The Spindles of Spacetime
Volume 3
Florian's Mystery - II
It is the first quarter of the day. The soldiers are shouting their drill manoeuvres on the courtyard. The perfect time, as it were, to search Ara’s office.
Florian would rather sticky-beak around than attempt to strong-arm the general, of all people. Every guard in this building looks to her, rather like ants to a queen, and if push came to shove, he doubts his ability to punch his way out of a chokehold. He knocks before entering, and only nudges the door open when he gets no answer.
Through the bright window, he can see the tail end of a line of soldiers twirling practice staves. In its light, his eyes parse the office's chaos. Most things here are typical of the leader of the Ducal Army—weapons, floor plans, and scraps of half-finished notes—but some stick out, like the gleaming new Tysian spearhead tucked behind a box of metal rings. That head has the decorative lustre of one that has seen no weather nor blood. It is in the characteristic leaf shape, the edges serrated.
Picking it up, his eyes shoot to the characters etched into the stem, written in curls and diamonds. He puts it back down and picks up his pen to transcribe it.
The thought of Dorian as a suspect resurfaces, but again, he shakes his head. It was his niece who was kidnapped, and he was the first one to ask the court to investigate it.
But you truly never know with these coucillors…perhaps he benefited from the debacle in a way I cannot name yet.
There are a number of files here and there, too many for him to search in full before the woman returns.
But looking over to the book-littered couch, he notices a sliver of fabric peeking from the gap between the cushions, peach with a frilled edge. It is a singularly unusual contrast to all the metal and hard edges around the room. When he pulls it out to inspect, he sees enough to surmise what it is, and immediately pokes it back into the gap, heart booming.
His eyes lift to the window. The soldiers have cleared the quadrangle. Oh, Light burn me! With a leap, he lunges out the door in a flutter of fabric and flings the door shut, dampening the impact with his boot. The sound of metal clanging up the hallway puts a spring in his step, and he clears the corridor, panting, well before any sign of the general appears.
Onward he marches, in a furious haste, pen scratching away at his notes, but his thoughts are no less flummoxing. I think, he writes, I have stumbled upon a scandal.
He knows that what he saw hidden in the sofa couch was someone’s underwear, so utterly in contrast with Ara’s taste in everything else that he cannot imagine it belongs to her. No, the floral style far befits someone else in the palace.
Based on Grus’ observation, the person hurrying through the courtyard the night of the attack was moving towards the quadrangle—or perhaps, more accurately, towards Ara’s office. Ara lied about what time she saw Carana so as to appear not to be awake at odd hours, but Anthera took no such caution…
Whatever the contents of their activities that night, he is almost certain they had nothing to do with the kidnapping. And if so, then his singular cause to suspect Anthera of ill-doing—her insistent defensiveness of Ara—is moot.
More importantly now, this revelation places Anthera’s and Ara’s observations of the night close together, perhaps even in the same hour. Orobelle and Carana were out and about in a similar hour of the night, and he is starting to have a hunch that there may be a connection.
Through the glass doors of the palace library, in front of a wooden screen wall, Vane the librarian dawdles on duty. The curly-haired librarian appears to be in a state of advanced boredom when Florian shows his face, their head propped on a fist while they scribble on the sheets.
Approaching their desk, he quickly sees that they are drawing meaningless shapes in the margins of the work roster.
“Good morning,” he calls. “Slow day?”
Vane’s head perks up. “Oh, hello, Florian. Tell me you have a fun task for me.”
“I have an investigation on my hands that you could help me with,” he says.
“Just what I needed! Carry on, please.”
He is already flipping open his case file to the page where he has noted the order of business with the library. “There's more than a little to get through here, so do bear with me. First of all…are you any good with translating Tysian characters transcribed without intent?”
Vane hums in thought, putting down their quill. “We can always do it the old-fashioned way. Just a minute.”
