* * *

The typical view formed by a pleiad of prominent minds of the so-called "Old School" categorically emphasizes the role of the individual in history. This approach seems to us to be too narrow, like a flashlight beam, it brightly highlights certain elements leaving others in darkness. But who would risk denying the historical role of, say, Prince Gaiot or the Wartensleben sisters? Therefore, those who say: here were people whose actions and unbridled ambitions destroyed the world.

We also rightly point out that the catalyst was the objective process of state development, the absolutist tendencies of gathering the Ecumene under the banner of imperial power. And, as a natural reaction - the confrontation of the aristocracy, which felt a direct and clear threat to its position from the House of Gotdua. Yes, the Aleinsae family was the most radical, but did it create a contradiction and tension that could not be eliminated within the power paradigm of the era?

And now let us ask ourselves - what role did the long-term crisis of the petty nobility play in the general events? The ambitions of the Bonoms, of course, acted like a torch, but the spark fell on dry fuel, which became thousands and thousands of lovags, frels, impoverished horsemen, and sergeants. Those who, on the one hand, were obliged to bear the costly duties of the military class, i.e. needed a constant source of income. On the other hand, they became victims of a consistent and extremely aggressive policy of land concentration in the hands of Ishpans and Gastalds. Let us imagine that the Aleinsae family abandoned their plans, choosing a different measure of debt collection. How long could it have lasted and to what consequences would the further ruin, the declassification of the petty nobility, "the bones and muscles of war", have led?

Note that not mentioned here (so far, about them ahead) is the peasantry, which was even more severely pressed than the horsemen, as well as the Church of the Pantocrator, humiliated, robbed, and crying out for justice and vengeance.

Finally, in recent years we have witnessed the emergence of several extremely curious studies on the urban environment and its influence on the Dark Ages. The introduction of previously unknown sources reveals a picture of a ruthless struggle, devoid of even the shadow of compromise, between the small merchants and the guilds of honorable negociants and the craft councils, these forerunners of the manufactory revolution, and the workshops, which at the time in question were becoming the stronghold of conservative production, in the broad sense of "antiquity," based, among other things, on the established practice of weak central authority. The new researchers show by numerous examples that the heart of the turmoil certainly beat in the cities, from where the marching columns of infantry came, weapons and armor were forged, and where the assizes of the new law were born. And this, too, is the truth.

Thus, the story of the Tribulation, the End of Times, or, as contemporaries, the Deadly Age, more often called it, is like a gemstone with a complex cut. Each side refracts the light differently but is all part of the whole. The foundation of the universal calamity was long and painstakingly laid by the mutual clash of interests of guilds, classes, estates, workshops, and other social groups. Those who made decisions and carried them out, those who fought and fled from war, the brave and the victims of unrestrained violence, prominent personalities, and the "dumb majority" - all of them wove the fabric of History from the many disparate threads of their destinies. And in the end, no witness to those events - the strongest of the strong, the noblest of the noble - could say that the Tribulation had bypassed them.

However, no matter how much we agree with the predetermination of the overarching crisis, with the fact that the avalanche hanging over the Empire was doomed to descend sooner or later - the question always remains: who threw the first pebble?...? And, what is no less curious - how did these people perceive their place and role in the terrifying and majestic cycle of events?

The demise of the Third Empire in the letters and memoirs of the participants

Chalatenayo Chair in Chronicle History, 12.19.19.1.8,

II edition, by the Tla-Temohua Working Group

My son, if you are reading these lines, it means that the One has considered my life complete, and the executors have fulfilled their will by giving you this archive. And you are certainly at a loss to guess why your father, who was stingy with letters during his lifetime, entrusts you with so much beyond that.

I'll try to answer that.

Once, in the darkest hour of a long winter night, I remembered Her... The woman with hair the color of evil flames, who had so many names. I dreamt of her, and the image of the Red Queen was alive and vivid as if it hadn't been decades since I'd last seen her. Everything seemed so visible, so clear... She looked at me silently, smiling faintly, the edges of her lips, that famous and terrible smile of a creature that knows immeasurably more than mortal man. The smile of a demigod or, closer to the truth, a demon, who looks at everything and everyone a little apart, aloof. Not downwardly, but rather in the wise sadness of one who sees many roads closed to humans.

