The archduke Azazel leaned back in Sammael’s second-favorite chair, crossed his legs at the ankle, and smirked into his coffee.
“He is the laughingstock of the demon realms,” Azazel said, his smile widening. “First that half-dead Shadow of yours stabbed him in the heart. And then the Lisovyki wrapped him up in vines like a parcel and left him to untangle himself. Can you imagine? An entire army regiment drowned by a single Mavka, and their leader trussed up by a walking tree?”
Sammael made a noncommittal sound, dipping a spoonful of rendered sin-honey into his own cup and stirring. Azazel had been going on about his favorite topic—Gadreel’s fall from grace—for a solid half-hour now, and it was beginning to wear on Sammael’s nerves. He was as enthusiastic about Gadreel’s downfall as the next demon, but rehashing its particulars did nothing to advance their cause. Still, he needed Azazel, who had served at Gadreel’s right hand for millennia, so he did his best to mask his irritation.
“Your reconnaissance was nicely done,” he said, sipping his tea. Sin-honey took on the flavor of whatever had infused it: lust, greed, sloth. He preferred his tea with a moral aftertaste—unlike Azazel, who’d been dumping Sammael’s best blood-spiced molasses into his coffee as if it were milk from a common cow rather than the prized essence of sugarcane, grown in soil soaked with Shadow-blood. “I know you wish to act. But for now, your purpose is to observe and report. We will convert Dimi Ivanova to our side, without the use of force. The more we know about our enemy, the easier that will be.”
Azazel leaned forward and helped himself to yet another heaping spoonful of molasses, and Sammael winced. He’d have to remind Abahoth not to put out their finest refreshments next time. His valet had been so excited to have company that he’d gone overboard. This particular vintage of molasses was several millennia old, from a battle outside Povorino that had also yielded a nice crop of bone-ash embers, excellent for flavoring stew. Sammael had been hoarding it for years, and now there were no more than two spoonfuls left in the decanter.
In case he’d ever needed confirmation that Gadreel ran his realm like a hedonistic wastrel, here sat the proof, guzzling molasses-laced brimstone coffee like a pelican gulping fish.
“This coffee is excellent,” Azazel mused. “Far better than anything I’ve had since the Fall. It tastes of clove and smoke, with an aftertaste of pepper. Where did you acquire it?”
He eyed Sammael over the rim of his cup, as if his continued allegiance depended on the answer. With a sigh, Sammael capitulated.
“I have it grown for my own purposes, on the slopes of the volcanoes to the west. The ground is infused with hellfire, and the humidity is ideal. It’s an excellent environment to cultivate soulfruit, as well. But that is neither here nor there.” Glad to have an excuse to do it, he snapped his fingers for Abahoth to remove the refreshment tray. All eleven of his valet’s eyes widened at the sight of the depleted decanter of molasses, and he whisked it away without asking if Azazel would care for dessert.
“What we need now,” Sammael said, leaning forward, “is for you to marshal your forces. How many soldiers do you have under your command?”
Azazel gave a careless wave of his hand. Unfortunately, this was the hand that held the cup, and coffee splashed onto Sammael’s Mavka-woven rug. In the corner, Abahoth emitted an alarmed squeak, like a stepped-on mouse, and scurried from the room.
First Elena. Now the archduke of one of the Underworld’s largest realms, who really ought to know better. At this rate, Sammael’s scrying room would look no better than Gadreel’s throne room, which had been decimated by the Darkness.
“Twenty thousand, six hundred, and forty-two,” Azazel announced, lifting his feet so that Abahoth, who had returned with a rag, could sop up the mess. “That includes those soldiers who defected with me, as well as those that you have placed under my command since my arrival. The Dimi and her entourage travel east, toward Volshetska Fortress and the edge of the realm. Are you sure you don’t wish for me to interfere?”
Sammael shook his head. “The forest parts for them, opening the way, and closes behind them again. Judging by the reception Gadreel received, there is no reason to believe we would be treated any differently. But I do have a plan…”
“They seek the Magiya.” The archduke set his half-empty cup down on a side table, neglecting to use a coaster. “And you intend to let them reach it?”
Giving Sammael a sidelong glance, Abahoth snatched the cup before it could defile the wood and slid it onto a polished circle of bone. How much longer must we endure this oaf’s presence? the look clearly communicated.
It was time to bring this meeting to a close, before all eight of his valet’s heads imploded. “I cannot do much to stop it,” he said, getting to his feet. “The forest protects them, as you yourself have witnessed. But I have conceived of a way to bring our two quarries together—the Dimi we seek and your former commander.” And the Shadow Niko Alekhin, of course, for where Katerina Ivanova went, her faithful dog followed.
“And then?” Azazel said, snatching his cup from the coaster and taking another obnoxious gulp.
Sammael was unaccustomed to having to explain himself. He wasn’t inclined to do so now, except that he required this lout’s cooperation. “Then,” he said, with painstaking precision, “we will have them both where we want them. Gadreel has been blundering about, making a mess of things from Kalach to the eastern forests. I need a way to predict where he’s going to be, and to place him there on my terms.”
His mouth full of coffee, Azazel made a harrumphing sort of sound. “What has this to do with me?” he said when he’d swallowed.
Sammael fought the urge to dump the dregs over his head. If this was the sort of insubordination Gadreel had encouraged, no wonder his realm was on the precipice of disaster. “You know his personal quarters well, do you not?”
Azazel leveled him with a narrow, suspicious stare. “Of course.”
“Good. I want you to infiltrate them.”
The archduke gave an indignant sputter. “You wish me to act as a common spy?”
“I wish you to act as an intelligencer.” In Lilith’s name, this man was impossible. “There is something he has, something we can turn to our advantage.”
“I see. Exactly how would you know what he has in his bedchamber?” Azazel tilted his head, regarding Sammael with unmistakable suspicion, as if he suspected his commanding officer of the deepest sort of perfidy.
Sammael suppressed a sigh. While it was true he had made some unfortunate amorous choices over the years, he would rather sever his own wings than lie with the Dark Angel of War. “Oh, wipe that look off your face,” he said, glowering at the archduke. “He absconded with a valuable item of mine some time ago, and has been bragging about it ever since. I’m sure he’s kept it close, and if he hasn’t, finding it is your job. Here, I have a spell for you.” He gestured at Abahoth, who scooped up an onyx rune-stone from the nearest bookshelf and scurried over, placing it in Azazel’s palm.
Gadreel’s former second-in-command stared down at it, unimpressed. “What is this?”
Sammael was hardly surprised at his ignorance; the demon had spent millennia in Gadreel’s court, and the Dark Angel of War did not deal in subtle magic. Gadreel had always found such dallying to be beneath him, preferring instead to march in and chop off heads until he got what he wanted. Well, let him mock Sammael’s fondness for books all he liked; arcane knowledge might win this war if brute force could not.
“It holds all you need. Here is what I want you to do,” he told Azazel, and laid the plan out for him, using short sentences, as that seemed his best chance of ensuring success.