They whirl around and disappear among the shelves, robes swishing. Not a minute later, they return, staring at the back cover of a mouldy tome in their hand. They flip it over and slap it onto the countertop, smiling fondly. “Ah, the only good dictionary of Tysian linguistics…co-authored by the Duchy Academy and the Queendom University’s linguistics branch—truly an artefact of the times. Alright, now, let's see, then…”
Tysian is written vertically in chains, recognisable by its abundance of diamonds, rectangles, and curlicues. Vane translates the phrases word by word, riffling back and forth between the pages of the dictionary and sounding the characters out.
“Hmm,” they say at last.
“Hmm?” Florian replies.
“‘A common freedom,’” they declare, pointing out the words in turn. “Where did you find this message? The context can reveal much.”
“Attached to a part of a weapon,” he replies.
Vane strokes their chin. “Intriguing…my understanding of Tysian culture is that gifts of weapons are exchanged between clans and even with neighbouring nations as declarations of alliance. This custom became increasingly common following the Queendom’s arrival in the Cracked Land.”
Florian nods along as he jots these thoughts down beside the transcription. “Then…‘freedom’ here could well refer to resistance.”
Vane's head bobs noncommittally side to side. “Make of it what you will. What was the next thing on your list?”
Florian glances at his notes. “Are you willing to disclose clients’ activity history in the name of investigating threats to Duchy security?”
“That depends. Do you have a warrant from the Duchess?”
“Unfortunately, no. She is quite reluctant to participate in the investigation.”
“Hm. We are not in the business of disclosing loan and consultation information, except at the behest of the Duchess. But I’ll be honest—warrant or not, this business sounds quite serious indeed, and I would very much like to assist. In the name of the safety of everyone involved, and all that.”
“That’s very noble of you. But you may refuse if doing so would jeopardise your position. I have no leverage over you.”
“I know, I know. But, warrant or no, I think mitigating a threat to the Duchy’s existence is worth a minor protocol infraction.”
Florian smiles. “Alright, then, if you are sure.”
“As sure as I am a Duchy citizen!”
“Well, firstly…” he lifts the page to read, “I hear Estiva frequents the library. What can you tell me about what she borrows? Anything untoward?”
Vane does not have to consult their records to answer this question. “Yes, one of our favourite regulars! Whenever she comes here, she’s borrowing books in the same theme. Timekeeping technologies, inter-universal physics, the world gates.”
“That does all align with the subject of her research.” But then again…the attacker seems to have come from beyond our three worlds. “Does she read anything else?”
“It is not for herself, but on a few occasions, she has come in here asking after books for Hiscera—I suppose the latter has less time to spare for browsing the shelves. The Councillor of Correspondence takes an interest in the Queen of Hearts’ gift. The control of wills.”
His heart thuds harder. He, like most of the Queendom, knows well how the Queen of Hearts’ reign has, for centuries, been propped up by a phalanx of servants gathered into service by her Gift of control.
“Induction ritual.” The thought nags. Her Gift is shared by blood, isn't it? “That sounds useful—thank you. Now, I do have one last question. When may I next speak to Poppy?”
Vane’s eyes dart to the scribble-covered roster. “This evening, at the turn of night,” they reply. “I never understood his love for servicing the counter after dark. The Duchess could not pay me enough to make me work those hours.”
“Well, then, thank you for your very kind assistance. I believe the rest of my questions are for Poppy.”
Vane breaks into a grin. “That was easy. And…” they glance at the clock on a side table beside the reception entrance, its chains ever clattering, “less than an hour left on my shift. Thank you, Detective.”
While he awaits the hour of the changeover, Florian pays the armoury a visit. There is a guard at the door, as there always is, the shifts rotating every quarter.
“Erm, good afternoon, officer,” he calls out at the man standing guard. “I’m here on investigative business and I’m wondering if you would be willing to aid me.”
He tilts his head to a side. “What sort of business can I help with?”
“I have questions about one of your superiors. There's no need to say anything you are uncomfortable saying. Just a few simple questions, and I will not make a note of your identity.”
