Vertus State (Vassal State Book 1)

by K. M. Mayville

  Lord Deutran guffawed out loud. “PROOF! WHERE IS YOUR PROOF?!”

  Another booming stage voice said from the tree line, “MY PROOF IS IN MY TESTIMONY, DEUTRAN!” and Lord Castello herself rode into the clearing. She was riding side-saddle in a bluebell dress of many layers. She grinned from her place and looked up at Lord Deutran like a princess arriving to her castle. “Let us dispense with pleasantries, shall we, Neighbor?” she called through a toothy smile.

  Lord Deutran’s face had gone steely and aloof. “Let’s,” she agreed.

  “Give me Conscript an’ I won’t raze your fuckin’ city.”

  “Raze my city without warrant and I will bring the wrath of the kingdom down upon your lands and wipe out everything you represent.”

  Lord Castello’s eyes widened as her expression became manic. “HE BELONGS TO M—!”

  “HE BELONGS TO NO ONE!” Lord Deutran bellowed over her. “He has spilled blood on my lands,” she said. Then, louder, she announced, “HE HAS TAKEN OF MY FLOCK! BY LAW, HE IS AT THE MERCY OF THE LORD OF CAIRN-OVER-MERDA!” She slammed down her spear and rose up as tall as she could muster, striking the night sky. Slowly, she pointed the weapon at Lord Castello and bent down into a crouch, as if it took her great effort to aim so low. “You don’t look like Lord Deutran,” she said. “You look like a northern fool.”

  Lord Castello tried linking with Mercenary, but he spurned her with little more than a psychic flick. It surprised him how effective his riposte was. He hadn’t even had to think about it. One second, she was trying to get her claws into his mind, and the next, she was effectively knocked onto her flat, mental ass. Had he always been so skilled at blocking her? Or was it the blood? He’d never tried before…

  “You do not want to fuck me, Deutran,” Castello growled, her pleasant facade snapping into rage. “DO YOU HEAR ME, DEUTRAN? You will regret the day King Aleef made me Lord over the Castle on the Rhein. YOU HAVE MADE YOUR INTENTIONS CLEAR!” She snapped her reins and jerked her horse around when it didn’t respond as quickly as she wanted it to. Over her shoulder, she said, “The next time we meet… will be the last!” Then, when she got to the tree line, she snapped her fingers.

  Bluejay was the last of her attendants to leave the wall. She looked up and tried to find Mercenary’s eye with her own feathery blues. When he locked gazes with her, he felt her mind brush up against his, but she didn’t attempt to link. It was a sympathetic touch, a touch that just wanted confirmation that he was whole and he stood by his decisions.

  He simply nodded at her and she gave him a brief, helpless smile. Then she snapped her reins, kicked back, and took off toward the rest of the entourage.

  No, he thought without conviction. Come back…

  When the last of the torches disappeared into the forest and the snake wound north, Mercenary took a few steps backward and his legs buckled beneath him. The cool stone grounded him, reminded him that he was steady, that everything hadn’t crumbled to dust around him, and that he hadn't been thrown to the wolves as soon as they had appeared. He pressed a hand to his face as he sat back on his haunches.

  The priest looked up from his watch with a guilty look on his face. Then, he readjusted his collar, feeling the heat of his parishioner’s glare. He opened up his good book, then closed it. “You’re alone,” the priest mumbled. “No one will believe you.” He tossed his book onto the tiny coffin deep down in the dark and motioned to the men positioned off to the side. “All the best,” he said and walked away.

  The layman ran to the edge and looked down. The book had scored a mark on the varnished plywood. He balled his hands into fists and turned to stare daggers into the priest’s back.

  If only looks could kill.

  “Mercenary.” Lord Deutran leaned on her spear and held out her hand to him. “Didn't you tell me you were done with the knee-taking business?” she asked him gently. He read pride on her face—a weary satisfaction—a sleepy curiosity.

  He took her black gauntlet and she pulled him to his feet.

