperor will not be denied.’
‘What does the Emperor request?’ said Shirinov, dropping to one knee. The cost of such a dramatic gesture made the old man grunt and Steiner smirked. Femke de Vries circled around behind Felgenhauer, up the steps of Academy Voda, drifting closer to Steiner. The dead eyes of the winter fox came closer and Steiner could do little but stare back in sick fascination.
‘The Emperor has heard rumours of mistakes,’ said the Envoy. ‘Whispers reach us that all is not as it should be on the isle of Vladibogdan.’ She stood directly before Steiner, glancing over his armour.
‘The Emperor hears the truth of things,’ said Felgenhauer. ‘There was a mistake concerning a boy. A boy without witchsign. But he’s dead now and the matter is of no importance.’
‘No importance?’ said Shirinov. ‘A soldier and a novice died. More were injured, and we’re employing Shanisrond pirates to ferry our weapons.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Felgenhauer to no avail.
‘And a Troika are dead and missing in Helwick,’ continued Shirinov. ‘If these are not matters of some import then what is?’
‘Truly,’ said Corpsecandle, nodding solemnly.
‘These matters are under control, Envoy de Vries,’ said the Matriarch-Commissar.
The Envoy continued to appraise Steiner, unconcerned by Shirinov behind her. Steiner clenched his arms at his sides, lest his shaking hands betray him.
‘You forget yourself, Matriarch-Commissar,’ said the Envoy, her tone gently chiding. ‘It is for the Emperor to decide what is important and what is not. It is not for us to choose. We are merely instruments.’
‘This is so,’ added Corpsecandle, taking a step forward to beside Shirinov.
The Envoy smiled over her shoulder at Felgenhauer. ‘Which is why you’ll be delighted to learn that the Emperor has invited the Matriarch-Commissar to Khlystburg to explain these occurrences herself.’ The Envoy leaned close to Steiner, so close the sweetness of her perfume made him cough. ‘You really need to spend more time polishing this armour,’ she whispered. ‘You look as if you’ve been beaten to death in it.’ He tried not to think about the dead man who had worn the armour.
‘I would happily come to Khlystburg to make such a report,’ said Shirinov, standing a little taller. Femke de Vries glanced over her shoulder with a malicious smile.
‘No, no, no, my dear Shirinov.’ She slunk down the steps like a cat. Steiner stared after her, transfixed by the dead fox, struggling to believe how close to discovery he had come.
‘The Emperor was very clear,’ continued the Envoy. ‘It must be the Matriarch-Commissar.’
‘But I insist!’ grunted Shirinov.
‘We insist,’ intoned Corpsecandle.
‘You will stay here,’ said Felgenhauer, as she approached Shirinov and towered over the hunched old Vigilant.
‘Indeed he will,’ agreed Femke de Vries. ‘Strange that you and I should agree on something, Matriarch-Commissar.’ The Envoy brought one hand to Shirinov’s smiling mask, touching the chin lightly. ‘The Emperor is keen that you oversee production of weapons in the Matriarch-Commissar’s absence. Weapons made of steel …’ The Envoy raised her eyes to where the novices stared down from the academy windows. ‘And weapons made of flesh.’
Shirinov leaned
on his staff, shoulders slumped. ‘It will be as the Emperor wishes,’ he replied wearily.
‘Very good, Hierarch.’
‘It’s …’ Shirinov cleared his throat. ‘It’s Ordinary now. Since the mistake with the boy.’
‘I see,’ said Femke de Vries, raising her eyebrows in surprise. ‘How the mighty have fallen.’ She extended a hand to the Matriarch-Commissar, and beckoned with one finger, a curiously coquettish gesture. ‘Come, come. We sail immediately. I long to be back on the mainland, away from all this.’ She gestured around the square, her eyes alighting on Steiner once more.
‘It will be some time before you see the Matriarch-Commissar again, Shirinov,’ said Femke de Vries. ‘I do so hope the fates of Vladibogdan rest in safe hands.’
‘We live to serve his will,’ replied Corpsecandle. Shirinov said nothing, shaking his head slowly, clutching his cane. Felgenhauer barked a long string of words in Solska, followed by something else. Ten soldiers, all armed with heavy axes, marched off with purpose.
