Chapter 508: The Killer Game

The rain fell from early morning until just before noon. The stone slabs outside the entrance to Iliad Hall were still wet, and everyone coming inside stamped their shoes twice on the threshold.

The benches were already full. The portraits of past chief judges lining the walls all seemed to wear deep scowls, as if disgusted by how much this year's students talked.

Richard hung up his coat in the preparation area.

Montagu leaned against the doorframe. He hadn't unrolled the notes in his hand since walking in.

"How do you plan to fight this?"

"Head on."

"She's your senior."

"Today, she's the affirmative."

The blond young man glanced past the curtain and lowered his voice.

"If you yield even half an inch, by tomorrow people in this building will be whispering about how she got into the first tier."

"I know."

"Good." Montagu shifted his notes to his other hand.

"I ran into her on the steps just now. She was checking the time with the moderator. She seemed a little nervous."

A bell rang twice.

Richard lifted the curtain and stepped out into the side corridor. Down in the second row, by the aisle, the red-haired girl raised her hand, opened a notebook, and held it up for him to see.

"Don't hold back."

Richard nodded at her.

Catherine snapped the notebook shut, stuffed it back into her pocket, and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

Clara was already standing behind the affirmative lectern, wearing a dark chestnut woolen skirt and a very old brooch at her collar.

There were no notes in front of her, only a palm-sized wooden box with its lid latched shut.

The moderator stepped up to the front of the stage.

"Finals, match four. The topic: In times of war, is a discipline that provides no benefit to the war effort still worth the nation's support?"

"Affirmative: Clara Farfield.

"Negative: Richard Williams."

"Affirmative opening statement, six minutes."

Clara rested both hands on the edge of the lectern.

"The affirmative stance is this: it is worth it."

"For anything that requires many people to work together, someone has to set the standard before it begins."

"I will provide two examples, both with verifiable dates."

"Seventy years ago in Gloucester, two railways connected. One had a gauge of seven feet, and the other was four feet, eight and a half inches."

"The tracks were laid, but the trains couldn't cross."

"Passengers had to get off and walk from one train to the other."

"Luggage had to be moved piece by piece, cargo unboxed and repacked, coal shoveled from one railcar to the next."

"Livestock was the most troublesome. The pigs sent to the Imperial Capital that year ran all over the platform. The newspapers even published drawings of it."

A ripple of laughter spread through the audience. On the judges' panel, old men like Mortimer exchanged glances and smiled; they had personally lived through that era.

"The Royal Commission sent someone to observe that station for a full day, and they returned and wrote a report. The following year, Parliament passed a bill requiring all newly built lines to use the narrow gauge."

"The second example is in Bristol. The clock on the wall of the Corn Exchange has two minute hands."

She raised her hand, parting two of her fingers slightly.

"One follows Bristol time, the other follows Imperial Capital time. There is a ten-minute difference between them."

"Before the railways were built, each city operated according to its own sun."

"Exeter is fourteen minutes behind the Imperial Capital. Later on, two trains running on clocks fourteen minutes apart drove onto the exact same stretch of track."

"So, someone distributed the Imperial Capital's time across the entire country, changing the clocks in every city one by one."

"During the years the clocks were being changed, the newspapers were full of vicious insults, claiming this was using the Imperial Capital's sun to suppress everyone else's."

Clara lowered her hand.

"Please pay attention to what these two cases have in common."

"The people who did these things couldn't produce any immediate use while they were doing them."

"During the year of the pigs, not a single train ran faster because of it, and the people who changed the clocks were cursed at for years."

"The usefulness all comes later. It is only when hundreds of trains need to pass each other on the same tracks one day that those efforts finally take effect."

"This concludes the affirmative's opening statement."

Applause broke out—not particularly passionate, but very uniform.

"Negative opening statement."

Richard stepped up to the lectern, and a silver thread immediately began to glow.

"The negative side does not deny a single example provided by the affirmative."

"The dates are correct, and the pigs really did run."

Clara chuckled softly, and some of the tension in her chest dissipated.

"What we must ask about is the key word in the debate topic: wartime."

"I will also offer two ancient examples, which the affirmative is probably more familiar with than I am."

Of course she was familiar with them; Sophia had casually mentioned them in the teaching and research office.

"Thales of ancient Greece was walking at night, only caring about looking up at the stars, and he missed a step and fell into a well."