I woke up and could find no more peace. Until dawn, the cup of wine and the woolen blanket were my comforts. And they also reminded me that I was old. I was very, very old... And then the bitterness of regret seized my soul. How many stories I had written down in my time, how many ballads and tales I had preserved for those who come after us to rekindle the fire. Parchment, wax tablets, papyrus, and paper, all have my pen known... But for the story of Destruction, I have found neither inspiration nor ink. I have not written a line about the Destroyers, but I have lived through them all, and they have all become shadows in my memory. The weak, false memory of an ordinary man whose fingers can hardly hold a pen, and whose life, by God's will, may be cut short at any moment.

So I decided. I should devote the rest of my days to finally capturing my memories as far as possible. After much hesitation, I realized it was not my age or health to start a great chronicle with a prologue and a moral. So it was decided that I would dedicate each day to an event. One memory, one letter, a fragment of the past, resurrected under the slow pen of a broken old man, whose conscience is burdened with indelible sins.

So I entrust you with my memory and my words. I will give an account to the Judge of all Judges of what I have done, and even more of what I have allowed to happen by inaction....

Logically, I should begin this story with the story of the first time I saw Them. But the mind persistently retrieves something else from the dusty closets of memory. Yes. Other things. Not so much the events as their moods, their ominous reflections, like the dance of fiery reflections on the polished steel of a blade.

The first spring of Emperor Ottovio Gotdua-Aleinsae's reign was rainy and cold. Outwardly, it seemed the turmoil that had barely ignited in Milvesse had subsided, like a spark in the night, a brief flare of weak fire in the darkness. The Imperial power stood firm, the mounted companies and mercenary Highland regiments were as numerous and brave as ever, and the Court treasury had enough money to pay the troops. The lords in power were more zealous than usual in their feuds, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in this, for what year was without small wars of the powerful?

And still, the worry hung over the wet earth where the grain was rotting, promising sure hunger. A comet rose in the sky, its brightness defying the moon, and the monsters of the old world reappeared in the forests, prowling the streets of villages and towns in search of human flesh. Hyenas became especially ferocious, and more than one noble lord laid down his head, deciding to hunt at a bad hour, and wild pigs, as if they had learned the habits of the long-dead wolf tribe, began to gather in predatory packs, dangerous even for mounted warriors.

The old men said among themselves that not a single myaurs had been born since the coming of winter and that the year had begun with bad omens, and after the old men the superstitious whispers were taken up by the young. They said that the Emperor was young and weak. Instead of taking care of the affairs of the Ecumene, he spent his days in unrestrained debauchery shameful even for a man whose hair was covered with gray, let alone a young man of thirteen. The Council of Regents rules in place of the Emperor, enriching only the cursed Isle of Salt Blood. That the young Artigo of the Gotdua family is alive, hiding from his many enemies, and that some have called him an impostor while others look back and pray for the true Emperor's salvation from the wiles of the wicked and the perjurers.

As is customary on the threshold of troubled times, the people waited for the Messenger and the Prophet, and some of them were said to have seen them. It was also said, and this was the truth, which I can testify for myself, that the coinage continued to grow lighter, and the silver in the penny was now hardly two-thirds of its weight as against eight-tenths of its old weight. But that is only half the trouble, for even bad, worthless money has become rare, so that, as in the old days, various people and gentlemen and merchants exchange things for other things and written promises, and the ringing of noble metal does not please the purses for months.

Many things were said in that foul, cruel spring. Many rumors, of course, were figments of superstitious fancy. And some were true.

Gaval Sentrai-Poton-Batleau.

The first letter to my son, of the dreams of the past, the due and the harsh spring of the First Year

* * *

Do I want to come back?

The spray ran down his face like tears. Or drops of blood. You can choose the symbolism of any taste if you want. Curzio, like many of the Island's aristocrats, had been fond of poetry in his youth, and not unreasonably believed that he had attained some art in composing metaphors.

However... no. The saltless fresh water seemed sweet and without bitterness, there were no tears or blood.

Do I want to go home? repeated Curzio's silent question. And where is there now a place I could call home...?

