The marble corridors of the Sultan’s palace still echoed with murmurs as Alaric and Mila strode through, their footsteps sharp against the polished floor. Servants and guards alike stepped aside, some bowing, most pretending not to look.

  “Have you confirmed what blueprint he stole?” Alaric asked, voice low but edged.

  “So far I can only confirm that Mr. Morozov took the main blueprint, sir.”

  “Oh no, no no no,” Alaric muttered, his tone sharp with contempt. “He ceased to be Mr. Morozov. He is now a fucking cockroach… what is Ruskan for cockroach?”

  “I believe it’s tarakan, sir.”

  “Ah yes. Tarakan.” He smiled faintly, though it never reached his eyes. “So tell me, how did Mr. Tarakan get his filthy hands on the Nocturne’s blueprint?”

  “I believe it wasn’t an original, sir. Likely a traced copy, drawn while the Nocturne underwent repair here.”

  “Then I want the one who drew it found,” Alaric said flatly. “I don’t want him becoming a future problem.”

  “I already sent men after him, sir.”

  “Good.” He adjusted his cufflinks as they descended the palace steps. “Now—do you know where the SNC office is?”

  “I do,” Mila answered. “And I also brought horses.”

  Alaric’s smirk returned, sharp and faintly amused. “Excellent work, my dear.”

  They mounted their horses without another word. The palace gates swung open before them, and the city’s morning heat hit like a wave of brass and dust. Hooves struck the cobblestones in quick cadence as they rode through narrow streets lined with traders and steam carriages, the air thick with spice smoke and engine hiss.

  Mila rode ahead, coat flaring behind her, silver hair flashing under the sun. Alaric followed close, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat. The crowds parted instinctively; few dared to stand in the way of riders who moved with such silent purpose.

  They cut through the harbor district and turned into the merchant quarter, where the noise softened to a hum of paper and coin. Finally, they reined in before a tall, continental-style building of pale stone and green copper roofs. Polished glass windows glinted like mirrors of pride.

  Above the grand doorway hung an ornate brass sign:

  LODGE No. 51

  A trade scale and compass engraved beneath.

  Alaric exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the sign.

  “So this is the nest,” he said softly.

  Then, with a faint smile, “Let’s see how the gentlemen of commerce handle a real complaint.”

  They stepped inside. The air was cool, scented faintly of old paper and polished brass. The hall seemed empty, save for a single well-groomed old man behind the clerk’s desk.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the old man asked, his voice polite but cautious.

  “Yes,” Alaric replied calmly. “Is your branch manager present?

  “I believe he is currently in his office, but I’m afraid you must make an appointment beforehand.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alaric said, already walking past. “He’ll make the appointment as soon as he sees me.”

  “Sir? Sir, where are you going?”

  “Don’t worry. I know my way—SNC always builds their lodges identically.”

  “Sir, please, you must stop!” the clerk called, hurrying after him.

  But Alaric didn’t so much as glance back.

  “Sir, if you proceed any further, I’ll be forced to contact the authorities!”

  “Oh, I believe they couldn’t help you,” Alaric answered without slowing.

  He continued down the corridor until he reached a pair of double doors. With a firm push, they swung open.

  Inside, a man sat behind a broad mahogany desk, spectacles perched on his nose as he studied a ledger. He looked up sharply.

  “Who are you?” the man demanded.

  “I’m sorry, Master Dumas, this man here just barged in, I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “I am Alaric Van Aerden,” Alaric said evenly. “And I have something important to discuss—something that involves the guild’s interest.”

  “Oh…” The man smiled faintly and gestured to the clerk behind Alaric. “It’s alright, Mr. Bernard. I’ll take it from here. You may leave.”

  “As you wish, Master Dumas,” the old clerk murmured with a bow before retreating.

  “Please, please—take a seat. I wasn’t aware I would be receiving a visit from you, sir,” Dumas said, gesturing toward the chair opposite his desk.

  “It’s because my visit was rather a sudden decision,” Alaric replied, settling into the chair with composed ease.

