1: Ten Years Ago

Andéfi is one of the top agents in the NDOA, Dézélîn's national security agency. And as such, he has been given the dubious honor of playing guard for their troublesome emperor.

Emperor Yáda Ómevéi, sixth of his name, is not an especially clever man, though he certainly thinks he is. This alone would not have condemned him; no ruler is truly meant to rule alone after all. So long as he had sense enough to heed the expertise of others, there would be no true sin in his ignorance. Unfortunately, Emperor Yáda does not like his lack of intellect to be made obvious, and so rather than listen to wise counsel, he has the annoying habit of doing the opposite of what he is told.

When encouraged to marry so as to have someone to manage his household while he deals with the tedious bureaucracy of ruling, he instead empties the royal purse into the pockets of prostitutes. When advised to auction off the lands and property that has defaulted to the crown's possession so as to pay off the crown's debts and return the land to the people, he instead hoards it for "royal projects" that do not exist for reasons no one has been able to discern. When asked to lower taxes on food imports so as to make up a local deficit that occurred mostly due a poor harvest season, he instead drafts some insane law that would invalidate nearly all foreign trade agreements in their entirety and attempts to strong-arm his advisors into signing off on it.

It was at this point that many at the NDOA thought it prudent to step in, Andéfi included, and the Inner Circle——the wise counsel that the emperor has thus far been ignoring——didn't see a reason to protest. And even if they knew the truth, they have been too alienated to care much for the NDOA true plans.

Of course, by now, the emperor has cultivated a very long list of people who wish to see him dead. Assigning a skilled guard to protect him would be more than plausible, expected even. Andéfi, however, is not particularly inspired to prevent any attempts that might occur, less so after spending a month shadowing the man.

The NDOA placing an agent like Andéfi in a position so close to the emperor could be nothing else but a warning. Albeit, a warning Yáda is too stupid to notice, let alone heed. Since his placement, Andéfi has not seen any remorse or even awareness from Yáda of how his hideous actions affect their country. In fact, he seems all too eager to double down, adding amendment after amendment to his ridiculous proposal that would see the lifeblood further squeezed from Dézélîn and her citizens.

Andéfi even launched an investigation to try to determine who was poisoning Yáda's mind with such foolish plans, but he found no evidence that the man was being influenced by anyone. It only made it all the more disgusting that he called himself their emperor. At least if he had been being puppeteer-ed, it would have absolved him of any true evil. Instead, when he dies, the whole of their country will be hoping his cruelty isn't genetic. It is more than shameful, and yet, the man feels no shame.

And so, today is the day that Andéfi decided to put Yáda's foul spirit to rest, so as to prevent his atrocious proposal from making ti to true law in tomorrow’s counsel meeting. But the man has been inordinately twitchy, foiling several of Andéfi's assassination attempts before he could even think to put them into action.

This morning, Yáda dismissed all persons from his presence——Andéfi was tasked with standing outside and relaying this information to everyone that attempted to call on him——and he locked himself inside his office. The only exceptions were Andéfi, the chef, and Yáda's personal manservant, and even then, they were only allowed in during meals, which Yáda demanded be served in the silver dishes normally reserved for feasts. The reason for this exception? He wanted the three of them to test every plate for poison. It was a waste of time for the chef (who is responsible for the making of meals for everyone in the palace) and the manservant (who is responsible for the emperor's household in the absence of a spouse) when Andéfi himself would be sufficient, not that Andéfi believes Yáda is aware of their responsibilities nor believes that he would care if he was. The moment they had finished this task, Yáda would lock them all out again, no matter what protests they presented.

Andéfi had wondered what the man could possibly be doing in his office all day because surely it wasn’t work. Not only did Yáda seem allergic to work in general (unless it suited his aims, of course), but he had locked out anyone who might give him even a blank piece of paper to sign. Let alone all the reports he should have been reading. Even if he did have old paperwork piled up in there, which didn’t sound unlikely, it certainly matter because he wouldn’t allow anyone in to deliver the documents to their recipients.

Yáda ends up spending all day and much of the night in this strange isolation. It is well after midnight when he finally allows Andéfi to escort him back to his chambers. It is also around this time that Andéfi decides to abandon subtlety and just stab the man once they are alone with minimal risk of witnesses. And then, Yáda’s out of character paranoia makes another untimely appearance.

Upon arriving at his bedchambers, he orders his staff to clean the room spotless while he supervises. He has them wipe down the walls, then the floor, then the ceiling. He demands all the rugs be fully shampooed, all the curtains and bedding replaced with completely new and undyed linens, and all the wooden furnishings cleaned thoroughly with a damp cloth and then dabbed dry with towels.

The entire process takes hours and much of it is done by staff that had already been asleep. By the withering looks they are sending Yáda’s way, they seem all too ready to do Andéfi’s job for him.

When, finally, everything has been done to Yáda’s impossible standards, the household staff is allowed to leave and only Andéfi and Yáda remain. Despite his best efforts, something of Andéfi’s incredulity must show on his face because, upon glancing his direction, Yáda feels compelled to explain.

