Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

Oh, gods, how she screamed.

  The animal shriek buried itself in his bones. Demos helplessly pulled himself across the floor, blinded by the smoke and nearly deafened by the roaring fire, and couldn’t do anything to help her. Then, the flames got to him.

  If the Keeper, who we all spend so much time worshipping, were so merciful, why would he let such innocent people die? Why did he disfigure me, strip me of peace, but leave me alive, the person responsible for the tragedy? I’m the one whose very existence contradicts the heart of study into the Way. The one with the forbidden power of the accursed. Quite the sense of humor the god has. It’s a good thing father didn’t live to see that day—it would have broken his heart.

  The only contact with fire Demos allowed himself was lighting his pipe and candles. Everything else confused and terrified him. And since that day, not a single person in Belter had been condemned to be burned alive despite the protests of the clergy.

  Although, Allantain somehow found out my secret and has me by the balls.

  The treasurer glanced once again at the open scars on his fingers, looked back at the red-hot iron rod…

  I hope Lady Evasye is smart enough to just start talking.

  Just then, the maid came to thanks to a bucket of water dumped over her head. She started shaking once again as soon as she caught sight of the instruments of torture, though this time she at least didn’t faint. Demos let out a curl of smoke.

  “Welcome back, Lady Evasye. You seem to have been quite impressed by the Vagran traditions.”

  The woman stared at the treasurer. Rivulets of water streamed down from her dark hair, her nightgown was drenched and clinging to her plump but still alluring body, and a puddle was forming between her feet.

  “Ask your questions, Lord Demos. I’ll tell you everything,” she said quietly.

  Devaton motioned Ihraz to throw a warm cloak over the maid’s shoulders. Once she was wrapped up, she mouthed a word of thanks.

  “You’ve known the empress since you were little, is that correct?” Demos started.

  “Everybody knows that. I was raised in the palace of her sister, Queen Agala.”

  “And you were close?”

  “As close as friends can be,” the maid replied with a nod.

  “In that case, how would you explain Izara’s sudden decision to leave the imperial palace right after her husband died?” Demos finished smoking and knocked his pipe empty on the edge of the table. “She supposedly headed off for a cloister, though Her Highness was never known for her piety. Why the abrupt change?”

  “She didn’t find it necessary to explain herself to me.”

  Demos narrowed his eyes incredulously.

  “That seems odd, Lady Evasye. You were friends.”

  “There’s nothing odd about it. Ever since I married a Belterian, she’s been cold toward me.”

  “Her Highness lost her trust in you?”

  “I think so. Lately, the empress has been very emotional, constantly mentioning how she can’t trust anyone.”

  If Izara knew about Uncle Margius’ last will, she had every reason to be worried.

  “She didn’t tell you why that was?”

  “No, Lord Demos. Izara closed everyone off and asked me to leave her alone a lot, she was afraid of people following her, and she saw conspiracies everywhere. She even gave orders to replace her taster—she thought the old one was sent by her enemies.”

  Me, not her enemies. We didn’t want to poison her; we just wanted to keep an eye on her.

  Demos rubbed his watering eyes wearily. The night was turning out to be too long, and his migraine was flaring up again.

  “In that case, why don’t you tell me how the empress spent the day before she disappeared?” the treasurer said. “What did she do, who did she talk to? Don’t spare me the details.”

  The maid pulled the cloak tighter and shifted her feet.

  “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She woke up at the usual time, washed up. Then, the girls and I helped her get dressed. The empress picked a dress made of dark blue silk that day since she didn’t have anything more befitting her mourning period. Nobody’d thought to prepare for it.”

  “Got it. What happened next?”

  “We set off together for morning prayers at the palace Shrine. That took more time than usual since the choir had to sing the mourning hymns. Afterward, we headed back to the women’s wing and had breakfast—eggs, bread, cheese with holes, and honey treats with an herb concoction. The empress didn’t go out into the palace that day.”

  “I know,” Demos nodded. “What did she do in her quarters?”

