Triumvirs

The truism of location, location, location was distinctly unamusing when word came the unit was moved to the citadel. It was like living on the TNS Epaphras all over again. The room was the size of a cabin on an ocean liner. There was a twin bed on the left and a narrow wardrobe on the right with a built-in desk. The minuscule bathroom was all of twenty-five square feet.

“Sir, this feels like a step-down,” Sentinel Captain Walter Otarion said.

Major Regis poked his head around the doorframe. “Perspective, Otarion. At least you have a room to yourself. The enlisted have to share.”

It was not helpful. He set his luggage on the bed and unpacked. Added to the list of strange and incredible things their major did, moving the unit to the citadel was near the top of the list. Though, the fact he was on special assignment to gain access to the Black Market’s inner circle and was directly linked to a Triumvir took some of the mystery out of his extraordinary authority.

Once his things were properly stored away, Otarion stepped out into the hall. There were four bedrooms on the officers’ floor. Archmage McCrain was across from him and Regis next to him. The fourth room was collectively used as extra storage. In a little nook at the end of the hall was a small lounge. The window was the only saving grace. It offered a picturesque view of the distant waterfall.

McCrain stepped out of his own room with equal displeasure. “For being a prestigious assignment, the citadel is shockingly small.”

“We’re on a rock in the middle of the river. It’s going to be small.”

McCrain eyed the lounge. “I’m making changes.”

Otarion watched as he adjusted the furniture of their lounge. From his room, he took a radio and plugged it in beside the couch. On the single shelf beneath the lounge table, he stacked various books and magazines. Otarion ducked back into his room and grabbed a spare blanket from the wardrobe. He draped it over the armrest of the couch as his mother did at home. It was something. Not much, but it was something.

“I feel like a destitute university student,” McCrain muttered.

“Supposedly the food is really good.”

“Something has to make it worth living here.”

“We’re a stone’s throw away from the platform. We can be in a portal to any world within fifteen minutes.”

“And we have the high command breathing down our necks for it.”

Otarion pursed his lips. That was a definite downside to this arrangement.

“Oh, come now, we’re not breathing down anyone’s necks.”

Both whirled around to find Colonel Stackhouse coming down the hall. Otarion had never seen the Special Forces commander, but he’d heard his voice and the decorations on his uniform instantly identified him. He was broad-shouldered with mouse-brown hair and blue eyes that Otarion had little doubt could freeze a Black-Market criminal in their steps. He was also young for a colonel, no older than his early forties, which meant he was either new to the rank or was extremely good at what he did, probably both.

Regis appeared from his room. “Good morning, Stackhouse. I don’t believe you’ve met Otarion yet.”

“Not in person,” he said, and he extended his hand. “Sentinel Colonel Royce Stackhouse.”

Otarion shook it. “Sentinel Captain Walter Otarion, sir.”

“How are you holding up? I’ve been at the hands of the Black Market before, and it took a full two months before I was allowed back in the field.”

Otarion exchanged a startled look with McCrain.

“You mean to say,” the Archmage demanded, “the Black Market makes a habit of tormenting Sentinels?”

“It’s a rule from the Auctioneer,” Stackhouse explained. “He doesn’t tolerate dead Sentinels if he can help it. Instead, if they catch one of us snooping too close to their operations, they beat the hell out of us and throw us back like unwanted fish. It’s a calculated choice. Assault is a lighter crime than the murder of an officer. The Auctioneer is a master at gauging what the Order tolerates and what will have the Azerie at his throat.”

McCrain balked. “The Order lets him get away with this?!”

Regis shook his head. “It’s that or dead Sentinels, and ‘get away with’ is a little unfair,” he added defensively. “We don’t know who he is and attempting to arrest him has not gone so well in the past. The Salikoth Raid was only the most recent example.”

“Speaking of the Auctioneer,” the colonel said. “Regis, this was passed through our intelligence network this morning.”

He pulled a small message card from his coat and handed it to the major. Regis’ expression grew cold as he read. “The Auctioneer passed this through our network?”

“Yes. He singled out one of our agents keeping watch on Santos. I don’t believe he knows who you are, only that a Sentinel Major is narrowing in on his lieutenants and creating uncertainty among the markets.”

