What Seems Right
“You spoke to her?”
“Eventually, my lord,” Euryalus said in reply.
Turnus raised one eyebrow. “'Eventually'?”
Nisus sniffed. “She didn’t want to see us at first, my lord. Looked down her nose at us like we’d just crawled out of some haystack.”
“Don’t take it too personally,” Turnus advised them. “This is not Mistral; people here don’t keep retainers the way that we do. Principal Cinch might have been insulted that I sent a messenger instead of coming to her myself.”
“It was hard to tell, my lord; her face looked like she’d forgotten how to aught but sneer anyway,” Nisus said.
Turnus ignored that. “But you were admitted, eventually?”
“Yes, my lord, we got in to see her in the end,” Euryalus answered. “We presented your compliments and delivered your message.”
“And?” Turnus asked.
Euryalus reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “Here, my lord, the m’dam said to give you this.”
Turnus took a step closer, reaching out to pluck the paper from Euryalus’ unresisting hand. Written upon the paper, in letters that were perfectly formed in flawless handwriting, were the words Diogenes Club, 11.00 hours; tell the porter that you are there to see Juno.
Turnus read the note once more and then scrunched it up in his hand. “I see. Did Principal Cinch say anything to you besides what is written here?”
“No, my lord,” Euryalus said. “I doubt she wanted to waste words on the likes of us.”
“I see,” Turnus said softly. He smiled. “Good work, lads. Get yourselves down to the bar and tell them to put it on my tab.”
Euryalus grinned. “Much obliged, my lord.”
Turnus thought about last night as he finished getting dressed. The Diogenes was an exclusive club – in the old-fashioned sense of a place for like-minded individuals to associate, rather than the more modern usage of a nightclub – and although it seemed that he would be expected, he doubted that he would be allowed through the door if his dress was not up to standard, and so, he attired himself in a well-tailored suit of subdued grey, with a red tie being the only splash of colour visible.
Eleven-hundred hours. It was presently not quite nine in the morning. Two hours until his mission was complete… the first phase of his mission, at least. Principal Cinch might have instructions for him, depending on what Doctor Watts told her; he did not much care for the idea of being ordered about by a combat school commandant, but he would have little choice in the matter.
And even if he was fortunate enough to escape such a fate, he still had the public portion of his mission to complete: to meet with the Atlesian Council on behalf of Mistral.
He would much rather go home immediately, but that might lead to questions asked, and the answers might cause difficulties.
If Doctor Watts thought that Turnus was trying to expose him, then he would…
He could not take the risk. Just as he could not take the risk that General Ironwood might have assigned someone to follow him to his rendezvous with Principal Cinch. He could not afford those who had their hands around his neck to think that he was not being diligent in his service to them. If he allowed himself to be trailed by General Ironwood’s men, then that might be interpreted as collusion.
Of course, if he were followed sufficiently discreetly, then he would not care what was discovered… if he could rely on General Ironwood’s discretion.
There was a knock on the door. “My lord?” Murranus called from the other side.
“What is it?” Turnus called out in return.
“Your breakfast is here, my lord.”
Ah, something to distract him from his thoughts. “Send it in,” Turnus commanded.
Murranus opened the door, admitting a young girl carrying a laden tray in both hands.
“Your breakfast, sir,” she said, in a slight and slightly tremulous voice.
“Thank you,” Turnus said. “Put it over there.” He gestured to the table.
Turnus watched as the girl walked towards it. She was small and slight, with dark hair and hazel eyes. She was dressed in a white tunic that seemed to tie up on one side and grey pants that were fading and becoming worn out at the knees. Around her neck, suspended by lengths of dark wire or thread, she wore a yellow gemstone of a diamond cut, set in black metal.
“A pretty necklace, for a serving girl,” Turnus observed. “Where did you get it?”
The girl stopped, the tray shaking a little in her hands. “Ma… Madame gave it to me, sir.”
“A generous gift,” Turnus observed. “I do not reward my own people so lavishly.” He smiled. “Perhaps I should start, before they desert me.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” the girl whispered, and she deposited the tray down on the table. “Will there be anything else?”
Turnus sat down – the girl retreated before him – and examined the contents of the tray. The coffee was black inside the pot, the juice inside the glass was the right colour to be grapefruit, and when he lifted up the silver lid covering the tray, he found sausage, bacon, fried bread, fried eggs, mushrooms, tomato, and black pudding. Something stodgy to settle his stomach for the day ahead, just as he had requested.
“No, everything seems to be in order,” he said, reaching into one of the inside pockets of his jacket and producing a green low value lien card. He rose once more to his feet, proffering the card to the girl. “Thank you.”
The girl looked at the money as though it might bite her hand. “I can’t take that, sir.”
Turnus frowned. “What’s the matter? Have you never been tipped for your work before?”
“No, sir.”
Turnus’ frown deepened. He put the money card down on the table, and then took off his jacket, depositing it on the bed, where his weapons lay.
The girl’s eyes followed the jacket, but lingered upon the weapons.
Turnus chuckled. “My weapons intrigue you?” he asked.
The girl looked away. “No, sir, sorry sir.”
“It’s quite alright,” he assured her. He hesitated. “Your accent… are you from Mistral?”
The girl hesitated. “Yes, sir. From Suikazura.”
“I cannot say that I have ever been to Suikazura,” Turnus confessed. “How does a Mistralian girl come to be working in an Atlas hotel?”
The girl hesitated. “It… it is a long story, sir; I’m sure you’d find it very boring, and I’m not supposed to disturb the guests.”
“You are not disturbing me until I say that you are,” Turnus informed her. “What is your name, girl?”
Once more, she hesitated. “Sakuraso, sir.”
“And my name is Turnus Rutulus,” Turnus informed her. “And this,” he added, picking up his sword from off the bed, “is Eris.” The blade was long, three feet and doubled-edged, straight as an arrow until it tapered to the point. The guard was solid, and the hilt was fashioned like the stripes of a tiger, orange and black coiling up one another until they reached the tiger’s head pommel wrought of gold, with glistening rubies for the eyes.