"His Thracian maidservant laughed so hard at the edge of the well she couldn't stand straight. She said the gentleman was so eager to know the affairs of the heavens that he couldn't see what was right under his feet."

A few good-natured chuckles came from the audience.

"Then there is Euclid. A student finished learning the first proposition from him and asked what he could gain by studying it."

"Euclid told his slave to give the student three copper coins, saying: 'This gentleman must profit from what he learns.'"

"This story is often told as an example of a scholar's unyielding character."

"However, my side believes that even Euclid knew that when someone asks 'what use is this,' he had nothing to show for it and had no choice but to send the man away with three coppers."

Richard lifted his hand from the lectern.

"Furthermore, regarding support—how many woolen coats does one Classical Studies seat equate to in a year? How many stretchers? How many crates of eighteen-pound shells? It is written on the conversion table published by the ministry last year; we are not making this up."

"Wartime means that every single column on that table is competing against the others."

"The affirmative stated that the standard must be set before things begin. We agree. But this war has already been fought for fourteen months."

"Finally, we ask the affirmative to directly answer one sentence..."

He paused, then pushed the words out.

"In times like these, what right does the person giving the starting pitch have to be supported?"

In the shadows of the side corridor, MacFie stood with his arms crossed. His white eyebrows twitched.

Mortimer peered into his chipped teacup, found it empty, and set it down.

"Cross-examination. Negative first."

Richard didn't beat around the bush.

"Miss Farfield, you spoke just now of railways and clocks."

"I did."

"The porters at the station moved the pigs, and the railway company changed the clocks. Which one of those relates to Classical Studies?"

People in the hall nodded in agreement.

"Neither." Clara nodded as well.

"The affirmative concedes the point."

"Conceded, so I will offer another example."

She patted the lectern.

"In the summer of 1799, Napoleon's soldiers were reinforcing an old fort at the mouth of the Black Earth River."

"Digging beneath the base of the wall, they unearthed a black stone."

"By the rules, that stone should have been built right into the parapet."

"The commanding officer took one look, saw three types of script carved into it, and ordered his men to stop."

"That stone sat in a box for twenty-three years. Twenty-three years later, a Frenchman deciphered it."

"Only from that day on could we read the script of the Black Earth River."

"Without those twenty-three years, that entire room full of artifacts in the museum today would be nothing but a pile of incomprehensible rocks."

She raised her eyes.

"That stone was dug up while they were digging trenches."

Nobody in the hall spoke. Today, across the channel, dozens of miles of trenches were dug every single day. The papers reported it constantly.

"The negative will ask the next question."

Richard said, "This winter, if forced to choose between a starting pitch and ten thousand artillery shells, which would the affirmative take?"

"The shells."

The hall buzzed.

"The affirmative admits to the compromise," Richard immediately followed up.

"Since you admit to it, the negative's argument stands: resources are limited, and shells must be secured first. We ask the affirmative to confirm this."

"Confirmed."

"Then what else does the affirmative have left to debate?"

Clara lifted her hands from the lectern.

"The affirmative never intended to trade a pitch for artillery shells."

"What we want is this: when casting cannons, do not melt down the measuring rulers along with them."

"The downsizing documents this university received in August said 'suspension' on the first page, and 'positions will not be retained' on the second."

"A suspended train can still run again later, but when the positions are gone, the people scatter.

"Once the people scatter, and you need to find someone capable of reading those manuscripts twenty years from now, you will have to start teaching a sixteen-year-old high school student from scratch."

Richard stood behind the lectern.

He couldn't block that statement, nor did he intend to.

"The negative's cross-examination is complete."

"Affirmative cross-examination."

Clara only asked a single question.

"Mr. Williams, you said earlier that Euclid told someone to give the student three copper coins. Where did you read that passage?"

"It's in the records."

"Which record?"

Richard opened his mouth. He had heard this anecdote from prep school right up to today.

It was indeed in the textbooks and in the newspaper supplements. He could count five or six people who had recounted it.

But he couldn't name the source. In the audience, Sophia let out an awkward groan.

"It first appeared in Stobaeus," Clara said, her speaking pace entirely unchanged.

"That is an anthology compiled in the fifth century, eight hundred years after Euclid."

"Euclid himself did not leave a single word about his life. What little we know today was entirely written by people seven or eight centuries later."

"As for those three copper coins."

"In the original text, it wasn't three copper plates; it was a single coin worth three obols."