Regis handed the message back. “Maintain our surveillance on Santos. The minute that man returns to Faction territory, I will see him behind an interrogation table.”

“One more thing, the Triumvirs got a similar message from the Auctioneer, and they’re… unhappy. They want to speak with you. King Angus suggested a meeting at tonight’s performance of Elling’s Solstice Symphony at the Illussimo. Chief Director Ferrante agreed to the plan. Two Triumvirs in one place will automatically mean Sentinel security. It’s the perfect cover for them to talk with you without tipping off outside agents of the meeting.”

Regis’ bowed his head as he thought through the plan. “Yes, this should work. Angus is unpredictable enough to pull this kind of stunt, and Ferrante would hypothetically jump at the chance to support the arts.”

“When can the unit be ready?”

“Two hours.”

“So be it. We meet at the platform in two hours.”

When Otarion told the unit of their impromptu security assignment, the barracks broke into a frenzy of activity as Sentinels prepared their class A uniforms. Senior Medic Helmar emerged from the structured chaos. He was the oldest Sentinel in the unit, older than even McCrain. The faint traces of wrinkles and the gray at his temples marked him as being at least in his fifties. Otarion had private doubts he was a Senior Medic at all. He didn’t carry himself like the enlisted. Actually, he didn’t carry himself like a military man, but his addition to the unit was Regis’ doing. It was something they couldn’t question.

Helmar made a beeline for Otarion. “Are you planning to go this evening?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

There was the barest suggestion of an eye roll. “Are you part of the security detail, sir?”

Otarion mentally shook his head. Helmar was definitely not from the military. That kind of tone of voice was thoroughly beaten out of Sentinels in the first couple of weeks of training. “I have to. You’re my Sentinels.”

Helmar scrutinized him with unnerving intensity. “I’ll have to examine you first.”

Otarion’s shoulders slumped as he followed the man down to the ground floor of their home. The equipment lockers were already prepped, and against the wall of the open gym were racks of practice weapons. Tucked in the corner was a medical examination room. Helmar opened the door and switched on the light.

“Have a seat and removed your coat and shirt.”

Otarion hopped onto the metal examination table. “I feel fine.”

“And when you’re not on prescription painkillers?” he asked as he slipped on a pair of gloves.

Otarion shrugged as he gingerly stripped down to the waist. “Painkillers exist so we can keep working.”

“And with an attitude like that, your time in service will end tragically with severe injury and chronic pain. Sit up straight.”

Otarion said nothing as he examined him. Most of the bruises had faded by now, it was a month since the beating he took at the hands of the Black-Market thugs, but some persisted. Helmar pressed lightly against his ribs, and Otarion bit his tongue to avoid snapping at him. He asked him to twist and stretch as far and as long as he could, then Helmar took a stethoscope and listened to his breathing.

“You’re recovering well, but over action will set you back.”

Otarion pulled his shirt back on. “How much longer will I be like this?”

“So long as you don’t exacerbate the problem, another two weeks.” Helmar patted him on the shoulder sympathetically. “It could’ve been worse. Let me know if you want some ice packs.”

An hour and a half before they had to depart, Otarion went with Sergeant Ironsi to visit the mess hall. This base was the world’s namesake. Perched on a rocky island in the middle of the river Fimenosta was a towering gray and white citadel. It was as much a show of force as it was a legitimate base. Docked at the harbors to the east and west were naval destroyers and cruisers. Immense stone bridges connected the fortress to the shore where smaller bases were positioned as the first line of defense and outfitted with the Dark Harbor’s shipyards.

It struck Otarion that, even with so little space to use on the island base, the Order insisted on greenery. The detached rows of barracks scattered in what space was available were concealed by strategically placed pines, white, flowering trees, and hedges, leaving the emphasis on the citadel itself and the ships at harbor.

Inside the citadel and the military grandeur was replaced with regal opulence. The vestibule alone was enormous. The ceilings stretched at least four stories high with every corner bathed in natural light. The black and white marble flooring was polished to shine, and the Sentinel Corps’ olive branch and scale emblem was inlaid in the center in gold. Great corridors split off left and right. At the other end of the giant vestibule was a grand staircase leading to the Order’s famed courtrooms.

