Rochefoucauld slapped his forehead in frustration.
"God, why didn't you tell me earlier? I bought three of the most expensive spots from the Queue Party..."
"It's fine." Potier pointed toward the square. "With so many people here today, they should be easy to resell."
At a small tavern in the northern outskirts of Saint Petersburg, Chaddov, his skin cracked and dry, pulled his collar tighter and looked toward the young man in a tattered leather jacket by the door.
"Frolov, haven't they arrived yet?"
The freezing wind outside let out a shrill howl. The young man shoved the door shut and turned around.
"Huh? What did you say?"
"Those noble lords." Chaddov took a drink and frowned. "They haven't decided not to come because they're scared, have they?"
Amid a series of crunching footsteps on snow, the tavern door was pushed open. A tall young man in an old Military Uniform entered with a blast of bone-chilling wind.
Frolov was about to shut the door when he noticed that two more people had followed him in.
"What are they here for?" He immediately reached warily for the axe behind the door.
"Relax. They're my friends. Completely trustworthy."
Chaddov hesitated, then gestured. "Come in, all of you. But this isn't what we agreed upon, Lieutenant."
"I'm no longer a Lieutenant." The tall young man casually found a chair and sat down, looking around at the others in the room.
Chaddov pointed to the brown-haired man nearest him.
"Dmitry Rogov. He held the line in Switzerland for two days and one night, but the Prussians never came to relieve them as promised."
His finger moved on. "Kirill Tikhonov. He was scattered by the cavalry in Karlsruhe.
"And over there is Peter Litkin. He was also on the Baden battlefield when..."
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