Chapter 47: A Choice Left to Other Hands

The fire in the study’s grand marble hearth had dwindled to a sad little collection of orange embers, barely doing enough to justify its existence beneath the towering bookshelves and curtains. Outside, the rain kept hammering against the glass windows with the sort of dedication Lioren usually reserved for avoiding paperwork.

Lioren practically collapsed into his high-backed leather chair, releasing a long, dramatic groan as though he’d personally fought an entire army instead of spent the evening dealing with one particularly troublesome idiot. He undid the top two buttons of his shirt, slumped against the dark cushion, and let his head fall back with a soft thud. Gods, what a day. If anyone needed him before noon tomorrow, they could kindly take their problems and throw themselves into the nearest lake.

Caldrin shut the heavy door behind them, leaving the rest of the world on the other side where it belonged. Meanwhile, Therin headed for the sideboard and poured Lioren a well-deserved drink. He set the crystal glass on the desk within easy reach of his lord’s hand, because after the day they’d all had, a drink seemed less like a luxury and more like a basic necessity.

"I must admit, My Lord," Therin began, "I am somewhat surprised you didn’t simply resolve the matter of the man’s fate down there in the cell."

Lioren kept his eyes firmly shut and stretched a hand across the desk, feeling around the table surface like a man searching for the last shred of hope in his miserable existence. His fingers finally bumped into the glass. "Mmm? And why on earth would I do that, Therin? My feet hurt, my hands smell like wax, and I’ve already spent far too much time in a damp basement today."

"Because the fellow attacked Caldrin, tried to attack on you in a public alley, and spent hours stalking your betrothed through the capital streets," Therin pointed out. "By every law of the duchy, you have full sovereign authority to sentence him to the stone quarries or hand him over to the gallows without consulting a single soul."

Lioren opened one eye and squinted at Therin across the desk, looking thoroughly convinced that the man had either lost his mind or started speaking absolute nonsense.

"Therin, are your spectacles fogged over, or did the dungeon draft chill your brain?" Lioren asked, his tone laced with mild, genuine bewilderment. "The rat wasn’t following me. He was tailing Prince Xavion. Why in the world should I be the one sitting on a high horse deciding whether he gets his ears boxed or his neck stretched?"

"Because you are the Grand Duke of Roscaire, My Lord," Caldrin supplied bluntly, leaning his heavy shoulder against the doorframe. "And you are responsible for the Prince’s safety while he resides under your roof."

"Protecting a man and making every single life decision on his behalf are two completely different things, Caldrin!" Lioren shot back, sitting up straight and pointing his brandy glass toward the captain. "Xavion Astervan led thousands of troops into battle. He knows more about justice, military discipline, and survival than half the old fools sitting on the King’s Privy Council combined. He isn’t some fragile glass ornament I bought at a stall to keep locked in a velvet box."

He took another sip, giving himself a moment before continuing, this time with a more serious tone.

"If someone stalks him, it is his right to decide what happens to the culprit. Taking that choice away from him just because I happen to hold a ducal title... well, that would make me a remarkably arrogant fiancé, wouldn’t it? I intend to ask him tomorrow morning after he’s had a proper night’s sleep."

Therin looked at his lord for a long moment, his sharp eyes softening just a fraction before he offered a quiet, respectful bow of his head. "A fair point, Your Grace. Though I suspect His Highness may prove somewhat less lenient than you might expect."

"Oh, I certainly hope so!" Lioren grinned, his boyish energy flickering back to life. "I hope he orders the fellow to scrub the lower stables with an old toothbrush. It would serve the miserable creature right."

He put his empty glass down and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. Just like that, the lounging, carefree duke disappeared, replaced by someone who actually remembered he had responsibilities. He glanced between Caldrin and Therin, his expression turning more serious.

"Now then," Lioren said, his voice dropping an octave into that crisp, clear rhythm he used when the play was over. "Regarding our little friend’s employer... do you both understand what needs to be done?"

"Yes, My Mord," Caldrin and Therin answered in immediate, synchronized unison.

"Splendid!" Lioren clapped his palms together once, a bright, satisfied beam spreading across his face. "Gods, I am so ridiculously blessed to have such terrifyingly competent men on my payroll. It saves me so much shouting."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach as he stared up at the carved timber beams of the ceiling. "So. What are our theories? Who do we think spent heavy coin to hire an information guild operative just to watch Xavion buy honeyed buns and glance at glass swans?"

Therin took a small step toward the desk, his expression turning analytical. "If I were forced to wager, My Lord, I would look to Ostharia. Prince Xavion was the vanguard commander of Ostharia for years before... you know. A man does not win many battles without making a staggering number of bitter enemies. Now that news has spread of his shattered core and his sudden betrothal to the great Roscaire house, there are undoubtedly old rivals who wish to know if he is truly helpless, or if he represents a lingering political threat."

"A plausible line of thought," Caldrin agreed, nodding slowly. "Though we shouldn’t rule out our own northern border houses either, Therin. Lord Dane and the Marquis of Westridge were both furious when the King granted the betrothal favor to someone outside of Werestia. They might be looking for leverage, any hint of treason or illegal correspondence, to use against House Roscaire at the upcoming summit."

Lioren listened to both men without interrupting, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his armrest.

"Both good theories," Lioren murmured softly, his eyes staring into the dark corner of the room. "Both entirely logical. And both completely unproven."

He let out a short, quiet hum, shaking his head. "We don’t have enough solid thread to weave a coat yet, gentlemen, and I have zero intention of hurling accusations at generals or lords based on the weeping confession of a low-level guild rat. We proceed with absolute discretion."

Lioren pointed a finger at Therin. "Therin, you pull the financial ledgers for the guild’s local front. See if any unusual crests or heavy foreign draft notes have moved through the capital’s exchange houses over the past fortnight."

He then turned to Caldrin. "Caldrin, take two men in plain clothes and pay a quiet visit to this ’Master Alden’ at the Old Bells, New Bells, whatever the place is called. Don’t break his fingers unless he refuses to speak, but find out who dropped the original coin pouch at his counter. I want names, descriptions, or at the very least, a regional accent."

"Understood, My Lord," Caldrin said, touching two fingers to his temple in a quick, informal salute.

"And remember," Lioren added, his voice carrying a sharp, quiet warning that made both men pause. "Discreet. I do not want a simple, sloppy surveillance attempt turning into a grand public scandal before we even know who we’re dealing with. If the capital gossip-mongers get wind of this, they’ll turn a single stalker into a full-scale invasion conspiracy by breakfast."

"It shall be handled with absolute quiet, Your Grace," Therin assured him smoothly.

"Good," Lioren declared, pushing himself up out of his chair with an energetic stretch that made his shoulders crack. "Then my official duties for this utterly bizarre day are officially concluded! I am going to bed, and I sincerely pray to the mountain spirits that tomorrow brings absolutely zero stabbings, zero underground interrogations, and no more ruined clothes. I don’t think that’s too much to ask."

He waved them off and made for his bedchamber, already mentally clocked out for the night. "Goodnight, gentlemen. Try not to break anything on your way out."