//------------------------------//
// Pro Bono (New) 
// Story: SAPR 
// by Scipio Smith 
//------------------------------//


Pro Bono


The office of Turnus Rutulus was vaguely modelled after that of Mister Schnee in Atlas; on the back wall, there hung a large portrait of Turnus’ late father, wearing the green dress uniform of the Commissioner of the Imperial Police, seeming to look down on Turnus as he sat at his desk. 
He could feel his father’s eyes on the back of his neck as he worked; it kept him honest, in his human dealings, if not financially. 
The room was almost fully enclosed, with only very small windows near the ceiling admitting any kind of natural light, most of the light coming from the chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling. One wall was completely covered in book shelves lined with books, many of which Turnus had not, admittedly, gotten around to reading yet, while on the other wall hung his spear, his sword, his father’s dress sword in its ceremonial scabbard, his great grandfather’s pearl-handled duelling pistols, and an antique rifle of Great War vintage that he had acquired at auction. 
A tiger-striped rug — not a tiger skin, although some visitors made that mistake; in actual fact, Turnus donated to conservation efforts — sat on the floor.
Turnus himself sat behind his desk, which was a sturdy affair of ancient oak. Family photographs sat upon the desk: his father and himself standing on either side of his mother, who was looking very tired and wan, but endeavouring to smile nonetheless, as she cradled the infant Juturna in her arms; Juturna sitting on their father’s lap while Turnus and Camilla stood on either side of him — you could see Turnus reaching out to hold Camilla in place as she kept trying to sidle out of view of the camera, unsure that she deserved to be there; a photograph that Father had taken of the three of them on one of their camping trips, seated around the fire; a more recent picture of the three of them at Juturna’s sixteenth birthday party, where Juturna wore one of Mother’s tiaras and Camilla wore a blood red dress; the only picture that did not feature Juturna in some way was the company photograph of Turnus in the midst of his men, armed, ready, and eager. 
They were a reminder of what he worked for — even the picture that also reminded him of what he had to work with. 
Right now, however, he had a different kind of work to do. 
Turnus switched on the computer on his desk; the holographic screen stirred to life, and for a moment, Turnus was treated to a reflection of his own face, blue eyes and black hair streaked with red, before the light green default screen obscured the sight. 
Turnus checked the time; it would hardly do to call Cala up at an unsociable hour for her, but thankfully, it would not be so in Atlas. 
And so he called her, settling back a little in his chair as he waited for her to respond. He did not have to wait too long before he got a response, and the face of Cala appeared on his screen. 
Cala Ferny-Brown was a woman exiting her youth, although new motherhood probably had more to do with the bags under her hazel eyes than any set number of years; her hair was calico, and it fell in gentle curls around her round face. 
Cala’s sister had been his commander during the brief time when he had worked for SDC Security, and Cala herself was a mid-level executive within the Schnee Dust Company; she was not that much older than he was, but she had seemed to feel the need to mother him while he was in Atlas — all the more so when she found out that his mother was dead — with invitations to dinner and offers of a place to stay and the like. 
He had been in Atlas when he got the news that his father had been murdered, and Cala had stayed up all night with him, sharing wine and listening to him ramble on about his family. 
Turnus had kept in touch after returning home to Mistral, partly because a contact in the SDC was useful to him, but also simply because of her kindness, which did not deserve to be forgotten. 
“Turnus!” she said, smiling at him. “Hey!”
Turnus smiled. “Good morning, Cala. I hope I didn’t interrupt breakfast.”
“No, just the washing up,” she said. “How are things? How’s Juturna?”
“Juturna is Juturna, as always,” Turnus said. “Things are … well enough, all things considered.”
“That sounds qualified,” Cala said.
“Nothing to concern you with,” Turnus said. “I’m well, my family is well, Mistral is complicated, but then, it almost always is. How about you?”
“Do I look exhausted?” Cala asked.
“A little, yes.”
“Then I look how I feel, except maybe worse if I only look a little exhausted,” Call grumbled.
Turnus chuckled. “Your daughter is keeping you up.”
“I hope I didn’t scream this much when I was a baby, or I’ll have to apologise to my parents,” Cala said. “Calliope swears she never cried at all.”
“From her, I could believe that,” Turnus replied. “Still, her little namesake is healthy, I trust?”
“I’d hope so, with those lungs,” Cala said. “Still, I’ve managed to get her to sleep for the moment; I just hope she doesn’t wake up for a little while.”
“But you’re happy?” Turnus said.
Cala laughed softly. “Sometimes, it’s a dream come true; sometimes, it’s a lot of work; and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” She beamed. “All this, you’ve got to look forward to.”
