I’ll be back in an hour. I’ll pay a visit to the Professor, ask him his opinion, then come back. That was the plan, asking his most trusted former professor what he thought about the events and returning to the office. He had even left a post-it on the desk: Gone to the loo, will be back shortly, just in case.

The contact with reality came five minutes after he left the office when he almost bumped into the lieutenant. Fortunately, the man was with the back on him, watching his watch, and didn’t notice his footsteps.

This is strange! What is he doing here? Wasn’t he supposed to deliver letters? Or if he gave them to his men, why isn’t he returning to his post?

With lightning-fast reflexes, he hid behind a tree, slowing down his breath to unhearable levels. The officer started walking, and he followed like a shadow, matching even his steps rhythm to the other’s, using every tree, every doorstep, every garbage bin as a cover.

A few hundred yards later, the spy took cover behind a closed ice-cream coach. In a small roundabout, the chase was over, a tall silhouette was waiting, and the officer went directly to it. From under the black mantle, only a few details could be distinguished: shoes, pants, a walking stick with a crystal pommel. All were indicating richness and elegance.

“Hello, Sir!”

“So? Everything all right?” asked the new appearance with a pronounced rrrr in his voice.

“Smooth. Only the night-shift in the Correspondence Bureau was a lazy indolent. I’ve sent my men with the letters instead.”

You’re the lazy indolent! Idiotic military!

“So instead of sending them with generic couriers, you sent easily identifiable soldiers… But nevermind. What is done is done. Here!”

A small purse flew from the caped character to the officer, making the characteristic ringy-tingy sound of gold coins.

He’s been bought. For what, I wonder? Maybe some people want to be regents more than others…

“And that’s all?” asked the military. “No bonus for my silence?”

The other sneered.

“I should have expected it; everybody thinks about the price of silence. About the price of the noise, less so, but let’s not dwell on that. Here!”

Another small purse followed the first, and they parted ways without any other words. The mantled one went toward North and the Upper-City, the other toward South-West and the Citadel.

Let's follow the bigger fish! though Istaìnn, and after counting to ten, ensued his pursuit on the street his target had taken. It was a dead-end, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

How did he do that? Does he fly? No, he must be in one of these houses; I’ll check them tomorrow. I mean later today.

Sighing, he returned to the roundabout. He froze and gasped.

“Providence!”

In the middle of the patch of grass laid the lieutenant, dead, a flower of blood blossoming on his chest, his wide eyes staring into nothingness, surprised. All around him sprinkled gold coins.

His first instinct was to flee, but he knew that if the person who had killed a Royal Guard's professional soldier like a chicken was still around, he was done for anyway. He approached the body to take a look, keeping a hand on his dagger pommel just for the sake of his honor.

Goodness! He was killed as soon as he left and dragged here. Someone did not like his greed. No signs of struggles… wait… aha, a black button in his right hand. Must’ve taken it from the assailant. And the killer, or killers, didn’t need the money back; they wanted to make a point.

Shaking with fear and disgust, he toughed the body’s with his fingers, feeling the wound.

Heart, surgical hit, the wound is so small… never saw something similar. Goodness … this is bad, really bad.

Still shuddering, he went away, looking over his shoulder every few steps, feeling for his weapons every few seconds. A good spy always had some hidden weapon on him, and he considered himself a very good one; thus, he had two, a dagger and a blackjack. He found what he searched for, a fountain, in a small park, a square. First, he washed his hands, then he sat on a bench, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The early summer air felt suddenly much colder.

I don’t think they saw me… or I’d be dead. This is unreal! Regency is a futile task; the Princesses will be nineteen in two months, the legal maturity age for Royals if I recall correctly. So why plot for a two-month job? This must be a coup… The king was killed; no way this is a coincidence… and they will dispose of the heirs as soon as possible. The regency thing means they want to keep them alive for now… but that will not be a long term solution… Goodness! Someone wants the crown. Why? Who? How on the Realm will they keep the power, once obtained? That’s impossible! The Town has many factions, but none can either be capable of a coup or willing to do it. The ones who have intelligence and money are allies of the Royals, who have the muscle and weapons, are divided and fight with each other. If one assumed the throne, all the others would rise against it. This is too much for me! What should I do?

Slowly, only two options cleared themselves from the tangled thoughts. The first was to continue the path taken, going to his former professor to ask for advice, but it had a risk. If someone had the intelligence to make up a plan for killing the King and take over the throne, it was the Professor.

No, he would never do that. He’s sworn by blood; he’s one of the descendants of The Fidler. Loyals to the Royals, that’s his family motto. I can trust him, but…

Getting himself involved in a power struggle was a risk he wasn’t prepared for. He had another option: go back to the office, pretend nothing happened. It was the safest path. His thigh muscles contracted, wanting to raise, yet he remained on the bench, head between his hands.