Sakuraso’s own eyes were wide as Turnus held up the blade for her inspection. “Where did you get that?” she asked, forgetting to call him ‘sir’ in her eagerness.
“My father had it made for me, for my fifteenth birthday,” Turnus explained. “I had trained hard, mastered the blade, and earned a sword that I could truly call my own, fashioned by the finest smiths in Mistral.”
“You are from Mistral yourself, sir?”
“I am.”
“Is that… is that why the man at the door calls you ‘lord,’ sir?”
Turnus chuckled. “My man calls me lord because I am a lord, although you are correct that if I were not Mistralian, I would not be a lord.”
Sakuraso nodded. “Did your father give you that as well, my lord?” she asked, pointing tremulously to the spear on the bed.
“This? No, this was not from my father,” Turnus said, setting down Eris and taking up the spear, Furor. The spear looked large and heavy, less like a spear and more like the kind of missile that antique siege engines would have fired at city walls. The appearance was only somewhat deceptive: it was a large and heavy spear, but it had to be so because it split in two, becoming a pair of lighter, smaller javelins if need be. “This… how old are you, Sakuraso?”
“I’m ten, my lord.”
Possibly a little too young to tell you that I killed a man and took his weapon for myself. “This I took, because… because I wanted it.” He had killed its previous owner for the insult to Camilla’s honour, but he had taken the dead man’s weapon for no other reason than that he had always admired it. And it wasn’t as if its previous owner was going to need it any more.
Sakuraso nodded slowly. “I see, my lord.”
Turnus put Furor down in turn beside Eris. He crossed back to the table and once more picked up the lien card. “Take this.”
“I shouldn’t, my lord.”
Turnus knelt down in front of her, so that he was no longer looming over her. He used a touch of his semblance to make himself smaller still in her perception, so that they seemed even closer to equal. “Do you know what it means to be a lord of Mistral?” he asked.
Sakuraso shook her head.
“A good lord,” Turnus informed her, “rules his lands, commands his warriors, protects his people, and rewards those who serve him well. Take this, and shame on those who soak up service as their due.”
Sakuraso waited, gaze flickering between the lien and Turnus himself. Eventually, one thin hand reached out to snatch the card from between his fingers. It disappeared up Sakuraso’s sleeve in short order.
“There, you see?” Turnus said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He got to his feet and allowed himself to seem once more his usual height and build in her eyes. “That will be all for now, Sakuraso.”
“Yes, my lord,” Sakuraso said, bowing her head. She smiled, her hazel eyes glistening. “Thank you, my lord.”
Is this the first time anyone has rewarded her thus? Turnus wondered as she left the room quickly. He shook his head and smiled to himself as he realised that once again, he had shown himself to be quite inescapably Mistralian.
He pushed such thoughts aside as he began to eat his breakfast, getting out his scroll as he ate and perusing the news. It seemed that Mister Schnee was still lagging behind in the polls.
He ate and covered up the plate with the remains of his meal when he was finished. Doubtless, Sakuraso or someone like her would be along to collect it eventually.
She had not done so by the time that he was ready to leave for his appointment, but he was not concerned. She would come when he was out, was all.
Ufens opened the door and walked in unannounced. “Are you ready, my lord?”
“I am, thank you,” Turnus said. He was not wearing or carrying either of his weapons; they both lay on the bed where he had put them after showing them both to Sakuraso. Unlike Mistral, in Atlas, it was forbidden for any unlicensed persons to bear arms, and following his expulsion from the academy, Turnus had never bothered to obtain a huntsman license from anywhere else. In all honesty, he probably should have left both Eris and Furor back in Mistral, but he would have felt vulnerable without them at least somewhat nearby, even if he could not bear them in the streets. “Nisus and Euryalus understand their role in this?”
“They do, my lord,” Ufens replied.
Turnus smiled. “And their heads are not too sore after last night?”
Ufens chuckled. “I put a stop to it before it got that far, my lord, but you’d only have yourself to blame if I hadn’t, giving them free reign with your tab as you did.”
“A good lord must reward his faithful servants, Ufens, or they will not remain faithful,” Turnus replied.
Ufens didn’t reply to that, saying instead. “I wish you’d take Opis with you, my lord.”
“Why?” Turnus asked. Opis was a fine warrior, but so were others in his retinue here, and he was curious as to why Ufens had singled her out in particular.
Ufens shrugged. “You say you want to be discreet, my lord; a man your age, and a girl her age, nobody will look twice.”
“You recall that I’m engaged to be married, Ufens,” Turnus reminded him. “I seem to recall that I threw you all quite a lavish feast to celebrate the fact.”
“I recall you sat through it with a face more fitting for a funeral than an engagement party, my lord.”
“I didn’t feel like celebrating,” Turnus admitted; he had only thrown the feast – and only for his retainers, inviting no guests to join them – because it was expected of a man in his position. As he had said, a lord had to reward his faithful servants, and that included throwing them a party from time to time. “But that has nothing to do with my feelings towards Camilla.”
Ufens chuckled. “Nobody doubts that, my lord, but it’s just a harmless ruse if you were to-”
“I will take Lausus,” Turnus said, in a firm tone signifying that the matter was closed. “The way he dresses, people will think we are friends, not lord and retainer.”
“The way he dresses, my lord, you’ll have a hard time being inconspicuous,” Ufens muttered.
“That’s what Nisus and Euryalus are there for,” Turnus said.
Ufens bowed his head. “As you say, my lord.”
“Keep the rest of the men in good order while I’m gone,” Turnus said. “And someone should be along at some point to collect the dishes and empty the bin.”
“I’ll make sure they’re admitted, my lord.”
“Thank you, Ufens,” Turnus said. He took a deep breath. “Now, with good fortune, all shall be well.”