‘Bringing an honour guard of your own, Felgenhauer?’ Femke de Vries smiled. ‘Quite a bold statement, rebellious even.’
‘No more bold than bringing twenty Semyonovsky Guard to Vladibogdan,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘I hope you asked the Emperor before you borrowed them.’
The Envoy leaned close, as if sharing a secret with a close friend. ‘I had no need to borrow them. The Emperor sent them willingly, Matriarch-Commissar.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Willingly.’
Felgenhauer departed without pause. The Envoy followed and twenty soldiers marched under the arch of the gatehouse. In a daze, Steiner followed, watching them descend the steps, hearing the heavy foot falls. They stood in neat rows for a time and Felgenhauer’s soldiers joined them, bearing stout bags and two wooden chests for the journey ahead. One by one they boarded the ship. Steiner’s heart sank a little lower in his chest as each ascended the gangplank. The relief that Shirinov remained was tempered with the misery that he himself would too. Losing Felgenhauer was merely salt in the wound.
Felgenhauer stood at the prow, looking out to sea, more forbidding than the masthead. Things would be very different without the Matriarch-Commissar on the island. Different for the novices and different for the prisoners. Steiner hoped that Marozvolk or Silverdust might lead in her absence, but it seemed unlikely.
‘You there. What are you doing?’ said a voice beside him. Steiner didn’t need to see the man to know it was Shirinov. He bowed his head as the Vigilant raised his voice, saying something in Solska. Steiner didn’t reply, ignorant of the words and the question the Vigilant had set before him.
‘I asked you a question, soldier,’ said Shirinov, reverting to Nordspråk once again. ‘Did you struggle to understand it? Is it possible you’re not from Solmindre?’
‘I …’ Steiner’s mouth went dry and he dared one last look at the pier. Another ship setting off without him. Another missed opportunity to sail home to Kjellrunn and his father. If only there had been time to slip aboard and stow away among the supplies.
‘Felgenhauer,’ was all he said, a desolate dread filling his chest. The ship cast off and the oars worked in unison to take the Matriarch-Commissar out to sea and back to Khlystburg.
‘And if you are not from Solmindre, then where are you from?’ continued Shirinov.
Steiner lifted the mace from his belt and swung back with a snatched breath of desperation. Shirinov hobbled back and lifted one hand, reminding Steiner of the day he’d first arrived with Maxim, seeing the boy suspended above the cobbles, being crushed to death.
‘That didn’t work so well last time, did it?’ said Shirinov as Steiner tried to swing. A soldier had slipped behind him and grabbed his arm. Steiner turned and kicked the man in the shin before another soldier seized him. The mace was wrested from his grip and more soldiers crowded in. Shirinov stepped forward and lifted the helmet from his head.
‘And in the armour of the man you helped kill,’ said Shirinov. ‘One of these days you will stay dead, Steiner Vartiainen.’ The Vigilant laughed behind the silver mask. ‘And I fear that day is almost upon you now that the Matriarch-Commissar has gone.’
Steiner didn’t need to understand Solska to know what came next.
Take him away.
The soldiers dragged him across the square as the novices jeered and gestured. Steiner caught a glimpse of Aurelian before a soldier wrapped his cloak about his head. It took all of his control not to panic at the crude blindfold as he was led away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Kjellrunn
The Emperor has a deep affinity for familial ties, and their undoing. He is keen to know a subject’s background, education, and siblings. ‘To know a person you must know their family,’ he once said. ‘In this way you can truly hurt someone. It is for this reason, I suspect, he recruits the majority of the Okhrana from orphanages. The Empire becomes their family, their career, their life.
– From the field notes of Hierarch Khigir, Vigilant of the Imperial Synod.
Kjellrunn spent her days as a child of two worlds. The mornings were spent at her chores with brief visits into town, while the afternoons were spent at the woodcutter’s chalet. The days were short this far north as the months drew on, the constant twilight brightening for a meagre handful of hours each day. This was when Kjellrunn hurried to the forest, glad to be free of Marek, who all but fawned over his infrequent customers, desperately grateful for any few coins that came their way.