“It’s a castle,” Otarion said in wonder.

“It’s the seat of a Triumvir,” Ironsi said, just as awestruck. “Two in our case.”

Otarion arced his head back to take in the immense stained-glass window depicting the nine elements. “It’s funny, you just never think about it, but the Azerie Lord is a king of sorts.”

Ironsi frowned. “They’re judges, not kings.”

“The Directors’ Assembly might govern most of the Factions worlds through democratically elected Directors, but the Azerie Lord governs this world, and he’s not elected, he’s appointed. King.”

“That doesn’t make him a king,” Ironsi argued. “The high command does as much to govern the Dark Harbor as the Order does, more so these days. We don’t even have an Azerie on world.”

“So? An absentee king is still a king. Come on, I’m hungry.”

The mess hall was down the right corridor, though it was less mess hall and more great hall. The room was lit by magnificent chandeliers. Long tables were set with silverware and draped in black and white tablecloths. The buffet of food really did make their cramped quarters worth it: rotisserie chicken, roasted fish, several different types of gravy, stuffed pasta, sautéed vegetables, tomato bisque, bread straight from the oven, and a table full of desserts.

Otarion happily added a piece of the chocolate cake to his overfull plate. “Okay, I’m satisfied. This place is awesome.”

Half an hour before departure, Otarion emerged from his room adjusting his officer’s cap. Major Regis and McCrain were seated in their little officer’s lounge bent over a strategy game with the radio’s music turned low. Regis was in a similar uniform to his own, but McCrain was decked out in the full regalia of an Archmage. A slimming long white coat, white slacks, with indigo accents on the collar and trim. The only mark of his status as a Sentinel was the gold Sentinel Corps emblem pinned on the left of his chest and the Sentinel-issued saber at his side.

The Archmage swore under his breath in Aeronies as the major took a set of his glass beads. Otarion scanned the board and shook his head. Regis had McCrain on the razor’s edge of defeat. “Sir, is there something you’re not good at?”

Regis chuckled. “Is that supposed to be rhetorical?”

“No,” McCrain bit out.

“Well, my math skills are subpar. Math wasn’t that useful to my career outside of a firm understanding of statistics. I’ve already said I’m not good with trust. Relationships have never been easy. I grew up in a situation where anyone outside a close circle of friends was as likely to harm me as work with me.”

“Sounds like court,” McCrain grumbled as he took one of Regis’ pieces. “So, no luck with the ladies?”

“No. My career made marriage extremely problematic. Take my advice, there are not many careers worth sacrificing relationships for.”

McCrain contemplated the board with his brows furrowed. “Service in the corps has to be one of them, right?”

Regis did not answer immediately. The stretch lasted so long that Otarion started to think he wouldn’t answer. Finally, the major said, “Service to the corps is noble, and good men and women must serve, but you’ll find the high command full of Sentinels who would’ve done things differently if they had the chance.”

In a series of jumps, Regis’ swept McCrain’s surviving beads off the board. McCrain lifted his hands in defeat. “Screw that. I know when I’m outmatched.”

Regis donned his cap with a wry smile. “I told you, Archmage. Everyone losses to me in the end.”

They descended the stairs. Twenty till and the unit was on the ground floor of the barracks lined up in equal columns. Otarion walked up and down scrutinizing their uniforms. He would not have a single thread out of place. It might be guard duty, but they were guarding two Triumvirs. He refused to see a single Sentinel dishonor the corps during such a prestigious assignment.

“It’s a symphony,” he said. “If anyone nods off on duty, I will flog you myself.”

He took his place to Regis’ right, and they marched to the platform. A long promenade lined with flowering trees stretched from the steps of the citadel to the large, open platform guarded by armored Sentinels. Colonel Stackhouse was waiting for them. Regis saluted, and the colonel reciprocated.

“You know, I keep petitioning high command to change the uniforms. White slacks are a terrible choice.”

“Try keeping an entire white uniform clean,” McCrain grumbled, and he withdrew the steel baton clipped to his belt. In a series of weaving motions with the baton, the portal materialized before their eyes. McCrain checked his watch. “Two hours and ten minutes, sir. We’ll be there at two fifteen in the afternoon.”

