by Mike Truk
Branka’s face paled with fury. “The bastard. It was his plan, his – but nevermind. Not that you’d believe me.” She turned back to him, eyes gleaming. “But the real reason you shouldn’t kill Medved is because doing so will unleash a great ugliness in the forest. An ill will that you’ll never conquer, never overcome. It will grind you down and cast you out if it doesn’t devour you. Medved is… he’s…” She turned to consider the great bear, and her eyes filled with tears. “He’s important. His death would be a greater tragedy than you know.”
Hugh stepped back and lowered his blade. “Be clear. If I’m to spare your lives, I’ll expect straight answers. Who are you that you have this bond with this beast? What is he? How did this come about?”
For a moment Branka bristled at him, but then some inner core of resistance within her broke and she looked down and away. “Everything I’ve told you has been true. My name, my role in the village. I’m nobody special. I can’t cast magic, have no fae blood, can’t summon demons - I just serve good ale. But.”
“But,” said Hugh.
“Medved…he’s been around for a long while.” Branka gently stroked the wounded bear’s head as she spoke, her affection obvious, her tone growing soft. “Longer than I’ve been alive. We were told, growing up, that he was once a cruel Fate Maker. That he punished Erro with punitive taxes and would arrest those who couldn’t pay. Our people dreaded his seasonal visits, and like any petty bureaucrat, he lorded his authority over us to make himself feel more important.”
Medved, as if understanding the gist of the tale, closed his eyes with a sighing moan.
“We were closer to the fae back then. This was before they retreated higher into the mountains. There was a wise woman living in the village who held the title of ‘Ale Wife,’ and she asked the fae for help. They visited Medved while he slept in your imperial estate, and when dawn broke, he’d become a bear. The fae wouldn’t tell us what had happened, but they hinted that he’d failed a test; Medved fled into the woods, but never left Erro altogether. Over the years that followed he became a guardian for the village, always living close by, watching out for us, fighting off the more monstrous threats that would try to attack us.”
Hugh scratched at his jaw. “So he was human, once? Do the Fate Makers know of him? Have you asked the disciplus to take a look?”
Branka shrugged, still running her fingers through the grizzly’s thick pelt, gently scratching him above the ridge of one eye. “He avoids them. Wants nothing to do with them. It’s said they tried in the beginning, but failing that, wanted to kill him for being an abomination. He hid for a long time, till even the people of Erro began to think him a myth, only to return once the Fate Makers had lost interest.”
“And your connection to him? Or does everyone in Erro deal with him?”
Branka gave a wistful smile. “Only me. I was chosen by my predecessor to be the next Ale Wife. I was Little Ivan’s equal in all matters of governance due to my connection to Medved. And before you ask, no, he’s not immortal. And yes, Istlav had heard enough rumors to bring a dozen boar spears with him. He warned me that if I tried to drive him out, he’d kill and skin Medved, and that he and his company would wear his fur as a cloak. And I believed him.”
Hugh studied the giant bear. Medved opened one eye and studied him back, and in those dark, liquid depths Hugh thought he saw a spark of intelligence, of great sadness, that convinced him more than even Branka’s apparent sincerity as to the truth of her tale.
Hugh sheathed his blade. “Very well. I won’t kill him. Or you. Though you both deserve it for attempted murder.”
Branka’s face paled even as she finally turned back to face him. “Thank you.”
“But don’t think we’re done. I’ve much more I wish to learn, but will continue this interrogation back in Erro with my friends. Will Medved heal?”
“Yes. I’ve seen him suffer far worse wounds and recover. Though never… never seen him downed like that by mere punches.” Her expression became overshadowed with awe. “How… I mean, if you’ll pardon me, my lord, what -”
“None of your business.” Hugh turned to glance over the broad valley. “We return to Erro immediately. And don’t forget, Ale Wife. Your life is forfeit. I can and will collect on your debt if I find you less than forthcoming and helpful in any way. Are we clear?”
