The city used to just be a lone fort, Laczlo recalled, staring at the sharp rise of the hill of Goroden lit by the rising sun. The aged, brick-laid road from the fort of Denov had led them through low, undulating terrain and wide, stretching fields where the peasants worked. It was one of the old roads from when they were still built long and wide, stretching to distant horizons and guarded against bandits and vagabonds. The flanking ditches to separate it from the fields and forests were shallow with time and overgrowth, weeds working their way into the bricks, prying them apart into hazards of cracked potholes. Still, it was the best road in all of western Vasia.
The road let to a high plateau, above the simplicity of the peasant’s world, where the walled keep of Goroden sat in all of its ancient prestige. It overlooked a harbor below where much of the city bustled about at a near-frantic pace, loading and unloading ships of all sizes. It was as big as one of Nova’s ports.
Laczlo sat comfortably on his horse, dressed in his traveling clothes of fine wool and cotton from the eastern shores. He had his rarely-touched sword at his side and a guard of ten druzhina, leaving him feeling utterly exposed. His party also had a score of servants pulling along pack mules, spare horses, and a wagon filled with provisions and coin, though, naturally, he was quite unprepared for whatever was to follow. He was supposed to meet someone in the city—or rather, they were supposed to meet him. If he needed, he could call upon the Western Commander for assistance, as Voivode Kostuveski advised, but Laczlo was less than enthusiastic about the notion. The Commanders of the East and West were power-hungry, sly men always looking for an edge. They tried to overthrow the tsar as often as some voivodes, after all. What else would happen when you give men with no real birthright a chance to snatch power on the merit of nothing more than competence, fortune, and connections? In fact, they were almost as famously unscrupulous as the Column, but where the Column ofted acted in service to the tsar, the commanders rarely had such loyalties.
Laczlo licked his dry lips and looked back up to the city that claimed the whole hill and small bay. It had a small curtain wall with clear signs of recent patching and more thorough repairs. The neighboring Rodezians were certainly dogged in their attempts to seize Vasian land, though time and time again, they were repelled from the city. But despite the ever-present tension with the Rodezians, Laczlo didn’t think there was any real chance of war. So why the expense for repair work?
“Mikha,” Laczlo said, leaning in his saddle to address his head servant walking beside him, “what do you think is in store for us here?”
“Lies and deceit, as the stories go. That’s Goroden.”
“Yes, I would be inclined to agree.” He shrugged his shoulders back and tried to hold his head high with princely might. The denizens of the city would see him arrive shortly. And if the towns along the way were any indication, they would be thoroughly bothersome—or even threatening—in their enthusiasm to merely gaze upon him. It was not often voivodes from other cities passed through. Still, his guard would be enough for nearly any number of flocking onlookers, for they were a heavily armed, strong bunch. Lances in the air, they proceeded to his flanks and rear like wolves, axes, maces, and blades ever-ready. At night, he stayed awake, fearing some sudden assassination. During the day, he rode with silent anticipation. It was a constant, ever-present, looming threat having them around. And yet, it wasn’t as if he could proceed alone. There’s the dilemma with every man who holds power, he thought, clutching his reins. In the final few minutes before he entered Goroden’s old brick gatehouse, he said a silent prayer that Deus might watch over him and his party. That they may pass and do the work that needed done. That his efforts were not against Him but against those who might use His word for their gain. Liars and thieves of the highest sort. Blasphemers, even. With this prayer, he entered the city of Goroden.
The filthy masses of beggars rose in their fraying shawls and tunics, cupped hands and worn bowls outstretched, pleadings escaping toothless, filthy mouths. He kept his eyes ahead, trusting his druzhina to batter them aside and guide the way. Threats didn’t do it like in Nova, and his men had to be rough. He tried not to think of what might happen when there were enough of them to get through, or, Deus forbid it, his men decided to run and let the hordes get him. Shaking hands clenched in his lap, gripping his reins, he stared forward toward the keep. Let His patience flow through me. His temperance guide me. His absolute will be my armor and perseverance my shield, he prayed silently. Think of your children. Think of them, waiting for your return, for your victory here.
