Chapter 18 The day it all might not have happened... (Patreon)

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"Light and Dark, Creator and Destroyer," Curzio whispered, raising two fingers to the low ceiling. "Give me strength, reinforce my intent, temper my will!"

The light of the setting sun shattered against the bars and fell on the islander's face in a gray rectangle. The ashy sun, the gray walls, the gray city opening outside the window of the small room. There were many ugly cities in the Ecumene, but Saltoluchard was deservedly considered the worst of the worst. The twin islands had almost no greenery, much less forests, so all buildings were constructed of stone. Walls, blind gates, and spires of high towers, which nobody thought to shorten according to the imperial decrees. That's all that opened the wanderer's eyes. Not without reason, the islanders were often called "stone people." They lived on sandstone, slept on sandstone, and even the tables in most houses were carved from stone. And while on the continent, it was the norm to decorate even the most squalid surroundings with a few strokes of paint, the Salt Island proudly turned its nose up at the excesses.

The islanders believed that beauty and luxury should be hidden from view. Wealth was not an occasion for idle boasting but a gift from God that only the chosen few could behold. Therefore, all of Saltoluchard's vast treasures were safely hidden behind thick walls and a display of ostentatious squalor. And what everyone else thought... What did the true aristocrats care about the performances of overseas savages?

Curzio prayed to the creators and masters of things. It was a rare occasion when his aspirations sounded so sincere, so hopeful, as they did today.

"Savior and Protector, give them reason! Open the ears of the deaf, open the eyes of the blind! Let them hear and understand my words," he finished, folding his palms close to his heart.

It's time. The time for prayers is over.

He looked into a mirror, a real, full-length, mercury-amalgamated, solid glass mirror, more expensive than a nice house in a medium-sized town. The mirror was the only object that broke the emptiness of the prayer room. Curzio ran his fingers along the carefully shaved front of his head, from forehead to parietal. He touched the curled strands above his ears and the tuft at the back of his head, testing the hardness of the varnish. Not a single hair was to be out of place, disturbing the noble hairstyle.

Gods help me...

He turned at the mirror, surveying himself on all sides, assessing how the cloak of the old charter lay. A wide strip of cloth had been cut from the collar all the way down so that it hung over his shoulders at the sides and back, revealing his back like the wings of a dunghill. Yes, the forefathers followed fanciful canons..... So, everything's immaculate. Time to begin. Curzio thought about making the sign of the Two again but decided it was too much. The gods are omniscient, so there was no point in being so intrusive. Everything is their will.

He left the prayer room, where, according to long-standing custom, they gathered their thoughts and cleansed their doubting minds before reporting to the Hall of Intentions. Tradition did not limit the period of time to be alone with the gods, the statutes ordered the Council to wait, being patient. Responsible business does not tolerate fuss and haste, for haste confuses the mind and breeds mistakes, and mistakes lead to defeat. Therefore Curzio never neglected the opportunity to pray, once again going through the arguments and considerations in his mind, sifting them through the sieve of reflection and criticism. However, he did not linger too long, either. Tradition preserved the Island, but it would be unwise to keep the Privy Council waiting longer than necessary.

The islander climbed the small spiral staircase. A deaf-mute servant opened the plain oak door so the master of secret affairs did not even have to slow his step. The door let Curzio through and closed silently behind him, leaving him alone with the Council.

Many on the continent hid secrets behind strong walls, enclosed themselves in stone and wood, hidden underground, in deep cellars. But Saltoluchard's wise forefathers, skilled in the search for other people's secrets, knew that walls not only protect but also obscure the eye. There would always be a spy who would sneak into the darkness, climb the highest wall, drill through the toughest stone, and catch careless speech with a listening tube. However, no one has ever been able to approach unnoticed in the desert and eavesdrop on the wind. That is why the Hall of Intentions was not hidden behind the mighty fortress walls but, on the contrary, opened to the world on the top of a modest tower.

The circular hall, resembling a fighting arena, was securely covered by a mesh dome of iron and lead, like the temple of the Sixty-Six Attributes of the Church of Pantocrator. Even the glass panels in the frames were magical, but instead of the wondrous multicolor of the temple, the transparent sheets of the Hall produced a grayness, filtering the sun with a dusky sieve. They concealed what was going on inside while revealing everything outside. No one could creep in to hear, much less see, what was not meant to be heard or seen.

