Moretti

Prince Ezra has really backed us into a corner. That was probably his intention all along—I have no doubt that Viscount Moretti is entirely Ezra’s pawn, one of many “agents” placed strategically to scrape as much intelligence as possible from us. But Ezra is right about one thing. This game is getting too dangerous to play on our own. We need more allies. Even if those allies are feeding information back to Ezra, the breadth of Ezra’s existing knowledge suggests that he will get his hands on our secrets regardless.

That being said, I have some detective work of my own to do before I am willing to trust this Moretti person. As I leave Prince Ezra’s office, I am greeted by Thorunn, who jumps up at once to see if I am alright.

“How did it go?” he asks. “Did he…?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I do not think that will be an issue anymore.”

Thorunn exhales. “Good. But do not forget, I wouldn’t hesitate to defend your honor, even from a foreign prince.”

“Yes, dear, I know.”

I have never quite managed to talk Thorunn down from starting a war on my behalf. The best course of action seems to be simply avoiding any war-instigating activities, though this is easier said than done. One day, I will likely have to tell Thorunn everything. For now, though, it is probably best for him to believe that my job does not entail dubious political schemes, which would just worry him even more if he knew. If he knew how much danger I was in, he would likely insist on following me into every confidential meeting, like the one I intend on scheduling with Moretti.

To my surprise, when I visit the otherwise-dark and quiet legal department, the light is on in Moretti’s office. It is entirely understandable that Edgar and Ezra, the two least normal people in the palace, would continue working obsessively throughout the new year’s furlough. But of all the dozens of solicitors who work for the crown, what are the chances that the only one skipping his vacation is exactly the one I am looking for?

I hesitate just outside of the door, and Thorunn reaches over to squeeze my hand. I give him a grateful smile. “I owe you lunch after this,” I tell him.

“You owe me nothing more than the joy of your smile,” he beams.

“Yes, but we’ll still get lunch,” I say. “I will take you to that street vendor who sells the kebabs.”

“Mmm. Can’t argue with that.”

I knock on Moretti’s door. Through the frosted glass window, I can only see that the lights are on, but little else. “Come in,” says a voice, so I do.

The office looks exactly like I would expect the office of one of Ezra’s lawyers to look—an absolute nightmare of a mess. It is not far from the disastrous hoard of files that we found in Pym’s office, with files piled high on every surface and even on the floor. The left wall is a chalkboard covered in writing; the right wall is a corkboard plastered with paper. Opposite the door is the window and desk. As I step inside, I can only see the back of the chair, as if Moretti has turned to gaze out of the window.

“Close the door.”

As soon as it clicks shut, he swivels around. I am surprised to see a handsome young man barely older than myself, with long, dark hair and keen black eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. But I have little chance to admire his beauty, as suddenly, I am staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Think fast,” says Moretti.

Instinctively, I duck. Pop! Something whizzes above my head and lands with a thunk. When I look up at the office door, a small red dart is embedded in a circular target, dead center. Moretti is wearing an amused smile.

“Oh, you’ll do just fine around here,” he remarks.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I scream.

Moretti opens his mouth, presumably to explain, but the next second, the door bangs open. Thorunn fills the entire doorframe, looming like a dark thundercloud. Instantly, Moretti is on his feet. He drops the gun on the table with a clatter and throws his hands up, a desperate show of peace.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold on. No one is hurt,” Moretti stammers.

“Eloise?” says Thorunn. He is asking my permission. My nerves are still on high alert from the gunshot, and I am still trembling in indignation, but I just manage to take a breath and consider.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, but I do not move my glare from Moretti. “Explain yourself, sir.”

“It’s a dart gun,” says Moretti. “And that was a test. Test of reflexes. You passed, by the way.”

“Did you shoot at the lady?” Thorunn demands, stepping forward. “What sort of sick test—”

“Thorunn!” I snap. “Stand down. Please.”

He is reluctant, but obeys. He does not, however, leave the room.

“I will happily explain myself,” says Moretti slowly, “but, Miss Odric, the conversation must be confidential.”

Thorunn closes the door so forcefully that the corkboard rattles on the wall. Moretti flinches.

“That is to say, we must speak in private,” he adds. “Without a watchdog.”

“Whatever you say to Lady Eloise, you can say to me,” Thorunn scowls.

As much as I would like the security of Thorunn by my side, he is technically wrong about that. Gently, I place a hand on Thorunn’s arm and meet his gaze.

“I’ll be okay,” I reassure him. “Can you wait in the hall?”

Thorunn shoots another glare at Moretti. “I don’t like that man,” he mutters. “He has the demeanor of a swindler, a common crook.”

“I can hear you from here,” Moretti says mildly.

“Good,” Thorunn replies. “Know your place.”

He begrudgingly leaves; I close the door behind him. Clearly shaken, Moretti sits down and gestures for me to take the seat across from him. I make a point not to and remain standing. While the quick succession of events has also left me somewhat shaken, I feel as if I have won whatever game Moretti was playing, despite him rigging the stakes in his favor. He may have the element of surprise, but I have the element of a very large barbarian who loves me very much.

“I assume that’s the first time your ‘test’ has ended like that,” I say.

