All the nobles agreed it was uncanny, having the fasting of mid-summer so soon after Lord Nikita’s assassination. Which isn’t to say that they were grieved by the chancellor’s sudden death. No, aside from a fleeting reminder of their own mortality—and a much more tangible interest in the chancellor’s successor—the nobles treated the loss of one of their number with a stately dispassion; an attitude which lesser-bred citizens might have mistaken for apathy.

In reality, it was the assassination’s timing that had somewhat unsettled Samark’s elite. To have such a highly political crime occur directly before the largest social party of the calendar was rather...gauche. Ungentlemanly even. Indeed, one of the skillful lords most associated with propriety was overheard to remark: “The assassins could have been stopped, had Nikita simply shown them his engagement book.”

The mid-summer fast was from midnight to midnight, a religious ceremony meant to honor the figurative marriage of the sun goddess Solntse and the ocean goddess Volna. To remind the citizens of the sea-side city-state of Samark of those two sine qua non necessities: light and water. The vivacious sunshine on the longest day of the year sparked and reflected off the waves, filling the overcrowded avenues with delight before being absorbed by the few crops north of the city walls. It was a day to enjoy.

And the royal fete began immediately after the fasting ended. This celebration was a completely immovable social fixture, one which dated back to the reigns of the first enlightened kings. Every lord was invited, and every noble would most certainly attend, arriving at the royal palace’s steps just moments after the town’s watchtowers rang out the end of the summer solstice. It was here—between the castle steps and the palace ballroom—that a feeling of uncertainty descended upon the fashionable guests. An eerie parting gift from Lord Nikita.

The first thing which an onlooker would have noticed was the great disparity between the guests’ attire. To be sure, the women came is gorgeous silk, satin, and brocade dresses, with corsets around their chests and farthingales about their legs. The men similarly followed in jerkins and damask stockings, wearing the emblem of their house as well as the season’s trending accessories: canes, furs, and silver buckles were requisite. So far, nothing was out of the ordinary.

But the awkward contrast didn’t arise from the from the guests’ style; rather, it was the color of the fabrics themselves which caused a stir. It seems that about half of the guests, out of deference to Lord Nikita’s death, wore all-black garb with a slight touch of ermine. The other half—in keeping with the holiday’s festival tradition—wore tinseled cloth, with bright bursts of ocean blue and bronzed yellow. Half were dressed for a somber memorial, the other half for a gay carnival.

Lord Hermes belonged to this later half.

He had exchanged the navy doublet in which he named Dragan, Elidia, and Levin for one that was aggressively apricot, but he still retained the raven-headed cane. His red locks and smooth face marked him as a young man—with less than twenty-five winters—but the elder nobles vaguely recalled that Hermes had been attending the mid-summer parties for at least forty years. He entered the ballroom alone and unnoticed, sprightly rapping his cane against the marble floor.

Had the other nobles known that Lord Hermes contained the answers they sought, he would have instantly become the center of attention. Because—beyond the half-muted, half-vibrant clothes—there was a second reason why the night’s festivities were unnatural. Almost certainly, “he” or “she” was there. Everyone was thinking about it. But no one could say it, not even the princess who acted as host.

The murderer.

The noble who had commissioned Lord Nikita’s assassination.

Somewhere within the ballroom, dancing under the stars or mingling amidst their peers, walked the noble who was responsible for his death.

“Is it not abnormal? That crime can even exist in Samark?”

The one who spoke was Lady Sophie, a young woman with earnest eyes.

“You have asked precisely the right question, my lady. And I can summarize all our previous scholastic work on the topic very succinctly: no one knows.”

The one who answered was Lord Ivan. Although we have tenuously added the prefix “lord” to his title, in reality he was one of the lesser nobles, to the extent that—on another day—the Lady Sophie may have forgotten him altogether. Ivan served as an officer in the city guard.

“Surely they must be named as criminals in order to act as such; yet I have never heard a criminal’s name, not do I know whether such names exist. Perhaps this ignorance is a fault of my education. I hope you will explain it to us thoroughly, Officer Ivan, for now I am altogether curious, and I would appreciate your perspective.”

A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the charms of the beautiful lady. A few others wandered over when they heard the lady’s question, since her conversation touched upon the matter which had put the night’s feast into its uneasy state. Hermes listened with an enigmatic smile.

“You are too kind, Lady Sophie. I guess the best place to start is...well, right. Like you said, the city guard has so far never discovered a criminal name.” His face flushed under the crowd’s attention. “Just like Ivan and Sophie are the names of nobles, and Luka and Tanya are the names of peasants, there are no *names* for murderers, thieves, cut-throats, or pick-pockets.”

Every guest here knew that. Part of a noble’s training is to learn the names.

“But what about the criminals you’ve caught? Are there any especially common names among them?”

“No and yes. Since we’ve started keeping records—to be frank, I’ve never read them my lady—I’m told that no individual names or profession’s names stand out. This year I arrested a baker, a tax collector, and...ah there was one other named individual I believe...but, what I mean to say is no. There don’t seem to be specific criminal names.”

