Chapter 1416: With a little spark(2)

Marcus pushed the heavy oak door open without so much as a tap of his knuckles.

Inside, Sevar jerked upright behind his walnut writing desk, his quill skittering across the parchment in a sharp spatter of ink. The steward’s face flushed with immediate outrage, mouth opening to unleash a scathing rebuke, until his eyes landed on the drab hemp tunic and the cold, mocking grin standing in the doorway. The anger withered instantly, dissolving into a sickly, pale complicity.

"Greetings, friend," Marcus said smoothly, easing the door shut until the iron latch clicked softly into its housing.

He made a habit of visiting the steward’s solar once every dusk. It was an undeniably pleasant retreat, tucked into the secluded western corner of the palace gardens. The narrow clerestory window above the lintel remained cracked open, allowing the crisp winter breeze to slip inside, carrying the faint, sweet perfume of frosted night-blooms. A room designed for quiet ledgers, soft cushions, and privileged guests.

"Lucius," Sevar whispered back, his voice utterly devoid of warmth as he dabbed at the spilled ink with a square of linen. "Has your... assigned labor been agreeable to—"

"Aye, marvelous," Marcus cut him off, wandering casually toward the desk. "The flagstones gleam like polished silver off my arse, and the guardsmen’s privy buckets produce turds as dense and solid as kiln-fired brick. Truly, my soul is enriched and I am the beloved of the latrines. Quick question: where are the scullery lodgings?"

Sevar paused, the cloth hovering over the blot. "Do your quarters displease you? Do you require better chamber?"

"Gods no, straw is straw. I merely find myself in need of some agreeable company to share the blanket. Well? Where do they sleep?"

The expression on Sevar’s face remained frozen in tight, sour resignation. "The servant dormitories occupy the basement of the eastern wing."

"And the women?"

Another strange gaze, this time more worried.

"Directly across the corridor from the men’s quarters," Sevar explained, his voice flat and calm, as if walking on eggshells. "They are communal halls. Bare pallets, eight to a room. Only bonded couples are permitted private partitioned cells, provided they have taken vows before a priest of the Five."

"Well, I am far more inclined toward bedding than exchanging holy vows," Marcus said, leaning his hip against the corner of the heavy desk. He reached out and plucked a plump winter apple from the silver bowl beside the ledgers, and took a sharp, loud bite.

The sweet juice cracked over his tongue. "There is a scullery girl under that bloated sow, Madam Maria. Red hair, freckled nose, answers to Fia. Quite cute.

Have her struck from the housekeeper’s rolls and transferred directly onto yours. I doubt she’ll weep over the promotion."

Sevar’s jaw tightened, his fingers digging into the edge of his desk. "That is easier said than done. I already drew half the palace’s suspicion when I placed you on my private rolls, even with the sealed letter of recommendation supposedly carried from the Lord of Caul. Every new drudge belongs to Madam Maria by tradition. And besides....this doesn’t seem important. If I reach into her kitchens a second time to poach another girl, she will march straight to the Grand Chamberlain with murder in her eyes."

Marcus chewed slowly, swallowed, and took another crisp bite.

"She barely squawked when you signed my papers," he murmured, his dark eyes fixing on the steward. "You can manage a single maid without soiling your breeches."

"That was done under the guise of an urgent favor!" Sevar protested in a frantic whisper. "Maria is a territorial harpy. She will not simply roll over and let me strip her staff!"

"Make it happen, Sevar."

The command was delivered without a drop of venom, yet Sevar’s shoulders sagged, his breath rushing out in a long, defeated hiss as his gaze dropped to the ruined parchment on his blotter.

"Come now, man," Marcus said, tossing the half-eaten core lightly between his hands with an easy, boyish smirk. "If I am to rot in this gilded cage for three moons playing the fool with a broom, I require a few modest comforts to keep my temper sweet. I am not asking for the crown jewels." 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

"You are," Sevar muttered weakly, pressing two shaking fingers to his temples. "You ask for impossibilities as though they were salt on bread."

"And you always deliver," Marcus smiled, leaning in just enough to let the candlelight catch the edge of his teeth. "Rest easy. Lord Caul will hear of your impeccable leal service, and you’ll be handsomely rewarded for your devotion to the Princess and her noble sire.Mayhaps your son may be put to squire for some household knights."

A sack floating in the river.