“Sure, what's the questions?”
“I hear that guards—perhaps not yourself—have received unusual orders to clear unauthorised guests for entry into the armoury without due process. Is this true?”
“Mm…yes.”
Well, that was simple enough. “Has this occurred yet?”
He shuffles his feet. “Y...yes, Investigator. It was my mate, Agate…he let her in.”
“Her? Whom, may I ask?”
“Um.”
“Is that secret?”
“Well, I don't want anyone getting in trouble.”
Florian nods patiently. “If I must,” he says, “this case concerns the very Duchy’s internal security, and that of the Duchess. And your assistance could help us avoid a repeat of the water tower incident.”
These words seem to almost instantaneously catapult him out of his hesitance. “It was Arco.”
“Oh?” Oh. Weapons. A gift of alliance. “A common freedom.”
“That's all I know. I promise.”
Florian inhales deeply. “It’s more than enough. Thank you very much for your cooperation.”
Most palace staff do not operate past midnight. For those who do, it is because it is necessary—and as such, the immediate availability of reference material and expertise at that hour is also paramount. This is the reason that the role of night librarian exists.
Poppy is a petite man with a round face who wears his brown hair tied at his nape. When Florian shows his face at the start of the second quarter of night, he perks up with a smile too bright for the hour. “Ah, Florian! Vane told me to expect you,” he says as he straightens. “I hear you need help with an investigation of sorts.” The scent of bean tea wafts over from a mug on the desktop.
“You heard right. If we can skip the pleasantries—I have a number of questions to ask, and I hope you will answer as honestly as you can, as this concerns matters relating to the security of the Duchy.”
Poppy’s eyes briefly widen, but he nods. “That I understand. Ask away.”
“Firstly, I understand that the morning after the attack on the water tower, perhaps shortly after the attack occurred, Carana paid the library a visit.”
“That is correct, she did.”
“Before that, did the Duchess also visit the library?”
“That she did.”
“At what time?”
“Start of the third quarter.”
“Fantastic. And may I ask, what business was the Duchess on?”
He thinks for a moment. “Translating a paper note.”
At this, Florian’s heart pounds. “Are you able to disclose the contents of the note?”
“I did not read it,” he replies.
“I thought as much. She did not disclose the contents to me either. But what interests me more is that visit by Carana thereafter. What time did she enter?”
“End of the third quarter thereabouts.”
“And did she in any way show awareness of the Duchess' note?”
Poppy pauses, as if to contemplate what he is allowed to say, but to Florian that is answer enough. Nevertheless, the librarian finally murmurs, “Yes,” and Florian marks a note under Carana’s file. “She asked to visit the translation room, and because she is a council member with every right to the facilities, I allowed her.”
“And how long did she spend inside?”
Poppy shakes his head. “Half a quarter. She entered, spent a while in there, and then left without a word.”
Florian has, in the course of his training, learned that there are ways to unearth the viewing history of a translation glass. Such instruments are rare and costly, often owned by laboratories and studios, but such costs would be far from prohibitive for the likes of Carana.
Half a quarter sounds like plenty of time for someone to take a comprehensive reading.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the manner in which Carana conducted herself?”
Poppy closes his eyes. “She was holding a leather-bound notebook and some sort of metal torchlight, I think. And when she left, she was reading the book.”
“Ah! Well, that’s all I needed to know. Thank you,” Florian answers feverishly. “Have a good evening.”
“And to you—don’t work yourself to death!” Poppy answers with a wave.
*
Of two things, Florian is now reasonably sure. If Carana was transcribing the ransom note from the traces of the scrying glasses, then she knows its contents. And, if she was transcribing the ransom note, then she had to know that there was a note in the first place.
Either way, that woman has more questions to answer.
The front page of the case file is filling up by the day. This is the last thing he makes a note of before he falls asleep, dreaming of different versions of the events of the night—Anthera sneaking to Ara’s office, Orobelle marching through the halls, Carana ducking in after her, Grus and Hiscera whispering about the Queen’s rituals of control.