A band of muscle flared over the joint of her jaw. Branka breathed slowly through her nostrils, the silence drawing out between them, and then bowed her blonde head. “Yes, my lord. Perfectly clear. I’ll do everything I can to please you.”
“Good,” said Hugh. “Medved? I don’t know if you can understand me, but I harbor you no ill will. I mean to help Erro as best I can. I hope the next time we meet, it will be as friends.”
The giant bear roused itself, rose ponderously to its feet so that it towered over Hugh once more. It gave a powerful snort, clawed at the rocky ground once, then turned and lumbered away, moving back into the tree line.
“Now come,” said Hugh. “Back to Erro. There is much I yet wish to learn.”
Chapter Ten
Hugh bid Branka walk a good way ahead of him, so that he could be alone with the specters. Not that he desired to speak with them, but so that she’d not witness his raw emotions as they hectored him from behind, trailing him down the path and calling out for him to stop and turn and face them.
He chose not to.
A few hours later they entered Erro from the north, having not exchanged a word during all that long return, and Branka, without being asked, turned to cross the Upper Bridge and pass the workmen busy fixing the ruined railing to lead him to the imperial estate.
The building was welcoming in the morning light; wildflowers grew beneath the windows and along the high bank, while the once stark paint had weathered and faded away in patches to imbue the building with a softer, more bucolic look. Moss grew thick on the slate roof and ivy spread dark, iridescent leaves across the facade. The shutters were thrown open wide, and Elena stood in the doorway, hair done up with a kerchief, broom in hand, driving out clouds of dust before her.
“Good morning!” she called, but her cheery smile faded quickly. “What happened?
“Let’s talk inside,” said Hugh, passing Branka as her momentum stalled. “The others?”
“Morwyn is training behind the stables. Anastasia’s reading on the second floor.”
“Am I needed?” Anastasia’s voice came from above, followed by the sound of a heavy book being closed and creaking footsteps across the planks. She then appeared, garbed in her elegant navy uniform with gold trim, hair freshly washed and bound back, expression distant and severe as if they were strangers to her.
“Yes. Elena, fetch Morwyn. Branka has much to share with us.”
Elena bobbed in a maid’s curtsy and set the broom aside, moving to a side door. Branka moved to stand uncertainly at the head of the dining table as Anastasia descended the steep stairs, her knee-high boots giving sharp retorts with each step.
“Good morning,” said Hugh, studying her as she approached. Her features were composed, her lips pursed, her gaze distant and detached. As if the intensity of last night hadn’t occurred, as if this were their first meeting, and she nothing more than a disinterested disciplus.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, inclining her head politely. If she had questions she gave no sign of it; instead, she pulled out a chair and sat, interlacing her fingers before her, as calm and poised as a model disciplus could be.
Morwyn strode in the side door, brow gleaming with sweat, shoulder-length black hair bound in a short ponytail, hand resting on the pommel of her sheathed blade. Her gaze raked Hugh like hot pokers, and he inhaled sharply, the memory of last night hitting him like a fist. Felt himself stir beneath his breeches, aroused by both the directness of her gaze and the wicked yet subtle smile that tugged at the corner of her lips.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, reversing a chair so she could cross her arms
over its back as she straddled it. “What’s going on?”
Branka had by this point lost what poise she’d recovered on the march down. She looked ready to flee, her gaze darting from person to person as if trying to guess from which would come a killing blow.
“You were right, Morwyn.” Hugh moved past them all and into the small kitchen, where he took up a bottle of wine and considered it. “Branka and Mirco tried to kill me but a few hours ago and make it look like an accident.”
The sudden scrape of chair legs. Hugh took up a bottle opener and sank the curled prong into the cork. Turned to see Morwyn on her feet, eyes locked on Branka who had taken a step back.
“However, I have forgiven her the attempt.” He twisted the screw around. “She had her reasons, and I believe them to have been sufficiently impersonal that I’m not insulted. Sit down, Morwyn.”
“Sit down?” Morwyn glared at him. “She tried to kill you and you tell me to heel like a dog? She should be bound and -”
Anastasia rapped her knuckles on the tabletop. “Lord Hugh is the presiding source of authority in Erro. If he has forgiven her, then that statement carries judicial weight. I am, however, curious to hear why.”
