Gregor touched his cousin lightly on the shoulder.
“I’m grateful for the honor, Lord Demos, and happy to make your acquaintance.”
“As am I,” the treasurer nodded. “I only wish it had happened a few days ago in the palace.”
Voldhard smiled disarmingly.
“I’m sorry for that, as well, but I couldn’t turn down Enrige the Gatson himself. My sister, you understand… If your invitation is still open, I would be happy to visit your house when it’s convenient.”
When it’s convenient… Insolence, my boy. Well, you have only yourself to blame—the Keeper my witness, I just wanted what was best.
“Of course.” Demos stared, unblinking, into the fire. Voldhard pulled his gaze away from it to look at his cousin in alarm.
“You’re very pale. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“I appreciate your concern, Lord Gregor,” replied the treasurer. He forced himself to return the look and pulled his lips into an ugly smile. “But there’s no need to worry. It’s just that…I have a peculiar relationship with fire.”
Chapter 11. Ellisdor
Nowhere on the continent was the Keeper worshipped with as much fervor as in Highligland. Their fanatical love for the god practically ran in their veins—when your life is filled with pain, hunger, cold, and an uncomfortable anticipation of an unpleasant demise, you unwittingly want to believe in something good. And that’s why the study of the Way, which promised all its followers happiness and a reunion with their loved ones in the Crystal Hall after death, enjoyed so much popularity in those lands. It was impossible to tell if that happiness actually existed or if it was all a great bait and switch thought up by a slick group of Latanians thousands of years before. Ultimately, nobody had returned from the Crystal Hall, and therefore the promises had never been confirmed or denied.
Still, the masters were to a large degree respected and welcomed in Highligland, though there weren’t many who were willing to risk their lives traveling to those harsh climes. That meant that the appearance of an unfamiliar cleric within the walls of Ellisdor was bound to draw attention. Even Aldor himself, exhausted from hours spent studying petitions, came down.
Leaning on a carved wooden staff, a man ambled into the inner courtyard, instantly garnering himself glances from all sides. Servants, refugees, and soldiers all looked up from their work and fell into reverent silence. After getting to the wide staircase leading to the manor house, the man bowed to the baron standing at the top. A traveling cloak that had seen better days was thrown wide to display the cleric’s outfit and a silver disk dangling on a long chain. The godly person smiled radiantly.
“Welcome to Ellisdor, Master,” Aldor nodded.
“I am an itinerant monk,” said the guest as he looked around. “Brother Aristid. I bring word of the Way and help those in need wherever the merciful Keeper sends me.”
The steward smiled in reply.
“Ellisdor is always happy to see god’s people. I am Baron Aldor den Grauer, in charge of the manor in Duke Gregor Voldhard’s absence. What can I do for you, holy brother?”
“Oh, I wanted to ask what I can do for you and these people!” The friar once again beamed a forgiving smile and gestured toward the crowd. “You live on hard lands torn by conflict and a harsh climate. It’s a place for cruel men and strong women. But even you, who have seen nothing but war, pain, and grief over the centuries, sometimes need an uplifting word. I’d like to ask permission to stay in the manor in order to help those in need to the best of my ability. On my way north, I met refugees from the Disputed Lands. That made me think I could be of use in Ellisdor.”
“Of course,” Aldor said with a nod. “We would be grateful for your aid. You can enjoy the hospitality of the manor and speak with Master Dararius—he is in charge of our Shrine.”
Brother Aristid brightened.
“In truth, god is with me! I’m sure I will not be a burden to you. Among my talents is more than just knowledge of reading and theology; living abroad in Belter, Rikenaar, Gatson, and even Ennia has taught me much. I even have some knowledge of the healing arts, so I could help your local healers.”
“An invaluable skill in these parts,” said Aldor. “Welcome to Ellisdor.”
Chapter 12. Missolen
Okay, so there are two of us. Nobody knows Gregor Voldhard from faraway Highligland here in the capital. My reputation doesn’t do me any favors, either, although the aristocrats know who pays for the fun they have at the palace. And anyone who happens to have a lapse in their memory will get a careful reminder.
Demos did, in fact, send out those little reminders. House Devaton’s capital residence, not much smaller or less luxurious than the imperial castle, regularly threw parties. During the festivities, the halls ran with rivers of fine southern wine, the best musicians in the empire were there to play, and treats were carried around by practiced servants. Getting an invitation to a Devaton party meant joining the upper echelon of palace society. That status was highly valued, fought over, and pursued so aggressively that those looking to achieve it were willing to offer the noble family practically any service they asked for. And the entire pomp and pageantry was managed by the brilliant Lady Eltinia.
That was why Demos preferred humble quarters in the imperial palace.
Why is it that we can work together toward the interests of the house, while we’re at each other’s throat the second the conversation turns to my future?
Lady Eltinia was without doubt a truly incredible woman, and Demos loved her the way any son is duty-bound love his mother. But no more. There had never been any warmth or mutual understanding between them for as long as he could remember. Demos was the firstborn, the heir to an enormous fortune and string of titles, and so he’d felt the weight of his mother’s expectations since he was born. Lady Eltinia’s ambition and thirst for power had followed him his entire life. Sometimes, Demos wanted nothing more than to kill her, though by the same token, he thanked the heavens for the tough lessons she taught him.