The Spøkelsea was a dark and turbid green. Rarely at rest, the waves pounded at the pier like a surly drunk. There was much that was surly in the slow crawl of days following the horsemen’s visit to the chalet. Mistress Kamalov most of all. The old woman’s temper was barely concealed, though she was a good deal more talkative than Kjellrunn’s father.
‘Good. Close your eyes. Imagine going down to deep spaces in the earth, through the mud, between the rock, between the stones. Imagine the roots of the trees, so ancient, and all the bodies of the creatures who have died—’
‘Bodies?’ Kjellrunn wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re morbid today. I thought I was trying to turn my body to living stone, not become a shambling corpse.’
‘Fine. No bodies.’ Mistress Kamalov glared. ‘Though I promise, one more interruption and I make a body out of you. A nice shallow grave, not warm but then you will be dead, so you will not care. Yes?’
‘You could just tell me to be quiet.’
‘I would and I have. It rarely works. Now close your eyes and mouth and think, think! Imagine I am coming at you with a knife. Your skin is all that stands in the way of being gutted like a fish. What do you do?’
Kjellrunn knew well she should be able to turn the blade aside by transmuting her pale and fragile flesh to granite, yet somehow the change refused to come. She looked down at her spare frame and found herself thinking of Kristofine. Was mastering the arcane akin to coming into womanhood? How much longer would she have to wait?
Kjellrunn opened her eyes a sliver and found Mistress Kamalov standing so close she flinched backwards.
‘I did not say you could open your eyes!’
‘I am trying.’
‘Yes, trying. Very trying.’
‘Has Kristofine called by today?’ said Kjellrunn, keen to have a moment’s reprieve from her unsuccessful attempts. ‘Perhaps her father has started speaking to her again. Or she’s spying on the Okhrana in the tavern?’
‘Who knows?’ The old woman stalked across the kitchen to where a shallow basket of vegetables waited. ‘Do not think about her, think about stone!’ A deft hand snatched up a carrot and threw it. Kjellrunn tensed, focused. Her hands clenched into fists but she made no move. The carrot impacted from an unseen barrier and flopped to the floor.
‘Good. I was hoping for you to turn skin to stone, but ward is just as good. No matter if it is a carrot or a dagger or an arrow.’
Another carrot followed the first. Again Kjellrunn snatched a breath, forcing herself
not to throw up an arm to shield herself. The carrot stopped a few inches from her chest, then fell to the floor.
‘Good. Try to stop it before it reaches you. Nothing puts fear into an enemy like seeing an arrow snapped in air.’
Kjellrunn waited for Mistress Kamalov’s next task.
‘Now tidy them up.’
Kjellrunn dropped to one knee and reached for the projectiles.
‘With your mind!’ bellowed Mistress Kamalov. ‘Not with your hands, with your mind! Like I teach you day in and day out.’
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Kjellrunn.
‘If you think like a serving girl the world will treat you as a serving girl. Yes?’
Kjellrunn frowned.
‘Do you want to be a serving girl your whole life? Doing your father’s chores? Serving stew and washing dishes? Married off to a lazy pig? Do you want a lazy pig for a husband?’
Kjellrunn shook her head, took a breath and focused her mind. Mistress Kamalov paced the room, tutting her impatience or giving exasperated grunts every so often. Kjellrunn felt the prickly heat of sweat at her brow.
‘Two carrots. I am not asking you to lift an entire galleon from the sea!’
Kjellrunn’s frown deepened. There was a blur of orange followed by a thud-thud and Mistress Kamalov blinked. The carrots had leapt up from the floor and sped across the room, hitting the wall just above the old woman’s shoulder.
‘I … probably shouldn’t have done that,’ said Kjellrunn. Mistress Kamalov stooped, gathering up one carrot in each hand.
‘Our lessons have become more interesting.’ She gave a chuckle and hefted a carrot. ‘Again! And try and hit me this time, serving girl.’
Kjellrunn tensed and threw up a ward as Mistress Kamalov threw the carrot back at her. It was going to be a long afternoon.
‘Hoy there, Kjell,’ said Verner. He was sitting at the kitchen table cleaning under his nails with a folding knife. ‘You’re home late.’
‘That’s a disgusting habit. I wiped that table clean this morning.’
The fisherman swept the grit off the table with a careful hand and discarded it into the hearth amid dancing flames.
