Dancing on the Block Read online

  Winner "Best Fantasy in Russia" in 2018

  Dancing on the Block

  Book I

  The Criasmore Treaty

  By Marina Barinova

  ◆◆◆

  Text Copyright © 2019 Marina Barinova

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book can be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  ASIN: B07VF7MPZ1

  Introduced by Vasily Mahanenko.

  Translated by Jared Firth

  Cover designed by Julia Talanova

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1. Agaran

  Chapter 2. Ellisdor

  Chapter 3. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 4. Missolen

  Chapter 5. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 6. Missolen

  Chapter 7. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 8. Missolen

  Chapter 9. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 10. Missolen

  Chapter 11. Ellisdor

  Chapter 12. Missolen

  Chapter 13. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 14. Missolen

  Chapter 15. Missolen

  Chapter 16. Ellisdor

  Chapter 17. Missolen

  Chapter 18. Ellisdor

  Chapter 19. Missolen

  Chapter 20. The free city Givoi

  Chapter 21. Ellisdor

  Chapter 22. Missolen

  Chapter 23. Ellisdor

  Chapter 24. Missolen

  Chapter 25. Ellisdor

  Chapter 26. Missolen

  Chapter 27. Ellisdor

  Chapter 28. Missolen

  Chapter 29. Ellisdor

  Chapter 30. Missolen

  Chapter 31. Ellisdor

  Chapter 31. Roggdor

  Chapter 32. Missolen

  Chapter 33. Ellisdor

  Chapter 34. Missolen

  Chapter 35. Ellisdor

  Chapter 36. Missolen

  Chapter 37. Ellisdor

  Chapter 38. Ellisdor

  Chapter 39. Missolen

  Chapter 40. Ellisdor

  Chapter 41. Missolen

  Chapter 42. Ellisdor

  Chapter 43. Ellisdor

  Chapter 44. Missolen

  Chapter 45. Ellisdor

  Chapter 46. Missolen

  Chapter 47. Ellisdor

  Epilogue

  GIVE FEEDBACK!

  Prologue

  Midnight crept ever closer. A palpable hush spread throughout the frozen palace, weighing heavily on the already-doleful prayer services. And thanks to the castellan’s timely decision to skimp on candles, part of the corridor, the way to the half-empty imperial wing, was pitch dark.

  Somewhere in that direction, on the other side of the enormous carved doors and surrounded by useless healers and clergy, the leader of the empire fought for his life. The latest was that His Grace, Emperor Margius, wasn’t going to pull through this time.

  Hinges creaked faintly, the noblemen gathered there rushed over to the door, and, in the rush of elbows and hissing, courtesy and titles gave way to a scene that smacked more of the port market. But they all froze in an instant when they saw who emerged.

  “Lord Demos,” someone gasped. “Could it be…”

  Rubbing his eyes, a short man with a face mangled by fire hobbled toward them. A chain decorated with the medallion of the imperial treasurer dangled from gaunt shoulders, clearly burdensome to its owner. His clothes were wrinkled, his dark hair greasy. But even still, he held a thick leather packet carried with him from the emperor’s chambers closer than he might have held his own child.

  “The emperor is dead,” Demos announced in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Someone mumbled a prayer; the women lamented. Not a single guard moved a muscle. The other noblemen kept their eyes fixed on the packet clutched in the treasurer’s arms.

  “Lord Demos, we would like to pay our respects,” begged a young and already half-bald man wearing a doublet embroidered with pearls. “Give them the order to let us in!”

  The treasurer shook his head. Shadows laced their way through the deep creases on the disfigured side of his face.

  “Save your emotions for the ceremony—there will be time for them then,” he replied. “His Grace won’t be telling you anything else, and we’ll announce his last wishes later once the Small Council has time to go over them.”

  “Did Margius say anything before he died? Anything at all?”

  “Who is the heir?”

  “Lord Demos, tell us!”

