Interlude 2

Alexander

No matter how often Prince Andreu visited the palace, the family wing never quite felt like home to Alexander. The Prince had his own chambers that were always ready with very little notice, though he usually preferred to stay at his own townhouse in the city when visiting the Capital. Now, after the attack, the chambers had been hastily prepared to house the Prince and his family for the foreseeable future. It was too dangerous for his family to stay in the city and with young Lord Vincen’s injuries keeping him in the infirmary neither the Prince nor his Lady were much inclined to leave the palace.

Kelso had his own room in the area of the Prince’s wing which was set aside for retainers, and Alexander stood outside his door, hesitating. It had not even been a full day since Borden’s vicious attack, and Kelso’s arm had been severely wounded. With an injury like that, a normal person would be lucky to regain full use of the arm and would probably spend the rest of his life struggling to adapt. Fortunately Kelso, like Alexander, was a mereologist, and along with their heightened mental capacities came an extremely robust immune system and improved healing abilities. He would still need time to recover, but would most likely be fine. It was one of many subtle ways that mereologists were often much more resilient than their counterparts. The Skills that multiples were able to wield were certainly impressive, yet they were rigid and often difficult to apply effectively outside of military applications. A fire mage, for example, could unleash intense and highly focused flames to devastating effect - as Borden had demonstrated just last night. Yet fire mages, while not uncommon, were still few and far between, so for everyday applications heating runes were far more practical. And that was where mereologists came in - they and their abilities could be far more easily distributed to the common citizenry.

While no more common than multiples, a mereologist’s skills were not determined at birth but born from study and dedication. Alexander sighed. Over the last couple of months he had taken a liking to Kelso. Even among mereologists, the young man was a rare find. He had a level of concentration and dedication not often seen among one of his age, and while his runework was not the best of the current crop of mereologists - Marie, Lady Mage Alba’s lady’s maid, held that distinction - he more than made up for it in other ways. As the most senior of Prince Andreu’s attendants it was Alexander’s duty to continue the young valet’s education, and so they had been spending a good amount of time together. Alexander was continually impressed by Kelso, and his actions the previous night had only served to solidify his opinion. Prince Andreu had done well in convincing the Regency to allow him to take Kelso as his ward, simultaneously ensuring the continued cooperation of Marselle’s ruling class while securing a promising mereologist to their house’s service. Kelso had more than earned his rest, but duty called, and Lord Mage Trastamar was not a patient man. So, hesitantly, Alexander knocked.

The door opened almost immediately. Kelso wore silk pajamas, the blouse draping loosely over his shoulders and covering his left arm, which was held in a sling. There were dark bags under his eyes, which were nevertheless alert, and behind him, spread open across a table, were several books and pages of freshly scribbled notes. Kelso seemed tense, but relaxed slightly when he saw Alexander. He stepped aside.

“Lord Mage Alexander, please, come in,” he said, his voice heavy, beckoning with his good arm.

Alexander stepped into the room - which was a bit too warm for his liking - and shut the door behind him before Kelso could get his good arm back on the handle. “Kelso,” he said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “We are peers. I have told you before that you do not need to be so formal with me, at least not in private.”

Kelso looked at the door, frowning. “I know,” he said, sighing and returning to his seat at the table. He gestured at the plush chair in front of the fire. “But I still find that difficult, and most likely will until Marselle is formally recognized by the Empire.”

Alexander stepped fully into the room but did not sit. He liked Kelso, but the younger man could be infuriatingly rigid when it came to etiquette. Alexander wasn’t certain if it was due to his family’s political circumstances or if that was just the way the young man had always been. He glanced at the books on the table, which seemed to be histories of Selise, and, in particular, Savaria. Alexander frowned. “How are you feeling?” he asked, folding his hands behind his back and stepping over to the fire despite the already oppressive warmth of the room. Sick rooms were always kept warm and he had learned long ago how to deal with the discomfort that went along with them. “Have you been able to rest at all?”

Kelso shrugged, wincing slightly as his left arm twitched at the motion. “The healers gave me some runes, but I haven’t used them.”

Alexander frowned. “Have you slept at all?” he asked, glancing at the bed, which was made up perfectly.

“Some,” Kelso replied, picking up his pen and dipping it in the inkwell as he flipped to the next page in the book he’d been studying. “Is there any change in Lord Mage Vincen’s condition?”

