Endgame

The night air felt thick and close under the heavily overcast skies that covered Tryton. Already the low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance while occasional flickers of lightning lit up the underbellies of the clouds. The dismal atmosphere cast a pall that seemed to reflect the general fear and uncertainty that gripped the Imperial City; the streets lay dark and uncharacteristically empty, and the only hint of life in the lurking shadows came from the furtive movements of stray cats.

Andre shivered as he alighted from the hansom onto the cobblestones. A sudden wind buffeted his cloak, and he pulled it tighter before the hood could fall and reveal his features; he wanted no one to know of his mission this night. The driver, himself muffled in a long coat, glanced askance at him, but asked no questions as he accepted his payment.

"Wait for me down the street. I shan't be long."

The man touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement, and the hansom moved on with a rattling of wheels that jarred the hushed gloom. Andre watched it go, and as it disappeared around the corner, a curious sense of loneliness swept over him, as though he were not only standing on an abandoned street, but in the heart of an abandoned civilization. Then Andre shook his head, and the feeling passed, but even as he approached the building he sought, he could not quite banish the taste of regret in his mouth.

A faint glow shone from under the scarred wooden door. An indistinct grunt answered Andre's knock, and then came the sound of heavy metal bolts being drawn. A thin line of light appeared on the cobblestones as the door opened wide enough to display a beady, suspicious eye.

"Wha'd'ye want?" demanded the gravelly voice. A glint of steel flashed as the man shifted his weight to reveal a sword in one hand.

Andre took a step back and spread his hands, palms outward, to show that he held no weapon. "A few minutes of your time, if you please."

The man eyed him up and down a minute, trying to peer under the hood, then grunted again and, with a half-shrug, retreated from the door. Taking this as an invitation, more or less, Andre pushed the door open and entered.

A flickering candle provided the only illumination within the cramped little room. It stood next to an almost empty jug of beer on the bare pine table, where presumably the man had been keeping vigil before Andre interrupted him. An air of neglect seeped from the dirty walls and a layer of dust decorated the unused shutters. A second, bolted door led further into the building. Andre detected the faint odor of stale ale and vomit. He turned to find the man regarding him with a sullen stare.

Food stains covered the man's poorly-made tunic, and the bulge of his stomach demonstrated that he clearly liked his drink. He held his sword with a confidence born more of habit than skill, and there was a shifty light in his eyes as he quickly looked away under Andre's scrutiny. A corner of his mouth curled in contempt.

"Well? I ain't got all night. Wha'd'ye want then?"

"You are the gaoler here? Master Buerer?"

"Aye, I reckon I am. And just who're ye?" For a moment he looked like he would demand Andre remove his hood, but apparently thought better of the idea.

Andre ignored the question. "You received a prisoner earlier this evening. I need to speak with her."

A flash of alarm swept over the jailer's face, but he recovered. "Do ye now?" he sneered. "Well ye can't. Can't nobody see 'er, was my orders, so ye can just turn around and march out again." Andre said nothing, and the man's bravado faltered as the seconds passed in silence. He shifted his grip on his sword, as though to remind himself of his courage, but the gesture was oddly futile in the face of his visitor's calm, shadowed gaze.

Andre felt a flicker of amusement at the man's cracking facade. He let the awkward silence stretch a moment more, then shrugged and stepped forward, paying no mind to the man's hasty stumble back. The leather purse clinked heavily as he tossed it on the table with a careless flick of the wrist. The impact jarred the knot holding it closed, sending the contents spilling across the marred surface in a golden cascade. Master Buerer gasped at the sight, his eyes huge. He stared, mesmerized, then licked his lips nervously and glanced at Andre.

"I'm sure, Master Buerer, that you can forget your orders for the space of half-an-hour. After all, I can hardly walk out of here with your prisoner hidden under my cloak."

"That..." The man paused and swallowed convulsively, his voice suddenly hoarse. "That sounds right reasonable, my lord. Th-This way."

The corridor past the second door smelled, if possible, even worse than the main room, and Andre thought with a shudder that it might as well have been the odor of forgotten souls. A few barred doors lined both walls, but there was no sound save the scrabbling of rats in straw; it was not often that the arrest of a political prisoner was of such a delicate nature as to require the use of one of the Empire's secret detention facilities before trial.

