Fallen Eagle-Chapter 28: Spilled Wine and Spilled Secrets

Being called to the Doux’s office for the second time in a week was never a fun experience, but after idling for half a week in the Capital, Leonidas was already feeling the strain of sitting still. He would never truly be comfortable in a large city. Too many shadows and not enough open fields. Mangup wasn’t especially big from what he’d been told, but it was plenty big enough for him.
“Oy, Leonidas.” He found Cosmas lounging in the mess hall, lying horizontally on the low bench, the prim livery of his Royal Guard outfit stained by cheese crumbs. A shock of wild, grey hair seemed to jut out with a mind of its own, and his grin was a rapacious slash in a face that had seen too many brawls. He was a wolf dressed in a sheep’s clothing, straining at the seams. “You joining for the morning round of play fighting?” He asked with a mischievous smile, heaving himself upright to finish his plate of mutton stew, licking at Madame Stella’s specialty with avarice.
“As fun as it would be to kick your arse, Cosmas,” Leonidas said, enjoying how Cosmas’s smile widened at the challenge - he was always easy to rile up. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. I’ve a meeting with the Doux.”
Cosmas’s mouth was a row of sharp, canine teeth, spread in vicious delight. “Off to play with the old fox, then?” He called it play fighting because, for him, a true fight always ended in blood. “You’ll make me sad. I was itching to have a taste of you while you’re in the capital.”
“You enjoy the taste of dirt that much?” Leonidas challenged.
“When it’s mixed in with your blood?” Cosmas rose, and the air between them crackled with a sudden, sharp tension that made the nearby recruits fall silent. “Oh, yes.”
Leonidas stood his ground, meeting the smaller man’s feral gaze. He had the height advantage, but he knew all too well that Cosmas could use his lithe frame to deadly effect. The air between them grew thick. Then, with a sudden, boisterous laugh, Cosmas broke the spell, clapping Leonidas on the arm with a force that would have felled a lesser man.
“No need to get so serious,” he said, the test passed. “Was just seeing if you were still sprightly. Send my regards to that old fox.” Cosmas always took a measure of your blade’s sharpness. You held his respect until the moment you showed any weakness. Then you became just another prey.
“Hah,” Leonidas barked out a laugh. “I don’t think the Doux would take kindly to your idea of a regard. I like my head attached to my shoulders.”
Cosmas eased back down onto his seat and retrieved a fresh juniper wood pick from his vest. “Hah, off with you.” He began picking at his teeth with a fragrant wood pick like an animal. The gesture was an act in contradictions; Leonidas had never met a more barbaric individual with such a strange, fastidious habit.
Leonidas found the Doux’s study at the end of a long, torchlit corridor. The guard at the door was a nightmare given form - the man named Gennadios. A web of scar tissue pulled one side of his face into a permanent, melted snarl, his single eye a chip of obsidian. He gave a single, sharp knock.
“The Sergeant is here, my Lord,” the guard rasped.
A low, familiar rumble answered from within. “Send him in.”
The heavy door swung inward. As Leonidas entered, he stopped short. Captain Theodorus was just on his way out, his clean-cut Sideris livery a stark presence in the spartan room.
“Captain.” Leonidas fashioned a hasty salute, caught off guard.
“At ease, Sergeant.” Theodorus wore a small, knowing smile as he paused beside him.
“I heard you were assigned to Suyren,” Leonidas stated, a conflicting mix of emotions hidden beneath the surface. It was deserved, but he wondered who would guide the fort now.
“I was,” Theodorus said, his eyes glinting with a meaning Leonidas couldn’t quite decipher. “But not to worry. I am certain Probatofrourio will be left in capable hands.” He patted Leonidas’s shoulder firmly. “Meet me at The High Peak when you’re finished.” And with that enigmatic conversation, he was gone.
Leonidas entered the Doux’s cavernous study, his mind rattled even as he offered a crisp salute. “Sir.”
“Sergeant Leonidas.” The Doux gestured to the hard wooden chair before his desk. “Where do your loyalties lie?” He skipped any preamble.
Leonidas had not even settled into the stiff furniture when he was caught off guard by the question. “Sir?”
“I am aware of your past, Sergeant,” the Doux rumbled, the words heavy with unspoken history. “A man’s past is a shadow he can never outrun. I am asking if you are still the man who casts it.”
“I’m not, sir,” he stated resolutely. “That man is dead.”