Curzio walked towards the middle of the hall right to the model of the capital, made with amazing accuracy in every detail and with meticulous adherence to scale. It was not for nothing that the islanders were considered the best architects in the Ecumene. It took a year just to make secret measurements and put them on the maps. It took another year to build the model, but now the entire City was laid out at the feet of the Privy Council in minute detail, down to the last hovel. Tiny houses were marked with flags and colored cords stretched along the streets. Painted wooden figures marked guard posts, garrisons, and the personal guards of the Bonoms.

To Curzio's left, a large chart, a sort of calendar or table of several hundred cells with a complex layout, glowed faintly on the stone floor. Most of the rectangles had been crossed out, with no more than three or four dozen left free. On his right hand rose a writing board made of a solid plate of smooth slate in a large wooden frame, taller than a man's height.

In front of the defendant, behind the model of the capital, twenty-three men sat in a semicircle on unlacquered wood stools. The Heads of the Councils, who determined the life and death of every inhabitant of the Island, and of so many outside it. Once, at the dawn of history, there had been only three. Then the number of Councils had multiplied according to the growth of Saltoluchard's power, but it had always been an odd number. Only odd, so that the votes could not be equally divided.

Curzio looked at the identical figures in robes of blue and crimson, on the same white masks with narrow slits for eyes. In Saltoluchard, it was customary to hide faces, and masks were worn by all, even the burghers and poor. However, the Council masks were made without fasteners and modeled after women's masks. These masks were supposed to be worn by clenching in their teeth with special spurs in front of the mouth so each councilor would listen and speak more, weighing each word beforehand.

Twenty-three figures, like ghosts from horrible tales. Identical and eerie in silent stillness. Someday, he would take his place among them.

Someday...

There were no heralds, secretaries, or scribes, as was customary on the continent. No records were ever kept, no one asked for the word, and especially no egregious scenes as in the noble assemblies of the continent. The chiefs of the Aleinsae family were above this. They would gather and make a decision and nothing more. Curzio sighed once more, suppressed the urge to check whether the folds of his cloak were flawless and vice versa, whether the crimson jacket tightened his chest smoothly enough. And began.

He spoke softly and strictly to the point. The glass dome kept any rustle out, reflecting sound so one could even whisper and be heard. Curzio armed himself with a long whale rib pointer, pointing at the townhouses, carefully moving the figures around. When it came time to account for expenses, the man moved to the blackboard, quickly jotting down the major expenditures. Written letters and numbers are better than spoken words. They stick in the mind longer. The Privy Council listened silently, like a single creature with twenty-three heads.

Curzio finished the tale about the costs of espionage and the work of brigades of scribes of city proclamations. He moved on to the issue of the confrontation between the craft councils and the workshops. There was nothing new here, but a few words were necessary to emphasize the expansion of the conflict. He mentioned that the privileged workshops had already begun to buy cheap weapons and to form their militias.

And finally, he reported the main point:

"A convoy with a cargo of silver for the Imperial Mint was detained yesterday in the port of Taididdo," Curzio deliberately used the old name of Milvess. "The Judicature of the cargo docks has forbidden unloading and arrested the ships because the number of barrels of metal is greater than the number specified in the accompanying letter. The message came by magical passage via courier. We're waiting for confirmation by normal means, but there's no longer any doubt. Everything is going as planned."

A quick glance at the table-calendar, more out of habit than for clarification and verification.

"Vice Duchess Flessa Wartensleben reported by pigeon mail the receipt of the copper coins."

Curzio took a breath. Up to this point, his story had been a series of successes and a statement that everything was going according to plan. Now, however, it was time to talk about the unpleasant.

"One of our commanders took..." he emphasized "our," demonstrating that there was not a mercenary in command. "A disastrous initiative, starting earlier than agreed. A small town in the south called Syvera has been captured and ravaged by an attack from the sea. I believe Bonom will swear he misinterpreted the order. This is a matter I have decided to leave for later."

One of the figures held up a palm with fingers tightly interlocked so as not to mimic the prayer gesture of the twin fingers. With his other hand, the counselor took the mask and pulled it away from his face just enough to allow sound to penetrate the narrow gap between the chin and the polished bone of the whale skull.

"Why?"

The hand did not drop, but the mask returned to its place. Curzio looked at the gathering, making sure no one else wanted to speak.

"It wouldn't be appropriate right now," the financier explained. "No matter what happens in the township, that can't be changed. The incident can't interfere with our plans. It will take weeks for the news to reach Milvess for a decision to be made there. Besides, the emperor is indecisive. He will likely demand an explanation from our representative in the capital. Again, that's time. It's better to investigate after we've settled the problem with the imperial court, without haste, and with all due diligence."