“You must think me insane,” he says. Andéfi doesn’t reply because the truth is he does and that would be inappropriate to admit. Yáda continues. “I am not,” he declares, “I am only enlightened.”

Andéfi doesn’t know whether to scoff or encourage Yáda to speak more. Despite himself, he is curious to know what this man would consider ‘enlightenment’ and wonders briefly if something has somehow given the NDOA’s plans away. He decides it is better to know for sure.

“If I may be so bold as to make demand of my emperor, how have you been enlightened, yôn kim élm?” Andéfi takes care to keep his voice demure and respectful when he addresses Yáda, hoping to stroke his ego.

The man does not reply immediately, occupied instead with beginning the arduous process of disrobing himself. Arduous because he insists on wearing full regalia, even when that level of formality isn’t required. Andéfi supposes it makes him feel more important to require the assistance of servants to be dressed every morning. Luckily, such assistance isn’t necessary to take it off, else Andéfi suspects such a job would fall to him.

Eventually, Yáda asks, “Do you keep up with the politics of the Duchies?”

This is so far from what Andéfi expects Yáda to say that it takes him a moment to even recall the answer. “...Somewhat,” he says, which is a gross understatement. He works for their country’s national security agency. It is not inaccurate to say keeping up with international politics is his job. He searches his memory for any significant recent events in Amarila, the country with which they share their northern border, and it doesn’t take long for him to land on what Yáda must be referring to. “Do you mean the passing of Count Étoile in Valles?”

“’Passing?’” Yáda sneers, “The man was murdered.”

Yes, Andéfi thinks, He almost certainly was. It is not in the nature of young men in good health to suddenly drop dead from illness. There are rumors of suicide, of course, but they are unfounded at best and appallingly transparent attempts of propaganda at worst. The entire thing reeks of a hasty cover-up. He is not all that surprised that even Yáda noticed.

Yáda continues, a fire lit under him now. “He was killed and most likely not by a stranger.” He pauses to strip down to his bottom-most layer, a loose linen tunic with matching wide-legged pants. “Do you know who inherited his title? The only one who was eligible to do so? His sister. Count Étoile was an heir to the Duke Valles, the most popular one in fact. But if the Duke were to step down now, after his death, the inheritance wouldn’t even go to a vote. Count Étoile’s children are too young, over a decade away from legal heir-ship. The only other eligible candidate? His sister.”

Yáda has begun gesturing as he speaks, which is very unlike him. He is of the mind that such a thing is plebeian. Despite this, he speaks calmly, rationally. When Andéfi looks closely at his face, he can see a frenzied gleam in the man’s eyes. A bolt of dread shoots through him as he recognizes what he sees: conspiracy, the evil child of paranoia. Somehow, Andéfi knows, Yáda has connected the suspicious circumstances of a noble’s death in a faraway land to his own situation here in the Palace as improbable as that seems. The worst part is that he is not wrong to suspect such a thing. No matter how he came upon the idea, the truth is that NDOA has been preparing his death for months now. The irony that he should thwart the without even knowing their plans!

Perhaps I have overestimated his stupidity. What a dangerous thing that would be, Andéfi muses. Aloud, he says, “Surely, you have nothing to fear from an amateur plot in a faraway place, yôn kim élm?”

“No, of course not,” Yáda denies, regaining some of his composure. He moves to lounge on a long chaise after abandoning his silks where they lay for the launderers to pick up. “It simply opened my mind to the possibilities. Treachery does not come from your enemies but from your allies. My cousin, in particular, draws my suspicion.”

Andéfi has to suppress an inappropriate laugh. The cousin in question is Yoda’s heir as he doesn’t have children, which he supposes is why the man suspects them, but the NDOA has already done extensive research on them. He’s read the file. If the agency had found them unsuitable, then Andéfi would not have been given leave to complete his mission. As far as they can find, Yáda’s heir is utterly unremarkable besides a strange fascination with women’s clothing. They have no large desire for Yáda’s position.

Yáda continues, oblivious to Andéfi’s amusement. “He has grown to be an ever present pest in my ear.” His face twists with distaste. “He calls himself speaking sense to me, but he was not raised to rule like I was. It is utter folly for him to think he knows what he speaks of at all. And worse yet, I have caught him meeting my advisors behind my back. In fact, he speaks to them more often than I do.”

He says this as if it is difficult to accomplish, but Andéfi is not even sure if he knows when his meetings with his advisors are scheduled. He imagines they are meeting with his cousin in an effort to manage the havoc that Yáda has wrought, organizing relief funds and the like.

“Such treachery has no place to grow in our country,” Andéfi soothes, “Amarila is a fractured nation and that is the source for many of its troubles. We are united. To act against one of us is to act against all of us.”

Yáda’s face turns thoughtful at that, his finger taping against the arm of the chaise. For a brief moment, Andéfi is worried that he has seen through the veiled insult and then Yáda ruins it by saying, “It is a lovely sentiment but naive. Not all people are as loyal as you. Most do not have any loyalty at all.”

