Hawthorn had just tucked into an egg. He had rapped it twice with a but­terknife, peeled back the top, and ladled out a goey tea­spoon­ful. Slow­ly, he daubed the yolk on some toast, pep­pered it, brought it to his mouth.

“Duane!’

Hawthorn reluc­tant­ly lift­ed his eyes from the toast. Across the cafe, a beam­ing, curly-topped man in a vest waved. He pushed around some tables, pulled an opu­lent woman in tow. Her heavy lash­es squint­ed in a per­pet­u­al smile. She kept close to her excit­ed com­pan­ion.

“Wal­lace,” said Hawthorn, watch­ing glum­ly as his friend pulled up a pair of chairs. “Good morn­ing.”

“Good morn­ing!” enthused Pied­mont. “May I intro­duce Mas­ter Bris­tol Dan­tille, of Sorelle?”

“Hel­lo,” said Dan­tille, still look­ing at Pied­mont.

Briefly, Hawthorn smiled. “Charmed,” he offered. Before he could lift the toast, Pied­mont spoke again.

“We met yes­ter­day at the sum­mit. Got to talk­ing about the fer­til­i­ty idol­a­try of Ancient Sunk. Turns out we share an awful lot of inter­ests.”

“Like Wal­lace’s excel­lent trea­tise on aphro­disi­acs described in the Der­rol Scrolls,” said Dan­tille.

“Oh, yes. I do recall,” mur­mured Hawthorn, try­ing again for a bite. Pied­mont slapped him on the shoul­der. “She’s an anthro­pol­o­gist, Duane, like you. I’m shocked you’ve not met.”

Lips pursed, Hawthorn put the toast down. “Well, our cir­cles aren’t so sma...” He trailed off, hav­ing focused on Dan­tille. She met his gaze, still smil­ing. Hawthorn blinked, as if real­iz­ing some­thing. He then frowned. “I see. I do believe we’ve met.”

The woman tilt­ed her head at Hawthorn. “I’ve only heard the begin­ning of the adven­tures you and Wal­lace have had. Fan­tas­tic. Is it true you’ve swam the Water­glades of Solfe­li­na?”

“Yes.”

“And chart­ed the most reli­able route to the Dark Con­ti­nent?”

“With forty per­cent accu­ra­cy, yes.”

Dan­tille’s smile shift­ed for only a moment. “And the sto­ries of Wal­lace and ælves? Is it true one lives in his gar­den?”

Soft­ly, Hawthorn plucked up his toast, took a bite. He chewed, slow, kept his eyes on Dan­tille. Pied­mont flicked his eyes at both of them, con­fused. Hawthorn swal­lowed, dabbed his lips with a lace nap­kin.

“I’m sure you’d know as much as I, Bris­tol.”

There was a spot of silence. Pied­mont looked pained, played with a nap­kin, look­ing for words. Sud­den­ly, Dan­tille resumed her squint-eyed smile, stood. “Wal­lace, dear, I’m going to head to the event ear­ly. Thank you for intro­duc­ing me to your friend.” 

“Oh, of course.” Pied­mont stood, smiled at the anthro­pol­o­gist, watched her go. As soon as she dis­ap­peared round the flo­ral-inlaid door, Hawthorn spoke. 

“Wal­lace, you incred­i­ble slut.”

Pied­mont looked aghast. “Duane, please. She is inter­est­ed in my work.”

Wav­ing his toast, Hawthorn nudged his chin towards the door. “That’s no syco­phant. She’s an agent.”

“Oh. That might explain the lead­ing ques­tions.”*

“Yes.”

“But an agent of what?”

Hawthorn looked about, leaned in.

“The Office of Secrets, of course.”

“Messieurs, do not be alarmed,” said a man in green, palms raised. “But I have just been informed that an assas­sin has infil­trat­ed the premis­es.” 

A tit­ter of gasps rose from the assem­bled guests. All eyes turned to the green man. He made a show at a con­sol­ing smile, clasped his hands. Behind him, a fire crack­led in an ornate mar­ble hearth. The flick­er­ing back­light deep­ened his gaunt cheeks. 

“I am assured by the Gar­ri­son Cap­tain, how­ev­er, that we and Admi­ral Ban­tera,” he said, ges­tur­ing to a stuffy, hairy man in uni­form. “Shall remain quite safe. If there is a killer in the Spring Palace, they will be found.”

Ban­tera ruf­fled his mous­tache. “Samore is cor­rect. My home­’s secu­ri­ty rep­re­sents the epit­o­me of mod­ern defense. Rest assured.”

A guest beside the Admi­ral wrin­kled her paint­ed brow, raised a hand. “Which of us could pos­si­bly be the tar­get? I, for one, have no ene­mies,” she pro­claimed in an Alagóri­an burr. 

Anoth­er mur­mur of wor­ry. Many began dis­cussing their like­ly ene­mies and griev­ances. One man fanned his face, leaned on a mahogany book­case. Some­one wept.

Samore dipped his head. The cor­ner of his mouth twitched. “Alas, the tar­get could only be the Admi­ral him­self. No one of us is so influ­en­tial.” The Admi­ral nod­ded, grim.

