Victor

  I found the next suspect shortly after speaking to the spymaster. Over by the full bar drinking a rather large mug of beer was a tall, portly gentleman with rosy cheeks and white hair wearing a highly decorated military uniform. One of his eyes had a monocle over it and I wish I were kidding. Daintily he leaned on a brass-shod cane as he sipped merrily. What a magnificent mustache you have, sir, the kind that links up to a set of bushy mutton chops. I sauntered over and started to pour myself a drink, and nodded at the chap. This was the Marshall of the army: Jean Bonfils, age 60. He was in charge of all military matters and not just the ones near the capital - the knight-captain's superior, in other words.

  "Ah, good evening young man," he said, "I've never seen you before, might you be one of her majesty's special guests? You have the look of a man well-versed in soldiery, could you have been in a military company at some juncture?"

  Well of course I looked that way, I'd deliberately put on military airs whenever I approached him.

  I saluted, "I am. Victor, adventurer by trade, but yes, I was in the army at one point though I never saw combat while I was in service. I had you pegged for a commanding officer; you look like the very model of a modern major general, actually."

  He beamed, "major general? I rather like the sound of that! I must put in an official petition with her majesty to make that an official title, then request it for myself! Well then dear boy, won't you join me for a drink and we can trade war stories for adventure stories?"

  "Glad to," this man had been in many campaigns, mostly fighting orcs, pirates, orc pirates, that sort of thing, with the occasional minor conflict between nearby nations, and a sugar war of some kind. I knew most of this already, the names of the wars he'd fought in for instance, but I humored him of course, and returned the favor with some accounting of my adventuring career - taking care to omit any references to princesses or Cadillacs. Hanzo's dossier on the guy called him a war hawk and glory hound, to paraphrase, as elvish has a different phrase for each concept; he enjoys war as a sort of tactical game. The idea of him wishing to start a conflict in order to make an even bigger name for himself as he fades away, like all old soldiers, was plausible. Anyway, while that was interesting I bid the old fellow adieu and moved on. I had a lot of ground to cover, ah, another suspect appeared.

  The court mage, actually. Atrius Broderbund, age 73, originally from a mountain village far away, attended the Grand University of Magic and scored a job as court wizard under the previous king. The queen thinks of him sort of like a grandpa - whenever she'd run away from home he was always the one who went out looking for her. Huh? The queen had a habit like that? Okay I can believe it. Sorry, these dossiers have all kinds of references to secondary information that isn't elaborated on; I suppose I should read the queen's own later. Moving on, this man was the very picture of a wizard with a long gray beard, robe, hat, and staff; not some ratty gray outfit, mind, but one that seemed specifically chosen for formal occasions; still wizardly but very courtly and a little garish; all blues and silvers.

  Hanzo's note said: "Broderbund is a relatively powerful wizard, being an expert in fire and creation, intermediate in six other disciplines, and adept in four" and advised that I proceed with caution. As a long time student of the arcane, he could be tempted by the dark arts, perhaps he is a secret worshiper of some evil power. But right now he was just as jolly as a certain saint and just as rosy-cheeked but for completely different reasons. I ordered the same thing he did, double whiskey - I'd gotten really good at "üisge, apri" by this point..

  "Howdy," I said, "havin' fun?"

  He laughed, "Always! Still, I haven't yet managed to convince any eligible ladies to have a private magic lesson tonight if you know what I mean."

  Known skirt chaser, and heavy drinker. This man could also be coping with a deep depression through heavy indulgence, which could lead one down a dark path towards joining an evil despair-worshipping cult, but how many cults like that are there, right? What are the odds, really?

  "Careful, some ladies here are mages too, they might catch ya off guard."

  "Oh don't worry, I can take my lumps if I go too far and get slapped," he paused, "how did you know I was a practitioner of the art? Did I unconsciously cast a spell in my drunken haze again? Hic - Oh dear. That poor stable hand was a chicken for a week."

  "Ha, no, it's because everybody knows wizards have beards and wear robes."

  "True, we mages of human extraction and of intellectual stripe do tend to grow our beards out a fair bit as we get older, and the robes help with the flow of magic. Those fellers who cast their magic from their ballsacks, sorcerers, have less of a reputation for whiskers. Plus robes are rather warm - I've gotten to the point where even a temperate clime such as this ravages my knees in the winter."