  Loyalty Through Time

  Sebara

  Her vassal shook his fist indignantly. "The next time we meet will be the last!" Misha snorted as he laughed. "Stars help me, Peacekeeper, she sounded like a silver-screen villain." He noticed her distance at the same time she thought to hide it by agreeing with him. His hand twitched as he put it behind his back, clasping his hands together at his spine. “What has you so occupied, Lord?” he wondered neutrally, but by the serious set of his mouth, he was challenging her again.

  She had yet to doff her armor. She sat rigidly in her throne. She asked him, “Do you think I invited this conflict because I’m bored?”

  He almost smiled, but when she refused to link with him, the smile turned serious. “If you have to ask,” he stated and his words echoed in the hall. He gestured up at her portrait, the movement angry. “You keep looking there. Should we take it down, Lord? Maybe put up my likeness instead? Might be a prettier sight to fuss over.”

  “Misha,” she snapped.

  “Don’t chide me like I’m not allowed to get angry. I’m trying to celebrate, and you’re being odd.” He realized how childish he sounded as the words left him, but they were no less true. He tried to link with her again, but again she pushed him away. He came to the foot of her dais and tried to force himself into her mind, his brow furrowed.

  She launched to her feet and threw her helmet at him. The crow's head bit him in the hip and he flinched away from her. He could have dodged it, but he chose to take it, knowing he was in the wrong. Still, he hissed a curse between his teeth and rubbed at his leg, wincing. It was dramatic, but he was a dramatic soul. He’d always been dramatic. She loved that about him. She hated that about him.

  “Do you have one serious bone in your body?” she hissed at him, her temper cooling as she slowly sank back into her seat. She sat on the edge of it, rested an elbow along its arm, and propped a cheek against her fist.

  Misha glanced around for exits. He knew that look on her face. She was genuinely angry with him. Years ago, he would have answered her with, You know I only have one serious bone, and then run like hell. But now, he just scowled at her. “You really think she’ll muster some kind of offense against you? She has no stake, Deutran.” She almost wished he’d replied with the old joke instead. It might have made her worry less real.

  “She can whittle one,” Lord Deutran sibilated, her voice just audible. She bared her fangs as she nearly whined, “I’ve given her the wood!”

  Understanding and concern suddenly blossomed on Misha’s face. “Should we take this conversation elsewhere?”

  “No!” she shouted at him. Then she whispered, “Listen to me very carefully.”

  “Deutran—”

  “LORD!” She slapped away another one of his attempts to link with her.

  Very softly, Misha said, “I’m listening. Lord.”

  She sat back in her throne and said, “Lord Castello has played a bold hand. We can’t treat her like a player who adheres to the laws of our lands. She will attempt to strike us at our weakest point. It is said that Cairn-over-Merda has no weaknesses, but I know that Lord Castello won’t consign her people to a life of serfdom. She will outfit her army with technology beyond our people’s ken. She will starve her ghouls. She will make her monsters. She will not hold back. She will strike when we least expect it. She will not stop until every stone is scarred with her markings… because she knows this place does have a weakness, and it’s not our walls or our towers or the city to our south. It is me, Misha. I am the weakness.”

  Misha didn’t waiver as she stared him down. When she was convinced that her words had sunk in, she relaxed in her seat and asked, “So… I will ask again. Do you think I invited this conflict because I am bored?”

  Misha took a step up the dais. “I think you only wanted to protect someone you couldn’t protect before… and now you’re paying the price for that good deed.” His words were resolute, unquestionable.

&n
bsp; “You don’t think I’ve acted irrationally?”

  He took another step. “I think you’re kind to a fault.”

  “I feel selfish. I stole him from her. I may as well have snatched a child.”

  Another step. “You are selfish, but for all the right reasons.”

  “He must be worth something more. There is something in him.”

  “You’re right,” Misha insisted quietly as he started unbuckling one of her pauldrons. “There is something in him. Like recognizes like, Deutran. Or have you forgotten all that you are?” He pulled the piece of armor off her and it clanged all the way down the steps, spinning like dishware as it hit the flagstone. “You showed him, didn’t you?”