After a short pause, the mask swayed in agreement. The hand lowered, showing that the host was satisfied with the explanation. Several others, however, rose at once. Curzio began to answer one by one as the sun went down, thoroughly and with all care, taking care not to omit the slightest detail. His words satisfied the Council quite well. The last mask asked an unexpected question:

"Should we honor Duke Wartensleben's request?"

"Regarding the youngest daughter's rights to future headship in the family?" clarified Curzio. "The matriarch's assertion of bypassing primacy and seniority?"

"Yes."

"I can hardly judge that responsibly," the responder indicated with a carefully calculated bow. "My concern is the City and all things related to it. I can only offer a private opinion."

"Do it."

"I see no obstacle to that. We have few true friends on the "shore", the Wartensleben should be... encouraged. Flessa has proven herself clever and useful. I believe she will take over her father's leadership of Malersyde. However, the jurists of the Council of Laws and Traditions need to prepare a justification in such a form that it can, if necessary, be challenged in turn."

"Mask nodded, lowering the hand. That was the end of the agenda."

"However, I would like to say a few words..." Curzio paused, drawing attention. The Council was silent, making it clear that it saw no obstacles.

It's still possible to roll it back, to remain silent. There's nothing wrong with someone choosing to keep their unspoken words to themselves. Silent action is better than useless conversation, and that is the greatness of the Aleinsae family. Or one can do one's duty to the end, and that too is the way of a true bonom and primator, albeit from a distant sideline.

Yes. From the continental shore, all the Aleinsae seem to be the same, a united force without gaps or weaknesses. Only from the inside one can see how large and diverse the Family is. And how many branches grow on the common tree. Some are mighty and strong, while others are weak and wither without the flow of life-giving blood. If you are born in the shade, near the earth, it is difficult to take a place closer to the sun, sprouting upwards. Curzio received the gift of life from his parents, who were one step from the commoners. It took many years and much strength to put on a cloak cut according to the old traditions, to stand before the Privy Council, to decide the fate of the world. And now he must choose again.

Must...

"I want to emphasize that I think we are making two mistakes."

That's the choice made, no more backing down, now we have to talk to the end.

"One. I continue to believe, as I have before, that we should not resolve our financial differences with the Empire through such pressure. The court owes the Island colossal sums and has no intention of honoring its obligations. That is true. However, our way, bequeathed by the founders of the Family, is not the way of open force. "Salt Land" never hurries and always gets its way. We will still collect the debt, not from this emperor, but from the next."

Pause. Silence. Not a single fold rustles, not a single mask moves. Everyone listens to him, measuring and evaluating every word.

"Two. If everything remains as it is, I think it is a mistake to shorten the timetable. Our actions are strictly timed," Curzio pointed to the calendar. "And haste is as detrimental as procrastination. Let the tournament end. Let the participants leave the capital. We need to collect what's owed to Saltoluchard, not start fighting in the streets of Taididdo. If things happen sooner, thousands of armed men will clutch at the fights themselves, multiplying chaos and violence."

"We heard you," the one sitting in the center mumbled. The voice sounded muffled, and yet Curzio recognized it. The head of the War Council. "Your considerations will be taken into account."

"Will not internal opposition interfere with the fulfillment of your duty?" this was asked by the leader of the Coin Council.

"No," Curzio replied without hesitation, without thinking for a second. "The records of profit and loss converge regardless of the mood of the pen. I have expressed my opinion, but my loyalty to the Council and the Family is paramount."

He felt that the rulers liked the answer. That's right, the founders willed it. Appreciate blind loyalty, but even more highly prize skill endowed with reason and freedom of doubt. A blind man can only go forward without noticing obstacles, but a sighted tool is much more useful.

"There are things you don't know," a female voice said, meaning either the Council of Gold and Silver, i.e., the treasurers, or the Council of Archival Records. More likely the latter because under the guise of harmless archivists lurks the Island's intelligence. Those who are supposed to recognize the unknown.

"And that knowledge motivates us to act faster. Motives are not your concern. Take note of our wish and do your duty. Go. You will be informed of all that will matter."

Curzio bowed his head, paying his respects to the Council. He turned, not too quickly and not too slowly, so his cloak swayed spectacularly, playing with the folds like waves in a light breeze. And left the way he had come in. Now, all that remained was to wait.

