The meeting was not at the Olverin's, as Laczlo suspected. The servant who'd come to bear the message asking their attendance had led them to a small fabric shop right off the Throat in the center of the city. Since he hadn't known where it would happen, the ship prepared for their flight would have to move closer.

Nothing risked, nothing won, he thought, standing tall there on the street. Isak and Oiir were close at hand, but the others were hidden nearby, blending in with the locals during the rush of the early evening traffic, hidden in alleys and around corners like brigands waiting to strike. Shouts and laughter from a nearby tavern contrasted with the intrigue of the moment. Instead of a city full of life, it should be ominously silent.

"Voivode Vilsky," the servant said, gesturing forward, "if you would."

He made a point of looking over the shop's front with some incredulity. "Of course. It's just… not what I expected, you see."

"I understand it is ill-fitting a voivode, but please, it is just inside." The servant led him in with Isak and Oiir just behind, both wearing mail under thick tunics and cloaks to mute the rustling iron. Though he imagined that having a few armored guards in a meeting such as this was not entirely inappropriate. Still, they lacked weapons besides fighting daggers at their hips, similarly hidden.

With the click of a key, the servant locked the door behind them with an apologetic smile and excuse for worries of crime, even in a city as safe as Delues. Given the situation, Laczlo didn't bother to hide his nervousness and fear. Inside was dark except for a minute glow of candlelight from under a door in the back of the storeroom.

The servant walked past the spools of cloth and crates of wool with a level of comfort and routine as if he'd done this many times before—and based on the suspected multiple voivodes engaged in this scheme, that was not so unlikely. Who else is involved? Anyone in the tsar's close circle? His own guards? The servant opened the inner door and held it for Laczlo to enter.

"Voivode Vilsky," he said with a bow of respect.

Inside was a small room of solid timber construction adorned with a few paintings and hung tapestries, filled only by a table bearing two wax candles, a chest by the wall, and four chairs—three opposite the door and each filled by a person. In the center was Marion Olverin sitting straight and attentive, offering Laczlo a large smile. To her left, a man in an odd lamellar cuirass with a heavy short sword at the hip and long, plaited dark hair that fell over his shoulder, skin the color of far western Rutenia. A mercenary? But the only people who hire Rutenians are… Could it be? Laczlo tried not to stare at the odd man, instead pulling his gaze to the right, where someone much different sat: he was young, thin and tall like a hunter, and with a deep bronze skin tone of a Rodezian. He wore a rich but unassuming fine tunic, closed at the top by an engraved silver pin. If Laczlo had not been here with his suspicions about him, he wouldn't have even noticed it. But as he took in this figure, the pin with a winged horse… it was familiar. The Vestile Dynasty. He is young, too young to be the king or eldest son; no, only one can match this man. Karnys Vestile. The second son.

Recognition must have shown across his face, for the man in question smiled and extended a hand to the lone seat opposite their three. "Voivode Vilsky, please seat yourself. On behalf of my father and all of the Dynasty, you are welcome here under no threat or danger."

What is he doing here? Laczlo thought in a rush, moving forward slowly. Is he behind this? Deus, is this a Rodezian plot? Suddenly, the pieces were coming together. Such riches couldn't come from any one merchant family—not unless that family was actually the dynasty of perhaps the second most powerful state in the known world. Now, is he acting alone or truly on behalf of his father? Is this a royal scheme to break Vasia? Just to weaken it? More, to prepare for conquest? Or is it a personal plot for some other reason? Does Karnys even have the wealth to make such a thing happen?

Laczlo dropped in his seat, staring. "You must excuse me if I am surprised… Your Highness, I—"

"Please, please," Karnys said, gesturing him to stop, "I have come here hidden in plainclothes and without announcement. The honorifics are unnecessary. After all, we come here to make a deal as equals, our titles aside."

