Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  “There you go, starting with good questions. You’re on the money, Commander. So, it’s an old cult that’s been around in Ennia since the times of the Ancient Empire. When polytheism was still around, it was something like a spiritual school that only accepted orphans and taught them the art of death. In the Ancient Empire, they had a different mindset when it came to leaving this world, and Rex Gerifas helped people go from this one to the next. For example, some followers of the school were executioners who finished off the wounded on the field of battle as well as the hopelessly ill in the hospitals. They made death easy for those who couldn’t avoid it. And they served for life, giving all kind of vows, and really just being awfully boring. But, as so often happens, the best of intentions was corrupted by commerce.” Copper threw his arms wide and shrugged. “These days, it’s a society of skilled spies, hired killers, and thieves. The best in Ennia. And while they used to only take orphans, now they accept slaves, too. But everyone knows all that. There was something about the poison and the ambassador that bothered me.”

  Artanna didn’t take her eyes off the prisoner.

  “What exactly?”

  “The Rex Gerifas people are haughty, arrogant patriots, convinced that Ennia is far better than the other scraps of the Ancient Empire, places like Beltera and Targos. That’s why they only work for Ennians.”

  “And so, the client was an Ennian?”

  “Looks like it,” Jert nodded. “And since Rex Gerifas sent a second person, they took the money up front. A lot of it. They don’t come cheaply.”

  “Should we be expecting a third assassin?”

  “I would keep the extra guards where they are.”

  Artanna cursed to herself.

  “Why didn’t you say anything, idiot? Why?”

  “When was I supposed to? As soon as I got Inya to talk, I ran off to get you all. There was no time to lose.”

  “Okay, okay,” Artanna replied. “Is there any way you can prove what you’re saying? How do we know you’re not making it all up? Proof, Copper. I need proof!”

  “The woman in the cell. Inya. There’s a brand on the back of her neck, the same one everyone in Rex Gerifas has. Can you splash some water on my face, Commander? I just want to get some of this off me.”

  Artanna pulled out a piece of cloth, soaked it in water, and started dabbing at the blood and dirt on the Ennian’s face.

  “How sweet,” he grinned. “So tender, and just for me.”

  “Oh, shut up. You annoy me as it is, and that was just making your mug unbearable.”

  There was a soft knock on the door—time was up. Artanna finished with Jert’s face before holding the torch up to it again.

  “You’re a lucky bastard, Copper. A week, and you’ll be as good as new.”

  “Not that lucky if I ended up here.”

  The Vagran stuck the dirty bandages in her pocket.

  “Still, Jert, there’s one thing I don’t get.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You know too much about that Rex Gerifas. I get that everyone’s heard of them in Ennia, but it’s a closed guild, at least, from what you said. You understand what I’m hinting at?”

  The knock on the door was more insistent. Copper’s head drooped.

  “Well, the gods know I’d have had to do this sooner or later.”

  He turned around and pulled back the collar of his dirty shirt, baring the remains of a brand that had been removed. The skin with the tattoo had been roughly cut away. And, from what Artanna could tell, judging by the scars, it had happened a long time before.

  “So, you’re one of them?”

  “Not for many years. I was… How do you say it? A probationer.”

  “You said service there is for life.”

  Jert laughed mirthlessly.

  “Lucky again.”

  The door shook from the pounding.

  “Time to go.” Artanna got up and headed over to the exit.

  “Hey, Commander.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  The mercenary woman stopped at the threshold.

  “You’re part of my brigade, Copper, and I take care of my people.”

  When the door closed behind her, Jert leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. He’d kept his word and answered all her questions honestly.

  He’d wanted to tell her everything. He’d wanted to, but he hadn’t.

  Chapter 30. Missolen

  On his way through the lower gallery, Demos ignored the chancellery servants rushing over to him and headed down the stairs as fast as he could. His feet shuffled, his cane tapped, and the patterns on the floor rushed by—the treasurer was in a hurry. Though, the accursed pain in his leg wouldn’t let go.