“Steady on,” Turnus replied. “I should probably get a wife before I start thinking about children.”
“That might be easier if you actually went out and tried seeing people,” Cala informed him. “Don’t you think there’s something very old-fashioned about a political marriage?”
“This is an old-fashioned city,” Turnus reminded. “Mistral is not Atlas.”
“I remember you used to complain that Mistral could stand to be more like Atlas,” Cala reminded him.
“And I still believe that,” Turnus said. “However, I doubt that Mister Schnee will allow his children to simply marry anyone they set their eyes upon; he will ensure proper unions to men and women of quality which will strengthen his family; as the head of my house, it falls to me to do the same.”
“So … what?” Cala asked. “You’re going to corral some Atlesian heiress to marry you, trading her daddy’s money for a Mistralian title?”
“I … have my sights set a little closer to home,” Turnus said.
“Is that how your parents married?” inquired Cala.
Turnus sighed. “My father was … an unconventional man, in some respects.”
“But they were happy, weren’t they?” Cala said. “You told me that.”
“They were very happy, yes, in the time that was allowed to them,” Turnus murmured, glancing at the picture of his mother on his desk; it was not a particularly good picture of her, but none of the other pictures of Mother had Juturna in them, and he didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. “But there are times when we must look beyond our own happiness and think of the good of the family, and of Mistral.”
“If you say so,” Cala said. “But I’ll stop mothering you for now, since I’m sure you didn’t call in order for me to dictate your love life to you.”
“I would be happy to hear more of it,” Turnus assured her. “But yes, this is a business call. I’m looking to buy some androids.”
Cala frowned slightly. “You know, you could just call our sales hotline for that.”
“I’m looking to buy a lot of androids.”
“A bold new direction for your security business?”
“No, this isn’t for me; it’s for Mistral,” Turnus said. “The Council has decided to start taking the security of this city seriously and has asked me to deal with the purchase, since I have contacts.” He smiled.
Cala snorted. “I’m delighted to be the instrument of your political rise.”
Turnus chuckled. “Cala, I’m sure this transaction will be profitable for both of us.”
“I hope so,” Cala said. “But why is the Mistral Council looking to buy combat androids? Mistral doesn’t even have an army.”
“That may be changing soon too, thanks to events in Vale,” Turnus said.
“The Breach, of course,” Cala murmured. “I could hardly believe it when I saw it on the news. Can you imagine grimm getting into your city?”
“You’d be alright; you live on a floating city,” Turnus pointed out.
“And some grimm fly,” Cala said. “You know, I have sometimes complained about how much of my paycheck the government takes in taxes, but when I watched the news about what was happening in Vale, and then I went to the window and I saw a cruiser hovering in the sky outside … it made me feel a hell of a lot better.”
Turnus was silent for a moment. “You … you’re very lucky,” he said softly.
“Did I also come off as really insensitive?” Cala asked.
“No,” Turnus said immediately. “But … where were you, when it happened?”
“At work,” Cala said. “Not that we ended up getting much work done; everyone in the office was just watching the news or checking up on people they knew in Vale.”
“That was largely what happened here as well,” Turnus said. “Myself, Camilla, Lausus, Mezentius, all my people crowded into the sitting room watching TV. The Valish were very lucky that General Ironwood was there, and all his forces too. Without them … I couldn’t sleep that night.”
“No?”
“No,” Turnus confirmed. “I got up, and I walked down the corridor to Juturna’s room, and I found Camilla sleeping in front of the door, like she used to when we were children, before Father put a stop to it.”
“Sounds cute,” Cala said. “What did you do?”
I laid a blanket over Camilla, then sat down beside her and brooded on how this kingdom needs better leadership and a new direction. “I let them sleep,” Turnus said. “But the point is that, for eighty years since the Great War, this country has had its head in the clouds when it comes to security. We cannot afford to rely on a comparative handful of huntsmen to defend even a city as large as ours, let alone the rest of our territory.” 
And the worst part was that everyone knew exactly why Mistral had reached this point. Before the Great War, even though to raise a great army required a levy of the Emperor’s subjects, military muscle for more everyday purposes had been provided by the great houses, each of whom retained a retinue of armed men at their own expense, but who could be commanded to contribute that retinue to the common defence — or the common attack — by the Emperor, in the event that the Emperor’s own retainers proved insufficient to the task. Most of the time, such an army, a retinue of retinues, was able to provide all the strength required to defend Mistral without the need for a general levy. But, for all that they claimed to have saved Mistral from the faunus after the Revolution, the House of Thrax did not enjoy the same legitimacy that the House of Nikos had done when they sat the throne; stewards did not sit so easily upon the highest seat as emperors had done. The stewards did not feel safe with large numbers of armed men in the service of rival houses. 