"In Athens, three obols was the daily wage for a juror sitting in court."

The hall fell silent.

"So that gentleman was not simply brushed off," Clara said.

"He asked what benefit he could gain from learning it, and Euclid paid him a day's wage according to the market rate of the time. Not a penny more, not a penny less."

"Even that amount was measured with exact precision."

"To this day, this quote constantly shifts versions as it is retold on lecterns, in textbooks, and in supplements."

She looked up.

"The affirmative speaks today for those willing to verify the original text."

Richard gave a slight bow behind the lectern.

"The negative accepts the correction and asks the judging panel to note: the negative cited incorrectly."

On the judging panel, Sir Muller set his pen down.

"Closing statements. Negative first."

Richard took less than two minutes. He didn't add a single superfluous word; he had already said everything that needed to be said.

"Affirmative closing statement."

Clara unlatched the wooden box.

"The affirmative concedes that this winter, artillery shells are more important than a pitch."

"The affirmative concedes that people in my line of work have no place once things have begun."

"Once the orchestra starts playing, nobody looks back at the person who gave the pitch."

She reached into the box and took out the tuning fork.

People in the front rows leaned forward; those in the back only saw a palm-sized object held aloft.

She raised the tuning fork a little higher.

"But the affirmative believes that someone must provide that pitch before it all begins."

Then she struck it against the edge of the lectern.

The pitch rang out. Over four hundred people heard it, and they fell silent in unison.

Richard stood behind the negative's lectern. The water in his chest sank on its own.

Everything out of tune in the hall spoke up at that exact moment.

Someone was counting their heartbeat in their head and lost the rhythm;

Someone was humming a melody under their breath that everyone had been humming for the past six months, only to realize halfway through that they had been humming two notes wrong the entire time;

A woman in a black dress in the front row pressed her hand to the black jade brooch on her chest.

Nothing was built up on that side.

Today, there were no city walls, no ladders, and certainly no formations.

The entirety of Iliad Hall was treated like an instrument. Someone struck a fork, pointing out every single out-of-tune spot one by one.

Every inaccurate spot rang out on its own.

Inside that note, Richard heard something much closer: his own Breathing. The end of the third cycle was half a beat off. He had practiced it for six months and had never noticed that half-beat.

He corrected it.

When the note completely faded, the hall remained quiet.

The moderator stood at the front of the stage, raised a hand, put it back down, and glanced at the judging panel.

Sir Muller said, "Time."

The clerk looked down at his watch. "...Four minutes and eleven seconds."

"Then she didn't run over the time limit."

Clara placed the tuning fork back in the box and fastened the latch.

"The affirmative's closing statement is complete."

The judging panel deliberated for nineteen minutes, the longest of this year's event.

The moderator returned to the front of the stage, the paper in his hand trembling slightly.

"Finals, match four."

"Negative, Richard Williams: Rhetoric 9.1, Declaration 7.9."

"Affirmative, Clara Farfield: Rhetoric 8.9, Declaration 9.8."

"Affirmative wins by 1.7 points."

The hall erupted.

Fischer stood up from his seat, but halfway up he realized he had nothing to shout, so he just clapped vigorously instead, knocking off the hat of an old gentleman sitting next to him.

Richard stood behind the lectern and folded up the blank piece of paper on the stand.

He won rhetoric by 0.2 points—earned through his year of transcribing texts in Mortimer's room.

He lost declaration by nearly two points.

His approach was to call out a person's name, to let it be seen by others;

What she did was give a pitch, letting everything that had gone out of tune reveal itself.

Put those two approaches together, and nothing gets accomplished.

Richard stepped down from the lectern and first gave a slight bow to the affirmative.

"Congratulations, senior."

Clara held the wooden box, standing in place and looking at him for a moment.

"You didn't use up your last two minutes."

"I was already finished."

In the side corridor, MacFie was waiting for him, leaning against a pillar.

Seeing him approach, he dropped his arms.

"Kid."

"Professor."

"You were deliberately guiding her. If you really wanted to win, your first sentence should have asked about her parents."

The lingering resonance in the hall had long since faded completely.

Richard stood in the shadows and did not argue.

"She won, smoothly advancing to Minor Adept. That makes me much happier than if I had scraped a victory by poking at someone's sore spot."

MacFie laughed heartily and clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him into the pillar.

"Alright, good lad."

