Agents of time: Chapter Eleven; Checkmate

This feels different from the movies. James shrunk back behind the pillar he’d adopted as a lookout spot. From his viewpoint, leaning on the railing of a balcony that stretched around the room. The floor below was a pool of glittering fabrics of every colour, dotted with the black-tie suits of noblemen.

The music swelled up and down like a raging ocean, the chatter of the guests mingling along with it. The purpose of the ball, the son the royal family was welcoming back from school, had yet to make an appearance. Which, for the guest of honour, was rather late.

But maybe they liked dramatic entrances in the middle in these times. The nineteen twenties, the cusp of a haul-over of the old generation. One he was right in the middle of aiding or disrupting. Depending on how history took to having a different heir on the throne.

Either way, this prince would have to make an appearance at some point today, and James wouldn’t miss it. Ideally, it would also be made obvious who was the heir. Or at least who was the eldest.

He brushed his fingers over his top lip, not yet acquainted with the false moustache he’d applied earlier this evening. Paired with the black-tie suit from his case and some hair wax, left behind by the previous tenant of the cottage, He’d been able to give himself an aggressive middle part and waves. Along with adding a slight change to his British accent to sound a bit more “poshy” as he put it, nobody but Verena had yet to given him a second glance.

Well, if you didn’t count a few curious glances from some of the younger ladies, eyes peeking over their fans. He’d flashed a smile. Amber's face seemed to haunt his vision. Her ghostly sweet smile prompted his to tint sober as he turned away from them. She’d probably love this, the gala, given the way she’d gushed over the queen. But the likelihood of her ever experiencing it, was nearly an absolute zero. He toyed with the idea of sneaking her into the next one, until he remembered that even he wanted supposed to be here, and either way, he wasn’t presenting his true self to her. Not to mention the next one, if there was one. Which may be a stage set for a bad ending.

“Champagne, sir?” Mason approached him with a tray of sparkling gold bubbly. No shadow of recognition passed over his face. James took a glass with outspeaking, keeping his attention on the room below. He found Verena again in the crowd. The guests had organized themselves into some sort of dance, stepping this way and that in a rhythmic pattern. When he did find her, she had roped herself in with a partner. A high-ranking partner, if his attire and the ego that radiated off him were any indicator. His black suit gleamed with gold accents: cufflinks, a cravat woven around his neck, and hair that matched it all so well. James wondered if he’d painted gold leaf on it.

The rest of the ladies-in-waiting had gone their own way, save for Fiona, who stayed at the queen's side, where she sat with the king at the head of the ballroom, in a pair of thrones. They’d stayed there for the duration of the ball, only touching the floor to start off the dancing, retreating as soon as the music had transitioned. A few guests had come forward to interact with them, but for the most part they seemed to treat their pedestal like save harbour. James eyes trailed back to Verena and the man she danced with, putting together a rough guess from the puzzle pieces he’d gathered and his gut intuition, chances were, that was the notorious Duke Mavros.

The music ended, and the couples bowed and curtsied. The supposed duke left Verena, whose eyes wandered up to him, as if she was casually surveying the room for a new partner. Watch him. She seemed to say.

James swirled his champagne before swallowing it in one tip of his head and then did as instructed. Curiously the music had yet to start again as James took on a slow stroll along the balcony, allowing him to trail the man as he made his way towards the entrance at the opposite end of the room from the thrones, where he settled himself into the crowed nearby.

What is he waiting for?

Now standing above the royal setup, James looked down to see the ladies-in-waiting had once again settled themselves near the family, like a pack of lethal flowers.

His eyes flickered to the entrance again as a trumpet blared and the doors were opened in near-perfect sync by a pair of footmen, revealing an usher.

Was this the moment? Jame’s eyes flickered again to the duke, who was watching with rapt attention like the rest of the room.

The usher raised a scroll, his voice booming through the room as he read it.

“Announcing His Royal Highness, Prince Devon.” Another trumpet blast followed, to which the usher stepped aside, revealing, nothing?

James leaned further over the railing, the rest of the room’s full attention glued to the doors as a tall young man did finally fill the space. A decorative sword at his hip, dressed in a dark blue suit that complimented his dark hair.