And what exactly would you know of loyalty, you stupid man? Andéfi decides then that he’s heard enough. His curiosity is thoroughly dead and he cannot allow this beast to live. Yáda has stopped looking at Andéfi, instead focused on collecting his cigar box from the side table. He keeps up a one-sided dialogue as he does this, apparently set on lecturing his naive guard on the ‘true nature’ of humanity. Andéfi seizes the opportunity his distraction creates and, when Yáda next looks up to light his cigar, Andéfi is already behind him.

Before Yáda can turn his head to look for him, Andéfi slips a hand around to grip his chin and secure his head in place. With his other hand, he shoves a knife through the meat of the man’s neck, severing the artery there. The blade was made with this specific purpose in mind, but even still, it requires considerable strength to force the skin and muscle to give way. He can feel it tearing all the way up his arm. He grimaces. It is not a pleasant sensation.

Yáda lets out an aborted shout that quickly turns into a sick sounding gurgle. Andéfi leaves the knife inside his neck, keeping his hands in place even as the man struggles in front of him. It will stem the blood flow somewhat, but he is more concerned with the mess it would make to remove it than that. Already, blood streams from the wound, slicking his hands and staining fabric. The chaise can be thrown away, but the walls and carpet would have to be washed or renovated. Yáda will be dead in minutes regardless so it is better to spare the staff that will clean in the aftermath.

“It is a shame,” he says conversationally, “that you are so selfish. Perhaps if you were not, you could have foreseen this. But then I would not have had to kill you at all.

“I have a daughter, you see. She turns nine this month. She and my wife are my everything. In a world of your making, you would have them starve. So then, it is simple. If I must kill you to protect my daughter, so be it. I will feel no guilt as I do so. You are but a man to me, Yáda, and not even a particularly good one.

“Many of my colleagues are of the same mind. We competed for the honor of killing you. It had to be done by lottery. After all, it is not likely we would get the chance to kill an emperor again, especially one that has wronged us so. United in this, if not all things.”

At this point, Yáda has stopped moving, though it is unlikely that he is dead yet, simply unconscious. Blood soaks Yáda’s simple linen garb and it has seeped into the chaise below him as Andéfi suspected it would. He is glad to see that there is minimal mess otherwise. Luckily, the NDOA has no need to make Yáda’s death look like anything other than what it is. They will simply place the blame on someone equally troublesome and get rid of them both at once.

Andéfi slides the knife out and the wound wells up with renewed vigor before receding again. He is eyeing the cigar box, as they are higher quality than any he can justify buying and his wife has banned him from smoking, when he hears a gasp from the entrance. He snaps his head up, mind already turning towards who would be easy to silence and who it would be simpler to kill. But when he looks, it is Yáda’s heir, the cousin he spoke so scornfully of. He makes the split second decision to wait.

They stand completely still and silent, the door having already fell closed behind them. Andéfi notes that they do not look horrified or scared, only shocked.

“Congratulations,” he says, “On your new reign as emperor.”

That seems to startle a noise out of them, a disbelieving squeak almost. Their eyes, which had been glued to Yáda’s cooling body, dart up to look at him. “I thought you had been sent to protect him?”

“My agency’s interests lie in the people, not the emperor. This has been true since we were made independent some three hundred years ago.”

“Oh, anyôn,” they say, and then there is a beat of silence. Andéfi is startled by endearment and the not-quite grief in it, like it is a loss already well-worn. It is typically reserved for older siblings and, while not technically informal, it is a shockingly casual way to refer to the emperor. Whatever their relationship was as adults, it seems this pair had once been close.

“Empress,” they say abruptly, after they’ve collected them-self.

“Excuse me?”

“Earlier, you congratulated me on my reign as emperor,” they swallow thickly, “I was correcting you. It’s empress.”

Ah. “I appreciate your discretion then, Empress…?”

“Áiko. Empress Áiko.”

“Empress Áiko, I suggest you take your leave as it is late and I’m sure your cousin is resting. Whatever matter you needed to address can surely wait. Perhaps you can call for him after a late breakfast,” Andéfi pauses, “And of course, I never saw you here tonight at all.”

Empress Áiko seems to take this dismissal in stride, despite everything. “As you say,” she says, and then promptly turns to leave as if Andéfi hasn’t irrevocably changed her life. It hits him then, just how true that is. He’s probably changed a lot of lives with his actions tonight, and not all of them will be quite so easy to predict.

He takes the cigars with him when he leaves.

2: A Fair Trade

Transcript of SVN Emergency Broadcast on 10/18/38:150 at 9:13 A.M.:

[music fades in... then fades out.]

Announcer: Breaking news on SVN! Terrorism in the duchy capital!

Tyler Laurent (TL), Lead Anchor: An attack on the L'ourette estate, home to the Duke and Duchess as well as their daughter and their grandchildren, is thought to be an act of terrorism meant to threaten the line of succession.

Celine Jackson (CJ), Anchor: The explosion occurred at approximately 2 A.M. this morning, waking nearby residents. Reports came flooding in soon after as the fire and smoke were visible from several blocks away.

TL: First responders arrived promptly on the scene and evacuated the building. The fire was then contained and put out. Authorities tell us that that the blast was caused by a small homemade bomb with most of the structural damage being caused by the fire that started after the explosion.

