The Spindles of Spacetime
Volume 3
Florian's Mystery - I
It's all come down to a game of cat and mouse.
The Council of the Diamond Palace, tasked with keeping Orobelle’s absence under wraps, seems to be failing at its job. Already, in the markets, they are whispering about the Duchess’ quiet escape. Once the news reaches the Queen’s palace, it has a high chance of turning into a problem. A problem involving swords and cannons.
In a time when the Queen lays roads near the World Gate and arms her forces in the open, the Duchy can take no chances.
Out on the grounds, the General of the Ducal Army drills her lieutenants on their sword-forms. Inside his office, Florian blinks himself awake, picking his head up from his notes.
Until it is solved, all his hours will be spent attending to the mystery of how Freesia's kidnapper crafted their ransom note.
It's an oft-overlooked detail of the case, amid the clamour about the explosion and the missing child. But the ransom note was clearly a work of considerable artistry.
After all, Orobelle has refused to submit that note to his investigation. That assures him of one thing: it contains secrets he isn't allowed to know.
There are few who could betray information like that—and conveniently, all of them live and work in the Diamond Palace.
Through the gap in his curtains, Florian watches the soldiers form ranks on the quadrangle. This is a peculiar case, even for a sleuth of his calibre. The details are scant. The crime is cryptic. And the Councillors are a shady lot indeed.
In other words, this is his dream assignment.
The role of Councillor of Investigations does not make as much use of Florian's detective’s training as he would like. He has endured the years of dreary paperwork, unsettling dressings-down from the late Duchess, and frankly childish arguments with her daughter, for this day.
On this day, he sits in his office with a stack of identity documents, putting the final touches on his first case file in years.
Summary: There has been a likely case of collusion between a Diamond Palace employee and a foreign criminal. The perpetrator, if any, enjoys access to Duchy secrets too sensitive to be shared with most councillors, the nature of which are not currently known.
Based on the above details, the following suspects have been identified…
Hiscera. Councillor of Correspondence. The palace’s oldest employee, a dear friend of both Estiva and the late Adamanta. As the Councillor of Correspondence, it could do me well to seek intelligence through her. I understand her relationship with Orobelle is less pleasant than it was with the Duchess’ mother.
The clock starts ticking the moment Florian begins to move. And if haste is necessary, then he supposes there is no better place to start than with the primary handler of all communications passing in and out of the Diamond Palace.
“Florian, dear,” says the snowy-haired Hiscera as he knocks and enters. Florian has never managed to accustom himself to her office. It is austere and quiet, the shale blue curtains and polished wooden shelves conceding no adornments, her desk making room only for documents and a teaset. The woman's monocle gleams at him as she turns. “What a surprise to see you. I hope you are well.”
Florian glances about for a visitor’s seat and finds a small wooden chair, into which he settles himself. “Good afternoon,” he replies. “Investigative work brings me here, you must understand.”
She nods slowly. “And I can certainly guess what that work concerns,” she answers. “How may I help with it?”
Never disclose more than necessary, that's the first law of detectiving. “Well, I am investigating the attack on the water tower,” Florian answers carefully. “You are the Councillor of Correspondence, and also a suspect. I have a few questions which I hope you will answer honestly.”
“Straight to business, I see. I will do my utmost.” She speaks just as slowly as he does.
“Wonderful.” He picks up his pen and flips his file open. “First things first…please explain in full your responsibilities as Councillor of Correspondence. Spare no detail.”
For the next several minutes, Hiscera does just that. She is the connective tissue of the palace, shuttling sensitive mail from the palace’s inbox to its recipients. No servant or messenger is entrusted with such missives. Before they reach anyone else, they pass through her hands.
At times, she is also the Duchess's spokesperson to dignitaries and citizens alike, and she ghost-writes Orobelle's speeches when the latter is disinterested in the subject matter.
“So, what you are saying is, if any letters of a sensitive nature were addressed to the palace, then you would have seen them.”
“That is correct. I do not open them, of course—my job is not to peep—but I would know they were delivered.”
“I see. Well, let us start there, then. In the weeks prior to the attack on the water tower and the time since, have you noticed any…suspicious correspondence with palace denizens?”