  “I will, but later.” The treasurer tried to squeeze past the noblemen crowding up against him.

  Emboldened by fear or perhaps desperation, the balding young man gripped Demos’ arm.

  “No, tell us now! Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”

  The treasurer’s lips curled into a loathsome smile.

  “Oh, I most certainly do. But rather than work yourself up over the will of the dead, spare a thought for the living, Earl. For example, think of all the disgraceful little secrets that could make their way to the surface if you—all of you—keep pushing me. Uncle Margius turned a blind eye to much that I will not hesitate to reveal.”

  A heavy hand laid itself on the earl’s shoulder. He jumped, whirling around in a fright. Gesturing toward him to stand aside, a tall Ennian bodyguard casually placed his other palm on the hilt of his scimitar. The earl instantly jerked his arm away.

  “My thanks,” Demos said with a nod as though nothing had happened. “Tell the chancellor I’ll be waiting for him outside.”

  ***

  The torches flickered in the light breeze gusting in from the lake and breaking over the white stone walls of Missolen. The openwork gallery in the courtyard was empty, the guards having cleared it beforehand of curious eyes. Below, near the fountains, as was his right at the beginning of spring, a tomcat yowled insistently. And on the other side of the palace walls, on the other side of the Uli River, the lights of the capital glittered in blissful ignorance.

  To Demos, the night was especially stifling. He carefully emptied the packet onto the marble banister, stopping once finished to crack his knuckles. His head was pounding. After fishing a pipe out of his tobacco pouch, he packed it full, lit a match using the candle in a nearby glass bowl, and tentatively lifted it toward his pipe. The splashing water in the fountains was drowned out by approaching voices.

  “I said we should get the Ennian healers!” Demos recognized his mother’s southern accent. “There’s one staying in my manor, and the emperor would still be alive if they’d listened to me.”

  “Ask sorcerers for help?” came the hissed reply. “Are you out of your mind, Lady Eltinia?”

  That voice was enough to tell Demos that his mother was getting into yet another fight with the chancellor. Irving of House Allantain, Duke of Osvendis. He was the second-ranking person in the empire and its new leader until the Small Council named an heir. But his new status and the gravitas that came with it didn’t seem to have sunk in for Lady Eltinia.

  “Lord Irving, I was born in Ennia,” she said, her voice softening. “I know what our healers are capable of, and I’m prepared to swear that they could have saved the emperor’s life without resorting to sorcery. How many more tragedies do we have to endure before you take yo
ur blinders off?”

  Their footsteps got closer. The chancellor shot back in an ominous whisper.

  “You really should think twice about saying things like that around clergymen. Out of respect for the situation and your house, I’ll write your outrageous sentiment off to nerves. But remember that the Great Master would see it as heresy.”

  “Enough!” Demos barked, slamming the packet down on the banister hard enough to make the quarreling pair jump. “Margius is dead, and there’s nothing we can do to change that. Much worse is that his damn last will could very well split the empire in two.”

  Lady Eltinia nervously smoothed down a crease in her dress as she lifted her eyes toward her son. Allantain’s deeply creased face flushed deeply all the way to his closely cropped gray beard.

  “We have to figure out what to do about that, and fast.” Demos patted the leather packet. “If we announce the contents of these documents, total chaos will ensue. Our only chance of maintaining order is to align our efforts and keep the split from happening.”

  “What’s in the last will?” Lady Eltinia took the pipe her son was holding and breathed in the fragrant smoke.

  “The emperor left the throne to his wife. He went against the will of Tallonius the Great and bequeathed it to a woman.”

  Allantain looked at the treasurer in surprise.

  “Are you joking?”

  The fire-scorched lord waved a thick piece of paper. The sealing wax was adorned with the imperial Tallonid coat of arms.

  “See for yourself.”

  The chancellor turned the document over, squinted, and stepped closer to a lantern. Once he finished reading, he shook his head in disbelief and handed the last will to Lady Eltinia.

