They walked the arched corridors of the fortress—silent, strangely dim—an oppressive weight hanging in the air.
After descending several stairways, winding through a maze of passageways, and crossing a handful of chambers, they reached a floor that felt slightly more alive than the rest. These were the offices of the Palatinate Counselor of Carpathos.
They stopped before a door carved with an intricate design. The secretary knocked twice and entered.
The Grand Counselor's office occupied a chamber within one of the towers. The ceiling was lavishly adorned in gold and ivory; the walls swirled with a twisted, overwrought style reminiscent of baroque from the other side.
At a desk at the back sat a man with a great grey mustache and mane to match—the Grand Counselor of the principality. By the window stood a bald man in uniform. Hearing the door, he turned toward the newcomers and fixed them with a severe gaze through his monocle—the garrison captain, head of the principality's forces.
"At last, we found you," the counselor said, rising and gesturing to two chairs. "We've searched desperately."
Cincinnatus sat and motioned for Huik to do the same.
"What's the emergency?" Cincinnatus asked once settled.
"We have a serious problem, Your Excellency," the counselor said quietly. "The Halach Uinik is dead."
Cincinnatus lifted an eyebrow. Years of practice keeping his feelings hidden kept him from showing surprise; he merely crossed a leg and rested a hand on his knee.
"What happened?" he asked evenly—though inside, shock and curiosity gnawed at him.
"It was an attack," said the counselor. "We've covered it up. You know the implications if the Emperor learns the Halach Uinik is dead."
"Cause of death?" Huik asked.
"We believe it was murder," the captain said.
"This is grave," Cincinnatus murmured. "Any suspects?"
"We have three lines of suspicion," the counselor replied.
The secretary passed him a folder. Cincinnatus opened it. Photographs: one of a red-haired elf with a gloomy stare and a mustache, hair falling untidily across his brow. The other: a woman with ash-blond hair cut in a pageboy and heavy-rimmed glasses.
"The Orantek siblings," said the captain.
"The Oranteks?" Cincinnatus asked. "What's their story?"
"He's a mediocre painter who sells his work in a mountain bazaar in Leedzen, near the borders of Hedonicia. She helps him run a small tavern with tourists, mountaineers, and lumbermen for customers. Behind that industrious, epic façade, they're both subversives, wanted by the Empire for terrorist activity—linked to plots against the Emperor and radical political movements. They operate a clandestine press that prints pamphlets against the Prince, the Emperor, kings, dukes—everyone."
"What do they want?" Cincinnatus asked.
"They're followers of the Cult of Balakan," the captain said, "seeking a Republic of Warlocks—banned by Aurora-Borealis and by many realms. To that end, they're building radical cells, using any means to destabilize the order and bring down governments, to impose their black-magic creed."
"Fanatic warlocks," Cincinnatus said. "They sound dangerous. How did they even get in here?"
"They came as refugees," said the captain.
"And the link to the prince's murder?"
"According to our intelligence," the counselor said, "the Oranteks preach overthrowing the prince so the Balkians can seize the principality, take control of red pitch, profit from it, buy weapons, fund their movements, wage war on the Empire and, eventually, the other realms—until they can impose a Balkian Republic."
"Ambitious," said Cincinnatus. "But… do we have proof they did this?"
The counselor glanced at his secretary, who only shook his head.
"I adore your method," Cincinnatus said dryly. "Gossip-based governance. We need tangible evidence before detaining this pair."
"Well, we found this too. Jhey, show Cincinnatus the piece," the counselor said.
The golem Jhey produced a velvet pouch from his waistcoat and drew out a medallion. At its center was a seal bearing a kraken, with ancient Elvish characters around it.
Cincinnatus examined it, intrigued, then passed it to Huik.
"We suspect it belonged to the killer," the captain said. "We believe the Oranteks hired an elven mercenary to kill the prince."
"Evidence?" Cincinnatus asked.
"No… but we suppose—" the counselor began.
Cincinnatus exhaled sharply. "We're dealing in prejudice, Counselor. I want to see the prince."
They took service corridors to the kitchens—deserted at this hour—then down to the cold storage. Locks were opened; freezer doors swung wide. Cincinnatus peered inside.
A naked old man lay within a container.
Cincinnatus recoiled—shocked, nauseated—while Huik, with a forensic's curiosity, stepped closer to inspect the body.
"Huik," Cincinnatus said, turning to the golem. "Can you examine the body for clues? And the medallion as well."
Huik nodded and ordered the body brought out.
"Have the Oranteks said anything?" Cincinnatus asked.
"We placed them under interrogation," the counselor replied.
"And?"
"Nothing. They've kept their mouths shut."
"Perhaps because they're innocent," Cincinnatus said.
The counselor, the captain, and the secretary exchanged glances, at a loss.
"Ahem," the captain coughed. "We can't decide so hastily. These two have a long record of insurrection and—"
Cincinnatus folded his arms and pinned them with a stare.
"We cannot hold people based on prejudice and supposition," he said.
The captain met his gaze. "I understand your position, Your Excellency. But you must understand mine. I'm responsible for the common good, for domestic security. I can't proceed without completing the line of investigation."
Cincinnatus said nothing. Arms still crossed, he stepped closer to Huik, who was examining the prince's body. The counselor and the captain followed, stopping at a respectful distance. Only Cincinnatus approached the table.
"Anything?" he asked.
"From what I see," Huik said, "the Prince was attacked with a gas. There's irritation in the mucosae. The expression is surprised—though that could also come from tumbling down the stairs and being crushed by something."
"An armor suit struck him as he fell," said the counselor. "The clamor of metal alerted everyone."
"We can't be sure he was pushed," Huik replied. "But I don't yet see who could have thrown anything at him… What about the insignia?"
"The insignia is Elvish," said Huik, indicating the kraken, "and the seal marks it as from the Isles Elves."
"It's the badge of the old Varangian Guard that once served in this fortress," the captain added. "It's quite clear—a hired elven blade."
Cincinnatus clicked his tongue. "According to Huik, the origin of that insignia would make its bearer a mortal enemy of any Balakan cultist. Even with all the gold in the world, no elf of the Isles would work for one. My recommendation: keep the suspects detained only as a precaution. After a proper investigation, release them—and keep all of this strictly secret."
"What shall we do with the body?" the counselor asked.
Huik, a magnifier over his left eye, looked up. "The corpse shows freezer burn and is already deteriorating. If you ever decide on a state funeral, it'll raise suspicions. I recommend submerging him in Sulm bee-honey. It softens tissue and its antiseptic properties will arrest bacterial decay."
Cincinnatus glanced at the counselor and the captain; the captain frowned, skeptical.
"You heard the expert," said the consul. "Follow his instructions."
They all nodded and left the kitchens behind the consul and Huik.
Golem Jhey lagged a step, slipped out his device, and typed swiftly with long fingers:
"Bory, pass this to your master… the prince is dead, submerged in Sulm honey inside a freezer."
"Seriously?" came the reply.
"As sure as the sun shines."
"Understood."
Jhey pocketed the device and hurried after the group.