Hiscera adjusts her monocle. “Well…yes, two things of note,” she says. “Arco has been receiving an awful number of missives from anonymous senders, some of them written in Tysian. They did not appear to be letters from official bodies, judging by the state of the envelopes.”
“She works with roads and farmlands; surely that means a great amount of correspondence with people who do not write much.”
“This didn’t start until two weeks before the attack.”
“Ah, now that is interesting.” He flips to Arco’s page and scribbles a note. “What was the other thing?”
“I noticed that Estiva recently received a very nice-looking envelope from the Queendom University, which she later told me was a research grant. Bless her heart that she has finally seen some success in her search for funding, but I think it behooves us to treat all matters relating to the Queendom with caution. Even its university.”
“True enough,” Florian murmurs and makes a note of this as well. “Though, the Queendom University is rather independent of the Queen, isn't it? The wife of the Baroness of Spades is a professor there.”
“Mellistella? Yes. But nothing in the Queen’s City is truly independent of the Queen.”
“True, I suppose. Now, in the days before the water tower incident, and in the weeks hence, did you observe any other unusual behaviour among our colleagues?”
Again she glances aside in thought, then nods. “Now that you mention it, yes. The night before the incident, I happened to encounter Anthera in the hallways. She leapt when she saw me. When I greeted her, the little dear simply walked on, and I saw the terror in her eyes. Our encounter was in the first floor hall—beneath the arch, not far from her office. I do not see why she should have been so frightened, unless she did not wish to be seen.”
“What were you doing out that evening, if I may ask?”
“Meditating, as I sometimes do at that hour.”
“Whereabouts?”
“In the courtyard garden. The only other ones typically about that late are Grus, yourself, and the night librarians. I cannot say what she was doing at that time.”
“Lively company, to be sure.” With an unrevealing nod, Florian makes a note on Anthera’s file. “Well, I thank you very much. Is there anything else you have to say that could help me?”
Hiscera lowers her voice. “If I may offer you a word of caution…be careful, or you may uncover secrets you aren't looking for.”
“That is only an occupational hazard,” he replies, rising. “Well then, time does not wait for me. I thank you for your time, Hiscera.”
She nods as he departs, smiling pleasantly.
Ara. General of the Ducal Army. Second newest palace employee. A military woman, through and through, she is known to take great outward pride in her position as general. She associates with Arco and Anthera, and she works closely with Grus.
Ara spends a quarter of her day leading drills outside the armoury and another quarter speaking with her lieutenants. Often enough, he sees her throwing spears and spinning maces on the range; one time, she accidentally decapitated a sculpture in the neighbouring garden, which Adamanta had replaced posthaste.
Florian can only suppose she spends the rest of her hours either asleep or thinking about her job, and when he finds her office empty, he waits by her door.
Sure enough, not minutes after the drills are over, she comes marching up the hallway, only to halt beside him with a raised eyebrow.
“Ara, good day to you,” he declares.
“Odd day for a visit,” she replies as she swipes sweat off her tanned brow, waving him inside. Hers is not an office so much as a nest: for someone so disciplined, her room is copiously cluttered with old weapon parts, chains hanging willy-nilly from half-empty bookshelves, and a plethora of crates, some of them half-open.
The woman herself takes a seat with her dark hair in a tight bun atop her head, fastened with a metal hairpiece. She does not have a visitor’s chair—there is a clearly designated standing area in front of her desk, just by the door. Florian imagines many a recruit standing straight-backed in his place, ready to receive orders.
“So, Florian,” she replies. “What do you need?”
“Well, I am here on an investigation,” he replies. “And I have a few questions to ask.”
“Sure, what questions?”
In a similar fashion to Hiscera, he asks after her responsibilities, and she describes them—in fewer words. “I train soldiers. I give military orders. I organise the palace guard. Don’t you already know that?”
“Yes, well, I need to be sure I haven’t missed anything.”
“I also answer questions from pesky investigators.”
His cheek twitches. “That is all quite straightforward, then. Now, I understand you’re close to Arco. What do you know of her recent doings?”