Then, he marches into the office of the political advisor the next morning and enters without knocking.
“Florian. I swear I have seen your face more times this week than I ever do in a month,” Carana mutters as he thunders in. “What’s the matter this time?”
“Carana. Good morning. Unfortunately, work brings me back,” he says, effecting a tone of perfect solemnity. “By which I mean, you are now a prime suspect.”
Carana looks scandalised. And then, she laughs. “How could I be?”
“I spoke to Poppy.”
She sighs. “What would you like to know?”
“You knew there was a ransom note before the news was made known to the palace. How, may I ask, did you know that?”
“Why, the Duchess was making such a racket when she passed my quarters. I couldn’t stay asleep! I was worried, so I caught up to her to ask what the matter was, but she refused to let me in on it. Can you imagine? I, her political advisor! I did see, however, that she was carrying a note in a foreign language, and I surmised she was on her way to the library. So I thought it my duty to investigate the matter.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you often go snooping on matters that you aren’t meant to be privy to?”
Again she sighs. “Don’t you think that it is my right, as political advisor, to know about matters concerning the Duchy’s safety? As much as it is yours to be investigating them?”
His brow furrows. “Let me be clear—I currently have no interest in acting against any such hypothetical infractions. But I need confidence that you are telling the truth—that this is what happened the night of the explosion, and that this is not simply a fabrication. Is there anyone who can corroborate your version of events?”
“Orobelle could, but who knows how long she'll be gone!” Carana hisses.
This is it, then. Time to bargain for his life. “Then show me your notebook and let me read the translation,” he replies.
“Why?”
“If you weren’t the one who betrayed the Duchess’ secrets to the attacker, then the note’s contents will exonerate you, and I will take it as an indication of good faith.”
“This seems unprofessional.”
“Do you know what else seems unprofessional? The manner in which you attained your position as advisor. I have more than one reason to question your character.” He feels just a little disgusting speaking these words. But such is the way of the Duchy. “So show me now, before I leave the room, or you will remain a prime suspect.”
Carana stares at him, speechless for seconds. Then, wordlessly, she turns to her study desk and opens her drawer, pulling her leather-bound diary from within it.
“I have one condition of my own,” she says as she turns back. “You will not transcribe any of it. The fewer people can get a hold of this text, the better.”
He swallows. “Agreed,” he says, capping his pen and tucking it into his pocket.
She turns the pages till she finds the one she is looking for, then rotates the book for him to take.
He peers closely at the pages. The page is filled not with writing but with the printed representation of the view through a translation glass. Burned across six pages is a startling crush of text. It does not obey the ruled lines nor the edges of the book, some words truncated by the edges of pages.
Amid this chaos of letters, he finally locates the note of relevance on the fourth page—and as he reads, he stops breathing.
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s all you have to say about it?” Carana scoffs. “I assure you, I knew nothing about what was written in that note before I traced the translation glass. And part of me wishes I had remained in ignorance.”
“Well…your co-operation has been much appreciated,” he says. “And no, I do trust you would not share such secrets so freely, either.”
”Then goodbye,” she says, “and let us keep our secrets to ourselves, lest they endanger more people than we mean to, yes?”
There is weight to these words that Florian recognises well. “Of course,” he answers. “What was discussed here need never leave this room.”
Among the four matriarchs of the Queendom, succession is typically determined by primogeniture. After the splitting of the Queen’s lineage, the throne passed from mother to daughter, or mother to niece failing that, outward from the immediate family.
However, there is an exception enshrined in Queendom law for when there is no clear eligible descendant: to prevent crises of succession in those cases, the current matriarch may name an heir who succeeds her in the situation of her death or abdication.
To protect the selected heir, the choice of heir is sometimes not made public until it is relevant. However, to ensure the naming of the heir holds weight in the royal court, the document must be signed by at least one witness.