  “I left him a notion,” she said quietly, letting him unstrap her other shoulder guard. It too clattered noisily as it tumbled down the steps. She studied his face for any measure of untruth as he unlaced her gorget and his fingers lingered around her neck. “Have you told him of yourself?”

  Misha gave her a sad smile. “No need, Dearheart,” he said and left it at that. He untied the clasps on her armor and then flipped their housings around. He bent down to start unlacing her boots. She watched him pull off her grieves one at a time. “You can play Atlas all day… and you’ll just play yourself,” Misha said quietly. He reached for her and she gave him a gauntlet to untie. After slipping each piece off of her fingers, he pulled off her gloves and held her bare hands against his face, closing his eyes.

  “Will you hold up the sky with me?” she whispered to him.

  He fluttered his dumb, long lashes at her. “Do I ask stupid questions?”

  She linked with him and it was like coming home all over again. He kept all her worries at bay when she let him, and she let him for almost a week.

  But once a week had gone and past, the present caught up with her in the form of a letter from Lord Pyrtri, who was at long last replying to her call to action sent out on the night of Lord Castello’s confrontation.

  Lord Deutran sat at her desk in the dark, musing over old flames. On her desk, the decoded message was laid out in all its glory, all six of its lambskin pages scrawled upon in her own chicken scratch. Beneath the markers, she could still make out Pyrtri’s beautifully simple script:

  Favored One,

  Of Castello, One must be cautious. One might wake sleeping dogs. Castello was dismissed from King Kassas’ court not long ago. This One knows she may have been disgraced for it. Her answered punishment was severe, but not as severe as its asking merited. Some in court still loathe her. She is favored in King Aleef’s court. Or perhaps she is feared. As One knows, she is an impulsive creature, motivated by the drinking of material things… without knowing how they only make a spirit more thirsty. She is like a mirage chaser in the desert who grows more spiteful with each close encounter. If One spites her, she will spite back.

  One does not worry This One, but That One—Castello—does.

  How is the Beautiful Master? I hope he is well. I remember him being a giver, but don’t be afraid if he takes. Let him take. At times, it is good for a giver to take. Perhaps he won’t leave One so often if he can take. But This One will pretend not to be a guru in such respects. This One knows of his own heart… but This One aches in a twin sympathy for your sweetest Master. This One too once pined for One’s affections.

  This One will give you twenty musketeers. One must spare powder.

  This One will also send Titania. Titania will lead and not follow.

  This One will also give a trunk of care to a Favored One. Keep This One’s portrait close. Review This One’s inventory and expect arrival within a fortnight.

  Forever Yours,

  Leon

  c/o Lord Pyrtri de Troulande

  P.S. Tell Rinal her most recent journal was poorly. This One was not impressed. This One should like that she be given more samples for more accurate work. Perhaps One could learn from her Master about giving?

  Lord Deutran scoffed out loud as she reread the last paragraph. Oh yes, an ego boost was exactly what Misha and Rinal needed. As if their heads weren’t already so swollen. She flipped through the inventories one last time and sighed when she reviewed the letter from Titania. Its contents had been un-coded, but despite that, it still held scant clues as to the vassal’s temperament, besides business-like.

  Lord Deutran of Cairn-over-Merda:

  I shall require a room at least ten feet square so that I might practice my martial arts in my free time, away from the eyes of gawkers. I shall require at least three ounces of blood every week. (Consider a stipend every two weeks, if this proves to be too immediately taxing on your flock.) Otherwise, leave the discipline of the musketeers to me. If you should have any concerns, I would ask you to address me.

  I will stay out of your way otherwise. I have been tasked by Lord Pyrtri to simply serve until you are no longer dogged by threats. Let us hope Lord Pyrtri’s worries go unfounded, for if they prove unenlightened, I shan’t stay long in Deutschland.