Turnus had to keep his own forces fairly small - and fairly weak, at that, without any spider droids or other purchased Atlesian firepower - or he would draw the wrath of the stewards upon him. 
Not that he would object to seizing the reins of power himself — he felt as if he could hardly do a worse job, and gods knew that this kingdom needed someone to shake it up, ideally someone who understood that what they really needed to do was look north for inspiration to Atlas, which had undoubtedly made a success of itself following the Great War in ways that Mistral had not — but there were two very good reasons not to do it. 
The first was the purely pragmatic reason: anyone who overthrew the stewards and seized power by force would have an even bigger legitimacy problem than the House of Thrax; it would be a declaration that power was to be held not through right, or even by election, but by the point of a sword, and that would be chaos. 
The other reason, in some ways an even more important reason, was the very reason why he could do it: all those men and women in the last picture on his desk. Rutulian Security was not a vast organisation, with some forty men here in the city and about the same again in various provincial sub-offices for assignments out of range of Mistral, but they were well-trained, well-equipped, and very brave. Lausus, Mezentius, Nisus, Euryalus, Ufens, Murranus, they would all do anything he asked of them, anything at all, even overthrow the government. 
Which was, paradoxically, even more reason for him not to do it. They placed their lives in his hands, and that laid upon him an obligation to take care of them. The fact that they would die for him if he asked it meant that he had to do everything he could to preserve their lives. 
And that was before one considered what his pursuit of his ambitions might do to Juturna. 
No, he was not the sort of man to carry out a coup.
Although it had occurred to him that if things got much worse, then he might find the situation fertile grounds for a change in the way that Mistral was governed without the need for civil violence. 
It had also occurred to him that if things got much worse, he — along with everyone else — might have bigger problems than his own advancement or a disagreement with some of the Council’s policy decisions. 
Which was why he was buying androids to defend Mistral and why he hoped that the Council adopted Lady Ming and Ms. Yeoh’s militarization proposals. Yes, it was not the old way, and he would rather that the old liberty had been given to raise forces without suspicion, but more defences for Mistral, of any kind, were always a good thing. 
“I can’t really argue with that,” Cala said. “So, I take it that, since you’re buying on behalf of Mistral, your pockets are basically bottomless, yes?”
Turnus raised his eyebrows. “Are you planning to overcharge me, Cala?”
Cala laughed lightly. “No. It’s more that … I probably shouldn’t be selling you this, because our contract with the military stipulates that we shouldn’t be selling them to third party clients until we’ve completed the military rollout, but as we’re friends, I could get you some of our AK-200 Knight models.”
Turnus leaned forwards. “New models? Are they an improvement on the 130?”
“I’m not a military person or a security expert, but my loyalty to the company demands that I answer ‘yes,’” Cala said. “For what it’s worth, the military is adopting them; they’re being rolled out to all units and bases even as we speak; the older models are being put on the scrap heap. But I can always send you some promotional literature, if you like?”
“Thank you, but I think I would be remiss not to take the opportunity to get the latest technology for Mistral,” Turnus said. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for this?”
“I don’t see how the military would actually find out about it,” Cala said. “And Mister Schnee isn’t likely to object to a sale. For a large order, I might even get a bonus.”
“Speaking of which, I don’t suppose there are any additional prizes you could throw in, besides these Knights?” Turnus said. “You know, as we’re friends.”
“Well, as you know, our spider droids come in a large variety of customisable options with different weapons systems mounted—”
“Is there a new version of them in production?” Turnus asked.
“No,” Cala said. “But perhaps I might, just might, be able to get you some automated models of our other military co-production, the AP-290 Paladin.” 
She reached forwards and must have tapped some buttons on her screen, because her image shrank as one corner of Turnus’ screen became taken up with an image of a bipedal mech, solidly built, with a large, boxy cockpit — or body, since Cala had mentioned it was automated — and two relatively spindly arms that seemed to have modular weapons systems built into them. 
“Impressive,” Turnus said. “How much money per unit are we talking about?”
“For the Knights, we’re planning to retail them privately at four thousand lien a unit,” Cala said. “That includes a rifle for each android, but ammunition sold separately.”
“Not bad,” Turnus said. “Not bad at all. Put … twenty magazines per android on the invoice as well. As for the price of the knights … What say we make it forty-one hundred a unit to the Mistral Council, and you and I split the excess?”