In the last row by the door, Isabella fished a piece of toffee from her pocket.

The wrapper was stuck. She tried another angle, only to find it was still stuck to her fingers.

People in the hall were filtering out, the water dripping from the tips of their umbrellas forming a small puddle on the threshold.

"Advisor."

Sophia had crouched beside her at some point. She reached out, plucked the candy away, peeled it in a few quick motions, and popped it into her own mouth.

"Sophia!"

"You were peeling it for so long..."

Sophia mumbled, her cheeks bulging around the candy.

"I was getting anxious just watching."

"That was my candy."

"I know, that's why I peeled it for you."

"You peeled it and ate it yourself."

"My hands got sticky while peeling it." Sophia held up both hands to show her. "It'd be a waste not to eat it."

Isabella glared at her.

She couldn't keep a straight face and ended up laughing herself.

She reached back into her pocket, pulled out a second piece, and shoved it into Sophia's hand.

That night, the light in their room in the teachers' dormitory stayed on until eleven.

Sophia sat on the edge of her advisor's bed, her legs dangling.

"Clara, did you bring the tuning fork back?"

"I brought it back."

"Strike it once."

"No."

"Just once."

"No."

"Then I'll strike it." Sophia reached for the nightstand.

Clara snatched the box against her chest. She moved so fast that Sophia grasped thin air and faceplanted into the blanket.

"...You're guarding it tighter than our advisor guards her candy jar."

"Sophia."

"Here!"

Isabella looked thoroughly disgusted. "Move your feet. They're colder than raw iron."

"My feet are always cold."

"Then don't stick them on my side."

"But it's really warm between your legs."

The three of them squeezed onto a single bed. The blanket wasn't wide enough, so if one person rolled over, the other two had to shift with them.

Outside the window, the rain started up again, pattering against the tin eaves.

Sophia suddenly spoke up again, "Advisor, what was it like the night you advanced to Minor Adept?"

"Very embarrassing," Isabella answered after a moment.

"Huh?"

"At the time, I thought I had memorized my declaration speech backwards and forwards."

Isabella sighed. "But when I stood up there, I recited the second and third paragraphs in reverse order."

"Then what happened?"

"After I finished, I stood there waiting, thinking my advisor would come up and drag me off."

"Did he?"

"He listened from below, waited for me to step out of the circle, and told me: 'Those two paragraphs were supposed to be swapped anyway. Your original draft had them backwards.'"

Sophia laughed so hard the entire bed shook.

"Stop shaking."

"Sorry, I can't stop."

Clara, lying on the innermost side, rolled over.

"Advisor, why didn't you stop me from declaring for the Classical Records Tradition?"

Isabella didn't answer immediately. The rain pattered on the tin roof for a long while.

"I didn't think I could stop you."

"Do you regret it now?"

"Tomorrow, I'm going to the department office to snatch a south-facing research room for you. The north-facing ones freeze your hands in winter."

Sophia let out a muffled giggle in the middle.

"Advisor, you really are..."

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You laughed."

"I was thinking about something."

"You laughed out loud."

"That was the sound of the blanket."

After the lights went out, none of the three fell asleep, still chatting in the dark.

They talked about the departmental meeting, and how several windows in that south-facing room wouldn't open. Then they discussed whether Sophia should also grab one of those declaration forms and fill it out next year.

It took a long time before Sophia finally drifted off, and once asleep, she started to snore.

Isabella kicked her.

The snoring paused for a moment, then started back up again.

Meanwhile, over in his dormitory, Richard was dragged into playing games by his classmates.

"It's just one loss. Let's play a game."

Fischer dug a frayed deck of cards out of his drawer.

"'Murder in the Dark.' My sister's side of the family plays it every holiday."

The rules were simple: everyone drew a card. Whoever pulled the Ace of Spades was the killer, and no one was allowed to look at anyone else's card.

After the lights went out, the killer would choose someone in the dark and tap their shoulder. The tapped person had to lie down.

When the lights came back on, the remaining players would accuse each other.

After the accusations, the person with the most votes was eliminated and also had to lie down.

"If the killer gets voted out, we win."

Fischer shuffled the cards with a loud clatter. "If we vote wrong, they keep killing."

Montagu sat on the edge of the bed and unhurriedly drew a card.

When the lights came on after the first round, Catherine was the one lying down.

