Chapter 47
The formal suit, hastily selected for me by Adora, pinched godawfully in the shoulders. I felt an urge to shake myself and burst the seams like a circus strongman rending his bonds. This black-and-red doublet had cost us a pittance, sold by a shady fellow who looked nothing like a tailor. Likely, Adora had sought out the local fences of stolen goods.
I was not the only one dressed for the occasion. Magg had traded his usual heavy plates for a semblance of a costume following the Imperial fashion. Puff sleeves with slashes and bows mimicked the garb of landsknechts, and from the fabric required for the ogre's voluminous breeches, one could have stitched a field tent. For headgear, Magg had chosen a tricorn adorned with several vibrant feathers.
There was nothing surprising in this transformation. Ogres are prone to adopting the culture of the nations they serve as mercenaries—or rather, they attempt a mimicry adjusted for ogre proportions and tastes. Such wandering mercenaries from the ogre tribes were known in the Empire as Maneaters.
To the usual bouquet of Gut-thunder's "aromas" was added the truly staggering scent of cheap perfume. It felt as though the ogre had doused himself in an entire barrel of the concoction. I would not be surprised if he had.
Liandra, by contrast, had done little to prepare for the festivities. She merely wore a clean man's suit paired with a simple dark blue cloak. A pity; I would have gladly seen her in a dress or some traditional Elven attire.
Of the four of us, Rudolf Hoch cut the finest figure. The young knight had clearly attended more than a few balls. His velvet doublet was slightly worn but fit him perfectly, unlike my own squeezed frame.
— You have nothing to worry about, — Rudolf encouraged us as we stood in the shadow of the Nuln palace. — You are mercenaries, and little is expected of you. Eat, drink, and raise toasts to our victory.
— Eat, drink... — Magg echoed dreamily. — Gorge, booze...
I noticed a thread of spittle escape the corner of the ogre's maw, dripping onto his newly trimmed beard.
We reached the castle in the late evening. The pale grey walls of the city's main citadel were swallowed by the twilight, and the sharp towers became dark, ominous shapes piercing the very heavens. High above, one could discern the faint light in windows and arrow slits.
At the gates, several guards with halberds awaited us, along with a priest of Morr in a black habit. What was he doing here? Everyone was still alive, for now.
— We are here for the ball and the evening reception organized by Her Graphine Highness, — Rudolf announced, then introduced us by name.
The guard consulted a list, surveyed our company, and replied:
— A knight is permitted his ceremonial sword, but the rest of you must surrender your weapons.
Unpleasant, but expected. After Waldemar's ambush, I had no desire to part with my steel even in the heart of the city, yet there was no choice. Handing over my blades, I felt nearly naked.
Disarmed, we proceeded into a spacious hall on the ground floor where many other guests had already gathered. Mostly commoners: soldiers, mercenaries, traders, and former militiamen from Pfeildorf.
The reason for the absence of the nobility became clear quickly. A powdered lackey approached Rudolf and requested he follow. Social stratification, damn its eyes. Surely, the nobility had their own waiting chamber, lest the noble lords soil themselves with too close a contact with the rabble.
— Oh, Jurgen, Magg! — An artillery sergeant with whom we had defended the redoubt at Pfeildorf approached us.
I shook his hand firmly, feeling my suit threaten to split at the seams.
— They're making me a gun. A lead-spitter with two barrels, — the ogre boasted by way of greeting. — Made from two fal... conets.
— Falconets? — The artilleryman brightened. — From whose workshop?
For the next few minutes, the sergeant droned on about the specifics of falconets and the differences between manufacturers. I didn't listen closely, but I kept an eye on our surroundings. Everything seemed normal and logical. Countess Emmanuelle had gathered the heroes of Pfeildorf for a feast. Yet, why the hell were the Morrists here? In the dark corners of the hall, I spotted a few more priests or acolytes. We weren't exactly in a graveyard.
An ill premonition stirred in my mind. What do Morrists do in the Empire besides guarding cemeteries and conducting funerals? They hunt the undead, for one. Did they suspect a necromancer or a vampire among us?
Another important thought brushed my mind, but I had no time to grasp it. A palace steward in a vibrant costume and a white wig descended the grand staircase.
— Valiant defenders of Wissenland and the entire Empire, welcome to the hospitable halls of the Nuln palace. Today, the Grand Countess of Wissenland, Countess of Nuln, Duchess of Meissen, our beloved Emmanuelle von Liebwitz, has commanded a banquet be held in your honor, running parallel to the ball for the noble personages. Pray, follow me and my assistants.
Behind the steward appeared a handful of lackeys who descended to guide us, forming a path of living signposts. We ascended one staircase, then another. The servants directed us into a reasonably spacious hall filled with long trestles and round tables. They were empty for now; no refreshments were in sight.