  “Margius mentioned that once, but none of us thought…”

  “It’s true. His Imperial Majesty’s last will was to make Izara of Targos his successor, and we have the paper to prove it. Thank god, it’s the only copy. As soon as the emperor breathed his last, I grabbed it before anyone else could see it.”

  “There’s no way we can crown a foreigner,” the chancellor replied firmly. “That’s out of the question.”

  Demos took the pipe back from his mother and took a hungry pull. “You’re right that a woman can’t inherit the imperial throne. On the other hand, what one ruler can forbid, another can permit.”

  “Well, only if that unfortunate packet also contains an order making changes to the rules for succession…”

  “It does,” the treasurer replied with an unhappy smile. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I told you we’re looking at chaos.”

  “That cannot happen. Izara would be a weak and controversial heir.”

  “You’re starting to find some common ground.” Eltinia beamed charmingly, then nodded to her son and headed toward the garden. Demos and the chancellor were left to come to an agreement on their own.

  The treasurer watched his mother walk away before turning back to Allantain. Irving fixed his colorless and watery eyes on him.

  “Which would be the greater treason?” the old man asked, gesturing Demos toward a marble bench next to a large torch and bowl. “Doing nothing in the face of chaos or pulling some dirty tricks in an attempt to maintain order?”

  “Is there a difference when it’s treason in both cases? When I swore allegiance, it wasn’t to Margius; it was to the empire. And I’m less worried by the interests of one particular corpse than I am about the future of the country he couldn’t find a worthy heir for.”

  “Then you know what to do.”

  The scorched lord smiled grimly and clutched the edge of the packet. Allantain got up shuffled away. Once he was gone, Demos knocked the contents of his pipe out on the marble, dropped it into his pocket, and pulled himself to his feet.

  “I may regret this,” he whispered to himself as he tossed the will into the fire burning in the bowl.

  Chapter 1 Agaran

  Brother Aristid gazed out over the Holy City from his spot leaning on the ruins of the stone wall. His shelter was on a hill, and sunrise offered a majestic view of Agaran—the morning mist still hadn’t lifted, leaving the slender towers suspended in midair. The first beams of sunlight played on the golden domes of the many Shrines. Decorated with crystal, the silver disks on the temple spires glittered, while the marvelous beauty of hymns being sung wafted through the air. The city threw wide its gates to all worshippers of the Keeper in a promise of peace and rest for pilgrims preoccupied with their righteous endeavors.

  But there was no haven there for Aristid.

  The monk plucked a dew-covered blade of grass, ground it between his fingers, and breathed in the fresh scent before glancing down at his ragged shoes and plodding back into the cave he’d spent the entire previous year in.

  A root soup bubbled in a pot hung over the fire. Aristid stirred the watery concoction, tried it, shrugged, and poured some into a chipped clay bowl. Pulling out a few biscuit crumbs, he tossed them right into the soup before heading outside to gaze at Agaran as he ate.

  “Where are you, little guy?” he called, crumbling a biscuit on the rock beside him. “We always eat together.”

  A sparrow fluttered over to the crumbs. The bird had stopped by to visit Aristid the previous year, and he hadn’t shooed it away—any company in his forced reclusion was welcome. The sparrow came by every day, even moving into the cave with the monk when snow blanketed the earth outside. They wintered together on dry bread, cured meat that was too salty, and roots. But Aristid kept his spirits up. Life there was peaceful, as nobody thought to look for the rebellious clergyman in one of the continent’s most holy places.

  But all good things must come to an end.

  Aristid saw the figure climbing the hill toward him and placed his bowl on the ground sadly. When his guest approached, the sparrow took off in a flurry of indignant chirping.

  “Peace to you, Brother Norbert,” said Aristid. The young man, who was as dry as a wood chip, bowed respectfully, one hand on the bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Blessings, holy brother,” came the whispered reply.