As has long been the custom, there is only one city on Salt Island. Their names are the same - Saltoluchard - and therein lies a dark play on words, for "salt" is the same as "blood," sharing a common root. Other places are called "settlements", even if they are larger than another royal capital. And, crucially, the island aristocracy are not landowners. None of them carry the prefix "ausf" so coveted by mainland nobility. A member of the Aleinsae family has the right to own anything, including people, but cannot call his own, much less inherit a single scrap of land outside the family estate. The Sacred Island that was created directly by the left and right hands of Isten and Erdeg can only belong to the Family. It is a wise charter, it has, among other things, allowed Aleinsae to walk a hard path, saving and growing while others lost and spent. But, good and gracious gods, so often do ancient laws get in the way! And so pleasant it is to feel oneself away from strict regulations, even if the price is a disgrace.

Curzio slouched on a rock, watching the storm gather. The leaden water was a ferocious beast against the old breakwater topped by the abandoned lighthouse. Fountains of gray-black water roared up to the sky where the sun was breaking through the torn clouds. There was a rumble so loud you could recite classical chants, and at a distance of two outstretched arms, nothing could be heard anymore. The fury of the sea assaulted the sullen resilience of the rock as it had for millennia before and would continue for millennia afterward. Spring had been early and very cold this year, and considering the continent's winter had been almost snowless, it boded well for famine. Another "empty" year... The island would not starve, but on the "flat earth", it looked like they would soon start carrying old people out into the cold and killing newborns.

Such is life...

The approaching storm filled Curzio's soul with resigned sadness, and at such times the islander wished he had a small grove at home, something deciduous, with dense crowns. So that he could sit in the semi-darkness, or perhaps lie down on a dense carpet of fallen leaves, breathing in the damp, clean smell of the forest, thinking about sad and spiritually uplifting things.

Empty dreams... Nothing grows on salty soil bigger than yellow shrubs, stunted spruces, and inedible rosehips, which can crack even granite with their roots. Everything else has to be planted in special tubs or tubs with enriched soil. A good way to unobtrusively demonstrate wealth, but philosophical thoughts avoid a well-kept order.

Well, the more precious will be the memories of the time a member of the Privy Council will spend here, not far from the capital and very far from home.

Curzio sighed, wiped his face, wet from splashing, and looked back, glancing lazily around the small manor. On the one hand, it was time to return to the warmth and dryness of home, on the other hand, Curzio liked to watch the riot of the elements. It helped in resolving difficult issues and unpleasant situations. At a critical moment, the islander imagined himself as a terrifying wave that destroys everything in its path, destroys the wood of ships, and scatters the stones of houses carelessly brought closer to the sea. A wave that takes everything away, leaving only a bare shore, not because of cruelty, but because it embodies the natural course of things.

A servant came hurrying from the house, his thin legs in tight stockings moving swiftly, slipping on the winding path lined with flat stones. Curzio sighed again, anticipating the appearance of some new concern, unnecessary and untimely, otherwise the housekeeper would not have dared to disturb his master's contemplative peace. Though, on the other hand, concerns are possibilities. And the Two are witnesses, the possibility of anything now would come in handy for a disgraced member of the Council.

"Ha," Curzio exhaled softly under his breath as he noticed the other man striding behind the hurrying housekeeper.

For a moment it seemed to the islander that his life must have come to an end, for a special executor, whose hand had been directed by the Privy Council, had come to the house. But before Curzio could even flinch, he recognized the heavy, heavy-looking figure, who tread lightly on the wet stones, as if he had been accustomed since childhood to walking indirect paths among the steep cliffs.

Curzio stood up, neither quickly nor slowly, just enough to show that he was honoring his guest, but not in a subservient hurry. He habitually and imperceptibly assessed how he looked from the outside, whether the embroidered cloth was not too wet, whether the lacquered hair had not lost its noble shape. He sent the servant away with a careless wave of his hand before he could utter a word. Judging by the guest's clothes, the visit was purely informal, and Curzio emphasized at once that he understood and accepted it, speaking one-on-one, without intermediaries or witnesses.