Great chandeliers crowded with candles hung beneath the high ceiling—an expensive luxury. The walls were adorned with wreaths of fresh flowers and shields bearing the emblem of Wissenland.
The hall we entered was situated like a niche. To the right, one could see a gallery with railings reached by two curved staircases. There, it seemed, was another ballroom, larger than ours, intended for the nobility. About a dozen knights, young and old in expensive doublets, gazed down at us from a height of some four meters. Music drifted from above; likely a full orchestra was playing. Social inequality on display.
Lackeys and guards stood watch on both staircases leading to the upper hall to ensure none of the rabble disturbed the noble lords with their presence.
Opposite the upper hall were several balconies, which likely offered an excellent view of the city.
— And where is the food? — Magg inquired with a scowl, looking at the empty tables.
— The presentation of dishes shall commence shortly, — the steward assured him with a smile.
— Pres-tation? — The ogre's scowl deepened. — And who's going to eat them?
— You, of course, you, — the courtier hurried to explain. — We have reserved a special place for you.
The steward pointed to a table that was noticeably higher and sturdier than the rest, its planks nearly three fingers thick. It seemed the Nuln palace already had experience in boarding ogres.
Magg headed for his seat, while Liandra, the artilleryman, and a few of his comrades settled at a nearby table. People began to take their places. Many pulled out pipes and started to smoke. Some of the mercenaries were already half-drunk, adding the "aroma" of stale booze to the tobacco smoke. Everyone clamored, shouting over one another.
I understood, in part, why the nobility and the commoners were kept separate.
Meanwhile, the music above fell silent. Likely the Countess or someone equally important was giving a speech. However, down here, not a single word could be heard.
— The Princess of this city is so young, — Liandra remarked with slight surprise; she, it seemed, could hear the Countess's speech.
— Is she saying anything important? — I asked.
The Elf merely shook her head. Soon, applause broke out above, followed by music. After a few minutes, the familiar Baron Otto von Krause appeared on the gallery in a burgundy doublet. He delivered a short speech to us about valor, resolve, and other virtues.
Some soldiers met the speech with applause, others hammered the tables demanding food, and a few whistled and laughed, likely hinting that the valiant Baron himself had never bloodied his sword during the battle at Pfeildorf.
Following von Krause's speech, a gong sounded. Several doors in the hall opened, and a procession of servants began to bring in the feast. This pleased the soldiers far more than the aristocrat's words. Young kitchen hands carried massive metal trays with roasted fowl, rabbits, and suckling pigs. On smaller trays, mounds of fragrant potatoes in a creamy garlic sauce were piled high. Nearby, heaps of fried sausages sizzled with aromatic smoke. A great meat pie was wheeled in on a cart, steam still rising from it, fresh from the oven.
Specifically for Magg, no fewer than eight sturdy men carried a special dish on their shoulders. The concept was simple: fewer sanitary standards, more calories. The centerpiece was a horse carcass—perhaps the unfortunate animal had broken a leg hauling military supplies. Around the carcass were laid out various "appetizing" treats: pig heads, fried offal, crushed bones, and other byproducts of preparing the proper dishes. There was a staggering amount of it—three or four hundred kilograms by my guess. Nearly all of it pure protein.
— This is good! This is for me! — the ogre boomed, beckoning the food with great sweeps of his hands.
While the male servants brought the food, the drinks were managed by female staff. These were vibrantly dressed girls whose appearance suggested a high degree of... sociability. Low necklines, powder and rouge, skirts short by local standards, and sultry glances. It felt as though the personal staff of several city brothels had been brought in as waitresses.
Plates, cheap undecorated chalices, beer mugs, wine pitchers, spoons, forks, and knives were placed on our table. The latter had rounded tips, making it difficult to stab anyone.
I helped myself to a couple of roasted potatoes, fried sausages, and some sauerkraut. I wouldn't rush; I suspected this was only the first course.
— To devote so much time to the mere consumption of sustenance... — Loom-Pia grumbled in his habitual snobbish tone. — The warm-bloods are, for the most part, remarkably ill-adapted creatures. The children of the gods can feed on raw meat and fresh insects without issue. This allows us to spend our time on truly important matters.
— Actually, heat treatment originated as a way to make food more efficient to digest, — I countered, biting into a still-warm sausage. — And it tastes better.
The festival of the belly began. The food wasn't as spectacular as Erik's, but it was plentiful and free.
Music drifted from above; likely they were dancing. We were also provided with a cultural program. A group of brightly dressed performers stepped into the open space between the tables: jesters, street mummers, jugglers. They began to act out short sketches without words, consisting mostly of kicks, cuffs, theatrical falls, and simple circus tricks.
