“Yorrin, Aleksandr! You are a welcome sight!”
Instead of Cleaver taking them to Olivenco, Lord Fortinbrass had ordered Olivenco brought to them. The feast was winding down by the time he arrived, and now all eyes in the hall were on him. He was followed by Cleaver, one of Torva’s men-at-arms, and another nervous-looking young man that Yorrin did not think worked for Cleaver.
He looks familiar, Yorrin thought of the unknown man, but he couldn’t place him immediately and didn’t care enough to try.
Olivenco looked as though he had been doing well. His black hair hung down almost to his shoulders, curly and lustrous with oil. His pointed beard and mustache were carefully groomed into the stylish goatee that seemed his preference. His clothes seemed well-tailored, the right sleeve of his tunic hemmed up entirely.
His steel dagger was sheathed at his side. The paired blade to the sword that now felt so familiar on Yorrin’s belt. Besito, he called it, Yorrin recalled.
“Olivenco,” Aleksandr stepped forward and gave the Spatalian a sturdy left-sided handshake. “Da, is good to see you as well. You have been busy. Lord Fortinbrass says that you have saved many people of Yerevan.”
Olivenco shrugged. “De nada. The least I could do, truly. In another life, I would have fought the madness the Svards brought upon the city.”
“Not even you in your heyday could have stopped an army,” Yorrin said as he stepped up to shake the man’s hand as well.
“Psh!” Olivenco scoffed. “I once slew one hundred men in the streets of Camarr in a single afternoon, and turned the tide of a battle.”
Yorrin rolled his eyes. “Yes, and got your title in the process. You’ve told me the story. Anyway, Aleksandr’s right. It’s good to see you, and better to know you saved the lives of so many of the Faithful.”
Olivenco’s casual smile and bravado evaporated. “Si,” he said. “I did what I could, for the priestess’s flock. I only wish…” his voice faltered.
Aleksandr lowered his voice, so that the rest of the court could not easily overhear. “Alaina. You saw what happened?”
“I did not,” Olivenco said, shaking his head. “Lisado I may be, and folly it would have been, but had I seen it myself I would have gladly given my life to buy her even a small chance to flee. I heard about it all after it was done. The Svard and his ship were already downriver a day or more, and her with them.”
“But she was alive? I heard—one of the bayards, he said she was alive.”
“I heard this as well,” Olivenco agreed. He frowned. “I have no reason to doubt, amigo, but neither can I confirm. Lo siento. I—I am sorry.”
Aleksandr exhaled. Yorrin could see how tense he was, but there was nothing anyone could do for him.
He’s afraid for her, and rightly so. Part of him will be in the hell of uncertainty until we either rescue her, or find her dead. Yorrin knew no words would change it. All he could do was help carry Aleksandr’s other burdens where possible, and let him face the demons in his own mind alone.
“I assume Cleaver already told you the Ruskies are heading home?” Yorrin asked, stepping in so that Aleksandr didn’t have to. “The siege is over.”
“Si! You arrived, slew the treacherous would-be lord, and broke the siege. All in a single night! Grandes héroes! Do such things too often and you will have your own legends to compete with mine.”
“That’s the plan,” Yorrin said.
“You are welcome to join in the feast,” Cleaver told Olivenco from where he stood nearby. “If you wish.”
“A feast, so early in the day? Loco.” Olivenco shook his head. He spoke these words loudly, to the entire room.
“In fairness, Captain, we’ve been up all night! And we skipped supper,” Perrin said from where he sat. “Come on, have a seat anyway. The wine’s good.”
“Of course it is!” Lord Fortinbrass declared. “The vintage is a comfortable one from southern Caedia, but more importantly it’s got my own favorite blend of spices mulled into it. You’ll not find better anywhere in the kingdom!”
Olivenco smiled as he moved towards Perrin, gesturing for Yorrin to accompany him. Yorrin glanced at Aleksandr.
Aleksandr gave him a single nod. He returned to his own seat, near the fat lord of Torva, and continued to poke at his meal in silence. Yorrin followed Olivenco instead, seeking a seat amidst the men.
You fit here better anyway, he thought. Could only take so much longer listening to Lord Fattenbrass prattle on and pretending to care.
Perrin had risen from his seat to give Olivenco an enthusiastic embrace. Yorrin thought it was unbecoming, but Olivenco returned it happily. Affection came more easily to Spatalians, of course. What’s Perrin’s excuse?
