The Chronicles of Van Deloney-Chapter 27: UNDER THE ROYAL DUTIES

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WITHIN the study chamber of the Eastern Wing of the Embassy Residence, the sound of steady tapping was heard all through the murky room. Desmond Ruthania sat at the head of an ornate table, one gloved hand rhythmically tapping against the polished surface with a silver pen, the sharp tapping a measured cadence of his patience—or the slow bleed of it. A thick folder of scrolls and court documents lay sprawled before him, untouched.

Zephyrl stood beside, a few strides from the hearth, hands behind his back in perfect posturing. His eyes were firm, while his voice was impeccably calm and precisely eloquent. The flames behind him cast his form into long shadows, bestowing upon the scene a solemn weight.

"Today's dispatches from the Royal Cabinet, Your Highness," said Zephyrl without waiting for any permission to put a sealed envelope on the table. "There are inquiries from the Council of Lords about your stance regarding grain tariffs from the Eastern Border. The merchants are growing restless. Trade has slowed, and the treasury is... observing."

Desmond did not lift his eyes. He offered a single, curt nod and went back to his rhythmic tapping.

"Are the tariffs really necessary?" he asked frostily. "Or do the Lords simply want to find out if I would bend like my brother?"

Zephyrl hesitated for the barest moment before answering him. "They are testing your worth as a leader. However, it is not wise to disregard them altogether. The eastern merchants are financing three of the kingdom's vital naval routes, and should they grow dissatisfied, our ports shall bleed gold."

"And the nobles of Deloney?" Desmond asked, lifting his head at last, his eyes flashing sharp as a blade's edge. "Have they quieted down, or do they still grovel over their lost daughter?"

Zephyrl shared his master's steely glare with practiced demeanor. "House Deloney remains publicly silent but whispers run rampant in the second court. You know as well as I that bereavement stirs gossip—especially where one mysterious disappearance of Lady Charlotte and the Crown Prince is concerned."

The tapping ceased. Desmond's jaw clenched, his thoughts hardening to something dark.

"And still," he said, his voice slow and deliberate, "they continue to pen letters. Hoping for our help."

"But you are looking for Lady Charlotte for your selfish gain," Zephyrl told the Prince.

There was a brief silence in the room before the tapping resumed.

Desmond released air softly through his nose. "Proceed."

Zephyrl cleared his throat and collected his thoughts. "There is a request from the Foreign Relations Council. The Envoy of Helbor demands that we reaffirm the peace treaties which were signed with Prince Dominique the last time he was in attendance. Without your formal endorsement, they may consider that the treaty is nullified-and Helbor is not a kingdom we wish to provoke."

Desmond's lips curled into a dry, humorless chuckle. "They seek signatures from a prince they believe to be in the palace. How ridiculous."

"How dangerous," Zephyrl corrected quietly.

Desmond's eyes narrowed, the calculating fire of a man familiar with controlling his own fate. "Then we shall give them what they desire. Forge the signature if need be. But make it clean."

Zephyrl tilted his head, his brow furrowing in worry. "Your Highness, you are taking a big risk. If this comes to light in the Crown Gazette..."

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"They shall never know unless someone speaks," Desmond interrupted sharply, the tapping growing louder for a moment before it halted once more. He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon the desk. "Tell me, Zephyrl—do I appear to be a man who stumbles over technicalities?"

"No, Your Highness," Zephyrl answered after a short pause. "But even the sharpest blade must not strike blindly."

Desmond leaned back, twirling the pen once between his fingers before the tapping resumed, subdued but still utterly purposeful. His voice grew languid, his interest now piqued. "And what do you suggest, then?"

He stepped slightly forward, body laid out in a measured manner. "Send a diplomatic envoy to Helbor-someone reliable, but not too high profile. Allow them to negotiate in your name, so you can keep plausible deniability in case the treaty halts, but also appear to be involved in the affairs of state."

Desmond regarded him with utmost scrutiny, looking cold and calculating. After a considerable time had passed, he acquiesced with a slow and deliberate nod.

"Choose someone. Prepare the cover story. I will see it before midnight."

"Yes, Master Desmond."

"And Zephyrl..." Desmond did not so much as glance at him when he said, although in a soft tone, that was thundered by a quiet authority, "Have any questions arisen about my brother's whereabouts?"