Once again, they were forced to work together. Lady Eltinia had long since measured the stakes, and she had no plans to sacrifice her position for the sake of some Highligland barbarian even if Demos was not earmarked for the crown. But the situation was playing right into her hands. With that in mind, she’d put together a list of nobles that the Devatons needed on their side—Rikenaar was a particular target. Lady Eltinia was working in that direction when Demos left the residence banquet hall unnoticed.
The air in the wide, tapestry-lined corridor was cool, which helped with his migraine. The treasurer sighed in relief, though he immediately winced from a different pain as his leg chimed in. It was getting worse. Demos was forced to move slowly and only with the help of a cane.
I wonder when government service will finally do me in.
“Let’s go,” Demos called over to Lahel, who was waiting for him near the doorway to a secret staircase. She’d switched out her favorite colorful handkerchief in favor of a black one. “Is Ihraz ready?”
The Ennian woman glanced dubiously at her master’s leg.
“My brother is waiting in the garden. Are you sure you’ll make it that far? It’s not close.”
Do I have a choice? I’m not getting up on a horse, and a carriage or litter would draw too much attention. But I have to see Archella. The sooner, the better.
“I’ll be fine,” the treasurer replied quietly. Throwing a simple dark cloak over his shoulders, he hobbled forward. A few seconds later, he stopped at the top of the narrow staircase.
I completely forgot about that. So embarrassing—the head of a powerful house can’t even deal with a few little stairs.
He took one careful step. Pain shot through his leg, and he felt a twinge in his spine. A cry squeezed itself out of him, though he motioned to his sympathetic bodyguard to leave him be.
“I have to…myself,” he grunted, grabbing the railing tighter and continuing down.
A
wkwardly making his way down, Demos dug deep into his bank of foreign languages—with every step, he found a good dozen new curse words to throw at the stairs.
And I didn’t use a single one twice. Nice work! Curses, that hurts so bad.
Lahel moved next to him wordlessly, prepared to help if needed. Demos didn’t have anyone closer than the taciturn woman and her brother. The two Ennian servants knew most of his weaknesses and vices, they could count each of his sore points, they were devoted, and they enjoyed the privilege of speaking openly with their master. But still, however warmly he felt about his southern bodyguard, Demos didn’t let himself get into the really bad language around her.
At the end of the day, she’s still a woman, even if she is a former slave.
As soon as the exercise in endurance was complete and Demos felt the even stone below his feet, his strength gave out. Lahel reacted instantly, grabbing her master under the arms.
“It’s okay,” Devaton said with a hard swallow. “That just turned out harder than I expected.”
The treasurer fished around in his pocket and pulled out his small box of pashtara. Snuffling a pinch into each nostril, he sighed noisily and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, the pain in his leg dulled, and he felt better. Lahel shook her head disapprovingly, if silently.
Don’t look at me like that, my dear. I know very well that I’m on thin ice, but it’s the only way forward right now. At some point, I’ll stop, so long as I’m still able to. But not today.
They walked out into the back courtyard. On the other side of the wall was a beautiful garden with fountains, fruit trees, and sculptures. Guests were enjoying the warm spring evening, walking along the alleys paved with crushed white marble. Drunk with the glorious air, the nightingales were bursting with song. Apparently, nobody was all that bothered by the mourning period announced by the church.
What a delightful evening. It’s a shame, I’m going to have to spend it in the trashy quarter.
After walking past a low wall in the garden, Demos and Lahel turned and headed in a different direction. They ambled slowly past storehouses, warehouses, and several cellars. In the distance, horses whinnied, and servants chattered.
Ihraz was waiting for his master and sister in the shadow of an annex, and he wasn’t alone. Devaton stretched his leg and leaned heavily on his cane. The person Ihraz was talking to noticed them from a distance, coming over to meet the treasurer.
It’s Master Archella himself. Demos’ eyes narrowed when he recognized the spy’s powerful figure. How nice of him to keep me from dragging my crippled legs halfway across the city.
When they got closer, Demos found that he was right.
“Master Archella,” he said quietly. “Isn’t this a surprise. I was actually on my way to visit your lair.”
The spy threw back his hood and bowed gracefully.
“I’m happy to see you in good health, Lord Demos.”
Good health? Seriously?
“And what made you sneak into my house?”
“He grabbed me at the door,” Ihraz grumbled. “The guards are terrible.”
Archella smiled charmingly as he stood over Demos.
“I just wanted to remind your Grace that I’m worth the money I’m paid,” he said with an amiable laugh. “I was told you wanted to see me in person, so I decided to shake things up and go for a walk.”
Demos dismissed his bodyguards with a wave and gripped his cane tighter. Ihraz and Lahel got the message and stepped away to the side.
The spy threw an intrigued glance in Demos’ direction.
“I’m all ears, Your Grace.”
