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  Viktor lay in the dirt face down, his back a bloody mess. Nels kept his face blank against the shock. Viktor shifted—agony evident in the hiss of his breath.

  He’s alive, at least, Nels thought.

  Smug triumph curled the corners of the Acrasian’s lips. Nels struggled with an overwhelming urge to punch it off his mouth.

  “You’re making deals with the Regnum now, cousin?” Nels asked Edvard without turning from Viktor. He stuck with Acrasian, knowing that Edvard would have no trouble understanding. “That doesn’t usually go well for anyone but the Acrasians. You’d be wise to learn from my uncle.”

  “I’ve done everything I can for you,” Edvard said. “The Emperor knows you can’t inherit the throne of Eledore. You’ll be safe in Ytlain, you and your troops. I can offer you refuge. Your sister, I’m afraid, is another matter.”

  “Is that so?” Nels asked, switching to Ytlainen.

  “What did he say?” the Acrasian commander asked.

  Edvard ignored him and continued the conversation in Ytlainen. “There’s nothing to be gained with further bloodshed, Nels.”

  “But there’s certainly something to be gained in selling me to Acrasia, isn’t there?” Nels asked. “I hear the price on my head has gone up recently.”

  “Do you think the Acrasians can offer me enough?” Edvard asked. “If I sell you, I betray your mother’s memory. You must know I won’t do that. She was like a sister to me. We were close until the day she died. She looked after you. She asked me to do the same if I could. She was a good person. She wouldn’t want—”

  “She found that being good has very little to do with survival, I’m afraid,” Nels said.

  “Nels, please,” Edvard said in Ytlanen-accented Eledorean. “Let me do this for you. Let me save you. Give up this nonsense.”

  “It isn’t nonsense,” Nels said, answering in the same language. “It’s my home. Suvi is my sister and my queen.”

  “Hopeless idealism,” Edvard said. He kept his voice low. “Be realistic. Save what you can.”

  “And accept my place like one of father’s automatons?” Nels asked in an angry whisper.

  “I didn’t intend to insult—” Edvard cut himself off. “Your mother said you were proud, self-destructive, and willful. I was merely attempting to do what was best for you.”

  “I’m not a child,” Nels said. “I’m twenty-one.”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to treat you as such.”

  “No. You treated me as if I were less. You tried to control me like an animal. Well, Mother didn’t tell you everything about me, did she?” Abandoning the chair, he poured the wine onto the ground.

  Edvard blinked.

  Nels’s left hand twitched into a fist. He switched to Acrasian. “Thank you for your most generous offer, cousin. But I find I must decline.”

  “Then you are under arrest,” the Acrasian commander said. “Bring the irons.”

  “Not … so fast,” Nels said. “Perhaps you should have a look at what I have positioned on that hill first?” He pointed.

  Growing up without discernible magical power in an environment that was deadly to those without had forced Nels to compensate for his lack in other ways. It had forced him to lie. It had forced him to cheat. In short, he’d learned to fake it.

  He’d only recently come to understand that such a thing could be used as an advantage. Of course, tricks learned from Acrasian street harvesters and mountebanks didn’t suffice in all instances, but he found people tended to see what they expected to see. Especially if they were told to see it. And if the commander’s expression was any indication, he saw exactly what Nels hoped: eight cannon bearing down on the clearing. In truth, they weren’t much more than Captain Julia’s dead leaves. One swivel cannon, a number of hidden powder barrels primed to explode, and seven carved and painted tree trunks, to be exact.

  The marine’s face turned bright red, and he pointed to Edvard. “You said he would be defenceless! Where did he get those guns?”

  Edvard shrugged. “It seems my cousin’s spies are better than yours. Does it matter? You have made the gamble and lost. We both did.”

  The commander drew a pistol and pointed it at Edvard.

  Nels said, “Oops.”

  Changing targets, the commander aimed at Nels.

  Nels’s heart dropped into his stomach, and his blood froze in his veins. This is it. I’m going to die.

  “Commander … pardon me, but I seem to have forgotten your name,” Edvard said.

