by Rob J. Hayes
“History and the like. Things you learned folk should know but us thieves, beggars, whores, and soldiers wouldn’t.”
“Thibault is feeling him out,” Renard said with confidence. “He’s trying to discern Baron Bonvillain’s political standings.”
“Revou said nothing of political conversation.”
“Of course,” Renard agreed. “If you want to know someone’s favourite colour but you don’t want them to know that you want to know, the last thing you would do is simply ask them.”
Roache groaned and rolled his eyes.
“It’s a good sign, Amaury. You said Lavouré thinks well of the Baron.”
“Well enough to invite him to a function he’s holding in three days’ time.”
Renard paused with a frown. “Duc Lavouré doesn’t hold any social functions.”
“Well our two charlatans have been invited to something at his grounds,” Roache began pacing. “I think you should tell them the truth.”
“Do you?” Renard asked pointedly. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion on that matter.”
Roache stopped pacing and gave Renard a look then dropped his eyes to the floor. “What I mean is they’re on the way in but they have no idea what they’re looking for,” he said then paused. “The more they know…”
“You’re right,” Renard agreed. He was a cautious man by nature, always keeping his cards close to his chest and letting as few people see them as possible but sometimes a bold step was needed and Roache was without a doubt a bold man, in this situation he believed the ex-soldier may actually be in the right of things. “Not the whole truth.”
Roache burst into laughter as if Renard had just told the funniest joke in the world.
“But some degree of honesty may be in order just so our Baron and Baroness know how to direct themselves. I’ll meet with them after I tell the King to place his head back in the sand.”
The summons wasn’t long in coming and Renard left Roache behind to painfully limp through the halls of the royal palace and made note of each guard that nodded their respect and, more importantly, each guard that did not. Renard had an excellent memory and took disrespect very seriously. After all, a man who had been through and done the things he had, most of if not all in the name of the kingdom, deserved respect.
King Félix Gustave Horace Sassaille was standing in front of a mirror when Renard entered the meeting hall. It was the same one the King used to meet with dignitaries, the same hall with the two ugly, titanium-decorated thrones; an extraordinary waste of one of the rarest metals in the world.
“I think I’d like to try the purple one again,” the King said into the mirror and a nearby serving girl scurried off to do the man’s bidding. He was, of course, referring to his jacket which was currently black with silver trim and golden buttons.
“The black is very fetching on you, my King,” Renard said and it was entirely true. The King cut the perfect figure of what a King should look like. He was in his mid-twenties and in prime physical condition; he had perfectly-groomed, close-cropped, brown hair and a perfectly-groomed goatee to match. He wore a riding sabre on his belt which had never once seen a battle, nor had it even met another sword that had seen a battle. Renard suspected it was, in fact, a very lonely sword.
“Conceiller,” the King said without taking his eyes from his reflection. “I think I like the purple better.”
Renard made a very awkward bow, making a show of his leg causing him considerable pain. “Purple does tend to make your highness’ eyes sparkle.”
The King spun on the spot and smiled. “That is exactly what I was telling Kat, wasn’t it, Kat? I’m glad you see it, Renard.”
Renard turned and gave another awkward bow to Queen Julienne Katarin Costa Sassaille who returned a shrewd nod in his direction. She was wearing a simple white dress down to her ankles and all frills to hide her figure and, if it weren’t for her currently kneeling down and sewing something onto the aforementioned purple jacket, she cut the perfect figure of a Queen. Beauty radiated from her every pore and also from her long golden hair.
“My Queen,” Renard said standing from his painful bow. “You look… radiant today.”
“She does, does she not,” replied King Félix quickly. “You might even say she is glowing.” The King was wearing a grin like none Renard had ever seen before.
“The Queen is pregnant?” Renard asked with sudden certainty.
“How do you do that, Renard?” asked the King with a happy sigh before turning back to his own reflection.