"Honorable," the islander greeted the mountain prince. "I am extremely glad of your visit. The doors of my house are always open to you."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Gaiot, the chief of the Court Guard, indicated a ceremonial bow, quite deep for those who declare "We bow only to the Moon and the Mountains!". Touching the heart area with the fingers of his left hand, he uttered the words of the ancient greeting in a deep, well-pitched voice, almost devoid of barbaric accent:

"I come in peace, and I expect to meet in thy house, son of worthy parents of Aleinsae-Malt-Monwusen."

For a moment Curzio pondered how the remark should be understood. Either the prince was emphasizing his interlocutor's rather low position in such an unobtrusive way, or he was simply unaware of some nuances of island life. Finally, he decided the second one should be true, at least temporarily. From the outside, the short delay was unnoticeable and looked quite natural. The islander bowed in return with the words:

"According to our tradition, a storm portends a good deed with a good outcome. The Two are in favor of this meeting."

As if to accompany the nobleman's speech, another wave crashed with a deafening crash against the lighthouse tower. The shaking of the stone seemed to echo even in the soft goatskin soles. The guest smiled faintly.

"We have no seas, and inclement weather looks different on the mountain lakes," the Highlander said, standing beside him so that the tall Curzio was level with the barbarian prince's shoulder. "But there is a similar belief about an alliance made on a mountaintop under the eight evil winds, the light of the moon, and the watch of the spirits. We resort to it when we confirm by bloody oath the alliances of tukhums, or when we assemble khaseh to march as a single army to a great war."

"And you, too... resorted?"

"Me too."

Again Curzio hesitated for a moment, wondering what his guest was trying to say by openly commemorating the old beliefs. Everyone knew that the mountain savages were pagans for the most part, though outwardly they followed the rules of belief in One or Two. Everyone also knew this was strongly disapproved of outside the Pillars of the Earth, that is, the middle mountains. Perhaps the Prince's words meant something. Perhaps not. The barbarians were always difficult to deal with, often their guilelessness looked so straightforward as to give the impression of the most sophisticated intrigue, and at times the Stone Men were more flexible than the invertebrate snakes of the ocean depths.

"Then, if you're not in a hurry, let's look at the wind, sky, and water," Curzio suggested neutrally. "It is alien to both of us, and at the same time it reminds us, as I see it, of our native land."

"I agree," the prince shook his chin ceremoniously.

And now the two men froze, looking at the storm. Curzio counted the beats of his heart, waiting long enough to create the illusion of being involved in something intimate on the one hand, and on the other not to tire his interlocutor by waiting too long. And at the same time, he amused himself with the thought of whether the guest was not busy with the same thing. Prince Gaiot was known as a man completely devoid of pity, wonderfully fierce, but intelligent on the verge of wisdom.

When the gusts of fierce wind took on a cold sharpness like icy blades, Curzio realized that now his hair would fall apart despite the water-resistant varnish, and decided to end his admiration of nature.

Gotta order a wig, he thought, and said aloud:

Please be my guest. Hot wine with herbs will warm us up and keep us from catching colds."

"And again I agree," the prince muttered. "It is truly said that your wisdom is rivaled only by your sweet talk!"

Curzio smiled demurely, wondering again if he was being joked at by the savage, who looked like a dull-faced shopkeeper in a plain and ugly dress, who hung a thick silver chain over his shoulder for some reason.

"Spring this year promises to be harsh," the prince suggested, noisily sipping from his goblet.

Curzio nodded in agreement and took a sip of the wine, thick with the flavor of blood from the veins of a freshly killed animal. The flavor was, to put it bluntly, bad, but it was the sort of stuff the Highlanders valued, considered a man's drink, and the islander saw no point in transferring refined drinks to someone who wouldn't appreciate the subtle bouquet anyway.

The room in the house occupied by Curzio during his stay in Milvess was decorated with ancient traditions. In fact, it was more like a tower, with a very high ceiling on the first level and a spiral staircase with no railing running up the walls to the second level, where the library and study were located. The furniture is mostly shelves with scrolls and some curiosities memorable to the owner. The stone floor is decorated with intricate mosaics imitating the cut of a giant oak tree. Only a very wealthy man could afford such decoration, and Curzio reminded himself again that he should make inquiries as to who it was and where it had gone during the fall events. More importantly, whether there were any living relatives. It would be embarrassing if someone showed up with a claim, or even for satisfaction.