Yorrin did not miss that, while Cleaver returned to sit with Aleksandr and Fortinbrass, the nervous-looking man was following Olivenco like a mute puppy. Yorrin reached out to prod the fellow’s arm as they took their seats.
“Who’re you?” he asked.
The fellow looked at Yorrin with wide eyes. Yorrin looked him up and down, trying to pin down why he looked familiar.
There was little remarkable about him. He had a mop of brown hair, shaven cheeks, and pale blue eyes. He was shorter than most fighting men tended to be—taller than Yorrin, but not by so much. But he did seem to at least be attempting to look like a fighter. He wore a quilted gambeson, and a short blade hung from his belt.
“Ch—Ch—Ch—Um,” the young man stuttered.
“I’m not your chum,” Yorrin said, his lip curling in disdain.
“N—no. Ch—Chauncey, my lord,” the man said.
“Not your lord, either,” said Yorrin.
“Yorrin!” Olivenco’s tone had a hint of admonishment. “Be kind. Chauncey has been muy útil, si? He has helped me a great deal.”
“Hey, I recognize you,” Perrin said to the stuttering boy. “You were there, in Yerevan. That night.”
“Aye,” Cam piped up from where he sat. “Perrin’s right. Thought ye planned to join Taraam.”
Oh. Him. Yorrin recognized him now, or at least he could guess who they spoke of. One of the new recruits Olivenco had rounded up in Yerevan. He’d nearly broken during the fight against the cult.
“I did,” the man, Chauncey, said with an uneasy nod. “I r—r—reconsidered. B—b—b—”
“Spit it out, man,” Yorrin said.
“Give him time, Yorrin!” Olivenco said. “Chattering Chauncey, they call him. His tongue, it ties itself in knots, and the more you rush him the worse it gets, si?”
Yorrin frowned, but he held back further remarks.
“Thank you, Olivenco,” Chattering Chauncey managed the words without a chatter. “I d—decided not to go to T—T—Taraam. But Olivenco let me st—stay with him.”
“An extra pair of hands is quite useful,” Olivenco said. He smirked.
“So, what, he helps pull your cock out when you go to the privy?” Robin asked from a few seats down.
Chauncey blushed, and began stammering an incomprehensible reply.
Olivenco just shot Robin a sly grin, and arched his eyebrows. “Si, of course,” he said. “Taking a piss, saddling a horse, making love to beautiful women. One hand is muy incómodo. Chauncey’s hands make it all so much easier.”
Chauncey tried to protest, but most of the table was too busy laughing at Olivenco’s assertion to listen.
If Olivenco sees some value in the stuttering fool, then value there must be, Yorrin decided. Though damned if I can guess what.
“Chauncey was an asset when we stole a ship, and smuggled the Torathi out of Yerevan. Excelente,” Olivenco said.
“That’s admirable,” said Nathan. “Saving all those lives. Good on you, Chauncey.”
“It is,” Perrin agreed. “So what’s next, Captain? Once you get the refugees back to Yerevan?”
Olivenco frowned. Yorrin saw the cracks form along the edges of his bravado. “I do not know,” he admitted. “Honestamente… all the madness that befell Yerevan, it makes me angry. In another time, if I was still—” Olivenco hesitated. “I would have liked to fight the ones responsible.”
“The Ruskies are all packin’ up and going home,” said Longshanks.
“I do not speak of the Ruskans,” Olivenco said quietly. “The ones responsible, I said. Comprende?”
“The Svards,” said Gunnar. “Hakon.”
Olivenco gave Gunnar a sharp glance—noticing that Svardic accent—but then he nodded. “Si.”
“You could,” Yorrin said.
Olivenco looked at him. It was not as pointed as the look he’d given Gunnar, but Yorrin still felt its sting. “I could? Do what?”
“You know what,” Yorrin said stubbornly. He would not play into Olivenco’s self-pity. “Fight them.”
“I am not so sure.” Olivenco gestured to his missing arm. “I need help to take a piss, si?”
Yorrin shrugged. “Then bring the tongue-tied twerp along with you.”
“And how would we do this, Yorrin?” Olivenco asked. “We journey to Caedia and offer the king our services? A crippled duelist and a skittish guttersnipe. He will be greatly honored, I’m sure.”
“Perdón.” Yorrin glanced to the sound of the voice. Alejandra, of course. She had been muttering to her two degenerate partners in their mother tongue ever since Olivenco’s name had been mentioned.
Olivenco brightened when he noticed her. “Bella! Who is this, then? A beautiful woman from the homeland?”
