It is commonly thought that the deadly court intrigues of the Pallian Monarchy died with that institution. They did not. From the Royal Palace, they merely relocated down the street to the newly-raised Parliament House …
—A History of the New World, vol. 3: The Pallian Isles, by Elias Neumann
A.C. 1286
“So, we are agreed?”
It was night. Mute stars shone down from a clear sky as Inquisitor Henry Lindell awaited the answer to his question. Across from him, her eyes still turned towards the stars and the thin crescent of the greater moon, the Marchesa Gianna Forteza lounged upon the divan in sparkling evening wear, wineglass—as always—not far from her lips. She had the curious skill to always appear completely relaxed, no matter the context.
Of course, Lindell mused, there was no reason to think she wasn’t, in this moment. This was her home.
The steady pounding of the General’s boots behind Lindell betrayed the man’s nervousness; evidently, he felt much more out of place. General Hawthorne was no socialite—far from it. He was at home on the battlefield, not the dinner table. But Lindell wasn’t worried on his account. Out of the three of them, Hawthorne was the most committed to their cause. After all, he was the one to propose it.
Lindell knew the General’s nickname now widely circulated among the country’s papers. If reports from the war were to be believed, General Hawthorne had fully earned the moniker ‘Butcher.’
The Marchesa stretched, then took another sip of her wine. “The plan is good,” she said. “I’d be able to move within the week, if need be.”
“I was thinking two,” Lindell said. “Antonin is expected to make an appearance at the Prime Minister’s spring debutante ball. That should be an appropriate venue, no?”
There was a squeak of boot against wood as Hawthorne turned to Lindell suddenly. He snorted, then said, “I never took you for a theatrical sort, Inquisitor.”
Lindell managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “The larger the audience, the greater the impact.”
“Did you devise that maxim yourself?” the Marchesa said, eyes still on the stars.
He didn’t rise to the bait.
Hawthorne walked between Lindell and the Marchesa, resting his arms on the railing and raising a cigar to his lips. “I’d hate to face you on the field, Inquisitor. You’ve a damn cruel mind for strategy.”
Lindell knew a compliment when he heard it. He bowed his head and said, “Likewise.”
Hawthorne snorted.
“Well, from how I heard it, we have come to agreement,” Lindell said. It was always better to be direct. “I will forward key details to you by letter. I shall endeavor to keep potential incrimination to a minimum, but it goes without saying—burn every letter you receive from me as soon as it is read.”
“I wasn’t born out of sight of the Calamity, you know,” the Marchesa said. She wore her pride on her sleeve; Lindell had heard a story that she once galloped into battle at the head of her famed mercenaries, decades ago. He would not be surprised to discover such a rumor was true.
Lindell looked to Hawthorne. The General met his steady gaze, and then gave a slight nod.
“Very well.” Lindell rose, dusting off his plain shirt and bowing shortly to both of his co-conspirators. “Dare I say, in two weeks time we shall have the head of Antonin Lovelace.”