No, of course not. No one has canceled the previous instructions. And that means the plan should go its own way, step by step, with one solved task following the previous one. Now, it is already sunset. The sun has rolled from the eastern shore of the Ecumene to the west, stealing the day and opening the way for the night. This means there are two more meetings ahead, with the Prince of the distant mountains and the Soldier Duke. The ones who will play the role of brute force to make the Island's claims sound stronger. Each his own reception hall, each his own honors, and then instructions wrapped in the soft brocade of politeness but stern and hard as swords.

Gods, let them change their minds! the islander pleaded to himself, pacing the stone floor in the light of the lamps lit by the servants. Creator and Destroyer, keep us from rash action!

Three weeks.

Three more weeks until the start of the Tournament, until the mechanism, started many months ago, will be spun according to the mechanics' plan. This is the time when it can be stopped, albeit by breaking some of the cogs and losing people and money. And then it will be too late.

Curzio prayed and knew that, for all his disagreement with the plan, he would carry it out selflessly, without delay, as if the lives of all his future and unborn children depended on it. For upon it rests the might of the Island. Every Aleinsae in authority has a vote, every move is subject to debate, and everything can be questioned. But once a decision is made - the Family strikes like fingers clenched into one fist without a shadow of hesitation.

The Emperor owes the Island. The Emperor does not want to pay. The Council will decide how to collect the debt. And every coin will return to the coffers of the Council of Gold and Silver, multiplied by interest.

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"You don't like it?" The master asked gloomily.

"No," the brether said honestly.

The selection in the workshop was good, but Ranjan had yet to find anything that could replace his tried-and-true waxed leather cuirass. The fighter disliked chainmail, finding it disproportionately heavy, and rarely wore plate armor to avoid restraining his movements.

Ranjan hadn't planned on getting any equipment, but if you were staying overnight in a city famous for armor-makers, it was a sin not to browse the shops and workshops and see if anything caught your eye. As it turns out, it didn't.

"The merchandise is good," he said politely, running his eyes over the armor on the 'dummies' once more. The workshop wasn't rich enough to make and sell one-piece sets, but the helmets and armor, as well as paired sets like gauntlets, were indeed of decent quality. "But unfortunately..."

Somewhere and some time ago, as a young boy, Ranjan had heard from someone that politeness was cheap and sold expensively. He liked it, and since that time, the fighter had always tried to be polite. He decided not to delve into speech, hanging the vague "unfortunately" as if it were a sign erased by the years on a traffic pole.

"Well..." sighed the master. "Then let's have a look at this."

He fiddled with a large trunk. It didn't sound metallic, so Ranjan was curious. He pulled out something that looked like a barrel wrapped in burlap. Ranjan immediately recognized the shoulderless cuirass and became even more interested as the craftsman held the object too lightly for its size.

"Here," the armored man placed the thing on the workbench and unrolled the rough cloth. "Then take a look.".

Ranjan appreciated both the armor and the way the craftsman used polite addresses as if he were speaking to a nobleman. The cuirass looked original indeed. It was the same design as the usual two-piece body armor with straps and hinges, only concealed, without a prominent mid-rib. But the material... It looked as if someone had taken a shirt of very coarse weave, almost like a fishing net, and then watered it with either resin or brown-colored liquid glass. The result was a translucent fabric-based armor. The cuirass reflected the light of the large candles like a huge bottle. Ranjan tapped the smooth surface with his fingernail. The sound came out clear, though more deafening compared to glass.

"You can test it," the craftsman pointed with restrained pride to the scratches that stood out as white dashes on the brown surface. "Sturdy!"

"Tar armor," not so much asked as noted aloud by the brether.

"That's the one. I learned how to make it."

"The tar from the South, that's understandable. And sulfur from the Wastelands?" The warrior gave the craftsman a sharp look.

"No," he lowered his head, realizing it was pointless to deceive. "It's too expensive, and the Malarsid merchants have a monopoly on it. But I've figured out how to use ordinary sulfur and what to mix it with. It's slightly worse and a lot cheaper."

Ranjan noted the emphasis on "slightly" and "a lot."

"I'll try it on," he said. "And test it."

"Please," the armored man smiled demurely. The craftsman seemed to be confident in the quality of the product. "Very good for concealed use. It's worse than steel but better than leather. And most importantly, it's light."

"Why are there no customers?" Brether asked, tightening the straps. The cuirass was indeed comfortable, just like a custom-made one. It could be worn over a jacket or hidden under clothing.

"They're not used to it," said the armorer man sadly. "Everyone wants steel. They want to see more famous steelmakers' brands. They call it 'glass'! They say it's only good for girls."