One by one, they stepped through.

To Otarion, walking into a portal always felt like walking into the glass of an aquarium. He was used to the sensation by now, but the sense of awe at entering the Nether Currents never went away. The moment he stepped through, the Dark Harbor vanished to a world of vast, open blue. It was like swimming in the deep ocean. Empty, silent, devoid of anything but the shimmering deep. To the untrained, it was easy to panic, and thus be thrown from the currents back to the Dark Harbor, and even for the experienced, two hours in this state of immobile helplessness would’ve been a challenge. It was why every portal was built with a sleep spell. It took effect mere seconds after entering the Nether Currents. Otarion relaxed and closed his eyes. He didn’t dream, it wasn’t true sleep, but the time went by within moments. A bright light enveloped him, and the void was replaced by sunshine and stifling humidity.

Otarion shook himself and stepped to the side as he took in their surroundings.

The Spire was as extraordinary as its reputation suggested. This world was the true home of the Triumvirate. No one country owned it (though as little more than a string of tropical islands, it was a no economic loss). Instead, it belonged to the confederacy as a whole, and the capital city reflected this unique status.

Otarion shook his head in admiration at the colossal monolith in the distance. Set a few miles from the coast, with the mountains as a dramatic backdrop, stood a collection of five, interconnected skyscrapers. Four at each cardinal point, each varying in height, with the fifth in the center reaching an unprecedented height of two thousand seven hundred and eighty-eight feet. It was an architectural marvel only made possible through the combined efforts of Soluna’s brightest engineers, Aeronis’ elite magicians, and Eldrin’s master elementists. It was a true masterpiece showcasing the immense wealth, power, and splendor of the Triumvirs.

When the unit was fully through the portal, they climbed into the waiting trucks and left the base. Otarion watched the tourist-packed streets through the darkened window of the transport. Compared to his modest home in Oras or the jungle backwater of Anaconda, the Spire radiated prosperity and prestige.

The Illussimo was separate from the skyscrapers themselves, though it was no less grand. The concert hall was a circular building made of sandstone and glass in the Solunan style. The courtyard and gardens surrounding the building were as exquisite as a designated botanical garden, courtesy of the Eldrinians. Inside the concert hall, with its opulent chandeliers and ornate, gold crown molding, displayed the Aeronies’ magisterial style. It was the perfect marriage of the confederacy’s three nations.

Upon arrival, the colonel ordered the unit to split off into pairs and sweep the premise. Otarion was given a layout of the building and drew up the guard routes and rotations with Ironsi’s help. At first, they worried the concert hall’s in-house security would challenge their demands, but they were more than happy to oblige.

An hour before the concert was scheduled to begin, everyone was in place and the premise was secured. Otarion walked briskly around the edge of the auditorium. It was an unusual concert hall with the stage in the center of the room and the seats arrayed around it in a perfect circle. He slipped through a side door and up a flight of stairs to a wide, carpeted corridor. Curtained off alcoves marked the opening of each box seat. Standing outside the north-facing curtain were Major Regis and two of their more senior Sentinels.

“Everyone is in position, sir,” he said.

“Excellent,” Regis said. “Chief Director Ferrante is twenty minutes out, and McCrain’s off to meet his king at the platform.”

“What are they like? The Triumvirs?”

Regis lifted his cap to run his fingers through his hair. “Well, I’m a rather biased source, but they’re great men. Ferrante is extremely smart and a perceptive student of history. He is far more reasonable than a man in politics ought to be. There’s a reason the other Directors voted him into office with a solid bipartisan majority.”

Otarion watched him closely through the explanation. Of all the Triumvir’s for Regis to be directly linked to, the Chief Director was the only choice. Regis wasn’t an Archmage, otherwise, they wouldn’t need McCrain, nor could he be from the Order. Neither Azerie Ramses nor Azerie Alexander had children, adopted or otherwise.

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to see him.” Regis shot him a thinly veiled warning look, and Otarion cleared his throat, “What about the king?”

“He’s… eccentric. He has a terrible habit of abruptly changing his mind on policy. He’s a fantastic Archmage, one of the best in the country, and he’s there when it counts, but the king is a very hard Triumvir to predict.”