“And what happened to Mirco,” added Elena softly.
Morwyn pursed her lips and slowly sat.
“Our surmises last night were correct. Salt is being smuggled through the valley. However, Istlav wasn’t an agent of Niestor; it seems there’s a sophisticated operation in place being led by an Aleksandr. I’ve promised to withhold punishment so long as Branka proves cooperative and tells us everything she knows. Her life depends on her impressing me with how helpful she can be. Isn’t that right, Branka?”
“Yes.” Her first word, husky with fear. “I’ve so sworn. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“As for Mirco, our gallant miller fled the moment I knocked out Branka’s bear.”
“Knocked out…” Morwyn trailed off. “You knocked out a bear?”
“Branka owns a bear?” asked Anastasia.
“Let’s begin with Medved,” said Hugh, enjoying their confusion, “and from there proceed to the smuggling operation, detailing everything you know about Aleksandr and his men.” Hugh popped the cork free and filled a cup. Moved around her to sit on a bench set against the wall. “The more questions we’re forced to ask, the less impressed I’ll be.”
Branka took a deep breath, smoothed down the fabric of her blue pantaloons over her thighs, and began. Told them of Medved, the legend of his origins, and how her position of Ale Wife made her his liaison in Erro.
“Ale Wife?” Elena asked, voice bright with amusement, eyebrows raised. “Really? And that’s why you run the tavern?”
“I - yes?” Branka frowned with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
For a moment Elena could only stare at them all in delighted disbelief, and then she covered her mouth and actually giggled, hey eyes gleaming. “That is too rich! Ale Wife!”
Hugh tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Elena? Want to share what’s so amusing?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just something I heard from that wine merchant who’d come through the Rusałka every fall. Remember the man, Lord Hugh? With a penchant for fairy lore?”
Hugh didn’t, but let that pass.
“Anyway, he told the inn a tale once about how in the olden days - I don’t know quite how long ago, but it was before the rise of Mendev - the human settlements had more friendly relations with the fae. And each town would have a wise woman selected to act as their primary go-between, and she was called the Aelf Wife. She would visit the fae court, would relay messages, and ensure that all was well between the two communities.”
Elena grinned, eyes shining with mischief and joy. “Don’t you see? Most towns and cities long discarded the role, but here in Erro it’s persisted, except over the centuries it looks like it devolved into ‘Ale Wife,’ and the wise women went from spiritual leaders of their community to tavern keepers. Oh! It’s too rich. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh.”
Branka frowned. “Aelf Wife? You’re sure?”
Elena gave an easy shrug. “That’s what the wine merchant claimed, and he sounded positive. And it makes more sense, don’t you think? Anyway, such a curse wouldn’t have been cast by a mere fae. Sounds like the work of a Thavma. The curse must have been a truly powerful one to have lasted so long and prolonged his life. Don’t you think, Anastasia?”
“Yes, that sounds fair. And if it happened so long ago, it’s actually quite possible that a Thavma was involved. Before their great retreat. Though all I’ve read of such curses stipulates that the Thavma wouldn’t have cursed Medved unless he failed a test of theirs, and even then they’d have worked an escape clause into the magic. Something he would have to do to break the curse. No lore has come down about him hinting at such?”
Branka shook her head. “Nothing beyond what I’ve told you. And Medved, expressive as he can be, cannot speak, so…”
A thin, vertical line appeared between Anastasia’s brows. “Regardless. Such a matter is academic. The continued existence of a creature like Medved is a clear violation of the Vornovian Creed. We must send word to Lord Annaro and inform the Fate Maker when he arrives for Subrogation Day.”
Branka’s knuckles whitened on the back of a chair. “Destroyed? Lord Hugh -”
“At ease, both of you. There’s much to deliberate before we start sending off messages.”
Anastasia frowned. “What is there to deliberate? The Vornovian Creed is crystal clear. Either we follow its dictates, or we don’t. What are you suggesting, Lord Hugh?”
