Goroden was no Nova—and Jora Gorodenski lacked the opulence men like Iarek Kostuveski had in their blood. The more time Laczlo spent in the estate here, the more evident it was that the voivode lived like any wealthy boyar rather than the voivodes who preferred to stay in Nova with the world at their fingertips. His feasting hall, for example, was long like a warring voivode’s should be but lacked nearly any artwork, decoration, or even fine architectural richness. It was a drab space filled with sleeping warriors lined against the walls and a sick stink of congested humanity. Laczlo had to stop himself from holding his nose as he walked through, exchanging glances with Mikha, who followed dutifully beside him.

  “Whose warriors are these?” he asked to Isak, also nearby.

  “I am not certain, Voivode. The commander has a host camping on the western flats behind the city. But he could have taken in a smaller band to celebrate with him.”

  “Celebrate?”

  “Their victory, Voivode.” When he noticed Laczlo’s lack of understanding, he nodded toward a cluster of men in the corner laughing and throwing dice. “The Eastern Army defeated a hostile tribe from the Far Plains in battle four days ago near the western dunes. Gorodenski wasn’t there.”

  “That’s a long way for a tribe to go.”

  “They were trying to resettle. The Rodezians didn’t want them, it seemed. No one knows why they were running. Some warlord or another is the guess.”

  Laczlo nodded, continuing forward. I should have spent the last few hours doing something useful, like learning about all this, instead of hiding away in my room. “Why would Gorodenski see the commander as an enemy?”

  “I am not a Boyar, Voivode. It is beyond me to speculate.”

  “Please do. If you would.”

  He nodded, taking the command in stride. “Every warrior fears his victory will be stolen by another. Perhaps the voivode feels his glory was marred by the commander’s action.”

  Laczlo did not reply but tried to think if Isak’s assessment matched what he knew of the voivode. It was hard to say. If Gorodenski had decided to be absent from the battle, then he certainly would be upset at the commander’s victory. But why would he not join in the fight? It was in his interest to defend the border, after all. There’s too much I don’t know. Kapitalena would have the sum of it by now, her next move planned. But he was no Kapitalena.

  Laczlo continued forward, finding a servant waiting ahead. The servant opened a door leading into a narrow hall, then bowed and begged them to follow. As they did, the man led them down the corridor, through another doorway, and into a smaller feast room only ten paces long and five wide. Now this is befitting a man of Nova. A separate dining chamber, how modern of you, Laczlo thought with some distaste. Even he didn’t sink to the low of eating apart from his household for privacy’s sake. Cutlery and dishes were placed out, bread bowls already before the few seats present. Jora Gorodenski, a man of greying hair, a braided beard, and critical, tired eyes, sat at the head of the table, his wife on his right and three children on his left, with the opposite end an open seat, prepared for Laczlo’s arrival.

  Laczlo bowed upon arriving. “Voivode, it has been some time. My thanks for your hospitality and offer of warm bread.”

  “Ah, Voivode Vilsky,” Gorodenski said, standing and returning a low dip that barely sufficed as a bow, “welcome to my home. I was predisposed earlier, but now we may eat together. You must be tired after your long journey from Nova.” He gestured to his family beside him, introducing each of them, though Laczlo could scarcely pay attention, for a new fear entered his mind. What if his disrespect toward me was because he knows something of my purpose here? What if he is a worshipper of Deus and a receiver of the very bribes I am attempting to uncover? Would he see me as a betrayer of the faith? An apostate, even?

  Laczlo licked his lips and smiled. “Many thanks, Voivode, Voivoda, for welcoming me into your home.” He took his seat as Gorodenski did, smothering a wince at the hard dining chair after so long in a well-worn saddle.