  “She prayed for a long time. I figured that was normal given what happened…”

  “Anything else?”

  Lady Evasye thoughtfully fingered the silver disk decorated with small sapphires hanging around her neck. Noblewomen interpreted for themselves the religious masters’ preaching on asceticism, turning symbols of belief into demonstrations of wealth.

  “Before lunch, she spent time reading religious books. Then, we had stew—”

  “Forget the menu,” Devaton cut in irritably. “I know what Izara had. I’m more interested in what she did.”

  Because she got rid of my spy in time, three days before she made a break for it. How was Izara able to identify her?

  “The tailor stopped by after lunch to take measurements for mourning dresses. The servants brought lots of cloths—silk, velvet, brocade, dark laces… That took a good two hours.”

  She spent two hours picking out cloth for a dress? Why would she do that if she were leaving the next day for a cloister? Unless she didn’t want to give away the game ahead of time…

  “What about after the tailor left?”

  “We all went for a walk in the secret garden. The empress didn’t want to see anyone, and we were there for about an hour.”

  “Did she talk to anyone in the garden?”

  The maid shook her head. “No, she just walked quietly. She picked a bouquet of white flowers and had it placed by the window in her chambers, the one that opens out onto the garden. When we got back, Chancellor Allantain was there, though they talked behind closed doors.”

  I know, and I know what they talked about, too—nothing relevant.

  “Next?”

  “The evening service at the Shrine followed by dinner. Her Highness had quite a bit to eat, though, as usual, she didn’t drink any wine. Just water. That didn’t seem strange to me, either, since she looked pale and worried. The girls and I just assumed that was because she was in mourning… Afterward, Her Highness spent time alone with her religious books and asked us not to bother her. The other maids and I embroidered the mourning ribbons for the farewell ceremony. And then, in the evening, about two hours before bed, the empress received a visit from Master Tillius.”

  Who is that?

  “A cleric visited her?” Demos asked.

  How do I not know him?

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Odett replied with a nod. “He asked for us to leave them alone and talked with her for about half an hour. After his visit, Her Highness was much more at ease. She even smiled a few times.”

  Tillius…this is the first time I’m hearing that name.

  “What happened next?”

  “Bedtime, the evening preparations. Nothing unusual. And that’s what had us so surprised when we didn’t find the empress in her chambers the next morning. I have no idea how that could have happened! The girls were by the doors; the guards patrol the corridors. Someone had to have noticed her.”

  There are ways to temporarily blind people.

  “Did anything disappear along with her?”

  “All her clothes are still there. The only things missing are her wool cloak and her miniature Holy Book with the painting by Brother Varmius, the one the late emperor gave her at their wedding. That’s it.”

  “No money, no jewels?”

  “No. I assure you, I’m just as surprised as you are. Of course,
the book is very expensive, though I think Her Highness took it as a keepsake rather than to sell it.”

  I think I believe Odett. But still, where did that Tillius come from?

  The treasurer cracked his stiff knuckles. His back was tight from sitting on the stool so long, his leg was aching, and he wanted to sleep, or at least get some pashtara to wake him up.

  “Thank you for the information, Lady Evasye. Next time, please don’t make me pull you out of bed and drag you all the way across the palace.”

  “I belong to the empire, and I have no secrets from its rulers.”

  We’ll see about that. It’s what everyone says at the beginning, before unexpected details come to light that make things very awkward for everyone.

  “You’re free to go for now, Odett. With the empress gone from her worldly life and the palace dismissed, you’ll soon be sent back to your husband in Nior. The guards will escort you there once you’ve paid your respects to the late emperor. For your safety, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Even if the maid was less than thrilled with that pronouncement, she didn’t show it in the slightest. “Thank you, Your Grace. You should come visit our very picturesque corner of the world at some point.”

  “Absolutely,” Demos lied as he motioned Ihraz to call the guard.

  In the meantime, we’ll keep an eye on you in case Izara decides to get in touch with an old friend.