“Tell me, Master Archella, who could break into the imperial palace and get someone out without being noticed?”
“I could, for one,” the large man smiled.
“But your people didn’t do that.”
“That wasn’t your question.”
“Don’t even think about feigning innocence, Master Archella. I know my pocket isn’t the only one that feeds you, and that’s okay with me so long as it doesn’t get in the way of our partnership.”
The spy shrugged indifferently.
“I’ve always appreciated your wisdom. In this case, though, my people only work in the palace at your orders.”
Good thing. Your loyalty cost me a pretty penny.
“Right now, I need to know who else is capable of pulling a trick like that with someone in the palace.”
“We’re in the capital, my lord…”
“And that’s why I’m asking you. I’ve only lived in Missolen for five years, so I could miss something. Think, Archella. The capital is your home.”
The spy scratched his neatly trimmed beard.
“Whoever did it, they’d have to have very good connections in the palace or a way to make the guards look elsewhere.” Archella glanced meaningfully at the treasurer. “Money, threats, or even sorcery. It wouldn’t be the Targosians—their reach is short, their influence limited. Actually, I doubt the imperials would have the resources to pull something that daring off, too.”
“It’s not just that the imperial nobility doesn’t have the resources; they don’t have a motive,” the treasurer replied wearily. His leg was really starting to ache. “The woman we’re talking about didn’t threaten their position at all.”
“That makes things even more interesting. I certainly do enjoy the puzzles you throw my way.”
Not to mention the money I pay you.
“So, what’s the bottom line, Master Archella?” The pain was getting unbearable. Demos was practically whimpering, only the weakening effect of the pashtara holding him back.
“There’s only one spot my people and I don’t have access to,” the spy whispered, the ever-present smile disappearing. “A place I don’t risk breaking into for fear of the Collegium’s wrath.”
“The church,” Demos nodded. “I thought about that.”
“I can’t help you there, no matter how deeply I love Your Grace. I’d send my people anywhere for you, just not into Eclusum.”
The treasurer looked up at the spy and, contrary to his expectations, saw not a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. The capital’s best spy, one of the smartest people in the empire…was afraid.
What did the masters do with our faith when they’re too busy inspiring terror to give people a home in the afterlife?
“I understand, Master Archella, and I’m not going to ask anything from you but your silence. Although, I will be needing one of your people. I need to look into someone.”
“My thanks, Lord Demos,” the spy replied with obvious relief. “I’ll send you someone.”
Devaton waved his bodyguards over and in so doing made it clear that the meeting was over. Archella threw his hood over his head and melted into the darkness.
Irving was right. If the masters are involved in the empress’ disappearance, I don’t envy even myself. There’s some irony there—an inveterate atheist is going to have to dig into the church. I wonder if all the arches of the Great Shrine will come crashing down on me for my sacrilege.
Chapter 13. The free city Givoi
Loud cries in different languages, splashing water, and the stomping of hundreds of feet battered Artanna’s ears. The Hundred leader made her way through the crowd accompanied by several fighters, cursing to herself the ships arriving that morning. The fair season was coming up, and the traders were off their rocker.
There were so many people. Some of them even had to be elbowed out of the way. Shrain was out in front of Artanna, and he was the one casually knocking everyone to the side as if he was cutting grass. The tangy smells and sounds were making Artanna sick—her head had been bothering her since the morning. But it was a bad premonition that was really on her mind.
They were almost there. Artanna hoped the news Val, her secretary, had brought her that morning was mistaken. She hoped, though there was little positive to make of the combination of circumstances. The cordon of city guards and Guiro’s fa
miliar crimson mantle put paid to any doubts she was still harboring.
Shrain was first to see everything and stopped so suddenly Artanna plowed into his shoulder. The Hundred leader swore, instinctively held her hands to her temples, and tried to push on ahead, though she was stopped by an enormous arm. The giant looked around for a few seconds, studied everything he could see over the heads of the guards, and finally turned to the woman.
“You don’t have to see this.”
“Yes, I do.” The Vagran shoved his arm away.
Guiro held out an arm.
“Artanna, I’m not sure—”
“You’re never sure about anything,” Artanna barked. “Let me by, or I swear, there will be one more body on this street.”
Guiro gave in, shook his head sadly, and motioned for the guards to step aside. The view they opened to the Hundred leader made her head pound even harder. Her stomach flopped, and she very nearly spewed her meager breakfast all over the corpse.
Gaining control, the mercenary woman dropped to her knees next to the body. What had been breathing and cracking jokes the day before, what had once gone by the name of Rianos, had been turned into minced meat. There were too many wounds for one death. It was a chunk of meat spattered with blood, swill, and shit. The only thing left to identify the healer were his long, straw-colored hair and the torn Ennian clothes he was wearing—his favorite tunic, one he’d washed until it was practically worn through. Artanna cleaned the dirt from the surviving cheek and saw the brand.
Val had been right.
“Ri,” the mercenary sighed. “Who could have done this to you?”
“I can’t imagine who would do that kind of thing,” Guiro said softly as he walked by. “I’m sorry, Artanna. I’m really sorry.”
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