Shortly thereafter, he left his room and descended into the lobby, where Lausus was waiting for him between the two crystalline ursa statues which loomed over the open space.
Lausus Rasna was the scion of a good family; not so old or proud as the houses of Nikos, Thrax, or Rutulus, nevertheless, the Rasnans were a good family of good lineage, on a par with families like Kommenos or Vasilias. Turnus could still remember when he and Lausus had been friends, when Lausus’ father had been Turnus’ father’s chief supporter on the Council, and he and Lausus had trained in arms together.
Then the family had fallen on hard times. Turnus had lost his father, but at least the fortunes of the Rutulus family had remained intact; he had yet been able to keep his sister in the manner to which she had become accustomed. Lausus’ father, Mezentius, yet lived, but not long after the murder of Daunus Rutulus, Mezentius had been accused of embezzling public funds. Out of affection, in his father’s memory, and feeling that it was not meet a man of good family, who had lately been so exalted and so honoured, should suffer to be bound in prison over a mere question of money, Turnus had helped to keep Mezentius out of prison, but the Rasna family had been ruined financially and socially. Now, Lausus served him, who had once almost been his equal.
He was a man of about Turnus’ own age, tall and lithe but with a wiry strength visible in his arms. His hair was blond and long and fell on either side of his thin, handsome, almost pretty features. He looked almost like an alabaster statue, with a pair of gleaming sapphires for his eyes, and more than one woman in the lobby was sneaking discreet or not so discreet glances in his direction. He was dressed in a tunic of spun gold, woven by his mother’s own hand, and blood red trousers with silver buttons running down the sides, disappearing into a pair of polished black boots. Around his neck, he wore a golden torque in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail, and a gold band around one wrist. Since, unlike Turnus, Lausus had graduated from Haven Academy and was thus a qualified huntsman, he had a round shield slung across his back, and his spear, compacted for greater ease of movement, wedged between his shield and his back.
“I see that you understand the importance of discretion,” Turnus said, as he joined him in the lobby.
Lausus chuckled. “Would my lord have me dress in black and cover my face up? What could be more discreet than a man of wealth and taste flaunting both for all to see?”
“Wealth?”
“Well, these people don’t know my family history, do they?” Lausus muttered. “How are they to know the difference?” He chuckled again. “Are you ready?”
“I am,” Turnus said. “Let’s go.”
Aska lurked on the roof of one of the buildings across the street from the hotel.
This was nobody’s command; General Ironwood had not ordered her to do it, Lady Nikos certainly had not. This was something that she had chosen to do for herself.
Turnus was here. He had preceded them here and passed some word of Chrysalis onto General Ironwood before them. She wanted to know what he was doing, what Chrysalis and Doctor Watts had set him to doing.
It was hard to tell, but she thought that someone else was watching the hotel too, someone down below in a car. Perhaps one of General Ironwood’s men, although she did not recognise them – distance and unfamiliarity combined.
Regardless, she was more skilled in stealth than anyone at the disposal of her – of General Ironwood. She was a ninja of the Koryu clan, the shadows were her realm and birthright.
As she lurked, hidden in shadow, everything revealed to her from her vantage point above, Aska saw Turnus Rutulus emerge from out of the hotel, accompanied by a warrior about his age in a very bright gold tunic. They were careless, heedless of pursuit, not even checking to see if they were being followed as they set off down the street.
Perfect. She would pursue them unnoticed, learn their destination and-
Aska felt something prick at the back of her neck; something sharp.
“That’s enough, girl,” the voice was hoarse, and middle-aged at least. “Get your hands where we can see them.”
Aska closed her eyes for a moment. The heir to the Koryu clan, outfoxed and ambushed.
Some ninja.
She held out her hands. “It is illegal to carry weapons in Atlas without a license.”
“Thanks for letting us know,” the voice that answered her now was younger. “We’ll be sure not to get caught.”
Aska’s eyes followed after Turnus and his gilded companion. They were moving further away now. If she remained as she was, then they would be out of sight. In fact, they would very soon be out of sight; Turnus’ retainer was hailing a cab. He wasn’t doing it particularly well – he wasn’t standing close enough to the curb – but that would only buy her a few extra moments. A taxi would pick them soon, and she would need to be following them then if she didn’t want to lose them.
“Pull her back,” the older man said.
Someone – the younger man, presumably; Aska had assumed that he who had spoken first had the weapon to her neck, but if so, he would hardly have needed to direct himself – grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and hauled her back away from the edge of the roof. Out of the corner of her eye, Aska could see the older man covering her with a rifle – a long-range rifle with a scope, a poor fit for a situation like this one.
And she felt where the man holding her was.
She raised her elbow and slammed it back into the face of he who restrained her, forcing him to release her with a cry of pain as she struck him in the nose. As his hands left her, Aska started for the edge of the roof. It was risky, but she would have to leap if she was to evade these two and trust that Turnus would not notice her until she found new cover.
Her feet carried her the distance.
The old man’s rifle cracked, the bullet striking Aska in the side and knocking her off her feet. A hunting rifle, clearly, heavy calibre, and her aura was feeling all of it. She tried to rise, still reaching for the edge of the roof, but the rifle barked again, and Aska was hurled onto her back, groaning in pain. The young man had a spear in his hand, and he bore down upon her, thrusting his weapon towards her breast. Aska rolled out of the way, and as the spear struck the stone slab where she had been lying, she lashed out with both legs to cut his legs from under him and dump him down on the rooftop.
Aska leapt to her feet, and in one fluid motion, she drew her sword across her back. The old man fired again, but this time, Aska had her blade, the heirloom of her line, in her hand, and with a deft slash, she deflected the shot away.
However, she had been forced back. Both her enemies were now between her and the edge of the roof.
The young man got to his feet. The old man kept his rifle trained on her.
Aska twirled her blade, one in her hand, the curved sword forming a silver circle in the air.
