“Maybe he read it in this morning’s print.” Renard was quick to defend his brother. The idea of his being involved in something as foul as this was offensive to him. Certainly, Sigismund might get involved in spats to defend his honour, but murder?

“Undine’s Bones, Renard, how was he meant to do that? The morning prints get delivered at seven in the morning, we didn’t even find the body until nine.” Vespia said, keeping her voice low in those grand hallways.

“Well maybe learnt the name through his connection with the spirit? He said he could read it’s every little thought.”” The Wizard was scrambling, and Vespia knew it.

She raised an eyebrow sceptically. “Is that something wizards can actually do, from your knowledge, or was he trying to intimidate it?”

“It’s – It’s possible. Maybe, he’s more adept at these things than I am.” Renard fumbled with his spectacles, glancing down the other end of the hall, where Sigismund had marched off to speak to the magistrate. “Look. It’s late, you should get home. Let me look into it, ok? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”

Vespia scrunched her face up like she had smelt something foul, gave Renard a look up and down, brought a finger up toward his face as if she was about to poke his good eye out, and then slumped with a defeated sigh. “Don’t make me regret this, ok Renard? If you find anything you let me know. I stay above the Granite Coffee House, east of the river. I already screwed up by letting him walk away with that silk, which is the only reason I’m giving you a chance.”

“You’ll be the first person I tell, I promise. Thank you for this, Vespia. You know the way out right?” Renard asked.

“I know the way. And don’t thank me yet, I'm still going to have to talk to the Captain about this tomorrow.” Vespia departed down the long, marble hallway which left Renard quite alone.

He wrapped his cloak around him instinctively, warding against a chill that didn’t exist in the opulent palace. The Wizard would never admit it, but the cloak was similar to a half remembered memory, to soft sheets his real mother had tucked him into as a very small child. His footsteps echoed as he made haste back toward his brother’s private study, through the discreet portal and up those winding stairs. An enchantment lay upon those steps, meant to disorient and confuse those who didn’t have permission to enter Sigismund’s private sanctum. Renard was one of the few the enchantment had been designed to ignore.

His mind raced quicker than his feet as he made his way up the tower. Logically he knew Vespia was correct - there was no reasonable way for Sigismund to know the name of the victim, but he just couldn’t connect the image of that dead young fellow with his brother.

When he arrived at the final door, he almost placed his hand against the oak to gain access. Something stopped him though, it wasn’t that he thought his brother was actually involved in all of this, of course. He just didn’t want to answer questions about why he had come back to the study. That was why he opted for a method that couldn’t be tracked by magic, and which Sigismund had never thought to put a safeguard against. It was the same method he used when he wanted to access tomes Svenja had decreed him too ‘inexperienced’ for.

He took a long dagger from within his cloak, shimmied it up against the single window panel in the stairway with practised precision and popped the pane of blacked out glass free of the frame. Renard left the glass propped up against the stone wall, and then squeezed himself through the tight opening with a grunt. It led him to a ledge large enough for him to plant both his feet on, but thin enough to make his stomach churn. A Wizard tended to gain expertise in an eclectic number of skills, but traipsing around rooftops usually wasn’t one of them.

Usually Renard did this during the day, when his brother was entertaining pretty nobility and duelling inbred officers elsewhere in the palace. Not when he was on a time schedule, and not in pitch black darkness. He shimmied his way down the ledge with his back up against the vaunted tower walls, hair and cloak billowing about him as the wind whipped around the palace and extremely aware that if he fell it would lead to his body crashing into any number of slanted rooftops, sharpened spires or priceless stained glass ceilings down below. But he was even more aware of the fact that if Sigismund showed up before he put the glass pane back, this would be very, very hard to explain.

After what felt like hours of inching across the ledge Renard finally arrived at the sanctum’s high windows. He thanked Undine that Sigismund always left them cracked open - he claimed that ventilation helped to balance the humours - and hefted himself up and through the open window.

The room was as it had been left, the chalk summoning circle still etched into the wooden panels of its floor, though thankfully inert and no longer trapping a dripping spirit. Renard wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for and he gravitated toward his brother’s writing table. There were a number of unsent letters scattered over it, a poem or two from secret admirers, and a half finished sketch of the Heir. One of the letters caught his eye, an unsent protest regarding tariffs levied upon items delivered from the new world. Renard frowned deeply when he noted the intended recipient; Merov Tyran.

That wasn’t proof though. Sigismund sent letters to any number of important officials, and this one hadn’t even been sent. It was circumstantial, nothing more. He took the letter anyway, and that was when an idea struck him.

Sigismund was meticulous when it came to organising his magical tomes. The books were all arranged in alphabetical order. It was easy enough for Renard to make his way to the ‘O’ section, and for his heart to sink as he searched through it. Othard’s Almanac was missing. There was another spot to check, but he didn’t like that idea. He did it anyway.

Making his way to the corner of the room, he kneeled down and thrust his dagger between two wooden floor panels. This was a secret spot that Sigismund thought Renard didn’t know about. It was where he kept his most important possessions. A locket with a painting of his blood sister within, a lock of hair from an old flame he hadn’t gotten over yet, a few tomes filled with magic Svenja decreed even he wasn’t ready for and - just as Renard had feared - Othard’s Almanac. The Wizard opened the book up, and started to flick through it. Aftol, Spirit of Vengeance. Ahknar, Thrice Cursed. The spirits were arranged in alphabetical order, and he muttered under his breath as he ran a finger down the index. Finally he arrived at what he was looking for, Arsti, Drowned Man. Arsti’s name had been underlined.

“What have you gotten yourself into, brother?” Renard placed the book back into its slot, taking a moment to try and centre himself. It made sense to him now. Tyran was levying tariffs on new world relics, relics which Svenja had a particular interest in. And Sigismund was trying to frame the man for murder. Perhaps it was to get into Svenja’s good graces, perhaps it was out of some sort of familial loyalty. Renard doubted that Svenja had commanded Sigismund to carry out this plan; it was too risky for her, she wouldn’t take the chance of losing her position at court over a few extra thousand or so gold numas. Nevertheless, in Renard’s eyes, it was her fault. Svenja had carried out many affronts against Renard, but none of the physical punishments she had doled out had ever hurt him more than what she had now twisted his brother into.

If he did nothing, an innocent man would be imprisoned or even executed. If he acted, his brother would suffer the same fate. But where would it end for Sigismund? How far would he go to try and please Svenja? How much more twisted would their ‘mother’ make him? With that said, even if he was going to try and prove that Tyran was innocent, how would he do it? The magistrate would be sure to take his brother’s word on the magical aspects, the scrap of purple silk at the original summoning spot was damning in particular and Renard had a feeling that Merov wouldn’t have any sort of alibi for when the spirit had been summoned at noon.

Renard turned his attention back to the forbidden tomes hidden beneath those floor panels, and one of them caught his gaze. It was a slim black featureless little book with a faded age to it. He picked it up, and began to peruse its pages. The contents struck him with an idea.

Later that evening, Vespia was awoken by an urgent messenger with a letter from her ‘wizard friend’. The letter contained only one instruction.

“Tell Doctor Tyghul he’s going to need to get us a fresh tongue. I’ll explain in the morning.”