“No,” Alexander said. Everyone - himself included - was dealing with the shock of the situation in their own way. For retainers such as himself and Kelso, it seemed that meant focusing on their work. He just wished Kelso would at least try and rest, though he knew he wouldn’t. And neither would Alexander. “Kelso,” he said, stepping away from the fireplace, which was getting uncomfortably warm on his back. “We have been summoned by Lord Mage Trastamar. He requests our presence as soon as possible.” He turned toward Kelso’s wardrobe, pulling open the doors and selecting a freshly pressed summer jacket that was loose enough to allow Kelso’s arm to comfortably remain in its sling. When he turned back around he saw Kelso staring blankly at his book, his pen held loosely in his hand. After a moment Kelso let out a slow sigh and set the pen in its rest.

“Must we?” he asked quietly, looking up at Alexander, finally letting his weariness show.

Alexander didn’t answer, but instead crossed over to the bed and lay the jacket out, then returned to the wardrobe to retrieve the rest of the outfit. He understood Kelso’s apprehension; he had no desire to speak with his old taskmaster either. But, duty called. Kelso nodded, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A moment later he stood, his face set and his bearing determined. Alexander smiled to himself. Even he couldn’t control his emotions that well. “The young Lord is resting comfortably,” he said by way of conversation as he selected a pair of laceless shoes for Kelso. He turned and saw that the young man was already standing by the bed and had removed his shirt, and although he had been expecting it, Alexander was still momentarily shocked at the extent of Kelso’s bruising: almost his entire torso was one shade of purple or blue. Kelso sat and grimaced as he gingerly bent over and tried to remove his slippers. Alexander quickly crossed back to the bed and hurriedly set down the rest of the clothes. “Kelso,” he said, softly but firmly, placing a hand on his good shoulder. Kelso flinched slightly, then straightened himself. “Please, allow me,” Alexander said gently, kneeling and sliding the slippers off Kelso’s feet. Then he stood and helped the young man to his feet, tactfully looking away as he noticed tears in Kelso’s eyes.

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Half an hour later they found themselves in a small but well appointed office deep in the interior of the palace. A light-shaft had been placed in the ceiling which, when combined with the runelights scattered throughout the office in strategic locations, gave the space an inviting atmosphere that was very much unlike that of the old man sitting on the other side of the desk from Alexander and Kelso. Lord Mage Trastamar had been the King’s chief mereologist for as long as Alexander could remember, having been appointed to the position the same year that Alexander himself had started at the Mage’s Academy. His appointment had been something of a minor scandal at the time, since Trastamar was of common birth, but he had proved himself time and again, impressing Oriol enough that the young King had granted him the title of Baronet and promoted him to the role after his predecessor was forced to step down for health reasons. There was little the Regency and other High Nobles could do about the appointment. Their King had spoken, and none of the noble-born mereologists were of a high enough station to complain, nor were they as competent as Trastamar. Neither were they as shrewd.

Trastamar tapped his fingers on his desk, regarding them with sharp eyes that were not dulled in the least by the thin spectacles he wore pushed up on his wide nose. His hair was long and gray, pulled tight in a ponytail that made him look younger than the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth would otherwise lead one to believe. His gaze settled on Kelso for a moment, and he raised an eyebrow as he regarded the bruises that were still visible on the youth’s face, despite Alexander’s attempts at covering them with light makeup. After a moment, Trastamar’s face softened and he settled back in his chair, folding his arms and shaking his head.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice gravely yet powerful, despite his years. “We find ourselves in delicate times. A crossroads, one might say.”

Alexander frowned and suppressed a sigh. Trastamar had always been far too dramatic for his tastes, which - Alexander was forced to grudgingly admit - was almost certainly a large part of what made him such a good politician. He had never much cared for Trastamar, though he did respect the man. He was quite good at what he did, which mostly consisted of managing the Empire’s mages across their various disciplines. It was Trastamar and his mereologists who dictated student’s assignments upon their graduation from the Academy, though Lord Mage Oleguar’s opinion weighed heavily in those decisions. The man’s personality, however, was an entirely different matter. Alexander could never get past the feeling that Trastamar was constantly judging him, weighing him against some unseen scale that Alexander could never hope to measure against.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The old man continued. “I am undoubtedly stating the obvious when I say that the Empire is in danger. We are, unfortunately, thrust into a scenario which we have all anticipated yet have hoped against hope would never come to pass.”