Cala gasped. “That’s—”
“The way that business is done in Mistral,” Turnus informed her. “You could buy yourself something nice, take a holiday — Mistral is a very pleasant place to visit any time of year, and I’d love to have your family as my guests. And you won’t have defrauded the SDC out of a single lien.”
“You’ll have defrauded the Council,” Cala pointed out.
“If anyone finds out, I shall say that I had to pay extra to get early access,” Turnus said.
Cala frowned slightly. “Fifty-fifty split?”
“Call it sixty-forty, in your favour,” Turnus said genially. “And put us down for … five thousand Knights, and I’ll get back to you with how many spider droids and Paladins we require.”
“Five thousand?”
“Our need is great,” Turnus said.
“You might have to accept delivery in instalments,” Cala said. “Those volumes … we can’t slow down the military deliveries enough that it's noticeable. It won’t matter how many sales I’ve brought in if I get the SDC sued for breach of contract.”
“Instalments will be fine, I’m sure,” Turnus said. “We have survived this long; I’m sure that we can make it a little longer.”
“Okay then,” Cala said. “I will process that order and wait for your details on the—“
She was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying somewhere else in the house. 
Cala sighed. “I have to go. I’ll process your order when I’ve got her back to sleep, okay?”
Turnus chuckled. “Of course. This was a pleasure.”
“Same here,” Cala said. “Speak again soon!” She hung up. 
Turnus sat back in his chair. That wasn’t bad for a morning’s work, was it?
He was about to get up and go down to the kitchen for some breakfast when his screen flashed with an indicator of an incoming call. The number belonged to Countess Coloratura, a singer and the vanguard of the Atlesian invasion that was taking over the Mistral music scene. Atlesian popstars were big in Mistral at the moment — Weiss Schnee was almost as popular as Pyrrha Nikos, and Sapphire Shores had sold out the Colosseum when she played there during her Anima tour — but Countess Coloratura had taken things one step further by actually staying in Mistral, finding it a more congenial home than her native Atlas. It had been interesting to watch her style evolve over the two years that she’d been here, combining her Atlesian techno-pop aesthetic with more traditional Mistralian music and rhythm. 
He answered the call and was greeted by the pretty face of the Countess herself. Her hair was a lilac so pale that it was almost — but not quite — white, with a streak of deep purple running down it, and so long that, even bound in a ponytail, it reached down to her ankles. Her eyes were a brilliant opal and accentuated with heavy eyeshadow. She was wearing several necklaces, including a set of opals upon a black choker. 
Turnus bowed his head. “My lady.”
Coloratura laughed. “Turnus, please. We both know that that is just a stage name.”
“But an apropos one, in this city,” Turnus said.
“Well, it was a good choice by Svengallop,” Coloratura conceded. “Anyway, how are you? How’s Juturna?”
“Well and very well; she’s looking forward to your next concert,” Turnus said. “And yourself?”
Coloratura winced. “I’ve been better. To be honest, this isn’t a social call.”
“You need security?” Turnus asked.
Coloratura hesitated for a moment. “I’ve been … getting these messages. There are always fans who get a bit obsessive; most of them are harmless, but these … these ones were really creepy. And I’ve been getting these flowers with no name or address, and … the last messages I got last night … he described the bathing suit that I wore in the pool the night before.”
“Have you spoken to the police?” Turnus asked.
“Yes, but they say there isn’t much to go on,” Coloratura said. “I just want someone around I can rely on.”
“Of course,” Turnus said. “I’ll send a couple of my best people around right away.”
Coloratura sighed with relief. “Thank you. I feel safer already. And don’t worry about the cost; whatever it is, I can pay it.”
“I know, but I don’t want you to worry about that either; I’ll send you the bill once the matter’s been settled,” Turnus said. “Just sit tight for now, lock the doors; my people will be there soon.”
“Thanks, Turnus,” Coloratura said. “I knew I could count on you.”
Turnus hung up, and now he did get up from his chair and walk briskly out of his study. 
The House of Rutulus was a fairly typical Mistralian mansion, if a little less populated in terms of servants; an android was dusting one of the antique vases in the corridor beyond the study door, because while Turnus kept plenty of men under arms, he did not also maintain a large staff to cook his meals or clean his home — apart from anything else, the servants’ quarters now housed his troops. Turnus walked past the android without acknowledging it and reached one of the back staircases, descending down to the old servants’ quarters on the ground floor. 
“Opis?” Turnus called, as he walked down the corridor. “Falco?”