“Not much. She’s been on a recruitment drive. Not enough workers on the highways.”
Though Ara speaks with a stone faced stillness, she is different from Hiscera. She is not a stony person, and Florian has an inkling that there is something she isn't saying. “I see,” he presses on cautiously. “What kinds of work do the highways need these days?”
Again, he catches Ara hesitating. “How would I know,” she replies. “She says she gets frequent complaints about the state of the roads near the World Gate. Has to send inspectors and all, to find the bad spots. It's a long stretch of road.”
While they are talking, Florian’s eyes have taken to sweeping the room. Among the knickknacks, there are weapons—ones he is familiar with and ones he doesn't quite know as well, appearing Tysian in make. Arco and Dorian are Tysian, he thinks absently.
Ara clears her throat loudly. “Anything else?” she says.
He snaps to attention. “Yes! You know Anthera well, don't you?”
“I do. Why?”
“Do you know about her preoccupations these days?”
This is Ara’s longest pause yet. “Other than attending to city-building, as her job requires? She has been swamped since the water tower explosion.”
Again, he takes to searching this room of endless detail for other objects of note. On the shelf, there are medals hanging from the coat rack and boxes of cubed vigour. Again Ara interrupts his staring, this time by snapping, “If that is all, I have a lot of work to attend to.”
“Before I go, I do have one more question, and it’s the most important one. In the week before the explosion, and the week since, do you think anyone in the palace has been acting unusually?”
Ara does not cease bristling. “Yes. You are placing yourself above the need for investigation. How do we know you aren't complicit? It would be an easy pass, no?”
“I suppose we shall see what the evidence says, hm?” Florian replies. “No one is being prevented from investigating me.”
“Sure,” Ara says. “But actually, yes, I do remember something. In the early hours of the morning after the explosion, when I was in the courtyard, I saw Orobelle storming through the second floor hall, properly stressed. I don’t know why she was up and about. Did you know this?”
“This is news to me,” he replies, scribbling down a note. “In the second floor hall, you say? At what time?”
Ara is nothing but consistent. She pauses, then says, “The last quarter of the night,” and Florian knows she is fudging the hour.
“Thank you. Now, I shan’t keep you from your precious work any longer.”
From then, she glowers at him, and does not cease doing so until he has turned to depart. In the hallway outside, Florian turns the details about in his head, scribbling in his file as he walks and thinking: she really did not want me looking at her things.
Arco. Councillor of Agriculture and Roads. She works closely with clients living on the lands of the Duchy. A Tysian acquisition who has been outspoken about her anti-royalist sentiments, I am aware Orobelle does not like her.
Florian does often see Arco, except when the entire council is gathered in Orobelle's war room. At his knocking, the woman throws her door open with a bottle of mead in one hand. As always, she wears her long brown hair in a utilitarian ponytail atop her head, her collar lifted and her sleeves rolled up.
“Good afternoon,” he says with a nod.
Arco folds her arms, accentuating her work-hardened muscles. “Out with it, what do you want?”
He frowns. “A little hasty, don't you think?”
She flicks hair out of her face. “You only visit when you want something.”
“May I step inside?”
“No. We’re talking here. Don’t like letting nosy investigators in the office.”
“Alright, then,” Florian sighs, opening his folder. When interviewing a witness it is usually in his best interests to comply with their requests. “I doubt it surprises you, but I’m here to investigate the matter of Freesia's kidnapping and the explosion at the water tower.”
She leans on the doorframe. “And I don’t care about the Queendom's political squabbles. Please, an explosion. That’s hardly a good way to bring a Duchy down.”
“To bring the Duchy down,” he says. “Do you often think about it?”
“Less since Duchess Orobelle’s ascent,” she barks. “For all her issues, she at least doesn’t pour her funds into tearing my homeland apart. And frankly, if she let Eirucan define some of the terms of his employment, then there’s only so bad she can be.”
“Did she?”
“You’d know this if you talked to him at all,” Arco says. “It’s the reason his twin got to come along with him. But you’re not here to chatter. What d’you want to know, Glasses?”
