The spy lived on the upper floor above a cobbler’s shop in a room adjacent to the shop owner’s. Certainly not the typical home for a woman of her line of business. It was positioned only a few minutes walk from the fort, and as he left, Laczlo knew all previous attempts at subtlety were lost as guards and servants alike observed his departure. Still, Isak had been useful in many manners during the war, and though it was hard to trust a druzhina—the thought of a prepared ambush burning so sharply in his mind his legs were shaking—he had no other choice. I’ve few skills of a proper voivode, but seeing through lies was the only thing that saved me from decapitation by my uncle’s hand.

  Laczlo walked inside with careful steps, his right hand across his body to rest on the pommel of his richly crafted sword meant for a warrior prince of old. Isak was before him, shoulders hunched slightly as if coiled to strike. One younger druzhina was standing at the top of the stairs, eying the dark with suspicion, cradling an axe in the crook of his elbow, hidding from view. Another was inside, standing tall over the spy, who crouched on the floor in a new set of wool and linen traveling clothes, arms crossed tight over her chest. She stared at Laczlo as he entered, a mix of hatred, fear, and anxious expectation holding her eyes wide and face frozen in a pallid grimace. Another form was on the floor but a pace away from her. It was a man in a dark tunic stretched out, blood pooling around him, the puddle slowly growing. A long bladed knife was not far from his grip. The kind worn at the hip by levied farmers. The kind used for brutal murders in the night.

  “What happened here?” Laczlo asked, scanning the scene. His stomach twisted at the sight of the dead man, but he had seen worse, so thankfully, he kept his stomach under control. “Who is this man?”

  “Voivode,” Isak said, nodding to the other druzhina. “Oiir here was the one to follow. He will explain.”

  The druzhina named Oiir was older than Laczlo, bearing wrinkles and wear from exposure. He was not strongly built like Isak, but he stood there sturdily enough with a heavy blade in hand, dripping red. It was then the memory of the man struck him, for he was one of the few from before the succession, one of the few who remained loyal. Laczlo blinked and remembered the days of peace when his parents still lived, and Oiir was a common sight in Vilsi. Laczlo had even ridden with him a few times in his youth. How had he forgotten?

  “Voivode, I followed the woman here and sensed something was wrong,” the druzhina said, glancing from the woman briefly to him with a look of expected understanding. Laczlo nodded, feeling the weight of cold recognition in his gut, for Oiir was one of the few who saved Laczlo years ago from an assassination attempt by that spy. Have I truly lived in such fear my own loyal protectors have become nameless strangers? “A man was in the shadows. I followed him inside. He tried to turn his blade upon me and died for it. Voivode Vilsky, he was not a warrior but a killer. Though he lacked skill, he had no hesitation in him.”

  “Not a warrior, you say?”

  “It is so, Voivode.”

  Laczlo walked over, bending down to study the man. “Have you searched him?”

  “No. The woman attempted to escape.”

  The spy threw out an accusing finger at the druzhina. “He struck me! Your brute attacked me, and after your promises of—”

  “Quiet,” Laczlo hissed, glancing around. “Lower your voice and be glad my man saved you, spy.” He nodded his head toward the body. “Isak, if you would?”

  “Voivode.” The head druzhina went to search the corpse, pushing the body over with little hesitance or care.

  Laczlo, meanwhile, noticed the papers piled upon a desk shoved in the corner of the small room. “What uses do you have for writing?”

  The woman did not answer, so he went over to read through the parchment. There were sealed letters, open ones, and even a half-finished paper with splatters of wet ink across its surface. Laczlo stared at it, then went through the two drawers, finding one locked.

  He turned to the spy. “Open it.”

  She seemed to be ready to refuse, then thought better of it and acquiesced, coming over to unlock it with a key well hidden in her clothing. He looked inside and found silver. Pulling it out to study underneath a lit candle, he found it to be Vasian in minting, though the work was off, and if he were not so well-versed in the nature of foreign coins, he might have thought it truly imperial.

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  “Where is this from?” he asked, holding up a coin.

  “I already told you.”

  “Armagne?” He studied the silver piece. “So you were bought off. Before or after Voivode Kostuveski blackmailed you? And please, think carefully before you answer. At this moment, I am your only chance of a life beyond that.” He nodded to the dead man and his unblooded knife.

  She scowled up at him, impotent anger burning from her eyes. “After. I was not supposed to tell you anything.”