  The commander frowned. “Munitoris, Commander Munitoris Ulpius.” He emphasized his gens name in a way that indicated Edvard should be impressed.

  Edvard clearly wasn’t. “Commander Munitoris.” His tone was measured and calm, almost bored. “Are you personally negating the treaty between the Regnum of Acrasia and the Kingdom of Ytlain? Because it would appear to be the case at this moment.”

  Commander Munitoris hesitated. “You are hardly neutral. You’re helping him.”

  “I arranged this meeting, did I not? I told your general that the rest was up to him. You have lost the encounter,” Edvard said. “So. Again, let me ask, are you personally negating the treaty between the Acrasian Regnum and the Kingdom of Eledore?”

  Commander Munitoris shook his head.

  Edvard said, “In that case, would you kindly put away your weapons?”

  Signaling to the others first, Commander Munitoris lowered his pistol.

  “Now I think you should leave,” Edvard said. “You have nothing left to achieve by staying. You have six hours in which to vacate Ytlainen waters. Linger an instant longer and the relationship between your country and mine will be damaged.”

  Nels waited until the Acrasians were gone. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing you or the rest of the world a service by furthering your cause,” Edvard said in Eledorean, his voice weary. “The more you antagonize the Regnum, the more difficult you make it for the rest of us to live peaceably with them. Don’t ask anything more from me. Please take your money and go.”

  Biting back an angry retort, Nels bowed and then went to Viktor. He knelt and laid a gentle hand on Viktor’s bloody shoulder.

  Viktor whispered, “Next time, you visit with the nice Acrasians.”

  “Done.” Nels shut burning eyes and for the first time admitted something to himself. It destroyed the last vestige of a hope that had haunted the back of his mind for three lonely years.

  I’d have made a terrible king.

  “Sir?” Sebastian asked.

  “Julia, if you will help Viktor? Sebastian and I will see to the chests. We’ve got what we came for.”

  ILTA

  THE HOLD

  GRANDMOTHER MOUNTAIN

  NEW ELEDORE

  THIRTIETH OF KORJUUKUU, 1783

  “Good afternoon,” Ilta said, pausing in the doorway. Although she’d been sent for, she wasn’t sure if she was interrupting.

  “For a philosophy professor from the University of Novus Salernum, James Slate seems to have a talent for spying,” Suvi said. Thumbing through the thick stacks of papers neatly piled on a dining table serving as a second writing desk, she didn’t look up from what she’d been focused on as she spoke. “I’ve the names of the Acrasian military leadership and their relations. This is a list of the five gens and their spheres of business influence. Here’s a log of active navy ships as well as a list of new vessels being built and advancements made in their construction. I’ve read several papers on Acrasian weapons technology. And this is a report on the Brotherhood of Wardens. That one is proving to be a frightening read, I must say.”

  Suvi then pointed to another sheaf of papers. “I’ve also lists of artistic salons and political discussions patronized by the nobility. I’ve counted four different reports on the malorum. Just how many spies does that man employ? And what can you tell me about him that you haven’t already?”

  Ilta nodded a greeting to Jami, Suvi’s korva, and t
hen shut the door. “You’re not even going to say good afternoon?” Her voice echoed off the walls of the nearly empty trunk-littered room.

  “Sorry,” Suvi said. She finally pulled her attention away from her work. Her thick mouse-brown curls had been gathered in a disordered knot on top of her head, her feet were bare, and she was wearing a white silk nightdress with a yellow robe thrown over it. She held a half-eaten apple in her ink-stained fingers.

  Getting to her feet, Suvi abandoned the apple to a small plate and gave her a hug. “I’ve been up all night, trying to get caught up with what’s been going on around here.”

  “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to remind you that you need to take care of yourself,” Ilta said, returning the hug one-handed because of the basket in her other hand. “Why so much reading? Hasn’t Jami been any help?” She settled into a padded chair near the fire and set the empty basket on the chilly stone floor.

  The interior of the Hold tended to stay cold even in the summer months. Now that it was autumn, Ilta’s feet already felt like ice. She toed off her slippers and shifted closer to the hearth. The room smelled of blessing candles and burning oak. She eased into the disordered coziness. Thank the gods for thick rugs.

