Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  Taking a break, the baron stepped out into the inner courtyard, desperately needing fresh air and a few seconds of peace. His aide, nervously looking around, followed him. Regardless of the falling darkness, the courtyard was as packed as one might have expected the market square to be at noon—servants ran around shouting, while soldiers glanced nervously into the tents the refugees had pitched against the walls.

  Aldor nodded in the direction of the tents and grimaced inquisitively. A guard shrugged, throwing his arms up. One noisy breath later, the baron headed quickly toward the refugees, though he was stopped suddenly when someone grabbed his arm. He turned around in annoyance to see a refugee woman with a vaguely familiar face.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said. “Hame and Uts, my kids. They’re missing.”

  “If you talk to one of the soldiers, they’ll help.”

  “They don’t want to talk to us. I wouldn’t be bothering you if they did.”

  The baron tried to gently extricate himself.

  “There’s a problem in the castle,” he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. “We’ve had to reinforce the guard, the gates are closed, and your children won’t be going anywhere. Believe me, I would happily go looking for them myself, but I’m really busy. Please, forgive me.”

  Finally, he awkwardly pulled his arm free of the worried mother’s iron grasp.

  The woman hissed something angrily at him as he walked away. A pang of shame hit him—he really wanted to help her and would have if he could have, but there was no way right then.

  Two soldiers stepped up to him right then. By their weary faces, Aldor could tell they were from the detachment that had arrived that morning.

  “Your Grace, we found something.”

  “What?”

  “Two boys.” One of the soldiers waved in the direction of a large woodshed. “They were hiding in there.”

  “Their mother was just looking for them. Let her know—she’ll be happy to hear the good news.”

  The second soldier’s face darkened.

  “The boys are dead.”

  Hans turned pale. Looking around, Aldor made sure the refugee woman was far enough away that she couldn’t have overheard the conversation.

  “Show me.”

  They quickly crossed the courtyard and went around to the side of the woodshed. One of the soldiers handed Aldor a torch. Seeing the little bodies, the baron took a step back, though he gathered himself just as quickly. The pair bore a striking resemblance to their mother. One was light-haired and dirty, a couple years older than his towheaded brother. Aldor let out a mournful sigh. The boys’ eyes were shut as if in sleep, drops of oil glistening on their half-opened mouths. Holding the torch closer, the baron poked open one of their mouths, revealing the same string of whitish foam he’d seen on Irital’s lips.

  “And there’s the second partridge,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing. Hans, let their mother know and come find me immediately in my office.”

  “As you wish.” The pale young servant stood up slowly and set off shakily in the direction of the tents.

  Baron Aldor den Grauer straightened heavily and walked toward the manor house on equally wobbly legs. He left the torch with the soldiers—knowing every nook and cranny of the building as he did, there was no need for light.

  If Brother Aristid was right, the boys hadn’t suffered. All he could do was hope that had been the case and pray for their souls. Later, the baron couldn’t say what the people he walked past in the main hall were talking about, only vaguely remembering how he got to his chambers laden with a heavy sense of guilt.

  Aldor should’ve done something earlier, back when Gregor had first mentioned his strange desire. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d fancied himself the top dog, putting his friend’s beloved in danger as a result. The move probably wouldn’t have helped with the poisoner, but Aldor would have been able to say confidently that he’d done everything possible to protect Lady Irital.

  But it was too late then. Although, maybe not completely.

  Hans was already waiting in the office. As soon as the baron opened the door suddenly, he took a scared step away from a cabinet and hid something behind his back.

  “Show me what you’re holding,” Aldor barked.

  The boy obeyed, and the steward saw a bottle of herbal liqueur he’d grabbed from the Order’s cellars. Aldor had held onto it in memory of the dark years. Also, he tended to prefer Gatson wine to the strong stuff Hans was holding.

  “Forgive me, Master,” Hans said quietly. “Everything that’s happened today has me so scared, and I was afraid to take something from the kitchen. What if everything down there is poisoned?”

  The baron said nothing. Instead, he took two small glasses from a shelf, filled them both, and handed one to Hans.

  “You could’ve asked,” he finally replied reproachfully. “I wouldn’t have said no.”

  “I was ashamed. I won’t do it again, Your Grace.”

  “You drink first.”

  Hans smiled grimly, understanding his master’s request, and downed his glass in a single gulp. Tears appeared in his eyes.

  “Oh…that’s strong!” he croaked.

  The baron waited until he was sure Hans wasn’t going to give up the ghost before drinking his and staggering a few steps. The liqueur really was strong, even enough to knock out a Rund. Aldor had forgotten what it was like.

  “Better?” he asked when he caught his breath.

  “Yes. It burns—nasty.”

  “I’m going to need you soon, so stay here.” The baron sat down, lit a few fat candles, pulled a ring with Voldhard’s seal out of his pocket, and started writing a long letter.

  Once the ink was dry, Aldor handed the sealed package to Hans.

  “Take the fastest horse you can find and leave today for Givoi. Give this to Artanna nar Toll, and don’t come back without the Hundred, Hans. And please, I’m begging you, hurry.”