“Yes, my lord?” Opis was the first to answer, emerging from out of her room in response to his call. She was a tall woman of about Turnus’ own age, with a rangy build and jet black hair combed over onto the left-hand side of her face. Her ears were covered in piercings — there was one in her nose as well — and her arms in dark tattoos that swirled around her skin. 
“You called, my lord?” Falco murmured as he came out of the break room. He was an older man, his dark hair turning grey and his skin giving way to wrinkles, yet his dark brown eyes were as sharp as ever. He was almost unique amongst the Rutulians in that he was not, first and foremost, a warrior; rather, he was an ex-detective that Turnus employed for his investigative skills. 
“Yes, I did, for both of you,” Turnus said. “Some freak is harassing Coloratura, and she has requested our protection. So, Opis, I want you to take Lyce and get yourselves down to her house immediately and guard her until the matter is concluded.”
Opis raised one eyebrow. “Two people to guard against one deranged fan, my lord?”
“She’s a valued client,” Turnus said. “And a friend. And we have a reputation for going above and beyond. Which is why, Falco, I want you to speak to Countess Coloratura, look at the evidence and see if you can find out who is disturbing her. Get Cadmilus to help you with the computer side of things if you need it. The police are looking into this as well, but if we can close the case for them, it will be a feather in our caps — and the quicker we put this to bed, the happier I and Coloratura will be.”
Falco bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.”
“As you will, my lord,” Opis said. “We’ll leave as soon as we are armed.”
“Good luck,” Turnus said.
Opis smirked. “Don’t need luck for this, my lord, but thank you anyway.”
His orders thus given, Turnus made his way to the family kitchen on the ground floor. It was a private space, a room that he had remodelled in the Atlesian fashion, somewhere he could eat on his own or with his family without the absurdity of sitting in the cavernous dining hall. The walls were covered in tiles of a cool blue, the floor was pristine and white, and the worksurfaces and the top of the central island were all a sleek, modern black. 
Camilla was already there, sitting at the central island, dressed in a white robe, with a glass of grapefruit juice and a bowl of fruit and yogurt sitting in front of her. 
“Good morning,” Turnus said, as he walked in. 
Camilla smiled at him. “Morning,” she said softly, taking a sip from her glass of juice. “How did it go with Cala?”
“Very well,” Turnus said, walking to the drinks cooler and opening it up to pull out a carton of orange juice. “The SDC is rolling out a new model of android.”
“Indeed?” Camilla murmured. “Are they for sale?”
“They are if you're friends with an executive at the SDC,” Turnus replied as he opened the white door of a cupboard above his head and got himself a glass. “I think that, when the order is completed, Mistral will be pleased with what I’ve acquired for it.”
“And yet, still only androids,” Camilla said softly.
“I know what you mean,” Turnus muttered, pouring himself a glass of juice and putting the cartoon back in the cooler. He turned around to face Camilla, seated on the other side of the island from himself, holding the glass of cool juice in his hand. “Hardly a substitute for a trained man with their aura unlocked. And yet, in numbers … let’s face it, anything would be better than what we have now.”
Camilla blinked, her vulpine ears drooping a little. “You’re right, of course.” Her brow furrowed. “We should not be selling those warships to the Valish. At least not until we have taken delivery of whatever we mean to replace them with.”
“Hmm,” Turnus murmured. “But then, Lord Diomedes and the Council have never prioritised the defence of this kingdom over other considerations, so why expect them to start now?”
Camilla was silent for a moment. “Have you ever thought about running for the Council yourself?”
Turnus snorted. “Me? Stand for the Council?”
“Other lords and ladies have and do,” Camilla pointed out. “Lady Ming serves; Lady Nikos served at one time.”
“I don’t know how they stand or stood it,” Turnus said. “You would have me go around grubbing for votes, making promises that I couldn’t keep even if I wanted to?”
“You are a good man,” Camilla said. “This kingdom needs good men.”
“This kingdom has relied on good men for too long,” Turnus declared. “Good men like my father, struggling to do what is right for Mistral in spite of everything. And what was his reward? What is the reward for good men? Death, to be used up and spat out without regard or regret. I say again, Mistral has relied on good men to paper over its weaknesses for too long; we need better systems now, and we need leadership.”
“Where will this leadership come if men like you refuse to provide it?” Camilla asked.
Turnus was silent for a moment. “Is this really what you think I should do?”
“It is not for me to tell you what you should or should not do,” Camilla said quietly. “But you will make no change by complaining to me, however much I agree with you.”
“You have a point,” Turnus conceded. “But politics is not for me.” He drank some of his juice. It was cold and just a little tangy. “Perhaps I will put Lausus up for the Council, if he is amenable.”