Lady Sophie swirled her wine glass in her hands, with a rather mischievous glance at the surrounding crowd. “And so the reason you also said yes, is…”

Officer Ivan’s cheeks turned two shades darker to approach a vermilion hue. He was starting to think that Lady Sophie was toying with him, leading him by the nose into some sort of social trap. “Well, right. I said yes because we arrest an uncommon amount of slaves. Although they don’t have a name, of course, they do seem to be Samark’s most frequent criminals.”

Bumbling though he was, Officer Ivan was correct. The rules for slaves were rather nebulous, but there was an unwritten understanding that they were free to act at their own discretion when encountering a situation about which their master had not instructed them. For instance, if you gave your slave fifty kopecks and ordered them to purchase a case of champagne, they could buy one for thirty kopecks, pocket the difference, and you might be none the wiser. At least, until you tasted the watered-down champagne.

“So tell me, Officer Ivan, in your professional opinion.” Here Lady Sophie took a half-step forward, her slender form entering the shadow cast by Ivan’s portly frame. “How is it done? We are each named according to our trained profession, and no one can perform a profession outside the bounds of their name. How do these criminals exist?” She tilted her glass forward.

The wine was unusually potent at the royal palace. And the guests, having fasted throughout the day, were susceptible to its influence. Midnight had becoming early morning: the alcohol compounded with fatigue to deceive, to induce those less proficient nobles into committing mistakes, missteps in the intricate but ultimately meaningless dance of the bourgeoisie.

Ivan spoke honestly. “I think evil lies within all of us, Lady Sophie. We are all able to commit crimes—if driven by need or passion—such that every name has the potential for sin.”

What followed was a brief pause. Then:

“Ah but surely you forget…”

“When interrogated, the criminals themselves…”

“According to the church and the gods…”

Whatever check had restrained the onlookers was now disintegrating, and a babble of ideas and sophistry poured forth from around the circle. The topic of the night—which had caused such uncertainty—had been well introduced, and now everyone was ready to make their impression on the established thinking.

A pair excused themselves from the crowd.

I find the youthful nobles particularly entertaining. They always deem themselves cleverer than they actually are, and believe that each of their revelations are novel, brilliant, and enlightening. As if not one—or even a thousand—haven’t had the same thoughts before.

“So, Lord Hermes, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Once we reached the starlit balcony Lady Sophie twisted around, her somber fabric harmonizing with the string quartet, so that each note resonates with its silken folds and sunken patterns. Her lips are carefully composed into a neutral curl.

Ambitious. She strikes me as ambitious.

“You are too young to be wearing black, my dear, but I must compliment you for your emerald earrings; I remember when your late mother wore them. But perhaps black should be your color, since it seems that black would be your deed.” She looks nonplussed. Too subtle, I suppose. “I am here to put myself at your service, Lady Sophie. I can...sense...that you require some assistance in removing a personage, and I would hate for you to resort to the unprofessional methods. Indeed, I know what you want quite well. This is a business transaction, and—as boorish as it is to discuss at a fete—you broached the topic yourself.”

Now her facial expression is becoming disorganized. The poised smile which she had plastered on is slipping, her lips parting to reveal a modest overbite. The lady’s hair is raven black, and it curls tightly, wrapping around her pointed ears.

I can’t resist it.

I lean in, my breathe reverberating against her emerald earrings and elvish ears. With a whisper over the string quartet:

“Assassination.”

“How did you?!” The Lady Sophie exclaims, all sense of control lost. “You? You, Lord Hermes, were you the one responsible for Lord Nikita...?” Her tawny eyes are wide.

Perhaps I have overestimated her; I trusted that she was cunning, like her mother, but now she just appears a foolish eighteen-year-old. I slowly spin my cane to the rhythm of the music.

“I know nothing about that sad transgression, of course.”

The lady squares her shoulders, her smooth sternum exposed to the night air. “I apologize, Lord Hermes, I seem to have forgotten myself.” She has restrained her voice to match my soft tone. “But I am sure you will forgive me, as I am rather inexperienced.” Our eyes catch. Lady Sophie’s fake smile is gradually returning to its usual position. “Although I cannot completely understand your meaning, it is true...yes, it is true that I find a certain individual troubling.”

We break off our tete-a-tete when a slavish waiter approaches to refill our glasses. A short interlude so that the lady can completely compose herself. As I listen—now the quartet has begun Gliere’s Nocturne, and the staccato beats run along the castle marble—I wonder how she will justify herself. They always seem to, don’t they? It’s not an assassination, it’s not a murder, I’m not asking you to kill another, no; they have wronged me, their death is necessary, I can pay you exorbitantly...so many meaningless words and trite excuses.

But I am pleasantly impressed.

“Lord Hermes, how should we proceed?”

I suppose we can dispense with the reasons.

“A name, my young accomplice. Tell me the name, and I shall tell you whether it is possible—both for me and for you.

Lady Sophie returns an earnest smile. Then she tells me quietly, with both feminine grace and childlike innocence, so that no onlooker could have doubted her purity.

The name she gives makes me smile as well.

In the ballroom behind us the nocturne ends softly, lulling the nobles—half in memorial attire, and half in festive garb—back towards their homes. The celebration of mid-summer has officially ended.