CJ: The bomb was found hidden in the bedroom of one of the Duke's grandsons and heirs, Olivier de L'ourette, and had a small initial blast radius making this appear to be an attempt on the young lord's life.

TL: As of currently, Olivier de L'ourette remains missing and no body has been found. His twin brother, Lucas de L'ourette, also remains unaccounted for as he was seen leaving the estate some time before the attack and has not been able to be contacted since.

CJ: No other casualties have been reported and no more information has been released by the authorities. They have yet to name any suspects.

TL: Stay tuned to SVN to get updates about this rapidly developing story.

[music fades in]

Announcer: SVN, your news for you. Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

...- .. ...- .. .- -. -. .

“I didn’t know he wasn’t one of yers, miss, I swear.” Vivianne can see the sweat beading on Pierre’s forehead as he pleads for mercy with his eyes. She continues to tap her acrylics on the cheap plastic counter for a few seconds before eventually deciding to cut him loose.

“I believe you,” she says simply. The man looks like he might have dropped to the floor in relief if he wasn’t already too terrified to move. “You said he was here an hour ago? What did he look like?”

“Well, he was dressed just like the fella over there.” Pierre gestures over to the single guard that make sup her escort for today. They have on slacks and a suit jacket, both in a deep burgundy. Very unassuming and professional. It’s the same getup that she requires for any of her people while they’re on the clock, though color can vary. It doesn’t tell her anything except that this person stealing her money has been watching the route for a while. The rest of the description is also less than helpful, but it matches what she’s been told at the last four places. At the very least, she knows it’s one person and that no one is lying to get out of paying their fees.

She spends the rest of their short visit to Pierre’s store placating the man and assuring him that he won’t be blamed for the loss. It takes considerable effort for him to be convinced and by the end, Vivianne is clenching her jaw just trying to resist the urge to put the poor, pathetic man out of his misery.

When they finally make it back to the car, she opens the door herself before her escort can even attempt to and slams it shut behind her. Once out of view behind the car’s tinted windows, Vivianne sighs loudly and puts her head in her hands, not even bothered that two of her subordinates can see her. They, at least have enough sense to pretend ignorance. The same cannot be said for the idiots she left in charge of this route. No, the ignorance there is very much real.

Vaguely, she registers her escort getting into the passenger seat and directing her driver. The car smoothly pulls away from the curb while Vivianne directs all her focus into not throwing a tantrum like some overgrown toddler. She sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly.

Someone is stealing from her. There has to be. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. Already they’ve been to five stops and every single one says they’ve already paid their fees to a man with the same description, mere hours before she arrived. What doesn't make sense is that they're using such a simple tactic to do it. Six weeks she's had her people looking into this. SIX. And you're telling her that someone has just been walking in and collecting her money like it’s theirs? No one thought to have the route fucking watched? That’s fucking unacceptable. She’s going to string up every idiot that’s had their hands on this route by their ankles and beat them like a sack of meat there until they pass out.

Vivianne doesn’t realize she’s fallen several minutes into the fantasy of it until her phone rings. She’s fully prepared to answer and tear into whoever dared to call her while she’s cleaning up their mess, but the line connects and the person on the other side speaks first.

“Hey. I need a favor.”

The voice doesn’t register for a moment. Then, a smile creeps onto her face with a viciousness she can feel. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from you anytime soon. But of course, I should have known. You only call me when you need something.” She says this with a hint of irritation, but in reality, she’s very pleased. She’s been trying to cement herself as someone Lucas can’t go without for years. Perhaps it’s finally paying off.

“I can ask someone else if you want.”

Or not.

“Don’t be like that. You know I’m always willing to provide some assistance. I’m assuming this has something to do with the untimely death of your twin.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“No, the news is. They’ve been lamenting his death all week.” She rolls her eyes, exasperated, even if Lucas can’t see it. “Go on. Tell me what it is you want from me.”

Lucas hums, then says, "I need to get out of the country."

How utterly trite and predictable of him. “Surely, you don’t need my help for that,” she says, “Aren’t you rich?”

“My ride left without me.”

“Well, that was rude of them.” But even as she says this, she knows she’s stalling. If she hadn’t paid so much to get her nails done, she’d be gnawing them to flesh right now. As it is, she still kind of tempted.

“Can you help me or not?”

“Oh, there’s nothing I can’t do, darling. That was never even a debate. The question is why should I?”

“I’d pay you.”

If it were anyone else, that would be enough. She’s a businesswoman. Charging desperate people exorbitant prices is her calling. But it’s Lucas. He is the last person that she wants leaving the country and, more importantly, her sphere of influence. He is wasted playing politics. She could do so much more than that with him. But if she pushes too hard, too fast, she’ll spook him. If she denies him now, she has no doubt that he will hang up and find a different way. Lucas is not a beggar. Pleading isn’t in his nature. She’d lose a critical opportunity to tie him closer to her.

So what to do?

Her mind is racing, hyper aware of the silence on the other end as she thinks, and then suddenly, it comes to her. She had given up on it, but it’s prefect. She knows exactly how to keep him in her pocket.

“I don’t want your money,” she says, “You are a criminal, you know. A terrorist. Did you really think you’d get my regular rates?”