  Enrige the Gatson was waiting for Demos near a delightfully small fountain decorating a small garden in one of the atriums in the closed part of the palace. Servants stood off to the side.

  What happened to his peacock clothes?

  In contrast to his usual outfits, the Gatson wasn’t wearing any bright colors. Only a ring with a blood-red ruby the size of a pigeon egg decorated a pale, elegant hand. When he saw Devaton, Enrige smiled amiably.

  “Good to see you, Lord Demos.”

  “Likewise, Your Majesty.”

  “Please, forget etiquette,” the king replied with a wave. “I don’t have time for titles and formalities.”

  So, you’re really worried about something, are you?

  “As you wish.”

  Ihraz’s people made sure that nobody interrupted the conversation. The pair sat on a marble bench, sheltered from the sun by some fruit trees.

  “Well, what can I do for Your Majesty?”

  Enrige laughed quietly.

  “Right down to business! I love that about you,” he said enthusiastically before lowering his voice and bending over toward Demos. “I want to ask you for a favor. A personal favor.”

  Interesting…

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Yesterday, you met my delightful daughter Vittoria.”

  “She struck me to my very heart.”

  Oddly enough, that was barely a lie. If I only had a better-looking face and a more passionate personality…

  “Indeed! I make fine children, unlike what I do with my hands. The Keeper as my witness, I don’t want to part with my treasure, but I have to send her out into the world again. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  Obviously.

  “Of course. You said she’s twenty-two?”

  “Next month, she’ll turn twenty-three. Still young, and already such a tragic fate,” the Gatson said with a mournful sigh. “Two marriages, both unsuccessful. At eighteen, she was left a widow, and at twenty-three, she’ll be divorced.”

  “Really? Divorced?” Demos asked in surprise. “I thought you had a strong union in place with House Ulbri. What could the marquis have done to make the great master himself dissolve the holy covenant?”

  Nothing, I’m sure. You just wanted a better price for your treasure, didn’t you?

  The king’s voice dropped to a whisper.

  “The marquise was caught having relations with another man. It hurts to say it, my friend… Such an embarrassment! But I’d rather tell you myself than have the rumor grow and make its way around to you that way. The Ulbris are sodomites. And here I had high hopes for their union with my daughter.”

  Nobody in Gatson would be surprised by something that trivial. If you actually cared about that, the scandal would have been hushed up. And why the divorce?

  Demos nodded sympathetically.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Your daughter deserves better.”

  “The poor thing hid it even from me for years, afraid that I would be angry and denounce them. In the end, we raised the alarm when we got tired of waiting for an heir. Young wives in Gatson do their best to satisfy relatives’ expectations as soon as they can. Then, of course, there was the church’s investigation, and that took another year.�
��

  I imagine you’ll have the marquis stuck through with a stake now. Poor guy.

  “That’s terrible, Your Majesty. Just terrible. Happily, the great master is on your side.”

  “Praise Gillenai, yes. Although, Vittoria has had to suffer through all of this,” Enrige said, following that with a tragic pause. “And I just want her to be happy.”

  “You think I can help with that?”

  How, I wonder?

  “Yes, Your Grace. I have the temerity to ask you to accept my daughter as an official guest of House Devaton.”

  That’s out of the blue. What makes him think I’d be a good babysitter? Although, I’m sure it’s something else. The king has his nose to the wind, and he knows I’m the main contender for the throne. He also knows that the Latanian girl who’s supposed to be the next emperor’s wife mysteriously disappeared.

  Demos twirled his cane distractedly as he thought through the king’s request.

  “I understand that it’s an unexpected request, given that a move like that would be seen as a future alliance between our houses,” Enrige added. “But, first and foremost, I want my daughter to have space to recover after her humiliation without having to deal with the rumors passed around by the Gatson elite. She’ll be able to breath freer in Missolen.”

  Proximity to the imperial house does wonders for your health, doesn’t it?

