Dancing on the Block

by Marina Barinova

  Copper grunted approvingly, kicked at his weapon, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Well, I like it. Can I ask you a question, Commander?”

  “Go for it,” the Vagran replied as she uncorked her skin of water. Taking her simple sword, which she’d appropriated from the armory for the day’s training session, she placed it carefully on some boards, making a mental note to show the lord the kind of weapons his warriors had to fight with. Shrain had apparently been overeager with his praise—the duke’s personal guard had phenomenal equipment, though the same could not be said of the rest of the army. The dull blade was covered in old nicks and really only good for practice.

  “How are you? I mean, after the news from Givoi…”

  “You’re a smart guy. Figure it out.”

  “Let me ask that differently,” the Ennian replied with a nod. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “What’s with the concern all of a sudden?”

  “Well, you’re my commander, and all these people,” Jert said, nodding in the direction of the mixed group patrolling the citadel wall, “are now my friends. There aren’t many of us left, and I realize that you have a lot more on your plate. So, again, can I do anything for you?”

  The Vagran, who had been guzzling water while Copper talked, coughed and pulled the skin away from her lips.

  “Take a shift with the patrol after lunch,” she replied hoarsely.

  “That’s it?”

  The mercenary leader rolled her eyes.

  “Copper, you joined the brigade pretty recently, and you may not have completely realized the kind of people we are.”

  “In that case, fill me in.”

  “Okay.” Artanna sat down on the workbench, letting her legs dangle over the edge. “If it’s a history lesson you want, here you go. The Hundred is made up of former soldiers, most belonging to Lord Rolf Voldhard until His Grace freed us from our service. The boys know firsthand what it’s like to lose everything. The Runds cut up whole brigades right in front of them, they’ve smelled rotting wounds in the infirmaries, and they’ve returned home to find nothing but the bodies of their own children. In other words, they’ve been through a lot. What happened in Givoi may have hurt morale, but it didn’t break as. As far as I’m concerned… I’ll live, Copper. I’ve been through worse, too.”

  It looked like Artanna’s story amused Jert.

  “But we lost everything, Commander.”

  “Oh, please. We have fifty people, a contract, and regular pay—that’s not bad for losing everything. And if nothing else, we’re lucky because we’re alive.”

  “So, all you need right now…”

  “Just do good work. That’s the best thing you can do for me. After all, thinking is my job, not yours.”

  Jert smiled absentmindedly.

  “Got it, Commander. Any special orders?”

  “Easy on the Latanians, Copper. I don’t care who my fighters screw so long as they do it quietly. I get it, of course—I have needs, too. But if they catch you with one of those golden-haired girls, there’ll be trouble, and I won’t be able to save you from the duke.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Commander,” Jert replied with a nod. “In that case, I’ll move on to the cooks. There are plenty of fish in the sea, right?”

  “Exactly. Just keep it quiet and out of the way.”

  “Of course, I get it. The only one allowed to really cut lose is the Second when he’s in your bed.”

  Artanna froze.

  “Screw you with a pepper, Jert!”

  The Ennian grinned.

  “What, they do that in Highligland? How does it feel?”

  “How did you sniff that out?” the Vagran howled quietly.

  “I have quite the nose—insomnia hit at just the wrong moment. Was that some sort of secret?”

  “Forget it. It’s not important.”

  “A moment of weakness?”

  “Get out of here. And keep your mouth shut, understood?”

  Deciding not to overdo it, Jert hid his smile.

  “Whatever you say. I’m off to find some kitchen maids.” Grabbing his scimitar lightly, as it had gotten hot in the sun, he clipped his sheath onto his sword belt and headed off toward the residential buildings.

  Artanna watched him go with a dark look on her face. Remembering Vezzam, who she’d been avoiding since that morning, she recalled waking up and realizing her mistake. A sullen look had come over his face when she told him it wouldn’t be happening again. She cursed herself silently for her weakness, probably for the tenth time.

  “What do you think of Jert?”

  Lost in her thoughts, Artanna hadn’t noticed Vezzam coming over to her.