Although there was a table and chairs, the master did not sit down, and the prince followed suit. Curzio, in the same motion, as if shaking drops of water off his fingertips, sent away the servant who was about to pour wine from a silver jug into his guest's cup. The two men were left alone. The islander had brought servants from his homeland, and he could be sure no one's ears were overhearing.

"What is this?" Gaiot asked, looking at the rack of strange things that looked alien and mysterious amidst the discreet luxury of the house.

Curzio couldn't hold back a slight grimace. He was uncomfortable that someone had noticed objects that the owner himself had forgotten about, and his clothes were clinging to his body with moisture, making him uncomfortable. The prince, dressed in a jacket and thick pants of oiled leather, apparently did not feel any hardship.

"It's the source of many of my family's misfortunes," Curzio finally said.

"May I have a look?" The prince showed good manners, and the master of the house appreciated it.

Curzio picked up one of the objects, the one that interested the Highlander. Something that looked like the splinter of an oar slightly shorter than a man's arm. The dark wood seemed polished and heavy, like iron. The smooth surface bore the marks of mysterious writing, smoothed by time and thousands of touches. On either side of the flattened body were rows of recesses, several of them containing remnants of a material that looked like hardened resin. From one hole protruded a kind of glass tooth, glossy black, like the waves of a freshwater sea on a stormy day. The islander touched the tooth with the tip of his little finger, remembering that the chipped stone would be sharper than any razor, even those sharpened by engraving needles.

Curzio silently held the "paddle" to the Highlander, and the latter examined the artifact closely.

"It looks like someone wanted to make a sword without a grain of metal, not even copper," the prince suggested. "And that was in a very hot land. The cutting edge of such glass is of little use against quilted armor. And even on chain mail and plate armor, it would crumble like ordinary glass. But it will cut bare flesh to the bone."

"My great-great-grandfather thought so," Curzio agreed. "I must say in the old days, the Malts were very rich, with their wharf, warehouse, trading flag, and a good share in the Arsenal."

"Oh," Gaiot expressed the surprise befitting the moment.

"Yes. But the patriarch, whose name is forgotten by posterity, was carried away by some idea...."

Curzio remembered the delight with which he had first touched the oddity many years ago, not yet knowing the connection between the Malt family and the useless piece of wood.

"He had trade with the northeast, among other things. He shipped salt and iron there. Back walrus teeth, purple from the bones of ocean creatures. Wordless and loyal mercenaries from the savages there, who still fight with copper and bone. From the savages, he heard stories of the bodies of strange men and shipwrecks that the angry waves brought from time to time. Some of the objects ended up in the Malts' collection. They must have been enchanted and poisoned his great-great-grandfather's mind, so he decided somewhere in the world there were other inhabited lands beyond the Oikumene."

The prince could not resist and snorted, Curzio did not even wrinkle his nose at such a blatant display of disrespect, he understood the Highlander perfectly well. The islander took the baton from his guest's hands, and put it back on the rack, next to the head of a child's rocking toy in the form of a horse. He covered it with a cloth as if the very sight of the old thing distressed his host.

"The forefather's reasoning, it must be said, seemed reasonable at first glance. The debris and corpses were carried by the cold current that circles the north of the Ecumene. So, if we go in the opposite direction along the same current, we will find the source. The same mysterious lands where bronze-skinned people, who know no metal and build rafts, live."

"Well..." the prince hesitated. "Yes, it sounds reasonable. It seems to be..."

"In the end, great-great-grandfather invested all the family's wealth in organizing the expedition. Galleys were not suitable for such a long voyage, so he outfitted only sailing multimasted ships, which cost a fortune. With pilot shamans from wild northerners, two dozen ships moved into the endless ocean ..."

Curzio was silent for a moment. Then he came to the table and splashed the wine generously, refilling the bowl so that the dark liquid stopped flush with the edges of the thin gold wire. When the islander took a sip, the savage wine poured down his throat like blood stripped of hops. Curzio realized with detached surprise that the old tale was hurting again, as it had when the young Cazzi had learned why the name Malt was held in pitying contempt by the other Aleinsaes.

