Chapter Twelve
The Golden Swan
Cobetsnya, Kolakolvia
Kristoph Vals
“Tell me, Ms. Baston, have you ever been to the Golden Swan before?”
“No.”
Kristoph let the crystal glass pause before reaching his lips. He raised a single eyebrow.
“No, Mr. Vals.” The scout’s eyes darted to the corner of the room where his Cursed, Vasily, stood motionless. The hulking monster’s blindfold did little to diminish the feeling that he was watching them at all times.
“A shame. This is the finest restaurant in Cobetsnya.” He nodded at the brilliant patriotic murals on the walls. The hour was very late, so they had the place to themselves. The proprietors surely would have preferred to close up and go home, but people did not simply say no to someone who held Kristoph’s office. “It was founded before the war with Almacia began. And here it still stands. A testament to the empire’s glory. Now, did you find the man I was looking for?”
The young woman sighed. A sound Kristoph never tired of hearing. A woman’s sighs were a language unto themselves, capable of conveying so many different nuanced meanings. A language he had yet to become truly fluent in. In this case, he could tell she had brought him something, but not exactly what he’d asked for.
“It was hard to tell.” Her finger traced a line down the side of the glass in front of her. After a moment of hesitation, she picked it up and took a sip of water.
Because she had been commanded to report immediately to him upon her return to Cobetsnya, she still wore the dirt and grime of her journey, and it put her at great odds with the opulent surroundings. Though, that was obviously not the cause of her discomfort. Rolmani didn’t care about things like fine tablecloths or elaborate chandeliers. They were far too prideful to ever feel out of place in any situation. No, Kristoph thought, I am the cause. She fears what I can do. For good reason.
“In what way was it hard to tell?”
“I observed the prison, but I couldn’t get close enough to confirm the identify of any particular prisoners. The Almacian patrols in the region were far more numerous than expected. I was almost caught several times.”
“Disappointing. I have it on good authority you are one of the best at your trade. Was my information incorrect?”
“No. I’m one of the best scouts in the army.” A tightness had crept into the corners of her eyes and the edges of her mouth. She had steel. Confidence in her abilities. He liked what he saw. There were uses for these sorts.
“Oh?”
“Take it as a measure of the security in the region. If you’d sent someone else, they’d be dead rather than sitting at this table with you.”
He allowed a smile to grace his lips. “And your lovely presence is welcomed. But if you couldn’t confirm the presence of the target, that sounds like a failed mission to me.”
Natalya’s flinch had been subtle, but there all the same.
“Getting any closer would have gotten me killed and would have prevented me from bringing you the valuable information I was able to obtain.” She reached into a small pouch at her belt and pulled out a map and notebook that she slid across the pristine white cloth covering the table. They left a dirty smudge in their passing that Kristoph found oddly amusing.
He took the book and began leafing through the pages. As he did, a server appeared at his side, placing the roasted duck he had ordered before him. Kristoph casually covered the notebook, in the extremely unlikely event the waitress was a spy. Spies were everywhere in Cobetsnya—most were not even Almacian.
Once the server had left, he asked Natalya, “What am I looking at, besides your surprisingly elegant handwriting?”
“Patrol routes, troop counts, estimated prisoner counts, numbers of entrances, possible methods for surprise, and all the pertinent geographic features. Anything and everything to give you a window into what I saw at Dalhmun Prison. But that is just the beginning.”
Her written descriptions were detailed, concise, and ordered. His subordinates—Dead Sister, his superiors—could learn from her. Her recommendation was for a small but elite team to attack from the nearby river, and judging from the details of here, his initial inclination was to agree.
“What do you mean by beginning?”
“Keep reading.”
He saw what she meant within seconds of turning the next page. “How did you come by this information?”
“A map I took from an Almacian I killed led me to that camp. They’re at least divisional strength, and preparing for an offensive. They could be at the front in a matter of weeks. The troop counts are all there. It suggests—”
“I am quite capable of reading your numbers, Ms. Baston.”