"Ah, I understand, of course. It is as you say." Laczlo nodded deep enough to be a bow, hands under the table near his dagger. I can't just take the 'secret' negotiator hostage for interrogation in Vasia, now can I? He sat up straight and took in a deep breath to steady his nerves. A further question: did the boyars and voivodes who made their deals for coin in exchange for loyalty know who was behind it? Or was he the exception?

"You no doubt have many questions, good sir," Marion Olverin said, smiling. "And so I shall allow my esteemed benefactor, his Majesty, Prince Karnys Vestile, the honor of this explanation."

The man in question, perhaps in his late twenties, gave another too-humble smile and spread his hands in mock defeat. "Many thanks, Madam Olverin." He turned to Laczlo and gave him a look the cat gives a field mouse, cocky and supreme. "You see, Laczlo, there are great interests invested in the success of your realm. All this… instability is not good for anyone. So, it is truly as simple as this: the Olverins are prepared to offer you a very significant sum upon a few conditions. Nothing so extreme, you understand, all quite agreeable points. Is this of interest to you?"

Laczlo nodded. "Yes, but I would have to hear the conditions, no offense intended."

"Of course. Of course. A wise man of rule and good council proceeds ever with caution," he said, that cat smile flashing again. Was he always so sharkish, or was it something else? Did he know of Laczlo's true intentions? "One, you must make an appearance of swaying towards Ekhenism, of which this should be no issue, given your devout belief in Deus already. Two, you will be put into contact with the others who have accepted this agreement for general consensus of belief. Why, you must be wondering. Third, you must buck the shackles of overlordship your so-called tsar has thrust upon you. He is, after all, a pretender, and you not a voivode, but a prince as your true ancestors were. In fact, you will soon find that you never should have been made a vassal, and that this was all a Column scheme." He paused for emphasis, and Laczlo's head swam. The Column backed the tsar, it was true, but it had always had the voivodes' support, even in the beginning, it was said. "Is this not why you fought against the usurpers so defiantly? To retain the legacy of rule that is yours by right? This rule is that of princedom, of independent reign, not subservience. Take up this sword of independence again, along with the others, and you shall receive not just this promised coin but, when the time is right, Rodezian support."

During his speech, of which few new secrets were truly revealed to Laczlo, two things became evident. The first was Karnys's arrogance. It sept from his words like the stink from swine. It easily followed why the women in Rodezia feared him, and Kapitelena escaped a politically advantageous marriage with him. For this, Laczlo felt a deep swell of anger in his gut. He could have taken Kapitelena. He could have hurt her. And then, of course, shame for such thoughts, given what he'd done. But the second realization was that Karnys, or his father, aimed to fragment Vasia not simply through bending alliances but through inspiring independence. Some voivodes wanted self-rule. Gorodenski reeked of the desire, after all. And he was but one of how many others? Two, three? Deus above, more?

"This is a lot to consider," Laczlo said after a moment. "You must understand my hesitance. I was told I'd not have to face war again."

"I can see why it might appear daunting to you."

I would break your smug jaw if I could. "Who else has made such an agreement? It might make my decision easier."

He smirked. "I cannot reveal such information before you agree, now can I?"

"Not even if it would determine my answer?"

"Mh, Voivode," he said, a sneer in his voice, "now would it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Would such information truly sway you? Don't lie to me now. Not anymore, that is." He stood.

Laczlo's breath caught. He stared at Marion. "What is this?"

She seemed equally befuddled. "Your Majesty? Why do you say these things? The voivode has been most agreeable thus far—"

"Has he, you old, blundering bitch?"

She gasped. "Excuse me, sir?"

"Have you made it your intention to ruin everything? I should have your throat cut where you stand." He pointed a finger at Laczlo, eyes narrowed to pinpoints, his sneer gone, now a crooked scowl. "He is a spy." A brief moment of silence. All breaths caught beside pounding hearts. Something crashed outside the room. All turned to look. Karnys, scowl deepening, barked out, "Now, Isak, if you would."