“Hey, guys,” Juturna said, as she walked into the room wearing a Weiss Schnee-branded t-shirt and a pair of black leather pants. “What…” She yawned, raising her arms up into the air. “What’s up?”
“Good morning,” Camilla greeted her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really,” Juturna grumbled as she walked around the island to a cupboard on the far side of the kitchen. She tried, but failed, to reach for one of the cupboards. She turned around to give Turnus an exasperated gaze. “You had this place remodelled. It’s not as if this room has been like this for five hundred years or something; you made it this way, so would it have killed you to remember that we aren’t all six foot something freaks like you two?”
Camilla started to get up. “Do you want me to—?“
“No,” Juturna said firmly. “No, I’ll get it.” She grabbed a stool from the island and carried it across the kitchenette, standing on it to reach the unit above that had eluded her before. 
Turnus smirked. “Perhaps I just like watching you struggle a little bit?”
“Best big brother ever,” Juturna muttered, grabbing a box of Pumpkin Pete’s Marshmallow Flakes and hopping down off the stool. She ostentatiously looked at the picture of Pyrrha on the box. “Hey, look who it is, bro: it’s the girl who chose some Valish nobody over you!”
Turnus growled wordlessly. Juturna stuck out her tongue at him. 
“Aren’t you a little old to be eating that?” Camilla said. “It isn’t even as if it’s very good for you.”
“I like it,” Juturna said, carrying the stool back to the island and sitting down next to Camilla. She looked down. “I forgot the bowl, didn’t I?”
“I’ll get it,” Camilla said, rising to her feet and walking briskly across the kitchenette to fetch both bowl and spoon from out of the cupboards. 
“Do you want anything to drink?” Turnus asked.
“I could do with some black coffee,” Juturna muttered.
“I see,” Turnus said, although the first thing he did was get the milk out of the refrigerator — it wasn’t far from the drinks cooler — and put it down on the island in front of Juturna. 
“Thank you,” Juturna said softly as she filled the bowl Camilla had brought her with the sugary cereal and then poured the milk over it. 
Turnus put the milk back in the fridge. “Coloratura called,” he announced. 
Juturna said something with her mouth full, said full mouth rendering it incomprehensible. 
“Swallow and say that again,” Turnus said.
Juturna rolled her eyes, but swallowed. “What did she want?”
“She’s been having trouble with a fan,” Turnus explained. “I sent Opis and Lyce to protect her, and Falco to try and hunt down the fan in question.”
“Will two people be enough?” Juturna asked. “Maybe Camilla should—”
“Opis and Lyce are more than capable,” Turnus assured her. “We’re not talking about a terrorist, after all, just some obsessed loser with no sense of boundaries. If they try anything, then Opis will take care of it, assuming Falco doesn’t find them first.”
“I hope so,” Juturna said. “She doesn’t deserve anything to happen to her.”
“I agree, that’s why I put Opis on it,” Turnus said.
Juturna ate a little more cereal, her blue eyes glancing at the box of cereal and Pyrrha’s picture on it. “So, speaking of obsessed losers—”
“Juturna,” Camilla murmured reproachfully.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Juturna said, holding up her free hand. “But what are you going to do about this guy?”
Turnus was silent while he busied himself with Juturna’s coffee. Only when the water was beginning to boil in the kettle did he turn back to her and said, “That depends.”
“Depends on what?” Juturna asked.
“Whether she brings him back here or not,” Turnus replied.
“Are you going to kill him?” asked Juturna. “Because, you know, somehow, I don’t think you murdering her boyfriend is going to be the way to win Pyrrha’s heart.”
“I have never killed anyone who did not give me cause,” Turnus growled.
“I’m not judging!” Juturna cried. “I’m just saying, she won’t appreciate it. If you want to know what I think: you should get over it. I mean, look at her; she’s not even that good-looking.”
“She is reputed the fairest beauty in Mistral,” Camilla murmured.
“By who?” Juturna demanded. “People with no taste, that’s who. By them. I mean, look at her. Green eyes! Green eyes are so overrated, honestly; it’s insane. Now, red- aagh! What did you kick me for?”
“I’m sorry,” Camilla said. “My foot slipped. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
Turnus poured Juturna her coffee and began to stir it as he said, “Pyrrha’s beauty, or otherwise, is not the issue, although I happen to agree with the majority opinion; she is fair to look on. More to the point, she has an old name, the oldest name; she is the last heir to a prestigious family.”
“And that will make you more important,” Juturna said.
Turnus carried her coffee over to her. “When I marry her—”
“Don’t you mean ‘if’?” Juturna asked.
