Ludis de Crato had been promised an easy job. Well, nobody but himself had said it was easy, but that still counted. At least there was someone to blame.

  He exited the palace close to noon. The rain had given everyone a temporary break that already seemed doomed to be short. He had told the driver to go down to the wealthy residential district (it had a name, but he had never really bothered to learn it, nobody really did, but he could swear it was the name of a flower, or maybe something that ended in ‘hill’, despite there seemingly not being any).

  The first step of his investigation was easy, the ‘interview’, a rather shoddy work at hiding the lies if anyone asked him, had been done at the Wynthart house. Now, he had no idea of where that was beyond what part of the city it would be, but he had gone down to the ceremonial wing of the palace and asked a maid there, who in turn asked another, and as far as he could tell, there was a six-women-strong chain of gossiping before one came forward and said that Lady Wynthart had left without a carriage. A short chat with the guards at the gate confirmed as much. That meant that wherever she lived it must have been withing a reasonable walking distance from the palace. Oh, and despite being the prince’s former fiancee, her family is not fabulously wealthy, to the point that she apparently has a practical education; thanks to those broadsheet-penning busybodies for that information!

  That narrowed the search quite a bit. In just under twenty minutes he was in front of a handsome, symmetrical building of white brick and low black roofs. It didn’t quite read as the residence of a noble, but there was a plaque on the door with a coat of arms on it. Red, showing an eagle with a burning heart and a sword on its beak, flying over some stylized mountains. Crato crossed his arms, in thought, for just a brief moment before he pulled out from inside his frock-coat a small yet thick brown book, worn from use. He looked at the index and went down some six hundred or so pages, down to the right region, when he found the right drawing. It was the coat of arms of the Wynthart family. There was also a rather long, boring and two-columned history of it that he decided to skip for the sake of time.

  He walked up the couple of steps to the door and rung the bell thrice, pressing the button fairly hard. Then he stepped back and waited.

  And waited, and waited. After five minutes, the friendly smile he had put on for whatever servant opened the door was gone. He sighed and looked around before noticing, blessed be his luck that shines on him even when he has the misfortune of working, that a young, clearly inexperienced maid, a bit on the plumper side but not without attractive, was rolling a small cart covered in a piece of cloth down the street. Probably some groceries; there was a fancy market not too far away that Crato personally hated.

  “Excuse me!” He hailed her, quickly crossing the street and putting the smile back on, “Do you work around here?”

  “Maybe. Why would you like to know that, sir?” Her tone was sharp, a bit of acid in it even. Crato was wrong, she wasn’t inexperienced then, great, just great, first complication of his current job.

  Crato opened his mouth, and then felt a small, barely noticeable, breath of cool air. To someone who didn’t know better, it wouldn’t have meant anything, but he glanced at her eyes and confirmed it. There was a brief silvery shine to them. She was using some kind of magic. And, going entirely by context, probably something that told her if he was lying. Fantastic! A second complication!

  “I am working with the authorities. I have come to inquire in an affair that involves a noble whose residence is in the area.” None of it was a lie. It was a bit of a risky move, not knowing exactly what the spell does, however…

  “It’s Lady Wynthart, isn’t it?” The maid asked back in a gossipy tone, the shine in her eyes vanishing. Crato blinked, that was easy. Well, of course it was, he knew that spells that simply detect lies in the strictest sense of the word are the cheapest possible of the type, so using exact wording was likely to work, but still, he was thankful for things to not get any harder for him. “Let me be entirely honest with you, sir, I don’t think she’s done anything wrong. That girl’s way too nice.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Do you know her?”

  “Not personally, of course, but,” She pointed towards a gray stone turret with a conical roof that emerged behind a tall hedge. “I could say we’re neighbors. I work for the old Lady Mins, the dowager duchess, you know. Anyway, I’ve seen her come and go and she’s always nice and polite. Which I guess it’s normal, I’ve heard that over there in the provinces there’s not that much difference between nobles and us common folk.”

  Crato nodded. “I see.”

  “But all this thing that’s happening to her is awful. And that woman who came was even worse, just a few hours later Lady Wynthart went out in the rain without even so much as an umbrella. Can you believe that, sir? I wonder what made her so upset. Maybe she was threatened or something, but I digress.” She was speaking fast, but the information turned out to be quite convenient. “So, what did you want to ask?”

  Ludis de Crato sighed, pulled out his wallet and gave the maid a bill of 10 Murls, along with a card with his secretary’s number. “Nothing for now. But you may be of help, miss. If you see that woman come to the Wynthart residence again, call that number. Thank you very much.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He turned around, just as an act, and then turned back. He asked her about a description of the woman who was there and then quickly went up in his carriage.