“They have a new gas . . . ”
He gently laid the papers down. “We’ve faced Almacian gas troops before.”
“Not like this. The gas they’re manufacturing there is evil. It’s delivered by cannon shell—maybe other ways too, but the shells were all I witnessed. I saw them test it on a flock of sheep. It kills in seconds. It ate the meat off their bones and left them nothing but puddles of bloody ooze. All the details are in my notes.”
She did not strike him as someone given to exaggeration or frivolity. If accurate, being the first with knowledge of this ghastly new weapon gave him immense power. He just had to find the proper way to use it.
“I will pass this on to my superiors. We will be ready.”
“You haven’t read the whole thing yet,” Natalya said. “Our soldiers can’t survive this gas.”
He believed her, but a man in his position could never let uncertainty show. “We always survive.”
“Not this time.”
“Are you saying,” he said, leaning forward, “that I am incorrect?”
She opened her mouth, doubtless to argue, but the words died there.
“Because if you are saying I am incorrect, you are doubting my judgment. If you doubt my judgment, you doubt that of the Chancellor who personally appointed me to this position. And if you doubt the Chancellor, then you doubt the Tsar himself. And then we would have quite the predicament on our hands. So, please clarify. Am I incorrect?”
She waited a long moment before answering. Emotions playing across her face like the ballets Cobetsnya used to enjoy before the Tsar had them banned for being too subversive.
Only then her steel returned. “It is not my place to decide, Mr. Vals. You have my report. Am I dismissed?”
Kristoph almost laughed in appreciation of that nonanswer. The Rolmani certainly had a defiant streak in them.
“I assumed you would be hungry after your long journey and ordered you the duck with a side of potatoes, but I suppose if you have more important matters to attend to, you may go.” But as she stood he held up a single finger to arrest her attention. He tapped the notebook in front of him. “You will speak of none of this to anyone else. Violating this trust will have severe repercussions.”
“Of course.” Natalya turned and took a step away, but then paused.
Kristoph noted the hesitation. She did not want to turn back around an ask the question on her mind. It was always fascinating to watch someone’s internal battles play out. Just as this Rolmani had a gift for reading the land, Kristoph had a gift for reading people. He waited for her to speak first. Never make it easier on others.
Decision made, courage found, she asked, “Mr. Vals?”
Kristoph took a bite of his duck, chewed slowly, then took a sip of wine. He lifted the cloth napkin and patted the corners of his mouth. “Is there something else? Some detail you omitted?”
“I was just curious if you’ve already formulated a plan to retrieve this man?”
“My dear, it almost sounds as if you are volunteering to go to prison for me.”
“That would be a waste of my talents,” she replied automatically. “I’m simply curious how you plan on rectifying the situation.”
Kristoph smiled. This Rolmani was so refreshing. He had been prepared to have her murdered immediately after this meeting, just to prevent her from mentioning the nature of her mission to someone. But if she wanted to work with him—whether she verbally admitted it or not—then violence would be unnecessary. Even though he’d already predicted what she’d ask for, he found that he actually enjoyed talking to her. This girl could be an asset worth investing in. Heavily.
“I am formulating a plan, Ms. Baston. I thought about sending out obvious spies to be captured, in the hopes that one of them would be sent to that particular prison. Unfortunately most of them would just be executed on the spot. Nor is there any guarantee that any who survived capture would get sent to the correct prison. So I suppose I’d have to send quite a few.”
“You’ll sacrifice anyone, won’t you?”
“Surely you don’t need me to actually answer that question.”
“That would get you a man on the inside to secure the prisoner, but what of the raiding party to get them out?”
“Guiding such a party would be a task much more suited for your skills, I think.” He could see her calculating. He knew that look. Natalya wanted something from him. Perfect.
“Perhaps we could strike a bargain.”
“Oh, indeed. Natalya.” He purposefully switched to her first name, so as to appear more friendly. “What do you wish for?”
“Freedom for my parents.”