The young man slung a rectangular tower shield from across his back, holding his spear now with one hand.
Aska’s gaze flickered between the two of them.
The young one let out a loud yell as he cast his spear towards her. Aska’s sword lashed out to deflect the spear, which clattered to the ground beside her. The old man fired, but this time, Aska was able to dance nimbly to avoid the round, but in doing so, between deflecting spear and dodging shot, she had left herself off-balance as the young man charged for her. He drew a short sword as he rushed forwards, shield before him, bodily slamming into her and knocking her to the ground. He slammed his shield down onto her face, even as he knelt down, slashing at her with his sword.
Aska grabbed his sword arm with one hand and his neck by the other, bodily throwing him over her and sending him flying, rolling across the roof towards the back of the building. She leapt up, pausing only to retrieve her sword, running-
The older man tackled her from the side, grabbing her, bearing her sideways into the high stone that separated the building on which they stood and fought from that beside it. Aska’s aura flared, sending a jolt of pain through her back, even as the old man stabbed at her gut with his own short blade, his hand moving in a frenzy of blows, one after the other, ripping through her aura as he stabbed again and again and again.
Aska thrust her head forward, slamming it into that of her attacker like a woodpecker attacking a tree trunk, and when he recoiled, she broke away, and this time – this time, she made it.
She reached the edge of the roof and leapt off, arms spread out on either side of her as she fell. She seemed, at least to herself, to fall slowly, with the grace of a leaf dropping from the tree to land upon the ground below. She descended, head first, the air passing by her so slowly that she might have been flying instead of falling. It was as though she could make out every detail of the building she passed by, see everyone on the other side of the windows, pick out everything within the rooms she fell past.
And yet, she was aware, and became increasingly aware, that she was not flying but falling, and so, as she reached the ground, she twisted in mid-air so that she landed feet-first, not head-first.
She still made quite a sight, however, as evinced by the ways in which people backed away from her as she dropped from the sky, murmuring in alarm and confusion.
Aska sheathed her sword. She was a licensed huntress, but she wanted to avoid having to explain that to the police if possible.
She looked up. No one was shooting at her from above; her enemies, the Rutulian men – she had no doubt that was who they were – were doubtless even less keen on attracting attention than she was.
However, they had done their work: there was no sign of Turnus or his companion.
Nor, Aska noticed, as she moved briskly down the street in search of both new cover and any trace of where her quarry had gone, was there any sign of the car which she had spotted earlier.
Flash kept his scroll out as Turnus and his friend in the gold tunic left the hotel. It was important that he looked like he was still messing around on his scroll in the car, even when his focus was elsewhere.
After all, he didn’t want anyone to know that his focus was elsewhere.
He wasn’t an expert at pretending to look at something other than the thing he was looking at, and he was sure that if she’d been here, then the Lieutenant would have had a few pointers about his technique – a frown creased Flash’s face, as he wondered how Lieutenant Martinez and her kids were doing back in Vale; what with his injury and the fact that he’d been kind of out of it when they brought him home, he didn’t even know for sure that they’d survived – but he hoped that it would be good enough to fool anyone who might take an interest in him and his activities.
And so, with his scroll out and his attention sometimes maybe seeming to be fixed upon it, Flash watched as Turnus and his armed friend – hopefully, he had a license – walked away from the hotel and tried to hail a cab.
Their technique was poor; everyone knew that to hail a taxi in Atlas, you had to get out into the road and risk being hit by a car, but eventually, the guy in the gold tunic understood to get closer to the edge of the curb, at least, and a white taxi pulled up to collect them.
Flash put his scroll away as the two of them got in, switching his car into drive and resting his foot gently on the accelerator.
Then, as the cab pulled off, he began to follow.
The taxi driver was a walrus faunus, a heavy-set man in middle age, with a pair of tusks descending from out of his mouth, wearing a red shirt with a dull-yellow leaf pattern.
“Where to?” he asked over the sound of the radio.
“The Diogenes Club,” Turnus said as Lausus got in beside him and closed the door.
“Right,” the driver said in a dull voice as he began to pull away, the vehicle carrying Turnus and Lausus down the roads of Atlas towards their destination.
The radio was on very loudly, the voices of two men filling the taxi.
“We just received the results of round one,” said one man, with a deep voice.
“And we passed!” cried the other, his voice higher-pitched and more enthusiastic.
“Of course we passed; anyone can pass round one, even amateurs could pass round one!”
“But last year, we were eliminated in round two,” pointed out the higher-pitched voice.
“And it was a scandal! An absolute disgrace! Ten years in the business, and we were subjected to that! Just thinking about it-”
“Now, now, calm down-”
“I smell collusion! Let’s start with why we’re being judged by guys who are less funny than we are-”
“So, anyway,” the higher pitched voice cried hurriedly. “We got some fan mail! Ahem. ‘Hello. I went to see you in the first round. Simply put, your jokes aren’t funny. It took you one whole minute to make your first joke, and then you failed to follow up on it while making the same jokes over and over again-”
“Who the hell is this guy?”
“Moving on!”
“Can you turn that off?” Turnus asked, raising his voice over the radio.
The driver complied at once. “That channel is an acquired taste,” he said, in a quiet voice.
“Indeed,” Turnus murmured, leaning back in his seat.
In the rear-view mirror, Turnus’ could see the driver’s eyes watching them. “So, you with the weapons, are you a huntsman?”
“Sure,” Lausus replied.
“Good,” the driver said. “Because I don’t need any more trouble right now.” He offered no further clue as to what he meant by that.
Lausus glanced at Turnus, who said nothing. It was very unlikely that whatever trouble this fellow was in would impact them in the short time they would spend in his company.
The cab continued to drive along, silently now. Turnus looked straight ahead, gazing at nothing, his mind full of scenarios of how this meeting would go.
Lausus looked out of the window for a while, gazing up at all the marvels of Atlas that loomed around them, until he turned to Turnus and said, “Ufens said he’d rather you had Opis with you, my lord?”