“I have a few questions, if you'll answer honestly. This is a matter of internal security.”
“Go on then, shoot.”
“Alright. Well, first, tell me more about yourself and your role as a councillor.”
Arco, at least, seems to take great pleasure in explaining her work. She is a proud Tysian woman who was brought to the Duchy at the request of her compatriots. She coordinates the parcelling of farmland and the laying of highways, orchestrates trade networks between the provinces and the city, and conducts dispute resolution with landowners.
“And I send some of the Duchy’s money to farmers in need, when they write in for it.”
He nods as he makes notes of every pertinent detail. “Now, I’d love some insight into your colleagues,” he carries on. “In the week before the attack, and in the time since, has anything you've observed struck you as unusual?”
“Be more specific. Everyone in this palace is being suspicious all the time.”
“Anything that you think could be relevant to the case of the kidnapping and explosions.”
“Top of that list is Hiscera. I mean, what’s not nasty about that hag? She masterminded the genocide of Acse. She slaughtered the warriors of Leyse.”
“She slaughtered the warriors?”
“Don't play a fool, Glasses. None of that would have happened without her. And I’ll tell you what—she’s been taking bribes, too.”
“Is that so?”
Arco smirks as his eyes widen. “I can put two and two together,” she replies. “You know how Carana’s bid for her role came off the back of her being a section master at the inter-world postal service? Well, I talk to the inter-world postal service all the time. Ride with them, even. And you know what they say about Carana? She’s an elite, never gotten her hands dirty in the mail rooms. She replaced a more qualified candidate one year before she became councillor. One year. And guess who oversees the whole operation? That’s right: our Councillor of Correspondence.”
Florian feels a shudder travelling up his back. “Has she done anything recently to make you think she may be up to something?” he asks.
“I’m the wrong person to ask. I cannot stand the woman and I see her even less than you. But go ask Carana, I reckon. That lady’s in with Hiscera, one way or another.”
“Alright.” He pauses to make a note, then looks her in the eye. “Now, I have a question for you. I hear you have been receiving correspondence from various anonymous senders.”
She groans. “Oh, the little old lady has been routing about in the mail again, has she? Well, obviously, I have contacts from out afield. And not all the farmers on the lands want to be slapping their names on everything they write. ‘Specially not us Tysians.”
“Seems odd, I suppose so,” Florian replies, writing this down. “Now, correct me if you’re wrong, you seem to know Ara well.”
“I’d say so.”
“Do you reckon Ara has been doing anything she shouldn’t?”
At this, Arco barks a laugh. “Ara? The general? When does she ever do anything but what she’s supposed to?”
If there's one thing Florian has surmised about Arco, it is that she is a dab hand with trickery, easily obscured by her outspoken veneer. Even as he bids her farewell and marches away through the vaulted halls, he has the distinct sense that some of her words were barefaced lies.
Anthera. Councillor of City-Building. She oversees the planning and building of the Duchy City and negotiates transport connections to the provinces with Arco. Descended from both Queen Drachen and Countess Caligo, she was appointed so Adamanta could keep an eye on her, being Orobelle’s closest competitor for the Queendom’s throne.
Florian knows all of the above because he was there in the room, advising Adamanta when she made the decision to appoint Anthera.
The woman, of course, has no inkling of his role in her receiving her current job. When he knocks on her door, she whirls outside in a blur of blonde hair, chirping, “Hello, hello!” as she waves him into a lavish peach coloured couch matching her fluffy coat.
When Florian sits, the plush upholstery sinks too much for his liking. Before he can right himself, Anthera drops into the seat beside him and adjusts the flower in her hair, crossing one leg over the other. “How nice to see you, Florian! Want some tea?”
“No tea, no thanks.” He won't admit he is a little thirsty from all the talking. No accepting drinks from suspects.
Her hand, already halfway to the teapot on the side table, simply picks it up and pours herself a cup. “Suit yourself! Here on an investigation, aren't you?”
“Right on the money,” he replies. They're talking already, just as he expected. “I have a few questions for you, if you'll humour me.”
Her chipper demeanour deflates just a little. “Oh. Is there a chance my answers might land me in jail?”