  “It is, in fact, an unexpected offer,” Demos replied thoughtfully. “I’m flattered by the trust you place in me.”

  “I don’t have anyone else I can rely on.”

  Certainly not the Voldhards, which your family is about to intermarry with!

  “I’ll speak with my mother.”

  Enrige brightened.

  “Oh, Lady Eltinia was delighted by the idea! Yes, my apologies, yesterday, we happened across the subject while playing a game of ulpa.”

  A young lady in my house. Living and breathing. In a house that hasn’t heard the laughter of children in five years, one where the balls are thrown by a youthful old lady. Well, and mother was also excited to get her claws into a rich Gatson beauty.

  “I should warn you that I can’t offer your daughter the attention she needs,” Demos said. “Government service takes up all my time. On the other hand, my mother will be only too happy to devote herself to Lady Vittoria.”

  Checkmate, mother! Deal with this yourself.

  “That’s perfectly fine,” he said, stroking his pomaded beard gently. “All I care about is my daughter’s happiness. It’ll be good for her to be around Lady Eltinia—your mother is the picture of charm and polish. Vittoria could learn something from her.”

  How to better squeeze the balls of the local elite? How to weave intrigue?

  “I’m sure the dowager duchess will be happy to introduce your daughter to the capital elite,” the treasurer replied.

  And stick it to me once again. She’s never going to get over herself.

  The Gatson ruler clapped his hands together loudly, signaling the successful conclusion of the deal.

  “Excellent, Lord Demos. Keep me in the loop for all the costs my daughter includes, and spare no expense—I would pay any sum to put a smile on her face once more.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “You had children, did you not, Your Grace? Before the tragedy…”

  Demos forgot his cane and stared at his boots.

  “Two boys,” he replied quietly.

  “And what would you do for them if they were alive?”

  The treasurer looked the king dead in the eyes.

  “Anything.”

  “In that case, you understand me.” Enrige got up and straightened the hem of his tunic. “Until our next meeting, Lord Demos. May divine grace be with you.”

  Oh, I understand you, all right. I’d bet my right arm you couldn’t care less about your daughter. Soon, your son is going to marry Rhinhilda Voldhard, a Highliglander with imperial blood. Why not solidify your position by giving your daughter to a Devaton? You’ll be related to both contenders. A tempting plan—what’s there to say no to?

  Chapter 31. Ellisdor

  The decision to head down to the Lower City wasn’t an easy one for Artanna. But torn between a desire to unwind and the safe confines of the castle, she ended up taking the risk. The stone walls were closing in, she was tired of seeing the same faces every day, and the closed space and constant nerves of the soldiers were getting to her.

  Ellisdor’s Lower City was a cluttered jumble of different-sized buildings, their bristling black silhouettes looming predatorily against the moonless sky. The old city had never had a single style or plan. The more well-to-do built houses out of gray stone, while the poorer residents had to make do with flimsy wood. Fires were a common occurrence in the narrow streets, the same as in Givoi and dozens of other cities the Hundred leader knew well.

  After leaping over a wide puddle, Artanna paused. An old Highligland song wafted out of the open windows of a tavern, and she recognized Belingtor’s clear tenor. She cursed when she realized she was still standing up to her ankles in water and then headed toward the sound.

  Judging by the sign, the tavern was called the Repentant Sinner, and the owner rented out rooms on the second floor. From time to time, melodious female laughter joined the songs and clattering dishes. Artanna headed inside. As long as she had the chance, she wanted a healthy serving of the strong Highligland good stuff.

  There were about thirty sinners in the tavern, though not a single one was repentant. The lower floor was packed with drunk citizenry and soldiers. The upper floor, on the other hand, was enshrouded in bluish smoke. In fact, the pall was so thick that Artanna couldn’t see anything higher than her own head. It smelled of tobacco, roast meat, fresh bread, beer, and the famous herbal tincture. Stepping over a pool of vomit at the threshold and trying to keep to the shadows, the Vagran went over to the bar.

