by Den Patrick
‘I am Boyar Sokolov,’ said the man. ‘I understand the Empire killed your uncle.’ Steiner nodded again. Not trusting himself to speak. ‘We have much in common. The Emperor killed my son, Dimitri.’
‘And you came all this way in the dead of night to tell me this?’
‘I have information that may help you,’ said the Boyar. He retook his seat and gestured to Steiner to do the same. A tankard had been set out for both of them, though Steiner had no desire to drink as he sat down.
‘We lost three men tonight,’ said Steiner. ‘I saw dragons attack Volkan Karlov himself, and even that wasn’t enough. Without the Ashen Blade this is all for nothing.’
The Boyar nodded. ‘What if I could tell you how to reach the Emperor’s office undetected? What if I could show you a secret way underneath the Imperial Court?’ He lifted the tankard and drank, draining half the vessel before setting it down.
‘You’d tell me something that important to avenge your son, would you?’ Steiner tapped one blood-rimmed index finger against the side of his tankard.
‘For my son, I would do far more and far worse.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ruslan
It is perhaps difficult for a simple member of the common folk to imagine, as they are often too preoccupied with simple survival, but the nobility of Vinterkveld are more obsessed with honour and prestige than they are with money. Their histories and victories are more precious to them any gems, their portraits and tapestries more valuable than a vault of gold.
– From the memoir of Drakina Tveit, Lead Librarian of Midtenjord Province
Ruslan stood a dozen feet from the table, finding a shadow to linger in. There were plenty to choose from and silence lay all around, feeling as thick as fresh snow. The cooking smells of the inn had faded, leaving only old beer and the sour reek of working men’s bodies, now gone home to their beds. The innkeeper had extinguished the lanterns now that Steiner and his people had returned, and the sun had yet to rise. A lone candle provided what little illumination there was. Boyar Sokolov sat with a grim expression, looking for all the world like the statue of the previous Boyar, long dead and just as stony. Ruslan stared at the man on the other side of the table, the most wanted man in the Empire. He wasn’t much to look at: wiry rather than muscular. Every inch of his skin displayed a fine tracery of pale scars. Steiner Vartiainen was a boy in a man’s world, Ruslan decided, a boy stumbling into a trap crafted by the Emperor and laid by his master. Neither of the seated men spoke as footsteps sounded on the stairs. Ruslan stifled a curse; the meeting was interrupted before it had begun.
‘A little early for beer, isn’t it?’ A woman drifted through the inn. She was somewhere in her forties, with strong features and dark brown hair caught in a simple ponytail at the nape of neck.
‘We already have drinks,’ said Boyar Sokolov, his voice a deep rumble amid the silence. He shooed the woman away with a dismissive gesture.
‘I’m not here to serve you,’ said the woman, taking a seat beside Steiner. ‘I’m his aunt, you old fool.’
Ruslan swallowed as his nerves got the better of him, unaccustomed to hearing anyone speak to the Boyar in such a way.
‘I have no need to speak with you,’ said Sokolov, smoothing down his moustaches. ‘I came to speak to the dragon rider. Sit somewhere else.’
The woman lifted her hand and the Boyar was wrenched out of seat and slammed against the wall behind him.
‘I was once Matriarch-Commissar Felgenhauer.’ The Boyar’s eyes widened in shock. ‘You may have heard of me.’ She relaxed her hand, leaving the old man gasping. ‘I sit where I gods-damned please, old man.’
‘Shall we try and have a conversation without killing each other?’ said Steiner, irritation plain to hear. ‘Usually I have Kristofine around to make negotiations go smoothly, but …’ He clenched his jaw.
‘I meant no offence,’ said the Boyar.
‘We’re all here for the same thing,’ continued Steiner. ‘We all want the Emperor dead.’ He sat down and leaned towards Boyar Sokolov with a tired yet grave expression. Ruslan had thought that Steiner Vartiainen would be nothing less than a berserker barely able to speak, yet here he was appealing for calm. ‘What is it you know that can help us?’ asked the dragon rider quietly.
‘I have learned of a secret way into the Imperial Court,’ whispered the Boyar.
The former Matriarch-Commissar gave a dismissive snort and shook her head. ‘We just tried a secret way into the Imperial Court,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t so secret,’ said Steiner. ‘We lost three men and one more was injured. If I didn’t know better I’d say they were waiting for us.’