"I suppose this story doesn't have a happy ending," the prince suggested tactfully, deciding that the pause was dragging on.

"Alas, yes," Curzio woke up and drowned his grimace in another sip of wine. "In fact, that was the end of the story. The fleet was gone, the waves hadn't brought back even a broken sliver. But the four generations now had something to do, rebuilding the power of the family."

//"And it still didn't work, even after the double surname became a triple surname, incorporating mainland Monwoosen..."

However, the islander only thought the latter, keeping the thought safely behind tightly clenched teeth.

"And the other... items? The rest of the collection?"

"Long sold out, along with other valuables," the islander said indifferently. "Normally, risky investments can be claimed a year after deposit, but given the peculiar conditions, the Merchant Council set a moratorium of three years. And extended it to five. Eventually, however, it became clear that no one would return, much less bring back ships loaded with silver, gold, and other valuables. Then the partners, who had invested in the expedition and the construction of ships under the guarantee of the Maltese name, came to demand their shares back. This sword club is the last thing left. They gave good money for it, but my great-grandfather commanded that it should always be kept in the family as a reminder of prudent caution."

"I understand. He was a wise man."

"Yes. You have those who want the weird and useless offered to find the "fifth kingdom." We're sent to find the "Maltese fleet."

"Why did you tell me this story?" The prince asked the question bluntly.

"You asked," the islander smiled slightly. "Everyone on Saltoluchard knows it. There's no harm in it for me, but I think you were interested."

"I did. But I didn't ask for such details. And you didn't enjoy those memories," Gaiot said shrewdly. "Then why?"

Curzio adjusted the collar of the blue half-circle around his broad, manly shoulders, hardly worthy of a refined aristocrat.

"To create a mood of confidence," said the owner of the forcibly seized house bluntly. "You're too busy to pay a non-committal visit to a disgraced member of the Council. You want something, and you want it badly and without delay. But you're troubled by doubt. I've tried to break the ice a little. I hope enough for you to state the matter plainly."

"Clever," Gaiot bowed his head showing understanding and restrained approval. "I see the rumors about you are true."

"And what do they say about me?" Curzio inquired.

"Depends on the storyteller."

"Let's do it this way, retell the most vigorous characterization," Curzio asked. "And let's get down to business."

"The most vigorous?"

"Rude. Boorish. Angry. I collect them, you might say," the host explained.

"Well..." the prince frowned, recalling or imitating a recall. "It sounded roughly like a slippery rascal who would squeeze into an asshole without a drop of oil and pour a handful of his crappy salt in there."

"Oh, that's interesting, I've never heard that before. I'll keep that in mind. So?"

"For starters, perhaps you have something more... pleasant?" At the prompting of events, Gaiot looked down at the wine bowl and grimaced in genuine disgust.

"I thought you lived by the precepts of your forefathers," Curzio said, genuinely surprised. "Do not covet the fruit of the sweet vine, for heat breeds weakness and all that."

"Yes, the forefathers bequeathed their descendants to wear skins crafted by the hands of hard-working women, to devour raw hearts torn from the chests of their enemies. To smash skulls with clubs without spilling blood on sacred mountains. And to wash twice in life, at birth, and after death, because all misery is from promiscuity. But I still prefer to wear good clothes, kill with sharp steel, and take a bath at least once a week. And drink proper wines, not fermented goat's piss. I suspect my worthy ancestors would do the same if they had the money."

"We'll have something more appropriate for the moment," Curzio smiled and rang a small bell. "Then we can talk about things that matter. I understand that you... we're having some difficulties, and will probably need some help?"

"Help, advice, maybe something more significant," the prince immediately adopted the strict and direct tone of business people, "For example, your library. But first I would like to talk about the family traditions of Saltoluchard. Otherwise, I am afraid, in the very near future our difficulties will increase manifold."

Waiting for the change of wines, Gaiot sipped half a cup at once, squinting with pleasure.

"That's another thing," he summarized.

"I'm all ears," Curzio reminded him.