“Indeed,” Turnus replied. “He thought she’d be less conspicuous.”
Lausus grinned. “Well, thank you for bringing me along instead, my lord.”
“It’s nothing,” Turnus said. “Ufens’ notion of inconspicuous was that Opis and I should pretend to be an item.”
Lausus snorted. “It’s a harmless deception.”
“So I’ve been told,” Turnus said sharply. “But I won’t treat Camilla that way.”
Lausus covered his mouth with one hand as he laughed.
Turnus’ eyes narrowed. “What?” he demanded.
Lausus paused for a moment. “As your retainer, I probably shouldn’t say this,” he said, “but as an old friend, can I just say that the amount of care you show to her, the amount of respect you have for her, the way that you treat her… how in the name of all the gods did it take you so long to realise how you felt about Camilla?”
Turnus’ stare verged upon a glare. For a moment, at least; the fire in his eyes died out quite quickly. “I was… I thought…” He sighed. “I have no answers to give you, because I have no answers for myself. But, in my defence, it was not as though Camilla made her own feelings clear.”
“That is a matter of opinion, my lord.”
Turnus blinked. “You knew?”
“Everyone knew,” Lausus said. “It was only you that didn’t.”
“And yet none of you said anything?”
“It wasn’t our place to say, my lord,” Lausus said. “And Camilla might not have appreciated it.” He paused. “Although, I have to say, I do wish that you’d come to your senses sooner. I’d have been able to make a move on Pyrrha Nikos myself without having to worry about your reaction to me poaching on your estate.”
“You?” Turnus said. “You would have sought Pyrrha’s hand?”
“I must make a good marriage of some sort,” Lausus reminded him. “I don’t have the luxury of marrying my penniless faunus best friend because I have ample wealth to support her. I need a wife who can support me as the first step to restoring the fortunes of my house. And she’s not only rich but impeccably well-born and as great a beauty as was ever born in Mistral besides.”
“All excellent arguments why she would make a good match for you,” Turnus said dryly. “I’m not sure Lady Nikos would have seen the advantages on her side. Not that it matters; Pyrrha has made it plain that she doesn’t care for advantage in her marriage.”
“Ah, but that’s the thing, you see, I’m just her type,” Lausus declared. “All I needed was the chance to get in first, my lord.”
“You are her type?”
Lausus grinned. “Pretty blond boys with no brains,” he declared.
Turnus snorted and tried very hard to prevent that snort from developing into anything less dignified. “I’m not sure that things would have gone as smoothly as you hope.”
“Love rarely does,” the driver said.
Turnus’ eyebrows rose. “Are you a philosopher, driver?”
“I’m a taxi driver,” the driver said, as though it was a response. He pulled over. “Here we are.”
Turnus paid him, with a generous tip on top of his fee, before the two of them got out of the taxi, which drove off as soon as they shut the door after themselves.
The Diogenes Club, outside of which they had been deposited, was a typically Atlesian construct of glass and steel, although the glass was tinted to prevent anyone from seeing inside, and before the building itself, at the top of the stone steps that led up to it, glass columns had been raised supporting a portico, lending the place the slight look of a Mistralian temple. Or an Atlesian parody of the same.
Regardless, it was their destination, and Turnus began to climb the steps towards it.
“My lord,” Lausus said. “One moment, if you will?”
Turnus turned back to look at him. “What is it?”
“Something else that it might not be my place to say, not even as your one-time friend,” Lausus said.
“Then perhaps you had better not say it,” Turnus suggested.
Lausus winced. “The only man who did not enjoy your engagement feast was you, my lord; we all rejoiced, and not only in the generosity of your food and your wine, but in your good fortune, also. There is not a man in the company who does not hold you in esteem and not a man who does not love Camilla as kin to them. Our fortunes are bound up with those of your house not only by oaths of faithfulness but by bonds of great affection. If a shadow has fallen on the Rutulus family, then we, your men, will do all we can to shine a light upon it if only you will give the word.”
“Lausus-”
“We are not blind, my lord,” Lausus declared. “We noticed that you and Camilla were the only two who did not smile at a feast in celebration of your own engagement; we noticed that we have seen Juturna less and less of late, and we have noticed that all of this happened as your Atlesian guests arrived for a brief season and then stole away abruptly in the night. Not all in Rutulian Security are as brainless as I am. Some can put two and two together and make cause and effect.” Lausus paused. “We are your men, my lord. Whatever befalls you, we would face it with you, if you will but trust us.”
“I dare not-”
“My lord-”
“Yet,” Turnus said. “Believe me, there will be a time for swords, there will be a time when I will need you, and every Rutulian weapon that can be brought to bear against our enemies, but that time is not yet. I dare not.” Now it was his turn to hesitate. “If you love me, you will bear the word back to your fellows that they must do nothing with their suspicions, do nothing at all until I give the word. You must do as I do and be as compliant as the grass for a little while… even if it means we will be stepped on.”
Lausus said, “Then you do have enemies, my lord?”
Turnus nodded. “And one day, they shall regret that they did not beware of me,” he said. “But that day is not yet come. Today… today we should not keep our host waiting.”
Flash had watched the taxi drop Turnus and the other guy off outside the Diogenes Club, but rather than risk making it obvious that he had been tailing them, he decided to circle around the block first before pulling up.
As a result, he pulled up just in time to see the two of them disappearing inside the club.
He couldn’t have followed them inside in any case; it was a private club, and he wasn’t a member, nor did he know a member who could invite him in as their guest.
He got out his scroll and called General Ironwood, voice only. “Sir, it’s me; um, Lieutenant Flash Sentry, sir.”
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“I think Turnus Rutulus is meeting someone, sir,” Flash said. “He’s just gone inside a private club, the Diogenes; I doubt he’s a member.”
“No, you’re right; his contact will have chosen the location. Was he with anyone?”