‘It is not inconceivable the Emperor had a moment of foresight,’ added Felgenhauer. ‘His powers in four schools of the arcane are considerable.’
‘I know nothing of arrangements at the palace,’ said the Boyar. ‘Nor how many soldiers or Vigilants the Emperor has at his command.’
‘We always knew we’d run into resistance,’ said Steiner. ‘Heading through the courtyard was a mistake.’
‘During the war against the dragons there were a great many deaths,’ said the Boyar, interrupting Steiner and Felgenhauer’s reflections on the failed attack. ‘It often took a hundred men to kill a single dragon. Many soldiers wanted their dead comrades to be remembered as heroes and the Emperor was keen to do anything he could to appease his men. Most of the soldiers who died were buried in war graves around the outskirts of Khlystburg, but the greatest heroes were interred in catacombs beneath the Imperial Palace itself.’
‘I’ve never heard of any such catacombs,’ said Steiner.
‘It was the Emperor’s intention that the people could come to pay their respects and be inspired by such noble sacrifice,’ continued the Boyar. ‘But the people, far from being inspired, were horrified by how many corpses were transported back to Khlystburg. The city folk began to doubt the Emperor could ever win the war and began to despair. It was then that the Emperor sealed off the catacombs and used them as a place to research the arcane.’ The Boyar lifted his tankard and took a draught.
‘Which is why there’s a direct route from the catacombs to the office below his bed chamber,’ said Felgenhauer.
‘The office where he keeps the Ashen Blade,’ added Steiner.
‘I know where the entrance to the catacombs is hidden,’ the Boyar went on. ‘The Emperor had a warehouse built in front of the great gates so people would forget about it, but I did not forget. I have ancestors buried in that place.’
‘And what is it you want for such a piece of information?’ said Steiner.
‘Revenge,’ said the Boyar, and his voice almost broke as he said the word. ‘Perhaps you have not heard, but my son, Dimitri, was slain by the Emperor’s own hand in the Imperial Court.’ The Boyar swallowed; then he cleared his throat, struggling to get the words out. ‘He was put down like a dog on false charges, bringing our line, our good name, our entire province into disrepute.’ The Boyar leaned across the table. ‘I will not tolerate it. The Sokolov line has ever been decent and loyal. No longer. This insult cannot go unpunished.’
‘Why not go yourself?’ said Felgenhauer, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms. ‘A secret route, a few trustworthy men—’
‘I am an old man,’ interrupted the Boyar, sounding irritated. ‘And the Emperor’s powers are unfathomable to one such as I, assuming he has arcane powers like your own.’
‘He invented the Synod,’ replied Felgenhauer. ‘It’s not just the Vigilants that have been hiding their powers from the common folk all this time; Volkan Karlov has too. And he’s had seventy years to perfect the art.’
Outside a bell tolled with urgency and Steiner lurched to his feet. He and Ruslan approached a window together and found themselves looking at a dark shadow in the early morning.
‘Bittervinge,’ whispered Steiner. Ruslan felt a pang of fear pass through him. The Boyar and Felgenhauer joined them, watching t
he dragon attack the city, plumes of fire illuminating the pale grey and paler blue of the dawn skies.
‘While the Emperor’s eyes watch above for his old adversary, you may attack him from below.’ The old man coughed a moment and drew in a wheezing breath. ‘He will never see you coming, Steiner Vartiainen, and you can avenge your uncle, save your father, save all of us from this tyranny.’
Ruslan watched expressions chase one another across Steiner’s face. Doubt, hope, willingness, then doubt once more.
‘Tell us what you know,’ said Steiner, his eyes darting back to the window. Bittervinge had moved on to terrorize some other part of the city. ‘This had better be good. I can’t end this bastard without the Ashen Blade. I need to know where he keeps it.’
‘No one wants the Emperor dead more than I,’ said the Boyar once more.
There was no question that Bittervinge’s attacks on the city were harrowing, the plumes of smoke and the sounds of screaming were testament to that, but the terror was mercifully short. Ruslan surmised the dreadful creature was feeding where he could before fleeing north again, beyond the reaches of the Vigilants and the Emperor.
