Unforgivable Weakness

Smoke was already seeping into the halls. It billowed between the columns, thick and acrid, slid along the floor, crawled under doors, and crept into the cracks. The air reeked of burning, laced with the stench of scorched pitch, wine, and something bitter and heavy, like old fabric long shut away in a chest. It settled thickly on his tongue, his chest felt raw and scratchy, and even the torches now burned unevenly, their flames shivering and smoking as they cast long shadows on the walls. Kalven descended the stone steps, forcing himself not to look at the faces of the people crowded below. Someone coughed. Someone cried. Servants covered their faces with their sleeves, and the peasants, pressed to the walls, darted their eyes about as if trying to find something. One of them—a short man in a threadbare cloak, a scarf knotted at his throat—lunged forward and tried to grab his sleeve, babbling questions. There was no time to answer. Beyond the windows, through the swirls of bluish smoke, ruddy glimmers of flame flickered—the garden was blazing ever more fiercely. “Quite a spectacle,” a hoarse voice grumbled beside him. Kalven turned. A sergeant had come up. His face was black with soot, his eyes bloodshot from the smoke. “You have to admit, it’s impressive,” the man went on with a strained grin. “But I’m afraid they’ll be back. And when they do, they’ll be angrier than before.” Kalven nodded but said nothing. His thoughts were already elsewhere. “Do you know the situation inside the palace?” he asked at last. “Which halls we still hold, where our people are now?” The sergeant shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “I don’t. There’s no word from anywhere. No one’s come back from the south wing. Or from the north. They say the rebels pulled back into the service quarters to clear the way for the army’s assault, but no one really understands where they’re now.” Kalven exhaled through his teeth, feeling the blood pound in his temples. “Then we go to the tower.” The sergeant’s brows shot up. “The tower?” “Yes. Even if we have to fight for it,” Kalven firmly stated. “It’s the only way. We can dig in there and try to hold. Gather everyone close together, women in the centre, and everyone who can hold a weapon on the outside.” The sergeant gave a short nod and strode off into the depths of the hall, bellowing orders. The crowd stirred. A coarse male voice started to argue. “Form up! Stay together!” the sergeant roared, trying to punch through the sticky noise. The concubines dashed to scoop up their bundles and chests, in which, no doubt, lay all their treasures. Servants bustled around them, trying to cram everything into their arms. One of the servants dropped a chest with a crash, and a shower of coloured trinkets rang across the floor to the accompaniment of a girl’s shriek. Kalven winced and looked away. This was why he had never wanted palace duty—dealing with ordinary people. What he had always loved in the army was order and discipline, where one gives the order and the others act. Clean, clear, simple. His gaze snagged on the stone steps leading down from the terrace. Master Leran Lavert was walking down them slowly, sunk in thought. Out in the courtyard, in the chaos and smoke, Kalven hadn’t recognised the dishevelled, shaken man at first, but now there was no doubt. Grim, his face blanched and his hair darkened by smoke, he still wore his usual cold gaze and haughty expression, moving with the unhurried poise of a host stepping out before his guests. The younger son of the late banket. Since the old man’s death six months ago, Leran Lavert had become far too frequent a guest at court, and no one quite understood why. Rumors were going around. Some said he was bleeding the Emperor for money for his pet charities. Some said the Emperor doted on him, and that enraged many. The palace hated him. From the cooks to the officers. Cold, arrogant, eternally dissatisfied with everything, he behaved here as if he owned the place. He could tear into a servant in front of everyone until the girls fled in tears, or explode at the guards for some lapse, then stride down the corridors with a face that said he was, at the very least, the Emperor himself. Even the late head of the guard, a battle-hardened veteran with a weathered, stony face, had preferred to steer clear of him, calling him a “puffed‑up turkey”. Out of the crowd, a woman suddenly ran toward him in a rich but crumpled dress of golden silk. All in tears, her face paint streaked down her cheeks, she grabbed his hand and almost hung off it. “It’s you… you’re here… thank the heavens…” He seemed to come to, blinked, and, gently touching her shoulder, asked in an unexpectedly soft voice, “Your Highness… What has happened? Where’s His Majesty?” The woman sobbed, tried to say something, but no words came, her lips trembling. Her voice broke, and she burst into tears again, covering her face with her hands. Kalven stepped closer. “The Emperor has been poisoned,” he answered for her, his voice clipped and flat. Leran whipped around. In an instant disbelief, fury, horror chased one another across his face. He opened his mouth, but a wave of dizziness seemed to hit him. He braced a hand against a