  “A frisky sun of a bitch. Following me again?”

  “I’m worried.”

  “You’re always worried about me, and most of the time, you shouldn’t be,” the Hundred leader replied with a wave. “What happened?”

  “Val woke up and wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Artanna picked up her sword, handed it to the blacksmith, and hurried off in the direction of the barracks.

  There was almost nobody inside—just the healer preparing yet another poultice for the patient and Baby Shrain, who had had made himself comfortable at the head of the secretary’s bed. When he saw Artanna, the boy weakly pulled himself up.

  “Val!” The Hundred leader ran over to him, forgetting everything else. “How are you, boy?”

  “Givoi…”

  Tears appeared in his eyes, and he couldn’t get another word out.

  “Easy, easy…” Artanna sat down on the bed, holding the crying secretary in a motherly embrace. “I already heard everything. Piraf told us.”

  Looking over at Shrain, who was sitting there with a sad look on his face, she nodded silently. The giant got up and motioned for everyone to clear the room.

  “The Chironis,” the boy sobbed, wiping the tears away from his pale face. “They came at night… We weren’t ready, we couldn’t do anything…”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “It’s my fault. Only mine.” Still holding Val, Artanna started rocking gently from side to side. “I shouldn’t have left Givoi. The Chironis were cooking something up, I could feel it, and I should’ve dealt with that before leaving for Ellisdor. It was a huge mistake, Val. They all died because of me.”

  “We surrendered the manor when we couldn’t fight anymore.”

  “I know. You should have surrendered right at the beginning. There was no way you could have fought them, and they wouldn’t have all died for nothing…”

  “Not for nothing!” the boy shot back angrily, pulling himself away. “That was our home, and we fought for it! But they made us give it up. We just opened the gate, let them in…”

  Before he could finish, Val broke down again.

  “Sh-h…” Artanna said. “Sometimes, it’s better to suffer a little humiliation and do what someone tells you to do instead of dying proudly. I learned that lesson when the Runds held me prisoner—it’s the only reason I’m still alive today. And you’re alive because of that decision, Val.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t blame yourself. I’m the only one who should take responsibility.”

  “But you gave an oath to Lord Rolf…” the boy started, wiping the tears away with his sleeve. “I heard everything when the letter came from Ellisdor. You left because Lord Gregor summoned you, and you had to pay your debt.”

  The Hundred leader sighed bitterly, let go of Val, and turned away.

  “I had a choice,” she said dully. “I probably could have tried to put off my debt to the Voldhards, only a little nobility at the wrong time screwed me. There isn’t much point in me being here, and we lost Givoi. I’m an idiot, Val. An idiot.”

  “But you’re going to get our home back, aren’t you?”

  Artanna met the secretary’s eyes and saw the hate written in them.
It was mixed with a thirst for revenge at any cost.

  “Not right now, my dear. But as soon as our service to Lord Gregor is over, I swear, we’re all going back to Givoi to take back what is ours. And the Chironis… I’m going to kill the Chironis slowly and painfully. You know how Nood Steelhead, the Rund who held me prisoner, gave me a new wound every day? Every day I sat in his cage? He ended up cutting me open almost two hundred times before I ran.” The Vagran pulled back the collar of her shirt, baring the interlaced scars covering her chest. “The Chironi brothers can expect something similar. I’ll cut them open once for every one of ours they killed. I swear to you, Val, we’re going to go back and get our revenge.”

  “I’m going to kill them,” the secretary said through his tears. “Kill them all…”

  “Yes, you will, when the time comes. And I’d very much like to help you with that.”

  Chapter 43. Ellisdor

  “Maybe you should postpone the ceremony?” Artanna asked as she looked out the window at the gathering madness. The past few days, the weather in Ellisdor had been sweltering, and there had been no getting away from it even in the eternally cold castle. “The sun’s up, and it’s impossible to breathe. We’re going to have a storm.”

  Gregor just waved her off, his careless gesture earning him a reprimand from the tailor trying to fit sleeves to the duke’s silver-embroidered doublet.

