The Dagger in the Table: What Vesna’s Bloodline Says About the Tsaritsa’s Snezhnaya

When Vesna drove the dagger into the table, the Rooster was on his third “calm down.”

The blade sank two inches into the hard wood. A thin crack crawled from the wound toward the teapot. The tendons in her neck stood taut; her chin was lifted. She wasn’t looking at the Rooster. She was looking at the cup of tea by the table’s edge, going cold. A film of oil floated on the surface, left over from the stewed meat.

“Say that again,” she said.

The Rooster moved his claws away from the hilt. He had been talking about something that happened five hundred years ago. Gluwasha, daughter of the first Wind Sprite Archduke, “the Pure One,” during the time the Tsaritsa ascended and fae of every kind were rebelling. Gluwasha had tried to copy her mother’s trick: stand in the middle and work both sides. First she publicly condemned the Tsaritsa’s tyranny and drove out the Tsaritsa’s envoy, and the rebel fae clapped her on the shoulder and cheered. Then she sorted her intelligence neatly and put it on the Tsaritsa’s desk.

“Sounds loyal enough,” Vesna said.

“If the Tsaritsa hadn’t crushed the Beast-Monster Archduke quickly,” the Rooster said, “who do you think your family’s blade would’ve pointed at?”

Vesna said nothing. She pulled the dagger out and stabbed it back in, half an inch deeper this time.

The Rooster went on to Gluwasha’s mother. Before the White Sand Emperor had unified anything, the Blood-Drinker of the Beast-Monster Alliance massacred water sprites. One of his old generals spoke up in protest, and his wife and daughter were subjected to the blood eagle. That night the old general went to the Pure One and said he wanted to defect. By morning he had been poisoned in the guest room.

The Pure One gave the Blood-Drinker military secrets enough to topple the White Sand Emperor. The same day, she carried the old general’s coffin to the White Sand Emperor, wept in his court, and said the Blood-Drinker had treacherously poisoned this loyal man.

The two sides went to war.

After the White Sand Emperor won, Filippov came to see the Pure One with a sword. That sword later hung at Odetta’s waist. Filippov set it on the table; the scabbard knocked off a chip of lacquer. He said: Your little trick of inciting the water sprites to assassinate the White Sand Emperor is about enough. If you don’t show where you stand, you’ll be settled sooner or later.

The Pure One smiled and pushed a cup of tea toward him. It was filled to the brim and didn’t spill. She said: I am two-faced. The assassination was my method as a string-puller. Since the White Sand Emperor won, of course I pledge allegiance. But don’t think evidence means much. My Stravisha family has influence everywhere and has always been known for loyalty. You too. Let it go.

Filippov laughed loudly and said the sword was a trophy granted by the court. The two shook hands.

Vesna pulled the dagger out and wiped the tip on her sleeve. The tip had wax from the table on it.

“What happened to Gluwasha after that?”

“She had merit, gave up her title, and retired. The family declined for a while.”

“Why?”

The Rooster didn’t answer directly. He said your mother’s tricks worked in the White Sand Emperor’s time. He didn’t pay attention. The Tsaritsa does.

Vesna sheathed the dagger. She stood and walked to the window, looking out. Morning court had just let out. A human representative from the Council was coming down the steps with a stack of documents in his arms; nearby, a fae noble was picking at his nails, then flicked something away. Across the street, a line had formed at the Northland Bank counter. An old man in a patched coat looked at his passbook three times, over and over. Further off, at the alley mouth, the Howling Society’s wooden sign hung, with a new notice pasted below it about grain prices somewhere.

“What about the Fatui?” Vesna asked.

“The Winter Covenant Army was in Wind Sprite hands then,” the Rooster said. “The fae nobles looked down on humans. Who was the Tsaritsa supposed to rely on?”

Vesna didn’t answer. She thought of the things Filins had told her, how fae nobles treated human servants like air at dinner tables. She thought of the human officials in the Tsaritsa’s morning court, seats toward the front, their words recorded. She thought of how badly the Rich Man had been cursed when the Northland Bank first opened; now the old man in the patched coat at the counter was gripping his passbook hard enough to sweat.

“Rhinedottir came by a while ago,” the Rooster said.

“I know.”

“She said the Heavenly Principles erased the Tsaritsa’s existence from Irminsul.”

Vesna turned. “You remember Scaramouche? Irminsul erased him, and the descriptions became Kabukimono, nameless bladesmith. If it really erased him clean, why is there no one in the current White Sand Emperor plot who became a ‘nameless Wind Sprite’?”

The Rooster didn’t answer.

“What did the Tsaritsa say after she heard Rhinedottir?”

“She put the chess piece in her hand back on the board and said, ‘The snow in Snezhnaya came early this year.’”

Vesna laughed. Not her usual impish laugh. A short one, from the nose.

“So all those people saying the Tsaritsa did all this for the Third Descender…”

“Rhinedottir’s words are half true and half false,” the Rooster said. “Plenty of exaggeration. The Tsaritsa doesn’t take pressure. She only cares about Snezhnaya’s survival.”

Vesna walked back to the table, poured the dregs from the teapot into her cup, and drank it in one go. The tea was cold. The oil film clung to the cup’s wall.

“Does my family’s land deed still count?”

The Rooster froze for a moment.

“After Gluwasha retired,” Vesna said, “they didn’t take the land, did they?”

“No. The Tsaritsa didn’t touch it.”

“All right.” Vesna drew the dagger from its sheath, spun it between her fingers, tip down, and drove it back into the old crack in the table. It fit exactly. “Tomorrow at morning court, I’ll go pay the taxes.”

The Rooster looked at her.

“What are you looking at,” Vesna said. “I’m not stupid. My mother’s tricks worked in the White Sand Emperor’s time. The Tsaritsa is strict. I drew the knife to ask clearly. Now that it’s clear, I’ll do what needs doing.”

She picked up the teapot and shook it. Empty. “Tell me again how bloody the blood eagle was. I’ll note it down for when I write the family history.”

The Rooster’s feathers puffed up.

“Joking,” Vesna said. “You talk, I’m listening. But first call for a hot pot. This tea’s as cold as the Tsaritsa’s chessboard.”