“I extend my warmest congratulations to you both,” Renard lied expertly. “Do you kn…”
“We’re hoping for a boy,” the King said still grinning stupidly. “A Prince.”
“Excellent news! Will you be making it public knowledge, my King?”
“Soon, soon. Things are still early, so I’m told. Another seven months apparently.”
That settled things, Renard would have to step up his plans and that meant Revou and de Rosier would need to know why they were playing the Bonvillains.
“You’re here to report on… um,” the King paused. “… that thing near Arkland?”
“Indeed, my King. I am pleased to say the matter is entirely settled, I saw to it personally.”
“Excellent news, excellent!”
The Queen cleared her throat in a manner that was so polite and deliberate it made Renard cringe inwardly. “Perhaps you would like a more in depth report, my husband.” She smiled ever so sweetly. “To better know the troubles of your Kingdom.”
“I should?” the King asked turning to her with a pained expression. “I mean… Yes, I would like a full, in-depth report, Renard.” He strode purposefully over to the King’s throne and collapsed into it. “The jacket be damned, let’s have it!”
Renard proceeded to spend a frustrating hour going through all that had transpired with the Arkland zealots. It wouldn’t have been so bad, the King was obviously disinterested and eager to be done with the affair, but the Queen persisted in stopping his report at regular intervals with questions. The damned woman even had the gall to ask whether it was truly necessary to involve the Navy as though Renard might not have considered all alternative options.
The Queen was an insufferable woman and Renard had secretly opposed the marriage from the very start. She was Great Turlain nobility through and through only without the inherited bloodline that allowed her to control one of the elements which, in Renard’s opinion, would have been the only possible benefit that would have made the marriage acceptable. Unfortunately the Great Turlains would never have agreed to the match if the Queen had even an ounce of Elemental blood in her. Instead Sassaille got a Queen with worrying ties to Great Turlain, who was more interested in ruling than her husband, the King, and was a damn sight better at it. Renard was a patriot first and foremost and disagreed with anyone but a Sassaille ruling the kingdom. In fact he disagreed with anyone but himself ruling the kingdom and longed for the day when the King finally shed himself of all responsibility and gave him full reign.
After Renard’s accounting was finished the King looked to be almost asleep in his throne, it was clear he had followed none of the report and, judging by his furtive glances towards the mirror, wanted nothing so much as to go back to trying on jackets. It was exactly how a monarch should act.
“My King,” Renard said with another dramatically painful bow. “If you judge my report to be complete enough to your satisfaction, I have other matters of state to attend to.”
“Other matters?” the Queen asked in a shrewd tone.
“Oh, please, Kat, let the man go attend to my business,” the King interrupted as he pushed himself to his feet and made his way back to the mirror. “I have my own concerns to attend and Renard is an exceptionally busy man.” The King waved a dismissive hand towards Renard who bowed again once to the King and once to the Queen before walking from the royal presence as fast as his fake limp would allow.
The Seigneur had been in one of his foul moods ever since his audience with the King. Amaury was no stranger to his employer’s variety of moods but in the last year he had noticed a significant change, the bad moods were getting worse. As way of explanation the Seigneur had offered only one comment.
“That bloody woman is pregnant!”
To this Amaury could only presume he meant the Queen. No doubt that would be enough to send the Seigneur into one of his darker moods. The Queen was becoming a very regular thorn in his side and that unfortunately translated into her also being a thorn in Amaury’s side.
Now the Seigneur sat smoking his pipe, staring out of the dark window with darker eyes and Amaury could do nothing but wait. He would have loved to go for a run or a swim, to spend some time at the gymnasium improving his boxing or even spar with Franseza, despite first-hand knowledge that the latter would end up with some fairly painful bruises, but instead he was stuck here waiting on his employer and waiting for the others to arrive. The thought of seeing de Rosier again brought a smile to Amaury’s mouth that he quickly quashed.