"So. The Council of Regents treats the Emperor like... it's strange..." Gaiot wiggled his fingers, as if knitting the words as if they were yarn. Curzio remained silent, not intending to make it easy for him by prompting him.

" It's... indifference. They look at the boy as if he were a hunting falcon. The only thing they want is his signatures on edicts and a speedy conception of an heir. It looks..."

"Strange?" This time Curzio decided to help a little.

"Disgusting and wrong," the prince exhaled with unconcealed anger.

"Why?" Curzio's words were not condemning or threatening, only genuinely curious.

"We on our Pillars, in general, spit on the lords of the "flat earth," the prince honestly informed. "But for others, the Emperor is the ruler of the world, the blood of the sovereign flows in his veins. He is a nobleman of all nobles, responsible before the gods for the well-being of the Ecumene."

Curzio politely pretended not to notice the "gods," and that his interlocutor was clearly not referring to Two.

"One may not believe in the tales of the monks, but at least the honor of the class demands respect for the supreme suzerain!"

The prince unable to contain himself, slammed his fist on the rack so the scrolls bounced and the wood creaked pitifully.

"Respect, damn it! Because if everyone sees you disrespecting the one above you, the lower ones stop respecting you too! And Milvesse is already full of rumors that the Regents do not respectfully request an audience, but summon the Emperor as if he were a servant or a secretary. That the boy is in unutterable grief and weeps for the injustice of his advisers, and his tears cry out to Pantocrator and will bring the wrath of the Lord upon all men. That the young Emperor does not dry out, starting the day with a bottle of fortified wine, and prefers a man's embrace to a woman's!"

"Is that so?" Curzio raised an eyebrow.

"Of course not!" the prince shouted. "Thank the gods, he only has a boner for a woman's ass. But the boy is timid and cowardly, like a girl who's had an engraving of a cock put into her prayer book. And no wonder, at thirteen! And your counselors demand he make a child with that ugly mare as soon as possible. But with that kind of pressure, I fear they'd rather make him completely infirm. Even Shotan had questions, and this ghoul seemed to have been born tired of life, unable to wonder."

Curzio kept a look of restrained interest on his face and thought to himself that the word "ghoul" sounded funny in the mouth of one who adhered strictly to the ancient custom of the Highlanders to kill on the spot anyone who took prisoners or did not hurry to burn down the enemy's house.

"Wartensleben told the regents that they would lead Milvesse into a new turmoil," continued Gaiot. "But his words sounded like the voice of a shrieking man in the middle of the ocean. Is this your custom? Or is there something we don't know about your customs? It's no problem to bleed the capital, but why go to all this trouble?"

Curzio strode along the wall, fleetingly running his palm over the smooth rung of the stairs. The pale face of the island killer expressed nothing, hiding the intense work of thought. This conversation was not treason, Curzio had been removed from the Court and matters of the Empire's governance, but not struck from the lists of the Privy Council. The recluse was not under house arrest, and technically the nobleman of the Maltese family remained in service.

Technically...

In practice, however, there were many nuances to consider, and some of them could lead to a soft handkerchief around the neck, the traditional way of the Aleinsae chiefs to demonstrate their categorical distrust and unwillingness to continue the existence of the offender.

"What I am about to tell you is not really a secret," Curzio said when the prince had finally decided that the visit had been a waste of time. "Anyone who has done business with us for any length of time, who has seen what is hidden behind the dusty stones of the walls of the houses of Salt Island, knows it. But still--" Curzio made a vague figure with his fingers as if turning a key in an invisible chink. "You must not publicize my words. Some things by nature like silence. And if you refer to me in conversation with outsiders... I shall be... very unhappy about it."

"Well, someone less intelligent than I would have heard in your words the shadow of a threat, that is, an unequivocal insult," the prince returned the islander's feeble smile. "It is good that I have a sophisticated ear that distinguishes a threat from a friendly request."

The host and guest exchanged luscious smiles again. Curzio didn't like the remark about "request," but there was nothing to quibble with. Technically, the Highlander had shown impeccable courtesy.

"The thing is, my friend, Ottovio means eighth in the old dialects," the islander began. "And that has some curious implications....."

* * *