“There's a whole judicial process between now and then…but depending on your answers…yes?”
Anthera pauses with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “Oh, so this is serious serious business.”
“Have you ever known me to be about on unserious business?” he asks.
“There was that one time the Duchess made you play croquet with her. Just because she wanted to try it. And when you beat her fair and square, she stamped on your foot and cried.”
“That was the most serious of business!” he huffs. Then he pats the open pages of his case file flat. “If I may?”
Anthera smiles sweetly. “Go for it.”
“First of all, you must be being kept busy since the explosion. How is that going?”
“Oh, it's been so hectic. I've been visiting the library at the Queen's City to refresh myself on those theories about disaster planning and whatnot.” She flicks her hand, laughing. “What were they thinking, appointing a rich good-for-nothing as Councillor of City-Building.”
“Your progress as a councillor has been quite impressive,” he answers impassively. “Do you have any friends or other connections in the Diamond Palace?”
She taps her chin. “Well, I’m close to Ara, I guess,” she says. “She’s way too serious, I’m telling you. Always talking about drills and promotions and domestic threats and whatnot. And I guess you could say I'm friends with Carana, but I never know if she actually likes me or if it's because I'm the only other person in this building with a fashion sense.”
Florian begins to retort before realising she has a point. “Does Carana really pick her company on that basis?”
Anthera shrugs. “Well, she keeps up with Hiscera too, and we both know it's not for her fashion. Maybe it's because she owes her for—stuff.”
The detective's eyes narrow. “‘Stuff’? What kinds of stuff?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, the usual. Gave her a good word, nothing world-shattering.”
“I’m sure it was nothing at all,” he says, even as he notes this down. “How about Ara? Do you reckon she has been doing anything unusual lately?”
Anthera’s smile wavers for a second. “Training the soldiers, readying for a possible incursion, the usual for her.” She shrugs. “She works too much. They didn't put her in charge of defence for nothing.”
Florian nods. “I think we all know that quite well. Now, in the days before the kidnapping and the explosion, and in the time since, did you observe any unusual behaviour among your colleagues?”
“Oh, yes!” Her answer is immediate. “The morning after the explosion. Before Orobelle heard the news. I saw Carana in the halls. She was heading towards the library all sneaky-like. It was the third quarter of the night, I think. I cannot say what she was so cautious for, but I was sure not to be seen.”
Florian knows that Anthera is an early riser, but even for her, the third quarter of night seems unusual. He makes a note of this as he asks, “Is that atypical of her?”
Anthera shrugs. “Before sunrise it is, and in such a hurry, too…I didn’t think anyone other than Grus visited the library while it was dark.”
“Which librarian was on duty that night, do you know?”
“Poppy, I think?”
“And was Carana carrying anything when she visited?”
“A…book, I think?”
He makes a lengthy note under Carana’s file. “One more question, then. Do you have any grievances with the palace?”
She giggles. “Oh, not really. I know Orobelle doesn’t trust me, so I’ve been trying to prove I can be held up as a worthy member of the court. May as well, if I’m stuck doing this city planning work.”
“Well, I think you are doing better than most would in your place.”
Anthera touches her hand to her heart. “Your kind words are much appreciated.”
“Thank you for your cooperation. Farewell, and hopefully the next time we talk, it will be under less strained circumstances.”
She returns his goodbye with a twinkle of relief in her eye. He leaves her to finish her cup of tea alone.
Estiva. Councillor of Academics. The second oldest member of the council, she was a researcher before she became a councillor in the field. She spearheads the advancement of research pursuits and the Duchy Academy. Of the council, she is closest to Hiscera.
The sun is well into the final quarter of its arc when he finally makes his way to Estiva’s office. The Councillor of Academics is busy organising a stack of writings on her desk when he enters her office in the loft. Her windows are open, and there isn't so much as a shred of paper anywhere it shouldn't be. A collection of leggy potted plants sits by each open window, some of them with self-watering tubes poked into the soil.
The woman herself is short and stocky, face framed in loose grey curls. Her glasses reflect the verdure in her room as she arranges the cushions on her couch for Florian.