Well, that’s interesting. It’s like he’s the yang to Benedict's yin. Brothers on two different sides of a spectrum. It’s hard to tell who's the eldest from this distance, though.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea for the Israelites as the prince descended the steps slowly. Taking in what lay before him like he wanted to savor it.

Movement made James look down. The prince's parents had stood, along with his brother Benedict, but they stayed put, feet glued to the floor.

When the prince finally did come within a few feet of the throne, he knelt, the tip of his sword clinking as it hit the marble floor.

A few seconds passed with bated breath until the queen finally stumbled forward and clasped her arms around the kneeling figure. The king broke out of his frozen stature and bid them to rise, his voice carrying through the air, punctuated by the orchestra picking up again.

“Everyone! Dance! My son has returned! This is to be a joyful day.”

James spared a glance toward the duke. He was still standing by the doors, at the edge of the crowd, looking down the long aisle at the royal family as the room once again filled and the dancing started back up. If he hadn’t meant to intercept the prince at the door, what had been his purpose ether? He let his eyes fall back downwards, focusing on Benedict this time as he gave his brother a hearty pat on the shoulder.

Two royal brothers, one destined for the throne. One a spare. Always an interesting combination that played out with that set of dice.

James head snapped back up as a shrill ring rung through the air. The music came to an awkward stop, as everyone turned their attention to a man standing, arms outstretched, on the entrance platform where Prince Darko had stood minutes before.

The whispers behind James confirmed his suspicions on his identity: Grand Duke Mavros Damon.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and of course the two radiant suns of our country and their blessed son. I’d like to take a moment to take in this joyous occasion, and to extend my thanks personally to their majesties for giving me to opportunity to say how glad I am that you can finally welcome your son home. And to say how much I look forward to our sons getting to know each other.” He ended the statement with a smile, letting the room absorb them as the pause stretched on.

James gripped the railing and leaned forward, quelling the urge to vault it and get a closer look from the ground. At least the room had good acoustics. Murmurs rose, trickling around the room. The crowd rippled with movement, whispering amongst themselves.

“Of course, it's no great secret that I myself have a claim to the throne of Belacruv.”

He paused, rather dramatically, as the crowd took it in with a gasp. Rapid movement and a gasp from below made him look back down at the royal family, Verena met his eyes sharply before she pulled together with the other ladies-in-waiting. The whole royal party shrinking back. While the Duke stood resolute, staring the royal family down. Savoring how the delicate balance of power in the room rippled.

Nobody moved

“Mavros!” a shout akin to a roar erupted from somewhere underneath his feet, but he didn’t see who. The rest of the room moved in chaos. People pushed or pulled in varying directions. Mavors notably fled in a whisp of black through the doors. Leaving his borderline treasonous statement linger in the air. The room stilled.

Then everything returned to normal, or at least everyone else did. The music returned, so did the dancing. James couldn’t shake the feeling that still lingered, the whispers that crept through the cracks of the façade, the thoughts racing though his head, the confident smirk on the Dukes face and the way he had just the knack for crawling under the royal’s skin. Playing the public like his personal fiddle. Then he’d fled, painting himself a victim. But of what? What were the stories that had been swept under the carpet.

He looked down again. Verena was gone, so were the rest of the ladies-in-waiting. The platform empty. James turned on his heel and navigated around the balcony until he found stairs and then the nearest exit His brain busy and his body on auto-pilot, guiding his steps with an unknown purpose as he waved through the remaining partygoers.

He saw the note in his minds eyes, floating like a hologram. What was he missing here. What link did this event and the note have? None. But why had it returned to his thoughts?

Don’t trust the Agency.

Why not?

Something told him this picture was a lot bigger than the glasses he was looking through showed him.

He needed to talk to Verena, and he need to now.

Having turned into a few wrong ways and a few hallways navigated the wrong direction until he finally had his hand on Verena’s doorhandle. The staff was gone, either busy at the gala or downstairs. Nobody else crept about in the twilight of the castle. Even if they had, he felt freer in this disguise, willing to conjure up whatever story necessary.

He turned the handle, letting himself into an equally dark room, the glow of the moon through the translucent curtains adding an eerie glow. Jame stepped in and shut the door quietly behind him, letting his hands rest on the handle as he leaned on the door.

James let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and inhaled as deeply as his ribs let him, then let out again in one long, frustrated sigh.