  When the maid was gone, the treasurer stood up from the stool, groaned, and hobbled a few steps, massaging his leg. The old wound was particularly sensitive to the weather, to the point that he knew what the temperature was going to be.

  Looks like it’s going to be warmer tomorrow.

  The executioner left with a short bow. Alone with just the two bodyguards, Demos fumbled around in his pocket for a small box.

  Ah, there it is.

  Ever since Demos had gotten to Missolen, he’d made a habit of staying up late, often not sleeping at all. His health had taken a beating for it, too. Things were getting worse with each year he spent in the capital, and he’d been there for five already. Back at the beginning, it took a long time for the burns to heal. The only thing that saved him were the Ennian healers’ potions Lady Eltinia made him take.

  But pashtara was what helped the most, even if Demos realized later that he’d gotten pretty seriously hooked on it. Sedative potions and other drinks didn’t compare to the gray powder smugglers brought directly from the Tirlazan Islands captured by Ennia. The church prohibited it, but Demos couldn’t have cared less about the dogma. Prayers, unlike pashtara, didn’t take away the pain.

  They say overdoing it with this stuff can weaken your mind, bring on blindness, and dull your sense of smell, sometimes even causing strokes and other hemorrhages. But has that ever stopped me before?

  The pashtara helped him, though it was killing him all at the same time. He himself hadn’t noticed how sniffing the powder had become habit. Demos didn’t realize for the longest time how significantly he’d changed under the influence of the narcotic, surrounded as he was by the hostile palace and its constant intrigue. There was no end to the attempts to wrest bits of influence over the scattered lands of the stagnant empire.

  Demos only came face to face with who he’d become when he found himself a ready participant in the capital games, when he realized that he was no longer one of the many figures the nobles bet on. Instead, he was among the crowd placing their bets. A once-foreign game had become his own. And while Demos had spent his first months dabbling in the subtleties of politics in the capital to slake his own interest, one cold evening, when he gave an order to get rid of Count Pirmo, he understood that there was no way back. The carefully planned murder was what told Demos he’d crossed a line.

  Whenever he thought back over everything he’d done throughout the five years he’d spent serving in the palace, Demos couldn’t figure out when exactly he’d gone from being a disconsolate widower to the Burned Lord, a figure casting terror in the hearts of the aristocrats.

  He carefully took a pinch of the light-gray powder, placed it on the back of his hand, and held his breath, slowly bringing his nostril closer before inhaling sharply. Stars flashed in front of his eyes. After blinking, he did the same with his second nostril. Soon, the pain receded.

  But it will be back. It always comes back. The pain is my only constant.

  Chapter 7. The free city Givoi

  The Wicked Monk enjoyed a particular reputation in Givoi. It wasn’t the Bottom, but it also wasn’t among the establishments frequented by the affluent and law-abiding citizenry. The strong Highligland liqueur flowed like water, steam poured out of the kitchen from morning till night, and it was all because Rickety Rinlo, the owner, bet on a target audience who preferred to make and spend their money with ease. There were plenty of people like that in Givoi, and Rinlo had made a fine living for a good ten years already. The income from the tavern had even been enough for him to build a two-story stone guesthouse.

  That evening, the tavern was packed. The owner didn’t notice Artanna walk in at first, though he called out a vociferous greeting when he did see her tousled gray mop.

  “Hey there, Artanna, tired of drinking mercenary wine?”

  “Got that right.” With a crooked smile, the mercenary stepped over to the bar. “Bitter as all get out. Tricky, too—you drink it and drink it, feeling fine, but the moment you stand up… Screw it. Give me some of your Highligland good stuff.”

  “How’s your heroic rump?”

  “Hurts, almost like it took an arrow,” the Vagran woman replied amiably.

  She glanced around the large room in search of her troops. The lower floor was jammed full of suddenly wealthy rabble, all eager to empty their pockets. The tables in front of them were loaded with expensive drinks and food, with cards and dice in equally plentiful supply. Some guy in the corner banged out a popular Gatson tune on a lute. The upper floor, which was shrouded in tobacco smoke, was for the regulars, and therefore much calmer.