  “Oh… then it must be very urgent.”

  “Urgent would be an understatement,” Alaric said. “It’s rather critical.”

  “I see…” Dumas folded his hands atop the ledger. “So then, how can I help you?”

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

  “I’m here to file some sort of a complaint.”

  “Oh?” Dumas’s tone dipped, cautious now. “I wasn’t aware you were associated with our guild.”

  “Oh,” Alaric smiled faintly, eyes narrowing with quiet amusement, “you would be surprised.”

  “So, what sort of complaint do you wish to file?” Dumas asked, folding his hands with a merchant’s courtesy that didn’t quite hide his curiosity.

  “Well…” Alaric leaned back slightly. “I believe you have a new member from Ruska — a man named Dimitri Nikolaiovich Kuznetsov.”

  “Yes, he joined this spring,” Dumas said with a proud nod. “A valuable addition to this branch. I vouched for him myself. Has he caused you any trouble?”

  “Not exactly him,” Alaric replied. “But he has a brother-in-law — Alexander Morozov. He was once my associate, and he owes me quite a lot of money. It appears that Mr. Kuznetsov is hiding him from me.”

  “Oh… that’s a serious allegation,” Dumas said carefully. “I will investigate it, of course. But a prominent merchant and businessman such as yourself — surely you understand such risks are… part of our world, yes?”

  “Oh, I’m not here because of the money,” Alaric said, his tone cooling. “It’s about the betrayal. He didn’t merely flee his debt — he colluded with Mr. Kuznetsov and stole my ship’s blueprint.”

  “Your blueprint?” Dumas blinked. “The Royale Nocturne’s?”

  “Yes,” Alaric said evenly. “If it were just about money, even if he hid behind a guildsman, I’d recover it in time — without your mediation. But the blueprint is another matter entirely.”

  Dumas studied him for a long moment, then gave a thin smile.

  “Hmmm… this is serious indeed. But indulge me, Mr. Van Aerden. Why should we surrender a very promising member — and a chance to build a copy of the Nocturne, one of the most advanced vessels afloat — that would work against the guild interest, was it not?”

  “Because if you don’t,” Alaric said, voice smooth as glass, “then the guild is declaring war against me. And that means you won’t just have the Eternal Order to worry about in the future—”

  He leaned forward slightly, eyes glinting.

  “—you’ll have me.”

  “Oh, please,” Dumas scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “The Eternal Order is just a myth.”

  Alaric laughed — short, sharp, and mocking. “Oh, Master Dumas… I know for a fact that the guild and the Order are in an uneasy alliance against Brettonia and the Coalition. Isn’t that correct?”

  Dumas blinked once, twice—trying to compose himself—but the flicker of panic was already there.

  “I also know,” Alaric went on, “that you’ve received very specific directives: not to interfere with my company, and certainly not to provoke me.”

  Dumas’s throat tightened. “How… how did you know all this?”

  Alaric’s smile turned cold.

  “Do you think the guild tried to recruit me? Has it never occurred to you that I already work for the guild?”

  “You… you are a guildsman?” Dumas stammered.

  “I was,” Alaric said. “But even then, I still maintain close connections with several guildmasters.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Dumas said, shaking his head. “Why would you still work for the guild if you already quit?”

  “Because,” Alaric replied, his tone turning almost conversational, “it’s in my best interest — and the guild’s — to have someone operating from the outside. Someone who isn’t bound by treaties or decorum. Someone who doesn’t need to respect the alliance with an old nemesis.”

  He leaned back slightly, smiling faintly. “I’m sure an enterprising businessman like you can understand that… yes?”

  Dumas opened his mouth, but no words came.

  Alaric’s expression hardened. “Yes, you’re in deep trouble, Dumas.”

  “I… I… I will contact Mr. Kuznetsov and explain the situation.”

  “And tell him my association with the guild? Might as well announce it in the newspaper.”

  “I… I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what to do. Please—tell me how I can help.”

  “I want you to commission a Fair Game.”

  Dumas froze hearing that word.