  “Jami is a more-than-adequate sneak,” Suvi said. “However, people don’t tend to enjoy being spied upon. Particularly if the someone in question is someone with whom one is attempting to form a trust bond. Not that she isn’t good enough to escape notice.”

  Jami, the sneak in question, shrugged.

  “So, gossip is better?” Ilta asked.

  “Does it count as gossip, if it’s a queen asking?” Suvi winked. She retrieved her apple.

  “Only if she says it does,” Jami said in a bored voice.

  Suvi pointed at Jami. “See?” She joined Ilta at the hearth, collapsing into the second wingback chair with a less-than-ladylike thump. Suvi bit into the remains of her apple.

  The rooms that had been reserved for Suvi were spacious, far more spacious than the limited furnishings—a writing desk, a large Waterborne rug, and two wingback chairs—transferred from the ship required. However, Suvi had indicated that she was planning on taking up permanent residence. Therefore, Ilta had done her part to make the place welcoming—even providing wall hangings, blankets, and rugs from her own collection. She’d created a number of them herself. Birch had installed the stained glass in the top half of the rows of north-facing window sashes. Each had been scavenged from Ilta’s grandmother’s house now abandoned on the other side of the mountain. The bedstead and wardrobe, which had been moved to the apartment, had been salvaged from Gardemeister. Trunks of books that Nels had smuggled from the now-abandoned summer palace in Järvi Satama months ago had been shoved against the far wall near the bookcases. Other tomes, Ilta knew, had been rescued from other cities, now ruins, as was Nels’s habit. Some of the trunks had been unloaded onto the shelves, but not all.

  Will everything ever be easy between us? “I don’t know the exact number,” Ilta said, continuing the conversation.

  “What?” Suvi asked. There were dark circles under her eyes.

  “Of spies. I don’t know the exact number of spies James Slate employs,” Ilta said. “I’ve never asked. Perhaps you should, since they are now yours by extension. As far as I know, James has been working on his contacts for a year and a half. Possibly longer. He did live in Novus Salernum for most of his life.

  “You should talk to him about the communication systems he’s invented,” Ilta continued. “They’re brilliant. There’s a woman in Novus Salernum who sends him messages through swatches of lace.”

  Suvi leaned closer. “How?”

  “The patterns are a code that only he and the spy in question can decode,” Ilta said. “The Acrasians merely see an old woman and a basket of lace. They never give it thought. Nickols buys the lace from her once a month and doesn’t even know its importance.”

  “That is incredibly smart,” Suvi said. “I wish I’d thought of it. How did he?”

  “It was on a day when he wanted to read and couldn’t. He found that if the typesetter used a particularly heavy press, he could make out some of the text by feel. That’s when he had the idea of a code meant to be felt, not read,” Ilta said. “The Acrasians can’t see a message that’s intended to be read with one’s fingers. All of his spies report to him in a similar manner—not with lace, mind you. But with items related to their daily lives. There’s a carver who works messages into wooden toys.”

  “That is amazing,” Suvi said.

  “He’s very intelligent.”

  “Philosophy seems an odd background for a spymaster,” Suvi said.

  “I suppose,” Ilta said. “But then again, maybe it isn’t. I thought you liked him.”

  “I do,” Suvi said. “I just don’t know if I trust him yet.”

  “That’s understandable,” Ilta said without stating what she knew bothered Suvi the most. He’s Acrasian. “These things take time.”

  Jami grunted.

  “What do you think of James, Jami?” Ilta asked.

  As the Queen’s korva, Jami had a mind that was refreshingly unreadable.

  Jami said, “He seems quite a competent korva for an Acrasian.”

  “That’s high praise,” Suvi said, the sarcasm evident in her tone.

  “She asked,” Jami said, and shrugged.

  Suvi leaned back in her chair, stretched, and closed her eyes. “Ilta, I’m sorry we haven’t talked alone until now. And I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for everything you’ve done to make me comfortable here.”