“So I’ll ask again. Where do your loyalties lie?”
“With the people of this Principality.” Leonidas knew there was no point in playing coy. He didn’t hold any special attachment to the Prince, or even to the state. What he cared about were the people.
Whether the Doux was disappointed or impressed, he didn’t show it. “You claim your loyalty is to the people. I am giving you the authority to prove it. I’ve just had a vacancy open up,” Leonidas’s breath was caught in his throat.
“How would you feel about being a Captain?”
“He was so gallant, giving up his own recompense for the unfortunate.” Arete’s giggle was a soft melody coming from behind a loose curtain of light caramel locks, striking against the aged stones of the palace corridor. “And his eyes… did you see them, Kalli? Pure obsidian.”
“And his armor,” Kalliroe sighed, her own dark golden hair a tight, perfect bun. “Scratched from fierce fighting, yet polished to a sheen. He looked like one of the knights from the old legends.”
“The very picture of chivalry,” Arete agreed, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “The way the light from the high windows caught him as he knelt… he looked like a saint.”
“I wonder how many he killed,” Kalliroe mused, her tone turning dreamy. “He mentioned ten men per warrior, but surely he bested more. They say he is a whirlwind with that deadly blade of his. I even heard he bested the Doux in a bout before he was even appointed Captain. Stopped his sword a hair’s breadth from his throat!” If it was not utterly unbecoming of a Lady-in-Waiting, Anastasia was sure they would both be drooling over the hem of their crimson and emerald dresses.
“Have you girls no shame?” Hesperia’s voice cut through their fawning. Her voluminous azure dress and braided bun painted a picture of chaste modesty that was, Anastasia knew, the perfect camouflage.“Fawning over a man so openly? Do you want the whole court to learn how eager you are to be on the receiving end of his ‘swordplay’?”
The sisters stuttered to a halt, turning their heads in a panicked scan for nearby eavesdroppers. Seeing no one, they heaved a twin sigh of relief. “Hesperia!” they hissed in unison, the threat utterly defanged by their flustered expressions.
“Really, girls,” Hesperia lowered her voice, a playful smirk heralding the coming jest. “One must consider the practicalities. Do you think your scabbards are wide enough for his sword? Unused sheaths can prove a tight fit for such a… ‘deadly blade’.”
The sisters turned a shade of deep scarlet, their gazes boring into the floorboards as if they could will themselves through a crack in the marble. Anastasia shared a veiled grin with Olympia.
Anastasia had also watched the audience with avid interest. Konstantinos’s son was a surprise. He was a porcelain statuette - a soft, willowy presence whose cultured steps lacked the raw, martial aggression the Ladies were used to. Muscled brutes were a common weed in the Principality’s garden, a hero who looked like a poet was a rare orchid, and that rareness was a commodity of its own.
He was not what she had expected at all, his facial contours a more angular, sharp version of his father's, his dark locks soft and wide, a contrast to Konstantino’s tight, short-cropped curls. But his eyes… Anastasia felt a familiar, ghostly chill. They were a grey so dark they appeared black, the shade of charcoal and old secrets. They were exactly the same. And he wielded a presence Konstantinos, for all his charm, had never possessed. It was not charisma; it was control. Every gesture, every word, every perfect, humble bow had a meaning behind it, a calculated purpose.
Anastasia had seen enough theater in this court to recognize a well-rehearsed play, and the audience had been a performance, its true secrets hidden in dark depths. Anastasia could not see beneath the surface, but just from what little had bubbled up, she’d gleamed enough to know the promotion had been no impromptu appointment.
Her thoughts churned as they emerged from the palace’s gloom into the gardens. The last of the summer blooms had given way to the earthy tones of autumn. Dead leaves danced in the southern breeze, a silent promise of the coming winter, when the trees would stand naked and unprotected.
Out of the corner of her eye, Anastasia spotted movement. “Hush,” She said gently.
Hesperia, who had been whispering fresh torments to the twins, went silent at once, her posture snapping back to that of an elegant, untouchable maiden. The Papadopolous sisters straightened, but not before a flicker of panic crossed their faces. They still had much to learn.
Emerging from between two fruit-laden plum trees, a squadron of five women, a perfect mirror to their own, approached. At their head, a vision in emerald silk, was Princess Euphrosyne.
A momentary cross of gazes was enough for Anastasia to understand. This meeting was no coincidence. Princess Euphrosyne’s stride was a slow, predatory stalk, a river of emerald silk flowing through the dying garden. Her ladies trailed in her wake, their steps a clumsy echo with half their mistress’s liquid grace.