  “A Fair Game? You want a total war against Kuznetsov?”

  “Yes, and his ally if needs be.”

  “But Mr. Kuznetsov is an important member of my branch—we are trying to establish a lodge in Ruska.”

  “Ah, the impenetrable Ruska Empire. But humor me, Dumas. Is he valuable to you, or to the guild?”

  “What are you saying? If he manages to establish a lodge there, then he is important for both me and the guild. Ruskans always oppose our establishment there.”

  “Who do you think would become a guildmaster of the Eastern Continental branch, a branch manager Dumas in Twin City, or a soon-to-be branch manager Kuznetsov who manages to lay a foundation in Ruska?”

  Dumas’ eyes dropped to the floor.

  “My visit doesn’t come with empty hands, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know very well that I’m a close friend of the Sultan, and earlier he told me that you want to persuade him on establishing a constitutional monarchy—and I can help you with that.”

  “You’re willing to persuade the Sultan?”

  “Only if you commission a Fair Game between me and Kuznetsov.”

  “I… I’m not sure.”

  “Do you want to be guildmaster, or Kuznetsov?”

  “I do, I want, sir. But what am I going to tell the headquarters?”

  “Just telegraph the situation exactly the way I told you. The guildmasters would understand.”

  “Very well then,” Dumas said at last, forcing steadiness into his voice. “In fact, I will draft the commission right now.”

  He slid open a drawer, revealing a compact brass typewriter. The machine clacked and hissed softly as he began to type, each keystroke sounding heavier than the last.

  Commission Decree

  I, Antoine-Alain Dumas, Guild Manager of Lodge No. 51, Eastern Continental Branch, Twin City,

  hereby exercise my exclusive authority granted by the Council of Masters to commission a Fair Game between Guildsman Dimitri Nikolaiovich Kuznetsov and Mr. Alaric Van Aerden under the following reason:

  Guildsman Dimitri Nikolaiovich Kuznetsov, as of this commission being written, is found harboring an enemy of Mr. Alaric Van Aerden and thus provoking an unsanctioned conflict between Societas Novus Comercii and Van Aerden Trading Company.

  Therefore, with this commission, Guildsman Dimitri Nikolaiovich Kuznetsov is hereby extricated from all guild responsibilities and all privileges suspended until the conflict is resolved or both parties have reconciled.

  Dumas stopped typing, the final line echoing faintly in the quiet office. He stared at the paper for a moment, then signed it with a trembling hand.

  Alaric checked the document line by line, his gloved finger following each word as if weighing their worth. When he reached the end, he gave a quiet nod.

  “Perfect, Dumas. To be honest, I didn’t expect you to follow through. I thought I’d have to contact headquarters myself.”

  “Please, Mr. Van Aerden,” Dumas said, exhaling. “I am ambitious, yes—but I am also a responsible man.”

  “Now that,” Alaric said with a faint smile, “is how a merchant should behave.”

  Dumas straightened his collar, still pale but relieved. “Is there anything else I could help with?”

  “No, you’ve done your part. Thank you, Master Dumas. I beg my leave then.”

  Alaric turned toward the door, but Dumas called out, “Wait!” He reached into his drawer once more and pulled out a sealed document. “Take this. Consider it… compensation for your trouble.”

  Alaric raised a brow, took the document, and skimmed its contents. Slowly, a shadow of mischief curved his lips. “Now this,” he said softly, “is interesting. Thank you, Dumas.”

  Without another word, he left. Mila followed in silence, her boots clicking softly across the polished floor.

  Outside, the sun was lower now, the air thick with the metallic tang of steam and salt. They walked side by side until the noise of the harbor drowned the echoes of the lodge behind them.

  Mila glanced at him. “What’s inside the document, sir?”

  Alaric tucked it into his coat pocket, a faint grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “Well… it appears Kuznetsov and Tarakan didn’t just betray me these past few months.”

  He looked toward the horizon, where the masts of the Royale Nocturne pierced the amber sky like a crown of steel.

  “They’ve been very busy,” he murmured. “And now, so shall we.”