“I don’t fraternize with prostitutes,” said Llun. His finger bled where the cracked nail had pierced it. Concentrate!
The Consistory man smiled, gentle as ever. “I didn’t say a thing about fraternizing. And why use such a crude word as prostitute? I believe I have heard them better described as purveyors of pleasure.”
Garmun chortled, then tried to disappear. For a man of his size, that was not easy.
“Anyway, I don’t have time for that nonsense,” said Llun.
“Nonsense? It is all sanctioned by our Great Father himself. Are you suggesting that anything his greatness allows is not worthy of your time? I will not say coin, because I have already offered you a gratis pass.”
“That is not what I meant to say.” Llun stopped hammering, put the hammer down, and wiped his hands on his apron, which only made them dirtier. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I have the honor of your name, Brother?”
That should bring matters to a head, whether or not Llun’s head would be the cost.
“Ah, my mistake! My name is Aspidían. You may have heard of me.”
Oh, Heights. Aspidían? The right hand of Yadovír, the traitor who had opened the gates of Vasyllia to the invading army of Gumiren. Some even insinuated that Aspidían was more than his right hand. By all accounts, he was a monster that had killed over one hundred true Vasylli with his own hands.
“Brother Llun.” Aspidían’s face no longer showed interest in anything. He leaned against the wall in assumed fatigue, the very picture of a man who had seen too much and wished merely to be left alone. “I would be most honored if you would come to the Consistory’s halls on the morrow, perhaps at three hours after sunrise? I would like to employ your skills in a most important matter. Good day to you.”
“As you say, Brother Aspidían.”
As soon as he left, the forge coughed, the bellows sighed, the anvil begged to be struck again. Everything in the smithy heaved out a relieved breath. Garmun was near to tears of hysteria.
“Brother Llun, Brother Llun,” he whispered, as if expecting the inquisitor to be eavesdropping just outside the door. “Do you know what this means?” He threw his hands up above his head. “Who will make things for me now? Don’t you know you are the best craftsman in Vasyllia? Have I ever told you that, Brother? Have I?” Both sweaty hands, fleshy and fat, wrung Llun’s arm, kneading it like bread, though even his massive hands hardly encircled the width of Llun’s arm, hardened by years of the smithy. “Why must it be you? I know the Great Father needs an occasional example for everyone’s instruction, but … why you?”
“Calm yourself, you fat fool. Why not take the man at his word? Perhaps there is some manner of work to be done?”
Garmun guffawed. “You madman of an artist! Don’t you know what they do to people like you? Have you forgotten Dashun?”
Llun tried to stop the grimace, but failed. Why did Garmun have to mention Dashun of all people? Llun was sure he would never forget the sight of Dashun’s mutilated body. But what was worse? The torture, or the way he had publicly recanted all his beliefs and convictions? He had read aloud a text prepared for him by the Raven. Then he had collaborated with them, even uncovered a conspiracy against the Gumiren. And still they killed him horribly.
“You exaggerate,” Llun said, coughing to cover the quaver in his voice. “I’m no danger to anyone. I am simply an odd, self-absorbed craftsman.”
“Brother Llun, do you know anything about Aspidían?” He raised both hands, palms out. The gesture to ward off evil.
“Your nails, Brother Garmun.”
“Brother Llun. Oh, my dear friend.” Garmun wept, blubbering like a woman. Perversely, Llun remembered the jesting commoners and the purported pregnancies. He couldn’t help himself.
“There, there, Garmun. I know it’s common enough to cry more than usual when you’re pregnant.”
Garmun turned purple again. Shoving Llun back so that he nearly flew into the forge itself, he pointed a finger thick as a blood sausage at his nose. “You … you …” He huffed out like a passing thunderstorm, taking his bombast with him.
Llun remembered to breathe.
“You can come out now,” he whispered. The entire left side of the table heaved. “Did no one teach you discretion, you little idiot?”
“Llun,” said the girl of thirteen who finally managed to extricate herself from all the bits of metal. “Did you mean what you said to Garmun? Or did you just make him mad so he wouldn’t be associated with you when you’re trussed up like a chicken on the spit?”
“Which do you think, Mirodara?”
Mirodara’s face went white. “I wasn’t serious, Llun.”
“Never mind. I’m not that worried. I’m not nearly as important as your father was.”
“Dashun is not my father. I have no father. Not after he collaborated.”
“You can’t wash his blood from inside you, girl! Why do you think they’ve been after you all this time?”
Llun’s breath caught as he realized how close the girl had been to death only a few moments ago. Was that why Aspidían had come in? Was someone blabbing again?
“Anyway, I don’t even look like Dashun. Everyone knows I’m my mother’s—“
“Don’t!” Llun’s voice cracked. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of Vatrina.
“I’m sorry,” said Mirodara, her face switching from red to white and back to red with dizzying speed. “I know you don’t like to talk about her. But she was my mother, Llun. You’re just her brother.”
“You don’t have any siblings, Mirodara. You don’t know. You just don’t know. I never knew either of my parents.”
“Yes, yes, and now I’m the only one you have left. Blah blah blah. You won’t talk me out of it.”
“What do you hope to accomplish, anyway, with these…what do they call themselves?”
“The Sons of the Swan. We’re going to reclaim Vasyllia for Darina Sabíana, the true queen of all the lands. She’s still alive in that palace. I know it.”
Llun laughed.
“You laugh? You’re about to be thrown into the middle of it all. You think they’ll let you stay on the side, uninvolved?”
