“Understood.” Oleg nodded at the Poshani players. “You two are doing well.”
“Thank you.” Jodi nodded to the other player, a woman named Meri. “We’ve been practicing for weeks.”
Lazlo slapped one on the shoulder. “You haven’t embarrassed yourself.”
“Double-team Mika,” Oleg said. “Ignore Tatyana. She’s not confident enough with her mallet to take the ball.” He pointed at Jodi and Meri. “And you two move forward. We need to throw them off. Do you think you can hit the net?”
They exchanged a look. “Yes, captain,” the woman said. “We can score.”
Oleg glanced at the large clock near the horse-staging area where the grooms were tending the mounts. “Go. We have ten more minutes. Get some blood and keep loose.”
“Yes, captain.”
Ivan wandered off, chatting with Oksana, in a far better mood than what Oleg had seen in ages.
“We kill Ivan.”
“Just like that?”
Never. Never just like that. Playing chaugan with his brother had reminded Oleg of the good times. The camaraderie. The nights of?—
“Whatever sentimental drivel is circling your mind,” Lazlo muttered in Old Norse, “forget it.”
He cut his eyes toward his oldest brother. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.” Lazlo kept his voice low and continued in the old language. “You think I don’t see what’s happening? I hear the rumors, and I know who is spreading them. So does he.”
Oleg focused on adjusting his gloves. “I don’t know what you’re talking?—”
“It’s time.” Lazlo walked closer and tugged on the edge of Oleg’s kaftan. “Do you hear me?”
Oleg felt words catch in his throat. So he turned and scanned the crowds of people that were surrounding the field. “Have you ever thought about how ridiculous this is?”
Lazlo’s eyebrows went up. “What is ridiculous?”
“This empire. Even the idea of it.” He gestured at the crowd. “It’s absurd. What does a vampire who works with Lev on the Kamchatka Peninsula have in common with one of Pavel’s shipping officers? Or one of Juliya’s agronomists? All we share isa bloodline. We share no… affection. No language. No common traditions.”
“Bullshit,” Lazlo growled. “Besides, what do they need to have in common? They all work together, don’t they? Lev’s people need to eat. Juliya’s farmers grow the crops, and Pavel’s people ship it there.”
Oleg watched Tatyana from across the field. She was smiling, and her aura was bright and warm despite the chilling cold night. “The Poshani are spread apart in a diffuse, mobile territory, yet they have a very close clan. It is curious, is it not?”
Lazlo shook his head and continued in the old language. “We’re not the same as they are.”
“Do you think we could be?”
“No.” His brother was blunt. “We cannot be like them, and if you have thoughts about letting the empire break apart, perhaps Ivan is right that you have lost your stomach for leadership.”
Oleg’s eyes flashed. “What did you say?”
“I’m only repeating what that one” —Lazlo jerked his head toward Ivan, who had already mounted his horse farther up the field— “has been whispering to anyone who will listen. Saying that you’ve done so well over the past few centuries, but this move to legitimate business—this turn away from black markets—it’s too soft. Too appeasing.”
Oleg felt the fire lick along his collar. “I need to kill Ivan.”
“Good.” Lazlo walked over and tugged on Oleg’s kaftan. “Why have you been waiting? Did you want my permission, brother?”
Lazlo had been the one to finally descend the staircase. The one to finally tell Oleg that the bloodshed was over.
For so long, he’d thought it was over.