He wiped his sticky fingers against the rough fabric of his tunic as Sevar eyes uplifted a bit. He would try not to lie at him about his son, he would ask the king about it. Of course whetever he listened to it, was outside his hand, but while for the old man it was signed, he would not feel all right to let it happen to the bastard and the mistress.

A man had to live by a code after all.

"Speaking of requests," Marcus said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Did anything come through for me?"

Sevar hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeat, then reached into the concealed pocket of his heavy wool surcoat. He pulled out a small, flat parchment slip, tightly wound and bound not with the customary blob of sealing wax, but with a specific, braided knot of dark green silk ribbon.

"A messenger from the lower city brought it alongside the wine invoices," Sevar whispered, holding it out with trembling fingertips. "It bore no royal seal, only... that peculiar ribbon you instructed me to watch for."

Marcus didn’t immediately reach for it.

Instead, he stepped forward, planting both knuckles flat upon the desk, his dark eyes boring dead into the steward’s face with a sudden, suffocating intensity that made the air in the solar turn to ice.

"Did you open it, Sevar?" Marcus asked softly.

The silence stretched so taut it threatened to snap.

Once he recollected himself and understood the question he frantically shook his head, pressing himself hard against the high back of his oak chair. "No! By the Five, I swear it upon the Weaver’s grace, I did not dare!"

The murderous chill evaporated from the room in a single blink.

Marcus broke into a broad, radiant grin, letting out an easy, companionable chuckle as he reached down, snatched the rolled parchment from the desk, and leaned over to give the trembling steward a firm, affectionate pat on the shoulder.

"Good man," Marcus said warmly, tucking the message open as he laid about on the wall. "A very good man. Just making sure of it, friend. A long life is not built on curiosity, and I’d hate to see such a fine, comfortable office go looking for a new master."

Not that Sevar would have deciphered a single syllable even had he dared untie the silk. To any passing clerk, the parchment was an utterly harmless note,

The true script lay buried in cipher. One had to isolate the precise middle letter of the middle word of every third line or middle plus one if the number was odd, stitching the fragments together until a hidden number revealed itself. After that you took the first letter of each row, and moved it by the previous number in the alphabet ahead, so if the number was two you went from ’a’ to ’c’. Then a sentence revealed itself, granting the cipher key and the true missive hidden between the ledgers.

Marcus leaned back against the timber credenza, his eyes flicking across the ink. As his mind stripped away the false words and the King’s true design came into focus, a sharp grin spread across his face.

It seemed his prayers had been answered after all. Alpheo had finally laid out the stroke.

Yet the longer Marcus read, the more his grin sagged into a pensive, crooked line. He reached up, scratching the short bristles at the nape of his neck as he let out a pensive hum.

Gods above, he thought, shaking his head. The man is as mad as a starving wolf.

It was audacious, bloody, and bordered on pure suicide. It would certainly not be clean, nor would it offer him a safe gallop into the night. But as he turned the logistics over in his head, weighing the guard rotations against the chaos... it could work. It actually had a fighting chance.

"Hey, Sevar," Marcus called out casually, casually snapping the small roll shut and tucking it into the lining of his boot. "When do the lists open for the grand tournament?"

Sevar blinked in utter bewilderment, looking up from his ruined blotter. "The tournament? It is on the lips of every soul in the city from here to the harbor."

"Must have slipped by me," Marcus shrugged with easy indifference. He rarely wasted breath trading gossip with the scullery drudges; common servants rarely had anything to share beyond whose bed smelled of sour ale and who stole the lard.

"The lists open at the middle of March," Sevar answered, adjusting his collar.

A month, Marcus tallied silently. Barely four sennights to lay the fuse.

Sevar muttered something under his breath, his voice strained and thin.

"Mh?" Marcus tilted his ear toward the desk. "Speak up, friend. Didn’t catch that."

"May I ask... why you need to know?" Sevar repeated, his voice barely holding its footing."What does a scullion have to do with the lists?"

Marcus met the steward’s nervous gaze and let an immaculate, innocent smile bloom across his face.

"No reason at all, truly," Marcus said softly, reaching out to pluck a second winter apple from the silver bowl. He tossed it lightly into the air, catching it with a soft slap against his palm. "March is a bitter cold month in Yarzat, and I was merely wondering if I ought to buy a thicker cloak. A man likes to stay warm during such cold months, especially if a little fireplace can’t be managed.’’

His smile was as innocent as that of a child.