“Lady Anastasia,” the Princess’s smile was a radiant, weaponized thing, a sunbeam in the autumn chill that had disarmed half the men at court. “What a fine sight.” The lie was as polished as the pearls in her hair.
“Princess Euphrosyne,” Anastasia offered a bow, a precise, shallow inclination that was correct to the letter but devoid of the deeper deference the Princess craved. “A pleasure.”
Euphrosyne’s smile did not waver; the Princess had much too control over herself for that, but Anastasia, a scholar of the court’s subtle languages, saw the fractional tightening at the corners of her eyes.
“It is fine weather, is it not?” Euphrosyne commented, her gaze sweeping over the garden as if she were its creator. “Not a cloud in sight.”
“The plants certainly appreciate it,” Anastasia played along, her own gaze neutral. “Their leaves preen in the sunlight.”
“An omen for our Principality, I think. Good things are to come under my husband’s stewardship.” Euphrosyne trailed a delicate finger along the petal of a white rose, a picture of serene piety. It was a masterful performance, and Anastasia had to respect the sheer, relentless artistry of it. Cultivating a sublime reputation was not a one-off performance, but a lifelong play. And the Princess embodied her role in every waking moment. But she could not fool Anastasia. It was the curse of knowing every whisper in this castle; Anastasia knew exactly where the performance began… and where it ended.
“One can only hope.” She muttered quietly.
“Hope is not necessary, Lady Anastasia. Providence has already shown its favor.” The Princess’s smile sharpened. “We have won a great victory over our northern oppressors, and taken enough captives to lessen the burden of our foreign affairs.” Anastasia nearly snorted.
Foreign affairs
. Was that what the Crown called their vassalage payments?
“It was a miraculous victory, Your Highness. But we must use its fruits wisely.”
“And its architect as well, wouldn’t you say?” Euphrosyne turned, her eyes glittering. The true purpose of this ‘chance encounter’ was finally revealed.
“As we should any victorious commander of our Principality.” Anastasia was already building redoubts in her mind for the coming assault.
“Surely he deserves more than others. He is, after all, the son of Konstantinos Sideris.” The emphasis was a deliberate, poisoned dart aimed at Anastasia’s past.
“He is one of many worthy sons of Theodoro.” She gave her nothing.
“I envy your impartiality. I confess I could not hold to it, were I in your position.” Euphrosyne turned with a small, knowing smirk to her ladies-in-waiting. “Though I am certain you must have played some small part in his prestigious new office.”
“I’m not sure how such an accusation could hold any weight.” Anastasia’s spine straightened, a column of cold iron. She was prepared to escalate this polite skirmish if it meant a sooner end to it. It was an unwritten rule that traded poison should not contaminate the rest of the court.
“It is not an accusation, my lady.” Euphrosyne’s voice was as smooth as honey, but her eyes held a calculating gleam. “It is a simple deduction. One made from knowing precisely who pushed for the boy’s meteoric promotion.”
Anastasia’s gaze flickered to Olympia, her most trusted confidant, seeking for any information on what the Princess was claiming. Olympia gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Of course. The exchange was not lost on the Princess. “Oh?” she raised a pale, manicured hand to her mouth, a perfect picture of theatrical shock. “Don’t tell me you are unaware?” Her ladies, a flock of trained starlings, mimicked the gesture. Hesperia took a half-step forward, a low growl building in her chest, but a single, frigid glance from Anastasia froze her in place.
“My sincerest apologies,” Euphrosyne continued, her voice dripping with false pity. “I had assumed your husband would have shared the news. I learned of it from mine. I find it so… healthy in a marriage, to share the details of each other’s lives. It builds trust, don’t you think?”
Anastasia’s face was as still and deep as a winter lake. She refused to acknowledge the insinuation.
“Truly, I am sorry, Anastasia,” the Princess pressed, her tone turning confiding, a serpent’s whisper. “I simply thought you were the one who pushed for the position, given your… history with the boy’s father.”
“What history are you implying, Princess?” Anastasia’s voice was ice. The direct mention of Konstantinos was a flagrant breach of court etiquette, a move of open aggression. But Euphrosyne could not voice the full slander aloud, not here.
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“Oh, nothing of consequence, my lady. Forget I said a word.” Euphrosyne unfurled a delicate white fan and fanned herself slowly.
