"The child was no younger than… hm, perhaps the same age as you."
For a breathless instant, Ett said nothing. Then, inside her mind, laughter burst forth, sharp and incredulous.
You must be joking.
Outwardly, she remained composed, her face smooth and unreadable beneath the hood. Cashim mistook the silence for contemplation and continued, unaware of the turmoil his words had stirred.
"More than that," he added, leaning back slightly, pleased with himself, "the child possessed a flawless arm, uninjured and whole, and wore a black dagger at his waist."
Ett's fingers stilled against the parchment. "Was he dressed in green?" she asked, her voice even.
"Nothing of the sort."
Her gaze lifted to him. "Then describe him further."
Cashim paused, brow creasing as he searched his memory, replaying his subordinate's account. "Golden eyes," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. "Hair as bright as an ember's flame. His skin was darkened, likely from long exposure to the sun. And he was… clever. Alert. A bright child. In truth, he resembled a young Valharam so closely that my man believed him to be kin. He appeared to be living with an elderly woman."
Ett's heart gave a subtle sigh.
"Was there any scar on his heel?" she asked.
"None."
Her lips pressed together. "None," she repeated, more to herself than to him.
Cashim watched her closely now, his tone cautious as he ventured, "Could he be the Duke's child, perhaps?"
Silence answered him.
Ett's mind raced, threads of cause and consequence tangling in uneasy knots. Had she shifted something unknowingly, set a wing beating too early, too far from its destined moment? When Cashim had said the word child, a possibility had flickered in her thoughts, brief but undeniable. Yet now, with each detail laid bare, the shape of it felt wrong. The timing did not align. The marks did not match.
Far from the future, she reminded herself. Or altered by her presence.
She leaned back from the table at last, her rigid posture easing, though the tension did not leave her shoulders.
"For now," she said, "we will wait."
Cashim's brow lifted.
"The Duke of Valharam may yet show himself," Ett continued calmly.
"Ah," Cashim said, smiling as understanding dawned. "As your Mistress would say."
Ett inclined her head slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
"Then you understand the payment as well," Cashim added smoothly.
"Money is not an issue for my Mistress."
As the words left her mouth, a quieter thought intruded, unbidden. If I continue this pace, will the mine I belong to last at all? She pushed the thought aside, unwilling to linger on it. It would last. It had to.
Her attention returned to the scroll spread before her. Marked upon it was the region where Cashim's subordinate had encountered the child. There was even a portrait attached. Not refined, not detailed, nothing like the masterworks she had once admired in another life. Still, the sketch conveyed enough to suggest the boy's bearing and outline.
She stared at it for a long moment.
***
She sighed inwardly. Faces meant little to her. She could only rely on written description, on the careful assembly of words. This was not a story rendered in panels or inked expressions. No manhwa, no illustrated luxury to guide her recognition.
For this era, however, it was still remarkable. Painting reigned supreme, grand frescoes adorning halls of esteem, color and form reserved for sanctified places. Black and brown sketches were crude by comparison. Yet they had provided her with an image all the same, and then nothing more.
"And this," she said, gesturing to the second document Cashim produced, "is…?"
"The internal structure of the Ostenian Duchy," he replied. "Incomplete, but revealing. There may be more concealed than what first appears. It took considerable time to gather this much, and we dared not push further. Excess curiosity would draw suspicion. The Ostenian nobles, and the Duke above all, are a wary sort."
Ett scanned the page. The earlier document he had given her detailed the territory under Ostenian control. Several regions were marked as absent from the official noble records, omissions that would prove invaluable when the time came for broader schemes. One could not strike properly without first knowing the full shape of the field.
Everything must be known before the bang, she reminded herself.
The thoroughness spoke of extreme caution. The layout was painstaking, every visible structure outside the mansion included, every approach and surrounding feature accounted for.
"Forgive us for making a copy," Cashim added. "It was necessary. My subordinate wished to determine whether any hidden chambers existed within the Duchy. He spent much of his time in the library whenever he slipped away, yet many records were missing or incomplete. It required patience."
Ett could not help but feel a spark of admiration.
"How efficient," she said honestly.
Cashim's smile widened. "For one of your caliber to say so, do put in a good word for me with your Mistress."
He lifted his hand and rubbed his fingers together in a gesture that felt oddly familiar. Ett blinked, momentarily reminded of a scene from a film she had once watched, some foreign man expressing satisfaction through motion alone.
"I will," she said.
A generous reward, then.
"Wonderful!"
"What else?" Ett prompted.
Cashim shrugged. "Beyond this, the Duke remains firmly within his estate. He rarely ventures beyond its borders. His family shares this inclination toward seclusion. On occasion, they indulge in games of chance or attend gatherings with trusted companions, but nothing more. Thus far, nothing in their behavior has stirred suspicion."
So they truly were adept at concealment.