“Have you ever met the Azerie Triumvirs?”

“They like to remain in the background. Of the Triumvirs, they’re the most private and the least trusting. They stay away from the public eye as much as possible. Though, after what they’ve been through, no one criticizes them for their reticence.” Otarion’s communicator vibrated with Ironsi’s all-clear report. Regis waved him off. “Make your rounds. I will coordinate everything from the anteroom.”

The arrival of Triumvirs was, in short, momentous. The concert guests respectfully moved out of the way as the heads of state arrived. Only journalists attempted to get close, and they were summarily marked and marched back by the Sentinels or the Illussimo’s security. Otarion watched the arrival from the top of the grand staircase of the concert hall’s lobby. He’d made two circuits and would make another once the Triumvirs were settled, but he, as with every intensely curious guest, wanted to catch a glimpse of these monumental figures.

The first to arrive was Chief Director Ferrante. Two of his security guards entered first, ensuring proper distance from the crowd, then two lesser Directors walked in, then the man himself. He was slim, with peppered hair and an easy smile. He nodded graciously to the other guests, waved to some, and talked briefly with others. When he climbed the steps to the second floor, Otarion saluted.

“Captain,” Ferrante said with an acknowledging nod.

“Sir.”

They disappeared around the circular corridor for their designated box. The crowd below erupted in a murmur of excited conversation. He didn’t blame them. Everyone had heard the Triumvirs speak on the radio, the Chief Director most of all. It was something else entirely to see him in person.

He’s smaller than I pictured, Otarion thought. The man couldn’t have been more than five-eight.

This was not true for the Archmage King. Fifteen minutes later and the crowd was once again asked to move aside. Two Archmages and McCrain entered the building, creating the same bubble as the Director’s security service had done, and the king strode through the doors of the concert hall. The man struck an imposing figure. Tall, with a shock of red hair and keen eyes alight with equal parts strength and good humor. He marched down the walkway, not bothering the stop or chat with the guests, and bounded up the steps with vigor.

Otarion snapped to attention and saluted. “Ah, Sentinel Captain Otarion,” the king said in Runic. “At ease, young man. This is a concert hall, not a battlefield. Is Regis here?”

“He’s waiting in the anteroom, sir.”

“Good! ‘Bout time he deigned to meet with us, that bastard.”

He strode off in the direction of the box seats. As before, the crowd was reduced to excited mutterings. Otarion frowned as he set about his rounds. It had been a strange thing for the Triumvir to say.

The concert opened with gusto. Symphonic and choir voices rang out in a dramatic fortissimo and the Sentinels and security guards on duty started at the sudden noise. Otarion skipped a step from his own surprise. He doubted he would have to flog anyone for dereliction of duty this evening.

Senior Scout Velds was on guard outside with a view of the concert hall gardens. She was watching the winding paths beneath the palms as much as she was watching the back entrance used by the performers.

Otarion joined her and asked, “All’s well?”

“All’s well. Did you see the Triumvirs?”

“Yep. I bet the major’s happy to see Director Ferrante.”

“Not as happy as Colonel Stackhouse. Ferrante is his cousin, you know. Rumor is that’s half the reason he was promoted to the high command. That entire family is highly placed within the confederacy.”

Otarion cocked his head. “You mean like Regis?”

“What do you mean?”

“Regis said he was adopted by a Triumvir. That has to be Ferrante.”

Velds pursed her lips, and Otarion searched her expression for some kind of clue. She knew Regis’ real identity. How she learned was anyone’s guess, but she was his best source to weasel out the truth.

“If that’s what he told you,” she hedged. “There’s nothing to say the Triumvir who adopted him is still in office. It might be Ferrante, it might not.”

Otarion’s heart sank. That had not occurred to him. Chief Directors could serve as long as twelve years. Regis’ benefactor might have been long retired. He muttered curses under his breath as he continued his rounds. At intermission, he resumed his position at the top of the steps. Concert guests intermingled in the lobby as some ordered drinks and others stretched their legs. His communicator vibrated with a message from Regis.

Come to the anteroom. The Triumvirs would like to meet you.