Alexander glanced at Kelso and was pleased to find the young man sitting still, his face impassive, regarding Trastamar with an acceptable level of deference.

“However,” Trastamar said, folding his hands and interlacing his fingers. “There are those among us who would welcome such chaos, I am loath to admit.” He glanced between the two of them, his gaze lingering on Kelso just a beat or two longer than necessary.

And there it was: the judgment he thought left behind years ago. Alexander groaned before he could stop himself. He was no longer Trastamar’s pupil, and he was going to be damned if he let him sink his claws into Kelso. “Lord mage,” he said, failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I trust there is a purpose behind our summons? As you can see, my apprentice is in desperate need of rest, and my Lord Prince will soon require my presence.”

Trastamar cocked an eyebrow. “There is purpose behind all that we do, Lord Mage Cipriani. Surely I need not remind you of this?”

Alexander sighed and lowered his eyes. What was it about this man that always made him feel like a schoolboy? “No, my Lord Mage. Of course not. Forgive me. We are understandably tired. Please, continue.”

Trastamar nodded, a slight smile to his eyes that made Alexander want to reach up and rip the lips right off the old man's face. It irritated Alexander to no end just how much Trastamar was able to get under his skin. It was irrational, he knew, yet there it was. This old man had been his mentor - his teacher - he knew Alexander better perhaps than any other person alive. And maybe that was it… maybe that was the problem.

Trastamar unfolded his hands and opened a drawer on his desk, pulling out a sheet of paper and setting it, face up, on the desk in front of him. It was cheap paper, of the type typically used by merchants and scribes for simple notations, and had the header script of the King’s Platform embossed across the top. It had a single word written in the shorthand favored by rail clerks:

“Proceed”

Alexander’s mereolgy immediately kicked in and he sat forward, twisting the paper around so he could examine it better.

“As you can see,” Trastamar said, sitting back and folding his hands again, “this potentially reaches far deeper than the discontent of a single disenfranchised Lord.”

“Do we know who this message was intended for?” Kelso asked, leaning forward and glancing at Alexander briefly before reaching out and pulling the paper toward himself. Alexander sat back, studying his student. The young man was almost a completely different person then he had been mere moments ago. He was alive, invigorated, intrigued…

Trastamar smiled, his eyes crinkling with the same light that had illuminated Kelso. He looked to Alexander. “Indeed,” he said, his lips curling into a smile, “we do.”

Alexander sighed to himself. He had never been one for games. He preferred to be forthright. Ambiguity led to misunderstanding, which - he realized - was often the intent in politics. Just because he understood the rules, however, did not mean he enjoyed the game. “Well, then?” he asked, folding his arms and cocking an eyebrow at Trastamar.

“The merchant in question is a man of absolutely no repute,” Trastamar replied. “A nobody, and therefore the perfect distraction for us to waste our time and resources on tracking down and interrogating. Nahuel himself has determined the man’s innocence, or, at the very least, his ignorance.”

“And what about the rail clerk?” Kelso asked, turning the paper over and examining it from all sides. “The one who took this message?”

“Once again, your Lord Prince demonstrates his wisdom in choosing his staff,” Trastamar said, nodding his head at Kelso. “The young ward has hit upon the correct question straight away. The clerk is gone. Vanished. In fact, there are few who can remember him in any detail at all.”

“A plant?” Kelso asked.

“Almost certainly.”

Alexander sighed, leaning back in his chair. “If Borden could get one of his own into the King’s Platform, any number of sensitive communications may have been intercepted.”

Trastamar grunted. “Indeed. Poor Nahuel has been running himself ragged, interrogating every clerk, officer and footman in the palace. I don’t know what we would do without that man, his Skill is far too valuable.”

“Has he found any more of Borden’s people?”

“No,” Trastamar said, taking the paper back from Kelso and returning it to his desk drawer. Then he folded his hands and glanced between the two men again. “Which brings me to why the two of you are here.”

“Not to assist with the investigation, I would imagine?”

“No, that is well in hand, at least for now. No, the two of you are uniquely positioned and are far more useful in other ways. We have not yet discovered any more of Borden’s people within the palace, but what we have discovered is both unsurprising and perhaps even more disturbing.”