However, the gathering paid little attention to the mummers' efforts. A noisy clamor filled the air. Soldiers and mercenaries laughed, chatted, and slapped the backsides of the girls flitting around the tables. The girls gasped with feigned surprise, continuing to flirt with the drunken men.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall gentleman of about forty in a formal black doublet standing at the railing of the upper hall. On his chest, one could see a silver amulet in the shape of a raven. Another Morrist. There were far too many of them here today.
Meanwhile, an interesting pair approached our table. An elderly but sturdy man—tall and thin—accompanied by a red-bearded Dwarf who was nearly as wide as he was tall. Both had intelligent but unpleasant faces.
— A Maneater, an Elf, and a young mercenary captain, — the man chuckled. — Usually, one only sees such companies in the Border Princes.
— Only missing a Halfling, — the Dwarf added. — Then we could find out which race holds its liquor best.
— We are missing one, — Magg agreed. — Erik wasn't taken. His face is too ugly. The greenskins ate his nose.
— Cursed grobi, — the Dwarf grumbled. — Their villainy has deprived me of a potential drinking companion today.
— Lietpold the Black, — the man introduced himself. — Surely you have heard of me.
I believed I had. The late Olger Hoch had mentioned him. Lietpold was one of the border princes, the first of men to encounter Tamurkhan's host.
The Dwarf turned out to be a former resident of Pfeildorf. He had owned a small brewery near the city, served in the militia, survived, and retreated to Nuln with Baron von Krause. Now he intended to earn gold as a mercenary to rebuild his business.
A conversation began among us about the battles against Tamurkhan's horde. Lietpold pried for details of what had occurred at Pfeildorf, comparing it to his own experience.
— Look around, — the mercenary said with a sinister smirk. — Half or even two-thirds of these poor bastards won't survive the coming battle, but we have a chance at victory. Firstly, Nuln has more guns and better fortifications. Secondly, I shall be commanding part of the army, not some soldier-boy like Hoch. Thirdly... there is another reason.
Lietpold told me of the third reason a little later when, after a few mugs of beer, he suggested we step onto the balcony for some air.
— Listen to me, Reiksmarshal, — he whispered, once the clamor of voices was left behind. — Countess Emmanuelle is a hollow-headed girl, but dangerous people stand behind her. The witch from the cemetery. That lady wants to crush Tamurkhan more than anyone. She's trying to sniff something out among us. Maybe she's hunting heretics, maybe something else. I've seen that bitch. Pale as death and eyes like a corpse.
Elspeth von Draken. I see. But why the Morrists, and whom was she seeking? Not me, surely?
— What is there to sniff out? — I shrugged, playing the simple lad from the provinces. — Just soldiers and mercenaries. No wizards here. Aside from the artillerymen and the educated, there's no one.
Lietpold smirked in response, his eyes glittering with shrewd insight.
— Don't play the fool with me. Fools don't become captains at your age, and if they do, they don't live long. Look there... — Lietpold pointed a long, thin finger toward the upper hall. — A pack of pompous idiots, of whom maybe a quarter can actually fight. Before them, you have to play the obedient lad on an errand. This is the Empire, not Bretonnia. Someone like you has a chance to rise, even to claw out a title. Do you know how long that takes? Years, long years of wiping those noble backsides. In the Border Princes, a couple of successful battles will make you richer than a lord and more powerful than a count.
— Yet even one failed battle will send you to feed the worms.
— It's the same here, — Lietpold laughed hoarsely. — Only here you risk your neck for someone else's hide. They... — Lietpold pointed to the upper hall again. — ...will take all the glory, and leave you the cheap whores and the chance to watch their feast from afar. I look at you, Jurgen, and do you know what I see?
— What do you see?
— A tough fighter who, for some reason, is dancing to someone else's tune.
In essence, Lietpold was right. However, I had a weighty motive for following my current course: my main quest. The phantom knight's demand to reach Albion, and the knowledge that this world was doomed unless something changed. After Nuln, I intended to head for Ulthuan to seek the aid of the High Elves, but where after that?
Our conversation with Lietpold was interrupted by unexpected visitors. These three descended from the upper hall and moved in my direction, bypassing the other soldiers.
The first, walking with an unsteady gait, was Jeremias von Bickenstad. It seemed the playwright was already quite drunk. Following him with an even pace was Magister Gerard of the Jade Order, and beside the wizard... I did not immediately recognize her in the chestnut dress and cloak. Before, I had seen the girl in rough clothes adorned with many amulets. Helana, also known as Hel. The shamaness I had once saved, who hadn't been particularly grateful for it. Curse it, why her? And the evening had been starting so pleasantly...