  I nodded, "my grandfather had the same problem."

  "But mark my words young man, I've got a long way to go before I slow down!"

  He proceeded to lecture me about the extended lifespans powerful mages tended to enjoy. I listened for a while, then thanked the old man for his stories and bid him a good night. Damn, another fun one; reminded me of a certain turtle hermit. Hanzorian's logic for why he could be the traitor was pretty sound, I thought, but from the outside he seemed like a harmless, if horny, old guy.

  I managed to catch three in one next as they were standing together cordially. Justiciar Manfred Payne, Grand Duke Lucien de Valcour, and Chancellor Robert Garamond. The Justiciar was a stern older guy in a gray powdered wig that fell upon his shoulders; he seemed irritated despite putting on airs around his companions. The Chancellor had a hawkish nose, stood as stiff as a board, and was dressed austerely; he might as well have been a blue eagle, the way he looked at my outfit disapprovingly; gah! He even had the audacity to adjust my cravat! All three were just a little older than the queen herself, actually, in fact she considered them to be close friends of hers. That didn't necessarily mean they felt the same way about her, though. Well I couldn't pick up anything in particular from our conversation, the Duke seemed like a swell guy, I don't think the Justiciar approved of my being there, and the Chancellor was distracted by something related to the manners of other guests. Oh incidentally, the Duke of Middlebrook and the second prince were also in that group at the moment but neither of them were suspects - the two were good friends from way back, it seemed; but I wouldn't find out more about that until much later.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I carefully extricated myself from their presence, and moved on.

  After conversing with that last group, I was a little parched and peckish - so I went over to one of the many catering tables and started munching on some cheese. Ah, a sprightly man leaped down from the stage and somersaulted over to the table adjacent to me; great timing, I was just thinking of finding him, or the high priest next. Here was a man who was the very picture of a joker; not the clown prince of crime, but the playing card variety. The motif of his outfit was bright green and purple, with a motley that was half of each color, pants with vertical stripes alternating them and a top which had a diamond pattern. His face was covered in white makeup, save for the black eyeliner and lipstick. Despite being part of the entertainment, the jester was actually a guest and a member of the court besides; he was helping Meli out with something very important, as I may have mentioned, but he was also a suspect.

  "Ah, great," I said, "I was hoping I'd get to talk to ya."

  The gaunt fellow turned, and bowed in a most exaggerated and theatrical manner, "little old me, really? You honor me, good sir. But I am just part of the entertainment! A showman!"

  "Ain't you a guest?"

  He nodded, and quickly scarfed some smoked fish, "why yes, old boy, and her majesty wanted me to relax," he gesticulated, dismissively, "to enjoy myself, to have fun, to hire someone else to put on a show - but I insisted! I do love my job, after all, and if I didn't perform at least a little I couldn't very well go calling myself a thespian now could I? They call me Mal, and I'm everyone's pal!" He laughed and pirouetted.

  Stage name "Pal Mal", real name Malcolm Kavian, age 27, published playwright, joined the royal court at the age of 20 after impressing the Queen during a festival performance. Frequent critic of the crown, but that's to be expected of a man in his position. Despite being the court jester, he is actually a landed noble himself; he is the only living member of his house, and is still a bachelor. As far as anyone knows, he doesn't even keep servants in his old family home, which lies vacant most of the time due to him having quarters here.

  "But tell me," he said, grinning broadly, "I heard that you, too, are partially responsible for tonight's festivities!"

  Did he know I'd saved the queen? Nah. I knew what he meant, "yep, I gave Miss Meli the idea."

  He spun around and cradled his chin, "pure genius I say, this idea saves I, a great illusionist, a great deal of effort! But what of you, then, what is your name and line of work?" He held out his hand, smiling widely.

  I accepted the handshake and said, "Victor, I'm an iron-ranked adventurer."

  "Ohh an adventurer you say? Alas," he started doing a sad clown routine and put the back of his hand on his forehead and slowly spun to face away from me, "I could never think of joining the adventurer's guild."

  Now that was a lie, according to the dossier he was a registered wood-ranked adventurer and - suddenly he spun back around, hands spread out, getting way too close, his tongue was sticking out and there it was: a wooden adventurer's guild chip on a leather lanyard swaying from side to side like a hypnotist's watch.