The building was bigger than appeared on the outside, though in tolerably well-kept condition considering its long neglect. Andre guessed that this was where the highborn were held. Master Buerer finally stopped before an ancient door and pulled out his keys. The bolt slid back noiselessly and the door creaked as he pulled it open and stepped just inside the threshold.

"Someone to see ye, lady," Master Buerer said, his voice an odd whine of respect, fear, and swagger. That fact alone told Andre that he knew the identity of his prisoner.

Master Buerer backed out with an awkward, bobbing bow. "Half-an-hour, my lord," he murmured as Andre strode past. The door thumped closed behind him, followed by the metallic whisper of the bolt and the clumping of the jailer's retreating footsteps.

A woman had risen as the door opened, and now she stood facing Andre, her back imperiously straight and her eyes flashing. The room around her made a poor show of respectability -- the carpet was faded and the canopy over the bed moth-eaten -- but she may as well have been standing in the most opulent salon in the Imperial Palace for all the notice she took of her surroundings.

They regarded each other in silence for some seconds, then the proud chin lifted as she demanded coldly, "Do you consider it proper manners, sir, to stand before a lady of rank hooded and cloaked like a burglar?"

"Indeed not, and I beg your pardon, Princess Isabella," Andre said, pushing his hood back and bowing, one hand over his heart.

The Princess started at the sound of his voice, turning a deathly shade of white, but stood her ground. "You!" she spat, and her look had all the poisoned hatred of a caged viper. "How did--?" She cut herself off. One hand clenched, white-knuckled, on the back of the single chair in the room. She regained her control with a visible effort. When she spoke again, her voice was strained, but steady. "Lord Padwing. It is a surprise to see you here this night."

"Your highness," replied Andre, bowing again.

"Come to gloat, my lord?"

Andre hesitated. A sense of sadness welled up within him. For all that they had been enemies for so long, or perhaps because of it, he sometimes felt that they understood each other better than anyone else could claim. Many times, she had come close to destroying him, and though she had lost the final hand, he knew she was still a formidable foe, even imprisoned and standing accused of treason. He wished that they might have just one hour in which to speak to each other honestly, with none of the veiled threats and half-concealed stratagems that had marked their years of strife. One look into her eyes and the banked fury in their depths, though, convinced him of the futility of his wish.

"No, Princess. I have come... I have a proposition, if your highness would hear it."

She replied with a bitter laugh. "A proposition, my lord? Afraid that I will pull you down with me, perhaps? Oh, I know that there is no hope for me now; you've laid your trap well indeed, but I daresay there're some things I could tell the High Inquisitor that would see you tied to the stake next to me!"

A shiver travelled down Andre's spine, less at her words than at the animosity in her voice. He drew a deep breath and steeled himself. "I do not doubt it, your highness. However, I would ask that you reconsider such a decision."

"Reconsider!" she echoed, incredulous. One hand rose to slash through the air. "After all that you have done and plotted? Do you really think to move me with such a bald request on the eve of the fall which you've devised for me? I have never thought you a fool, my lord, but it is not yet too late for me to revise my opinion!"

"I do not make the request lightly, your highness. I believe that it will be beneficial to us both."

Isabella threw back her head and barked a short laugh. "Of what possible benefit would it be to me? You cannot rescue me from the Inquisition, and I do not think you would exert yourself even were it possible. So, my lord, what can you possibly offer me now?"

Their eyes locked, hers a blazing blue against his calm green. The silence felt heavy and oppressive. A spark of uncertainty flickered in her gaze as they stared at each other. Andre's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it filled the room.

"Your son, Princess."

It was absurd, the way the words seemed to linger and echo in the air, pulsing with a life of their own. What color remained in Isabella's face drained away, and such was her stillness that she resembled a marble statue more than a breathing woman. The desperate hope in her eyes hurt, but Andre did not allow himself to look away.

"My son..." she breathed at last. "He escaped the Inquisition's raid on his father's holdings?"

"My men intercepted his escort before he ever arrived at Lord Krusling's estates. He and his nursemaid are now under my protection." He frowned, then added as an afterthought, "His father tried to resist arrest, did you know? It is doubtful that he will survive his injuries."

The Princess waved that fact aside with the contempt which it deserved. They both knew that Lord Krusling had been nothing more than a stepping stone to power for her, and one that had served its purpose. At any other time, she would have rejoiced at being so well rid of his growing inconvenience, but now other matters occupied her thoughts.

