Chapter 476: A Stroll Toward the Port

Chapter 475: A Stroll Toward the Port

While Lyria remained with Lucian, the maids and guards busied themselves about the inn, setting it to rights as best they could.

Corvin, however, made no secret of his displeasure.

He had been served porridge, the very same porridge that had been prepared for everyone, the same porridge the townspeople had laboured to make, the same porridge that had been carried to every room and offered to every one without distinction. And, to no one’s surprise, he found it insulting.

"A man of my position," he announced loudly, "ought not to be expected to dine upon porridge. It is an affront to my station. It is an insult to everything I stand for. I should be treated with the highest courtesy, not handed a bowl of peasant slop."

No one spared him a glance, nor offered him any answer.

His guard and his valet, standing nearby, murmured their agreement, but the others simply continued about their labours as though he had not spoken at all.

Evander had emerged from his chamber at some point. He had attempted to assist in the arranging of the common room, the emphasis lying firmly upon attempted, for Elara had refused him outright.

"This is no task for one of your station," she had said, with a firmness that permitted no argument. "You shall allow the rest of us to do the work."

Evander could not argue further, for Elara had never once given him the chance to do so, and he knew from long experience that, whatever he might say to her, she would not suffer him to labour. And so he inclined his head and made his way behind the bar, where several bottles of wine and spirits had been arranged upon the shelf, all of them empty, a few still bearing their labels.

He was studying one of them, his fingers resting upon the clear glass of a bottle with a narrow neck and a faded label though he could make out the name.

For a moment, he simply regarded it. Then his senses registered someone approaching.

He did not turn. He remained where he was, the bottle still in his hand, until the person had reached him.

"Some years ago, this vodka was coveted by an extraordinary number of persons. Not merely by those who possessed more money than sense, though they were certainly among its most enthusiastic admirers, but by gentlemen whose cellars contained spirits that would have been accounted a fortune in their own right."

He turned the bottle slightly between his fingers.

"It enjoyed a remarkable reputation. Its chief virtue was its purity, or so the connoisseurs insisted. Many vodkas of that period possessed a harshness that lingered upon the tongue, particularly when they had been distilled without sufficient care. This one was said to be astonishingly smooth, with a clean finish that neither overwhelmed the palate nor left behind the unpleasant burn one might expect from a spirit of such strength. It was not a drink that demanded attention through sweetness, or some extravagant flavouring. Its appeal lay in the absence of anything that ought not to have been there."

Alistair’s gaze shifted to the bottle.

"That sounds a rather particular distinction," he said.

"It was precisely the distinction for which people were willing to pay," Evander replied. "The water, the distillation, the method of filtration: no one could agree upon which was responsible for its quality, because no one knew where it was produced. Its makers were never identified, and those who claimed to possess the secret were generally discovered to be selling something considerably less remarkable. Nevertheless, the vodka took the world by storm. For a time, to possess a bottle was almost as important as to possess a fine vintage wine, and its price rose accordingly."

Alistair reached out and took the bottle from him, studying the faded label.

"Petrograd Vintage," he murmured. "I cannot say I recall such a drink."

"You would not," Evander replied. "It was popular some forty years ago. Then, quite suddenly, it became less so. No one knew what had happened. The producers simply vanished, and the drink faded into memory."

He tilted his head slightly.

"I remember it rather well. My father very nearly whipped my sister and myself for destroying the last bottle he possessed, which I must point out was entirely her fault, for I was but six years of age at the time."

Alistair laughed, then placed the bottle back upon the shelf.

"Of course it would never be your fault," he said, his gaze upon Evander.

Evander shrugged. "I am a child, or was one, of exemplary behaviour. The greater part of the mischief was my elder sister’s doing."

Alistair studied him. "You are close, are you not, even with so great a gap of years between you?"

"What leads you to suppose so?" Evander asked.

"You speak of her so fondly. It is chiefly when you speak of her that one gains any insight into what you were as a child," Alistair told him.

Evander made a face at that, but instead of answering, he said, "What brought you to seek me out?"

"Would you be inclined to take a stroll?" Alistair asked.

Evander raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

Alistair gestured towards the shelf where the bottle had been returned.

"Is it not curious," he said, "that a drink so coveted by so many for so many years should be found in a place most people have never visited?"

Evander glanced at the bottle.

"It is a bottle."

"Numerous bottles," Alistair corrected him. "Surely you noticed?"

Evander studied him a moment, then nodded.

"A stroll it is, then."

He came out from behind the bar, and together the two gentlemen made their way out of the inn.

There were no townspeople abroad, at least upon the path they took, and so they walked alone.

Alistair waited until they had gained some distance from the inn before speaking again.

"Have you discovered some quiet place where we might discuss matters?"

Evander did not break stride.

"There are numerous such places," he said. "The difficulty is that walls have ears, and the wind is a fearful thing, is it not? For who can say what secrets it might carry, uttered in comfort, to ears never meant to hear them."

Alistair nodded slowly.

"I understand that well enough. But I also know this: if one such as yourself does not wish a secret to be carried, then it shall never be carried."

Evander turned to him, one eyebrow raised.

"You trust me so much as that?"

"To some extent, yes. Which is precisely why I hope never to find myself upon your bad side." Alistair paused, then added, "But beyond that, I respect you. For all that you are."

Evander’s lips curved into a small smirk, and his voice was softer than was its custom.

"I am not so very impressive, if I am to be honest."

"I am paying you a compliment," Alistair said at once. "You should simply accept it."

Evander only laughed in reply.

"Where are we going?" Alistair asked him.

"To the port."

"You expect me to walk that distance?" Alistair asked. "Surely you know how far it lies. I did not come for exercise. I came to speak."

Evander laughed again.

"I am aware of that. And besides, we shall not reach the port. We need only walk in its general direction. Since we are already at some remove from the inn, you may say whatever you wish."

Alistair nodded.

Then, more quietly, he asked, "Have you noticed anything strange about the people of this town?"