Even after spending so much time around the Sovereign, Stephanie still couldn't say what kind of person he truly was. Every kind of contradictory emotion seemed to find its counterpart in him: cruelty and kindness, compassion and coldness cohabited within a single soul. Even his occasional displays of feeling made it hard for others to gauge his real thoughts. Not even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s old psychological analysis unit—built around Agent Melinda May's ex-husband, Andrew—had been able to give Nick Fury a model accurate enough to give the spymaster the upper hand when dealing with Solomon Damonet.
The only successful negotiation had been during Thor's arrival, and even then, Nick Fury had only tried on a whim. Once warned, Solomon never gave him another opening.
Fortunately, Stephanie Malik had found a way to work with him: act with the defense of the collective interest as the sole goal. If an action served the whole, no matter how base or shameless, the Monarch of the Undying City would endorse it. That was why Stephanie had taken it upon herself to complicate Helmut Zemo's mission without fearing the Monarch's wrath—she knew exactly what her superior wanted. She was the white glove for dirty work, and she embraced the role. It was Gideon Malik's advice: the Malik family had never done anything to anger the Monarch of the Undying City. Whether they leveraged power for private gain, gradually absorbed oligarchic assets, or expanded their influence in politics, as long as they delivered enough benefit to the Undying City, the Monarch would turn a blind eye—because none of it threatened his control over the Malik family.
What a sovereign values most is control over his vassals. Gideon Malik understood well where the red lines lay for a man who commanded absolute force. Feudal centralism suited both the Malik family and the current Undying City perfectly. Especially in recent years, when the Monarch had once mentioned at the city's founding that the Maliks could raise a private army—Gideon never told anyone but Stephanie. Even the family's bodyguards were soldiers trained by the Undying City. The old fox left the Monarch no excuse, no evidence, to suggest the Maliks harbored disloyalty.
Once all negotiating partners had (been forced to) depart, Solomon rose from the tent and headed for the assault transport parked outside. Suppiluliumas blinked and hurried to keep pace. He racked his brain but still couldn't figure out how the last guest, Helmut Zemo, had vanished. The magic involved was too advanced; all he knew was that it was the same technique the Monarch used to send the Honor Guard to the training worlds.
Hammurabi, shield up, escorted all the way. By the time Suppiluliumas climbed aboard, Hammurabi was already waiting in the cabin. Only after the Monarch sat down and buckled in did he lower his shield and greatsword, then called over to Suppiluliumas—who stood watch by the slowly closing ramp: "Did you wash the cup—the ceramic one with the cat face? The one from the armory case!"
"Of course," Suppiluliumas replied, puzzled. "Why?"
"That's my favorite mug, and you used it to serve a guest," Hammurabi shot back with a glare. He still wore his helmet, but Suppiluliumas would swear on his halberd he'd been glared at. "I told you to bring my mug so I could have tea during downtime. It's a limited edition I bought online!"
"Oh, I thought you'd packed it to make our Lord's meeting perfect—since it was in the armory case," Suppiluliumas shrugged, not easy to do in power armor—especially while lugging that massive shield. The armor helped, but in the end it still relied on an Honor Guard's physique. "What's the big deal? I'm not even complaining that you used my peanut butter at breakfast." He snuck a glance at the Monarch, eyes closed and resting, then switched to the Honor Guard's internal comms. "Have you spotted the pattern in our Lord's guests today? I know he likes to educate us by example, and I approve—helps us think for ourselves. But since you and I will be working closely for a while, I need you to prove you're sharp enough to grasp our Lord's deeper meaning. We're the guardians of a new age, aren't we?"
Hammurabi was silent for a spell, staring at Suppiluliumas in disbelief. Only when the transport began accelerating, the engine's vibration thrumming through his armor, did he say, "I'd prefer to think you're simply too stupid to see it."
"You two idiots, there's no deeper meaning here at all," Solomon's amused voice cut into the channel. "Stop overthinking, you muscle-for-brains. Go to the library. You won't be needed for the next task. Suppiluliumas, pour me some Earl Grey—I'm sure there's tea in the armory. Add a splash of brandy. Thanks."
"My Lord, perhaps your faithful Suppiluliumas has uses beyond boiling tea."
"I'm aware. Right now your most effective function is brewing it," Solomon said lazily, sipping the cup an Honor Guard handed him. "But as luck would have it, I've got a job that suits you. Don't worry, Hammurabi—if anyone tries to attack me, I'm sure you alone could deal with them all. Let Suppiluliumas's muscle brain relax a bit, or the sweat in that foolish head will start draining through his tear ducts. He must be a failed modification. If I'd known, I wouldn't have passed him."
"I didn't realize our modified tear ducts could vent hydrocephalus."
"Neither did I." Solomon smiled and picked up his datapad, sending a file bundle to Suppiluliumas's suit databank. "I need you to find this person, Suppiluliumas. For this mission, you may requisition an anti-grav jet bike from the garage as your personal mount—in fact, you both can. You don't need me to micromanage; do whatever it takes to get it done. Go to this location and quietly help this group eliminate some mercenaries with heavy weapons. You must protect the target—she absolutely cannot be seriously injured. A major event in a few months is tied closely to her. Until then, I want her safety guaranteed one hundred percent. Hammurabi, our next stop is the Vatican. I've received an invitation."
It arrived as a silver carrier pigeon.
Delicate openwork and crystal glass revealed clockwork gears churning inside its body; finely cut rubies served as the pigeon's eyes. Hammurabi noticed that as it perched on the Monarch's hand, it still behaved like a living bird, even fluttering mirror-bright wings to steady itself when the Monarch moved a bit too briskly. Solomon snapped his fingers, and his clothes shifted instantly into his usual deep red Holy Shroud robe. Every jewel and piece of goldwork lay exactly where it belonged on the heavy fabric, while the hem was edged with filigreed gold like the copper-bound corners of a great tome.
"Jorge Mario Bergoglio is a decent fellow. I'm happy to chat— and while I'm there, I'll discuss the matter of a certain nun's future."
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