"Where are they then? Where is my son?"

"Safe. For now."

"I see. And for his continued survival, you wish me to keep my silence before the Inquisitors?"

Andre arched an eyebrow. "Not exactly. I mean no disrespect, your highness, but the Inquisition is not... easy on those within its power. Even the best of intentions may crumble under the questioners'... tender ministrations." He paused as fear flickered in her eyes, then pressed on. "And we both know that High Inquisitor Gerreth knows how to hold a grudge; I doubt he's forgotten the trouble you gave him all those years ago, trying to replace him with your own protege."

She was a Princess, with the blood of Emperors; she did not look away from the harsh truth of his words, did not waste time on useless protestations. For the briefest half-second, she allowed her shoulders to slump and a shudder to run through her, then she straightened once more and her jaw clenched. She caught his eye and one corner of her mouth curled in disdain. "Do not pity me, my lord," she spat. When he merely bowed his head, she closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, gathering her dignity like a cloak of courage around her. Her face smoothed into its usual impassive mask and her emotions retreated, leaving behind the cold calculation that had made her such a formidable figure at the Imperial Court.

Watching her, Andre saw the precise moment when she put together all that he had told her. Realization dawned in the widening of her eyes and the sharp intake of breath as she realized what his request would be. She stood quite still, absorbing the shock, then turned to face him once more. "Very well, my lord. I suppose you came prepared?"

A weight settled upon his heart as he nodded. He had known she would accept, but there had been, buried so deep he had never acknowledged it, the tiniest flicker of hope that he would not have to carry this through. It had been foolish, for such an outcome would have spelt his own ruin, but try as he might, he could not summon enough relief to banish the regret that plagued him.

She watched him like a hawk as he approached the table between them. One loose fist emerged from the folds of his cloak, brushing the worn surface of the wood and lingering for a second before withdrawing as quietly as it had come. Left behind, gleaming a merry crimson in the firelight, sat a small ceramic vial.

They both stared at it as though expecting to see tendrils of darkness leaking from its stoppered mouth. Finally, the Princess broke the silence with a shaky laugh that held nothing of humor. "A pretty bauble, my lord," she managed, and for the first time, he could detect fear in her voice. "Does it... will it be quick?"

"I believe so, your highness. I was told that it feels very much like going to sleep."

She glared at him, momentarily distracted. "And which poisoned soul do you suppose they conjured to obtain that particular tidbit?" she asked, her tone sardonic.

A startled snort of amusement escaped him at the question, and he was surprised to see her mouth quirk upwards at his reaction. For the first time he could recall, the tension between them eased somewhat. The silence that fell, while not companionable, was at least less laden with hostility. Odd, that they should choose this moment to come to a closer understanding.

Her thoughts must have followed similar lines, for he caught a melancholy light in her eyes. "How curious," she murmured, "For us to be here now, having this conversation." Another mirthless laugh escaped her. "Who would have thought, that I should be bargaining for the life of my son with the man who would destroy the Empire..."

"Let's not pretend, Princess. I plot against my Prince. You plotted against your brother. I do not think either of us is in a position to judge the other's sins."

The pensive mood dissipated with his words. For a moment she looked lost, as though unable to contemplate the vial directly. Then, with a jerky movement, she reached for it. "Well, my lord. I suppose you would like to watch and make sure the deed is done?" Her fingers fumbled at the glass stopper.

"Indeed not," he cut in, one hand rising to forestall her. "I doubt that even the Inquisition can keep silent the death of a Princess, so I hardly need to witness the event to be sure that it has occurred. Besides, I think even the estimable Master Buerer would be slightly suspicious if you should fall into a coma so soon after my visit. And..." he hesitated as an idea took shape.

She gazed at him in surprise, and must have seen something in his face, for her eyes turned appraising. "What do you have in mind, my lord?"

Andre shot her a piercing look, then gestured at the sideboard, upon which stood the remains of a simple repast and a half-empty pitcher. " Water, Princess? Hardly a fit drink for one of your birth. If memory holds true, your highness prefers Mortese?"

The Princess looked confused at the non sequitur. "As far as red wines go, yes, but one must take what one is given. Are you going to comment on the scandalous lack of choice vintage available in this rat hole?"