  Chapter 19. Missolen

  My head hurts so bad.

  Chancellor Irving Allantain nodded curtly to the palace guard. When the heavy carved doors shut, announcing the start of the Small Council meeting, the old man looked around at those present and stared darkly at Gregor Voldhard. The young ruler of Highligland maintained his end of the wordless duel without a shadow of strain.

  That worried Demos.

  Is he really not afraid? That’s a problem.

  At the center of the blindingly white hall, a place where the fate of the empire had been decided for hundreds of years, there was a table made out of a marble slab with deliberately uneven edges. Its surface was the size of a monastic cell and polished to a degree that it reflected the light beaming in through the stained-glass windows.

  It was at this table that Tallonius the Great signed the Criasmor Treaty with the first allies. Years later, his grandson, Tallonius the God-fearing, stood here and merged the powers of church and state. Forty years ago, the peace with Ennia was discussed. What else will the cold marble see? What will it bear witness to? People come and go, while countries are wiped from the face of the earth, build lasting peace, and form short alliances, and this piece of polished stone will outlast it all.

  The arches echoed with the sound of chairs being pulled out and settled into. The skeleton Small Council, most of which hadn’t been permitted to join the day’s meeting, sat down on the hard, throne-like seats. There was no other furniture in the room, nothing but carved columns ornamented in the ancient imperial style to complete the ascetic décor.

  Allantain coughed and irritably adjusted the chain that marked him as the chancellor. Next to him, Military Master Ofron Allantain was wearing a uniform with burnished buttons and sporting a pomaded beard. Lord Irving’s nephew locked eyes with Demos and gave him a nod of greeting and support.

  It’s such a shame when your brother has much more capable children than you do. Ofron is a worthy man with strong principles and beliefs
, rare for an aristocrat in our day. Bryce, the drunk, can’t match up to his cousin no matter how many times he does backflips trying to prove himself. Still, he’s the one destined to inherit Osvendis. That’s a shame—I’d bet on Ofron. Maybe I will bet on him at some point, just not right now.

  On the other side of the chancellor sat Kartal Faruhad, the permanent First Secretary of the Chancellery and perhaps the most devious Rikenaarian Demos had ever met.

  Ass-licker. And an ass-lover, too, from what Archella’s spies tell me. Enjoys dropping by fashionable Ennian brothels to have fun with the boys there. What a scandal the church might raise if our good secretary’s proclivities were to be made public.

  Supreme Justice Ronal Shast, nose and all three chins proudly held high, was staring arrogantly at Gregor Voldhard.

  A salacious wuss who only cares about profit. I wonder how much all his many mistresses cost him. How many innocent people were sent to the block to please the city’s wealthy? And are gold necklaces set with rubies and luxurious outfits worth the deal he made with his conscience? Anyway, I doubt his lovely courtesans are much troubled by how he came about the money he spends on them.

  Demos looked up at the church’s most important representative in the empire as he graced the fateful meeting with his presence. Great Master Ladarius smiled briefly and shook hair so gray it would have been the envy of any Vagran.

  They say he’s holy. A descendant of the ancients, of poor Belterian birth, who turned his back on lands in favor of saving souls and taking a surprising path to the top of the world’s most powerful hierarchy. Everything about him exemplifies what the good followers of the Way are supposed to be like, and his words are like honey. But was god’s vicar on earth able to hold onto his righteousness even as he emerged above the intrigue?

  The divine servant played with the crystal beads on his rosary with a look of detachment, though he couldn’t hide from Demos that he was studying Gregor Voldhard carefully as the latter was presented to the Small Council.

  My dear cousin has something to say, the treasurer concluded as he glanced over at his relative’s noble profile. And you don’t have to be a seer to guess what it’s about.

  The chancellor stood up with a groan and leaned a palm on the table.

  “Sadly, it was not under these circumstances that I wished to see you all. But tragedy did strike, and we are now charged with deciding how to preserve the state and alliances until the new emperor takes the reins.”

  “How’s he going to take the reins if he doesn’t exist?” Shast asked lazily, more interested in how the light played in the many facets of the enormous sapphire on his ring.

  “By coronation, of course,” Irving mumbled. “But, to begin with, we must select him. I don’t believe we’ll have any difficulty there—are we in agreement?”

  Getting right down to business? What, trying to force Voldhard into a head-on attack?

  Demos snuck a glance at his cousin. Gregor’s calm demeanor had been wiped clean away, and the Highliglander didn’t even realize he was gripping the edge of the table for all he was worth. A little longer, and it looked like the marble slab was going to crumble in his powerful grasp. He met Devaton’s gaze, pulled his hands away from the table sheepishly, and looked around slowly at the animated advisors.

  Upset that the adults made their decision without you? Welcome to Missolen, my dear cousin. Nobody needs you here.

  The chancellor’s plan worked. Standing up, Gregor pulled a little air into his lungs and prepared to speak. Irving silenced the whispers with a wave and gestured toward Voldhard.

  “Respected advisors, do I have the right to say my piece?” began the Highliglander.