  Regards,

  Titania de la belle Troulande, Vassal

  Lord Deutran refolded the missives and tucked them away in her desk. She could recall Lord Pyrtri’s face like she’d seen it that morning. She couldn't imagine he had changed much in the last hundred years. Only his handwriting had changed, as he’d grown more and more accustomed to writing in English and Neu-Deutsch with the changing of the world. Last she’d heard from court, he was attempting to learn Canton and its millions of characters. She envied him his voracious need for knowledge.

  Still, the contrast of his swarthy complexion and light, nutmeg-colored eyes stuck fast in her mind. She remembered the little things about him too. He wrinkled his flush nose whenever he heard something funny, but uncouth. He often lost his half-moons on top of his head. He always looked ten years younger from behind, his triangle shape enunciated by the coiling muscles in his back—muscles that had been spun, rope-like, over multiple lifetimes simply firing arrow after arrow from horseback.

  Lord Pyrtri wasn’t nearly as old as her, but every time she ever spoke to him or read his words, she always felt like one of his pupils. The Hun of Normandy was the real warrior poet, forged in battle and at least three academies of learning. Compared to him, she felt like a two-thousand year old sham.

  A smile came to her face as she recalled their last meeting in person. He had clumsily kissed her cheek, then had asked her to forget it. But she hadn’t forgotten it. She remembered that sweet, chaste kiss every time she thought of him. Keep This One’s portrait close, he had written. Oh dear, she thought to herself with a wry smile. Is that what he’s packed away in this care trunk he’s sending? I can’t wait to see how they’ve captured his likeness… If it’s not a flattering view of his backside, I’m writing him for a complete do-over.

  Lord Deutran sighed and stood. She would risk another jaunt down memory lane later. Now, she had to worry over preparations, housing twenty armed men, blood rations, and yet another foreign vassal living long-term in her Cairn.

  At that thought, she reached out to Misha to discover his location. He conveyed the armorer’s block near the stables. She took to the ground floor, then the courtyard, and finally to the workshop, in short order.

  There, several tradesmen were hard at work shoeing horses for the approaching cold season. A couple stable boys kept the geldings held fast while the apprentices unshod and filed hooves before their craftsmen applied the shining new examples. The lot of them gave nods of greeting to her, but they soon returned to their work after she sent them psychic reassurances that she wasn’t there to bother them specifically.

  She spotted Mercenary before she spotted her made man. In only a week, he was a drastically changed thing. His hair was starting to grow back, dark and coarse. He was less a skeleton than when he’d first arrived, but there were still dark shadows under his cheekbones and his one lone eye was sunk in his skull. He had adopted an eyepatch at Rinal’s request, but it didn’t suit him. If anything, it simp
ly reminded Lord Deutran that there was a creature out there that didn’t care for the sanctity of unlife and life alike. It reminded her of her worries.

  Otherwise, he seemed in high spirits. He spotted her watching him and he smiled warmly, baring his throat at her. Vassal. She politely touched two fingers to her lips. Lord. “Misha?” she asked quietly.

  He threw his chin towards the stables and hefted up another shovel from the woodshed he’d been digging through. She took it from him without question, smiling when he seemed surprised by her immediate acceptance. The two of them went, walking in companionable silence. She took that time to truss her dress up at her hip, pinning it with her waistline’s broach. She heard Mercenary stifle a grunted laugh as she revealed she was wearing calve-high boots and leggings under her garb. “What?” she demanded innocently. “Were you expecting ankles?”

  He shook his head, choosing to be polite over playful. “Mister Misha will complain.” His voice still sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of push tacks. She would have been hard pressed to admit that she liked its gravelly sound. It felt wrong to appreciate things about him that would never heal properly.

  “And he makes the rules?” she wondered casually.

  “He thinks he rules some things,” he said diplomatically.

  “Mm,” she said thoughtfully. “If there’s one thing Misha rules over, I’ll grant him fashion.” She smiled ruefully and asked, “How was your day?”

  “Good. Last thing to be done’s the stalls,” he said plainly. It seemed he wanted to ask or tell her something else, but he kept whatever it was to himself. She kept her disappointment to herself.