She hears what might be a sigh. Then, “What do you want then?”

“If I send you out the country, I’ll need you to take something with you. Hold it for safe keeping for me while I work my magic.”

“Fine. What is it? Drugs?”

“Camille Osman.”

Lucas swears. “You want me to kidnap someone?”

“Technically, I’d be the one doing the kidnapping.”

“Isn’t that Sir Osman’s daughter? Why the fuck are you kidnapping a gent’s kid?”

Vivianne hums. “There are some laws being voted on in the next Gentry session. You know how it is.”

“You want me to hold her for ransom?”

“Gotta change his mind somehow, and he’s been surprisingly resistant to bribery,” Vivianne says, “So? Your freedom for hers. It’s a fair trade, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s a long silence on the other line, but she isn’t worried. If he’d really been opposed, he would have hung up already. Deep down, Lucas is just like her. Morals don’t matter so long as he gets what he wants.

“Done. Call me when you have the details.” Then he hangs up without waiting for a response. Asshole. But he agreed. It worked.

She’s still smiling at her phone when there are two taps on the car window. Vivianne realizes suddenly that the car is stopped, and she’s not sure when that happened. She returns the two taps against the window, and a second later her escort opens the door for her.

For a moment as she steps outside, she’s confused. Then she looks around and realizes where she is. They’ve skipped several stops along the route, and even then, they’re about a block away from the bakery they’re supposed to be collecting from. Her driver already knows the route and wouldn’t have deviated without someone telling him to. Vivianne didn’t obviously, which leaves her new escort. They’re really only supposed to be acting as a guard today, so she’s surprised they had the balls.

“Explain,” she says, deciding she might as well give them a chance.

“Based on the accounts we’ve been given,” they start, “I suspected that the thief was on foot, which means that even if they had a few hours head start, they would still be collecting now. I had the driver go to the last stop to wait to try to catch them in the act, and someone matching their description just walked past and entered Martin’s.” There’s not a hint of anxiety in the explanation, which Vivianne finds interesting.

“Impressive,” she says, because it is. Even if they’re wrong, it’s better than going along the route like normal and coming out empty-handed. “What’s your name?”

“Toni, miss.”

“You’re in charge of this route now, Toni. You report directly to me. No one else.”

“As you say, miss.”

“Wonderful. Now, let’s hurry. We don’t want to give the rat bastard time to scurry off, do we?”

They make their way into Martin’s and a little bell announces their arrival, briefly causing everyone inside to look their direction. This isn’t very many people at all, considering the morning rush has just passed. There are two employees behind the front counter, one of which she recognizes as the owner’s son. There are two more that could pass as customers, one in front of the register and another at a table in the corner.

“That’s him, miss,” Toni says, gesturing to the man at the register.

“Grab him.”

Toni swiftly comes up behind the man and grips him by the back of his collar, dragging him away from the counter. The man struggles for a bit, then very suddenly goes stiff. If Vivianne had to guess, Toni’s gun is probably giving the man some incentive to stay still.

She walks up to the counter, replacing the man in his spot in front of the register. The owner’s son is there, frozen in front of her, eyes wide. He has an envelope in his hands.

“Are those your fees then, little Martin?”

The boy’s eyes dart to the man behind her. He licks his lips. “They are. Is he… not one of yours?”

“No, that man doesn’t work for me. He’s a thief,” she says gently, “I’ll be taking this.” She grabs the envelope, and flips it open to check the amount. After confirming that all the money is there, she takes a few bills out and places them back on the counter. “Two of the sausage chou-de-pain——wait. Toni, are you vegan or anything?”

“No, miss. Sausage is fine.”

“Right, so two of the sausage, then. You can keep the change; I’m feeling gracious today.”

There’s a second where the boy doesn’t move, and Vivianne thinks she’s going to have to say something to get him moving, but then he turns away quickly to complete her order. The other employee, a young girl, follows after him, asking him questions about who Vivianne is and what’s going on in fervent whispers.

Vivianne turns away from the counter and back towards the bakery at large. The table at the corner is empty now, so it’s just Toni and the thief. The man still isn’t struggling, though now sweat has started gathering on his brow.

“I have ways of dealing with people like you, you know,” Vivianne says, “Ways of getting my money back. I don’t like passing on the misdeeds of hoodlums to my clients, you see. That’s bad business. Why should little Martin here suffer just because he was tricked by a rat like you?

“No, I’d make you pay me back yourself. Give you a little something, then watch you break your back just to get a little more. Give you a nice room at La Ruche and give you plenty of clients of your own.” Vivianne laughs. It’s not a nice laugh. “By the time you’ve paid back everything you owe, you don’t even want to leave. And why would you? I’d be giving you a steady supply so long as you did the work you were supposed to.

“I like watching the men break the most,” she whispers, “You all think you’ll hate it; that you’ll somehow come out the other side with your ‘manhood’ or whatever intact.” She shakes her head, smiling. “But by the end, you’re begging for it, just like all the other whores.”

When she stops speaking, the only thing left is the panicked breathing coming from the man in front of her. Even the girl had stopped her incessant questions to listen to Vivianne describe the poor bastard’s fate. Eventually, the little Martin does break the silence, albeit quietly.