  After he was seated, Mikha and Isak bowed and left the room to wait outside. They both would remain outside until the meal was complete, getting the opportunity to eat any leftovers afterward—a far cry from their normal privileges, but such was the nature of travel. Quickly enough, a meal of a rich venison stew was served, a fine, fair bread offered on the side as well. They did not speak as they ate, nor did the Gorodenskis give a prayer of thanks to the old gods beforehand—as most of the old faith did, at least before guests. This sat poorly with Laczlo, though while hungry for a proper meal, found his stomach filled with lead as he considered the possibility of a Deus worshipper who knew he was betraying his own. No, He forbids such selfish, insincere praise and acts of service, Laczlo reminded himself as he ate. To bribe is to lie, and He is the enemy of lies. He drank deep from his goblet of wine but found it thin and disagreeable with the meal. Nevertheless, it warmed his frayed nerves, so he sipped throughout until he felt the soft warmth of it in his stomach and upon his cheeks. Wine always made things easier, after all.

  After some time, when the eating slowed, Jora Gorodenski leaned back in his seat and interlaced his fingers, arms resting on his rounded stomach. “Well, Voivode, we have shared bread together, so now, what brings you so far west?”

  This is it. Laczlo took a sip of wine and smiled. “I’ve not had much time to myself after the war, as you would understand. So I have decided to tour Vasia and reestablish connections between my family and others of import.”

  “I did not realize we ever had relations with the Vilskys. Nevertheless, we would not be foolish enough to deny an offer of friendship when given,” he replied easily enough. “And yet, it appears that you already have a strong friend in Iarek Kostuveski, and through him, Commander Voiakh, whose army is camped here outside my city.”

  Laczlo glanced away. “He won a victory recently, I understand.”

  “Hardly worth mention, if you ask me, though the commander would speak of it as the greatest military action of the day, naturally.” He snorted, taking a long drink. His wife put a hand over his briefly, though he didn’t seem to notice. “It should have been our victory, but he is an impatient man, that Voiakh. Rushing off ahead as he did. Bah!”

  He’s drunk. Or at least getting there. “I have heard it is said that war is a game of images for some.”

  “Indeed it unfortunately is.”

  Laczlo leaned forward and made himself look the voivode in the eye. “My war was one of survival against a false claimant. Iarek Kostuveski helped me then, but that does not make him my friend. I am not beholden to any one man.”

  “Oh, but you are,” Jora replied, scowling into his cup. “So many are. He’s established a faction firmly in opposition to the Vadoyeski Dynasty. It’s no secret he’s hungry for imperial power. And this so-called victory just furthers their coalition’s apparent prestige… They’re snakes, Voivode. Snakes coiling to strike when the time is right.”

  “You believe he would make a play for the imperial throne?” Laczlo asked in disbelief.

  “Every year, imperial power wanes as that of certain voivodes’ grows. And no, I am not a recipient of this flux, for I am a loyalist through and through. We are an empire underneath a tsar, not a collection of princedoms—not anymore.” He leaned back, digging his eating knife into the carved wood table as if it were his enemy. All the while, his face was twisted in spiteful disgust. “We’ve already lost so much. Kosica, The Northern Cities, Sadovoe, the East Banks, the Silver Peaks… How much more can we lose before we no longer have the right to be called an empire? Look at what’s come in our absence in those regions. Chaos and conflict. We bind the people of this world together, and now…” He trailed off, staring at the fireplace, shaking his head slightly. “It used to be said that when the Column fell, so would the civilized world, but these days, I wonder if that tower of old stone will outlive even the memory of Vasia.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” Laczlo asked.

  Jora snorted. “Pray.”

  “Surely there is more an influential voivode such as yourself can—”

  “It’s the nature of the times, Voivode. We must simply bear it, I fear.”

  There was not much more of significance said during dinner, for he was in some sort of introspective, light despair and Laczlo knew not how to rid him of it. His wife tried, engaging in light conversation and with humor, but Jora Gorodenski was the kind of man who let his frustrations soak into every pore, so he sat stewing in the injustices of the world as if they were direct insults to him. It was odd seeing another boyar, let alone a voivode, so easily captured by such negative emotions. While Laczlo felt a little less odd and weak for his own failures, there was a certain twinge of pity and disdain in him when he looked upon Gorodenski. Perhaps there was some despised element of himself in the other man that drew such feelings, but either way, he excused himself as early as was proper and left feeling as if he had to do more. As if he had to do better.