Zephyrl's expression remained inscrutable, his tone even enough. "Not as yet. But should they inquire... I will say that the Royal Highness is on a sacred pilgrimage for clarity and strength-an ancient royal rite, long practiced by our ancestors."

Desmond finally put down the pen.

"Well, let them believe in ghosts and rituals," he said, his tone cold. "Let them remain ashore."

As Zephyrl stepped forward to gather the folders lying strewn across the writing desk, a quick but telling flicker of uncertainty crossed the lines along which his face had otherwise shown no expression. Desmond seized upon it, for such minor movements were not ones he usually let slip unnoticed.

A command not to be ignored will be listened to, Desmond thought, as he made his proclamation: "You have more to say".

He began to straighten almost with military precision as he answered, "Indeed, Your Highness. It concerns Leonard."

On that one name, the air between them constricted. Desmond's eyes narrowed even further with habitual suspicion gleaming through them.

"He remains in the chamber below the embassy residence," with a hushed and careful voice, Zephyrl continued. "But I am apprehensive-it is only a matter of time before someone from the diplomatic security detail stumbles across some sign. That retainer has been under sporadic surveillance since the Grenswood affair."

Desmond offered no immediate reply. The silence was weighed, deliberate. Then his fingers resumed their idle tapping upon the chair's arm-even softer now, as should crooning away some unheard, distant refrain.

Leonard..." he finally muttered as if by itself the name was disagreeable in his mouth. "That man is a coward. But his memory is impeccable. A danger to my schemes."

Zephyrl nodded to that. "He knows too much of the plot against you, Your Highness. Too much about which plans you have set. And about your crimes."

"Of course," said Desmond with a spiteful twist to his lips. "He was present."

There was another pause. The tapping grew swiffer, more resolute. Then, his voice sharp as frost, Desmond pronounced: "Move him."

"To where, Your Highness?"

Desmond snapped each syllable, so coldly, clipped, and finally said, "Somewhere they will never find him nor he escapes. Not a cell. Not a dungeon. Somewhere that will isolate him. If he disappears completely, they shall be left chasing shadows."

Zephyrl hesitated. "And if he talks?"

"He shall not," Desmond interjected. "He fears pain more sharp than death. Remind him of that, if the need arises."

Zephyrl bowed slightly, yet did not turn to depart.

"There is...another matter," he ventured with carefully measured intent. "Duke Necario is expected to arrive by tomorrow."

Desmond's fingers stilled.

"Necario?" he echoed, incredulity laced through the word. "That cousin of His Majesty?"

"Yes, Your Highness," affirmed Zephyrl. "He has asked for a private audience with His Majesty... and another with yourself."

The eyes of Desmond narrowed yet again. His voice dipped into derision. "That snake has not darkened the palace threshold for years. And now he wants tea?"

Zephyrl kept a steady tone, though a note of wariness coloured his words. "He presents it as an overture of political goodwill. Yet I suspect he is probing for weakness."

Desmond expelled a quick disgusted breath. "Then he shall be disappointed."

"Duke Necario is not to be trifled with," Zephyrl said matter-of-factly. "He enjoys the confidence of an ever-growing section of the western nobility. There are whisperings of an alliance in marriage—possibly to be handed off to the court.

"Marriage," Desmond repeated with an amused disgust, like one who has had an old joke told to him once too many times. "Peddle his daughters to some other place. I won't tie myself to a fragile-browed heiress, and really, her only talent is her dowry-my inclination for forging such bonds is nil."

Zephyrl remained still in that posture more for a moment and, with hesitation, ventured forth, "Should I perhaps prepare for Duke Necario's visit? Perhaps some formal audience to keep up the necessary appearances?"

The intelligent light shone in Desmond's gaze before it became sharp, struck by his demeanor that flicked like the prey of a swift closing trap. Shaking his head again, a slow and deliberate shake from side, he began the precise rhythm of his tapping-three firm taps, then an abrupt stillness that seemed to fill the whole room with an unnatural silence.

"No," he said cold and hard. "Not until I found her before we leave Normaine."

Zephyrl blinked his eyes, astonished by the outburst. "You mean... Lady Charlotte?"

Desmond's lips curved in a lurking smile that sparked only a little at the eyes. "And my dear brother," he added affectedly after, "as both are worth no chance. I have come too close to my goal to let Necario-or anyone else-derail what is already in motion."