column and squeezed his eyes shut. “Who dared?” he asked quietly, but with steel in his voice. “It all happened too fast,” Kalven went on, looking him straight in the eye. “Whoever’s behind this has been preparing for a long time. Many of the servants have gone over to their side. The guard. Even part of the army.” Their exchange was cut short by the sergeant’s return. “We can move out! Everything’s ready!” Kalven nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, stepping toward the crowd and casting one last glance at Leran. The man, one arm around the Emperor’s wife, was staring at the wall. Motionless as a statue, his face unreadable, poised somewhere between rage and emptiness. The crowd moved slowly through the deserted corridors of the palace, each step echoing between the high painted walls. The sound of their feet and their breathing seemed to slice through the silence, disturbing the slumber of the ancient halls. Kalven walked at the head with a small detachment of guards, his gaze sliding over the walls, his unease growing with every second. He had never seen the palace so empty. Everything was familiar—the twists of corridors he could walk blindfolded, the patterns carved into the fine oak doors that he’d learned by heart during long hours on watch, even that cursed rubber plant in its ridiculous clay pot that he had tripped over more than once. Everything was in its place. And yet, wrapped in silence, the palace felt alien, unfriendly, dangerous. The walls seemed to have faded and grown colder. The stone lions, once almost comical, now stared down in reproach. Even the ceilings seemed higher than he remembered, and something in that deceptive spaciousness set his nerves on edge. Kalven would never have believed that the simple absence of the eternally annoying bustle and chatter of maids could change the atmosphere of the place so completely. And clearly he wasn’t alone in feeling it. The crowd behind him moved with unusual quiet, as if afraid to disturb the palace silence, to crack its fragile harmony and draw its wrath upon themselves. Only one man was out of tune with that atmosphere: Master Leran Lavert. He didn’t fall silent for a minute, questioning the late Emperor’s third wife without respite. His gaudy robes kept flickering at the edge of Kalven’s vision, a constant distraction. Lavert had always liked to dress up, but today he seemed to have outdone himself. Even among the garishly adorned concubines, he stood out. The woman who had clung to him from the moment they entered the palace answered in a broken whisper. Her words reached Kalven only in fragments. “The first wife, Eleonora, left not long ago to visit her kin in Sidor, Arianna went with her, and Elina… Elina… Gods…” Her voice dissolved into shaky sobs. Kalven paid little heed to the words. His mind was elsewhere. All that mattered to him now was getting these people to the tower, where they might at least find some kind of shelter. After that, whatever came. He could at least tell himself he had done his duty. So, this was the “retirement” of a decorated soldier. A quiet life within palace walls, surrounded by court beauties and expensive wine. Forget about campaigns and battles. All you have to do is stand in splendour, bow to those in fine clothes, and life will be easy… Kalven had already cursed the day he listened to his old comrade‑in‑arms. The memory of Captain Telin brought a bitter ache. To survive so many brutal battles, to defeat some of the bloodiest foes on the field, only to die from a knife in the back, treacherously driven in by your men. Kalven ground his teeth. He had always known he should’ve stayed away from this snake‑pit of a court… but now it was too late. Out there in the garden he had been ready to die fighting, as a soldier should. Then Leran intervened. The plan had been good, it was hard to deny. And yet Kalven couldn’t shake the thought that they hadn’t merely postponed the inevitable, but made everything worse. “The Emperor’s children were to be hidden in a secret room on the north side of the palace! We have to go there at once and get them out!” Leran’s stern voice cut through his thoughts. Lavert had caught up and was now panting beside him, struggling to match Kalven’s long stride. Kalven swallowed a weary sigh. “We can’t take everyone there. First we get everyone to the tower, then we decide what comes next.” Leran drew breath, clearly ready to unleash a fresh wave of complaints, but fell silent when a sudden noise came from a side corridor. Kalven froze at once, raising a hand to signal his guards to halt. Everyone went still, listening. From the depths of the passage came muffled shouting and the dull clash of metal on metal. “Sergeant, stay with the people,” Kalven ordered under his breath, nodding to his men. “You on me. Quietly.” Drawing their swords, they pressed to the walls and moved forward, swallowed by the corridor’s half‑dark. The sounds grew louder. Ahead, an opening was resolving itself, a pool of light from a spacious hall spilling around the corner. “Ready,” Kalven whispered quietly. He edged up to the doorway and peered out. The reception hall was a wreck. Trays of fruit lay overturned; silk canopies had been torn down and hung in tatters. The