She wasn’t here. He knew that. But he’d still come, hoping. She was probably still with the queen and the other ladies in the chambers down the hall. But she would be here as soon as she could. He wanted soon, to be now.

He finally stepped away from the door. His eyes adjusted to the light enough that he could walk the room without tripping. His fingers lingered on a light switch. But the darkness damped his thoughts enough that he could think. A candle would do. There must be a candle.

He fumbled through a few drawers, cringing at every creak or scrape. He found a match first, and then a lone, tall candle, which he placed within an empty candle holder with a small handle and a dish for catching the wax.

The match struck hot and fast. The flame fizzling its way towards his fingertips, he held it too long, staring into it. Until the flames of the mansion a week ago flashed throughout his mind, and the match slipped.

James bit back a remark as he stamped on the small flames with his shoe, crushing it into the carpet. That’d leave a mark. He tried again, this time tipping the match to the candle as soon as it lit, then licked his fingers and pinched the flame out. With his newfound, if not small and weak, light, he gave his surroundings another look. There had been a desk in here, if he remembered right. He could at least look through her notes and files while he waited.

Finding it, he set the candle down in a secure corner where he wouldn’t bump it. Then he set to shuffling around in drawers, picking out any bits of paper that seemed important. The last drawer held a book. He brought it up to the candle, trying to decipher the title. Finding none, the volume instead resembled a leather-bound notebook.

Why does she have a notebook like this? He flipped it open, pulling over the desk chair he’d formerly pushed to the side. Inside, there was a handwritten index. Handwriting that was not Verena’s. He ran his finger down it. It listed names, or houses, as it seemed to start off with. He flipped to the second page, the list continuing on the back, ending with a handful of houses with a small notations above them.

Disassembled. It stated. James couldn’t hep imagining modern-day house being taken apart piece by piece like some strange puzzle. It instead must be referencing fallen noble houses.

He flipped through the rest, stopping on the first house’s name he caught. Under it was another list. Still handwritten, some with small notes beside them, and some crossed out with a label Married, To: with what he guessed was another house's name by it. He shut it again, a thought passing his mind that took him a few moments of staring at the book to catch. Could this be the book that the butler had requested of Julian? Something bout the Queen wanting it.

He flipped a few more pages, skimming them quickly to confirm his suspicions. It was a book of records. Or records of sorts, keeping track of the current houses in power, the nobles within them, and what people and loyalties shifted between them.

So why would the queen want this?

James flipped back to the index. What had been the queen's maiden name and title? Or the kings, for that fact. Or, a far more interesting prospect entered his mind: Duke Damons. James took to flipping through the book more carefully now, tugging the candle closer to see better All the while, a nagging thought picked at his head. An unmistakable sense of déjà vu. Something about this book felt oddly familiar.

The thought was brushed aside as his eyes landed on the name he’d been searching for.

Archduke Damon Mavros. Second son of the deceased archduke, of House Mavros. Second son? He found the name of the first, a name that was crossed out with the notation Deceased, April fifth 1905.

Well, that was certainly fortunate for the Duke. A spare had become the heir. By seemingly innocent means, but then again nothing was that coincidental, was it? He gave a quick scan, looking for any note son cause of death, but found none. He’d have to look into it later.

He put the notebook aside and reached for the agency files. He needed to find the princes in the book. Maybe they’d be listed as heirs in here.

“You really should have locked the door.” A breath whispered over his shoulder. He jumped, half reaching for the candle as his knees bumped the desk, rattling everything.

“Verena!” he spat out a harsh whisper. “You scared the dickens out of me.”

Verena was leaning over him, a small smile on her face. She eyed the papers on the table, then the notebook, then looked at him again. “The dickens, eh? Really acquainting yourself to the langue I see. Find anything interesting?”

“Where’d you get this?” James’s heart was still beating too fast as he tapped the notebook.

“I borrowed it.”

“From?”

“The queen, or, well, maybe Julian. It did originate from him.”

“Ah.” James stood and turned, straddling the chair, resting his hands and chin on the back of it as he looked at Verena. Who was a gathering of sparkles lit by candlelight in her gown.

“So, first impressions of the Duke?” He said.