“Do not worry yourself, Princess. I find I have little difficulty in doing so.” Anastasia took a deliberate step toward a rose bush heavy with white blooms. She plucked a single, perfect flower, her fingers sure and steady among the thorns. The movement brought her closer to Euphrosyne, into the intimate circle of her perfume and her lies. Close enough to whisper.
“Even the sound of rustles on a bed of roses slip easily from my mind.”
The Princess recoiled as if struck, her mask of serene piety shattering into a cold, hateful visage.
“Careful of what nonsense you spout.”
Anastasia did not answer her, holding her gaze. Without another word, the Princess turned, sweeping her ladies away with her in a hasty retreat.
They were left alone in the sudden quiet of the garden. A cold wind rustled the dying leaves, a lonely, whispering sound.
“We should not have let her speak to you so, my lady,” Hesperia muttered, her voice a low and heated, banked embers just waiting for a spark to ignite. “She crossed a line.”
Anastasia turned on her, her expression thunderous and her own voice no longer the smooth silk of the court, but raspy, like thorns. “And
we
will not. We will maintain our composure. I will not have any one of mine stoop to her level. Is that understood?”
Hesperia withered under the command, bowing her head. “Yes, my lady.”
“What now?” Olympia asked softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the lingering tension.
Anastasia’s gaze turned toward the palace, her features hardening, the heat of her anger curdling into an icy stillness. “Now,” she said, her voice flat and absolute, “I go to see my husband. It seems there is a conversation that needs to be had.”
“It seems your commendation to the Doux had some effect after all.” Demetrios commented, his fork moving with the slow, deliberate precision of a surgeon. It had been some time since they’d performed their public routine, and Demetrios took a nostalgic pleasure in the act, guiding a stray olive to his mouth with an exaggerated purse of his lips. He looked every inch the pampered courtier, a performance that drew a genuine grin from Theodorus.
“It was a deserved promotion,” Theodorus said. “And a necessary one. Probatofrourio needs a commander who will not let it rot, and quickly.” Judging by the previous month-long absence of a proper commander, the Doux had difficulty finding a candidate with the requisite skillset for the task who wouldn’t be offended by being posted on a faraway border. The victory granted the Doux the justification to promote Leonidas. “I did not convince him of anything. Merely pointed out the benefits of having a capable man in a vital post.”
“At least now we can be sure the fort will be under good oversight. Leonidas grew into his leadership role towards the end of our tenure there.” Demetrios heaved a thick sigh of relief. “He was practically a second in command by the end. Don’t think I didn’t notice the increased responsibility you gave him, my Lord. Or the fact that you sent him to on the battle, and not anyone else.” He leveled a lopsided, knowing grin at Theodorus.
“Despite the strict disciplinarian structure I was forced to institute there, I prefer a more hands-off approach Demetrios.” It was a long and difficult process, but Theodorus was determined to nurture the most important commodity in the Principality: talent. Wealth and might were the hard currencies of a state, but this soft one was the most crucial of all. If Theodoro was to survive, it needed capable men.
“We can only hope your new commander is as sensible as our captain, eh, Stefanos?”
The boy, who had been trying to merge with the dark wood of the booth, flinched as if struck. He gave a frantic, jerky nod, a muffled “Mhm!” escaping before he buried his face back in his stew. Theodorus held back a sigh. He had been an imposing figure back at the garrison, and hadn’t had an especially close relationship with the boy. He had underestimated the sheer, paralyzing awe he inspired in the young recruit.
“Speaking of your new superior, my Lord,” Demetrios said, steering the conversation back to safer waters. “It would perhaps be wise to take a measure of the man and the situation before setting out.”
“You speak well, my good Demetrios, I was entirely of the same mind. Now if only we knew an individual who could have that sort of information…” The tavern’s entrance eased open, and through it, two figures stood silhouetted against the setting sun, their forms casting long, distorted shadows across the floorboards. “Ah! Demetrios, you are an oracle!” Theodorus gazed upon him with undisguised awe. “I asked, and you delivered.” Demetrios turned to the figures, his suspicion heightened by Theodorus’s dramatic tone.
He strained to recognize them in the fading light, his eyes widening in surprise as their faces were illuminated by the sputtering candlelight - then narrowing in profound distaste.
“Really?” He glanced at a smirking Theodorus, who raised a hand to beckon the pair over. “One is trouble enough, but
both
?”