“Good afternoon, Estiva. I’m here on investigative work.”
“So Hiscera told me over lunch,” she replies, folding her arms on her desktop. “How may I help you?”
“I have just a few questions, if you will answer them with nothing but the truth.”
She nods. “Seems straightforward enough.”
“First things first, then. You’re the Councillor of Academics. What does that entail exactly?”
“The Duchy Academy is my chief concern,” she says. “I am on its board, as is Orobelle, and I oversee strategic direction and outreach. Anything that concerns how the Duchy spends its resources on research is within my purview.”
“I see,” he says, writing as he speaks. “And, I hear you have recently received a grant from the Queendom University?”
“Ah, so you've heard,” Estiva replies, eyes lighting up. “Indeed, after months of running into dead ends, the Professor Mellistella herself heard caught wind of my work in metaphysics and prompted me to write to her University. The funding application was approved almost right away!”
He smiles. “Well, congratulations, first and foremost. Did the Duchy Academy fail to fulfill your needs?”
She nods. “I cannot direct the Academy’s funds towards my own research simply because I’m a board member, of course. The other members of the board reviewed my applications, and their recommendation was that the funds I needed were outsized compared to the strategic relevance of my work.”
“Ah! What is your research about?”
“My latest work is into the synchronisation of timekeeping devices across world boundaries. If you’ve seen that fancy watch of the Duchess’, even that device wobbles a little with respect to our time. Only by a few seconds per day, at most—but with enough months, that turns into entire hours lost.”
“Interesting…” Well, it is not especially interesting to him, but such cloying small talk is what the job calls for. “Does the grant come with any obligations not related to your research?”
“There was nothing in the contract on that matter when I signed it. It stipulated that I shall not conduct any illegal work under the law, that it may be revoked if I am found to be embezzling the funds, and so on.”
“I see. Is it usual for the University to take in a researcher from the Duchy?”
“I reckon half the people at that university are not from the Queendom’s lands. There may be an enmity between us in political realms, but fields like mine are much bigger than such squabbles—better researched nondenominationally.”
“Understood. Well, let me change directions. In the week before the attack on the water tower and in the time hence, have you noticed anything strange in the behaviour of your colleagues?”
She strokes her chin. “Why, yes…the evening before the attack, I was walking along the courtyard ambulatory when I overheard Grus and Hiscera talking in the garden about some covert business of the Tactician’s. I caught a whisper from Grus that Orobelle should not be made aware of whatever it is they were discussing. But they must have noticed I was there, because they both went silent at once.”
At this, Florian raises an eyebrow. A secret kept from Orobelle could be many things: the fact that one of her gowns was blown onto the lawn and had to be re-washed, the truth that her liquid satiation is sometimes made with substitute herbs, or something more…unsavoury? “Do you know what the subject might have been?”
Estiva frowns. “I think I heard the phrase ‘induction ritual,’” she replies. “But nothing much else to indicate the subject.”
“How odd,” Florian murmurs as he writes this down. “Before I leave, is there anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Not much—except, thank you for your tireless work.”
Carana. Chief political advisor. Orobelle entrusts many critical secrets of political strategy to her, as her work requires, but I understand the Duchess does not fully trust her character. Her skill with her work precedes her, nevertheless, and she often goes above and beyond what her post demands.
Carana is not in her office, but Florian finds her reading a book by the lamplight in the hallway not far from her door. Her dark hair is in a loose bun, and she wears a sharp burgundy dress, glistening like silk.
Peering up from the pages, she murmurs, “I heard you were investigating the kidnapping. Sticking your nose where it shouldn't be.”
He stops beside her. “I reckon ‘in my witnesses’ offices’ is exactly where my nose should be.”
“Witnesses, or suspects? Don’t play coy, Flor.”
He sighs, seating himself beside her. “The people implicated in a crime tend to be both. But I prefer to be charitable.”
Carana nods. “Well, are you about to ask me what I was up to the day before the tower exploded?”
“I would if I lacked tact. But no.”
She does not reply. She has resumed reading.
“So, you are the Duchess' political advisor. What does that entail exactly?”
