The road to his Professor's house went through the Markets and Stock Exchange neighborhood. Near the vast glass and steel building of the Market Hall, a small house had its door wide open, letting out a lot of noise: drunk people singing. It was not expected behavior for that place and hour.

This is the Markets Director’s house... What the heck is going on? He’s in the Council… Could this be related? Let’s take a look.

He approached the house and entered after calling:

“Hello! I’m a courier on official business! Hello?”

No answer came, so he advanced through the lobby and into the dining room. What he saw, he didn’t believe, he rubbed his eyes instinctively, yet, the scene was still there, looking like an excerpt from a nonsensical drama, a genre that was fashionable lately in Ohst. All the family was gathered around a big table, everyone dressed in pajamas: the director, his wife, and two boys in their late teens. They were drinking wine directly from the bottle and had cut some food straight on the precious wood table, cheese and ham. One of the boys had cut his finger while slicing the ham, but they all ate from the bloodied ham nevertheless, shouting huzzahs and cheers every few seconds.

“What the heck! What’s going on?” he asked’.

Seeing his coat, a ministry uniform, the director jumped and hugged him, kissing him on both cheeks.

“Comrade bureaucrat! I’m so happy to see you!

“What’s going on?” shouted the spy, shaking the other. “Tell me!”

“You don’t know? See for yourself!”

Staggering to a desk, the director took an envelope and shoved it into Istaìnn’s hands. It was one of the envelopes he had seen before with the lieutenant.

“Cheers!” the director shouted, returning to the table.

Shaked, the spy, returned to the street and examined the envelope under a lamp post. Inside, a shiny paper with words on it. He read it and suddenly understood everything.

Goodness! I was so wrong! Pfew! All is well!

He reread the paper, drunken by happiness. It said:

REJOICE!

All is well.

The King had drowned in an accident, but he managed to appoint his first cousin, General Whatever, as Regent.

With such a hero on the throne, the Town will reach new peaks of peace and prosperity.

You just had a Council Meeting and voted to give General Whatever full powers for an unlimited period.

REJOICE! All is well!

How could I’ve been so mean! The General is a hero… He’ll take good care of us… Let’s go back and…

But before he could turn back, his body began shaking, and he sat on a house stair nearby, his head in his hands. Breathing deeply, he clenched his hand into a fist, crumpling the paper, and threw it as far as possible; it fell into a sewer and was gone.

“What cousin?” he hissed.

There was no such thing as a cousin. The king had no closely related family save for his children. Whatever was not a real name, it had been written exactly like that: General Whatever.

What’s this sorcery? No, keep your head on the shoulders; there is no such thing as sorcery, only science. It must’ve been some chemicals. Goodness! This is worse than I thought! But how come I did not succumb to the toxins, like those back there? Is it because I’m less gullible? Is it because I have some elven blood from my mom’s grandmother? Elves have resistance to poison… or is it dwarves? Nevermind…

He forced himself up and onward; the house he was aiming for was not far away. Although retired, the Professor liked to feel the City's pulse, and the Markets were the best place to be for that. Here, the servants of the rich and the ordinary folks too met to buy their groceries and often took a coffee break in the cafeterias around, gossiping, like the help use to.

Another lousy surprise waited for him yet again; the Professor’s door was open as well. Not wide open, barely, but for a trained eye, that barely told a story by itself: someone had broken in.

He took out his dagger and approached, listening for noises, nothing. He opened the door carefully. The ground level was dark, but upstairs, the light was on in the open living area. He proceeded up step by step, his weapon at the ready.

“Providence!” he exclaimed.

On the ground laid the dead body of a slim and pale man. Dressed in a black pajama, his neck was twisted at a sharp angle. The pajama was missing a button, and he connected it immediately with the button from the lieutenant’s hand.

The professor laid on an armchair, barely breathing, heavily wounded in his abdomen. Istaìnn sheathed back his dagger and hurried to him, trying to apply pressure with his handkerchief. The man opened his eyes.

“Istaìnn?” he whispered. “Glad… it’s you.”

“Don’t talk!”

“Too… late…, don’t…, He.. come… from… nowh…ere … what’s going… on?”

“I hope you had the answers. The king was assassinated under an accident pretense. Some weirdos are running around killing people and distributing some strange letters, an invented cousin declared himself Regent… it’s a mess!”

“I … not … know.”

The man looked more saddened by his lack of knowledge than at his demise. The spy swallowed a knot.

“There is some foreign interest at work here; our dear nobles on their own could never think of something like that. And those behind the plot feared you enough to send an assassin… Who can those be? No sane noble in the City would dare to kill a former Minister; they know we always take…”

“…revenge, yes…you were.. my best… pupil…I agree… foreign… Listen, listen… the pr…princesses…”

The Professor had become agitated.

“They are more likely prisoners in the Citadel… They’ll get rid of them as soon as they can, for sure, before they are nineteen. Damn! How to get them out of there? It’s impossible!”

“No… still hope… they… have a friend, d’Ornia’s amb… amb… daught…”

“Ambassador’s daughter?”

“Yess… they… are at the…. Embassy…Servant… gossip… please…go… save… ‘em… you’re… only hope… please, my son.”

He had grabbed Istaìnn’s hand with all the desperation of a man who wants his mission to go on.

I am like a son to him, realized the spy. His real son didn’t follow the tradition; he became an artist instead… The Professor is the last spy of his line.

He squeezed the Professor’s hand for a second and left. Behind, he could hear the other’s breath, slowing down.