Alejandra, to her credit, did not blush. For all that Yorrin had his misgivings about the Spits, Alejandra was a warrior through and through. She said something in Spatalian, her tone stern. Olivenco’s murmured response and shrug both struck Yorrin as an obviously insincere apology.
“What I wished to say,” Alejandra said, switching to Middish. “Is this: You are truly Olivenco—the Olivenco? The Cutter of Camarr?”
“He is,” Perrin said instantly. “Cutter of Camarr. Captain of Taraam. Yorrin’s mentor. I told you that’s where he got the steel blade.”
He told them? Yorrin had caught the Spits staring at him a few times on the road, when he rose at dawn to practice some of the forms Olivenco had shown him. But he hadn’t realized they’d been asking about him.
“Si, you did,” Alejandra agreed. She looked back to Olivenco. “You are he, then? Truly? No lo creo. How can this be true?”
Olivenco looked annoyed. “It is true, si,” he said.
“Then the stories must be what is false,” Alejandra said. “In Gallaecia, we heard of your exploits.” She gestured to one of the men beside her. “Martín’s family told stories of your bravery even on a farm far from the city-state.”
Martín nodded, and for once he did so without his typical blank, stupid grin.
“Even in Astura, we traded tales of the Cutter of Camarr,” Carlito agreed.
“Si, si, I am very famous,” Olivenco said.
“Are you?” Alejandra asked. “I am not sure.”
“Alejandra,” Yorrin said. “He may have turned coward in his old age, but he’s—”
“Coward?” Olivenco growled. “You call me this, Yorrin?”
Yorrin met Olivenco’s piercing glare with casual indifference. “If you squawk like a chicken…”
Olivenco clenched his fist in annoyance. Maybe you should have done this in private. Alejandra and the other Spits aren’t wrong, though. He hates to hear it, but that doesn’t change the facts. He’s a cripple by fate, but he’s only useless when he insists on being so.
“Join us,” Yorrin blurted out. “Don’t approach the king at all. We’ve already got a contract with Caedia. After what we did here at Torva, I bet the Marshal will renew us in a heartbeat. Take a cloak. Fight the Svards alongside us.”
In the corner of his eye, Yorrin saw some of the men react. The Spits seemed pleased. Perrin was grinning from ear to ear.
“A one-armed bravo is in no shape to fight Svardic warriors,” Olivenco said.
Yorrin shrugged. “Alright. So… what was it you said? Lost key, no ensign?”
Olivenco closed his eyes.
Alejandra snorted with laughter. Carlito shook his head, rolling his eyes and chuckling. Martín piped up with a smile: “Los que no, enseñan!” He laughed. “Si! Bueno! Es listo!”
Olivenco opened his eyes. “Join you. As a teacher?”
“A senior advisor,” Yorrin said. “Aleksandr’s probably already listened in enough to get the gist here, but if he hasn’t, I know he’ll say yes. Join Steelshod. Come back to Arcadia with us. See this through. Help us get Alaina back, and deliver Torath’s wrath to the heathens.”
Olivenco reached out and grabbed a goblet from the table. He pounded back a long gulp. When he finished, the cloud of discomfort that had begun to hang over him was gone. He smiled. “Si,” he said. “Perhaps this is a good idea. What do you think, Chauncey?”
Chauncey blinked. “Um. S—sir? You want us t—to go to war?”
“We want Olivenco to go to war,” Yorrin said. “Not sure how useful you’ll be, but if he vouches for you then perhaps you can tag along.”
Olivenco waved a hand at Yorrin in a dismissive gesture. He nodded to Chauncey. “Si, my friend. What do you think?”
Chauncey swallowed. “Um. Y—yessir. The Svards are k—k—killing Middish all over, yeah? Burning ch—churches. This war, it’s—it’s against the faith, not just C—Caedia, isn’t it?”
“Si, it seems so,” Olivenco agreed.
“Definitely, lad,” said Longshanks from across the table. “One o’ their longships burned out a church near my home, slaughtered the monks that tended it like animals.”
Chauncey nodded. “Let’s do it,” he said to Olivenco. “If you go, I’ll f—follow.”
Perrin grabbed a pitcher and topped off Olivenco’s drink, then Chauncey’s. “Good man,” he said to Chauncey. “The Captain’s an easy man to follow… and I expect you’ll find Aleksandr to be the same.”
Alejandra spoke to Olivenco in Spatalian, and this time her tone lacked the edge it’d had before. Olivenco replied in the same tongue, laughing, and the four Spits began babbling in their fast, incomprehensible speech. From further down the table, Leon joined in, though it sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of pebbles.