Otarion straightened in surprise at the unexpected honor and replied he was on his way. The Chief Director’s bodyguards stood outside the curtained-off alcove, watching the Sentinels on guard with the scrutiny of one professional to another. The king’s guards, two Archmages in white, looked on with amusement. Together, they had created a fifty-foot secured area away from the curtained entrance. Otarion slipped past the perimeter and mentally braced himself as he pushed back the curtain.

The anteroom was a warm, dimly lit room with a small table set with food and drink. Chief Director Ferrante and King Angus were seated at the table listening to Regis. Otarion joined McCrain off to the side and waited.

The scene was a strange one. The two other Directors that had come with Ferrante were off in a separate corner watching the proceedings silently. Colonel Stackhouse stood in the opposite corner just as quiet, deferential even, and not once did he interrupt as Regis spoke with the heads of state. Otarion couldn’t understand what was said, they were speaking in Aeronies, but the body language of the Triumvirs was telling. Their expressions were grave. Ferrante leaned forward with his hands folded on the table in front of him. Even King Angus, with his hand stroking his beard and eyes alight with concentration, gave Regis his undivided attention. They respected him, immensely, and Regis was perfectly at ease under the scrutiny of the heads of state, as though this sort of high-level attention was a commonplace occurrence.

An uneasy thought wormed its way into his mind. He glanced to Stackhouse, then to the three men seated at the table. Every nation was represented here; Soluna, Aeronis, and the Sentinels stood in for Eldrin. Only, Regis wasn’t a Sentinel. The Special Forces commander was on the high command’s roster, his own cousin was at the table, but he was not the one to represent Eldrin’s interests?

Something is off, Otarion thought.

The Triumvirs were too respectful, Stackhouse and the other Directors too deferential. He glanced to McCrain and found the Archmage watching him. Very deliberately, McCrain looked to each of the three seated around the table, then raised his eyebrows as though in challenge. Otarion returned his attention to the Triumvirs, and it finally clicked. Regis wasn’t a Sentinel, yet Colonel Stackhouse stepped down to let him represent them at the table. Who but an Azerie could’ve represented Eldrin and demanded such respect from two Triumvirs?

Otarion’s thoughts strayed to what Velds said about Regis’ adoptive father. Adopted. He wanted to smack himself over the forehead. Azerie weren’t born, they were inducted, appointed. Otarion didn’t know the ins and outs of the Order’s culture when it came to their apprentices, but he knew they started relatively young. And everything Regis said his father taught him: statecraft, strategies, tactics, law, foreign relations. It was the recipe of a special agent just as easily as it was the recipe for a future Triumvir. What if Regis had said, without actually saying it, that he was apprenticed to a Triumvir? For a young man unloved by his family, it would’ve felt exactly like adoption. Which meant—Otarion felt the warmth leech from his body—there weren’t two Triumvirs seated at the table, there were three. The only question that remained was whether Regis was Azerie Ramses or Azerie Alexander.

A stagehand announced the ten-minute warning before the concert would resume. Ferrante said something, and the three men stood.

“Otarion,” Regis beckoned him over. “Gentlemen, this is Captain Walter Otarion.”

Ferrante offered his hand. “You have my sincere gratitude for your service, Captain Otarion. I’m very sorry to hear you suffered at the hands of the Black Market.”

Otarion nodded numbly. “It’s part of the job, sir.”

“You make a damn fine officer from what I’ve heard,” King Angus said. “And Eoin isn’t easy to impress. Keep it up and you’ll make high command before you know it.”

The king returned to his seat in the box itself. Ferrante offered Otarion a polite nod. “Take good care of Regis. He means a lot to us.”

Ferrante joined the king, his Directors following close behind. Otarion glanced at Regis. The major was staring at the table, unseeing. There was one way to tell if he was right. It was a risky test, and Regis wouldn’t be happy about it, but he was distracted and surrounded by people who knew he was not what the uniform he wore claimed. What had he said? If there is one rule I’ve broken, it’s being improperly uniformed.

Otarion lowered his voice and said in Eldrinian, “Your Honor?”

Regis looked up. A thrill of triumph shot through Otarion. Regis, realizing his error, gritted his teeth in irritation. He crossed his arms with a resigned sigh. Stackhouse glared daggers at Otarion from where he stood.