“Your order, miss.”

“Oh, thank you,” she says, turning briefly to pick one of the… loafs? Do you call a bread puff a loaf? Or would you call it a pastry? But this one is savory… She takes a bite out of hers while she thinks about it, then a second later, realizes she’s gotten distracted.

“Right. Well, you’re quite lucky because I’m having a very good day as of twenty minutes ago. So I don’t need you to pay me back, really. Go on, Toni, let him go. You can’t exactly eat this holding him at gunpoint, can you?”

Toni immediately releases the man and comes to get the chou-de-pain that Vivianne is holding out for them. The thief, however, isn’t quite as quick. He stumbles when Toni lets go of him and then just stands there, seeming stunned. His face is a bit wet, like perhaps he’d started tearing up at some point, which is a little pathetic in Vivianne’s opinion. Nothing even happened.

Then, haltingly, the man turns toward the entrance of the bakery, throwing glances back all the while. He starts walking, slowly at first, then more confidently as nothing happens to him. By the time he reaches the door, he’s stopped glancing backwards, so he likely doesn’t see Vivianne reach inside her blazer. The man whips the door open and takes a step outside.

Then Vivianne shoots him and he falls to the ground, bullet lodged in his throat. The door is held awkwardly ajar by his body. He’s not dead yet, she knows, but based on how fast the blood in pooling on the concrete outside, he will be soon.

The girl screams and Vivianne turns around. “You’re a little late,” she says, then says to the little Martin, “You can call Mr. Martin, but wait about ten minutes after I leave before calling the police. I apologize for the mess. My men will come take care of everything, alright?”

Vivianne waits for the little Martin to nod before turning away and gesturing for Toni to follow her out of the bakery. It’s a little awkward trying to step over the cooling body in the doorway without getting blood on her heels, but she manages well enough. And honestly, even if she hadn’t, it would be fine. This really has been just the best day.

3: Most Dangerous Thing

...- .. -.- - --- .-.

Viktor arrives at the Chateau in the dead of night. His underwear and socks are stuck to his skin with cold and wet because he forgot that the driveway was unreasonably scenic and thought that he could beat the storm while walking. The storm soon came through to tell him he should have taken a fucking cab.

The East Wing staff, though, seemed to have been expecting him despite the late hour as they come sweeping through to collect his luggage and provide towels to dry himself with as soon as he steps inside. Someone must have alerted Madam Alouette to his arrival because, soon enough, he sees her familiar figure appear at the end of the hall accompanied by the distinct clicking of her heels against stone. If possible, the sound seems to invoke more efficacy in the staff around him.

“Madam,” he says as soon as she’s within hearing range. He’s mildly surprised to see her here as neither of her charges are staying in the Chateau, but then, if the Duke and his family are going to move while they wait for repairs to be made on the main estate, it doesn’t make sense to leave one of their Heads of Staff. Even if that staff has no one to serve currently.

“You’re late,” she says instead of a greeting, “I had your room prepared two days ago.”

“Sorry. It was hard to get things in a state where I could leave.”

“I’m sure,” she says primly, “However, some notice would have gone quite far. You’ve got my staff in such a state, arriving so late. I can’t imagine how we’ll manage to deal with the influx of tasks. There’s no way I’ll be able to spare someone to alert the Duke until well after breakfast.” Several of the staff start coughing suspiciously as she says this. Madam Alouette doesn’t smile, but her face gives off the impression of one all the same.

“Are your employees sick, Madam?”

She waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure some of them are coming down with something. It is flu season, after all. I’ll have to send them home so they don’t infect the rest of the estate.”

Viktor grins. He has always liked Madam Alouette. She is a clever, efficient woman with an impenetrable sense of humor. Likely, she is looking for excuses to send the staff home with pay considering the lack of work with no one to clean up after. But of course, she would never be so gauche as to say that aloud.

“Though I’m sure you could have managed,” she continues with a skeptical look, “I’ve come to escort you to your apartments so you might be able to rest and make yourself presentable for your meeting with the Duke.” She turns to walk away without looking back to check if she’s being followed. He does, but not without difficulty. While she is not a short woman, she is smaller than Viktor by quite a bit. Even so, she consistently walks at a pace he finds hard to keep up with.

The rapid clicking of her heels picks back up as she guides him through the halls, announcing their approach well before anyone would have a chance to see them. He takes the time to look around as they go, hoping that he’ll be able to find his own way next time.

It’s a futile thought. The Chateau is more unfamiliar to him than he expected, though he feels foolish for not realizing it would be. It’s a castle as the name implies and built with fortification in mind. It is shockingly different than the main estate which boasts an artist’s touch in every detail and rich wood accents. Here, it is stone chilled to the touch and solid walls with no windows covered with tapestries in an attempt to hide their utilitarian nature. It is also somehow smaller despite the fact that it takes up almost twice as much land. The halls are narrower, the ceilings lower. It never once lets you forget its purpose.

“How has the situation been?” Viktor asks.

“Quiet,” she replies. She says it tightly as if somehow the word has offended her. “With both the Lords gone, Lady Megiline is the only one residing in this wing.”