Are Loranette and Spatalian mutually intelligible? Yorrin could not recall. He knew that the many dialects of Spatalia all traced their roots back to the Cassaline Empire. He thought perhaps Lorraine did as well, but he wasn’t sure.
He glanced towards Fortinbrass’s table. The blubbery lord was still gorging on his feast despite having been at it for at least an hour. Around mouthfuls of food he was blathering away at Cleaver and Aleksandr. Aleksandr responded little.
He’s brooding. Can’t say I blame him. Yorrin made eye contact with his captain and truest friend. Aleksandr seemed to come out of his dark reverie, and Yorrin tilted his head towards Olivenco. Aleksandr’s lips curled into a faint smile, and he nodded. Yorrin nodded back.
I knew he’d agree.
Yorrin’s belly was full, but he was done chatting with the men. In the silence he poked at the remains of Fortinbrass’s spread. The fat lord hadn’t been kidding when he said he was throwing them a feast.
Braised lamb, chickens covered in cracked peppercorns, sweet roasted onions, pasties stuffed with fresh cheese, turnip mashed with butter and herbs. The food at the Silver Pine in Yerevan had been richer than nearly anything Yorrin had ever eaten, and Fortinbrass’s kitchen made their dishes look like common fare.
Fortinbrass may be a simpleton, but he knows good food.
He had to admit the mulled wine was delicious, too.
Yorrin rarely slept deeper than the morning after they broke the Siege of Torva. He rose around midday, and left the luxurious noble’s quarters he’d been assigned. It only took a few moments of wandering the keep before he had his bearings, but he didn’t stop wandering after that. The servants bustling about the keep saw him, but kept out of his way. He was Steelshod—one of the heroes that broke the siege.
It was a strange feeling. Once, not so long ago, free movement within a high lord’s keep would have been the greatest gift Yorrin could receive. He’d have robbed Fattenbrass blind. Now, the thought only occurred to him when he realized it hadn’t occurred to him. He wasn’t above stealing for a purpose, but Fortinbrass was Steelshod’s ally. He would never jeopardize their relations for something so petty.
So he stalked through the keep quietly, with no particular purpose or destination.
Until he heard Fortinbrass laughing.
Yorrin followed the sound. He came upon a door, cracked open, beyond which he realized was some kind of meeting room or solar. He heard voices—Fortinbrass, for sure. Cleaver too. He thought the third man was Deadman, perhaps. And the fourth… Ruskan?
“—Too clever by half, Milton,” Fortinbrass was saying. His voice still sounded strained with mirth. “He’s right, though! You know that, don’t you?”
“Da,” replied the Ruskan. “I suppose is true. We gain nothing by it, not with Kamarsky and others so intent to scurry back and bleat their apologies to Tsar Nikolai. Bah. Fine. I agree. Fifty zolotnik? What do you call them? Pound? Noble?”
“It’ll be zolotnik, I expect,” Fortinbrass said. “Right Vernon? No need to arouse any suspicions with Caedian gold. We should have enough coins from a Yerevani mint, shouldn’t we?”
“Of course, my lord,” said Cleaver.
“A lot of gold for a small force,” the Ruskan said. Yorrin felt increasingly certain he knew who the voice belonged to.
“We are not just buying your men.”
This time, it was Milton Deadman that spoke. Harbormaster, my ass.
“We are buying your discretion, Lord Stanislav,” Deadman said. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Da, fine,” Stanislav growled. “You have it. Is a deal.”
“Splendid!” Fortinbrass said. “More wine?”
“Nyet. You… you are not as you seem, fat man.”
“Beg your pardon, Lord Stanislav, but I’m exactly as I seem!”
“These men—”
“My loyal servants. Without them I can’t imagine I’d get anything done, sir.”
“You act weak. Fat. Caring only for feasts and gold. A merchant bayard.”
“I’m all of those things, Yuri,” Fortinbrass said. Yorrin still heard the smile in his voice. “Truly, I am. Weak, fat, all true. And there’s bloody nothing in this world better than a good feast. I’m a man of peace.”
“They are not.” Yorrin couldn’t see, but he knew Stanislav must be pointing at Cleaver and Deadman.
“No, I suppose not. Like I said… without them, I’d never get anything done.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Yorrin heard a rustle from within. He’d already assessed the corridor while he eavesdropped, and he skulked his way into a shadowed alcove. He saw Bayard Stanislav emerge a moment later, escorted by Deadman. They strode down the hall quickly, and Stanislav’s expression looked sour as he went.