  “Of course, Your Grace. Everyone here within the walls of the White Hall has that right,” replied the chancellor with a condescending smile and a shrug of his brittle shoulders. “That’s the law.”

  Gregor nodded.

  “In that case, I would like to make a statement.”

  Demos looked over at the giant wearily as the latter stood over the smooth, milky table. The colorful light filtering through the stained-glass windows fell on Gregor’s face and split him into two parts: the yellow looked calm and young; the blue highlighted the bags under his eyes and his pale skin. Gregor fell silent as he searched for the right words. The advisors stared at the young duke in expectation, even Shast finally forgetting about his ring.

  Come on, do it. Say what we’re all waiting for you to say. Go ahead, boy. Declare war.

  Gregor Voldhard crossed his arms over his chest and flashed a look of defiance at the chancellor.

  “I would like to declare my right to the imperial throne,” he said firmly.

  The tense silence suddenly enshrouding the room felt ready to burst into a thousand sparks. It only lasted a few seconds, but to Demos it was an eternity.

  Congratulations, dear cousin. We’re now officially enemies.

  The arches shook as voices boomed. Louder than any, to Demos’ surprise, was the First Secretary.

  “On what basis?” Faruhad’s look did nothing to conceal his contempt for Voldhard.

  “As I’ve been informed, the dead emperor did not leave any direct heirs. Additionally, and unfortunately, he was unable to name a successor. My meager knowledge of genealogy only follows two branches of close contenders for the throne: the Belterian line and the Highligland line. And that means—”

  “Demos Devaton and you, Lord Voldhard. At least, your older brother, were he alive,” said Lord Irving.

  “An ambitious announcement,” grunted the supreme justice, his three chins shaking with the vibrations coming from his deep voice. “I can understand your motive, Your Grace, but you have to understand our position, as well. For the first time in the three years that have passed since you gained your title, you are here in the capital, and you immediately lay claim to the imperial crown? You’re a foreigner. Nobody knows anything about you besides that your mother was the dead emperor’s sister, while your father was famed for his victories over the Runds. But who are you, Lord Gregor? A former pupil of the Order and a devout follower of the way, which, of course, does you great honor. But the rest of your biography does little to inspire the Small Council, as we haven’t heard of a single great triumph over the barbarians at your command or success in the management of the duchy you inherited…”

  That’s a lot of skepticism coming from someone with even less claim to the throne.

  Faruhad nodded, all business, in support of Shast’s speech. On the other hand, Demos couldn’t help but notice the military master’s silence. Great Master Ladarius also refrained from chiming in. Devaton preferred to avoid joining the discussion, as well.

  I’d be much more interested in finding out what kind of person that Gregor Voldhard is. What does he need the crown for? Why did he only now cross the sea and announce himself as a political player?

  The Highliglander, to his credit, controlled himself and bore up well under the criticism.

  “Lord Gregor,” Irving said, gesturing for the justice to calm down, “you are correct—the empire’s hopes are on you and Lord Demos alone. And the law states that if there are multiple contenders for the throne, each with equal right, the council must select the worthiest.”

  “And that is why I demand a vote,” Gregor replied with a nod. Demos noticed his hands still shaking from the stress.

  All alone against the empire’s most powerful aristocrats. I’d be shaking, too.

  “However, that is only when the contenders have equal rights,” the chancellor continued. “I’m afraid that is not the case here.”

  Here we go.

  “What do you mean, Lord Irving?” Demos inched closer, placing his elbows on the table and leaning his chin on his interlaced fingers. That eased the pain in his back.

  Old Allantain nodded knowingly.

  “Well, Your Grace, you and Lord Voldhard do not have equal right to the throne. The honorable ruler of Highligland is the son of Lady Vi
viana, sister to the emperor, and the middle son at that. You, on the other hand, are the eldest son of Lord Tennius, the emperor’s brother.”

  “But Lord Gregor is the oldest of Lady Viviana’s living children,” the Belterian said. “What’s keeping us from voting?”

  Allantain shrugged. “His mother, I’m afraid. In all the history of the empire, there are no cases where the throne was inherited by descendants on the mother’s side. Tallonius the Great, as well, made that law, something you should know, Lord Demos.”

  “But his order regarded the direct line, speaking of the emperor’s wives, sisters, and daughters. There’s nothing there about the crown not going to their descendants.” Demos turned to Shast. “Isn’t that the case, good Justice?”

  The latter twitched.

  “That is a question that needs looking into,” he replied thoughtfully.

  Go ahead, but you won’t find anything new. I read all the proceedings and orders.

  “So, Lord Demos, you are standing up for your rival?” Great Master Ladarius put his rosary aside. The crystal beads clattered on the table. “You don’t want the crown?”

  Devaton smiled amiably.

  “It’s not important what I want—I’m a Devaton. The mission of my house is to act in service to the emperor and the state. The duty of the Small Council and every subject of the empire is to dig into the situation we find ourselves in, study the circumstances, and act in accordance with the law; my personal duty is to ensure that occurs.”