The Fixer

Melchior Byrnes eyed the heap of dirty rags piled on the side of the street some steps ahead. There was a shallow begging tin sitting in front of it, but the strong odor from the unmoving mass made him wonder privately whether there was actually anything alive under the tattered cloth. Just to be safe, he crossed the narrow street to detour around the shape, stepping over a stream of unidentified liquid in the center of the cobblestones with fastidious care.

There was a soft snort of amusement from behind as Jase followed his example. Melchior rolled his eyes but didn't turn to look at his companion; he didn't need to see the man's smirk to know what Jase thought of his catlike regard for neatness and decorum.

Melchior rubbed the head of his gold-knobbed walking stick and stifled a sigh. This wasn't the most disreputable neighborhood in Ithia, but it was a far cry from the elegance of the upper city where he spent the majority of his time. At least the workmen who hurried past looked like they could actually claim the title, and the street urchins, while incredibly begrimed, didn't look to be actively starving.

The sight of their destination heartened him, and he halted to rummage a scrap of paper out of his pocket to check the address. Across the street, lounging with seeming nonchalance in the mouth of an alley, stood three toughs, shooting covert glances in his direction. No doubt assessing his cane, his watch chain, his coat and shoes, and God knew what else, and making mental notes about which fence might give them the best price for their efforts. Melchior ignored them as he squinted at the untidy scrawl in his hand. Jase could handle whatever those hoodlums tried; it was his job. Even as he thought this, he felt the other man shift, in that subtle, graceful way of a man accustomed both to scraps and to using his body to settle said scraps and, perhaps, not reluctant to demonstrate. He hid a smile at the disappointed expressions on the faces of the toughs as they pointedly turned their attention elsewhere. Not that he couldn't handle himself in a tight corner, but having Jase and his cool competence at his back tended to stop trouble before it began.

"I believe this is the establishment we are seeking," he said, looking up at the rickety building with a critical eye. Like the others on the street, the wooden structure gave the impression it might topple forward at a moment's notice, its second story extended over the street in an attempt to make more space where none existed. A few creaky steps led to a stoop and the front door. Melchior rapped his cane against it.

There was a commotion from within, a banging as of pans, then the shuffling approach of steps. The door opened a crack, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes that barely came up to his breastbone, set in a face all the more wrinkled for its pinched expression.

"Madam Shafer?" he began, but just then, she caught sight of Jase and, alarmed at being confronted by two strange men, tried to slam the door shut. Melchior inserted his cane in the door in the nick of time. "Please, madam," he said, putting on his most charming smile. "My friend and I mean you no harm. We simply require a few moments of your time." When this didn't prompt her to open the door further, he added, "And will, of course, recompense you for your assistance."

She hesitated, then quite obviously looked him over from head to foot, staring at the cut and quality of his clothing, the slim gold chain that hung from one pocket, and the cane currently jammed in her door. Finally, with clear reluctance, she stepped back and allowed the two men to squeeze past her into the gloom.

The smell of boiled cabbages pervaded the interior, and Melchior had to work not to gag. Taking shallow breaths, he followed their hostess down a short corridor into what appeared to be the kitchen, where the smell intensified as two bubbling pots came into view.

Melchior grimaced, but quickly transformed it into another smile when the old woman turned to face him, her arms folded, her lips pressed into a thin line, waiting for him to speak first.

"Thank you for your hospitality, madam," he said, somewhat grateful that she hadn't offered them a seat, as the only chair in the room was occupied by the most mangy feline he had ever encountered. "My name is Melchior Byrnes, and this is my good friend Jase Bentley." When this produced nothing more than a jerky nod, he forged ahead. "We were told that you take boarders on the second floor? Ah, good. Might I inquire whether one of your current tenants is a lady by the name of Verna Stokys?"

Her eyes narrowed further, and a creaky voice emerged. "Iffen yer lookin' to carry on with 'er, ye'll not be doin' it 'ere. I run a clean 'ouse, I do--"

"Please, you misunderstand me," Melchior interrupted, holding up a hand and ignoring her comment about cleanliness. "I have no intention of, ah, carrying on with Mistress Stokys, I assure you. Er, does she, uh, carry on with other gentlemen then?" If so, he might be able to conclude his mission without ever laying eyes on her; a woman with such a history would hardly be able to pinpoint any particular sire for her children.

