Chapter 216: How to Incite Distrust
The senior delegates had just started toward the corridor when Siban checked the timing again.
The Chernigov security man was midway through the far side of his route, facing the high table where Yuri’s steward organized the consultation order. Siban had tracked the route throughout the evening. One complete sweep took forty-five seconds. From the guard’s current position, it would take the full cycle before his attention returned to the corridor entrance.
That was his window.
Traffic through the corridor had stopped after the last servant carried the preparation materials inside. The stretch between the hall tables and the wine station stood open now. A servant crossing that floor would attract no notice.
Siban studied Gleb’s cup.
Three-quarters empty.
A servant would refill it automatically. No one in the hall would question that.
He picked up the cup and started walking.
Most of the hall remained focused on the high table and the delegations gathering into consultation order and servants still moved between tables with the last preparations for the evening. One more servant crossing the floor would vanish into the rhythm of the hall.
As he walked, Siban kept track of the security man through the edge of his vision.
Still watching the high table.
Good.
He counted steps.
Fifteen from Gleb’s table to the wine station.
The corridor entrance would come at step thirteen on his right, where the timber frame met the first torch bracket.
At step eight, he reviewed the document again.
He already knew every line. He had written it himself during the week of preparation. Even so, he forced himself through the contents once more, checking it the way a man checked a bridge before crossing it. Once this began, there would be no pulling it back.
The document had been prepared as a fragment of internal council correspondence. The lower portion had been torn away deliberately, as though the page had separated from a larger packet during transit.
The opening line identified both sender and recipient clearly.
To the Starosta of the Inner Council, from Ondrey Borshich, in the matter of the Chernigov agreement.
The wording afterward had been chosen with care.
The terms reached with the Chernigov representative regarding the Klyazma boundary have been accepted by the prince’s council in private session. Their pledge of soldiers is secured on the condition that Ryazan supports Chernigov’s claim against Vladimir’s position on the disputed territory. Vladimir’s commitment of forces must now be obtained before their delegation becomes aware of this arrangement. The Starosta will ensure this correspondence does not
The tear cut the sentence there.
That too was on purpose. The missing lower section would have carried the signature.
Ondrey Borshich was real. So was the Starosta. Both men existed within Ryazan’s nobility. Siban had confirmed that before he ever put ink to parchment. If someone checked the names, the document needed to survive scrutiny long enough to do damage.
Satisfied, he folded the paper flat inside his sleeve again and continued on.
Step thirteen brought him level with the corridor entrance. The wine station waited ahead.
He walked one step farther than necessary before turning toward the server.
His back now faced the center of the hall. The security man would see only a servant’s coat, not his face.
To Siban’s right, near the floor, the timber frame met the stone foundation. A narrow crack ran along the joint, barely two fingers wide.
Enough.
He bent one knee slightly, copying the motion of a servant adjusting a loose boot strap after hours on his feet. At the same time, his hand slipped the folded document from the seam inside his coat and pressed it into the gap.
The crack took the paper and held it.
Only the top edge remained visible against the floor.
Siban straightened at once.
"Fill this one," he said, holding out the cup. "My lord’s cup."
The Rus dialect came automatically. Shortened vowels, simpler grammar. The speech of a man who knew the language well enough to work in it, but not well enough to belong to it.
The wine server glanced at the cup and nothing more.
"A moment."
He filled it and handed it back without looking up from the task.
Siban turned and crossed the hall again.
As he moved, he checked Natalya’s position.
She had remained near Gleb’s table all evening in her role as first attendant. The placement kept her close to the household servants assigned to the lesser tables. One of them, a woman named Anya, had worked the nearby section since the feast began.
Until now, Natalya and Anya had exchanged nothing beyond ordinary servant acknowledgments. Familiarity would attract notice.
Now Natalya stood close to her.
Her posture told Siban immediately that the exchange had begun. A slight lean forward. Hesitation in the shoulders. Voice lowered beneath the noise of the hall. An uncertain expression.
Siban could not hear the words from across the room.
He did not need to.
They had prepared the exchange beforehand.
"I don’t think I should say anything," Natalya murmured, avoiding Anya’s eyes, "but near our table, I heard something about an arrangement with Chernigov. Something about the Klyazma boundary, and Vladimir not being told."
She hesitated on purpose.
"Maybe I heard wrong. I probably heard wrong."
Anya’s expression tightened at once.
Good.
Confusion first. Then concern.
She caught Natalya’s arm. "Wait, what arrangement? What exactly did you hear?"
Natalya pulled back immediately, raising one hand as if she already regretted speaking at all.
"Nothing. I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me."
Then she withdrew toward Gleb’s table with her head lowered, carrying herself like a servant trying to escape a mistake before it reached the wrong ears.
Anya remained where she was.
That was the important part.
Enough to create suspicion, but not enough to resolve it. The mind would keep worrying at the gap on its own.
Siban returned to his place behind Gleb’s chair and replaced the cup.
Gleb never looked up.
He did not need to. The returned cup confirmed the task was finished. Nothing else about the exchange mattered.
Siban turned his attention toward the corridor entrance.
The document remained hidden beside the door frame, nearly invisible against the floor. The Chernigov security man had already completed another sweep and moved toward the eastern side of the hall. He had no reason to check the entrance now.
The transition into the consultations had steadied. The senior delegations were inside the private chambers. The lesser guests remained in the main hall, their conversations quieter now as the feast drifted toward its final stretch.
Siban waited.
The aide emerged from the corridor later than expected.
Siban adjusted at once. Either the consultation order had taken longer to organize, or Fedor Danilovich had delayed entering the chambers.
The distinction did not matter.
The aide moved quickly, a document case tucked beneath one arm and a loose sheet in the other hand. He carried himself like a man trying to recover lost time.
Then his left boot struck the edge of the concealed paper.
The contact broke his stride before he consciously understood why.
He stopped.
His eyes dropped to the floor.
Good.
He crouched and picked up the folded document. The motion was practiced and efficient. The moment his fingers recognized parchment, his eyes were already scanning for text before the page had fully opened.
To the Starosta of the Inner Council, from Ondrey Borshich, in the matter of the Chernigov agreement. The terms reached with the Chernigov representative regarding the Klyazma boundary have been accepted by the prince’s council in private session.