‘It can only be a matter of time before he’s regained his strength,’ muttered Ruslan as he watched the winged monstrosity head towards the horizon.
‘Perhaps he will kill both Steiner and the Emperor,’ said the Boyar quietly. ‘And we can return to Vend and put this dreadful business behind us.’
Ruslan said nothing, but on the long walk back to their apartments a feeling blossomed, then flourished and persisted. Steiner Vartiainen had not been the man he had expected; and more than that, Ruslan found he admired him.
‘I expect that fiend Zima will be waiting for us the moment we step through the door,’ growled the Boyar as they strode down the street. Ruslan could feel the impatience radiating off the man. They reached the door to the guest house just as three noblewomen dismounted from a carriage.
‘Friends of yours?’ asked the Boyar with a sneer. Clearly Ruslan had failed to hide his dismay.
‘It’s the gardener!’ said the young noblewoman with a fan. The laugh that followed it was alive with a vicious glee. The dour-faced noble in the purple dress glowered at Ruslan.
‘How wonderful.’
The brunette noblewoman smiled and opened her mouth to speak before remembering herself. ‘My lord.’ She dropped a small curtsey to the Boyar. ‘I have not had the benefit of introduction. I am Lady Odessine Temmnaya.’
The Boyar took the hand that was offered and pressed it to his lips. ‘I have heard of you,’ he replied with a glimmer of his old wolfish charm. ‘The Jewel of Virolanti Province. You have quite the reputation.’
Lady Odessine flicked a pleased look over her shoulder at her friend in the purple dress. ‘And are you some great but sorely overlooked hero of the Empire, my lord?’ she replied smoothly, still holding the Boyar’s hand.
‘Once perhaps, if only through my long association with the throne. I am Boyar Augustine Sokolov of Vend Province.’
Lady Odessine snatched her hand back as if she had been scalded. The younger noblewoman dropped her fluttering fan, while the sour-faced companion adopted a look of shock. A silence insinuated itself between the two parties, a silence loaded with surprise, disgust, and not a little curiosity.
‘These three good ladies found me in the Imperial Gardens while I was waiting for you, my lord,’ said Ruslan, desperate to fill the void with words.
‘I will not detain you any longer,’ replied Boyar Sokolov. ‘Good day to you.’ He slunk to the door of the guest house and slipped inside, leaving Ruslan staring at three noblewomen, uncertainty stifling thought and word.
‘It seems I underestimated you,’ said Lady Odessine. She cast another appraising glance at Ruslan as if he were a horse at market and stepped closer. ‘Would you care to join us for tea?’ Ruslan couldn’t swear to it, but he was sure there was a hint of alcohol on her breath. ‘Or perhaps something stronger?’
‘I should attend to my lord.’
‘That you should, but we will be in our rooms all afternoon should you change your mind.’ She stepped closer still and whispered her room number into his ear. Ruslan shivered, then blushed, then tripped up the steps as he hurried inside.
The Boyar was in no mood to be attended. The Boyar was in no mood at all, and so he dismissed Ruslan with the strict instruction to wrestle some measure of joy from the wretched city before everything burned to the ground. Ruslan, who had never been overly burdened with an imagination, found himself knocking timidly on Lady Odessine’s door.
‘Just for tea,’ he whispered to himself. Perhaps the Boyar’s mood would improve if some gossip from court could be gleaned. The door jerked open, startling Ruslan, who had been lost in his thoughts. Before him stood the noblewoman in the purple dress, though she had forgone her usual attire for a silk robe in the same colour. She struggled to focus on him for a moment and then sighed.
‘Oh. It’s you. I suppose you’ve come to rut with my sister.’
‘I’m just here for the tea, actually,’ replied Ruslan. The noblewoman smiled.
‘The tea is very good,’ she said with a slight slur to her words. ‘I’m Alena. You’d best come in.’
Ruslan dutifully followed and almost stumbled as he crossed the threshold. The suite had been surrendered to chaos. Dinner plates with half-eaten food littered a table long enough to seat eight. A decanter of wine had been emptied and lay on its side like a fallen soldier. Clothes, shoes, and cutlery were strewn across the floor, other forgotten casualties. The remains of shattered wineglasses crunched under Ruslan’s boots while candles burned in lanterns of coloured glass, lending a dreamlike quality to the scene.