"Certainly not. I believe, however, that the Inquisitorial Castle boasts a well-stocked cellar..."

"High Inquisitor Gerreth is unlikely to share his bounty with--" A gasp as she caught his meaning. Then, to his surprise, she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, Lord Padwing! Such an idea! Would that I could've appreciated your mind ere this; we might have been friends after all!" She paused long enough to wipe at her eyes. "Political to the core, aren't you? Well, I'll not complain; if you want to use my death to bring down that pompous prig, I'll even gladly agree. But," she held up a hand, "if you want me to play my part and play it well, you will have to give me something in turn."

"What do you have in mind, Princess?"

She was still for a long moment, her eyes troubled and uncertain. "You have already promised to keep my son safe. Answer me this: what do you plan on telling him of all this, when he is old enough to understand?"

"I... I have not decided, your highness. It will be years yet, at least, and by that time either I will be dead or the Empire will no longer exist."

"Then I want you to promise me that you will tell him nothing. No, hear me out, my lord. Tell him nothing of either me or his father. Nothing of your part in the Empire's destruction. Nothing of our enmity or his Imperial blood. Adopt him for your own, or invent a new history for him if you wish, one in which his parents were not traitors but simple folk. Let him grow up as a soldier, or a scholar, or a commoner, it matters not. Let him marry and raise a family, and let him die in ignorance of his heritage."

"A man deserves to know his own past," Andre protested, recoiling in instinctive distaste at the idea of such deception. "He deserves to be able to choose his own fate."

"He deserves to be happy!" she fired back. "What has knowing your past and choosing your fate ever done for your peace of mind, my lord? Do you sleep better at night knowing that your revenge will succeed and in the process destroy thousands of lives? That's not the life I want for my son, Lord Padwing." She took a deep breath and visibly calmed herself. Taking advantage of his stunned silence, she continued, "You think and speak as a gentleman should, my lord, but this request is from a mother. Promise me."

Andre struggled with himself, but her tone compelled him. "As you wish, Princess," he said at last, bowing his head. "I promise."

Something eased in her eyes, and she nodded in satisfaction. Suddenly she was all business again. "Good. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of the need for haste? I don't know how long they will keep me here before the trial begins."

"The wine will be delivered by tomorrow evening," Andre said, his mind already busy with plans. "The messenger will be hooded and cloaked, but the bottle will be readily traced back to the Inquisitors' stock."

"And I for my part will remark on the Inquisition's generosity within Master Buerer's hearing, to set the stage." A bitter smile flitted across her features. "It will be something, at least, to know that I helped bring down the High Inquisitor."

Andre nodded. They both knew that Gerreth would not be able to weather such a scandal, not with the Inquisition already weakened and certainly not when the victim was an untried member of the Imperial family and traces of poison were found in the wine sent from the Castle. "Thank you, Princess."

She waved away his words. At that moment, they both heard the sound of boots in the hall. A low whisper sounded at the door.

"My lord? 'Tis time, my lord."

Andre pulled his hood over his features again just as the door swung open. He bowed low to the Princess, one hand over his heart. "Your highness."

"Give my thanks to your master for his kind words, Lord Tribalm," the Princess said with a gracious smile, keeping up the deception for the sake of the jailor. "Tell him I shall not forget, and eagerly await further signs of his consideration."

Another bow, and Andre found himself outside the door, with the bolts sliding into place behind him. He suppressed a grim smile at the sight of Master Buerer's beady eyes and thoughtful frown as they made their way back to the front room. Tribalm was the name of a minor dignitary at the Inquisitorial Castle; dropping his name was akin to moving the first pawn of the endgame.

"Drop me at the Strutting Rooster," Andre said once reunited with his hansom. He settled himself within the dark interior and let his mind wander as the wheels jerked into motion.

Somewhere in the Imperial City that night, a princess awaited her fate, locked in a secret, unnamed prison. Somewhere, the High Inquisitor mulled over his plans for the upcoming trial that he did not know would never take place. Somewhere, a jailor counted his ill-gotten gold and wondered whether he might sell an account of the night's activities for more.

And somewhere, swaddled and warm and oblivious to politics or ambition, a baby slept whose mother loved him well.

"He deserves to be happy..." Andre murmured, thinking of both mother and child. "And so he shall, Princess, if it be at all within my power. So he shall..."

***

Word count: 3718