“Yes, that’s new,” Moretti chuckles breathily.

“Do you do this with all your clients? If so, how do you still have any?”

“Very funny. Ezra warned me you’re a clever one. I never imagined you were the type to bring a berserker to a gunfight, but whatever makes you comfortable. At least he can respond as quickly as you can.”

“You were testing my reaction.”

“That’s correct.” Now that Thorunn is out of the room, Moretti lets his voice drop to a steady, low monotone. It is strangely soothing in a way I can’t quite place. “If I am going to work with you, I need to know what kind of person you are—how quickly you respond, how you evaluate your surroundings, how you perform under stress. Do you know how many assassination attempts occur on the royal family each year?”

“No.”

“Ten to twelve on average. That we know of. Roughly, that’s two per family member per year, or once every six months. And that’s not counting attempted assault, robbery, and so on.”

I am starting to get the picture. I swallow, then slowly sit down across from Moretti.

“That’s why I came to speak with you,” I say. “I have not spoke to Prince Edgar yet. I doubt he will take your help willingly, so I want you to have the clearest picture of our situation before you speak to him.”

Moretti raises an eyebrow. Clearly, he was not expecting me to come of my own accord.

“You know everything, correct?” I ask.

“I do,” he replies.

“I can’t just assume. What do you know?”

“Your real name is Eloise Rossach, and your real age is eighteen years old. Your mother’s name is Imogen Rossach, and she was legally married to Prince Edgar before their marriage was annulled.”

I nod. “Yes, that’s—”

“And yesterday,” Moretti continues, “you snuck Edgar out of the palace and charged nine obols, six shillings, and four pence of top-shelf alcoholic beverages to the royal bank.”

Ezra wasn’t kidding. This man does know everything. “Yes,” I say stiffly. “That is…correct.”

“Have I satisfied your curiosity, Miss Rossach?” asks Moretti.

Because I am still miffed about the dart gun, I narrow my eyes. “That’s Baroness Odric to you.”

“Baroness Odric. Apologies, my lady.”

“Thank you. To the point, I do not want to become Edgar’s heir,” I tell him. “I am doing just fine on my own. In fact, as you might have heard, he has no idea who I am.”

“He will have to learn the truth someday.”

“I know. For now, he thinks his daughter’s name is Elizabeth, and she is sailing somewhere in the nine seas as a merchant’s apprentice. I would like him to continue thinking that as long as possible, as I believe it would be dangerous to reveal myself too soon.”

“You would be correct.”

“Edgar, on the other hand, is blithely unaware of this. He is paranoid that everyone in Saol Eile is out to get him, yet he seems to have no qualms against inviting my mother, Imogen, back to the palace as his bride. Or, if he is aware of the risks, he seems convinced that he can protect her on his own.”

“He can’t,” Moretti says decisively. “He is lucky they merely banished her last time. If he tries again, they will kill her.”

“I know.”

We sit in silence for a while. The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks.

“I need you to convince him that this is a terrible idea,” I say to Moretti.

“Who?” he asks. “Ezra, or Edgar?”

“Either of them. Both. They don’t seem to have a plan beyond…just doing whatever the hell they want. They don’t understand the risks, what this means for me or my mother. But maybe you can explain it to them…maybe they’ll listen to you.”

For some reason, Moretti finds this suggestion outright hilarious.

MEMORANDUM

RE: Regression Returns Strategy, v2. Regression Recovery Strategy tabled until future notice.

DATE: Friday, January 8, 490 AR

I have reverted my plan to the original for the time being, after having learned some disturbing details of Mom’s treatment at the hands of the royal palace. It is not safe for her to be here. Until proven otherwise, I will not let her anywhere near this accursed place, and I will discourage Edgar from bringing her here.

Though he is doubtful as to how successful he will be, Viscount Niccolo Moretti has partially agreed to help me in that regard. I say partially because, at the end of the day, he is a gun for hire. His hourly rate is astronomically high, more than I can afford on a clerk’s salary. Thus, his contract is ultimately with Edgar. His agreement to help me is one of simple pragmatism. Logistically speaking, it will be less work for Moretti to accomplish my desires. Edgar, on the other hand, will ask for the impossible. So he will help me as long and as far as he can, but when forced to choose between serving Edgar’s interests and serving mine, Moretti will serve the hand that feeds him. The one that pays him.

I know men like Moretti. I understand them. I WAS one of them. If I could grow my wealth quicker, perhaps I could assert control over him by making the higher bid. But I do not have that luxury. My investment into elysium grows only slowly. Even if I did, though, I do not wish to make any hasty contracts without knowing all of the services he can provide. Ezra mentioned he is not just a solicitor, but a fixer — and a very good one, too — so I can assume Moretti is adept in an arsenal of skills. I am curious to see what those skills are.

What I must do is wait. I have told Moretti my story. He has agreed to keep my identity secret as long as practical. He will dissuade Edgar from bringing Imogen to the palace. He will first focus on resolving the stolen money and gifts, and ask Edgar to wait on crowning Mom as a princess until after the gifts are reclaimed. Then — I do not care what he does after that. At that point, I will take Mom and my money and sail far, far away. The game board has been cleared and set. We are back to square one.