“I think we all decided on a little flexibility in matters regarding the Vornovian Creed last night,” said Hugh. “Let’s hear everything Branka has to say before making any decisions.” Hugh sipped his wine and leaned back against the wall. “Now. Branka, tell us of Aleksandr.”
“I - yes.” She curled a strand of her wild blonde hair behind an ear. It still fell in twisting strands down over her shoulders, carrying in its curls the ghost of its former braid. “Aleksandr. He appeared two years ago. There’d always been some measure of salt smuggling going on, but it was insignificant compared to what he orchestrated. Before, the occasional peddler would cross the pass, with perhaps a pound of salt hidden under a false bottom in their pack. Aleksandr changed all that. The man’s a brute but I can’t deny his genius for organization and… well. Logistics, perhaps? Supply lines? I don’t know quite what to call it.”
“He’s organized an army?” asked Morwyn, her skepticism clear.
“Of sorts. But not a military one. And this is guesswork on my part, but the sheer amount of salt he’s had coming through the pass is…” She shook her head in wonder. “Incredible. A dozen couriers come through each week, each of them carrying fifty or more pounds of salt. Little Ivan and I used to spend nights trying to understand what that implied. At a bare minimum, he’s got a hundred dedicated couriers working for him, along with the armed men who protect the routes and keep monsters or worse from killing them. But it’s much more impressive than that. To bring that volume of salt up from the coastline without being stopped by Lord Niestor or caught by the Fate Makers is incredible, especially when you consider how he’s been steadily increasing his volume each month over the past two years.”
Anastasia blinked, her expression one of polite disbelief. “You’re saying almost two thousand pounds of salt comes through Erro each month.”
“About, yes. But there’s a flip side to the coin; just as he’s clearly set up an impressive organization across Fraczek, so has he done throughout Stasiek and even into Chirkov beyond. And though Aleksandr appeared only two years ago, Little Ivan was sure he’d been laying his groundwork for a year or two before that.”
Anastasia sat back in her chair, stunned. “The salt tax in Stasiek is fifty-one gold crowns for a hundred pounds of salt. If one assumes Aleksandr is selling his salt for a little less, he’s making… almost ten thousand crowns a
month.”
Nobody spoke as those numbers sank in.
Anastasia’s eyes flicked from side to side as if she were reading an invisible book suspended before her. “Which… explains so much. Salt revenues have dropped so precipitously these past few years that Lord Annaro is considering adopting a mandatory salt purchase from specialized depots, whether our people claim to need the salt or not. His small council has argued against it – I’ve argued against it - as doing so would no doubt stir the people into revolt. We’ve long speculated that salt was being smuggled into Stasiek, but I had thought it dozens if not scores of smaller operations…”
Hugh sipped his wine. “How does Erro benefit from this, Branka?”
The Ale Wife pulled out her chair and sat. “Aleksandr offered Little Ivan a five percent levy on all salt that came through our pass. It’s come out to about five hundred crowns a month, though that sum has gone up and down.”
“Five hundred gold crowns,” said Morwyn, voice flat with disbelief. “What the fuck would you backwater types spend that kind of money on?”
Branka raised her chin. “Restoring buildings, for one. Hiring craftsmen from nearby towns to help rebuild many of the homes and farms that had near fallen to ruin. We created a widow’s fund. But we knew we had to be careful. Spend too much and we’d draw the attention of the Fate Makers. Little Ivan was mulling over the idea of investing our capital in a trading interest in Fraczek. Perhaps a partnership on some merchant ships… we’d not really had time to work out the details.”
Anastasia stood up and began to pace. “This is incredible. Lord Annaro could never have conceived how profitable sending us here would prove.”
“One second,” said Morwyn. “You telling me this Fate Maker Jaroc hasn’t noticed the change in Erro these past few years? Not asked any questions? Just quietly blessed your sudden prosperity as a reward for you all following the burning path?”
Branka stared down at her hands.
Hugh frowned. “Need I repeat her question?”