Zephyrl bowed his head to indicate that he accorded his highest respect. "As you command, Your Highness."

Desmond turned aside; his attention was elsewhere. The tap of his pen punctuated the silence once again. "First that woman," he murmured to himself, heavy in his words. "Then the crown."

Zephyrl cast a glance at Desmond, his expression serious. "Ahh, right, before I forget... There have been concerns gathering. Of late, some commoners and noble women have disappeared. It has stirred quite a bit of alarm in the Kingdom of Luxtonia. And several unfortunate nobles have started receiving money from an unknown dealer."

Desmond's fingers paused from their rhythmic tapping; his cold eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. "Missing women? Curious turn of events. And this dealer...someone operating in the shadows?" The last words fell low and coldly calculated.

He nodded, grave. "Yes. As far as I know, this dealer has been controlling somewhere around the Kingdom. It has a track difficult to trace down but seems to be getting far. Should I dispatch someone to investigate further, Master Desmond?"

Desmond reclined in the chair, his eyes momentarily distant as he digested the news. A faint smirk curled at the corner of his lips, but it was one of cold amusement. He was going to make a problem of it, but it was a problem he could also make work to his advantage. He needed to control everything, and this development could afford him just the leverage he needed.

"No," Desmond said at length, in an unquestionably authoritative tone. "I shall undertake this task. No one should be sent on my behalf. But, I will write a letter, and a messenger bird will be sent here." He took up a quill and started scribbling the message with painstaking care, his actions deliberate. "I will send it to Percival," he continued, his voice calm and even, "and he must gather every scrap of information about this case. We'll learn more of this dealer's identity, and if it's connected to those missing women, we'll have something to leverage."

Zephyrl stood silent and amazed by the meticulous approach of his master. Desmond's mind was always on the move and calculating, never leaving any stone unturned. If there was a way to exploit this situation, Desmond would find it.

Desmond hovered above the parchment for a moment after penning the letter, then looked at Zephyrl, his face inscrutable. "Ensure that the messenger bird takes off as soon as possible. There are no delays in this place."

Zephyrl nodded his head, stern-faced. "Understood, Sir Desmond."

Desmond folded the letter and handed it to Zephyrl after a last look at it. "Let the court deflect its own annoyances for now. This matter of women going missing and a mysterious dealer- it's possibly a key to something much larger."

Zephyrl collected the letter, a deflection of the same cold and steeled resolve in Desmond's voice. "I will take care of it promptly. Is there anything else?"

Desmond stood up, his voice as cold and commanding as ever. "Yes. Be vigilant, Zephyrl. We can't afford distractions. Make sure no one gets too close to the truth. Let me know the moment you hear back from Percival."

Zephyrl bent down his body in respectful acquiescence. "It shall be done, Your Highness."

Desmond turned towards the window and saw darkness stretch afar through the battlefield of his thoughts with the very tangle he was weaving around himself: the missing women, the mysterious dealer... and the shadow of his brother and Charlotte stretched ominously above. Everything linked in ways that even he had not yet fully untangled. But he would. Soon enough.

Zephyrl moved outside onto the balcony of the study room, cool winds blowing against his face and over the vast grounds below as he gazed at them. In his hand was a small wooden bird pipe, an item he had often in the past used to summon the messenger birds generally relied on by Desmond for communication. The bird pipe had been carved most finely, the delicate design a mark of its purpose.

He lifted the pipe to his lips and blew a soft, low note. Almost immediately, a shadow flitted through the twilight, and a messenger bird-a swift and agile raven-landed gracefully on the railing in front of him. The bird's glossy feathers gleamed under the dim light of the moon.

Zephyrl knotted the parchment he had brought with him into a tight scroll and crammed it into a small cylindrical container designed to be worn around the bird's neck, folding it to suit the condensing compartment. The messenger would then carry it safe and undisturbed, when he would raise it into the air, fingers brushing the raven's feathers.

just one sharp note of sound before vanishing high in the night sky.

He lingered for a moment, staring at the empty space where the bird had once been. An odd feeling tugged at his mind, but he shrugged it away.

"Sensible thoughts tell me that something's not quite right," he muttered out at a low breath that was hardly a voice-sound but more like contemplation behind a veil of silence.

"Perhaps, then, I'm just wasting time concerning myself with that which truly doesn't bother me."