“One man, sir, armed, probably one of his men. Sir, do you think Chrysalis could be impersonating a club member?”
General Ironwood was silent on the other end of the line for a few moments. “Unlikely,” he said. “Stay on station, Flash, and don’t leave when Turnus does. Instead, I want you to keep watching the club and make a note of who comes in and out for the rest of the day. It will give us a short list of who he was meeting.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man at the door of the Diogenes Club had broad shoulders, a martial bearing, and white hair that was losing its battle to cover up his entire head. Turnus guessed that he had been a soldier and now was supplementing his income in retirement with this light work.
As Turnus and Lausus approached, the fellow stepped forward and said, “Good morning, sir; may I have your name, please?”
“Good morning,” Turnus said. “I’m told that Juno is expecting me.”
The doorman blinked. “Of course, sir. You’ve already been signed in as a guest in the daybook. If you’ll please follow me.”
“Is there anywhere my man can wait until my business is concluded?” Turnus asked.
“I’ll have a steward show him to the Attendants’ Waiting Room and get him settled, sir,” the man said, clicking his fingers and gesturing for a passing steward in a waistcoat and bow tie to walk quickly towards them. “Take this man to the Attendants’ Room and see him provided for.”
“My lord?” Lausus asked.
“Go, I’ll be fine,” Turnus replied, and as Lausus departed with the steward, so too did Turnus follow the doorman into the club. They passed through a common room filled with large, old-fashioned, comfortable-looking armchairs where ladies and gentlemen sat sipping and tea and nibbling on pastries and biscuits, while the hum of casual conversation filled the air.
The doorman brought Turnus to a private room, a small room, very narrow, with two of the armchairs that were found in the common room, and a small round table set between them. In one armchair, facing the door, sat a woman in her late middle years, with a sharp, angular face and half-moon spectacles perched upon her nose. Her hair was an array of streaks of purple, pink, and cerise, and bound up in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She was dressed in blue, all save for an amber broach she wore at her collar.
“Your guest, ma’am,” the doorman said.
“Thank you,” she said, in a voice without emotion. “See that we’re not disturbed.”
“Of course, ma’am,” the doorman said, and shut the door behind Turnus.
“Principal Cinch, I presume,” Turnus said.
“Turnus Rutulus?” Principal Cinch asked, stapling her fingers together. “Or do I have the dubious privilege of addressing yet another of your lackeys?”
Turnus placed one hand upon the armchair. “My retainers are men of quality and courage.”
“Qualities which I’m sure make them very useful upon the battlefield, but the fact remains,” Principal Cinch said, “I’m not in the habit of being approached by servants.”
Turnus paused for a moment. “Forgive me, ma’am; it was necessary. I could not risk contacting you until you understand the importance of keeping this matter between ourselves.”
“I still do not know that I understand,” Principal Cinch replied. “But I am willing to extend you this courtesy, even though you were not. Please, sit down.”
Turnus sat.
“Would you like some tea?” Principal Cinch asked. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” Turnus replied.
“You should,” Principal Cinch admonished him. “It’s really very good tea.”
“Nevertheless, ma’am,” Turnus said.
Principal Cinch regarded him over the top of her spectacles. “I have done my research on you, Lord Rutulus. Head of a very wealthy and powerful family in Mistral, you were expelled from Atlas Academy but didn’t let that stop you from taking a job with the SDC security division. That is, until the tragic death of your father, at which point, you returned to Mistral, presumably to take over management of the family estate… and to found a private security company operating across Anima.”
“If you know about my father’s death, then you will know that I had good reason to think that the kingdom needed an alternative to the Imperial Constabulary,” Turnus said.
“And now you are back in Atlas as an official representative of the Kingdom of Mistral,” Principal Cinch continued. “How does it feel?”
“Does it matter?” Turnus asked.
“It is a harmless question, is it not?” Principal Cinch replied.
“I am no longer sure that there is such a thing as a harmless question,” Turnus said. “You will forgive me, ma’am, but I did not ask to see you for the pleasure of your company, charming company though I am sure it is.”
Principal Cinch’s face was expressionless. “I had assumed that you had asked to see me because you had done your research as I have done mine, and you know that I have the ear of Jacques Schnee, who will shortly become Atlas’ newest Councillor.”
“It was always my impression that Mister Schnee had a mind of his own,” Turnus said carefully. “And a keen one too.”
“Of course, Jacques is a titan of industry, a man of true vision,” Principal Cinch said smoothly. “But he is politically inexperienced, as even he would confess; he relies upon those of us with more skill and experience in this particular arena to support him, to guide him through these difficult waters.”
“And yet, ma’am, you cannot guide him to a commanding lead in the polls,” Turnus pointed out. “Or any lead at all. I daresay that Mister Schnee deserves to lead this kingdom – as you say, he is a man of vision, a man who can make decisions unclouded by his emotions – but I must confess that if I were here solely upon the business of Mistral, I might fear to be associated with you.”
Principal Cinch’s eyes narrowed. “Then why are you here, Lord Rutulus?”
Turnus leaned forward. “How well do you know a Doctor Arthur Watts, ma’am?” Are you his puppet, as I am, or shall I kill you once I am done with him?
Principal Cinch was quite expressionless and quite, quite silent. “You… you know Arthur?”
“The good doctor and I are acquainted,” Turnus growled. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a data stick. “He asked me to give this to you. I have not read the contents.” He tossed it down on the table in front of her.
Principal Cinch did not immediately pick it up. “I… see. Thank you, Lord Rutulus.” She did not seem particularly grateful as she gingerly picked up the stick as though it might bite, before slipping it securely into her purse. “I shall study this carefully, although you will forgive me if I do so in the privacy of my own home.”
“That would be very wise of you,” Turnus said. “You did not answer my question, ma’am. How well do you know Doctor Watts?”