"Nay," the old woman replied grudgingly. "Not t' my knowin', anyhow. She keeps 'erself up with washin' fer the nunnery down the way. Or leastways she did, afore she took to 'er bed." She glared at him as though this might be his fault. "Iffen yer after 'er fer not makin' good on 'er payments, ye've wasted yer time an' mine. She ain't got two coppers to rub t'gether. I should know, seein' as 'ow she ain't paid rent fer weeks an' can't give up the room. I've 'alf-a-mind to call the constables to chuck 'er an' 'er thievin' brat into the street, soon as I find someone to take 'er place."

"Ah." Melchior frowned. "How much rent does she owe?"

"It's seven coppers a week, an' seein' as 'ow it's been upwards o' three weeks since--" She broke off abruptly as Melchior pulled out a small silver coin.

"Allow me then," he said, handing it to her with a bow. "Feel free to apply the rest towards her future payments. Now, may I trouble you to show us to her room, perhaps?"

The woman rubbed the coin, bit it without ceremony, and stuffed it out of sight. "Aye, this way then," she said, her mood apparently unimproved by the offering, though she did pause to grab a stub of a candle and light it at her stove.

After climbing a set of stairs so steep they actually made Melchior grateful he had his cane, they reached a tiny landing that branched into three different doors. Madam Shafer hobbled to one of these and began pounding on it. Melchior's brow furrowed at the lack of response, but this didn't deter the landlady.

"Open up, I know yer in there, ye ungrateful brat! Open up or I'll 'ave one o' these gents kick it down an' give ye a whippin' ye'll ne'er ferget!"

Melchior glanced at where Jase's head was visible just above the stairwell -- the landing did not permit an occupancy of three -- and received a roll of the eyes and a shrug; Jase was not unwilling. He hated resorting to such heavy-handed tactics though. Perhaps if they returned at a more fortuitous time...

There was a sound of bolts being drawn, and a pair of scared eyes peeped out from under a tussled black mop. The boy's voice shook. "We ain't got the rent, ma'am, but iffen ye'll give us jus' a day or two more..."

"I'll be in me grave afore I see yer coin," the woman snorted. "But I ain't here 'bout yer rent. These gents're askin' t' see yer ma." She gestured, shuffling to the side.

The boy's eyes went wide, noticing for the first time Melchior and the shadowy figure on the stairs, and for the second time in fifteen minutes, Melchior found his cane jammed in a closing door. That trick never gets old, he thought.

"Now, lad, we aren't going to hurt you. Or your mother either. I just want to talk to her. I'm a... an old friend of hers." Friend was perhaps putting it a little strong. Passing acquaintance was closer to the mark.

After a long moment in which the the boy apparently realized he wasn't going to be much good at blocking the door if two full-grown men were determined to force an entrance, he stepped back, allowing the door to swing open. There was a wary look in his dark eyes as he retreated to the center of the room, like a small forest animal that might decide to bolt at any second.

A grimy window provided some meager illumination. The room it revealed was split into a sitting and a dining area. Melchior had seen bigger closets. A broom and a small pile of detritus indicated that the boy had been trying to keep the space neat, but a layer of dust covered every surface, and the table was littered with crumbs and dirty dishes. Impressively, there seemed to be a separate room for sleeping, its door ajar. A weak voice called from within.

"Zeke? Zeke, who is it?"

The boy's eyes darted to the door and back. "It's a couple o' gents, ma. They say they're friends o' yourn?" The questioning tone made clear exactly what he thought of the claim.

"Gents?" There was a rasping cough. "Who are they?"

The boy shot him a final anxious look before going to the door. Melchior followed.

"I dunno, ma," the child said, going to the bed while Melchior paused to let his eyes adjust. The shutters inside had not been opened. "Looks like a well-t'-do type," he added under his breath.

The stray beams of light that made their valiant way through the closed shutters showed what was in essense a glorified broom closet, with a bed on one side and a tiny pallet on the other. An indefinable odor lingered in the stifling air, and he would've known it for a sick room even before seeing the woman struggling to sit up in the bed.

"Ma, ye shouldn't move, ye'll start another fit..."

As though the words were a trigger, the woman began to cough in thick, wet spasms that left her wheezing and gasping for breath. Melchior felt his own throat itch in sympathy and swallowed to clear it.

