Okay, so there are two of us. Nobody knows Gregor Voldhard from faraway Highligland here in the capital. My reputation doesn’t do me any favors, either, although the aristocrats know who pays for the fun they have at the palace. And anyone who happens to have a lapse in their memory will get a careful reminder.

Demos did, in fact, send out those little reminders. House Devaton’s capital residence, not much smaller or less luxurious than the imperial castle, regularly threw parties. During the festivities, the halls ran with rivers of fine southern wine, the best musicians in the empire were there to play, and treats were carried around by practiced servants. Getting an invitation to a Devaton party meant joining the upper echelon of palace society. That status was highly valued, fought over, and pursued so aggressively that those looking to achieve it were willing to offer the noble family practically any service they asked for. And the entire pomp and pageantry was managed by the brilliant Lady Eltinia.

That was why Demos preferred humble quarters in the imperial palace.

Why is it that we can work together toward the interests of the house, while we’re at each other’s throat the second the conversation turns to my future?

Lady Eltinia was without doubt a truly incredible woman, and Demos loved her the way any son is duty-bound love his mother. But no more. There had never been any warmth or mutual understanding between them for as long as he could remember. Demos was the firstborn, the heir to an enormous fortune and string of titles, and so he’d felt the weight of his mother’s expectations since he was born. Lady Eltinia’s ambition and thirst for power had followed him his entire life. Sometimes, Demos wanted nothing more than to kill her, though by the same token, he thanked the heavens for the tough lessons she taught him.

Once again, they were forced to work together. Lady Eltinia had long since measured the stakes, and she had no plans to sacrifice her position for the sake of some Highligland barbarian even if Demos was not earmarked for the crown. But the situation was playing right into her hands. With that in mind, she’d put together a list of nobles that the Devatons needed on their side—Rikenaar was a particular target. Lady Eltinia was working in that direction when Demos left the residence banquet hall unnoticed.

The air in the wide, tapestry-lined corridor was cool, which helped with his migraine. The treasurer sighed in relief, though he immediately winced from a different pain as his leg chimed in. It was getting worse. Demos was forced to move slowly and only with the help of a cane.

I wonder when government service will finally do me in.

“Let’s go,” Demos called over to Lahel, who was waiting for him near the doorway to a secret staircase. She’d switched out her favorite colorful handkerchief in favor of a black one. “Is Ihraz ready?”

The Ennian woman glanced dubiously at her master’s leg.

“My brother is waiting in the garden. Are you sure you’ll make it that far? It’s not close.”

Do I have a choice? I’m not getting up on a horse, and a carriage or litter would draw too much attention. But I have to see Archella. The sooner, the better.

“I’ll be fine,” the treasurer replied quietly. Throwing a simple dark cloak over his shoulders, he hobbled forward. A few seconds later, he stopped at the top of the narrow staircase.

I completely forgot about that. So embarrassing—the head of a powerful house can’t even deal with a few little stairs.

He took one careful step. Pain shot through his leg, and he felt a twinge in his spine. A cry squeezed itself out of him, though he motioned to his sympathetic bodyguard to leave him be.

“I have to…myself,” he grunted, grabbing the railing tighter and continuing down.

Awkwardly making his way down, Demos dug deep into his bank of foreign languages—with every step, he found a good dozen new curse words to throw at the stairs.

And I didn’t use a single one twice. Nice work! Curses, that hurts so bad.

Lahel moved next to him wordlessly, prepared to help if needed. Demos didn’t have anyone closer than the taciturn woman and her brother. The two Ennian servants knew most of his weaknesses and vices, they could count each of his sore points, they were devoted, and they enjoyed the privilege of speaking openly with their master. But still, however warmly he felt about his southern bodyguard, Demos didn’t let himself get into the really bad language around her.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

At the end of the day, she’s still a woman, even if she is a former slave.

As soon as the exercise in endurance was complete and Demos felt the even stone below his feet, his strength gave out. Lahel reacted instantly, grabbing her master under the arms.

“It’s okay,” Devaton said with a hard swallow. “That just turned out harder than I expected.”

The treasurer fished around in his pocket and pulled out his small box of pashtara. Snuffling a pinch into each nostril, he sighed noisily and closed his eyes. A few seconds later, the pain in his leg dulled, and he felt better. Lahel shook her head disapprovingly, if silently.

Don’t look at me like that, my dear. I know very well that I’m on thin ice, but it’s the only way forward right now. At some point, I’ll stop, so long as I’m still able to. But not today.