They passed through residential streets with open storefronts, owners shouting out at him as he passed by with all sorts of fantastical promises of the quality of their products. Vendors sold fish charred on sticks, fried in pieces, shredded and mixed with potatoes, spiced with all the delicacies of the far reaches of the empire and its neighbors. The air was filled with the scent of the sea, salty and musky, mixed with the inescapable stench of humanity forever bound to cities. And under the warm, unrelenting sun, it was all only amplified so a less city-wizened man might swoon and go faint at it all. But even to Laczlo, it pressed in with disgusting intensity, only bearable due to his time in Nova.
Upon reaching the inner wall of the old fort, his lead druzhina named Isak, a great bull of a man from the eastern shores where villages were sparse and the people hardy, knocked on the double-doored gate with one powerful, glove-clad fist.
“Who begs entrance under the domain of Voivode Gorodenski?”
“Voivode Vilsky,” Isak replied, voice deep and strong like timber.
The doors opened at once, and standing a few paces within was a thin, young man in the garb of a Nova guard but with slight regional differences such as a looser, more flowing set of linen breeches and a light red cloth covering his helmet that surely signified status. He held a long, barbed spear—as did many of the guards manning the walls and within the courtyard—and looked more than comfortable with it. “Voivode,” he greeted, bowing deep, “your arrival was expected, please allow us to ease your burdens and stable your horses. You will find room and food here. The voivode is detained with other matters at the moment, but he will be able to join for dinner when the sun sets.”
Laczlo gave him a nod and a smile. “Many thanks. The road has been long. My men are hungry, as am I.” He dismounted and let this guard take his horse, directing his men to follow suit.
In the noisiness that followed, Mikha, who had been quiet for some time, came close and whispered, “If they knew we were coming, why make us knock and beg entrance?”
“Forgetfulness?”
He frowned. “I would label it an intentional slight. A boyar should not be received with closed doors, much less a true voivode.”
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“I see.” Laczlo wanted to bring up the possibility of them simply being a cautious, watchful people as they were near the border and experienced raids. However, now was not the time for an extended discussion. Mikha was usually right about such things anyway.
Laczlo followed the guard inside the old limestone keep. Its halls were narrow and confined, but this much was expected from a city built around a fortress that had guarded Vasian interests for at least ten generations. He soon found out that his room had only a few adjacent rooms for Mikha and a few—the rest would have to sleep in the stables, for the hall was already full. While this was not unusual for a large party, his was small by standard comparison. Mikha gave him a look, and this time, Laczlo did not have a rebuttal. So then, what is Gorodenski’s game? It wasn’t as if he knew of the true purpose behind Laczlo’s visit. Truly, no one, not even Mikha, knew why he had brought them there, so far from home.
As he settled into his room, servants carrying in chests and select furnishing, a severe, melancholic aching for home overtook him like a cold, aching sickness. He sat in a chair and steepled his fingers, staring out the lone, narrow, open windhole that observed the inner courtyard. Resting his chin on his fingers, he wondered if Bora and Nanko were playing as he’d asked, getting along as he wished. His daughter had lost some essential spark during the succession conflict, and he feared it might be lost forever, rendering her a cold, distant personality. He’d used to love more than anything watching her play in the wide fields of Vilsi or upon the beach in the warm months, building shapes out of wet sand, collecting shells to offer as gifts with a wide, toothy grin. Some might have called him a weak man for caring so about a daughter, for doting on her as he did, but he didn’t mind too much. Back then, he didn’t care much for what anyone said.
Someone cleared their throat behind him. He gave a slight start, blinking away the memories, then turning to find Mikha there. Isak stood behind, hands folded in front of him, his heavy, eastern blade worn at his side like just another article of clothing. Laczlo wished for such familiarity with weaponry himself. Father had always wished it, but he had gotten his way with the horses instead, managing to eschew some of the sparring for riding instead. But only some.
“Voivode,” Mikha said with a slight bow, “the druzhina are settling, but Isak has a report for your ears.”
He made himself look evenly at the druzhina in question. “What is it?”
“Voivode, the men believe Commander Voiakh is here in these very walls.”
“What?” Laczlo leaned forward, eye narrowing. The western commander, here of all places? “What makes you believe this?”
“One of my men recognized one of theirs and knows he is a personal druzhina for the commander. He’s reportedly a cautious man, and it is doubtful he would leave his loyal guards.”