“I am not sure that anyone can truly say they know Arthur,” Principal Cinch said. “But I believe he is a useful friend to have, and a friend who shares my… disquiet with the situation here in Atlas.”
Not a puppet, then, but a pawn perhaps. “If you will permit me to give you some advice, ma’am; Doctor Watts' friendship comes at a price. And he reveals that price at a moment of his own convenience, not yours.”
Principal Cinch took a moment to reply. “What do you think of this kingdom, Lord Rutulus? Please, give me your honest opinion.”
Turnus, too, considered for a moment. “Whatever I say as an outsider, I think you will counter with a diagnosis of your own weakness.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I know what I would say if we were in the parlour of my house in Mistral with you as my guest,” Turnus said. Or what I would have said, at least, before such things seemed of far less import to me than they do now.
Principal Cinch smiled thinly. “There is a battle raging, Lord Rutulus, a battle for the soul of Atlas itself, a battle which will decide whether or not this kingdom remains strong, powerful, feared… or whether it will decline into relentless mediocrity, undone by decadent degeneracy, by naïveté and weakness masquerading as virtue.”
“You speak of strength and power, ma’am, but your campaign – Mister Schnee’s campaign – seems to have descended into retail politics,” Turnus observed. “And even that has not reversed its fortunes.”
“It is a pity that one must pander to the rabble in order to gain power,” Principal Cinch agreed. “But make no mistake, Lord Rutulus, Jacques Schnee will win that Council seat; I intend to make sure of it. Watch the polls, watch the news, and watch as Jacques’ fortunes are transformed by a political miracle. And then, once Jacques Schnee is safely installed on the Council, well… all those who soaked up his promises of welfare and maintenance on the public expense will get precisely what they deserve.”
“You would betray all those who carry you into office?” Turnus asked, unable to keep the distaste out of his voice. He did not believe in democracy – he held no brief to defend its virtue as a system or its integrity – but he did believe in honour; once you made a pact with the people and they did you the service of voting you into power, he could not but feel there was some moral obligation incumbent on you to follow through on your promises.
“I would do what is right for Atlas,” Principal Cinch replied. “What should I do instead?”
What is right for Atlas or what is right for yourself? Turnus thought. He knew how easy it was to confuse the two. “If you are so confident of victory, ma’am, then may I ask what place Mistral might have in the world you would fashion?”
“Why don’t we wait,” Principal Cinch said, “and see what Arthur has to say, before we jump to any conclusions?” She got to her feet. “Was there anything else, Lord Rutulus? And is there any way that I can reach you?”
“If you have a discreet man of your own at your beck and call, then messages to the Glass Unicorn will find me,” Turnus replied.
“Good,” Principal Cinch said. “Because you know, once I’ve seen what is on this message, I may well need to speak with you again.”
“I hope you do, ma’am,” Turnus lied.
“Did anything happen while I was away?” Turnus asked as he returned to his room.
“Nisus and Euryalus caught someone spying on the hotel, my lord,” Ufens informed him. “Might be that she’d have tried to follow you.”
“She?”
“A girl. A ninja, by the look of it.”
Turnus looked at him. “A ninja?”
“That’s what they said, my lord.”
“What happened?”
“They fought,” Ufens said. “The girl got away from them, but not before you’d gotten away from her.”
“More excellent work from both of them, then,” Turnus said.
Ufens snorted. “Another night at the bar, my lord?”
“I think so,” Turnus said, “but not yet; it’s a little early. Anything else that I should know about?”
“We caught the little brat trying to steal Furor, my lord,” Ufens said.
“The little-” Turnus stopped. “You mean Sakuraso?”
“The serving girl, my girl,” Ufens said. “Murranus recognised her, said she brought you breakfast.”
“Sakuraso, then,” Turnus said. “She tried to steal Furor?”
Ufens nodded. “Murranus heard a noise inside your room when you were out, went inside, and found the girl; she’d climbed in through the air vent and was trying to get your spear out the same way.”
Turnus frowned. “What did you do with her?”
“Turned her over to the Madame,” Ufens said. “Most likely, she’s been tossed out onto the street by now.”
Turnus’ frown deepened. “I want to see her.”
“The madame?”
“The girl,” Turnus clarified. “Although the Madame will know where she is, if anyone does.”
“Nothing was stolen, my lord; we checked,” Ufens said. “It hardly seems something to worry yourself about.”
“I’m not concerned with what was or wasn’t stolen,” Turnus explained. “I’m concerned with why she tried to steal it.” She had been interested in the weapons, to be sure, but what was she planning to do with them, at her age and in Atlas?
Perhaps she just wanted it, the way that you wanted it. Now wouldn’t that be ironic?
Turnus tried to ignore the thought as he walked out of his room and back out onto the balcony, leaning on the rails a little as he looked down upon the lobby beneath. There was no sign of the Madame there.
Turnus led the way down to the lobby, with Ufens following behind them. They approached the counter, where Turnus placed his hands upon the wooden surface as he waited.
And then he heard a scream of pain, a young girl’s cry, a cry that reminded him of the nightmares that had plagued Camilla when she’d first come to live with them.
It was coming from the back room, down a dark corridor behind the counter.
Though no one else in the hotel seemed to react, Turnus started to run.
He was unarmed, but he plunged down the dark corridor regardless, leaving Ufens to follow after him, until he emerged into a large, shadowy store room, lit by small, high windows set near the ceiling, where boxes were piled high and bags of sundry things sat upon shelves. A room of pipes and boilers and furniture covered up by sheets as though there had been a death in the family.
In one corner of this room, a little den had been established, a sleeping bag and a couple of pillows, and it was to this little den that Sakuraso had retreated, and now cowered before the Madame of the hotel. She was the one who was crying out in pain as lightning rippled up and down her body from the necklace, no, the collar that she wore.
The Madame had some sort of switch in her hand, and she was pressing it, and as she pressed it, Sakuraso convulsed, twitched and writhed and screamed as the lightning devoured her.