Kelso raised an eyebrow. “More traitors?”

Trastamar cocked his head slightly. “They would call themselves patriots, I imagine. They are those who would see their homelands returned to sovereign rule: to throw off the shackles of the Empire and other such foolishness. In any case, they are the easy ones to spot and deal with. We have been doing so since time immemorial. The more difficult - and more concerning - group are those who do not wish to see the Empire fall but to see it remade, with themselves at the head.”

“Dissidents?”

“Opportunists, I would say. House Canto is in a precarious position, and Borden has opened the floodgate to those who would see themselves on the throne. Oriol was a popular man, and popular men breed jealousy. He had more enemies than he knew.”

Alexander nodded, thoughtful. “They will begin to expose themselves now that the throne is in chaos. Aarmond is not ready.”

Trastamar grunted and took a drink from his water glass. He did not offer any to Alexander or Kelso. “Indeed, he is not. He is a good lad and the people love him, but he is no leader.”

“He is our King,” Kelso said, a slight edge to his voice as he looked at Trastamar. The older man turned to him and smiled, a glint in his eyes.

“Yes, of course he is. The Rules of Ascension are quite clear on the matter.”

Alexander sighed and closed his eyes. “We are not going home any time soon, are we?”

“Aarmond will wear the crown, but make no mistake, Prince Andreu is now the leader of the Albarian Empire.”

“He’s not going to like that.”

“He always knew it was a possibility, as did you.”

“And what of Lord Mage Vincen?”

“He will become the Duke, as has always been the plan. Only sooner than expected.”

“He is not ready either.”

“We have time. Officially speaking, Andreu will remain in the capital to see his nephew through these difficult days. It is not uncommon for an older, wiser man to take a child under their wing, after all. While Andreu is mentoring Aarmond, Vincen will be brought up to speed on the finer aspects of ruling Selise.”

Alexander shook his head. “This is all moving too fast.”

Trastamar grunted, folding his hands again and nodding. “Indeed, but we have little choice. The Canto’s must hold the Lake of Fire. It is far too valuable.”

“And what of Marquess Lequette? Prince Andreu wished to see him more involved in the operations.”

“We had few options at the time. Things have changed, however, and we now have a chance to rectify that. Anton will not like getting pushed out, but such is politics, and he knows that all too well. The marriage is still a good ploy, but I do not think it will be enough to control the man. He is more ambitious than he seems, and Vincen is too pliable. Andreu will be preoccupied for quite some time now, which could allow Anton undue influence over the young Duke. We will need to surround Vincen with equally strong influences if we wish to maintain our position.”

“You’re going to send him away, aren’t you?”

“The Marquess has already taken similar steps with his own daughters, as have most of the nobility in the city, and so it will not seem unusual. The Marquess will oversee the funeral procession, and when he returns from those duties he will find that Vincen has gone.”

“Where are we going?” Kelso asked with a tinge to his voice that Alexander couldn’t place. “And what would you have us do?”

Trastamar smiled and looked at Alexander. “I like this young man,” he said. “Perhaps I was wrong and Marselle will prove itself a valuable addition to the Empire after all. Andreu is still considering the matter, but wherever you find yourself you are to keep Vincen on a tight leash. We cannot afford another incident like that of the Academy. That incident nearly gave Anton the excuse he needed to nullify the engagement. Vincen is brash and impulsive - often admirable traits in a Duke - but only when tempered with wisdom and strength of character. You are also to keep an ear out for more of these dissident opportunists. We have been trying to peel back this onion and the more layers we remove the more it stinks. Inform us of what you learn. Keep a close eye on Vincen’s sister, too. She is a potential source of insight to Borden’s operations, but she was under his control for far too long. We do not yet know the full extent of his influence over her.” Kelso nodded and Trastamar turned to Alexander. “You shall, of course, remain here with Prince Andreu, but not as his valet. You are too valuable now to be wasted on such a posting.”

Alexander closed his eyes, shaking his head. He thought he knew what was coming next, and he dreaded it.

Trastamar smiled, the glint in his eye unnerving. “Once things begin to settle, perhaps in a week or two, I will announce my pending retirement and name you as my successor. Congratulations, Lord Mage Cipriani. Despite all your efforts to the contrary, politics have finally rediscovered you.”

End of Interlude 2