Operational Hazards

The roaring fire spluttered and hissed when the man shouldered the door open, the howling winds outside whipping past his fluttering cloak and into the warm common room. Tenants flinched and pulled their clothing tighter against their shoulders, huddling over their bowls of hot soup as refuge against the cold.

“Master Baryatinsky, good to see you again,” the innkeeper said, coming forward. He was a large, jolly man with a love of the cold, a necessity in climes as harsh as these. “May I take your cloak?”

The other man wordlessly handed the heavy garment, laden with clumps of snow, to the innkeeper. He nodded his thanks, and, as he had done before, slipped upstairs to his room without any further interaction. The innkeeper didn’t mind: if his tenants couldn’t be social, then he was equally pleased to find them respectful and quiet. And, of course, up front with their money.

Grigori unlocked the door and stepped inside. Yakov, from his seat on the bed, eyed the snow on his mutton chops without comment. He was arranging papers around him, examining each page and then sorting them according to usefulness. To date, little had proven useful.

“Any luck?” he asked. His accent was faint and fake, but when most people were too concerned with what the snowfall would do to their roofs, or if the growing ice would harm their boats, this did not arouse much suspicion. He was almost certain that most would not even notice if they began speaking with Oriental accents; not that they would, considering how important their work was. Neither of the two were enjoying their assignment, but such things hardly mattered.

“No,” Grigori answered, and removed his gloves, placing them upon the desk. Yakov waited. His companion unlaced his hat and took that off as well, staring off into space as he arranged his thoughts. When he had hung the hat neatly beside the door, he turned.

“All of them recognize each other.” One of Yakov’s brows lifted, and not in contradiction. He considered this information as Grigori pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down, his body facing the locked door and feet planted firmly on the floor. Yakov didn’t bother asking if that meant that even the stablehands and maids knew one another: they had been working together for a long time now, and he knew that Grigori’s words were so few and far between because they were as efficient as they were truthful.

He lifted one of the papers, the door still visible beyond the edge of the page, and skimmed it quickly. It was a disappointing review: dated several weeks ago, it nonetheless contained about as much information about the royal family than they had now. The soon-to-be Queen Elsa was to be coronated the following summer, and yet their weeks of surveillance had turned up little more than rumors of rumors, town gossip and tight, polite smiles from household servants who sadly informed them that no, they were not hiring, but they appreciated their interest. Taking jobs in town had proven just as fruitless: all deliveries to the castle were met with profuse thanks before they were brought inside and the messenger handed a fat purse before being shown off the grounds quickly. Their options had rapidly been whittled down to silent reconnaissance, watches taken up during the day and night from the hills overlooking the fjord, peering at the far-off lights through telescopes trained on the many windows.

Yakov knew that this was frustrating Grigori, for he was even more tight-lipped than usual. This most recent acknowledgement of failure was sure to have the larger man in what amounted to a dignified sulk for days.

He set the paper aside and gave his companion his full attention. Grigori was perfectly attentive, sitting straight in his chair, but his hands had fallen to his lap and were rubbing together silently. Yakov suspected his palms were itching to hold a weapon, but the cleverly concealed crossbows were to be used only in the most dire of circumstances: it would be a poor show indeed to be caught with them in hand while posing as a pair of Russian brothers in need of work. Their hunting knives would be sufficient for most threats.

“And you?” Grigori asked. Well. That was a bit faster than he’d expected, but Yakov could be flexible.

“If there exist external blueprints, they are guarded just as jealously as the royal family.” He rubbed his jaw. They had begun building a blueprint of the castle themselves, but there is nothing like the real thing, lined with creases and illegible notes of the original architect, detailing rooms and hallways and walls and ceilings with thin lines in pencil, along with hidden weaknesses and secret doors in the spaces between those lines.

Grigori made a noise of agreement. He watched Yakov as he drew the papers together and straightened them against his knee before slipping them into a disguised compartment within one of their bags.

“Yakov,” he said, and the man looked up. A moment later he exhaled shortly and grinned as Grigori gave him a look.

“I like Russian names,” he said defensively, twirling the pen between his fingers like he would a knife, and Grigori snorted. “Oh?” he continued. “Did you want to be the one to come up with codenames, then?”

Gregori tilted his head thoughtfully in response.

“I would allow it,” Yakov answered, “if you could come up with more than just Smith and Weston.”

Grigori shrugged his broad shoulders. His lips were motionless, but there was a twinkle in his eye that was reserved for very few in this world, and Yakov considered himself a lucky man to be amongst those precious few.

He rose and clapped his hand on the burly man’s shoulder. “Come. If we cannot be productive, we may as well be merry. I understand our favorite innkeeper wants to learn to sing in Russian.”

Gregori’s chest rumbled with his laughter as he stood, and the pair of them left the room and its disappointments behind, headed for the light and warmth and companionship below.