Viktor inhales roughly through his nose. “And Lady Morgan?”

“She no longer found her staff fit for work. She’s moved to the West Wing while she looks for replacements.”

“And the Duke just let her?”

“One of his grandchildren is dead. Another has run away. The Lady Morgan is his daughter. At this point, I do not think the Duke cares about the implication.”

She’s right, of course. The way it’s looking, Morgan de L’ourette may very well be the only option for Duchess when the time comes. Her daughter, Meg, is only eighteen and almost three years out from being eligible for heir-ship. With the Duke nearing seventy, the Gentry might not be willing to wait that long. But still, allowing Lady Morgan to stay in the West Wing all but declares the Duke and Duchess dowager and Lady Morgan as the one to succeed him.

“I see,” he says eventually. Thankfully, he’s saved from the suffocating silence not soon after. Madam Alouette finally slows down her brutal pace as she leads him through a door.

“This is your sitting room,” she says, “I apologize for the sparseness. We weren’t allowed to bring anything with us and many of the things in storage here aren’t suitable.” She seems genuinely troubled by this, but Viktor’s standards are much lower than hers, he knows.

“The door at the back is your bedroom, the one on your left is your office, and the one to your right is a combined toiletry and wardrobe.” She gestures for him to follow her through the door on the right. “They should just be getting your things unpack——”

She cuts off as she walks in and sees three people in uniform looking very distraught over his luggage. “What is this?” she asks, and then seems to answer her own question. She turns to him. “You only brought one suitcase?”

Viktor nods. Madam Alouette frowns, then recovers. “Get out of here,” she says to the other three, “I’ll handle this.” From the way they scurry out, they almost seem relieved.

As they shut the door behind them, Madam Alouette struts forward to where they left his suitcase open on the floor. She picks up a few things and lays them aside, then continues to root around in it for a minute before standing. She looks at him.

“There’s practically nothing in here. Though, I suppose I’m not surprised,” she says, “You know he can’t fire you.”

“He can, if my employer is presumed dead.”

“A good thing your employer isn’t presumed dead,” she snaps, “You think he would leave you here without protection? It’s in your contract, same as mine.”

“You’ve read my contract?”

“Of course I have. I helped write it.” She finally turns away from him, waving a dismissive hand as she does. “Go wash up and leave me to it. I’ll be damned if you’re living out of a single suitcase on my watch. Someone will be up with your linens by the time you’re done.”

And Viktor, because he knows an order when hears one, does. He takes a shower, and when he exits back into his wardrobe, Madam Alouette is gone. In her place, there are several more sets of shirts, pants, and jackets than he remembers packing hanging on the racks and folded on the shelves. It’s not full, but the only people he knows that can fill a room-sized closet are the nobility themselves. It’s more than he expects to ever need on this trip.

Just like the Madam said, there are fresh linens on the bed. He lies down expecting to lie awake until dawn, but a full day of working followed by a full night of traveling catches up to him. He’s asleep within minutes.

He wakes up well into the morning. He’s just barely dressed himself when he hears a knock from outside. When he goes to check, Madam Alouette has already let herself in, rolling in a tray of food behind her.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of scary?” he says, too used to her uncanny timing to truly be unsettled.

“I’ve brought brunch,” she says, ignoring him. “I just alerted the Duke of your arrival. I will come back in an hour to get you so you can meet him.” She looks at him seriously. “Prepare yourself. I do not think he will be alone.”

Viktor nods, suddenly unable to speak, and Madam Alouette leaves without another word just as swiftly as she arrived. He eats, then waits. There isn’t any work here for him to do, and Viktor is too antsy to try and entertain himself with something else. He would take some pictures of his rooms to send to his sister, but that’s technically a breach of his contract, and he really doesn’t need to give them any more reason to fire him.

Instead, he spends the hour by imagining how exactly this is going to go. The summons wasn’t terribly specific; it just requested his presence to discuss the bombing incident. Considering his position, it’s hard to believe anything good could come of that.

He’s relieved when Madam Alouette shows up again, if only because she’s saved him from his own racing thoughts. She, of course, didn’t have to fetch him personally, but she must be anxious too. For him, or simply for some work to do, Viktor isn’t sure.

“He’ll be waiting for you in his office,” she says, and then she’s off again at that breakneck pace. Viktor had been expecting it this time, and so doesn’t get quite so left behind. Still, she moves so quickly that he’s barely able to register the transition from East Wing to West Wing.

For the most part, the change is subtle. There’s an increase in staff walking around; the color scheme changes from rose gold to true gold to bronze; then there’s the staring.

The staff is discreet about it, at least, but the all the eyes on him still make his skin crawl. Madam Alouette must feel it too because her pace falters just the slightest bit.

There’s no rule against them being here. There’s nothing even that strange about it. They aren’t being looked at because they’re odd or curious because they aren’t. They’re being watched. Viktor doesn’t doubt that their every move will be reported back to someone.

The clearest distinction between the East Wing and the West Wing isn’t the color scheme; it’s the loyalties.

Viktor knows when they’ve reached their destination because Madam Alouette begins to slow down, and eventually, she comes to a stop outside an ornate wooden door. She knocks and announces their presence.