The reason was shockingly that everyone thought she had the most vicious glare. The red-haired girl was highly indignant. After lying down in accordance with the rules, she turned her head away and sulked.

In the second round, Fischer stood in the middle of the room pointing at Montagu, delivering a full analytical breakdown, claiming his breathing was too steady just now.

But when Montagu lay down, he revealed his card: the Seven of Hearts.

The one voted out in the third round was Richard. He didn't offer a single word in his own defense, just smiling as he flipped his card over—the Four of Diamonds.

"...We voted out the most honest one," Montagu said.

In the end, the killer turned out to be Edith. Nobody had suspected the quiet girl. After the reveal, the whole room stared at each other in disbelief for a long time.

Richard leaned against the doorframe and laughed out loud.

The week he had just been through was exactly like this battered deck of cards.

A room full of people sitting around a table. Someone holding a card they couldn't let anyone see, someone tapping others' shoulders in the dark, and when the lights came on, everyone started accusing each other.

They used absolute truths for the accusations: whose chair had squeaked, who had been absent in June, who had paid their share too readily.

The truth was the most effective weapon. At a table like this, it could kill.

And right now, a gentleman from Cairo was sitting in the gallery, holding up his hand and tallying the votes one by one.

"Williams," Fischer called from inside. "Let's play another round."

"I don't want to be the killer."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid I'd play the part too well."

The room burst into laughter again, and Richard laughed with them.

At the same time, on the second floor of the hotel, Halaf flipped through a thin notebook from cover to cover.

Nemesis governed retribution. The target's name had to be spoken aloud for it to take effect.

A girl who couldn't speak wouldn't be able to do this.

Upon returning to the hotel, he crossed out one of the two circles next to "Blackwood," scribbling "pending" beside it.

A mute Nemesis—that combination simply did not compute.

Unless the power of Nemesis within her was being suppressed to begin with.

He flipped further back in the notebook to Thorpe's page.

Thorpe was a graduate student; his family ran a shipping business in the Imperial Capital.

Hermes managed communication, crossing boundaries, Ferrying, and the purse.

That morning in the department office, he had made a few inquiries.

"Where did Mr. Thorpe go over the summer break?"

"Him? His family's ships run the Mediterranean route. He tags along every July and August for what they call an internship."

Pendleton didn't even turn his head.

"This year he went to the Apennine... Genoa, I think, and Trieste. He came back bragging about the lemonade there."

In that instant, Halaf gripped his pencil tightly.

Genoa, Trieste. He'd heard that on a certain night, the position of "Envoy of Rome" had changed hands. The intelligence reports read: Hermes.

As to exactly how it changed hands, the intelligence wasn't that detailed, but it absolutely had to involve the Apennine side.

Furthermore, a graduate student being crushed by a first-year undergraduate.

Logically speaking, an incompetent fool who lost a match like that ought to be crossed off the list.

But anyone who truly sat at that table, relying on the casual gifts bestowed by a Virtuoso, shouldn't have lost so miserably to a student.

Was it possible that the person was intentionally hiding their strength? Halaf wasn't sure. Regardless, submitting it as suspected intelligence should suffice to close the case.

"...It's a pity I've run out of time."

The evening of October 10th. In the second-floor reception room of the Petrie Building, the group gathered to see Halaf off.

Sir Muller, Mortimer, MacFie, Halaf, along with the two students sitting in—Richard and Catherine.

Clara wasn't there. She was with Isabella in the department office, completing the paperwork for her declaration form.

The group first discussed the batch of artifacts.

"Forty-seven symbols. Nine points of contention."

Halaf handed over the list.

The arbitration proposal he offered was straightforward: both sides would share the transcription results, the physical artifacts would remain in the museum, and research rights would be divided by topic.

"Neither side will be happy with that."

"A plan that leaves neither side happy is usually a workable plan."

Halfway through the discussion, the topic shifted to the students.

"You've spent seven days observing this year's batch, Professor. What are your impressions?"

Halaf set his cup down. "Several of them are quite good. Especially the young lady with the tuning fork. She should be advancing soon, right?"

"That's my colleague's student," MacFie said.

"Isabella Ashford?"

"Correct."

"Ashford. I've heard that surname quite a few times recently."

The air in the room grew a bit colder.

"That incident in the north?" Sir Muller picked up the thread.

"I heard a little. A black dog, was it?"

"That was last year's affair," Mortimer said slowly.