floor was littered with shards of broken porcelain and tufts of down from ripped cushions. In an upended carved tripod the censer still smouldered. Servants and concubines lay motionless on the carpets—some hadn’t even had time to rise from their low dining tables and now lay among broken dishes and scattered fruit. Blood mingled with grape juice spilled from fallen cups. In the centre of the room, a savage fight was raging. Several men in the livery of the palace guard were locked in combat with rebels, and at first glance it was hard to tell who was on which side. Kalven, narrowing his eyes, spotted one of his watchmen—at the start of the uprising they had been separated in the chaos. “Forward! Help them!” he shouted. Raising his sword, he plunged into the melee. At once he clashed with a tall, fair‑haired man in filthy armour. The face was familiar—no watchman, but Kalven had seen him more than once on duty outside the Imperial family’s chambers. That set his blood boiling. Bastards, he thought. What more did they want? Weren’t they fed well enough? Not enough gold? How far must a man sink to betray the one who trusted him with his life? Rage lent strength to his arm; he struck with all the force he had. The big man reeled, nearly losing his grip on his weapon. Seeing the balance of numbers shift, the rebels began to fall back. Two turned and simply bolted. The rest, catching sight of this, quickly followed. Only one remained—a boy, really, hardly older than a page. His gaze flitted, lost, between his fleeing comrades and Kalven’s squad, clearly unable to decide. For a heartbeat longer he hesitated. Then he raised his sword in a clumsy guard. “We’re fighting… for freedom! For strength!” he stammered, his voice breaking, the shout more fearful than rousing. Kalven shifted his grip on the hilt and stepped toward him, but before he could close the distance Leran darted past his shoulder and planted himself between them. “Danik!” Leran’s furious cry rang through the hall. “Are you out of your mind? I knew you were straw‑headed, but I didn’t think it was this bad!” The boy jerked back, horror spreading over his face. “I… I…” he stuttered, his head drooping. “I… we have to fight for change…” The sword shook in his hand, but he lifted it higher. Frowning, Kalven moved to intervene, but Leran shifted, apparently by accident, just enough to slip in front of him. Then bellowed so loudly that even Kalven’s ears rang. “Change? How dare you talk of change here? Who did you raise that sword against? Against me, the one who bought you out of slavery, who gave you a life in the palace? Against the Emperor, who took you in?” The lad crumpled in on himself, his eyes blurring with tears, his words growing less coherent. “I’m not against… I’m not against you… I just… wanted…” Leran strode up to him and wrenched the sword from his grip. The boy nearly lost his footing and, on the verge of sobbing, tried to mumble on, “No… I’m not against you, I just…” “Enough,” Leran snapped, not letting him finish. “We’ll talk later.” He seized the boy by the shoulder and marched him past Kalven toward the guards standing behind them. Shoving the lad roughly in their direction, he gave a curt order: “He’s coming with us.” Kalven swore under his breath. Just what they needed: more trouble… “Don’t take your eyes off him,” he told his men grimly. The rescued guards came over to Kalven, breathing hard, sweat shining on their faces from the recent clash. One of them, leaning on his sword, shot his commander a grateful look. “Thank the gods you’re here,” he managed, catching his breath. “We thought we were on our own.” Kalven gave the barest nod and got straight to business. “Do you know the situation in the palace? Is the side tower occupied?” His gaze slid, despite himself, to Leran, who had been standing nearby in silence. With a stab of irritation, Kalven noted that, once again, he’d have to keep an eye on this restless aristocrat whose behavior was impossible to predict. Leran’s constant attention to everything around him always turned into another excuse to go chasing trouble. Now, though, Leran was clearly unsettled. His eyes roamed the room, taking in the debris, the bodies, the overturned furniture. A tangle of feelings crossed his face—disgust, anger, perhaps shock at seeing such chaos firsthand for the first time. He was trying to keep his composure, but the way he avoided looking at the blood on the marble floor betrayed how unused he was to scenes like this, how unsure he was of how to react. The guard, still breathing heavily, finally got the words out: “The south wing is completely taken. We fought our way out of there. The tower should be clear, as far as we know. Why would they need it? There was no one there before the attack.” Leran seemed to snap out of it, straightened and hurried closer. “And the north wing? What about it?” “Seems quiet there too,” the guard said with a shrug. Kalven could already see Leran drawing breath to insist they head there at once, so he cut him off. “We go back to the others and make for the tower, quickly. We have to reach it while we still can. It’s close.” Without waiting for an answer, Kalven turned on his heel and set off down the corridor at a brisk pace.