Eyes wide, Laczlo gawked at his druzhina. He didn't even have time to raise his blade before Isak was on his feet, his own dagger out. The druzhina's face was impassive, with clenched jaw and narrowed eyes the only reveal of emotion from his stony expression. The flash of a blade. Laczlo scrambled up, back. Too slow. Isak moved.

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In one swift motion, the warrior turned and thrust the blade into the servant at the door. The length of steel plunged into his stomach, once, twice, then his chest, and finally his neck. A small knife clattered to the floor from the servant's twitching hands. He collapsed to the floor in a shaking mess, coughing blood and scrambling like a dying insect. Laczlo stared at him, then Isak. The druzhina flashed him the briefest of wolfish grins as he turned to face the others.

"Traitorous fool!" hissed Karnys, leaping to his feet.

Oiir kicked the table forward, slamming it into all three's guts, knocking Marion to the ground. He went for the armored warrior with a dagger out, but there was a sudden thwack that cut through the small chamber and sent Oiir toppling with a shout. A bolt stuck out from his arm.

Karnys shouted something, but Laczlo didn't hear it. He was leaping over toppled chairs, the awry table, his dagger out.

The Rutenian warrior drew his sword and went to intercept him, but Isak was faster, slashing his wrist and kicking him back into the wall. The druzhina tackled him down in a mess of struggling limbs.

Laczlo hadn't the time to watch. He leaped over a crawling Marion and plowed into Karnys. Before the prince could escape, he took Karnys's tunic in one hand and jammed the point of his dagger deep enough into the man's neck to draw blood.

"Move, he dies!" he screamed, shoving the prick against a wall. "I'll cut his damn throat."

"Kill him!"

"He'll die fast! Faster than me!"

Karnys went to shout again, but Laczlo pressed his blade in deeper, shutting him up.

Oiir struggled to his feet. His left arm had a crossbow bolt through it, cleanly piercing mail. "Archers in the walls," he grunted, stumbling over to stand before Laczlo, shielding him.

"Help Isak," he said, nodding to the ongoing fight, turning to put Karnys between him and the wall where the bolt had come from.

Isak was below the other man, his dagger still clutched tight but pinned while the sword was kicked off somewhere. The Rutenian was trying to pry the blade free with one hand, choking Isak with the other. Any second, he might succeed in either.

Oiir leaped over, moving faster than one might expect, considering his injury. He grabbed the Rutenian's long hair and sawed through his windpipe. A spray of blood splattered over the wall and Isak below, who shoved his way to his feet, coughing and sputtering, face red and bloody. "Damnit Oiir!"

"You fucking barbarians," Karnys hissed. "You sons of southern whores will all pay in blood and fire! I will disembowel your children!"

Laczlo slammed the pommel of his dagger into the struggling prince's face, then shoved him to the door, blocking Marion's escape. "Stop. It's over."

Lady Olverin looked up in terror. Her hands were covered in blood from dead men, expensive clothing ripped from just the brief struggle. "Don't kill me," she begged, eyes wide, face pale as snow. "Don't kill me! Please, I didn't know!"

"Isak."

The druzhina stumbled over, hauling the woman to her feet as Oiir kicked open the door, one arm limp as the other pointed the Rutenian's shortsword out at the store's interior. "Men of Vilsi!" he roared. "To me! To the voivode!"

"There was a crash," Laczlo said, breathless, as he guided the prince out of the small room. "What happened to the crossbowman?"

The shop's door slammed open, and men appeared in front. His heart stopped momentarily before he realized it was his own druzhina, armed with swords, shields, and covered in mail, some still with their disguises half-on. Deus, the sight almost made him cry. Even stranger, in their midst, he saw the flash of long, black hair, tanned skin like rich mahogany, and eyes like deep wells, wide and frightened. Silene. Or whatever her name was. A moment of irrational fear. Was she behind this ambush? Did she tell them of Laczlo's true intentions? And then he saw her covered in blood, a blade in her hand red as she. She barely standing, something clutched in her other arm: a leather bag far larger than any coin purse ought to be.

