The inn was thankfully quiet, holding only a handful of peasants and a pair who looked like soldiers. Bundles of dried herbs were nailed to the walls, giving the inn a vaguely pleasant aroma. Serefin found Kacper at a table in the corner.
“Do you want to clean up?” Ostyia asked.
“Later.”
She gave him a questioning look.
“No one has groveled at my feet as yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” He leaned across the table, pitching his voice lower. “I’d also like to get drunk.”
Ostyia rolled her eyes, grinning.
“Well, you smell terrible,” Kacper said. “Two weeks of traveling doesn’t look good on you, my prince.”
“Salt Mines,” Serefin said, distracted, as he flagged down the older man behind the counter. “And what did I just say? Why do you both use my name at the most inappropriate times and my title when I don’t want you to?”
“To irritate you,” Ostyia said.
“Definitely, also, you need a new threat.”
“It’s a perfectly apt threat,” Serefin replied.
“It’s a reasonable threat,” Ostyia said to Kacper. “I sure don’t want to hang out with the ancient Vultures and their experiments.”
“But you do want to hang out with the younger Vultures and their experiments?”
Ostyia’s face flared red. Serefin watched with amusement as Kacper pressed further.
“What was her name? Reya? Rose?”
“Rozá,” she muttered.
“I’m surprised she has a name,” Serefin mused.
“They’re supposed to only go by their order title,” Ostyia said. “The court Vultures stopped following that rule years ago, but the current Black Vulture has been working to have them reinstate it to hide their names from the court.”
The barkeep set three tankards of dzalustek on their table without a word, lumbering back behind his counter.
Serefin took a sip of ale. It wasn’t good but it wasn’t watered down, either, so it would do. “Did you ever meet the Black Vulture?” he asked Ostyia.
She nodded. “He’s not your type.”
Serefin exchanged a dry glance with Kacper. Ostyia grinned at him before getting up to order them dinner.
It wasn’t until Serefin was on his fourth—maybe fifth? It was hard to keep track—tankard of dzalustek that the uncomfortable meeting he had been so ardently avoiding finally came into being.
“Your Highness?”
Ostyia was looking over his shoulder, her face pained. Slavhka, she mouthed.
Serefin knew he was not supposed to groan aloud at a subject, but that knowledge felt very unimportant after two tankards of ale, let alone four … or five. He turned in his seat.
At least he recognized this particular noble. It would have been awkward if it had been some backwater princeling Serefin had never seen before.
Lieutenant Krywicki was a bear of a man who had gone to fat after his tour ended. He was one of the tallest men Serefin had ever met and his width near made up his height. He had a thick head of black hair and eyes the color of coal.
He was also, Serefin recalled, insufferable. But most people were insufferable, Serefin reasoned, so Krywicki wasn’t anything special.
Serefin stood, only wavering a little on his feet.
“Lieutenant Krywicki,” he said, vaguely aware he was going to be slurring every word he spoke. “What brings you to this backwater swamp?”
Is Krywicki from this backwater swamp? Serefin wondered. He rejected the idea. He was from somewhere else. The north? Probably the north.
“My daughter, Your Highness,” Krywicki said, with a laugh that was probably a normal volume but sounded uproarious to Serefin.
He tried not to wince. He didn’t know if he succeeded or not.
“Daughter?” Did I know Krywicki had a daughter? He glanced over his shoulder at Ostyia. She nodded encouragingly. Apparently, yes.
“Felicíja!” Krywicki said. “Here, Highness, let me buy you another drink. Did you just return from the front?”
Serefin was suddenly back in his seat with another tankard in front of him. Kacper and Ostyia exchanged a glance that Serefin barely noticed as he concentrated on the sweating glass in front of him.
He should definitely not drink this.
Well, sacrifices must be made, he thought as he picked up the tankard. Was this five or six? He had absolutely no idea.
“The front, yes, we’ve only just returned,” Serefin said.
“How goes the war?” Krywicki asked.
“Same as it bloody ever has.” Serefin took a drink. “Barely anything has changed in the last, what, fifty years? I don’t expect anything ever will. It feels too optimistic to hope our victory at Voldoga will turn the tide.”
Krywicki looked bewildered. Ostyia shot Serefin a wide-eyed look. Oh, he wasn’t supposed to express his disdain about the war out loud, right. Certainly not as the poster child for the war effort.
“But we’ll beat the superstitious Kalyazi down,” he continued, now utterly self-conscious that he was backpedaling. “They’ll break soon.” He leaned across the table toward Krywicki, who unconsciously leaned toward him in return. “I can feel it. The war will end during my reign, if not sooner.” The signs were there: Voldoga, the appearance of the cleric implying desperation, that they were able to make it all the way to the Baikkle Mountains, and yet Serefin did not usually give in to hope.
Krywicki raised his eyebrows. A Tranavian prince did not treat his upcoming reign as if it were a given. No Tranavian treated their future as though it were a given. Serefin had spent far too much time in Kalyazin.
“So soon?” Krywicki asked.
Serefin nodded emphatically. He frowned. Wasn’t Krywicki just talking about his daughter? Where was she? He realized he was inquiring after her before his brain had a chance to catch up to his mouth.
He definitely should not have had that last drink.
Krywicki looked all too delighted to introduce his daughter to the High Prince. He left the table, returning with a girl who looked like she was barely old enough to be free of her nursemaid.
Serefin shot a desperate glance Kacper’s way. Kacper just shrugged.
Felicíja looked nothing like her father. She had waves of blond hair and pale violet eyes. She looked gentle, pretty. Serefin would have to keep an eye on her.
She bowed to Serefin. Court niceties would have her curtsy to him, but they weren’t at court.
Blood and bone, she’s young, he thought. In reality she was likely only a year or two younger than Serefin. She just looked young. Dimly it occurred to him that by calling all of the potentially eligible slavhki into Grazyk, his father was weeding out the weak and settling the strong blood in the heart of Tranavia.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness,” she said as he took her hand and pressed it lightly against his lips.
He hoped it was lightly. He’d lost any real feeling in his hands two tankards ago. His vision was also far more blurry than usual, which only happened when he was really drunk.
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied. “Is it safe to assume you are traveling to Grazyk?”
Ostyia’s single eye widened in alarm. Serefin had no idea why until Krywicki answered for his daughter.