There was a hard poke in the small of his back, and he heard Jase mutter something in which he could only make out the word "blight." Melchior nodded but was not unduly worried. The lung blight wasn't as contagious as people feared, and was quite treatable even, provided one had the means with which to treat it. He was in far greater danger of asphyxiating in the cramped space. Two steps took him to the window, where he threw the shutters back and pushed the glass open. It looked out onto a noisome back alley, so he would not exactly have termed the air fresh, but at least it relieved some of the tightness in his chest.

Something in his bearing, or perhaps in his profile, his silhouette against the window, must have startled the woman, because he heard her take a sharp breath, cough one last time, and croak, "Is that... are ye...?" Melchior turned, allowing the light to fall on his face. For a moment, the woman looked puzzled as she squinted at him, but then disappointment settled over her features. "Oh. Yer not him, are ye?"

"No, I don't believe so..." Melchior said, earning a narrow, suspicious look from her son. "I am Melchior Byrnes, Mistress Stokys," he continued, putting a subtle emphasis on his given name. "Perhaps you remember me?"

She blinked, her brow contracting in thought. Then memory surfaced. "Oh, aye! Yer the..." she paused, and her eyes slid ever-so-slightly towards her son. "Milord, I... I'm honored t' see ye."

"And I am honored that you remember me, mistress," he said with a bow. "Though grieved to find you unwell."

"Oh, jus' a passin' cough, that's all. I'll be right as rain in a day or two." She waved off his comment, but her eyes strayed, again, to the boy frowning with worry.

"Of course," Melchior agreed. "Still, perhaps there is something a healer might do to speed the process? Is there one in the neighborhood?"

The woman was silent, but after a moment, the boy volunteered, his eyes downcast, "The 'pothecary wouldn't come. 'E said as 'ow we ain't never paid 'im fer t'other times, an' 'e can't treat everybody fer a handful o' thanks."

"I see..." Try as he might, he could not keep all the ice out of his voice, and the boy gave him a strange look. Melchior dredged up a smile, his thumb rubbing circles on the head of his cane. An inability to keep up the rent and pay for obviously necessary medical attention might correspond to inadequacies elsewhere as well. When was the last time they'd eaten a square meal? Been warm? Slept in peace and security?

Well, one thing at a time.

"Listen, lad. Er, Zeke, is it?" Melchior drew a couple of silver coins from his purse and watched them draw the youngster's attention like lodestones drew iron. "Zeke, I want you to make another trip to the apothecary. Give him one of these coins, and ask him to come again. Tell him to bring whatever powders or herbs he usually uses to treat those with lung blight, and tell him that Lord Byrnes will take care of any overage. Understand? Good. After that, I want you to go to a nearby tavern or inn. Use the other coin and buy a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a couple of bowls of stew. Make sure they put the stew in a jug or something so you can carry it." He paused. "Actually, Jase had better go with you, to help you get it all back." He quirked a smile at the other man's indignant expression at being asked to play nursemaid. "A boy his size carrying such spoils would be easy pickings, and those local toughs might still be there." He waited until he got a begrudging nod from Jase, then handed the coins to the boy. "All right, run along. Don't worry, I'll sit here with your mother while you're gone."

Melchior and the woman stared at each other while the two sets of footsteps faded. There was little in her face now, drawn and haggard as it was, to remind him of the pretty girl she had once been, the brightness in her eyes more from fever than high spirits, her hair limp around her face. He wouldn't have recognized her in the streets for the little maid who had dropped him such a dainty curtsy years ago, for his thanks at having drawn his bath. He suppressed a sigh at the memory. He couldn't really fault Albert's taste, and it was far too late for a chat about personal responsibility.

"Thank ye, milord" the woman said at last, leaning back against a pillow.

"It is little," he murmured, shrugging. An awkward silence descended. Melchior wondered what he should say next. There was no point to inquiring after how she had fared these past years, as she had clearly not fared well. There was no point saying he was pleased to see her, as they had barely known each other before. Finally, he settled for something simple, something true -- something that had been nagging at him since he had begun his investigation into her disappearance a few months back.

"I am sorry, Mistress Stokys. It is unforgivable that it has taken this long for word of your... circumstances to reach me, and for it to have taken me so long to track down their truth. It was an oversight on my part, and one that has cost you much pain, I fear. Trust me when I say I will do my utmost to rectify matters."

She stared at him for a long moment, then snorted a laugh that held more sadness than mirth. "He didn't send ye, did 'e, milord? I bet 'e doesn't even know yer 'ere, or why."

"No," he agreed, trying to be gentle, trying not to make things worse for her. "Your son... Zeke... he is... seven?"