The fuck is going on? Laczlo wondered, staring at her.

"Voivode!" the lead druzhina shouted, face hidden in shadow from the backlit street. "There's more outside. Hurry!"

Laczlo didn't argue. He handed over the prince and jogged to the street, surrounded by druzhina. Indeed, more dark-skinned men in armor were close, some already engaged in hand-to-hand combat with his own.

"Oh," he whispered foolishly, staring, shaking himself from the fright. He held Silene by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry." Her face was discolored and already bruising. She sagged against him, legs shaking. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied. I should have told you the truth, I thought…"

"Are you okay?"

She looked at the bloody knife with a look of disgust and shook herself, staring at him. "I didn't run away. I wouldn't."

"I know. It's okay," he whispered, clutching her, holding her up straight, nearly in as much shock as she. "Come. We need to move." He observed the scene. The Rutenians were less than his own, but more were coming. At least a dozen from further away. "Isak! Are we going?"

"Voivode." The man shouted orders, and their small shield wall began to move.

The coming enemies were many and closing in fast. More than could be handled or avoided. From all sides. How could there be so many? And so spread out? His small retinue would soon be surrounded then killed. He'd seen such things before.

"We need to escape them!" Laczlo shouted.

"Here!" Isak led them ahead, slaying an unarmored opponent bearing an axe as he went. He stood before a doorway into a nearby building. An inn or tavern of some sort. "Get inside!"

…

Sobering up after drinking as much as Oskar had in the last… two, maybe three days was not a pleasant experience. No, he'd needed to stumble out back more than once to relieve himself of his stomach contents on multiple occasions—not that there was much left to spew. Add in the fact that most everyone else was still drunk enough to bleed wine was not helping, so he just felt damn foolish. But no, got to listen to the men. Got to make the big decisions.

Bloody shit job, he thought, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. He was failing. It was rather pissing him off, to tell the truth. Stoic fuckers like Stanilo can stand there in the worst pain and bear it like nothing, but he? To keep on telling the truth, Oskar had been cursed with a propensity to cry when getting punched in the face when he was young. And to try so hard to be strong… Oh, the ignorance of youth. Little did young Oskar know he'd have been better off tending to his father's field, breaking his back over a plow than hopes of glory by bearing a blade in service to others.

"Yet here we are," he muttered. "A spear throw from glory." And what did they get out of it? Some gold and a cringing conscience is what.

He was just about to lean over and complain to Nifont when the front door banged open. Everyone quieted immediately, the noisiness of a tavern full of mercenaries silenced as they watched light spill in and men in mail burst inside. Shouts, threats, the chaos of anger and fear.

"To me!" Oskar yelled, shoving off from the wall without a second's hesitation. He grabbed at his hip out of instinct, but his sword wasn't there. Of course it wasn't.

His warriors came in close, some wobbling, others damn near stumbling to the floor. They were all unarmed and unarmored. Easy targets. He grabbed Waker, who was somehow the least drunk of the bunch, considering Stanilo was missing, and shoved him back. "Get our blades and shields now!"

He scurried off to the rooms.

"Move with me!" Oskar barked, retreating a few steps. The men stepped in kind, though not quite unison, shuffling in an awkward line toward the rear of the tavern.

There were about ten intruders. Almost all of them were well-armed and armored—enough to make them pass as druzhina, though, of course, Armagne didn't have such men. But whoever they were, they weren't rushing forward to fight. Instead, they seemed almost equally weary, lining up near the entrance in a tight shield wall, mostly facing the exterior. That, and protecting people in the middle. Oskar squinted at them, his vision still a little wobbly. There was a woman there—likely from the south—who was covered in blood and bruises, holding a dagger close to her chest. There were some others there, seemingly held captive: a fancily dressed local woman not much older than he and a handsome, rich prick with a broken nose—some arrogant Rodezian nobleman by the looks of it. But there was still one more unarmored person. Someone he recognised.