  As soon as he exited the room, Mikha and Isak were waiting outside, eating fresh loaves of bread. They quickly fell in beside him as he strode down the hall; Mikha cleared his throat, saying, “It was said the dinner may last long tonight.”

  “It might have,” Laczlo replied. “The voivode was in a turbulent mood. But I could gain little more from discussion.”

  “In your absence, a response from Commander Voiakh was received.”

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  His breath caught. “Give it here.”

  Mikha handed it over, and Laczlo wasted no time in breaking the seal and pulling out the parchment, pausing in the hall by a small windhole to read by the setting sun. Angling so others might not see, Laczlo read on with no small apprehension at what he might find. But in truth, the message was formal, in noble speak, and revealed little. He turned it over, expecting a code or some secret on the other side, but it was blank.

  Frowning, he tucked it away in his cloak and nodded to the others. “He wishes to meet. Isak, I trust you know where his apartments are located?”

  “I do.”

  “Lead us there.”

  They bowed and set off, Isak going forth with the confident gate of a warrior. As they went, Laczlo took a moment’s pause to consider his head druzhina. While it was true that the man swore himself during the conflict, never showing a shadow of betrayal, he was still a druzhina, and that fact alone was enough for Laczlo to check for any subtle signs of danger and plottings. Being on the road with them, little more than a few paces between he and such dangerous men, was a torturous experience. It was enough that Laczlo began working on his sword forms again in the isolation of his own tent. Not that it would do much, after all. What could he do when against such hardened warriors? You won the war of succession, man. Your uncle lies defeated and all his traitorous druzhinas banished or killed, he reminded himself, hands squeezing each other behind his back as he walked. If they don’t respect you, they must come to. You have to give them good reason to.

  With these self-affirming thoughts of motivation, he found himself before the Western Commander’s apartments in the keep, only a small distance from his own, in fact. It was an old fort and bore few rooms indeed. A wonder Gorodenski even let them sleep inside, how he was acting.

  Laczlo nodded to the others, and Mikha knocked on the door.

  A deep voice responded, “Who begs entrance to Commander Voiakh’s apartments?”

  Mikha answered with all proper confidence and strength, “Voivode Vilsky.”

  The door opened, revealing a broad man—likely one of the commander’s landless druzhina, sworn from all backgrounds for personal service—in his early thirties with a long scar across his face and much more scattered about. Yet, for his scars, he was still handsome. Enough so Laczlo felt a cold sliver of jealousy, feeling weak and feminine in contrast. “Voivode,” he said, bowing. “I am Commander Voiakh’s champion, Ygon of Kymisa. The commander is expecting you.”

  Ygon the champion? Laczlo thought with a small shock. The name was famed in the warrior rings of the west where such things were still popular, his name emerging so meteorically he quickly found his place in the private ranks of the commander. And now as his personal champion… Voiakh must be a trusting man. Laczlo nodded and followed, his two attendants remaining behind, likely to return to their bread. He smiled at the thought.

  The commander’s apartments were hardly different than his own, though perhaps less furnished than they ought to be. It was a strange thing, measuring the standing of a commander. On one hand, they lacked the birthright of a voivode and typically held less land, but they also led one of the two main armies, garnering glory and honor in their name during successful campaigns—no small thing in the eyes of a tsar. All that said, they were often enemies of local voivodes, facing united disdain for their overreaches. In Kapitelina’s words, such organization was meant to undermine united rebellious coalitions rather than prioritize military effectiveness and operational unity. He didn’t entirely disagree with her assessment, but if commander Voiakh was an ally of the Kostuveskis, likely the most powerful voivode in the west, perhaps in all of Vasia… Well, that would pose a significant threat to the tsar. And it is no small thing to share that connection with me. What could it all mean?