“You mean aside from his interesting claim to the throne?” Verena tapped her chin and stared at the ceiling as if thinking really hard. “He's a terrible dancer, will gladly talk about himself given half the chance and-”she stopped abruptly and glanced down at her watch.

“What?” James perked up, glancing at the watch.

Verena didn’t answer, instead focusing on her watch as she tapped it a few times, until a hologram sprung up, casting an eerie blue light throughout the age old nineteenth century aristocratic room.

“Did you get an answer?” James stood, keeping a hand on the chair, half wanting to go over other, half wanting to stay. Was it good news or bad?

Verena licked her lips as her eyes skimmed the message again, then she spoke. “Yes. They’ve sent an additional agent.”

Someone else? “What? What else did they say?”

“Nothing. Just that they had sent a mole, and that they trust us to complete the mission in a timely manner.”

Kind of sounds like some sort of strange threat.

“Okay, so.” James let out a breath and stepped away from the chair. “So, no more information from them. Maybe they can't send long messages? Who's the new agent then? Did they sen information through him?”

He watched as her brow furrowed further as she read the message again. “They don’t say?”

“What?” James said, again. He strode over to her and peered at the message over her shoulder. That was all they had said.

“That’s all? Really? We're smack dab in the middle of-of-time. Trusted with a top-secret mission for the-what? The sake of the world, the bettering of the country, or something. They won't even give us the information we ask for, nor will they inform us of the name of the person who may have it. Rather, no, they just tell us to get it over with? We can’t just, “James took a breath and raked his finger through his hair. “We can just murder someone without due cause. That’s what they want, don’t they? Eliminate them through whatever means necessary. That’s what he meant.”

He stared at Verena, searching her face for either confrontation, half-wishing she would tell him to stop his waffling and that no, he was wrong and it was going to be okay and no, they didn’t have to murder anyone.

“I’m just some kid who liked driving fast cars and somehow, I’ve ended up here.” He sunk onto the large bed, rubbing his hands over his face.

Verena deactivated the hologram and quietly walked over to the desk, brushing the papers with her fingers. “No. No, James.” He heard the science and knew she was looking at him. He propped himself up on his elbows, chin tucked into his chest.

Verena was staring at him. One hand on her hip, one on the desk, leaning on it. Head tilted down, eyelashes touching her brows. Like she was looking over non-existent glasses in a Kubrick-style stare.

“No, what.” He let his tone fall sharply.

Verena walked over, and James sat up, arms on his knees, toes tapping the floor. She grasped his chin, so he looked up at her, and brought her face within an inch of his, forcing him to look in her ice blue. “What? I mean, is what you do. You’re not going to crash out on me. You're not just any operative, Jameson, you're my operative and as mine, you know better than anyone else that we. Don’t. Bail. Not at the first sign of trouble, and not at the last. We have a mission to complete, murder or not, agency support or not. Chin up, soldier boy.” She flicked his chin up. “And don’t fall in love. We are leaving.”

“I’m not falling in love.” With Amber.

“You’ve gone twinkly-eyed at the first sight of a woman who runs a bakery.” Verena scoffed. “I’ll gladly borrow a stale baguette from her to sock you over the head with if I have to.”

James let out a sigh that landed somewhere between a growl and a frustrated curse.
“Fine. What’s your, “he flicked his hand. “Plan, or whatever.”

“Well, let’s see. We have a pair of princelings, neither of which has been explicitly named the heir to the throne, one of whom we must make sure never makes it to that throne. A decision that holds the weight of the world. We also have a king and queen, a duke wearing his ego’s weight in gold, and somewhere in the middle of it all there’s a twisted story that ties them all together. We figure out the story; we can figure out the heir.”

“Don’t forget the mysterious note-giver.” James pushed himself off the bed, tugging off his bow tie.

“Yes…” Verena strode back to the desk, picking the note up from the pile of papers, and held it up to the candlelight.

“It's not going to have secret lemon juice writing.” James deadpanned.

“It doesn’t, but it never hurts to check.” She held it out to him. “Find anything interesting while I was gone?”

James took the note, studying it while he wandered back over to the desk. On it, the notebook lay open. Both handwritten.

He set the note on top and moved the candle closer, eyes rapidly comparing the letters, the slant of them, the inkblots and the points where the pen had dug in. “Verena.”

She peered over his shoulder. “I’d say that’s a plausible lead.”