Carana finally lowers her book to the benchtop. “I construct communication plans. And I advise her on the daily matters of ruling. When she's willing to be advised, that is.”
Florian nods, eyes flicking to the right in thought. “I'm curious. Do you think that, during her life, you were Duchess Adamanta’s most trusted councillor?”
“No.”
“Who do you think that was?”
“Who do you think?” Carana answers. “We both know who the late Duchess told all her secrets to.”
He nods. “Well, then, I would like to know what you think of Hiscera.”
Carana finally lifts her head from her book. “She is a very kind woman, and an intelligent one. It is humbling to be privy to conversations between her and Estiva: they are wiser than I could ever hope to be. And she is ever so ready to aid her colleagues, even then.”
“She is kind and wise, it’s true. But do you think we have any reason to question her morals?”
“No, not at all,” she replies without so much as a pause. “She has all the right principles to be in her position. And this is why she has been there for fifty years—longer than either of us has been alive.”
“And you believe that signifies loyalty,” he replies.
“Oh, very much so. She is a woman of her word, and she has only the Duchy’s best interests at heart.”
He adjusts his glasses. “Enough about her, then. Let’s talk about you.”
“You know I’d love to.”
He squints at his scribbles, just a little hard to parse in the dim light. “You joined this council before I did—you were Duchess Adamanta’s advisor. A lofty position, with intimate access to the Duchess. Before that, you were a section master at the post, which is a respectable role, too, but hardly a strategic one. When you joined the palace, how was your character assessed to be suitable for such a role?”
Carana’s eyebrow twitches. “I fail to see how any of this relates to the kidnapping.”
“And I fail to see how a kidnapping could have been orchestrated so effectively by a criminal from a different world—and yet, here I am, investigating that very circumstance. So, Carana, how did you reach your position so quickly?”
“I did my job at the post office well,” she replies. “I was interviewed by the Duchess herself. And there was no one else remotely positioned to compete with me.”
“Interesting,” he replies, eyes moving to the garden, now fading into the last blue hues of evening. “I would have thought the position of political advisor would fall to the council member most experienced in the Duchy’s internal matters.”
Florian basks, briefly, in the satisfaction that he has managed to make Carana pause to think. “That may be true,” she answers. “But you hardly know what conversations I have had with the late Duchess, either. And I am not about to disrespect her trust beyond the grave.”
“I have no interest in that, either.” He makes a few notes on Carana’s file, and then Hiscera’s. It is a game of cat and mouse, after all. He can’t press her for information she has decided not to give. “Different question, then. In the week before the tower explosion…”
“...and the time hence, I know, I know.”
He bristles briefly—have they all been tattling so eagerly? But he gathers himself and carries on. “In that time, do you reckon any of the councillors have been behaving unusually?”
Carana ponders this for a second. “All of them,” she answers with an unrevealing smile. “If you’re intent on your view of Hiscera, then I can’t see how any of the others pass muster.”
“I’m not intent on anything,” he replies. “Now, I can tell you much rather be reading than talking to me, so I’ll dispense with the parting pleasantries. Thank you for humouring me.”
That is the last thing he says before getting up and taking his leave. She does not stop him. There is one more person to attend to, and, Light help him—he left her for last for a reason.
Grus. Chief military strategist. A sensitive role that oversees many of the political movements of the Duchy as a whole. Orobelle is as wary of Grus as she trusts her. She holds access to the Duchy’s military plans, though she tends to project an aloofness about the internal politics of the palace.
An hour before bedtime, the light still glows under Grus’ door. It helps that her bedroom adjoins her office—she had the study converted after too many a late night with her nose in her notes.
The pale-haired woman is still toiling over a stack of maps when he comes knocking, opening her door a crack to poke her head through. “Ah, if it isn’t Florian, up at midnight as always,” she says.
“If it isn’t the only person I ever visit at this hour.” He takes her in as he enters, her hair almost as dishevelled as her coat, halfheartedly draped over her shoulders. “You may have heard a thing or two about the rounds I’ve been doing today.”
She nods. “Hard to keep these things quiet.”