After a moment, a voice calls to tell them to come in. Madam Alouette does, and then holds the door open for him to enter behind her. Once he’s stepped inside, she bows toward the Duke and leaves, closing the door on her way out.

Thanks to her warning, Viktor isn’t surprised to see not just the Duke sitting in his office, but the Duke’s entire family, sans Olivier and Lucas.

The chair behind the Duke’s desk is empty. Instead, he sits on one of the pair of ornately upholstered sofas that sit in front of it. Next to him sits his wife, the Duchess. On the opposite sofa sits Megiline and her mother, Lady Morgan.

For a moment, Viktor isn’t sure what to do. This setting is much more informal than he was expecting, but also much more pressure than if it were just him and the Duke alone.

“Greetings to the Duke and his Duchess,” he says belatedly, “And to the Ladies of the House as well. You’ve summoned me?” They each incline their head as he greets them, though Lady Morgan twists her face in displeasure as she does.

They look tired, Viktor realizes. The Duke especially, but all of them seem weary, even dressed as they are in their best casual finery. Meg’s eyes are red-rimmed.

“Yes,” the Duke says, “Though, I’m sorry to pull you from your work. It is my understanding that you are now handling the case.”

“Yes, the local law enforcement handed the case over to me and my team the day after the incident.” He hesitates, then decides to elaborate. “They’ve been trying to regain jurisdiction of the case very insistently ever since despite the law being very clear on who has rights to conduct an investigation on a ducal household.”

“That’s unfortunate,” the Duke says and he even seems to be genuine, “I will speak to the Department. You are Olivier’s Head of Security; they should not be disrupting your work.”

Viktor is baffled. He’d been expecting accusations, not sympathy and assistance. Did they not suspect his involvement? If not, why did they call him here? Then, suddenly, he’s stuck with a bolt of clarity: they haven’t read his contract. It seems ridiculous; he signed on when the twins were sixteen. Surely, someone reviewed his contract before it was given to him. Then realizes that someone did: Madam Alouette. Hadn’t she said she’d help write it? And she writes contracts all the time for her own employees. No one would look twice if she gave the green light.

Before he can recover from this realization, the Duchess speaks up. “Have there been any developments? Do you know anything more about the attack?”

He shakes his head. “Most of what we’ve found has already been reported. The bomb was small, homemade, and hidden in Lord Olivier’s bed frame. It was clearly meant to explode and set the room on fire. The list of people with that kind of access to the Lord’s bedroom is short and almost all of them had an iron-clad alibi.”

“Everyone but Lucas,” Meg says, and it’s like the words drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. She’s not looking at anyone as she say it, instead staring at her lap with a kind of cold intensity Viktor has never seen in her before.

“Yes,” he says quietly, “All suspects but Lord Lucas have been cleared of suspicion.”

The room goes quiet for several awkward moments. The Duke, in particular, seems to grow older and wearier right before his eyes. It’s him that eventually breaks the silence.

“That is why I called you here,” he says sadly, “It seems you have found out all you could from the crime scene.” He shifts so he is looking at Viktor straight on. “I would like you to find my grandson and detain him. That should be the focus of your investigation. It may not bring Olivier back, but it will certainly give us answers.”

He says this all so earnestly that all Viktor can do is helplessly agree. The meeting ends quickly after that with him answering a few more questions and informing them of his next steps for the investigation, but in all honesty, he barely remembers what was said.

He has to walk back to his room himself. This suits him fine as he has a lot to think about and he feels less like a caged animal getting lost in a castle than pacing the same twenty feet in his room. It’s as he’s wandering like this that his phone rings.

Viktor answers without really looking, both glad to have the distraction and entirely too used to getting calls he can’t refuse in the past two weeks.

“Hello?”

“I’ll be gone within two days.”

Viktor breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good. Don’t tell me where.”

“They have you looking for me?”

“Yeah.”

“It was only a matter of time.” There’s some shuffling on the other end. “This will be my last call for a while. I have to ditch this phone before I leave. I’ll be able to contact you once I get there.”

“Okay. Remember what I taught you.”

“I will.” And then the call disconnects. Viktor sighs heavily, wondering how exactly he’s going to make this work.

“That was him, wasn’t it?” A voice startles him and he whips his head up to see Meg standing behind him. “That was Lucas on the phone,” she continues, her eyes burning where they’re stuck to the phone in his hand, “You already know where he is, don’t you?”

Viktor shakes his head. “I don’t,” he tries, but Meg isn’t moved.

“Oh, but you could,” she says, her gaze snapping up to his. She takes a step closer. “Where is he?”

“I told you, Lady Megi——”

“Don’t fucking call me that! Where is he?” she demands, taking another step closer, “Call him back right now. He doesn’t g-, get to do this! He—— We said we’d be different.” Her frustration is palpable then. She glares at Viktor.

“Fuck you,” she says, biting and venomous, “And fuck him too. Keep your secrets; it doesn’t make a difference to me. You might not get it, but family is most dangerous thing for people like us. I’m better at this than he is. I’ll find him. I’ll drag him back myself, claws and all.”