As the thought settled, another unease surfaced. Eru. Her lyrebird had not returned, even after all these months. She could not tell whether this absence was normal for the old Ett or a consequence of something gone awry. The uncertainty gnawed at her.
Come back safely, she thought. Or sense danger and flee.
The novel had been sparse in its account of the Ostenian Duchy's crimes. Only their end had been recorded, their deaths at Guren's hands. Perhaps there had been more. Perhaps she simply did not remember well enough.
"What of the Second Commander of the Larak Empire?" Ett asked.
Her mind returned to the banquet, to the figure standing motionless at the periphery, rigid as a carved statue. His expression alone had warned others away. And yet, that solitude had drawn her gaze more than any cluster of laughter or intrigue.
She had always noticed those who stood apart.
"It is an interesting matter," Cashim replied.
"Hm?"
"He is the son of the Duke of Isadel. His mother was sister to the Larak Emperor."
So not the common tale of an unacknowledged royal son. Then what was he? Ally, neutral blade, or quiet dissenter? Her thoughts raced ahead, mapping possibilities.
"The Second in Command, Alatair, accompanied the prince at the Emperor's suggestion," Cashim continued.
Of course. Ett bit back a sigh. Why had she overlooked the hand above the prince? She chastised herself silently.
"But there is little beyond that."
"You are impatient, child," Cashim said mildly.
Ugh. Stop calling me that. Though she had no ground to protest. She was a child, eager and restless. If only you would simply tell me.
"One of our men died pursuing this," Cashim added.
"My Mistress will provide four times, no, five times the compensation," Ett said at once.
Cashim's gaze sharpened. "And should I trust your word?"
"Leave it to me."
"Good."
He passed her another document.
This time, it was a letter. Ett frowned as she examined it. The script was unfamiliar, the language beyond her grasp. It was an odd sensation. She was multilingual by necessity and habit, a skill honed during long years caged within palace walls. Knowledge had been her solace, then her weapon.
Yet this body did not carry those memories. Only the practice, the discipline she had rebuilt herself.
"It was difficult to obtain," Cashim said. "But it serves as one of the keys to truth."
He slid a second page forward, translated. "They used an older tongue, one few now remember. Fortunately, an elder within the Empire could render it for us."
Ett looked up. "And what became of this elder?"
Cashim smiled. "He went to sleep, living near the sea."
"I see."
In Adiand, such words meant only one thing. The cliffs met the sea. Those who slept there did not wake.
"They were twins," Cashim continued.
So the hints had been real. The birth of two children, obscured but present. The letter's hand was elegant, deliberate. It spoke of refinement. Likely the Duchess herself.
Ett felt a familiar irritation coil within her. Her enemies would be formidable. Was that why she had been cast into the role of an even greater schemer?
"As to whether they knew one another," Cashim went on, "and how the Third Prince of Larak entered the palace unharmed, evidence is scarce."
"That is enough," Ett said.
It was more than enough. Threads of conspiracy wound tightly around her thoughts, pressing until her temples throbbed.
Her hand moved of its own accord, clutching her handkerchief as nausea rose unbidden. Swallow. Again. And again. There was no choice but to force it down.
"Are you unwell?" Cashim asked.
"I am fine."
Urgh.
She could not linger. Her mind was too strained. Ett reached into her purse and withdrew a single red coin.
"Amra."
She placed it upon the table. "This will suffice."
Cashim's eyes widened. "This is excessive. How generous. Your Mistress truly values us."
The red coin. The highest denomination, known to few, equal to limitless promise. Though it revealed something of her standing, secrecy would hold. The coin could only be redeemed through one bank, and Akan himself would need to sign for it.
"Your Mistress values me highly," Cashim mused. "Would she not fear that I might indulge myself excessively?"
"You are careful," Ett replied. "And clever."
Believe it.
He laughed softly. "I am uncertain whether that was praise or rebuke. Still, I accept it as the former."
***
Why must you dress such simple thoughts in so many words?
"That is all we have for now," Cashim said. "Your Mistress may review the documents at leisure."
Ett rose. "I will return."
"I shall await you."
As she turned to leave, she paused and set her purse upon the table.
"Have you not already paid?" Cashim asked.
"The streets are filthy," Ett said. "Order the children to clean them. Perhaps the Emperor will take note."
Shock flickered across his face.
Before he could respond, she was gone.
Cashim laughed quietly. "So she knows my ambition."
To act charitable, to praise the Emperor publicly. A gamble. Yet it hinted at a Mistress with influence enough to sway imperial favor.
Who was she?
"At times, one must wager," he murmured, whistling as he hefted the pouch.
"Coin truly sharpens one's diligence."
His gaze drifted to the handkerchief she had left behind.
A subtle mark adorned its edge, modest yet unmistakably expensive. There was a trace of blood upon it, but the scent of wealth lingered stronger.
Cashim carefully copied the mark and its style.
"It seems," he said softly, "that I have work of my own to attend to."