  Belingtor lazily strummed his cittern. Next to Cherso were two young women crowding close to listen to the music. A servant girl filled the musician’s mug, using the opportunity to show off the enticing cut of her dress. The Gatson, for his part, smiled invitingly and nodded upward, offering to continue the evening in one of the rooms upstairs. It didn’t matter which hole Cherso Belingtor found himself in—the dilapidated instrument he carried around always earned him acceptance and free drinks. He did well. At one point, he and Artanna had tried to figure out how many bastards he’d sired before he turned thirty, but they gave up after losing count one too many times.

  Baby Shrain and red-bearded Daches were in the corner playing a doubles card game with a pair of locals, the group cracking dirty jokes and laughing uproariously all the while. They were enjoying themselves, keeping the stakes low, and, from the looks of it, just playing for a good time. Daches had taken the order not to get into trouble seriously—he would have been able to clean the house with his tricks, otherwise.

  On the second floor, a fresh and cheerful Jert was loudly reciting some poetry in Ennian and waving a mug around. Artanna grunted—as soon as he’d gotten out of his cell, he’d headed over to a tavern. She’d heard that he’d taken Gregor on a long tour of Ennian traditions that had ended with the duke graciously releasing his prisoner. Nobody knew the details, but Artanna was also aware that Voldhard had ordered Jert to be compensated for the time he’d spent under guard. Apparently, he’d been clever enough to get the duke himself to like him. He was enjoying the fruits of state generosity, too, with a girl on his lap showing far too much cleavage than was appropriate. The whore gently stroked his bruised cheek and laughed at every joke he cracked.

  A few servant girls carrying trays and pitchers navigated the tables dexterously. Nobody paid attention to Artanna as she settled into a seat at the bar.

  At least, nobody paid attention until she threw back her hood.

  There was an elderly fighter sitting next to her, his eyes faded from a difficult life, and he stared at the Vagran.

  “Well, curse me
, it’s Artanna the traitor!”

  The conversations going on stopped abruptly. Everyone in the tavern turned suddenly to look in her direction, and a murmur ran through the room. Without responding, the Vagran returned to her mug.

  “Hey, Artanna,” someone called, “why don’t you tell us once and for all how much the duke paid you per night?”

  She said nothing. There was no point biting—she knew very well that wouldn’t end well. In the meantime, she was going to let them blow off their hatred, denounce her, and curse her, something that wouldn’t change the past or return the dead to life. It wasn’t going to erase her memory of that fateful battle, either. Taking a deep pull of the tincture, she pulled her pipe out of her pocket.

  One of the locals, a stocky guy with an ugly scar on his forehead, stood up from his table, very nearly knocked his bench over, and came over to the mercenary woman.

  “You’ve got some nerve coming here.”

  “I didn’t want to. I was invited,” she replied, pulling her cloak back to show him the broach with Voldhard’s crest attached to her shirt collar. Shrain and Daches shot concerned looks at her over their cards. Belingtor continued strumming away as if nothing had happened, but Artanna caught his glance and saw that he was keeping a close eye on her. With a gesture, she motioned for them not to get involved.

  The guy with the scar wouldn’t let it go.

  “I was there. I fought for him! This mark,” he said, pointing at his face, “is there thanks to you!”

  “I don’t remember wounding you,” the mercenary replied grimly. “There isn’t much I remember from that battle.”

  And she wasn’t lying. Time had taken pity on her, easing her mind by casting a thick shroud over her memories. Artanna had gone over that day a thousand times—in Tronk, in Ellisdor, and in Givoi. Over the nine long years, it was the memory of Lotar’s death and what happened afterward that followed her, squeezed her, burned at her conscience. Even then, she had come to Ellisdor to pay back that old debt.

  She’d been through enough.

  “Your squad was supposed to scout ahead, Toll!” the veteran squawked hysterically. “Thanks to you, we were ambushed! I lost almost all my friends that day!”