“You should let bygones be bygones, Demetrios. Forgiveness makes for a lighter life,” Theodorus said, struggling to keep the laughter from his voice.
Demetrios rose, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m going to consult my own contacts,” He announced, clinging to the first reasonable excuse he could find. “See if I can learn anything of use.”
“Take Stefanos with you,” Theodorus winked, giving an escape avenue to the young retainer, who would no doubt spend the entire meal in a state of terrified silence. “Show him the ropes.” This conversation was not for the boy’s ears, and this way, his training could begin at once.
Demetrios was all too happy to oblige, rising with a speed that belied his age and grabbing the still-chewing Stefanos by the arm. He could not, however, avoid crossing paths with the pair heading to Theodorus’s table.
“Ah, Demetrios! As I live and breathe!” Sergeant Nikolaos’s voice was a hearty explosion that turned every head in the tavern. “It is good to see you. How have you been?” He clapped a heavy hand on the old servant’s shoulder, who stiffened as if he’d been struck.
“You know this… servant, Sergeant?” Remus Nomikos inquired, his reedy voice slicing through the bonhomie. He peered down his long nose at Demetrios as if inspecting a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture. He had, of course, already forgotten who Demetrios was, or having ever seen him for that matter.
“Ah, yes, my Lord.” Nikolaos’s posture changed in a heartbeat, his broad shoulders hunching into a model of practiced deference. Theodorus had to admire the man’s fluidity. “A trusted man of the good Captain’s. We met during a… cajoling I partook in with the good Captain.”
“Yes, my Lord, we did,” Demetrios said, his expression a carefully neutral mask, but his tone dropping an octave towards the end. “If you will excuse me, I have an urgent errand.” He executed a quick, shallow bow and made an even quicker getaway, practically towing the wide-eyed Stefanos in his wake.
The pair approached the table where Theodorus was to hold his performance. At a flick of his wrist, a tavern boy materialized, whisking away the half-eaten meals. He was replaced an instant later by another who set down three silver goblets and a large, unlabeled earthenware jug of wine.
“Your man, Demetrios, is in quite a rush,” Nikolaos commented, watching them go.
“He is off to run an urgent errand, I’m afraid.” Theodorus offered a placid smile. “And I thought, perhaps, you would prefer some privacy.”
“The thought is appreciated, Captain.” Remus’s gaze swept distastefully over the tavern’s smoky, low-lit ambiance and the inhabitants who populated it. “Though perhaps the location could do with some work.” His bloated lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval.
“I assure you, Master Remus, I’ve made arrangements for a man of your stature.” Theodorus gave a subtle signal to the barkeep. “Some privacy for my friends and I, please, Badras.”
The stout man gave a grunt of assent. In a display of surprising efficiency, two waiters appeared with a heavy curtain, promptly hanging it across the entrance to their alcove. Another spread a clean linen tablecloth over the rough-hewn wood. Nikolaos looked impressed. Remus, though he tried to hide it, looked mollified. They eased into their seats as a servant closed the curtain behind them, sealing them in a cocoon of sudden, intimate quiet.
“A cup of wine, my friends?” Theodorus said, uncorking the jug. “I believe I promised to share it.” He filled their cups without waiting for an answer, the dark red liquid glinting in the candlelight.
Nikolaos took a deep, appreciative sniff, then a healthy swallow. His eyes widened. “By the Saints, Captain! This is no tavern swill! It’s richer than anything I’ve had this side of the palace walls!”
Remus raised his own silver goblet to his lips with an air of practiced nonchalance. The moment the wine touched his tongue, his mask slipped. His eyes flew open in genuine shock, the carefully constructed facade of a connoisseur crumbling for a fraction of a second. He recovered instantly, schooling his features back into a mask of mild approval, but the damage was done. He cleared his throat, dabbing his lips with a napkin.
“It is… acceptable.”
“Thank you, it is a vintage from our own cultivation,” Theodorus said, refilling Remus’s goblet personally - a concession meant to prune the peacock’s feathers. The victory over the Tatars had left Iohannes exultant, and a dozen casks, a prize from the Sideris family’s finest harvest, had been his parting gift. It was a step above the wine he’d used to snare Nikolaos, and tonight, it was the bait for a larger fish.
“I must confess, Captain,” Remus Nomikos began, nursing his cup with the delicate precision of a man terrified of spilling a drop on his fine tunic. “I did not know you were acquainted with Sergeant Nikolaos. And I was quite surprised to receive your joint invitation.”