Oskar stared. He stopped retreating with the others and stood there, stupified.

Laczlo fucking Vilsky. Lazy, weak, cowardly, and as fearful as a newborn deer—the voivode no one wanted. And he was here in gods-damned Delues.

"By the Dead of Neapoli," Oskar muttered, standing tall and still.

"Sir?"

He didn't know who said it, but he ignored them.

"Oskar," that was Nifont. "We need to go."

"Look at who we got here."

Silence. Then the man hissed out, "What's this prick doing here?"

By the sound of the footsteps slowing, returning, he knew the men were no longer retreating. Some of them knew the stories, others likely just following suit. Then a sword was shoved toward his chest by Stanilo, already armed and armored.

The big man gave him a shield and tossed Nifont a blade as well. "Was cleaning my mail when I heard fighting. Seems the voivode has other enemies."

"Good." Oskar spat to the side, glaring ahead. "We can both rip the fucker to pieces."

"We will lose."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Chief."

He glanced back to Stanilo, taking in his steady but weary gaze. Took quite a bit to make such a warrior hesitate. Oskar sighed and watched the intruders. True enough, the warriors could all be druzhina, which meant more than superior arms, but training enough to match or exceed his own band, scrappy as they might be. And in their drunken state?

"Shit," he hissed.

"Aye."

"Oskar?" came a voice from the druzhinas.

He squinted again, piercing the haze and blurriness he blamed not on his eyes but the drink, and found the familiar face of Oiir amongst them, one arm with a nasty bolt through it, the other holding a sword to the rich woman held hostage.

Oskar puffed out his chest and tried to look tall, letting his voice carry. "Oiir? And here I was all these years thinking you dead?"

"You're one to talk. Stanilo and Nifont too, eh? Any more traitors with you?"

"We're the last."

By now, the so-called voivode had noticed them. He'd had his arm around the injured woman with the dagger, supporting her, and so he froze there, staring at them with a gaping jaw and wide eyes. He looked older. But then, they all did. Still, he wasn't the same youth of Oskar's memories, nor did he seem as flighty, for he was amongst the warriors, armed with a long dagger himself and with a mean scar on his face that had to have come from a blade.

"Thought us dead, didn't you?" Oskar asked, sneering. "Found someone else to betray way up here? More enemies to make?"

Laczlo Vilsky's face twisted in horror and rage. "Betray? You dare… Betray? You tried to hand a pretender what was lawfully passed on to me! I trusted you!" He seemed to want to step forward and fight, but he just stood there, tremoring. "I trusted you, and you stabbed me in the back. My parents!"

"I didn't betray anyone, you arrogant cunt!" Oskar went to stomp forward to run through the prink, but Nifont and Stanilo held him back.

Just in time too, for Waker returned with a clatter of iron, quickly handing out arms to everyone. And as the druzhinas were still guarding the front, weary to enter and engage, Oskar's men had enough time to outfit themselves with everything but armor. Enough time too for more unexpected people to enter the scene.

"What is going on here?" Emalia asked from the rear of the tavern, hands on her hips, a fully armored Sovina beside her. "Who are these people?"

Oskar could barely contain himself, hungry for blood, so Stanilo answered, "The Voivode of Novavy and his new retinue."

Her eyes widened. "Oh."

"He is the same one we'd fought against years ago."

"Yes, I would imagine the gods would will it as such."

Oskar scoffed. "A fickle bunch, they are. When we are finally rich and doing well for ourselves, they decide to fuck it all up."

"What're you thinking?" Nifont asked.

"We got them pinned. Whatever it comes down to, we're getting the best of it. A pound of gold or flesh, doesn't matter to me."

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