He’d known they’d been placed in a camp to guarantee her loyalty. It was a common practice whenever the Tsar had need of one of the Rolmani gifted. The wanderers had no love of country—they barely recognized the concept—nor could their loyalty be bought for long with coin. But take their family hostage and they’d fight for you to the grave in the hopes of getting their loved ones back.
“Expensive.”
“I’ve already earned it. I will earn it again. I can help bring you this man. In exchange, you’ll have my parents freed.”
The deal was a poor one for him. He could just command her to do all those things in the Tsar’s name. Except there were times when having a willing participant was more effective than a slave who was forced. The metaphorical promise of the carrot rather than the threat of the stick.
“I will agree to this.” After all, he could always change his mind and there was nothing she could do about it.
Natalya could not quite hide the smile that flickered across her face. Thankfully, she didn’t spit on her hand and offer to shake on the deal, as was the grotesque custom of her people. “It will be done.”
“Good. Go to the primary staging area at the front and await my further orders. On your way then.” He waved her away with a dismissive hand. “My dinner grows cold.”
Once the Rolmani was gone, Kristoph looked down at the meal before him in disappointment. He had so been looking forward to savoring it. Roasted duck, encrusted with a mix of rosemary and other herbs was his favorite, but it would have to wait. He sighed and pushed the plate away, then picked up the notebook to read it again in more detail.
As a man of great ambition, Kristoph liked to hoard information the way the legends said that dragons liked to hoard gold. Except now he had two vital treasures, the possible location of the magi, Amos Lowe, and knowledge of a powerful new Almacian weapon. Treasure was only worth spending if it gave you the opportunity to earn even more.
Amos Lowe was in that prison. He could feel it. It was his duty to report that information to his superiors, but Kristoph was an ambitious man.
Though he hid it well, Kristoph despised the Chancellor. He was a meddlesome foreigner, who had grown far too powerful in Kolakolvian politics.
Nobody knew why Lowe was so important to the Chancellor, but Kristoph suspected there would be great benefit to whoever found out. Everyone who mattered knew that Nicodemus Firsch was the real master behind the throne. He was the Tsar’s most trusted advisor, and whatever course he set, the Tsar would be persuaded to follow. What could Amos Lowe know that made him so incredibly valuable to such a dangerous man?
Finding Lowe would earn Kristoph the Chancellor’s favor but learning Lowe’s secrets might enable him to take the Chancellor’s place. The Directorate should be run by a true son of Kolakolvia, not some foreign wizard who was immune to traditional political intrigue only by virtue of his supernatural gifts. Nicodemus was the only true magi in the empire, and he kept it that way making sure the rare individual found with even an inkling of raw magical talent was turned over to the Directorate for observation.
Imagine what I could learn from a magi who wasn’t under Nicodemus’ thumb?
So Kristoph would seize Lowe for himself, find out why he was so important, and use that to his benefit. If he couldn’t capitalize on Lowe’s knowledge, he’d turn the prisoner over and claim that he’d not wanted to waste the Chancellor’s valuable time on mere rumors. Even if Vasily was informing on him, he’d said nothing in front of the Cursed that would incriminate him thus far.
However, it would be difficult to launch a mission to retrieve Lowe with so many Almacians nearby. And what of their deadly new poison? It would not do him any good to become the Tsar’s right hand if Kolakolvia fell in the process. A total defeat wasn’t even necessary. If the front was pushed back far enough to allow either of their great nations to invade Praja unopposed, the war would be over. Their stalemate was the only thing keeping the Prajan magi—and all their treasures—from falling into their opponent’s hands.
It was decided. He would warn the Chancellor about the gas but keep Lowe for himself. Kristoph stood, pocketed Baston’s report, and walked for the exit. He had a mission to plan.
Vasily silently followed.
* * *
The Chancellor listened as Kristoph outlined his proposal, but as usual it was infuriatingly impossible to tell what the Tsar’s puppeteer was really thinking. Kristoph prided himself on being able to read most people like a book, but the Chancellor was always inscrutable. Pleased or displeased, happy or sad, Nicodemus Firsch always seemed to be in the same mood, which was impatient and slightly perturbed that some lesser mortal was temporarily keeping him from his great work.