They walked out into the back courtyard. On the other side of the wall was a beautiful garden with fountains, fruit trees, and sculptures. Guests were enjoying the warm spring evening, walking along the alleys paved with crushed white marble. Drunk with the glorious air, the nightingales were bursting with song. Apparently, nobody was all that bothered by the mourning period announced by the church.

What a delightful evening. It’s a shame, I’m going to have to spend it in the trashy quarter.

After walking past a low wall in the garden, Demos and Lahel turned and headed in a different direction. They ambled slowly past storehouses, warehouses, and several cellars. In the distance, horses whinnied, and servants chattered.

Ihraz was waiting for his master and sister in the shadow of an annex, and he wasn’t alone. Devaton stretched his leg and leaned heavily on his cane. The person Ihraz was talking to noticed them from a distance, coming over to meet the treasurer.

It’s Master Archella himself. Demos’ eyes narrowed when he recognized the spy’s powerful figure. How nice of him to keep me from dragging my crippled legs halfway across the city.

When they got closer, Demos found that he was right.

“Master Archella,” he said quietly. “Isn’t this a surprise. I was actually on my way to visit your lair.”

The spy threw back his hood and bowed gracefully.

“I’m happy to see you in good health, Lord Demos.”

Good health? Seriously?

“And what made you sneak into my house?”

“He grabbed me at the door,” Ihraz grumbled. “The guards are terrible.”

Archella smiled charmingly as he stood over Demos.

“I just wanted to remind your Grace that I’m worth the money I’m paid,” he said with an amiable laugh. “I was told you wanted to see me in person, so I decided to shake things up and go for a walk.”

Demos dismissed his bodyguards with a wave and gripped his cane tighter. Ihraz and Lahel got the message and stepped away to the side.

The spy threw an intrigued glance in Demos’ direction.

“I’m all ears, Your Grace.”

“Tell me, Master Archella, who could break into the imperial palace and get someone out without being noticed?”

“I could, for one,” the large man smiled.

“But your people didn’t do that.”

“That wasn’t your question.”

“Don’t even think about feigning innocence, Master Archella. I know my pocket isn’t the only one that feeds you, and that’s okay with me so long as it doesn’t get in the way of our partnership.”

The spy shrugged indifferently.

“I’ve always appreciated your wisdom. In this case, though, my people only work in the palace at your orders.”

Good thing. Your loyalty cost me a pretty penny.

“Right now, I need to know who else is capable of pulling a trick like that with someone in the palace.”

“We’re in the capital, my lord…”

“And that’s why I’m asking you. I’ve only lived in Missolen for five years, so I could miss something. Think, Archella. The capital is your home.”

The spy scratched his neatly trimmed beard.

“Whoever did it, they’d have to have very good connections in the palace or a way to make the guards look elsewhere.” Archella glanced meaningfully at the treasurer. “Money, threats, or even sorcery. It wouldn’t be the Targosians—their reach is short, their influence limited. Actually, I doubt the imperials would have the resources to pull something that daring off, too.”

“It’s not just that the imperial nobility doesn’t have the resources; they don’t have a motive,” the treasurer replied wearily. His leg was really starting to ache. “The woman we’re talking about didn’t threaten their position at all.”

“That makes things even more interesting. I certainly do enjoy the puzzles you throw my way.”

Not to mention the money I pay you.

“So, what’s the bottom line, Master Archella?” The pain was getting unbearable. Demos was practically whimpering, only the weakening effect of the pashtara holding him back.

“There’s only one spot my people and I don’t have access to,” the spy whispered, the ever-present smile disappearing. “A place I don’t risk breaking into for fear of the Collegium’s wrath.”

“The church,” Demos nodded. “I thought about that.”

“I can’t help you there, no matter how deeply I love Your Grace. I’d send my people anywhere for you, just not into Eclusum.”

The treasurer looked up at the spy and, contrary to his expectations, saw not a hint of a sparkle in his eyes. The capital’s best spy, one of the smartest people in the empire…was afraid.

What did the masters do with our faith when they’re too busy inspiring terror to give people a home in the afterlife?

“I understand, Master Archella, and I’m not going to ask anything from you but your silence. Although, I will be needing one of your people. I need to look into someone.”

“My thanks, Lord Demos,” the spy replied with obvious relief. “I’ll send you someone.”

Devaton waved his bodyguards over and in so doing made it clear that the meeting was over. Archella threw his hood over his head and melted into the darkness.

Irving was right. If the masters are involved in the empress’ disappearance, I don’t envy even myself. There’s some irony there—an inveterate atheist is going to have to dig into the church. I wonder if all the arches of the Great Shrine will come crashing down on me for my sacrilege.