"And three months."

He nodded, doing some hasty mental arithmetic. It sounded about right. In any case, he hadn't really doubted from the moment he'd set eyes on the boy. Dark haired and dark eyed, he held little resemblance to the man who'd sired him, or to his other relations, but his was a still a familiar face, one that had belonged to an earlier era in Melchior's life.

"Have you told him? About his father?"

She shook her head. "I thought, when 'e got older maybe..." She trailed off into a cough. "Does... I'm sorry, milord, but does 'e... does 'e ever talk? About me, I mean?"

The pleading tone in her voice made him grit his teeth. "My brother is--" a feckless idiot he longed to say, but bit the words back. They weren't really true in any case. Albert Brynes was a good man for the most part, and the brothers got along well, having learned long ago to compensate for each other's weaknesses. "He is... not always considerate of the consequences his actions might have on other people, mistress." It wasn't quite an answer to her question, but he thought that she could infer the rest.

Judging by her weary nod, and the resigned tears that welled up and flowed silently down her face, she already had.

Melchior had never in his life been more grateful to hear a knocking at the door. He excused himself, and opened it to see a lanky young man escorted by the ever-watchful Madam Shafer.

He waved the man inside and gave the woman a tight smile as she tried not-so-subtly to see past him into the room. "Thank you, madam, for your continued indulgence," he said, before shutting the door firmly in her face. He turned to find the newcomer clutching at his satchel and shifting from foot to foot. "Now then. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"M-my name is T-Tobias, sir. T-Tobias T-Tomlinson."

"Ah." Melchior wondered if it was nerves causing the man's stutter or a natural speech impediment. He shook himself back to the matter at hand. "Well met. I am Melchior Byrnes. You are the apothecary, I presume?"

The man nodded, looking miserable. "It was m-my f-father's shop, sir. He p-passed just last week. F-fever."

"I'm, er, sorry to hear that," Melchior said, biting his tongue to keep from commenting out loud on the irony. "I trust you have obtained your own license, however? Good, then I have every confidence in your skills, Master Tomlinson." He showed the blinking young man to the bedroom. "Your patient, sir."

He stood in the doorway and watched for a few minutes as the man examined Mistress Stokys, putting his ear to her chest to listen as she coughed, peering into her eyes and mouth, and palpating her belly to assess pain. Once with his patient, Tomlinson seemed surer of his ground, his stutter melting away to an occasional hesitancy. Satisfied that the apothecary knew what he was doing, Melchior withdrew, shutting the door behind him to afford them a measure of privacy.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside, a heavy tread that he recognized, and a lighter one he did not. The door opened again to admit Zeke, balancing two wrapped parcels, and Jase, carrying what looked to be a covered soup tureen.

"Hail the conquering heroes," he said, grinning. "No trouble, I trust?"

Jase rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the notion, depositing his burden on the table. Zeke followed his example.

"None, milord. Is ma...?"

"Master Tomlinson is examining her." Melchior gave the chairs a dubious eying and selected the one that seemed most free of stains and blemishes. "And, uh, wipe that down with a rag or something first, won't you?" he said, earning a mystified look from Zeke as the boy prepared to serve stew into what looked like a bowl that hadn't been properly washed in days. "And set aside a bowl to cool for your mother. No, thank you, Jase and I will eat later."

The stew looked a bit thin, but there were pieces of some root vegetable floating about, as well as scraps of meat. Zeke tore off a chunk of bread and dove into the food at once.

"Slow down, lad, or you'll burn your tongue," Melchior said, examining him. The boy was small for his age, and scrawny, but otherwise seemed in good health. It couldn't have been easy, raising a son on her own all these years. Melchior poked at the toe of his shoe with his cane. "So, Zeke... can you read?"

"Aye, milord. A little."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, please. Write?"

A shake of the head.

Melchior frowned. "Why not? Don't you attend a Missions school?"

Zeke swallowed a large mouthful. "Used t', milord, but the one I went t' burnt down a year back, an' they ain't never rebuilt it."

"'Didn't ever', not 'ain't'," Melchior corrected automatically, with an inward groan. He should've left well enough alone, but now that he knew of the problem, he would have to investigate it. All the districts in the city received annual subsidies from the crown to keep Missions schools open, with grants available for special circumstances; if those subsidies weren't going towards the school here, what was happening to the funds? "Hmm? I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said, what do ye do, milord? How do ye know me ma?"