“So you want to take a strike team into Transellia to destroy this factory before its deadly new poison can be used against our troops?”
“Yes, Chancellor.”
The man was tall, but so scarecrow thin that he looked as if a stiff gust of wind would be enough to blow him off the edge of the palace. His appearance was surprising, considering that by all reports he was incapable of dying.
Nicodemus had a vast office on the top floor of the palace, but he preferred to hold Directorate meetings on the balcony. He said it was because it had a splendid view of Cobetsnya, especially at night, but Kristoph knew it was because if someone displeased him, he would simply have one of his Cursed bodyguards toss the offender over the side. The Chancellor always had at least four of the monsters nearby, each of the blindfolded creatures even larger and more imposing than Vasily.
“Something strikes me as odd about this, Kristoph.”
“What’s that?”
“You volunteering to lead this mission personally.”
Not an unexpected line of questioning. Predictable. “I have never minded getting my hands dirty, Chancellor.”
All of Kolakolvia’s extensive intelligence and spy networks flowed through this man, so he was exceedingly well informed. “You are one of my most capable agents, but you’ve never been one for leaving the comforts of the empire. You prefer to send others to do the dirty work whenever it’s literally dirty. Transellia is a bleak and dreary land of moldering forests. I’m trying to picture you hiding from Almacian patrols for weeks.” The Chancellor laughed, but it was without humor. The laugh was more to grind in the insult. Kristoph studied the laugh. Emotions were a window into people’s souls. Into their desires. The Chancellor’s smile did not extend beyond his lips. The man’s teeth looked black, but not rotting. Stained perhaps? His eyes were dead. The Chancellor, unfortunately, betrayed nothing. “So why do you wish to go on this operation?”
The Tsars had built the empire, but Nicodemus Firsch was the founder of Directorate S, the security apparatus which kept that vast nation under control. Of course, such a man never missed an angle, but neither did Kristoph, so he’d already reasoned out an answer the Chancellor would believe. “I would not waste either of our time with platitudes about duty and patriotism. I do this for personal gain.”
“Expound.”
“I would not just destroy this Almacian poison, but if possible I would find out the list of ingredients and observe their method of making, storing, and delivering it, so that we could learn to use this weapon for ourselves. I trust no one else in Section 7 to succeed at such a complicated and important task.”
The Chancellor stroked his long black beard thoughtfully. Not a hint of gray, Kristoph noted. Section 7 was the elite of Directorate S, agents of the state who acted with near autonomy and very little accountability. They were all ruthless, but very few of them could be described as scientific. Whereas Kristoph was an educated and analytical sort . . . who was also ruthless.
“Indeed. Surely the Tsar would greatly reward whoever brought him such a weapon.” Which really meant the Chancellor would reward him, but they all had their polite fictions to maintain. “Very well.” Firsch abruptly walked from the balcony back into the palace.
Kristoph took one last look over the lights of the vast city of Cobetsnya, thankful that the Chancellor had not seen through his half-truths—or at least was willing to play along with the charade he saw—because if he had, one of the Cursed bodyguards would have already hurled him over the rail. Kristoph followed his superior inside. One of the Cursed followed him.
The Chancellor never went anywhere without his bodyguards now, but as rumor had it, the Cursed were unnecessary. The Tsar’s court had been a ruthless, cutthroat place when Nicodemus had arrived. There had been several attempts on the immigrant’s life. Nicodemus had been shot, stabbed, and even pushed off a cliff into a freezing river. Yet each time he had appeared the next day as if nothing had happened. Even after Nicodemus had rooted out most of his rivals and tamed the court, there was still the occasional assassination attempt. He could not be poisoned, blown up, or burned either . . . according to the stories. Kristoph didn’t know how much of this was true, and how much was exaggerated to give the magi an aura of indestructible mystery. None of the individual stories could be verified by independent witnesses. All such persons were deceased. Convenient accidents. Kristoph’s favorites were the shocking “suicides” by multiple stab wounds to the back.