He opens his file as he sits down in the armchair by the door. “Who told you about it?”
“Ara warned me you’re about to be real nosy.”
“It’s my job, no?” He smiles. “I’m Councillor of Judiciary and Investigations. Though you’d think Orobelle has forgotten the second half.”
Grus returns his smile. “Opening with polite disdain for the Duchess, are we?”
“You’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”
She quirks an eyebrow, taking a stack of files off her chair. “Where does that come from?”
“Well, I understand you have been discussing matters that the Duchess should not be made privy to.”
If Grus is surprised by the mention, she smooths over it perfectly. “Well, yes. I’d love to deny it, if only for the safety of what it pertains to…but I’d rather not be caught lying to an investigator.”
“Care to explain what that was about?”
She sighs. “Let me tell you something about military strategy. There is a lot that is best not known in advance—not by the ones executing the plan, not even by the Duchess—especially not by a Duchess so liable to speak rashly when angry.”
“I know your work deals almost wholly in secrets,” Florian replies. “But you must understand…if there is some business of yours that could be relevant to my case, then you must do so. And I must treat you with suspicion until I know what you aren’t telling me exactly. You may either choose to explain, or I may have to press an explanation out of others.”
Her shoulders scrunch closer to her head, just perceptibly. “I assure you, I have no business that is relevant to the case. Perhaps you should instead consider scrutinising the doings of Ara and Estiva, then. I have found some of their recent behaviour irregular.”
“In what way?”
“I keep seeing Estiva in the Queen’s City.”
“What are you doing in the Queen’s City?”
“Classified.”
Perhaps the full day of interrogations is wearing on him, but Florian can feel his patience fraying. “Let me be clear. You have a vested interest in clearing your name. You may achieve that by cooperating, or you may remain on my list of suspects.”
“Playing hard ball already? Well, if I were your ‘culprit,’ or whatever you detective types say, I would be lying out every orifice, sparing no expense to help you incriminate someone else. But strategic secrets are strategic secrets.”
No squeezing water from a rock, but rocks can be broken in other ways. “Well, what about Ara?”
Grus folds her arms on her desk. “I had a soldier come to me recently,” she says, “asking me to clarify some orders from Ara. And irregular orders they were. She’d asked them to allow an unauthorised individual inside the armoury. But when I questioned her, she was reluctant to explain what those orders pertained to.”
He turns the page to Ara’s file and jots down a note. “The armoury. What kinds of equipment do you keep in there?”
“Weapons, shields, ammunition for said weapons, instructions on how to use said weapons.”
“And who was this unauthorised individual?”
“The soldier wasn’t told. Only that the person of interest would be carrying a letter with a symbol—a crescent sun—drawn on it.”
Florian knew that the sigil of the crescent sun was associated with the occult. It told him nothing about the person concerned. He jotted this down under his notes about Ara, drawing his own rendition of the symbol. “Do you have more useful information to share?”
“The night before the explosion,” she says at once, as if continuing his sentence, “I was looking out the window near midnight when I saw a head peeking out from the bushes, silhouetted against the facing windows right there.” Turning to the tall arched window behind her, she points at the one facing hers, peering between two pillars. “They had no light of their own. They crossed the courtyard in the direction of the quadrangle.”
“The night before the explosion, you say. Did you observe any identifying details?”
She taps her chin. “Enough to be sure it wasn’t Estiva or Hiscera. Not Dorian either. Could’ve been you for all I know. Short and nervous.”
That is just about all that Florian is willing to tolerate. “Well, thank you for your cooperation, if I could be so generous,” he says, standing up to leave. “Rest well tonight.”
She yawns. “You too. Don’t lose too much sleep over it.”
*
What a bag of contradictions, thinks Florian on his way out.
So many leads to so many plots, so many unexplained details. Some of these must have nothing to do with the kidnapping, and he must resolve to firmly disregard anything that is unrelated to the case at hand.
Easier said than done.
Whatever truth this bag of lies might yield, it will be the work of tomorrow’s Florian to untangle. Still, as he finally settles down for bed in his office cot, he is swallowed by a creeping dread that he is taking on more than he bargained for.