“I had heard from the good Sergeant of your past association,” Theodorus replied smoothly. Nikolaos had served under Remus before the latter’s unearned ascent to the Doux’s staff, and his talent for sycophancy had apparently left a lasting impression. It was a testament to the gregarious Sergeant’s polished bootlicking skills that he had actually been a subordinate whom the creature actually liked. “I had promised to meet with you both during my stay, which I have learned will be quite short. I am to depart for Suyren on the morrow, and I could not choose between such fine company. My apologies, Master Remus.”
“Oh, not at all, Captain.” Remus waved a dismissive hand, a gesture of magnanimity that was slightly undermined by his need to avoid sloshing his wine. “I myself had not spoken to the Sergeant in some time. I am more than pleased to have him join us.”
“You honour me, my Lord,” Nikolaos boomed, executing a bow so low his magnificent moustache nearly brushed the tabletop, a feat of servile acrobatics. “I hold many fond memories of my time under your command. I find myself praying for a transfer with each passing day.”
A high, reedy chuckle escaped Remus. “Ah, you.” He tapped the sergeant’s shoulder with a single, manicured finger. “Always the flatterer.”
“Come, share a drink, Master Remus! To the bottom!” Nikolaos prompted, raising his goblet.
Remus shook his head, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Oh, Sergeant, I mustn’t. Today is for light reverie, nothing more.”
“Of course, my Lord, but surely one cup won’t fell a man of your constitution. I know you possess a Herculean endurance.” Nikolaos’s flattery was a battering ram, and Remus’s resolve was a flimsy door.
“Really… I couldn’t.” He glanced at Theodorus for support.
“You are amongst friends, Master Remus.” Theodorus slid his own goblet closer, a silent, silver accomplice. “A worthy cup for a worthy man.”
“Well… just the one, then.”
“On three!” Nikolaos declared.
The first cup went down in a synchronized, if hesitant, gulp. Theodorus, however, let half the liquid pass his lips and slide back into the goblet, a trick he’d forced himself to learn after the last binge drinking with the good Sergeant and Captain Athanasios. He swore he would never get that drunk again.
Nikolaos, a veteran of such campaigns, needed no such artifice; his cup was empty in a heartbeat. Remus, caught between his dignity and his desire not to be outdone, drained his with a choked gasp, his pale face flushing a blotchy pink.
The plan, hatched with Nikolaos in exchange for a few jugs of that very same vintage, was in motion. The sergeant was the hammer, brought here to shatter Remus’s fragile propriety. Theodorus was the velvet glove, guiding the blows. With his reputation soaring, a favor from him was a currency Nikolaos was happy to accept. The goal was simple: get Remus drunk enough to spill his wine, and his secrets.
A second cup was poured, and a third. Theodorus feigned a growing tipsiness, his words slurring just so, while Nikolaos grew ever more boisterous, his laughter echoing in the small chamber. Remus, buoyed by the wine and the sergeant’s relentless praise, shed his courtly stiffness. His gestures grew wider, his laugh louder, his non-existent chin jutting out with a confidence it had never before possessed.
Theodorus judged the moment was ripe.
“Ah, in truth, my friends,” Theodorus began, letting his shoulders slump in a perfect picture of youthful melancholy. “I worry for my new assignment.”
He shot a glance at Nikolaos, a flicker of a look that was both a signal and a dismissal. The sergeant, his face a ruddy mask of intoxication, was slow on the uptake, but he understood. Theodorus, who had moderated his own intake with a monk’s discipline, was sharp as a blade.
“How so, Theodorus?” Remus asked, leaning forward with the clumsy sincerity of the truly drunk. The honorifics had long been abandoned.
“I know not how the fortress is conducted, nor my new commander, Adanis Nomikos.” He let his face fall, a mask of worried vulnerability. Remus’s eyes lit up at the mention of the name.
“Say, Remus!” Nikolaos chimed in, his timing finally catching up. “Aren’t you a cousin of Lord Adanis?”
“A distant relative,” Remus waved his hand in dismissal, the gesture a looping, uncontrolled figure eight.
“But surely you know something of the man? Or of the fortress?”
“I did spend my youth there, yes,” Remus acknowledged.
“Is there something you can share to put our good Captain at ease?” Nikolaos gestured to Theodorus, who was now staring into his cup as if it held all the sorrows of the world. For once, his youth was his greatest asset; he looked every bit the vulnerable, lost boy.