‘Have you been ransacked?’ he asked in a shocked whisper.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Alena. ‘Very thoroughly.’ She snorted an unladylike laugh behind her hand before composing herself.
‘I could clear this up for you,’ said Ruslan, every inch the dutiful aide.
‘No, no. Come through to the bedroom.’ Alena said this casually over her shoulder, as if entering a married noblewoman’s chamber was of no matter. ‘We’re chasing the dragon.’ Ruslan wondered if she too had been drinking, like her sister.
‘Why would you want to chase a dragon?’ asked Ruslan, although he realized he was probably missing some deeper meaning. Alena ignored him and pushed through double doors that led to a bed-chamber every bit as disordered as the suite.
‘Oh! How exciting!’ The young noblewoman was lying flat on her back with her head hanging off the end of the bed. Ruslan wondered why she would want to stare at the darkened room upside down. The odd candle penetrated the gloom here and there.
‘That’s Natasha,’ said Alena, crossing the room to a high-backed leather armchair and slumping into it. Ruslan watched with fascination as Odessine emerged from the shadows with an elaborate pipe in one hand. She crawled up on to the bed in a nightshirt which had been ripped from hem to hip on one side.
‘I’ll get to you shortly,’ she said in a businesslike tone, before straddling Natasha and taking a deep breath of smoke. She took a moment to set down the pipe and gently exhaled into Natasha’s open mouth in a gross parody of a kiss. The two women dissolved into helpless laughter, becoming a tangle of limbs.
‘Is that chasing the dragon?’ asked Ruslan.
Alena looked over to the bed and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d very much say they’ve caught it.’ Odessine and Natasha exchanged another kiss, with decidedly less smoke and more contact.
‘You may have missed your chance,’ said Alena. She pointed to the seat opposite. ‘Sit.’ Ruslan did as he was told, unable to tear his eyes from the noblewomen on the bed. He had never seen anything like it. ‘So you’re the aide to a disgraced Boyar, no doubt looking for employment in another household to avoid being dragged under by the scandal.’
‘I’ve been with the Sokolovs my whole life—’
‘That might be painfully
true if the Emperor executes both of you.’ Alena was now smoking from her own pipe, which was smaller than Odessine’s.
‘That won’t happen,’ said Ruslan, his eyes now firmly fixed on Alena. ‘Reparations are under way.’
The noblewoman smoothed down her silk robe, sat forward in her chair and shook her head in disbelief. ‘You’re actually loyal to the old bastard. And an optimist.’ She smiled. ‘How charming. I thought your kind had died out with the Spriggani.’
‘Some of the Spriggani still live,’ said Ruslan, but it was clear Alena wasn’t interested. She was loading her pipe with some sort of resin. Odessine and Natasha were focused exclusively on each other and Ruslan decided it was time to depart. He stood slowly, taking one last look around the near-ruined bed-chamber.
‘How much does it cost?’
‘How much does what cost?’ mumbled Alena.
‘All of it. The suite, the clothes, chasing the dragon …’ He gestured around.
‘Who knows? Our husbands pay for our entertainments with the taxes they claim from the peasants. It’s only fair. If we have to suffer this intolerable boredom we should at least have some fun.’
‘Taxes,’ repeated Ruslan. He slowly made his way through the debris of the suite, and with every step he grew more certain that it would be no bad thing if the Empire failed. Would it be so terrible if Steiner succeeded and put an end to a deathless Emperor and his scores of idle and debauched underlings? Ruslan closed the door to the suite and forced the images of what he had seen from his mind.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Streig
The Ashen Gulf, as it was named at the end of the war with the dragons, is an important feature of Vinterkveld. Slavon, Vend, Novgoruske, and Midtenjord Provinces all trade with each other by ship. Weather conditions in the gulf are frequently favourable so the danger to shipping is slight. The return of the dragons changed this dramatically. Many of the young dragons freed from Vladibogdan fled the continent for other lands. Some were rumoured to have taken themselves out to sea, where they lived on small rocky islands, content in their solitude. A handful of the younger dragons remained; the most famous are Namarii, Flodvind and Stonvind, of course. These dragons helped change the fate of Vinterkveld and entered into legend with their brave and daring skirmishes.