  Aristid straightened up and drew a perfect circle in the air.

  “May the Keeper send you on gracious deeds, Brother Norbert. Would you have breakfast with me?”

  His guest nodded willingly. The silver disk dangling from a leather string around his neck bobbed and settled, catching a ray of sunlight.

  “I brought food. Gifts recently arrived from Count Ekkehard, good corned beef.” Norbert placed his bag onto the worn earth and started pulling out its contents. “I grabbed some fresh bread, a bag of biscuits, cured beef, a few eggs, and a skin of wine to keep you warm. Oh, and candles, some leather for patching, and writing paper.”

  Aristid shook his head.

  “You spoil me, Brother Norbert. This is the second time in the last dozen days you’ve brought meat!”

  “With your ascetic lifestyle, it’s okay to enjoy some worldly food on occasion.” The guest looked around. “Praise the Keeper for the cold lifting. They say we won’t be getting any more snow.”

  “It’s true,” Aristid replied, gesturing Norbert toward the fire and breaking the bread. He pulled some cheese out of his bins and handed it to his guest, as well. “But now for what’s most important: tell me the latest news.”

  Norbert wiped his hands on the cleanest part of his robe, poured some soup into a bowl, and mumbled a short prayer before digging in.

  “Yes, you certainly have it tough.”

  “It’s been worse. What news from Missolen?”

  “Exactly what you foresaw: the emperor is dead.” Norbert flashed a holy sign over himself again, though Aristid didn’t even twitch. “May the Keeper accept his soul.”

  “Of course, he’ll accept it,” Aristid replied as he set his portion of bread aside and stared at his guest. “Who’s the heir? The Burned Lord?”

  “There is no heir. That’s why I’m here. You yourself prophesied that the emperor would soon retire to the
Crystal Hall or be helped on his way there, and that Lord Demos would assume the throne. Everyone thought that, but… The emperor didn’t leave a will.”

  Brows furrowed, Brother Aristid thoughtfully fingered his rosary beads. Norbert didn’t dare disturb him, eating the soup in silence and doing his best to keep the spoon from scraping against the sides of the bowl.

  “So, I was right,” Aristid said finally. “Almost.”

  Norbert shrugged.

  “It’s even better this way. There’s panic in Missolen; the empire ground to a halt. And it’s going to stay that way until the Council convenes, picks someone, they’re crowned… Nobody’s going to be coming after you, that’s for sure.” He continued talking, though the condescending smile on Aristid’s face nonplussed him. “Even the Great Master will forget about you for a while.”

  Brother Aristid just shook his head, the tranquil smile still on his lips.

  “No, dear brother, this is the perfect time to grab his attention,” he said softly as he glanced over at his travel bag. “I’m leaving Agaran today. Alone. I need to get to Ellisdor as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 2. Ellisdor

  “Got you!” Gregor almost caught Irital, though all he came up with was the ribbon from her hair. The girl screamed in surprise.

  “Not quite!” She jerked her braid away hard enough that the crimson serpent slipped out of her hair to remain in Gregor’s grasp. Taking a few leaps away, she made a face and bowed mockingly. “Now we’ll see if Gregor Voldhard is as fast as he is strong in battle.”

  She hitched up her skirt and dashed off in the direction of the forest before Gregor had time to think twice. With a look around, he grunted in satisfaction—they finally had a chance to get away from the girl’s army of nannies. Gregor scratched his nose, straightened the collar of his shirt, slipped his trophy into his chest pocket, gauged a shortcut, and set off in pursuit. That Irital certainly was a tease. And like an idiot, he could never let her go.

  “You she-devil…you aren’t getting away!” he bellowed, long hurdles taking him across hummocks slippery with dew. The girl dashed like a deer across the field. She ran, laughed, threw her arms wide, and felt the wind play across her face. She was childlike, but Gregor always bore in mind who she was. Forgetting himself just once would have been inviting a world of trouble.