“Well, this could explain Voivode Gorodenski’s odd behavior.” Laczlo stood and immediately wished he hadn’t removed his sword so quickly after entering the room to stow with his clothes. “Well, your report is certainly appreciated. I think we will speak to the commander.”
“That may be difficult,” Mikha said with a polite cough. “If he is here, he’s in discussion with Gorodenski. Likely until dinner, only then we are expected to be entertained by the voivode.”
“Then we call on him to come to us after the meal is through.”
“After the meal?” He gave a slight shake of the head. “I would advise caution, Voivode. Gorodenski is reportedly a man of tradition—to have a guest attend private meetings after he fed them would be poorly received.”
Laczlo went to change his mind and admit his error but stopped himself. I’m here for my family to finish the last of our great debts. And what a heavy debt it is to require such a task… If there is any time to be strong as my promise held, I should obey it here. “He has slighted me already. Let my disrespect be interpreted as it may.”
“Voivode, I would caution such—”
“How are the men’s sleeping arrangements?” he asked Isak.
The druzhina was looking between them for a moment with a slight, thoughtful frown but nodded to Laczlo. “Admittedly poor. They are in hastily emptied stalls near mounts. Some of Voiakh’s too.”
“That’s improper. Isak, I would ask you to deliver a letter to the commander. You may hand it off to someone trusted in his ranks, if necessary.”
He nodded. “I am in your service.”
“Good. Mikha, fetch the writing kit?”
After some time, he had a workable letter of introduction and request for meeting written, sealed with wax, and on its way in the rough hands of his head druzhina. Mikha lingered a moment longer and when they were alone again, dropped to his knees and lowered his head.
“I am ashamed of myself, Voivode. Please forgive my indolence.”
Laczlo rose to stand. “I am not a child anymore.”
“Of course, Voivode. I will not question your will again.”
“No,” Laczlo said as he walked to the wind hole, gazing out into the courtyard and beyond to the bustling city. He just couldn’t look at Mikha kneeling before him like that. “You may. But not before others. And especially not before the druzhina.”
“Voivode?”
“I want your thoughts on matters of import. But I can’t look weaker. I just… I can’t.”
“Very well. Of course. I should have anticipated this expectation…”
Without turning back, Laczlo said, “You may leave. Return before dinner. We should talk about Voivode Gorodenski.”
There were sounds of his rising, and with an apologetic thanks, he left, and Laczlo could let out a long, relieving sigh as he about fell against the wall, his heart pounding. I did it. I really did it. He smiled and ran a hand over his face. Was that truly him earlier? How had he summoned the courage to give orders like that? And so easily?
There was soon another knock at his door, and still, in a slight daze, Laczlo called their entrance without much consideration, staring out the window.
Only when the door opened, and one of his druzhina said, “Message for you, Voivode,” he turned and found himself stumbling back into the present. He went over and received a small, sealed letter, giving a nod of thanks to the druzhina who closed the door.
Laczlo sat in his chair and leaned back, legs up before a roaring fire, and broke the seal. The parchment inside was coarse and unrefined, like something nailed to city poles to disseminate news—not that he frequented the squares much to know—and not like a letter meant to find its way into the hands of a voivode, certainly. He unfolded it and stared down at the three simple lines.
Meet me when the moon has halfway risen. Find me when seeing to your men’s arrangements.
A friend of K’s.
“That was fast,” he muttered, turning the letter over to find only empty parchment on the other side. Dinner with a voivode, meeting the Western Commander, and continuing this intrigue into my own religion with a spy. “Kostuveski… what do you have me chasing?”
Potential corruption and influence, yes, but just within the temples? This wasn’t the concern of a voivode, not truly. But then, Iarek Kostuveski had insinuated that the Column was calling in favors, so why else could he agree to such a task? Indeed, Laczlo had done some thinking on what Iarek might owe the Column priests. An alliance of sorts, perhaps? But why would the Column risk something so… political? It was the Column, after all; they were above any individual voivode. So why ask Kostuveski for help? This plot of paid conversion had to be something deeper.
But if the information was out there, it was buried deep. And Laczlo didn’t want to pry too hard lest he actually find out. Sometimes, it was better to play your part and move on, he found. Though something told him he wouldn’t quite have the choice.