It seems the craftsman was genuinely offended.

"So I'll give it to you cheap, just to cover expenses. I'll get mine later when they've had their fill. And you'll need it in Milvess."

"Yes?" Brether hummed uncertainly, bouncing up and down and rotating his arms to test his freedom of movement.

"Where else?" the armorer man realized he'd said too much and tried to smooth things over, "There's only one way from here to the capital, and the Tournament is coming up. So if you've come from the north and have weapons, the only way is South to test your faith."

"Indeed..." Ranjan was equally vague. "What's the catch?"

"It's not repairable," the armorer already realized that he'd have to be quite honest for the sake of commerce. "It holds blows well, springs a little, but if it's punctured or cracked, that's it. Unless you glue on a steel plate."

"Got it."

Ranjan removed his cuirass, placed it on the workbench, and took a long dagger with a wide crosshair out of its sheath.

"Hold it, I'll test it."

"With pleasure," now the armorer man's smile shone with proud confidence. "This won't penetrate!"

Having become poorer by a few gold coins and richer by one piece of armor, the warrior left the workshop. The servant and bodyguard waited at the gate, silent, patient, like a ghost.

"They'll deliver a purchase from him at dawn tomorrow," Ranjan pointed a thumb behind his back toward a wooden signboard with a scorched drawing of a gauntlet. "And we'll set off at once."

"The City is only two weeks away," Grimal remarked expressionlessly. "Are we in a hurry after all?"

"Yes," Ranjan scented his cloak, sheltering himself from the evening dampness. Winter was late, but after sundown, it was a reminder of the imminent visit. "Armed men always attract attention."

"The Tournament is close at hand. People with weapons won't surprise anyone," Grimal didn't argue with his master but rather dutifully went over the objections. "But a gang in a hurry that will draw attention."

"I want her without outside ears or eyes. And as soon as possible. Too much time has already been lost. I'm afraid someone will get ahead of us."

Ranjan was silent, clutching the hilt of his dagger.

"A lot of time lost," Brether repeated muffledly.

* * *

Mourier sat at the side of the boat, thinking how much he wanted to sleep. And how he wanted to kill Lunna. Lovag had a bad taste in his mouth for sea travel, both motion sickness and drowsiness. But a vassal's duty... besides, a petty nobleman of very humble origins has little opportunity to rise to the occasion. Mourier was well aware that selfless and loyal service to the daughter of the powerful Wartensleben was a happy chance, most likely the first and last. Therefore, Lovag never complained, was always on the alert, and steadfastly overcame difficulties. Even his regular denunciations to the old Duke were made honestly but with an eye on what to smooth over and what to keep silent about.

To the mistress, another night of entertainment. To the faithful servant, a vigil on guard. This is the natural course of things, to which it is useless to grumble. Pantocrator has decided who is destined to be born in whose family, and there is no point in cursing God. All that remains is to serve, day by day, to become an indispensable assistant, the right hand of a highborn lord... or lordess. So the day will come when you will be elevated and will be able to taste all the pleasures that were denied before.

Mourier looked at the clothes thrown in disarray over the deck boards. At the dark sky that would not soon be painted with the colors of dawn. Tonight was a special and rare night when the moon was almost hidden behind a shroud of clouds, but the stars shone unusually bright. Astrologers sought many interpretations for such a phenomenon, but the Lovag did not believe in them.

Mourier sighed, spat overboard, and glanced toward the cabin. The wet footprints that ran in a double chain from the bow to the aft cabin door on the upper deck were still wet. The disciplined crew sat on the lower deck, waiting for morning and the signal to wake up.

Lovag drew his sword, made a few strokes, and lunged into the void, imagining that the bare-assed medicine woman was there. The bodyguard couldn't put it into words, but he felt instinctively that the slutty horse would be nothing but trouble. More than anything, he wanted to kill the bitch. Lovag stood, swaying slightly on his sturdy legs, his sword twitching in his hands like a wasp's sting.

Just brush her head off her shoulders and be done with it. Body in the sea, crew trained to ignore what they don't need to see. And the mistress. yes, she'll be angry, but all things pass so will the wrath of the Bonoms. Maybe she'll get over it. No, you can't. He can't. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. Mourier did not feel the slightest desire to return to his ancestral "property," i.e. the village of five huts.

It would be nice if the lady would get bored with the horse sooner. Or she could just go somewhere else, preferably quietly and without leaving a trace.

It would be good to...

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