  "But then one day I got blackout drunk and woke up with one of theeeese!"

  Gah! What I'd taken for a lie was the setup for a joke, and I was completely unprepared! Okay fair enough, this guy's pretty funny. Still, even a laughing man has secrets, I knew that well; how long had it been, six years? Still hurt like a bitch. You ain't off the list of suspects either, but, I'll be sure to watch your variety show later on.

  I had laughed out loud when the punchline hit me, "all right, you got me good. Thanks, I needed that."

  There was a hint of genuine surprise, maybe disbelief, on his face. He said with a weak smile, "truly? Well. I was merely doing my duty - now if you'll pardon the sudden exit," he stuffed some more appetizers in his mouth, chewed a bare-ass minimum, and swallowed, "I do believe it is time for my juggling routine, ta-ta!" The guy vaulted back onstage and started tossing knives; damn wish I could stay and watch but I still had quite a lot of ground to cover

  Next I talked to a bespectacled bald pated man with a prominent nose who was sitting by his lonesome nibbling at some dainties; ink stains on his fingers but otherwise well kept. He was looking around all nervous; kind of reminded me of that scrawny gas station attendant in that old movie about a big W. I didn't talk much with him, but nor did I get a good or a bad impression either way. Head Clerk Norman Malleaux, age 55, kind of an unassuming type, but you know what they say about the quiet ones - For him, it was about 50-50 whether he could be our traitor or not; I mean it wasn't like I needed to talk to everyone to figure out who it was, I had other plans for that. The real aim was to draw their attention when the time was right.

  Well don't worry I did meet more interesting ones, such as the Chamberlain who was presently seated at a table sharing wine with, oh, another suspect besides, that's helpful. Chamberlain Baldric Neel, age 37, was a sandy haired man, stylishly dressed but not ostentatiously so; crushed velvet wine-colored suit, white trimmed, with a cravat around his neck, hair neatly kept. Often he speaks of a wife whom no-one has ever seen in person, and who suffers from numerous strange idiosyncrasies, and whose description was so outrageous that I couldn't even picture her. His companion for this round of drinks was a gray-haired fellow with a Gomez Addams type moustache dressed all in black; this was the head Butler, Bernard Deroux, age 60. It wasn't difficult to secure an invitation to a conversation: In fact the chamberlain had been the one to wave me over, which was perfect.

  "Oh!" he called, waving, "pardon me, might I enquire as to who your tailor is?"

  I bowed, "forgive me your lordship, my friends purchased this outfit for me so I'm unaware of whose shop made it - but I assume the one who resized it was a pattern mage named Meli."

  "Ah how unfortunate," he shook his head, "I should like one myself, actually, but it is apallingly difficult to find new clothing in this city that isn't either too jejune, has a texture I don't enjoy, or is of a fabric that makes me break out into hives."

  "Ya got a pretty nice suit there yourself," I said.

  "Well it was imported, you see, from the kingdom of Verdan up north - but trade relations broke down a while back and I haven't been able to find a spare set in a different color, oh and do not allow me to start on the brandy that we used to get from there! And now her majesty wants to redecorate the castle too so my current suit would just look wrong with the new decor she has in mind and we have had so many arguments about the right way to arrange furniture and color theory and fashion and I-"

  He rambled like this for a while. This guy was in charge of the Queen's chambers, and known to be an incorrigible fussbudget. Yeah he was getting irritated and was talking faster, but then finally he hyperventilated into a handkerchief. I won't bore you with that table any further, except to say that for once I actually eliminated a suspect because I discovered information that wasn't in the butler's dossier: he'd had been terribly ill for weeks, convalescing in his home long before the route was decided and didn't come back to work until after the attack. Well when has it ever actually been the butler, anyway? The chamberlain, however, remained as suspicious as ever - neurotic in the extreme, this guy could snap at any time, I reckoned. I imagined him being so fed up with the queen that he wound up falling under the sway of some cabal of madmen during one of his fits.

  I parted with them on reasonably good terms I reckoned; I did make it a point to tell the chamberlain that Meli could maybe change the color of his clothes and he lit right up . I also tried some of the mead they were enjoying; not bad, actually, and did I detect a gin-like note hinting at Juniper berries? Not bad, but hardly germane to my investigation - I pressed on.