  With Jami in the room, Ilta knew they weren’t exactly alone. However, they were as alone as they were going to be.

  “It’s all right,” Ilta said, and smoothed her skirts. She couldn’t help feeling nervous. There had been a time when Suvi had hated her and with good reason, Ilta had felt, but they had sorted out their differences, or at least found peace with one another. No one lives a perfect life, free from error. Especially those who wield power. However, sometimes the old unease crept in, and she found her insecurity formed obstacles. She was aware that Suvi had her own self-doubts—largely because of her inability to shield her own thoughts. Nonetheless, they were slowly becoming friends, and Ilta was pleased by that knowledge. She told herself that the fact that it was taking so long was for the best.

  “We’ve both been busy,” Ilta said. “So, how did the negotiations go?”

  “As you predicted. Terrible,” Suvi said, and sighed. “They’re afraid of the Acrasian Regnum. Everyone. And yes, that includes Cousin Edvard—although he’d never admit it. Not that I saw him. His prime minister made excuses to cover Edvard’s having left before I’d arrived. The Zhelezokholm visit was much more profitable. The Queen of Kaledan donated a thousand gold pescas, which amounts to five hundred or so Acrasian sterling. So, the trip wasn’t entirely pointless.”

  Ilta got the sense that Suvi was far more frustrated and frightened than she let on. She’s worried about Nels. Well, she’s not alone in that. Rather than drawing attention to the source of her anxiety, Ilta kept the conversation directed elsewhere. She knew Suvi would find it more reassuring. “And were you able to locate Trygve Blomgrin? Or at least some indication as to where he might be?”

  Trygve Blomgrin had been the Royal Swordmaster during the Acrasian war. Rumor had it that he knew the secret of Eledorean water steel. Suvi didn’t believe that this was the case. However, she did know that he understood the blades better than anyone alive. Unfortunately, he’d disappeared during the evacuation of Jalokivi.

  “I’m afraid not. But I did find fourteen blades in Kaledan and three more in Ytlain,” Suvi said. “They aren’t currently useable, but the Waterborne have swordsmiths. They should be able to repair them.”

  “That isn’t nearly enough to pay what we owe,” Ilta said. “Sea Lord Kask won’t be satisfied.”

  “I know,” Suvi said, an unhappy expression on her face.

  “Dyla
n will be here soon,” Ilta said.

  “I know,” Suvi said. “Jami told me.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ilta asked.

  “You’re my Silmaillia,” Suvi said. “I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”

  Ilta shook her head. “Sorry. I’m all out of aphorisms today.”

  A weak smile appeared on Suvi’s lips. “I wish I knew what the Acrasians did with the swords they took when they invaded.”

  Ilta tried not to take that as an accusation. You’re the Silmaillia. You should know these things. But visions weren’t something one could control, and Suvi knew that. “Me too.”

  “I’ve one bit of good news,” Suvi said. “I was able to locate a swordsmith in Kaledan. One with a great deal of experience.”

  “That’s something, anyway.”

  “Her name is Pasha Kuznetsov,” Suvi said. “And she’s a metal-speaker, I understand. I don’t know how powerful. But if she can learn how to replicate water steel, our problems are solved.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Ilta said.

  “She’s motivated to experiment, at least. And in the meantime, she’ll keep the troops in serviceable blades by repairing what we have,” Suvi said.

  “You mean what Nickols is able to steal.”

  Suvi shrugged. “That should reduce our dependence upon our allies. The only problem is, Kuznetsov speaks Ledanese. She doesn’t know Eledorean or Acrasian, and her Ytlainen is limited.”

  “She’ll learn fast enough, I assume,” Ilta said. “I can help.” Not that she spoke Ledanese, but at least she could better guess Kuznetsov’s meaning through her feelings and thoughts—provided Kuznetsov was a person who associated ideas with images. Of course, it was likely that Nels did speak Ledanese. However, bringing him up wasn’t the best idea at the moment.

  “And when will you have time for that?” Suvi asked.

  Ilta returned her smile. “I can find someone else to help too, but as far as I know, no one here speaks Ledanese, much less the southern dialect.”