Spoiler
There can always be a say, one-hour difference between Dezsreicht and the land you guys are in. If not, minor reverse time-skip employed
Tristan "Trest" Bloodshire ~ His Home - Early Morning
Trest penned the last few words of the letter he planned to send to his father, frowning in concentration. He already knew where today’s meeting would go, and by the time he got it, Trest would already be gone.
He already knew how he’d react: he’d be disgusted, probably. Ashamed that his son, only heir to the Bloodshire crown and fortune, was doing what he’d call a commoner’s job. Of course. Trest laughed bitterly. His father usually had people to do the dirty work for him… not that his work was, in any way, ‘dirty’, he amended. He made sure to bathe regularly. Information gathering was a far more polite and innocent profession than many other. He hardly needed to exert himself physically at all.
Once he was satisfied, Trest carefully sealed the creamy paper and stamped the Bloodshire symbol – a crowned bat over a red shield – in wax, then stowed the letter in his pants pocket.
Trest groaned and ran a hand through his hair, pushing the chair to his desk back and standing up in one fluid movement. He paused for a second at the wall-high crystal window and stared out at the gloomy city skyline that met his eyes. Dark skies weighted on the shingled rooftops of the city, and dampened the spirits of the passing people in the streets below.
But it was his city, no matter how dark or dreary, and he wouldn’t let any empress bitch take it over.
“Let’s do this,” he muttered.
Trest turned on his heels and strode out of the door, grabbing his jacket and buttoning it up as he went. He ran down the stairs and out the door, not bothering to lock it. The same crest that adorned the door, reminding him who he was, also reminded any potential thieves who’s wrath they would risk if they attempted to so much as peer into the curtained windows.
He snapped his fingers magisterially, the sharp sound lost in the veil of mist that kissed the cobbles, and cursed when nothing happened. Sometimes people had no sense of drama.
Trest stamped his feet and blew into his hands to bring some circulation back to them and waited for Mr. Benjamin to reach the house, as he did every day, five-a.m. sharp.
Ten minutes later, the clip clop of hooves reached his hyper-sensitive ears. Harnesses jangled, and a muffled curse indicated the horse, Sammy, was still keeping up its hobby. That thing had teeth like grindstones.
Ten more minutes later, a shadow loomed out of the blanket of mist, and Mr. Benjamin’s cart stopped before Trest. The horse steamed slightly, and turned its cone-like head towards Trest, eyes narrowed. It snorted in a way Trest was certain could be labeled as ‘derisive’. We meet again, it seemed to say. On cue, the horse bared its teeth as a shaft of sunlight pierced the milky gloom.
Trest ignored the horse and stepped into the carriage. Of course he just had to trip over the steps.
Great. Apparently, the only creature with a sense of theatrical precision was the damned horse.
*** *** ***
Half an hour later sharp, the carriage stopped in front of the huge building that was the Spymaster Council. Turrets speared the sky, gargoyles adorned the buttresses, and doors were as ominous as could be. It was exactly the building Trest would have had designed for its purpose. And of course, with so much artwork, it was extremely easy to insert some slits to look out of. The glass of the arched windows was reflective, an obscure kaleidoscope from the outside, but perfectly cleared from inside.
Trest rapped five times on the mahogany door, as per regulation.
Of course nothing happened.
Trest knocked again, somewhat more emphatically.
Still nothing.
“Open right the hell up!” Trest exclaimed, already thin patience running out.
“It’s freezing out here.”
Finally, the door opened, swinging inwards with a nerve-grating creak of rusted hinges.
“Sorry sir,” muttered the doorkeeper. “These things stick something wicked in the damp, you know.”
Muttering streams of profanity against the ‘un-dramatic sense of things’, Trest hurried forward into the marble anteroom, past the desks of busy clerks, and to a statue of an angel, like any of the others that decorated the floor.
“Of this doesn’t work, I swear I’m suing the kid,” Trest groaned, tapping the angel’s sword hilt. This time, it did. Trest was rewarded with the statue swinging inwards, revealing a dark, windowless room.
“And if this doesn’t work, I’m screwed,” Trest muttered, as the room jerked slightly, then moved imperceptibly. If the elevator - a new Council invention which Trest had no idea how was supposed to work - jammed, he would have a lot of explaining to do. That is, of course, if he managed to survive the choking lack of air.
Five minutes later, the sensation of movement stopped, and another hidden door opened. Trest faced the Grand Council Room of the Five Spymasters.
It was a much more no-nonsense, professional room. It was paneled in wood, and unadorned save the huge black table at which the other four Spymasters sat. The walls were decorated with old maps, thickly covered in red dots.
“Oh, finally, prince-boy deigns himself to arrive,” said Alyssa, one of the feistier Council Members.
“Somebody really needs to do something about that doors of ours,” Trest added, in an off-hand way.
“I prefer to use the back door,” replied Alyssa, smugly.
“Since when do we have a back door?” Trest countered.
There was a soft cough beside them. Both glanced sideways at the child that had exhaled so very pointedly. Arkus, youngest of the Council – he was only twelve – was playing chess with Tito, the dwarf. It appeared he was winning.
Arkus looked up innocently.
“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Do carry on.”
He went back to his game.
“Ve all know vhat ze situation iz,” said Helen, accent more pronounced than usual. “Ze empress vishes to control her dragon to attack us. Zat cannot be allowed. Ve must send one of us to ensure zat does not happen.”
“Ladies first,” said Trest, motioning gallantly towards Alyssa.
She tossed her mane of flaming hair back and fixed Trest with her gaze. He had to tear himself away from those mesmerizing green eyes. Deep pools of… he shook himself. Enough. What had happened between them had happened, and he had no intention of repeating his mistake.
“Royalty always precedes,” she said, sweetly.
“Don’t go there,” said Trest, tightly. He hated any mention of his family. That was another world of hurt right there.
“Oh, I’m going there all right,” said Alyssa, a sardonic smile flickering on her features.
Very well then. Two could play at that game.
“Careful,” said Trest. “Your courtesy is overwhelming. I might just have to take you out for a drink. At night. When you’re not paying attention.” He curled his lips back, revealing his incisors slightly.
Alyssa stood up, slamming her palms on the table.
“Bring it, prince-boy,” she snarled.
Another light cough from Arkus. Alyssa sat back down, glaring. One up, thought Trest.
“You all have key positions in the homeland,” said Trest, as sarcastically as was safe. “I think it should only be wise that I go instead. And when I return, we’ll talk about a raise.”
“Use any means necessary,” said Arkus. “We’ll be sending a team of top agents along with you, and our men will put you in contact with… others… of the enemy that have no love for the empress.”
“Meeting adjourned,” stated Tito.
Trest and Alyssa stood at the same time and made their way to leave.
“Checkmate,” breathed Arkus, once they had gone.