  The next step was also a particularly easy one. Having a description, he assumed that the woman in blue, based on height and apparent age, likely didn’t get there by walking, but according to the maid, she didn’t see any carriages with coats of arms around, meaning that she had likely arrived with a hired one. Now, given that Wynthart’s address wasn’t publicly available information, he could assume that his suspect probably used a similar method to his, such as having a driver that was familiarized with coats of arms, as she was unlikely to have access to an old guide like his, which were restricted to government officers. That meant that the next place to ask in was in the building of the carriage driver’s guild of the noble district.

  Ten minutes after arriving there, he had already had a conversation with two officers and they asked those in the building. Conveniently enough, one of them remembered driving a woman who fit with the description to a building that fit with that of the Wynthart house. He also recognized the coat of arms as that of the Wyntharts, and claimed to have driven the young lady to various places around the capital.

  Unfortunately, the suspect had left no names. However, she did leave a card with a phone number that was not that of the newspaper she allegedly worked at, but rather, of a hotel.

  Crato headed there. It wasn’t one of the big luxurious ones around the capital, but rather a small and old, but surprisingly comfortable little place called “Bleeding Piety”. An ominous name for sure, probably caused by its proximity to a church, as it seemed to be rather common for such places to be called something unfortunate. He went to the receptionist and described the woman, letting a small lie in about being a friend who hasn’t seen her in a while and had just heard that she was staying in. And of course, no, don’t let her know. It was just to check her safety. Oh, and the clerk did mention a name. Catherine Monteu.

  Now, that was a name he knew.

  Not that he knew her personally, but had read her being interviewed herself in some newspapers. She was part of an extremely conservative faction tied with nobles at the small region of Pantaveras, comprising the five northernmost islands of the Lonte archipelago, the easternmost part of the kingdom. They had been at odds with the Lastrian government for like two centuries already, maybe more, out of religious reasons. They believed in legends of fire and brimstone and shadows, and some kind of chosen one who is to ascend when the time is nigh to destroy the world and plunge it back into the Age of Darkness. They would have been regarded as ridiculous if it wasn’t because some twenty years earlier they led a series of terrorist attacks in the name of some insane prophecy.

  They were then officially branded heretics by the Church and the government ordered their arrest. Yes, of the entire cult. Nowadays, now that the dust has settled, quite a few considered that their persecution was unnecessarily authoritarian and not too long ago, maybe three years or so, they started gaining followers again. Monteu was one of the new leaders of the organization.

  And thus, Crato realized that he had found himself in an uncomfortable dilemma. On one hand, he had to tell the Regent. Which likely would lead to him calling some minister and getting the lady arrested despite not having done anything technically wrong. Beyond misinformation, of course, but he reckoned that if journalists could be arrested for that, there wouldn’t be newspapers anymore. The prince had been a bit volatile since just before the breakup, so even if it was quite out of character for someone like him, Crato couldn’t dismiss the possibility. And the lady was getting famous, so an arrest would be dangerously bad press, given that it was actually inexcusable. On the other hand, letting a cultist run around the city in what was clearly an anti-government plot wasn’t right either.

  A possible solution would be a complicated lie. It had two parts, first to tell the prince that Monteu specifically wasn’t the one to interview his ex-fiancee but rather someone working for her. Doing such would make her less of a target and the prince was likely then to just sue Monteu. And the second was to keep eyes on her, making sure she’s not up to any other plots, which, to be entirely honest, she had to be. Of course, she wouldn’t go to the capital just for that, the journey is too long.

  Crato blinked.

  The journey is indeed long. Far too long to appear the literal next day even with both some spy at the ball and access to an airship. Realistically, she would have to have already been in the city before the breakup even happened. So this was entirely a case of her having a lot of luck, which meant that there wasn’t any plot and it was merely a case of opportunistic shit-stirring. That certainly made things significantly easier for him. It wouldn’t take too much to further bribe the servants of Wynthart’s neighbors and have them spy for a while to see that nothing is amiss and, along with his lie to his Highness, the problem would be solved.

  He smirked to himself as he was leaving the building. Crato took out his pocket watch and smiled wider, only five minutes past an hour. Within his acceptable limits.

  Crato went then for lunch, and after having had a generous helping of a steak alla Pantaverana, which is marinated in a mix of garlic, paprika and carrots and a local mix of spices, served then with a small Oceanic salad and a good Bidaraman wine, all fairly expensive in one of the capital’s finest restaurants, but he was feeling like it, he went back to the office and found that the maid he had bribed earlier, had indeed called back. And the news were concerning.

  According to her, approximately at the very time he was ordering his drink, she didn’t say that, but Crato liked to relate happenings to his personal schedule, she saw someone wearing all black, with a hood and some extremely pale face, which she wasn’t able to see well enough to describe, had arrived at the Wynthart house, stood staring at it for like ten minutes, and promptly left. And no, they hadn’t done anything suspicious or screamed in a way she could hear their voice or anything. They were fairly short though.

  After hanging up, Crato fell into his chair, placing hands over his face. He assumed that this hooded person wasn’t Monteu, which meant that there was a third party. Which meant that his job may still be far from finished.