A question which might have triggered some caution or at least a filtered response from a coherent Remus now set off no such alarms. He was in his element, enthroned in a comfortable chair, warmed by fine wine, and holding court before an audience of admirers. What harm could there be in venting a little frustration amongst friends?
“I tell you, my good Theodorus, there is absolutely nothing to be worried about,” Remus slurred, his prim accent fraying at the edges. “Simply conduct yourself with decorum and deference, and you shall do just fine. I have taken the full measure of you, my boy,” he declared, having interacted with Theodorus on exactly two occasions. “And your great character will surely shine through, even for that oaf, Adanis.”
The casual, familial contempt did not escape Theodorus’s notice. “You know him personally, then?” he asked, refilling Remus’s cup. The official snatched it back and moved to down the ‘acceptable’ wine in one go, but a heavy hand from Nikolaos stayed his wrist.
“Pace yourself, my Lord,” the sergeant chided gently. “The night is young, and the wine is plentiful. We cannot have you passed out before the best stories are told.”
Remus harrumphed but conceded the point, taking a more measured sip. “Ah, he is a pompous creature, my good Theodorus. Carries himself as if he were the Basileus himself. The man does not know the meaning of humility.”
Theodorus fought to keep his expression neutral, the irony a palpable force in the room.
“Everything in Suyren must have his ‘Highness’s’ approval,” Remus whined, his voice taking on the petulant tone of a slighted courtier. “The schedules, the food, the very cut of your tunic! It is stifling to live there, utterly stifling!”
“The entire family branch resides there, correct?” Theodorus probed.
“Oh, yes. He rules it like a petty king, thinks his word is law. You only climb the ladder if you know how to polish his boots with your tongue. And another thing—”
“He keeps a close counsel, then?” Theodorus expertly steered the conversation back from the brink of a drunken tangent. “Will it be difficult to integrate myself, do you think?”
“Ah, yes, he wouldn’t deign to speak to us mere mortals about ‘matters of the family’,” Remus scoffed. “But it is not impossible to massage your way into his confidence. Provided,” he leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper, “you know the man.”
“Perhaps you can help me, brother Remus.” Theodorus leaned forward as well, his expression a perfect portrait of a fawning younger brother, desperate for guidance. “I would be forever in your debt.” The promise was an easy one to make; he doubted Remus would remember his own name by morning, let alone a sworn debt.
The flattery worked its magic. Remus preened, his wine-flushed cheeks puffing with self-importance. “Well,” he said, settling back as if preparing to deliver a grand sermon. “Let me instruct you, little brother…”
Demetrios returned near midnight to a scene of quiet carnage. The air in the chamber was thick with the smell of spilled wine and stale sweat. Sergeant Nikolaos was slumped in his chair, head thrown back, a thunderous snore rattling the very windowpanes. Remus Nomikos was draped over the table, his face pillowed on his arms amidst a graveyard of empty goblets, a thin line of drool silvering the polished wood.
And in the center of it all, perfectly still and utterly sober, sat Theodorus. He was a statue in the flickering candlelight, his gaze fixed on the shadows, his mind miles away.
“Did you at least learn something?” Demetrios asked, his expression warring between utter disgust and a grand, weary sigh. At his elbow, Stefanos gazed upon the two sleeping men with a wide-eyed, morbid curiosity.
“Go prepare your bedroll,” Demetrios ordered sharply, not taking his eyes off the scene. Stefanos, startled, bolted for the stairs. The old servant turned back to Theodorus, his face a mask of disapproval. “You are being a bad influence on the young man.”
“I am a young man myself, last time I checked,” Theodorus smiled. “And yes, I did. The Nomikos family is quite the tightly-woven basket.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means our enemy at the fort will not be Lord Adanis alone, but his entire clan.” Theodorus’s expression turned grim. “What of you? What did you find?”
“Nothing good.” Demetrios’s voice dropped, his gaze darting across the tavern’s hall. Theodorus’s posture shifted, the weariness vanishing, replaced by a predator’s alertness. Demetrios closed the heavy curtains behind him, plunging the alcove back into the gloom. He eased into the chair opposite Theodorus, his face pale in the candlelight.
“Principe Alexios has made a new proposal,” Demetrios whispered, and the air in the room grew heavy, charged with the weight of his words. “He doesn’t want to ransom the prisoners. He wants to execute them.”