  “Ah, Voivode Vilsky, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh.”

  Laczlo looked up and was surprised. The commander did not look like a warrior or some great leader, but a relatively thin, grey-haired, narrow-faced man who resembled a merchant more than a soldier. He bowed and came up smiling, white teeth gleaming a charming grin.

  “Commander, I—”

  “Please, dispel with the formalities, for we share good friends. Call me Voiakh.” He raised a hand to his champion and said, “You may leave us, Ygon.”

  “Commander.” He departed, offering the briefest of smiles to Laczlo, teeth flashing somewhere distant from friendliness, leaving the two of them alone.

  Voiakh gestured to two chairs before the fireplace. “Let us sit and share wine, Laczlo. May I call you Laczlo?”

  “Ah, well, yes. Of course.” He sat and laced his fingers together over his lap to avoid fidgeting, then took the simple cup from the commander and drank, hoping it would help with his jitteriness.

  “Good. Good. Forgive Ygon for any awkwardness, the man is an utter prophet of battle, but lacks some instinct with diplomacy, I’m afraid. It will take some time before he is as adapted to peace as war. Such is the difficulty in taming the best warriors, I’ve learned.” Voiakh sat across from him, arms stretched out wide, his own cup dangling from his fingers. The man exuded a steady confidence that seemed a better fit for his title than his unassuming appearance. “I hear your druzhinas were forced to sleep in the stables, is that so?”

  “It is, unfortunately.”

  “Not a matter of misfortune, I’m afraid. Voivode Gorodenski claims to lack the rooms, I would imagine, though my men are camped outside the city, so I haven’t the notion of what has filled his formidable keep.” He grinned as if they were sharing a secret jest, but to Laczlo, the keep was formidable. Old, but certainly sturdy and prestigious. “I’ve seen the warriors there. They are many, though I know that few saw battle, and he has no need for them anymore. So why keep them here in the hall?” He let the question hang in the air, and Laczlo got the notion he had a few theories in mind. “Nevertheless, let us not be disheartened by such things. You sent me a kind letter of introduction earlier, asking to meet. I am flattered and thankful, for if I were not detained in talks earlier today, I would have surely asked the same. Please, allow me to return the kindness, Laczlo. May I impart some information I have learned upon my residence here that may be of use to you? As presumptuous as that may be from a lowly soldier.”

  He squeezed his cup but maintained his position, inclining his head in acquiescence. “Though it is not necessary, I would be very thankful,” he said, then quickly added, “especially from a commander of such note as yourself.”

  “You flatter me. But the truth is this, my friend—” he leaned in and lowered his voice “—the voivode is having you followed and activities watched. As such, I recommend any important meetings be carefully coordinated away from the servants of the castle.”

  Laczlo blinked, confused at first. “What kinds of meetings?”

  “I simply offer guidance, should you choose to entertain my suspicions.” He smiled again, all grave seriousness disappearing. “Come now. Do not think Iarek would not alert me to your activities. Our interests in the success of the Column are aligned—so your success in dealing with these… briberies matters a great deal to me as well.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Do not look so alarmed, friend! I trust you’ve had to operate with such quiet caution these last days, but as I said, we are allies already, are we not? Your success is my own.”

  Laczlo nodded, trying and failing to pierce through the onslaught of kindness from the Western commander. He seemed genuine and naturally charismatic, and none of the things he’d said thus far seemed a charade, as did Iarek’s persona back in Nova. And yet, Laczlo was ever-cognizant of charming men’s abilities to trick and persuade for their own gain. Not all tools of deception were through peddled lies and open blades, after all.

  “You must forgive my carefulness,” Laczlo said at last. “It is as you say. Much depends on my subtlety. It is difficult to readily extend trust under such circumstances.”

  “Of course. If it were not so, you would not have been sent personally, would you?”