“That,” the colonel snapped, “was a low trick to play, captain.”

“This is a strict secret, Otarion,” Regis warned. “Officially, I’m in Eldrin with the rest of the Order. Only a handful outside the high command know of my presence, and it must stay that way if we’re going to succeed against the Black Market. The minute they know I am hunting them; they will go to ground, and I will not lose the Auctioneer again. Not after Salikoth. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Otarion said, doing his best to hide his glee. “You have my loyalty.”

“I know,” Regis said, and he donned his cap. “You swore your life to me when you graduated from the academy. Don’t forget that.”

He ducked into the hall. Colonel Stackhouse pointed to the nearest chair. “Let’s talk, captain.” McCrain attempted to retreat when the colonel pinned him with a vicious glare. “You too, Archmage.”

Reluctantly, they both sat.

“Before you start your railing,” McCrain said, “my king told me a few days ago. I just didn’t have the balls to call him by his title in public.”

“And giving Otarion those nonverbal hints to help him connect the dots? Don’t think I didn’t notice.” Stackhouse’s wrath faded a little. “Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him sooner. His portrait and Alexander’s are hanging in every courtroom from here to the frontier.”

Otarion had seen the portraits before, but it must’ve been thirty years since either man sat down for an artist. Even for men with lifespans measuring in the hundreds, thirty years made a difference. “He looks very different without the Light Azerie uniform. So, he’s Ramses?”

“In the flesh.”

Otarion sat forward. “There is just one thing I don’t understand, sir. Why our unit? Shouldn’t he have linked up with a unit from Special Forces?”

“That was the original plan, but the majority of my Sentinels would recognize him on sight. We worked with Azerie closely while the Order was in active service. Ramses wanted a unit he could make his own. He wanted to earn your loyalty and the unit’s loyalty without relying on his name and rank.”

McCrain scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. He didn’t have to prove anything to us.”

“It’s not about proving anything,” Stackhouse snapped. “It’s about trust. Ramses was saddled with the task of dismantling the Black Market. The last time the Order went after the Auctioneer, we lost two Azerie and thirty-six Sentinels. He had to know what kind of Sentinels you were before committing himself to another attempt.” Stackhouse withdrew the message card from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the table between them. “The Auctioneer is getting wise to our activities. If we’re going to have a shot at nailing him to the ceiling, we have to hit hard and fast.”

Otarion stared at the note with a sickening sense of dread. At the top was a wax stamp with the imprint of a gavel. The symbol should’ve represented law and justice, but it was a tool also used by auctioneers, and it was more associated with the Lord and Master of the Black Market than a courtroom. The message was a short one.

The Sentinels' recent activity against myself and my lieutenants has been noted. There is a cost to every action in the markets. Think carefully of the consequences before you make this recession worse with the uncertainty your actions breed.

“This is from the Auctioneer himself?” McCrain asked with a note of awe to his voice.

“Yes. I must have your oaths for complete and total secrecy on this. It’s a matter of the highest national security.”

“You have it,” McCrain said. “My king made me swear to protect that man as though he were my own sovereign. You can bet I will.”

“Captain Otarion?”

Otarion stared at the message card. To think, all this time, Regis was neither a Sentinel Major nor a special agent. He wasn’t even a typical Azerie, he was Azerie Ramses of Light, Supreme Justice, Lord of the Azerie Order, and Triumvir. Otarion couldn’t explain it, but there was an unexpected sense of loss with this revelation. He could never look at his commander the same way again. Azerie Ramses would have his absolute loyalty, even more so thanks to the months spent under his command, and he would gladly give up his life if Ramses asked it. But who he thought of as Sentinel Major Joshua Regis was gone. He never existed in the first place. This really was a game between Triumvirs, generals, and Auctioneers.

The audience clapped and cheered as the performers retook their positions on stage. He watched as the conductor stepped onto the raised podium. The man raised his stick, and the strings struck a melancholy chord. Otarion chuckled grimly at the timely metaphor and turned to face Stackhouse. “We’re players in a symphony, sir. It’s not our place to question the conductor. I’ll take this secret to the grave. I swear it.”

The colonel stood. “And I will hold you to that.”