Such heirs are often less popular than their counterparts, and to mitigate this they are typically chosen from among those with noble blood. An heir from outside the family is unheard of.
Orobelle has, it appears, dispensed with all of these conventions and cautions. The ransom note names her heir, a fact heretofore unknown to any but the witness, whoever that may be.
That witness must now be found, for only they could have disclosed the truth. And he has an inkling of who that might be.
Before then, there will come a gruelling process of elimination.
“Estiva,” says Florian the second time he appears at her office. “If you’ll spare me a few minutes, I have some further questions to ask.”
“Ask as you please,” she replies, turning to face him.
“I understand that your research concerns the structure of reality, including movement between worlds.”
“Yes, that is correct,” she replies.
“Now, I am asking you to be very honest,” he goes on. “Our recent attacker came from a world beyond our known three. Can you assure me that you did not collude with them to help them gain entry into our world?”
She frowns for a moment. “Well, if the attacker needed our help to enter our world,” she says, “then wouldn’t they have had to enter our world in the first place to establish contact?”
“Aren’t there ways of communicating between universes?”
“If you asked again in a few years’ time, then maybe,” Estiva replies. “There are instruments that could transmit across world boundaries. But once again, such an instrument would have to be given to the correspondent in the first place.”
He nods. “That is true…it is all a little convoluted. But there is one more thing that I must ask, then. Do you know the identity of the Duchess’ heir?”
“Is that related to the case?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, I'm afraid I haven't a clue…I am certainly not close enough to Orobelle to be privy to information like that.”
He draws his lips into a line. “Thank you, then. That is all.” Then he rises from her couch and leaves.
Arco’s door stands ajar, so Florian does not knock. “Well, behold, a second visit in three days,” he declares himself at the door.
She smirks from her armchair. “How goes the investigating?”
“Quite well,” he says. “In fact, I have learned you have been making unauthorised visits to the armoury—that Ara has been clearing you for entry despite your lack of standing to be there.”
Arco stares at him. “So I have. What do you make of it?”
“You have been receiving letters with their senders unmarked. You have been cooperating with Ara. This is all beyond a doubt. So I am giving you a chance to explain yourself. To tell me why you have done all of these things, if not to destabilise the Duchy.”
Arco draws a deep breath, then sighs. “Florian. Do you know how I came to work for the Duchy? I was asked to. Hiscera rode into my village and said that my compatriots had asked for me. They often make us Tysians farmers—we know more about the art than the Queendom does, whatever it may claim. And I accepted, because I wanted to make this place more bearable for them. It would have been wonderful if they had never been bought in the first place! But destroying the Duchy will not release them to go back home. The Queendom will seize the Duchy. The Queendom will take its servants. And that is the same, if not worse.”
Florian does not interrupt her. And she carries on.
“So as I have told you, I have no interest in assisting in the kind of damage that this attack has done. I am particularly not interested in the harm of Uri Licur-ca, a child from my own nation. All of these details you’re learning about me, they have nothing to do with your case. Yes, I have secrets, because secrets keep this palace running. Who in this damned palace doesn’t have them? So that is all you need to know from me.”
All considered, Florian is willing to believe her: if she knew Freesia would be targeted, she would never have stood for it. And he is tired of unearthing secrets he never meant to know.
“Fine,” he replies. “But I have one more question, if you’ll help me. Do you know who the Duchess’ heir is?”
“No,” Arco says at once. “Why would I? She knows my allegiances do not truly lie with the Duchy. She would trust me with no such thing.”
“Then that is all,” he replies. And with that, he bids her goodbye.
“Grus, I have some important questions for you. And I must have you know that I am no longer merely playing at a conclusion. Your answers will help me make a judgment on whether you are guilty or innocent.”
Florian was not looking forward to pressing Grus to explain herself, and when she smiles oddly at him, his misgivings compound. “Well, I hope this is not you telling me you have already come to your conclusion and are simply here to press for ‘evidence’ to affirm your stance.”