One of the biggest problems with this particular line of his work was that it was perpetually illustrated by clandestine meetings such as this. They were once again in the Seigneur’s study, in his second home with no staff and almost as little light. Amaury wanted to meet with de Rosier during the day one time, to see her in the sunlight and smiling.
A floorboard outside the room creaked signalling approaching feet and it was quickly followed by footsteps and a burst of laughter. A woman’s laugh. Franseza Goy’s laugh. Amaury was fairly certain he had never before heard the woman laugh, at least not a real laugh, he didn’t think she knew how.
There was a brief knock on the door and then it opened. Franseza walked in smiling, not her usual predatory smile but a smile of real mirth. Revou followed her in mimicking the smile and waving his hands around dramatically as if he had just told a joke. De Rosier entered last, her mouth forming a warm smile, and gently closed the door behind her. She caught Amaury’s eye and nodded to him, Amaury grinned back at her but she was already looking away so he glared daggers at Revou instead.
“I’m glad you find the current state of Sassaille so funny,” the Seigneur said in a voice that betrayed his anger too clearly.
“The state of Sassaille?” Revou asked.
Franseza perched herself on the edge of the Seigneur’s desk, unaware of his foul mood. “He was telling me about the time he and Isabel stole Prince Henri Saille’s Jadefire ring.” She laughed again.
“I kid you not,” Revou said with a face as innocent as a clear blue sky. “Mounted by the Prince’s prize mastiff in the middle of the courtyard. I couldn’t very well shout out without alerting the entire staff to my presence so had to wait for the damned thing to finish. Isabel was no help at all, unless you count her savage mockery.”
De Rosier smiled and took the seat next to Amaury. He could smell her perfume. Like the first days of spring she smelled fresh. “What would you have done, my love?” she asked.
“Well I certainly wouldn’t have let the beast have its way with your leg. Never have I heard…”
“Are you quite finished?” the Seigneur said grumpily.
Amaury had to pull his attention away from de Rosier. She was wearing plain brown trousers suited to the tunnels underneath the city but her top was barely covered by a blouse that showed off all of her arms and a scandalous amount of cleavage. With a monumental amount of effort he managed to look away to find the Seigneur was speaking again.
“…in good graces with Lavouré.”
“Oh indeed,” Revou said with a smug smile. “We’re fast becoming best friends, he and I.”
“We’ve been invited to an informal function on his estate,” de Rosier added. Amaury fought the urge to tell her how sweet her voice sounded.
“Indeed,” the Seigneur said tamping out his pipe. “Apparently a secret function also. It’s well known the Duc does not hold social gatherings at his estates.”
De Rosier shrugged and her shoulder brushed against Amaury’s. He felt a slight tingle and cleared his throat to cover the flush he felt in his cheeks.
“It appears he does for us, and a few of his closest friends, of course,” de Rosier said.
“Good,” the Seigneur said.
Maybe it was the affirmation of their progress or maybe it was the sudden change in his attitude from angry to pleased as a cat-with-a-fresh-fish but both Revou and de Rosier seemed to run out of words.
“In order to effectively serve my purpose I now require you to know more,” the Seigneur continued. “You must know where to push and where not and you must know where the Baron and Baroness stand on a political level.
“There are seditious elements within the nobility, those who strive to steer the King along a path the Kingdom of Sassaille cannot afford. Your services were acquired in order to infiltrate those elements and discover both those involved and evidence of their involvement.”
De Rosier politely cleared her throat. “Surely if they were seditious they would be plotting to undermine the King not simply steer him toward something? I didn’t think that was illegal.”
The stare the Seigneur turned on de Rosier could have frozen a small lake and possibly a tributary or two. “They are seditious if I say they are and I do. The King is,” the Seigneur paused, “malleable. He is easily swayed and does not consider the consequences of his actions especially when they pertain to the Kingdom as a whole.”
The Seigneur pointed his cane at a map on the far wall. “What do you know about the last war, with Great Turlain?”