Oddly enough, the Chancellor didn’t stop in his opulent office to finish their meeting, but rather kept walking to another door which Kristoph had never been allowed through before. The Chancellor pulled a key from deep inside his robes and unlocked the door before going in. Kristoph paused, thinking that perhaps the Chancellor had forgotten he was there.
The Cursed who was shadowing him gave no indication it would try to stop him from entering a room that was normally off-limits. That monster was easily seven feet tall, and they were so inhumanly strong that the thing could easily swat his head from his neck, so Kristoph waited until his superior said, “Come, Kristoph,” before following.
Inside was one of the Chancellor’s many laboratories. He had several about the city, each devoted to one of his esoteric projects, but this was the only one in the palace, and the one he used when imperial businesses required his presence near the Tsar, which was often.
Crazed rumors to the contrary, there were no mutilated bodies dangling from chains or infernal machines spitting lightning. Just a great many books on shelves. It was more library than laboratory. Kristoph was mildly disappointed.
The walls of this room were covered with maps, not just of the empire, but of the entire known world, all of Novimir, even to the edges of the other, mostly unknown continents. The lands that still belonged to the original fairy races remained blacked-out mysteries. Kristoph spied maps of the old world from whence man had come, pieced together from the various groups who had wandered through the mists over the centuries. There were also odd maps of a land that Kristoph assumed to be Hell, though surely that one was someone’s flight of fancy as only the dead and ghouls had ever seen the world below, and neither of those groups were particularly talkative. Finally, there was one particularly ambitious map which took up an entire wall, which overlaid all three worlds, and their various points of supposed connection.
How long do I have in this room? Kristoph wondered. The answer was simple: not long. He doubted he would ever have another chance to come here. He drank in the displayed knowledge, imagining himself drawing it later for personal reference. Such memorization techniques had served him well enough before. Of course, this could all be fake, conjured up to leave Kristoph chasing his own tail.
Irrelevant.
The Chancellor made no mention of any of the other worldly geographies, but instead he stopped before a map of western Kolakolvia and its border with eastern Almacia. A hundred miles of trenches were marked with red lines. To the north of the front was the fortified city of Praja. South of the front were the many smaller nations trapped between the two great powers.
He took a pin from a nearby table and handed it to Kristoph. “Show me where this poison factory is.”
Kristoph took the pin, analyzed the map, and placed it carefully, hoping the Chancellor wouldn’t remark about how close it was to Dalhmun Prison, which was Kristoph’s true reason for wanting to lead the mission. He stepped away from the wall.
“If that’s where it is being made, then they will most likely use their new weapon somewhere near . . . there.” The Chancellor stared at the red lines for so long that Kristoph began to wonder if his presence had been forgotten.
“Should I prepare a force, Chancellor?”
“Not yet.” He seemed deep in thought. Then the Chancellor went to a different map which was of the same region, only this one was marked with several odd symbols and dates, spread up and down the front. “Ah . . . I see what Eisenhardt is doing.”
Kristoph didn’t ask who Eisenhardt was, nor did he ask what the symbols meant. Posing such a question would be seen as a sign of weakness. The only questions worth verbalizing were those where the answers were already known, to make a point . . . or a threat. The Chancellor encouraged the agents of Section 7 to be proactive, so instead Kristoph memorized the locations and dates so that he could do his own research.
“Return to your regular duties for now, Kristoph. I will let you know when you may proceed with this mission. I will inform the Kommandant about the Almacian’s new weapon. You are dismissed.”
He glanced around the room one last time, eyes darting from map to map. The shear amount of information here would keep Kristoph busy for weeks, perhaps even months. With the knowledge of what the Chancellor was studying and tracking with his maps, maybe Kristoph could win the first few victories in their silent, personal war. He saluted and said, “Very well, sir. Good evening.”
Nicodemus Firsch was still staring at the arcane symbols and mumbling to himself as one of the Cursed escorted Kristoph from the room.