“Her mother gave me promise of her hand, whatever she might say now,” Turnus declared. “When I marry her, our children will have claim to the throne of Mistral itself. They will inherit the wealthiest and most powerful family in the whole kingdom, without doubt.”
“Mom and Dad didn’t care about any of that stuff,” Juturna said. “I may not have known Mom, but I know that Dad didn’t marry her because of what her last name was or how strong it would make the family.”
“Father had that luxury because of those who came before him who did think about how to strengthen the family, how to ensure its prosperity and success, and who passed down the fruits of that success to those who came after,” Turnus declared.
“But will you be happy?” Juturna demanded.
Turnus was silent for a moment. It was not a question he had really considered. “It … it doesn’t matter. I don’t wish to discuss it anymore.” His eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that what you were wearing yesterday?”
“Yeah,” Juturna admitted sheepishly. “And I slept in it too. Or didn’t sleep in it. Tried to sleep in it. Lay awake in bed in it. You know what I mean.”
“It smells like it too,” Camilla whispered, wrinkling her nose.
“I’m going to get a shower, after I’ve eaten,” Juturna said defensively.
Turnus sat down. “So, why couldn’t you sleep last night?”
“I don’t know,” Juturna said. “Just one of those nights, I guess. I called Ruby, because I was bored, but…”
“But what?” Turnus asked.
“Is she awake?” asked Camilla. “The word I had from Lady Nikos—”
“Yeah, she’s awake,” Juturna said. “She seemed fine. She’s better from … whatever it was that happened to her. But…”
Camilla reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Did something happen?”
“We kind of had a fight but not really,” Juturna said. “It’s a little hard to explain.” She frowned. “Why do you two risk your lives?”
Turnus glanced at Camilla. “You mean in the field?”
Juturna nodded. “All these people, these villagers or whatever, you don’t know them, you don’t owe them anything, but you could get killed for them, either of you could, or Lausus could, or anyone. So why do you do it?”
“Is that what you argued with Ruby about?” asked Camilla.
Juturna shrugged. “I told her they weren’t worth it,” she admitted. “That people… that they weren’t worth dying for. She got … kind of upset and told me I was awful, and then she told me that she didn’t care about recognition or glory or anything else; she just wanted to save lives, even though the lives she’d save wouldn’t care about her.” She paused. “Am I a bad person?”
“No,” Turnus and Camilla both said at once. They looked at each other, and a slight, soft smile graced Camilla’s face. 
“No,” Camilla repeated, getting down off her stool and moving closer to Juturna so that she could put her arms around her, embracing her from the side. “No, Juturna, you are not a bad person.”
Juturna glanced at her. “But you get what she meant, don’t you? When Ruby was talking, I told her it sounded like something you might say.”
Camilla gave a sort of hollow chuckle, and a touch of red coloured her pale cheeks. “You flatter me,” she said. “But I … no, I would not say something like that. I…” Her ears drooped down, disappearing into her snow white hair. “For all the good fortune with which I have been blessed since, I cannot forget that I was put in a cage to be sold like an animal, and would have been, if not for your father.” She smiled. “Just as I cannot forget that you held out your hand to a frightened faunus girl who had no business in a great house such as this and made her welcome in your home. And that is how I know that you are not a bad person.” She paused for a moment. “But it also means that I … I would not speak as Ruby did to you. Whether it is naïveté or nobility on her part, I know not, but I would not, could not give my life so easily for the people. I would die for this family, for my comrades, for the commands I had been given … I hope I would give my life to save a child in danger if I saw her, but 'the people' … they are too nebulous a concept for me to declare that they are all worth my life.”
“And yet you would have me serve them,” Turnus said, a touch of amusement entering his voice.
“'Serve them'?” Juturna asked.
“Camilla thinks I should go into politics,” Turnus explained.
“I do not think you should, if you don’t want to,” Camilla replied. “But…” One pale hand rose and started to play with her long white hair. “You have a vision for this kingdom, and that being so, I merely suggested that perhaps you should let Mistral hear that vision, for you will bring no change sharing your thoughts with us around this breakfast table.”
Juturna grinned. “Is that right? You want to rule Mistral?”
“It isn’t about what I want,” Turnus declared. “This is about this kingdom, this kingdom that needs leadership! Things cannot go on as they have done; we cannot keep papering over the cracks. Camilla drove crime back down into the lower slopes of the city, but it festers there, untamed and unregarded; how long until it dares to creep back up into the light once more? In a generation’s time? Less? When the memory of the lesson that Camilla taught them is forgotten? Our Steward and his Council claim to govern the largest kingdom in Remnant, but they cannot even honestly say that they control the entire city! 