“I am not certain of anything yet, and I will press no charges without reasonable certainty. So if you’ll cooperate…”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Then, please, explain to me in full why you were discussing matters that Orobelle should not be made aware of, and what they had to do with the Queen’s control rituals.”
“I cannot do that,” she replies.
“Why not?”
“Because I cannot compromise the project to which it pertain.”
He folds his arms. “Are you trying to incriminate yourself?”
She sighs. “I said, this has nothing to do with the kidnapping.”
“And yet you cannot clear your name? I am investigating a crime against the Duchy, Grus. And to show your innocence, all you have to do is tell me, even vaguely, even in abstract, what you were talking about with Hiscera.”
Grus pauses for a very long time.
“Alright then,” she mutters. “If that is what you will have me do…then you, too, must make me a pact. Once you hear this, you are inducted into the plot, and you are sworn to secrecy until it is brought to its conclusion.”
Whether behind his desk or outside his office, this job certainly comes with a lot of binding oaths. “I agree to those terms,” he says.
She steps forth and shuts her door, locking it. “Then, how do I begin…”
*
By the end of that conversation, Florian is convinced that Grus is not his culprit. But in its place is an equally terrible revelation whose weight makes him feel off-centre as he walks away.
When he embarked on this mystery, he knew he would learn secrets he didn't mean to. He didn't think he would be sworn into a secret that could decide the fate of the Duchy.
But that is where he is now.
Grus does not speak at length, but she says enough to explain everything—her interests, her causes for secrecy, the reason Orobelle cannot know about this.
“But you entrusted Hiscera with this knowledge,” is all he says in reply.
“Of course I did,” Grus answers. “She is the only one I knew without a doubt would betray it to no one else.”
Long before Hiscera became Orobelle’s counsellor and friend, she was Adamanta’s. She has fingers in the palace’s every corner. She was there, on the sand, when they turned Tyse and Leyse into vassals. And if Carana caved to his threats…
He feels his belly roiling with nerves as he enters Hiscera’s office at her quiet bidding, that severe office of clean edges and empty tabletops. “It is good to see you again,” says the woman.
“Likewise. You must know why I am here.”
“You’re doing your job, as always. How goes the investigation?”
“Frankly, this is quite the muddy case. There is no murder weapon, no accessible victim, no hidden stash of contraband. And so my conclusion can only come from elimination at best.”
“That sounds like quite a bind,” she replies calmly.
Only say as much as necessary to gain a useful answer, he thinks again. “So, answer me this,” he replies, then inhales. “Do you know the identity of Orobelle’s heir?”
Hiscera pauses. They are both sizing each other up—the Councillor of Correspondence, the Councillor of Investigations. Her eyes flicker to her hands, then back to his face.
“Yes,” she finally says. “I do. What will you have me do about it?”
Florian’s head spins. Of all the councillors, Hiscera has the most to lose. She was Adamanta’s lapdog and secret-keeper. At her word, the venture in Leyse turned violent. She is Orobelle’s shadow advisor, the one to whom Carana owes her place, and perhaps everything else.
Here it is—her indirect confession. And yet…
…this is not what a guilty Hiscera would say.
“It—it isn't you,” he murmurs, thoughts coalescing, feet moving faster than his mind. “It isn't you.”
Even as she stares, he turns to the door. “Thank you for your help, and I'm sorry. I must—” Before she has replied, he has dashed away through the halls.
*
There is no reason Florian needs to hurry. The palace is in lockdown, and the missives aren't flowing. But the sooner this resolves, the sooner life can return to normal for everyone else.
He stumbles up the stairs to the loft and knocks, for the third time, on Estiva’s door. She is at the windowsill, filling her waterers.
“Estiva,” he declares. “Stay right where you are. I will not leave until you tell me the truth.”
“Well, this is quite the turn,” she replies, lowering her watering can. “Please, explain.”
He catches his breath, folding his hands together as he steps inside, forgoing the armchair. “I’ll tell you what. First things first. You have received a grant from the Queendom University. Yes?”