  “It’s fine. The wedding will be in the Shrine, and the storm can’t get to us there.” Voldhard glanced over at the Hundred leader and shook his head reproachfully. “It’s about time for you to get dressed, too, seeing as how you’re supposed to walk my bride to the altar. We should have had them fit one of Rhinhilda’s dresses.”

  “Not the best idea,” Artanna muttered. “Highligland dresses barely cover my knees, and they’re too loose in the chest. A waste of fabric, that’s what I say. I already dug around in a chest and found something in with the remnants of my former glory.”

  The castellan deserved some thanks. Everything Artanna hadn’t had the time or desire to take with her when she’d been banished to Givoi had been carefully stored in chests. The Hundred leader had been able to find an old-fashioned, if elegant doublet that fit her like it had been made the day before. Even the pearls still glistened.

  “Fine, wear what you want. The whole thing is wrong, anyway. But I’m warning you,” Gregor said, shaking a finger at her playfully, “no tricks.”

  “Your Grace is going to be pulling the day’s main trick. Nobody’s going to forget this for quite a while.”

  Gregor cracked his stiff knuckles—standing there immobilized by the tailor’s watchful vigilance was hard for him.

  “I know you think we’re going ahead with the wedding too soon,” he said gently. “But, damn it, Artanna, I’m so happy! Finally, I won’t have to hide anymore. I’ll be able to look my fate in the eye.”

  “I’m just worried that the consequences are going to catch up with you when I’m not there to protect you.”

  Artanna turned away, not wanting to ruin the happy day with her sour looks and gloomy thoughts. She was happy for Gregor in a motherly way, as he’d been able to do what she and Rolf had only ever dreamed of. Even if their love faded, even if fate was cruel to them, Artanna was sure that Gregor and his bride deserved happiness in that moment, at least. While they were young. While it seemed like they had their whole life ahead of them. It was hard to blame them for just wanting to be happy.

  The tailor finished the job, collected his tools, bowed, and disappeared out the door. Artanna turned around to see Gregor staring at his reflection with a perplexed look on his face.

  “Not what you’re used to?” she asked with a grin.

  “I’m a warrior. Brocade isn’t me.”

  “You’re going to have to get used to a crown, too, since you’re planning on wearing one of those. And they say they’re even more uncomfortable.”

  “I know,” Gregor replied dully. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure she never regrets her choice. She decided to stay with me and see this through to the end, and I’m so thankful to her. And to you, for staying true to your old oath.”

  “I wish you both all the luck in the world,” Artanna said with a sad smile before suddenly slapping the duke on the back. “You look great, already kind of king-like! Just straighten that back of yours up. Okay, I’m going to go see how your bride is doing. It’s almost time to leave for the Shrine.”

  The Hundred leader quickly left, cursing the heat and the sudden nervousness she felt. It was almost as if she, not Irital, was about to step up to the altar.

  “Don’t forget to change!” Gregor yelled after her.

  ***

  The city was in fine form. While the Highligland coffers were running low thanks to yet another fight with the Runds, there had still been enough to clear the streets and prepare a feast. Gregor could never quite figure out how Haltsel always managed to scrape together the funds.

  The citizenry had scattered wreaths and flags on the street. The crowd itself was being worked by peddlers selling refreshing drinks, roasted nuts, and ribbons with the colors of the ruling house. Street musicians played, itinerant artists acted out scenes, and pickpockets plied their trade. Women hid their faces behind veils and fanned themselves in the heat.

  Gregor was more nervous than he ever had been before. His knees knocked, his fingers trembled and didn’t listen to him, and a cold sweat dripped down his back even in the heat of the Shrine. All he wanted to do was rip his skin off together with the bejeweled doublet.

  Just a few moments later, the bride’s procession was set to appear. Standing at the foot of the statue of Gillenai, Gregor heard the gathering noise of the crowd in the square. They loved Irital there, and he liked to think that the Highliglanders were going to accept the Latanian with all the respect due her. She was going to make a great queen—after all, she’d been prepared for the role since she was a child.