“What were they going to do with her, Father?”
“Sell her. There is a thriving trade in child slaves, for reasons I don’t fully understand and almost do not wish to. All I understand is that we sell our children to torment in foreign lands for a few lien a piece. It shames our whole kingdom, or ought to. If I could only do one thing in my life, I should like to stamp out this foul practice.
“STOP!” Turnus thundered, and the Madame did stop; she turned towards him, and as she looked at him, Turnus used his semblance to swell up in size, to broaden his shoulders, to become as large as the room itself until he seemed to tower over her, his size and strength making her seem insignificant by comparison.
He advanced upon her, and she retreated before him. The switch that controlled the collar tumbled from her hand, and Turnus shattered it and ground it to pieces beneath his booth.
He looked at Sakuraso. She had stopped crying now; instead, she whimpered, curled up in a heap on her sleeping bag, her body yet trembling.
Turnus returned his attention to the Madame. She was an older woman, her blonde hair turning to grey, her face becoming lined with wrinkles. Somehow, he did not think that Sakuraso was the first. How many children had passed through here, how many had she abused in this way, and what had become of them in the end?
Did the law of Atlas tolerate such things? Was this the kingdom that he had admired? Was this what he had sought to emulate: the market for the barbarous trade that his father had worked to eradicate?
He felt disgusted, with Atlas, with the woman before him… and with himself.
No one else had come, he realised. No one else had run here, though they had heard the cries. Nobody else had cared.
Mistral… Mistral had its faults, gods knew, but at least in Mistral, they were not automatons that they could ignore the crying of a child. In Mistral, people would have come.
Damn this kingdom. I should have seen it long ago.
He could not change Atlas. He could not even save Mistral. But perhaps… perhaps he could save Sakuraso.
He stared down at the woman before him. He wanted to kill her; he had killed for less than this, gods knew, but only warriors, armed and with their auras activated. He had never killed a defenceless commoner before, and however much she might deserve it, he wasn’t sure that she wanted to start now.
Nor was he sure that he wished to trust the Atlesian police. Experience had taught him against such things. And after all, things had carried on this long, had they not, with no legal penalties incurred? That strongly suggested to him that there were no legal penalties.
“How do you remember all these laws, Father? There are so many of them.”
His Father laughed at that. “Remember them? I don’t even try.”
“But then how-?”
“I do what seems to be the right thing at the time, son, and I worry about the law later.”
Thank you, Father. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long.
“How much?” Turnus growled.
“How much?” the Madame repeated. “How much for what?”
“For the girl!” Turnus declared fiercely.
“I don’t-”
“You understand me perfectly, Madame,” Turnus insisted, taking another step towards her. “You have acquired this girl, from Mistral, and you have used her and abused her, and it stops now. I am a reasonable man; I understand that I am in a foreign land and foreign customs may apply. Which is why I will overlook how heinous I find your offence and give you eight thousand lien, and you will give the girl into my charge, and you will never touch her again. Do I make myself clear?”
The Madame whimpered but nodded her head.
“Good,” Turnus said. “I will be along at the counter shortly to settle with you, not only this payment but all of my outstanding debts. I will be taking my leave of this place earlier than I had expected. Ufens!”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Tell the men to pack up. We’ll be bunking aboard the Jade Princess for the rest of our stay here.” He paused. Of course, he had just told Principal Cinch to contact him here. “Lausus will remain here, in case anybody tries to reach me with a message. He can have free reign of my account; he’ll enjoy that.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Now get out of my sight,” Turnus snarled at the Madame, who fled from him, running past Ufens, heedless of her dignity, fleeing into the light and safety of the rest of the hotel.
“My lord-” Ufens began.
“Contact the Princess; tell them we need beds prepared not only for our men but also for this one,” Turnus said.
“Yes, my lord,” Ufens said. And then he, too, left.
Turnus was alone with Sakuraso.
“This is Camilla. She’ll be staying with us from now on.”
Turnus used his semblance to shrink himself in appearance, to make himself seem small and weak and utterly unthreatening. He thought that strength was the last thing Sakuraso would wish to see right now.
“It’s alright, child,” he murmured. “It’s over now. She will not hurt you again.”
Sakuraso sniffed and whispered something he could not hear.
“What was that?”
“Why, my lord?”
Turnus smiled. “As I told you,” he said, “a good lord protects his people. Now, I must confess I have not always been a good lord, but I hope that there is still time for me to start.”
“But… but I’m not your people, my lord.”
Turnus hesitated for a moment. “My father once came across a girl like you,” he told her. “Mistreated, held against her will. He rescued her, whisked her away from all of that and brought her home into our house, to live with us in luxury and comfort. I asked him why and he told me: ‘all of Mistral, is my people’. I suppose I should like to try and live up to his example.” He paused. “I don’t know how you came to be here, and I am sorry that I cannot punish those who brought you here or who have kept you here; but I can offer you a new life, in Mistral, in my house. I will see you educated, and when you are older, you can start down whatever path in life you wish. If you are truly fond of my Furor, then I will see you taught how to use weapons like it.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Sakuraso said, looking away from him. “I know I shouldn’t have tried to take it, but-”
“You took it,” Turnus said. “Because you wanted it.” If only to stab your tormentor with. “No harm done. And perhaps a great good. If you had not taken it, then…” He trailed off. “You don’t have to come with me. I must confess that I am in some danger at present, and my household may be caught up in that danger also. But I promise that I will never harm you, and that as part of my house, you will be protected with all the power at my command.”
Sakuraso looked at him. “What happened to her? To the other girl? Did she meet a handsome prince?”
Turnus chuckled wryly. “No,” he admitted. “But she did meet a man whom she could love, for all his flaws.”
Sakuraso smiled slightly. “I… I’ve never been to Mistral, my lord. But… but I’d like to.”
Turnus held out his hand to her. “Then I will take you there, I swear it.”
And I will be, I hope, a man a little more like my father.