"Oh, she used to work for someone I know," he said, waving a vague hand. "And as for my work... well, I'm a... fixer. I fix things." He shot the boy a sidelong glance. "I clean up other people's messes."

"What?" Zeke stared. "Like a handyman or a maid?"

There was a snort of amusement from Jase. Melchior grinned. "Sometimes that's exactly what it feels like." He noticed the direction of the boy's eyes. "And Jase is kind enough to help me in my work."

The boy chewed in silence for a moment, then leaned closer and said in a loud whisper, "Does 'e ever talk?"

That drew a startled laugh from him. "Jase can talk quite well, though I find he is sometimes most effective when he just looms over someone and glowers. Like now, for example," Melchior said, giving his friend a teasing smirk.

Jase grunted, then jerked his chin at the boy and said, as though proving he could, "Boy's got a reputation in the streets." One hand rose and a finger brushed casually against his cheek.

It took Melchior a moment to decipher that cryptic remark. "Ah." He gave Zeke a sharp-toothed smile. "You'll find that those who are silent have the most opportunities to put their eyes to good use. So... you thieve?" He held up a hand to forestall the boy's protests. "Before you deny it, keep in mind that I can simply inquire about the neighborhood."

Zeke squirmed on his seat, finally ducking his head. "I ain't... I mean, haven't been caught or nothin'..." He shot a defiant look at Jase. "And I ain't-- haven't been branded," he said, clearly understanding the other's gesture.

"A fine way to put it," Melchior sighed. Not that he wasn't impressed with the boy's ability to avoid detection, but now was hardly the time to say so. "We'll have no more of that, will we, lad?"

"No, milord," Zeke said, subdued, as the door to the bedroom opened.

Tomlinson stepped out, blinked at the new arrivals, and focused on Melchior. "M-may I sp-eak with you p-privately, sir?"

"Certainly. Zeke, take some food in to your mother, and mind you don't spill it."

"But--!" the boy began, outraged by the dismissal.

Melchior raised a challenging eyebrow, daring him to object further. After a moment's internal struggle, the child visibly restrained himself, grabbed the second bowl, and stomped to the bedroom, though not without a dark, backwards look that promised additional questions upon his return. Melchior caught Jase's eye and they both grinned.

"Now then, Master Tomlinson. How is she?"

The apothecary produced several small vials of powder and set them one by one onto the table. "Not well, sir. If she'd had the p-proper c-care a year ago, or even six months ago... but near as I c-can tell, she's had the blight for years. I c-can make her more c-comfortable, ease her c-cough and p-pain a bit..." He trailed off, shrugging.

There was a beat of silence. "I see." Melchior pinched the bridge of his nose to head off an incipient headache. He had half expected such an answer, given the sound of her cough, but that didn't make hearing it out loud any easier. "How long does she have?"

"With the right medicines, sir, a few months. B-but she'll not make it past this c-coming winter."

"These are the medicines, then?" he asked, gesturing at the vials.

"This one twice a d-day to help with the c-cough, this before bed to help her sleep."

He hesitated before asking, "Does she know?"

"I d-didn't t-tell her, sir, but aye, she knows. Some folks do."

Melchior nodded. "Thank you, Master Tomlinson. You have been most helpful."

With the apothecary paid and sent on his way, Melchior found himself pacing in the confined space. Jase was rubbing his chin and looking thoughtful, but he was in no mood to indulge his friend's obvious curiosity.

Here was an unexpected conundrum. He had thought that the whole thing could be settled by giving the woman some sort of monthly allowance, perhaps. Something that would bring her and her son under his purview but at a comfortable distance. Something that would let her build her own life but also let him keep tabs on the boy who did, after all, have a claim upon his family.

But if the mother died... place the boy into an orphanage? Melchior balked at the idea. No blood of his would be raised on the crown's charity, not while he had anything to say about it. An apprenticeship? The child was not old enough. Perhaps he could find a place for him in the household of another house... But no, that would lead to awkward questions about the boy's parentage.

"Damnation," he muttered. The matter required more thought than he had time for at present. He shrugged off Jase's questioning look and strode to the bedroom door.