  Finally, the massive carved doors of the Shrine were thrown open, letting in the dim light, the roar of a multitude of voices, and wispy fragments of music. Gregor perked up and exchanged glances with Aldor and Brother Aristid in search of approval and support. The monk had left the honor of marrying Gregor and Irital to Master Dararius, though he stayed to serve at the altar during the ceremony. Aldor smiled wryly, looking pale and lost. But that was okay—Gregor knew his friend never felt comfortable in a crowd. It was a shame Rhinhilda hadn’t been able to come. A dozen days before the ceremony, she’d sent a letter saying she’d fallen off a horse and hurt her leg. She was fine, but she couldn’t make the long journey. His mother, as usual, stayed in Agaran and just wrote a single congratulatory letter with a long list of tedious instructions. Of course, she’d pulled away from her children long before, to the point that Gregor wasn’t expecting a flash of motherly love even then. Lady Viviana seemed to care only about her prayers and solitude. It was as though she was trying to cross out and forget the life she’d had with Lord Rolf as some kind of bad dream.

  “Welcome, Irital Urdanan, bride to His Grace, Gregor Voldhard!” called the herald, pounding his carved staff on the ancient stone slabs. His voice merged with the first crack of far-off thunder.

  Gregor was beside himself.

  Chapter 44. Missolen

  Here we go…

  In all of Missolen, there was only one place that could fit all the dignitaries and divines Ladarius had summoned: the Great Eclusum Shrine. They flocked to its walls like vultures to a corpse, sweating and suffering from the heat as they waited for their leader.

  Demos sat at a rectangular table on a dais near the altar. Next to him, was Bryce Allantain, the new Duke of Osvendis; Enrige the Gatson; Serhat, the ruler of Rikenaar; and Supreme Justice Ronal Shast, who was temporarily enjoying even more rarified air than that of the Small Council. A bit higher than Demos’ table, at the foot of a giant statue of Gillenai, a lectern decorated with a disk made of pure silver had been set up. The pyramid of b
ooks, papers, and scrolls on the other side of it hid Master Vardius, the head legal expert at Eclusum University.

  Like Shast isn’t enough for us. I’ll bet the head of the Collegium will show up, soon—what would we do without His Eminence Ruvinius?

  There was a chair for Ladarius and a bench for his extensive retinue, all in white silk, next to the lectern. No expense had been spared on the décor. Suddenly, it hit Demos that everything there was oversized, hypertrophic, painfully exaggerated, and absurdly luxurious. Every piece of molding, every marble swirl, every enormous stained-glass window served but one purpose: to belittle, suppress, and break everyone and everything under the greatness of the Keeper.

  Or maybe the power of the great master?

  Demos scanned the crowd for familiar faces. The representatives of the most influential houses and honorable clergy had arranged themselves in the cathedral’s upper galleries, and that was where the chancellor saw his mother. She was, as always, almost uncomfortably resplendent. Next to her, were Lady Vittoria, sporting a pendant with an emerald the size of a quail egg; Count Lindr Devaton, the brother who couldn’t keep his lust in his pants; and his brother’s extensive family. Happily, Lisetta Tiare, the guilty party in the scandal, was quietly awaiting release from her burden somewhere in a cloister. Knight Captain Renar’s place was somewhere down below with the Order.

  A shame. The family misses its youngest son.

  The members of the Small Council were in the front rows. There was Demos’ old friend Ilbert du Lavar, the treasurer, and he was next to Ofron Allantain, sporting polished buttons and a pomaded beard. The late Irving’s nephew met Demos’ gaze and gave the chancellor a curt nod in greeting. Next to him, were First Secretary of the Chancellery Kartal Faruhad and Anseyam Tiare, Lord Governor of Missolen, who was whispering animatedly about something.

  I wonder how soon that piece of mediocrity will get kicked out of his new job. I helped him get it, but I’m not about to help the windbag keep it just because Lindr got his young stepmother pregnant.

  The Latanian king had it worst. Since Irital Urdanan hadn’t shown up in court, Eisval the Latanian was forced to sit red-faced in her place. The golden-haired king oozed contempt, barely containing his rage.