"That old fellow Gerard was still turning the soil for his hollies in his backyard this spring. He had to stop halfway to brace his hands on his knees."

"He's alright?"

"If something had happened to him, his funeral arrangements would have been grand affairs."

"Old Gerard is too stubborn to die," MacFie chimed in.

The topic ended just like that.

The four of them exchanged pleasantries at the door. MacFie said that next year, he would treat him to sheep from the Highlands.

Halaf said he'd eaten it once when he was young, and the leg of mutton was thicker than his arm.

Reaching the door, he stopped and turned, his gaze falling on the two students who had sat in.

"You two. In the future, if you want to see the real Black Earth River, come find me in Cairo."

He gave each of them a nod, then turned and walked out.

From that end of the corridor all the way to the stairs, there was no sound at all.

After the meeting broke up, the two students stopped simultaneously at the corner of the stairs.

Catherine pulled out her notebook and wrote a line.

"Did he cross me off?"

Richard looked at the words, unable to answer.

"...I don't know."

Catherine lowered the notebook, wrote another line, tore the page out, and handed it to him.

She had written so forcefully that the pen tip had torn a small hole in the paper.

"If I'm found out, I will handle it myself."

Richard stood there gripping the piece of paper for a long time.

He flipped it over. There was nothing on the back.

"Catherine."

Richard opened his mouth, unsure of how to respond.

He folded the paper back up. Then, abruptly changing his mind, he tore it in half, then tore it again and again into fragments too small to hold, shoving them into his coat pocket.

Catherine stood there watching him tear it up, not writing a single word from start to finish.

"...Let's go."

When they reached the downstairs lobby, she opened her notebook again, wrote one last line, and held it up.

"Don't be late for our lessons tomorrow afternoon."

"I won't be late."

She left through the small side door.

Outside, the leaves on the plane tree avenue had turned completely yellow, swirling in the night wind and piling up against the base of the wall.

Richard stood in the lobby and shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the handful of shredded paper.

On the morning of October 11th, Halaf boarded his ship.

In truth, if he really wanted to catch them, there was one incredibly simple and fast method.

He just had to gather everyone still on his list in mid-October and keep them in his line of sight for an entire night.

Any excuse would do. After all, he was a full professor and a Major Adept.

A banquet, an all-night review session, or a mandatory meeting—just forcibly keep them there.

When that night arrived, whichever table in the Theogony Salon failed to meet on time would fall under immense suspicion.

Trapped right under his nose, those students might even expose themselves.

But... Setting aside whether the Imperial Capital would even let him do that.

Even if he could, the academic reputation he had spent years building in the Imperial Capital would be completely ruined.

Afterward, he would never have another chance to visit here.

Besides, even if he found the truth, what good would it do him?

Leaving things as they were was just fine.

The ship left the dock, the wind flipping up the hats of the people on the pier.

He glanced toward the city. The Imperial Capital in October was shrouded in fog, dozens of factory chimneys belching ash into the sky.

"...A pity."

As to what exactly was a pity, even he couldn't quite say.

In the afternoon, on the third floor of the Petrie Building.

Richard walked in and noticed that the peeling wall near the window was leaking again. The enamel basin on the floor was already a third full.

"Professor."

"You're here." Mortimer rested his scissors on his lap.

Richard sat down behind the desk by the window.

"What do you want to ask?"

"About him."

The old professor pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"You want to ask whether the knowledge that man taught you is actually real."

"...It is real."

Richard looked up.

"And when he told you that you could come find him in Cairo, he sincerely meant it."

The old professor picked up his teacup.

"Throughout his many years in this field, the good things he's done... well, I suppose you could call them good things—are more than those done by many men in high positions combined. I can vouch for that."

Mortimer took a sip of his pale, practically colorless tea.

"Moreover, you don't need to worry too much about the identity investigations. They won't dare overreach all at once."

"Why?"

"Once it's finished, the people at the top won't need him anymore."

Mortimer closed his book. "Alright, no transcribing today."

"Clara's matter is set for the end of the month."

"Once that's handled, you're going on a trip with me."

Richard looked up.

"Where to?"

"Milan."

"Professor, what are we doing in Milan?"

Mortimer took off his reading glasses and slowly wiped them with his cuff.

"You're coming with me to pay respects to an old senior."

"Which one?"

The old professor gave him a look.

"A Master of the Classical Records Tradition."