“We lost,” Revou said confidently.
The map showed Sassaille in the centre with all of its major cities and duchés. To the north lay a series of volcanic ashlands and poisonous lakes, uninhabited and for good reason. To the west of Sassaille lay Arkland, vast and sprawling and marked with hundreds of different temples each worshipping a slightly different version of their one God. To the east lay the Brimstone Seas and beyond them the badlands of the frontier. To the south lay the Chaud Sea, separating Sassaille and Great Turlain by an extensive stretch of water that occasionally whipped up into violent storms that could easily swallow an entire fleet of ships whole.
“Yes we lost,” the Seigneur continued. “We lost the war we started because after hundreds of years of fearing Great Turlain’s militarised Elementals we finally believed we had a way to counter them.”
Revou sighed. “I happen to be fairly well acquainted with the history of airships, Seigneur.”
“Then you know what happens when a fleet of airships bristling with some of the most advanced technology we can contrive locks horns with a single squadron of highly trained Elementals.”
Franseza laughed. “Now there’s a thing I’d like to see.”
“I doubt that,” Amaury chimed in. All eyes in the room fell to him, including de Rosier’s, and he suddenly felt the need to keep those eyes on him. “Had a friend back in the army whose great grandpap survived the Turlain war. He said whenever his grandpap talked about it he’d get this faraway look like he was reliving it. Wasn’t just the navy that got hit hard by those Storm Callers, the infantry got fried by Pyros and crushed by Earth Shakers. Normal soldiers like you and me, Franseza, wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“You and I,” de Rosier corrected him.
“Sorry,” he replied. Anyone else and he would have rounded on them and bit their head off but Amaury didn’t think he had it in him to snap at the beautiful woman sitting beside him and looking on him with such sympathetic eyes.
“A little dramatic but Amaury isn’t wrong,” the Seigneur picked up. “We call it a war, Great Turlain called it a massacre. Thousands of our soldiers died and hundreds of airships, almost two thirds of our entire armada, were reduced to wreckage and ash and for it we maybe killed a handful of their Elementals and a hundred of their own soldiers.
“The war lasted six weeks and the only ‘victories’
we scored were from espionage and assassinations. We lost and the only reason the Great Turlains didn’t come right back across the Chaud Sea and finish the job is because it was simply easier not to. They had us well and truly broken, why risk a dangerous ocean to break us even further?”
“For our airships?” de Rosier asked.
“Costly things, airships,” Amaury said sagely.
“To build, at least, Roache is correct,” said Revou. “It’s a royal pain to harvest the crystals and then to build the ships themselves, sturdy enough to survive the rigours but versatile enough to sail the sky.”
“Precisely,” the Seigneur said. “They got their airships from us. One for every Elemental we killed during our ill-fated war and the promise to keep them in repair indefinitely. Along with the other reparations it was more than enough. We attacked them and they taught us a lesson we are never likely to forget.
“Only it appears some people have forgotten.”
“Our seditious elements?” Revou asked.
“The very same.”
“And you believe Lavouré is one of these elements?”
“I believe he at least has links to them and through him the Bonvillains will reveal those I am searching for.”
De Rosier shifted uncomfortably in her seat and Amaury got an eye-full of cleavage. “Why not just arrest Duc Lavouré and interrogate him, or search his estate for the proof.”
The Seigneur began stuffing tobacco into his pipe again. “Presuming Duc Lavouré is indeed the man I am looking for, I have neither the proof needed to arrest him or search his home, nor the authority to do so. He is a Duc, I may as well try to arrest the Queen on suspicion of treason.
“In order to effectively quash this rising tide of sedition I need to have detailed knowledge on each member of the aristocracy involved in the movement and proof of their intentions to guide our Kingdom towards a war we can neither afford, nor win. If any hasty arrests are made the other members will go to ground and all evidence will be destroyed and a year later I will be in the same situation of having to find the offending elements only this time they would be far more cautious.