  He looked into the fire, letting its warmth wash over him, filling his bones with a heartening ease. “No. I suppose not.”

  Voiakh stood and walked away, offering Laczlo the moment to drink heartily from the well-spiced wine. Voiakh returned a moment later with a long, straight blade not unlike a cavalryman’s sword. A brief spike of fear shot through Laczlo’s spine at the glinting edge, but Voiakh held it like an old relic, not as a weapon to be used. The commander sat, holding the sword out before himself to study. “You must wonder to yourself: ‘if Iarek had such allies out west already, why send me?’ I know I would be asking it. A voivode such as yourself always has much to manage, does he not? Well, the answer Iarek was certainly only vague on is that you have a distinct advantage in the eyes of others, Laczlo.”

  He was confused yet intrigued. “What is that?”

  “This, favors and plots aside, is a religious matter. And you are a man of the right faith who finds himself in the right position to judge, without any high bias, the result of this particular intrigue.” He gave an easy smile and handed over the sword. Laczlo took it, studying the length of steel, the small dents from battle, and wear of regular use. “I fight the tsar’s wars. I defeat the tsar’s enemies. I prepare his armies for the conflicts to come. And yet I was approached with chests of gold asking nothing for my faith and a few small assurances.”

  Laczlo looked up from the sword. “What assurances?”

  “They wouldn’t say.” He shrugged, leaning back. “They wanted my agreement first, then a meeting for the details. I didn’t accept, of course. A wise soldier knows not to commit to a strategy without all factors being understood. But one thing was made very clear: they were looking to form a faction.”

  “With bribes? Such a group would bend under pressure.”

  “Such would be my thoughts, but Laczlo, my friend, you did not see the worth of the bribe. There was enough gold and silver to raise a small army. Nothing compared to the forces I have now, but still. It isn’t just bribery; it’s fortune. And the money found its way to my door at a quite convenient time, I must say. To a less fortitudinous man, it would be hard to turn away.”

  And he knew a thing about that. It had been years after the infighting which nearly saw his city sundered in conflict and eastern Vasia ignited in a larger war, and even to this day he was bound to the favors he’d taken to keep afloat. Whatever riches another can offer, the price is always a high one in return. “How did they know when to make the offer?”

  “I do not know. But it was before the latest battle when it seemed the enemy were in far larger numbers with greater allies than manifested. A month ago, I expected three tribes, and with direct Rodezian backing, the arrogant bastards.”

  “But you still didn’t take it,” Laczlo said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “And the situation changed?”

  The commander nodded, but he dismissed any worry with a shrug. “The battlefield is a shifting, sandy landscape. And the politics around it even more so. The tribe marched too far east in search of a hospitable crossing—this proved to be a blunder, further isolating them from any potential allies. The result was fortunate for us, and now I have their leader’s prized blade.”

  He looked down at the sword in his hands; a new light shone on the small nicks and damages. “I see.” And all they wished to do was settle? But, of course, that would be far too dangerous for us.

  “It is a dangerous thing we are doing, Laczlo. A very dangerous thing. Money such as this does not manifest from the sands but from someone powerful indeed. I would involve myself in this inquiry myself, if I had the time and freedom as you did. But alas, I am bound to my station.” He stood with a sigh of finality, saying, “It is getting late. You would want to retire early tonight, I would advise.” Upon seeing Laczlo’s look of confusion, Voiakh grinned. “The spy will meet you in your chambers, but their confessions are for your ears only. I’ve merely taken the liberty to propose a new meeting place under Iarek’s authority.”

  Laczlo stood. “You know the spy?”

  “Hardly. Such a thing would endanger me. I simply know where to leave a message.”

  Laczlo bid the western commander farewell and with all due respect and formality that was promptly refused with good-natured friendliness. It was an odd, disarming thing, but Laczlo tried to take it in stride, leaving the commander’s apartments with his head swimming and slightly fuzzy, feeling as if he were woefully underprepared and out of his depths by no small margin.