“We have a city that is ungovernable, a kingdom that is defenceless, and a Council of self-interested pygmies whose only concern is their own aggrandisement. It cannot endure.” Turnus let out a deep breath. “I am not filled with nostalgia. I am well aware that in the old days of Empire, Camilla would not have been allowed to sit here with us. I am aware that in that respect, at least, things have improved, but that does not mean that we should have to settle for this … this mediocrity, at best. It sometimes feels as though the Council has no greater ambition than to manage the decline of this once-great kingdom, and it is not good enough. A change must come.”
“Come from where?” Camilla asked.
Turnus let out a sort of laugh. “Yes, I’m aware. I talk about the need for leadership, and yet, I will not step forward to provide any. But you know why. You both know why. We in this family know as well as anyone the fate of good men in a bad system. I have vision, you say—”
“And I say also that you would be a better man than many who sit upon the Council,” Camilla declared.
“And I thank you for that, but it will not happen.”
“But you want it,” Juturna said. “Don’t you?”
Turnus hesitated for a moment. “I want … I want many things,” he said. He grinned. “I’d quite like to see you do something for one thing.”
Juturna rolled her eyes. “Come on, don’t tell me that I need to do something. Why? Why should I think of doing something? I’m rich, I have an enviable social position, I don’t need to do anything. Are you going to cut me off if I don’t get a job?”
“No, of course not,” Turnus said. “I just think—”
“My lord,” Lausus said as he appeared in the doorway. A young man about Turnus’ age, he was dressed in a gold tunic that was getting a little short for his gangly frame. “My lord, sorry to disturb you, but there’s a man at the gate who wishes to speak with you. Says it's about a job.”
Turnus got to his feet. “What kind of man?”
“A village peasant by the look of him, but he’s very insistent.”
“Very well,” Turnus said. “Have him brought into the drawing room. Camilla, come with me.”



The man who had come to their gate was in his middle age at least, with grey streaks in his dark hair and a face that was tanned by the sun and weathered by the years. His clothes were plain, homespun in earthy tones, and worn by time spent on the road. 
“You look weary from your travels,” Turnus observed as he sat down in the armchair opposite the fellow. Camilla stood by his side. “Would you care for any refreshment? Some coffee, perhaps, or wine if it is more to your taste?”
“No, my lord, thank you,” the man replied.
“To business then,” Turnus said. “What brings you to my door?”
The fellow glanced down at his hands. “My lord, my name is Fuscus, and I have come from the village of Ardea, to the north of here. Not far from us lies the village of Evanteum … or I should say that Evanteum used to lie not far from us, for it has been destroyed.”
“By who?” Camilla asked. “Grimm or bandits?”
“Bandits, we believe,” Fuscus replied. “Those who have been bold enough to venture to the ruins of Evanteum say that … there were wounds amongst the dead made by blades and bullets, not by teeth and claws.”
“I see,” Turnus murmured. “And you fear your village may be next to feel their wrath?”
“It is hard to see any reason why they would spare us, my lord,” Fuscus said. “Evanteum hired a huntsman to protect them, much good though it did them, but we have heard in town that when someone hires Rutulian Security, they often receive more than one man, and so we in town pooled all the lien we could spare, and I volunteered to make my way to Mistral and beg you, my lord, to come to our aid, for without it, I fear that we have no hope.” He reached for the satchel he was wearing on his hip and poured a flood of lien cards out onto the little table that sat between Turnus and himself. “It is little enough, I know, my lord, but I pray it will be enough for a few men at least.”
Turnus looked at it. It was a paltry sum, all told; it made a nice-looking pile, but it was all in very small value money cards; if it reached three figures, he would be very surprised. 
Suffice to say, it was not the kind of price he would normally charge for a job like this.
But…
“You say that Evanteum was destroyed?” he asked. “No survivors?”
Fuscus shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Turnus nodded. He glanced up at Camilla. She too nodded, as though she could read his thoughts. 
“You may keep your lien,” he declared. “I think you probably have need of it, if this is all that you can spare. We of Rutulian Security will take your case, but we do so pro bono, without charge.”
Fuscus eyes widened. “My lord, this … are you certain?”
“I am,” Turnus said. “Camilla, muster the men and get the airships fuelled up.”
“At once, my lord,” Camilla said, bowing her head. 
“Airships? Men?” Fuscus repeated. “My lord … how many men will you send to aid us?”
“All of them, good man,” Turnus said, leaning forward. “All that I can spare.”