  “Is the name true? The Olverins?”

  “It is.”

  “Then why tell me?”

  “You didn’t fuck me.”

  Laczlo coughed. “Excuse me?”

  “They wanted me to fuck you, then feed you lies of internal betrayals,” she said, glancing down. “But for some reason, I trusted you as honest. See how long that lasted.”

  “Well, you live from my dishonesty, don’t you?”

  She said nothing to this, continuing to stare at the floor.

  “Why did they come to kill you? How could they know of your…” he trailed off, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “They were going to kill you anyway. You were a loose end to them, I’d imagine. Though it was a mistake to think no one would ever know. Now, who were they?”

  “I don’t know.” The woman seemed to have gathered herself, more or less, and regarded his question seriously. “The man who contacted me and paid me was the one who lies dead in my home.”

  It was impressive to see such self-control amidst sudden, unexpected violence and upheaval. He admired her for that. “And the letters?”

  “Mostly nothing of import—”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Mostly being the key word. You would spend hours looking at love letters and empty promises, of course. Voivode Gorodenski’s communications are more pertinent, however.”

  He crossed his arms. “So you lied about your relations with voivodes, then.”

  “Is that what upsets you about my subterfuge?”

  “What were you speaking to Gorodenski about?”

  “Mostly banal lies such as my interest in his cock. Others may be of greater interest to you, such as his stretching promises once he is ‘delivered his riches,’ as he says.”

  “So he was bought.” Laczlo scoffed, feeling the very world trembling in uncertainties and turbulence in a way so dangerously reminiscent. His stomach felt sick again. “What is your name?”

  Her eyes went up to his. “Silene.”

  “A Western name.” He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer and kneeling before the defiant woman. “You write and speak well for a commoner. Whose daughter are you?”

  “Are you sure you want an answer to this question?” she asked, eyes flicking to the two druzhina in the room.

  He looked to them, finding Isak still crouched over the body, searching through a coin purse, and Oiir standing guard, looking far less capable in hiding his listening in. Laczlo paused, finding the minor moment suddenly monumentous. He searched for the right name, then said to Oiir, “Bring in Afonas.” He was the one standing guard outside.

  When all three druzhina were inside, Laczlo stood with his hands upon his hips and looked to each of them. “Does anyone else know of what has occurred tonight?”

  They shook their heads, with Isak saying, “Afonas came at my behest soon after I sent Oiir. My apologies, Voivode, but I too sensed a potential danger, though I should not have doubted—”

  Laczlo waved him off. “Your prudence was well-placed.” He took a deep breath and paced across the room, then back. “Tonight is to be sealed in silence under my name; is that understood?”

  “Voivode,” they replied, bowing.

  “You were securing portage for our departure. It was important, so I sent you three.” He paced a lap again, then said, “We are determining the future of Vasia. This is no small thing. Engrave this in your hearts or forever be marked by the gods as an oathbreaker.”

  Oiir and Isak did not blink, though Afonas swallowed and nodded, clutching his axe.

  “Good.” He turned to the woman, who had been watching the scene with a sort of bemused resignation. “Now, whose daughter are you?”

  “I am Silene Sevastiana, niece of Lord Zanik, Count of The Rock of Oenian, Ekkadia, and Trichana of the Grand Rodezian Dynasty.” She smiled slyly, pulling her shoulders back and raising her head high. “He thinks me dead, and I would very much prefer it kept that way.”

  Laczlo felt his heart about stop. He stared at her, then up at his druzhina to see if he’d gone mad and interpreted her words horribly wrong, but they were equally surprised. “Why then,” he asked, clearing his throat, “are you here? And… spying, at that?”

  “Perhaps that is a tale for a different place. I don’t think the voivode will appreciate his chief, hidden concubine to be spreading his secrets and caught in the clutches of a new rival.”

  Rival? Deus, what’s going on? Laczlo’s mind was racing, but it was Oiir who grunted and said, “The man made some noise upon his death, and, uh, Silene screamed in fright. If he knows her location, then a druzhina’s presence won’t be enough to scare off guards.”

  “Fine,” Laczlo said, “let’s procure those ships then. We are sailing tonight at whatever cost.”

  “Where to, Voivode?” Isak asked. “The killer had nothing on him.”

  There was no lack of resignation in Laczlo’s voice as he shook his head with a sigh and said, “The Crown of Armagne. We are sailing for Delues. I want to meet the Olverins.”