Mother and son both looked up when he entered with a perfunctory knock. "Well, mistress, I trust Master Tomlinson left you instructions on how and when to take your powders? Good, good. Now, I have some arrangements to make first, but I think perhaps a change of scenery is in order. Do you think you might be able to manage a flight of stairs after you've had a bit of rest? Yes? All right then." He ignored their startled stares. "I'll send around some people tomorrow, or maybe the next day. For now, focus on getting better and gathering your strength. And you, lad," Melchior gave the boy a stern look. "Stay out of trouble for a day or two, won't you? Now, I must beg your pardon and--"

"Milord," the woman sat up straighter and pushed away the bowl of stew Zeke held. "Milord, what 'bout after? After I'm..." Her eyes glanced at her son, whose brow was furrowed in puzzlement, then fixed on him with a pleading expression.

"Mistress," Melchior said, his voice gentle. "I've promised to rectify matters, and I always keep my promises. Have no fear that you'll be abandoned a second time."

She fell back against her pillow. There was a hint of moisture in her eyes, but she smiled at him. "Thank ye, milord."

"Of course. Rest well. Lad, see us to the door?"

Standing once again on the street, Melchior breathed a sigh of relief at having left the confines of the dark and gloomy interior. "You heard?" he asked Jase, who nodded. They began the trek back to where he had left the carriage. "Make the arrangements then. Discreetly, if you please."

"Where're you gonna keep 'em?"

"My townhouse, for now. Yes, I know," he said at his friend's surprised expression. "But my household knows how to keep quiet, at least to outsiders, and it'll give me time to think of what to do with the boy later."

Jase hummed thoughtfully, then gave him a sly look. "So that's one of Albert's by-blows, huh?"

Melchior blinked, opened his mouth in denial, then thought better of it. "How did you know?" he asked, frowning.

"I got eyes, don't I?" Jase said with a smirk. "He don't look much like his pa, or you either, but I've seen that portrait that hangs in your brother's study. He's the spitting image of your old man. Well, minus the gray hairs and the monocle, that is."

Melchior huffed in annoyance. That was one thing about employing someone as smart as Jase for so many years; the man had picked up his own habit of wheedling secrets out of people and using them when their owners were most vulnerable. "How do you know he's not mine?" he said, testing.

Jase chuckled. "You're not the type of man as would skip out on taking care of his kid, bastard or not."

"Oh," Melchior said, taken aback. The statement, and the matter-of-fact tone in which it had been uttered, left him feeling strangely warm.

"Your brother though," Jase continued. "I'm betting he don't even know the boy exists, eh?"

"No," Melchior agreed with a heavy sigh. "You know Albert. He probably didn't even realize she was carrying his child -- I'd never have found out myself, save by sheer chance. And I doubt he spent too long looking for her after she disappeared from his service. Leanna," he explained, when Jase raised an eyebrow.

"Ah." Jase winced in sympathy. "That woman's right scary when she gets riled. No wonder you don't want nobody finding out about this trip."

"She's not that bad," Melchior said, feeling called upon to defend his absent sister-in-law. "As long as you stay on her good side. Which you have obviously failed to do." They grinned at each other.

"So what're you planning on doing with the kid? Going to make your brother acknowledge his duty?"

"And what would that accomplish, save stir up a hornet's nest of troubles? The boy can't inherit, he's illegitimate. Besides, Albert already has an heir. Edgar's a good boy, and I'll not do anything against my own nephew."

"Zeke's your nephew too, y'know."

Melchior shot the man a surprised look. "Why're you... you like him, don't you?" he said, with dawning realization and a glimmer of amusement.

Jase lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug and grunted, but the small quirk of his lips was answer enough. They walked a few steps in silence. A block ahead of them, the street widened, and the carriage came into view.

"You're planning on teaching Edgar? Having him take your place?" Jase asked.

Melchior rubbed his cane and hummed. "Early days for that, surely," he replied. "He's just turned eight. But if he shows talent for it, why not? Edgar could do worse than a ministry and a position on the King's council."

"Aye. I'm just thinking that if that turns out to be the case... well, he's gonna need people he trusts, yeah? People he knows would watch his back."

"You think... Zeke?" Melchior paused to give the startling idea due consideration. "It's an interesting thought." He tapped his chin. "And not without merit. You would train him, when he's ready?"

"Eh, I might be talked into it," Jase said, grinning.

Melchior returned the grin, feeling the responsibility for this newly-discovered nephew lighten. The footman hopped off the back of the carriage and unfolded the steps. "Well, I'm willing to give the boy a chance to prove himself," he said. " And it will be a most interesting dance, I think, when my nephews meet."

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