  The table of Hundred fighters was farther away from the partying thieves. The latter, right then, were raising their glasses and giving toasts so loud they drowned out the fledgling musician. Tossing Rickety a small silver coin, Artanna grabbed her flask and headed over to her group. It was a surprising one. Besides the usuals—red-bearded Dachs, Baby Shrain, Fester, Yurgen, and Yon—Rianos was sitting at the large oaken table, too. An already-empty cask of ale had been abandoned by one of the benches.

  “What could have gotten so deep under an Ennian’s skin that he stooped to visit a tavern?” Artanna asked with a grin.

  Rianos shrugged.

  “I have to get out of the infirmary once in a while. And you aren’t the only one who gets to drink with good people.”

  “Right you are, it’s been a long time coming.” Artanna pulled a stool over and dropped her flask on the table. Wincing after a particularly out-of-tune chord, she glanced over at the struggling lutenist before looking back at Belingtor. “My ears are about to explode. Cherso, be a dear and show that idiot how it’s done.”

  ***

  Jert was off sitting in his favorite nook on the upper floor. It was a good spot—he had an excellent vantage point from which he could see what was going on below, though he was masked by the shadows on the wall. The local cuisine was as good as ever—they sure knew how to cook in Givoi. Having eaten his fill, he lazily stirred the fragrant stew and took a pull of weak ale, his eyes wandering over the lower floor. The drink went especially well with the slender strips of dried and spiced beef. It was a pricy snack, but one well worth it.

  Gray smoke drifted up to the ceiling from the ever-present pipes. If it weren’t for the thick cloud getting in his eyes, his spot would have been the perfect perch. He sniffed. The rank smell of cheap tobacco mingled with the ticklishly familiar smell of the Ennian variety. It was expensive, too, judging by the mix. Jert placed his cup carefully on the table to better focus his attention on where the smell
was coming from.

  It was right below his balcony, which was interesting.

  He leaned forward and noticed a tall Vagran woman lounging on a bench. She was dressed like a man, she spoke roughly, and she obviously felt comfortable in that kind of spot. Laughing with the rest of the fighters and going to town on a bottle of Highligland liqueur, she was the one smoking the Ennian tobacco.

  Jert was just about positive after all the rumors he’d collected over his few days in Givoi, but he still decided to make sure. Edging his nose out from under the hood, he called the waitress over.

  “Sweetie, who’s that woman down there? It isn’t Artanna from the Hundred, is it?”

  “The very same, sir,” the girl replied with a polite nod. “Artanna nar Toll. She sometimes stops in here, though lately she’s preferred more respectable company.”

  “Well… Interesting. Bring me some more of your delectable dried meat, my dear. And a pitcher of that same weak ale.”

  “I’ll be right back!”

  The waitress headed down to the first floor and hurried into the kitchen. Jert threw his hood back and started studying the group gathered around Artanna nar Toll. His first step was complete—he’d found her and now knew exactly what she looked like, so she definitely wasn’t going to be slipping away from him in the dirty city. If there was one thing he could be proud of, it was his ability to pick up on little details, and the Hundred leader, it seemed, was a walking pile of them. But there was no point looking her over too carefully right then. There would be time for that later.

  The dark-haired Gatson next to the Hundred leader was playing a sweet melody on a cittern as he sang quietly. He’d even managed to attract an appreciative audience, though, happily, they were refraining from singing along. And that was smart—there was no point ruining a good song with a drunk chorus.

  The rest of the Hundred fighters just drank, taking breaks to smoke and reminisce about past exploits. Their food was simple, if filling. Most likely, they were watching their wallets, a conjecture that raised questions about the mercenary group’s finances. Anyway, the whole city knew that the Hundred leader had been forced to hand over a tidy sum to the viceroy for a murder in the port quarter. She was lucky to get off with a fine, too. If the victim hadn’t been guilty of a serious crime, Artanna and her rabble would most likely have been kicked out of the city.