CHAPTER 1. THE LEGACY OF THE GRAY LION (Part 3)

  The door opened slowly, with the heavy, drawn-out moan of unlubricated hinges that echoed through the stone well of the stairwell. In the opening appeared the gaunt figure of Karl.

  The butler of House Prust matched the castle itself—ancient, straight as a pole, and bearing the stamp of noble decay. He was well over sixty, had served Cohen's grandfather, and seemed composed not of flesh and blood, but of old sinews and a sense of duty. He wore the dress livery—dark blue with silver embroidery. In the gloom, it looked flawless, but Cohen knew the truth. He knew that every night, by the light of a candle stub, Karl darned the worn elbows, colored the whitish spots on the fabric with ink, and polished the old buttons with chalk so they would shine like new. This livery was their shared banner, which they refused to lower.

  In his hands, Karl held a massive silver tray bearing the Prust crest. The silver had darkened in places but was polished to a mirror shine. On the tray stood a single clay bowl with a chipped rim and a tin mug.

  Karl entered, treading softly, trying not to creak the floorboards, though his aching knees must have been burning with fire in this dampness.

  “Your dinner, My Lord,” he said. The butler's voice was dry and rustling like parchment, devoid of emotion. This was how one announced the serving of pheasants at a royal feast, not prison rations.

  He placed the tray on the edge of the table, pushing aside a stack of IOUs. Cohen looked into the bowl. A gray, cloudy sludge in which two orphaned chunks of boiled swede floated, along with something vaguely resembling fibers of corned beef. It smelled not of food, but of a wet rag. The mug held water. Just water.

  “Wine?” Cohen asked quietly, not raising his eyes.

  “The last bottle in the cellar has turned, sir. Vinegar. I dared not serve it.”

  “And bread?”

  “Flour...” Karl faltered for a second, and that hesitation said more than words. “Weevils were found in the flour bin, My Lord. Martha tried to sift it, but... there is more beetle than grain.”

  Cohen pushed the bowl away. His stomach cramped with hunger, but pride was stronger.

  “Take it away. I won't eat this. Give it to Martha. Or the dogs.”

  “The dogs ran away three days ago, sir,” Karl replied impassively. “And Martha... she won't eat until Toby eats.”

  At the mention of the boy's name, the Baron's face twitched.

  “How is he?”

  Karl straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. A barely noticeable mournful stoop appeared in his posture.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Bad, My Lord. The fever has worsened. He no longer recognizes his mother. Delirious. Says he's hot, though in the kitchen, breath turns to steam. And...” the butler lowered his voice, “when he coughs, there is pink froth on the handkerchief.”

  Cohen clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms.

  “The Healer? Did you send Hans to the city?”

  “Hans returned an hour ago. Healer Kruger refused to come.”

  “Refused?” Cohen stood up abruptly. The Snow Lion skin swayed on his shoulders, flashing with magical whiteness. “I am the Baron of this land! He swore an oath!”

  “He said...” Karl looked at the wall, over his master's head. “He said oaths are given to the living. And the Prusts, in his opinion, are already dead; they just forgot to lie down in the earth. He demands five gold pieces upfront. Or silver by weight.”

  “Scum,” Cohen exhaled. “When Father was alive, that quack crawled on his belly before us for an invitation to the hunt.”

  “Times change, My Lord. Gold now weighs more than a crest.”

  Silence hung in the room, broken only by the sound of dripping water and the howling wind outside. Cohen felt helpless. This feeling choked him harder than the dampness. He could take a sword, ride to the city, and drag the healer by force. But the guard... He had no chance against the city guard.

  “But there is other news,” Karl thrust a hand behind the lapel of his livery. An envelope appeared. It looked like an alien element in this room. Thick, cream paper, smooth as silk. A red wax seal—fat, glistening. And the smell. As soon as Karl produced the letter, the scent of mold and dampness retreated. The envelope smelled of expensive, sickly-sweet perfume. Lavender, musk, and something elusive that Cohen called "the smell of prosperity."

  “From whom?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. The crest on the seal—scales balanced by a sword—was nauseatingly familiar.

  “Johan Van der Hoof,” Karl said with a tinge of disgust. “Hans met his courier at the bridge. He didn't even ride up to the castle, afraid to dirty his boots. Threw the letter in the mud and galloped off.”

  Cohen took the envelope. The paper was unpleasantly warm to the touch, as if it retained the heat of the sender's greasy hands. He broke the seal. The crunch of wax sounded like a gunshot.

  He unfolded the letter and brought it to the candle. The handwriting was ornate, with many curls and flourishes—the handwriting of a man drunk on his own literacy.

  *“My amiable neighbor and friend, Baron Cohen!”* the first lines read.

  “Friend,” the Baron grinned venomously. “He calls me friend while his vultures circle my house.”

  He read on, his face growing paler with every line. *“With deep sorrow, I hear of the hardships that have befallen your ancient abode. Winter is near, and your barns, as they say in the city, are empty, and cold walks the halls where kings once feasted. My heart bleeds at the thought of your plight...”*

  “Get to the point,” Cohen whispered, scanning the empty phrases of politeness.

  *“...Therefore, moved by Christian charity and respect for the memory of your father, I repeat my offer. My daughter, Amalia, a flower of youth, needs a worthy setting. You, my dear Baron, need means to restore the luster to your name. I am ready to pay all your father's debts. I am ready to send a brigade of craftsmen and materials to repair the roof and walls. I am ready to provision the castle for two winters in advance. And, knowing of the illness of your little servant, I will immediately dispatch the best doctor from the Capital with all necessary medicines to you...”*

  Cohen froze. Doctor. Medicines. Toby's life. He looked up at Karl. The old servant stood motionless, but his gaze was fixed on the letter with an expression of doomed hope. He knew what was written there.

  “He knows about Toby,” Cohen said quietly. “This spider has ears everywhere. He's using a child's life as a trump card.”

  *“...In return, I ask only one thing. Your hand for my daughter. And the signing of a marriage contract, according to which the title of Baron Prust, in the absence of direct male heirs from you, passes to my grandson born of this marriage. I await your answer by dawn. Sincerely yours, Johan.”*

  Cohen slowly lowered the letter onto the table, right into a puddle of ink.

  “He wants to buy me, Karl. Like a stud horse.”

  “He offers a way out, My Lord,” Karl's voice trembled. “Toby... he won't survive the night without help.”

  “A way out?!” Cohen spun around, throwing the letter into the fireplace. But the damp wood didn't accept the paper; it just fell onto the ash, remaining a white spot on black. “This isn't a way out! It's a sale! He wants to mix my blood with his! He wants the Snow Lion crest to hang over his shop! He wants my children to call a merchant who got rich selling rotten cloth to the army 'Grandfather'!”

  The Baron walked to the window. The skin on his shoulders shone, but inside him was darkness. He understood he was cornered. If he refused, Toby dies. And that would be on his conscience. The castle would collapse finally this winter. They would all die of hunger and cold, proud and undefeated. If he agreed—he is fed, Toby lives. But Cohen Prust ceases to exist as a person. He becomes "Amalia Hoof's husband." The merchant's lapdog.

  “Leave me,” he rasped without turning.

  “My Lord...”

  “Get out!”

  Karl bowed and left, quietly closing the door. Cohen remained alone. Hoof's letter lay in the fireplace, untouched by fire, as if even the flames disdained to touch it. Toby was dying downstairs. Hoof awaited an answer in the city. And Cohen stood by the window, looking into the darkness where the wind raged, feeling the noose tightening around his neck.