“But who would want you dead?” said the woman, brow still knit­ted.

“Like­ly the das­tard­ly Firls, dear Avesol,” said the Admi­ral. He pat­ted her shoul­der with a hairy hand. “Their dread­ful Office of Secrets.” 

Some­one piped up from the back of the room. “Sure­ly, no assas­sin could attempt any­thing, so long as we are togeth­er?”

Samore attempt­ed to respond but was drowned out. “You speak as though the killer is among us, in this very room!” exclaimed Avesol.

“May­haps he is,” said Samore, rais­ing a hand to quell the ner­vous com­pa­ny. His lip twitched. “For that rea­son, we must remain here for the time being.” 

“But who could it be?” said the man in the back.

There was a hic­cup. “Cer­tain­ly not me,” said a mouse on a chaise lounge. “I am too drunk.” Some ner­vous laugh­ter filled the space, fad­ed, and died. The guests looked about, avoid­ed gazes, shift­ed about. 

“I’m sure none of us is going to point fin­gers, Mon­sieur Chétif,” said Samore, wav­ing a hand. 

There was a sharp harumph. “Oh, do you sup­pose we shall not, Sam?” said Avesol. “Are you afraid we shall sug­gest you, with your Firl­ish accent? Your ner­vous tics?”

A mild uproar sound­ed. Fin­gers point­ed. “Please,” said Samore, rais­ing his palms. His mouth twitched in rapid suc­ces­sion. “Move away from the Admi­ral!” some­one demand­ed. Samore raised his hands, bab­bled. “This is ridicu­lous. I am the Admi­ral’s friend!”

“Greedy Firls are eas­i­ly bought off,” sneered Avesol. The com­pa­ny roared in out­raged approval. They began pulling the green-clad man toward the door. The Admi­ral just watched, fur­ry lips agape. In lit­tle time, Samore’s cries dis­ap­peared, fer­ried away by the mob. Only Ban­tera and Avesol were left. 

“Heav­ens,” mum­bled Ban­tera, pinch­ing his nose. “How could it be my old Sam? Bought by the Office to betray me?” he qua­vered. Avesol stepped close, shak­ing her head. She placed a small hand on the man’s shoul­der.

“Who can know, Admi­ral?” she queried. Her voice shift­ed, lost its burr, became short and soft in the vow­els. A Firl­ish accent. “One must beware those das­tard­ly Firls.”

The assas­s­in’s stilet­to slipped, cold, into Admi­ral Ban­ter­a’s heart.

Secrets

The Firl­ish gov­ern­ment is divid­ed into a num­ber of min­istries and offices. Among them are the Office of the Exche­quer, the Com­mon­wealth Office, the Post­mas­ter’s Office, and the Office of Small Mat­ters. ** These domes­tic depart­ments work quite clear­ly and tame­ly with­in the bor­ders of the Crown’s Empire. 

There exists a sin­gu­lar depart­ment, how­ev­er, whose work is by no means lim­it­ed to the obvi­ous or the domes­tic. It is the Office of Secrets: The Crown’s leg­endary sta­ble of spies.

Some­where in Forten­shire’s Capi­tol Park, there is a lit­tle old door. It’s set in a retain­ing wall some­where near the swan pond, just under an old watch­tow­er. It has a small knock­er, but no knob. It needs a new coat of paint. Bolt­ed to the wall beside is a brass plaque. It reads Office of Secrets. No one goes in or out. † Chil­dren some­times have a go at the knock­er, just to see if a spe­cial agent will open up.

Real­ly, most peo­ple ignore the door. They assume it’s there as a for­mal­i­ty, that all gov­ern­ment build­ings are required to have an address. Many will tell you there’s naught but dirt behind the door. It’s set in a retain­ing wall, after all. Many don’t believe there’s an Office of Secrets, at all.

They’re wrong. There is an Office of Secrets. It’s agents have sim­ply got very lit­tle to do in their native coun­try.

While Fir­lund has­n’t been to war with or invad­ed a Lit­toran nation in over 200 years, they have by no means with­drawn from for­eign bor­ders. †† With­in the stra­ta of the Coast are embed­ded the thin knives and lis­ten­ing ears of the Office. 

If one begins to lis­ten to rumors, they will hear of spies in the Belvirin­ian court, the Church of Aveth, the coqueli­cot rings of the Isles. Few of these rumors are true, of course. The spies man­u­fac­ture them by hand.

Once a fear­ful per­son begins to con­sume the rumors, there is no for­get­ting them. The specter of the Office presents itself every­where. Any let­ter could be a pack­et of poi­son dust. Any knot­hole a lis­ten­ing ear. Any beau­ti­ful man or woman a care­ful plant, a hon­ey pot, a charm­ing assas­sin or exsan­guinat­ing leak. Only those with rea­son to fear are most vul­ner­a­ble.

While intel­li­gence gath­er­ing and assas­si­na­tion are its agen­t’s chiefest goals, the Office of Secrets’ rumors are its most ele­gant weapon. They cul­ti­vate a ter­ri­ble wound with­in the ene­mies of the Crown: Para­noia. 

Note

Yet anoth­er fac­tion for the Coast.