“Yes, I have.”
“You are researching metaphysics with the university, and some of your work concerns the World Gate and communication across world boundaries.”
“Also yes.”
“The Queendom has also recently shown intent to seize our World Gate, laying roads near our borders. To take control of the passage would mean direct access to resources that we have historically brokered to them.”
“It is a little early to conclude, but that is a possibility, yes.”
“And the Duchy did not have any use of your research, but the Queendom University does? That's interesting, isn't it? That the Queendom is taking such an interest in interuniversal travel?”
She frowns. “What does my working with the Queendom University have to do with the kidnapping?”
His thoughts are rambling, piecing together a reply like a trolley laying tracks before itself. “We both know the Queendom would benefit from the destabilisation of the Duchy. By now, the Queen knows our Duchess’ intent to seize her throne. We are moving towards war, and I reckon a researcher with fingers in the Duchy’s council would be very convenient for them, no? Enough that they spare no expense in reeling her in? You said you were approved almost right away.”
By now, Estiva is staring bewildered at him, and she says, “I cannot see your argument, Florian.”
“I do not yet know the connection between the Queen and the attack. But I do not need to. When I asked you if you knew the identity of Orobelle’s heir, you said, ‘No.’ Whoever disclosed that information to the attacker must have known that admitting to the knowledge would incriminate them. So if you knew you had betrayed your Duchess, you would know to lie that you hadn't that information in the first place.”
“Have you considered that someone who doesn't know that information might also say they don't know it?”
“Yes. But Hiscera told me she knew it. Yes, she—our clever, ruthless Councillor of Correspondences, Estiva—chose to incriminate herself! But we both know there’s a good reason she was selected as Orobelle’s witness for her declaration of heir. If she were a culprit trying to escape incrimination, all she had to do to muddy the case was to say she did not know who the heir was. I would have my hands tied by a lack of evidence, and I would close the case defeated, with no conclusive evidence against anyone.
“But no, I reckon this is what actually happened: she heard my words, realised what must have been written inside the ransom note, and realised that someone else must have disclosed the secret to the attacker. Someone whose identity she knew, because she was the one who told them.
“And Hiscera, who has ordered the slaughter of villages, chose in that moment to take the fall for the true culprit. Who else could that be—who else would she share such a secret with, who else would she defend with her own life, but her dearest friend?”
Estiva’s brow furrows. “That is a massive extrapolation from Hiscera confessing to the crime, Florian.”
“She did not confess to the crime. She confessed to knowing who Orobelle’s heir is.”
“And I would have accepted the verdict,” says Hiscera's voice from the door then. Both heads turn to find her peeking inside, face lined with sorrow. “Even though I knew it was you…you do not deserve imprisonment more than I do. But it seems my lapse in judgment has cost us fifty lives.” She shakes her head. “I merely believed you were above all this politicking.”
Estiva sighs, putting down her watering can. “And you are correct, my friend,” she says. “I do not care which side I end up on—as long as these squabbles eventually cease.”
“And your pledge of loyalty to the Duchess means nothing.”
She shakes her head. “You, of all people, know that we pledged our service to a murderer.”
Hiscera does not answer.
With a final sigh, she turns to Florian. “So, what will you do about this?”
Recognising that it is her word against Hiscera's, Estiva finally admits to the truth. She was brought into the Queendom University's fold without apparent ulterior motives. But it did not take long for the Queen to start making demands, insinuating threats of defunding and worse. Between certain jeopardy from the Queen and the mere risk of sanctions from the Duchess, she chose the latter.
A comprehensible act of treason, but treason nonetheless. Her austere demeanour tells him she needs no informing of this fact.
But before the matter can go to trial, Florian makes a deal with Estiva. He will spare her of judicial action if she will help gather information for a certain unmentionable plan. And after an evening’s deliberation, she agrees.
The secrets remain firmly in place, and the Duchy continues to tick, for now.