Yorrin eased himself out of the alcove, and as he began to creep back towards his room he heard a voice from within.
“You can join us, if you like,” Fortinbrass said.
Yorrin sighed, but he pushed the door open. “Hullo,” he said.
Cleaver and Fortinbrass sat at a small table in a solar. Drinks and a platter of simple food was laid out.
“Hah!” Fortinbrass crowed when Yorrin entered. “Told you!”
Yorrin blinked.
“Sorry, young lad,” Fortinbrass said. “But I just won a bet.”
I’m not that much younger than you, Yorrin decided. “A bet?”
“I thought it would be the other one. The girl,” Cleaver said. “She was sneaking about the keep this morning, when the rest of you were asleep.”
Prudence. Of course. “Ah.”
“Have no fear, my friend,” Fortinbrass said cheerfully. “Your Steelshod company has saved my keep and all the people in it. And likely averted a costly and senseless war with Rusk to boot. I’ll forgive a little curiosity.”
Yorrin wasn’t sure how to respond. Does he want me to thank him? After a pause, he finally spoke. “Are you betraying Caedia to Rusk?” he asked. He suspected he knew the answer, but he wanted to see their reactions.
Fortinbrass’s eyes widened, and his jowls quivered as his jaw opened in shock. “I beg your pardon! Betraying? Never! Good heavens. We have a short-term need of a few extra swords, is all.”
“His lordship insists on sending a portion of our last few men-at-arms with you and I,” Cleaver said. “On the Iron Lance. In case the Svards attack the ship.”
“I expect Aleksandr will appreciate that,” Yorrin said. “And the Ruskan swords are… what? To protect Torva?”
“Something like that,” Fortinbrass said. “Milton’s plan. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t follow it all. But with Vernon leaving for what I expect will be some time, it’s good for Milton to stretch his legs. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
“Speaking of me leaving,” Cleaver said, rising from his seat. “The Lance should be ready, my lord.”
Fortinbrass sighed. “Yes, of course.” He rose from his chair with a grunt of effort, and gathered Cleaver into an embrace. “Be well, Vernon. Serve the Marshal faithfully. The Svards are striking all across the kingdom with little warning. He’ll need your help organizing his information, I expect. We’re all counting on you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
When the embrace ended, Fortinbrass glanced at Yorrin and wagged a cautioning finger at him. “I’m trusting you, good sir! To see Vernon safely to the Marshal’s side.”
Yorrin frowned, but he nodded. “That’s the plan.”
Fortinbrass settled back into his oversized chair with a sigh. Cleaver and Yorrin left the solar together. They walked the halls in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment.
“Was that a show for me?” Yorrin asked finally.
Cleaver smiled. “It was as it seemed,” he said.
“A meeting with Stanislav, sure. But also a show for me.”
“An offered hand,” Cleaver said. “A measure of trust. We owe you a great deal, Yorrin the Pissdock. Or is it Yorrin Quickhands?”
“Yorrin’s fine,” Yorrin said. “Anyway, Aleksandr commands Steelshod. You owe Aleksandr.”
“Aleksandr is a good man, and a good leader. But he is not as… savvy as you, no? We owe him, but we also owe the man whose schemes made this siege break possible. The man behind the lord.”
Yorrin stopped walking, and glared at Cleaver. “I’m not the power behind anyone. I follow Aleksandr. To war or siege or certain death. I owe him—everything. So if you owe Steelshod thanks, then you owe Aleksandr thanks.”
Cleaver didn’t look perturbed. “I see,” he said.
Damn it. Yorrin closed his eyes, sighing as he shook his head. Torath gave us wisdom, but that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be fools. Fine, Cleaver. Message received.
He opened his eyes. “Ah,” was all he said.
Cleaver kept walking. Yorrin followed. After another silence, the seneschal spoke.
“His name is Fortinbrass,” he said quietly.
Yorrin winced, then nodded. “Alright,” he said. “I won’t mock him again.”
“Thank you.”
They descended a staircase together.
“You’ve served him a long time?” Yorrin asked.
“Since I was a boy,” Cleaver said.
That tracks, Yorrin thought. “He’s been a good lord to you.”
Cleaver sniffed as they stepped out into the great hall. “More than good,” the steward—no, the spymaster—said. “And more than a lord.”
“A friend,” Yorrin said. “I understand.”
Cleaver nodded. “I think you do,” he said.
They found Aleksandr, and Steelshod, together.