Judging from the materials that Sarg and Margarite had gathered, all of the missing were children who had not yet come of age—boys and girls alike—and save for the youngest of the Roditchi family, every last one of them had come from the slums.
While Hyderlin was reviewing the documents, Sarg elaborated.
“Not a single body has been recovered. There is one witness account of two grown men dragging away a boy, so circumstantially speaking, human trafficking seems the most likely explanation.”
“My thoughts exactly. If this many people disappeared, there must be a financial trail somewhere.”
Hyderlin scratched her chin.
“Right then. Let’s go have a look.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have my ways.”
She pulled Sarg along and set out.
They rode hard for some time before arriving at the slums on the outskirts of Nadirotsa. The deeper they went, the more dilapidated the buildings became, and the more wretched the faces of the people they passed. Hyderlin and Sarg, mounted on horses—animals of considerable value—drew stares. Beggars and pickpockets loitered at the edges of their path, though the swords hanging at both riders’ hips kept them at a respectful distance.
Sarg rode in silence at Hyderlin’s side. He showed no particular sign of discomfort, nor did he so much as glance around at their surroundings.
“You seem perfectly at ease in a place like this. Didn’t you say you’d been out here before, investigating missing persons cases?”
“…That, and Lady Margarite makes frequent inspection visits to the slums, so I’ve grown accustomed to it.”
It was well known that Margarite made regular rounds through the outer districts, tending to the sick and distributing supplies.
“She is a remarkably compassionate soul. Though surely someone of her standing needn’t come herself.”
Hyderlin said it without much feeling. Chesa had never been particularly pleased about Margarite wandering through the slums. If the Saint were to receive a wound or fall ill while walking those filthy streets, it would be a catastrophe.
“You must work hard for it too, Sir Gloriosa. Spending your life in a place you’d never have occasion to visit otherwise, just to guard a Saint.”
Hyderlin clicked her tongue. He was the only son of Duke Gloriosa and an ordained Holy Knight who had walked a gilded path from the very beginning—a man who had no business being in a run-down street like this. Like a white swan among a flock of crows, he stood apart, utterly incongruous.
Sarg neither confirmed nor denied her comment. He was quiet for a moment.
“…You yourself seem equally familiar with streets you’d have had no occasion to visit, Milady. As a princess, you would have had little reason to set foot in a district like this.”
“Ah, I used to come out on inspection rounds with the late King. A knight in service to the crown has to know every corner of Nadirotsa, after all.”
The late King had raised Hyderlin to be a knight. From the time she was small, he had taken her out into the world and made her see the many faces of Lotsa—things that Chesa, who was being groomed for the throne, never needed to learn.
“Get down. We’re here.”
The place they had arrived at was a tavern tucked along the edge of Nadirotsa’s outskirts. When the door swung open to a dull jangle of bells, a wave of stale warmth rolled over them.
The reek of rotting floorboards. A pot hanging over the fireplace that looked as though it had been simmering since time immemorial. Shouting, cursing, laughter, and the smell of bodies—all of it wrapped around a room full of suspicious-looking characters.
The owner behind the counter, wiping down a cup, cast a sidelong glance at Hyderlin and her companion but made no gesture of welcome.
Hyderlin walked up to him and flicked back the hood she had pulled low over her face. The owner said flatly:
“Countess Biche.”
He said it as if he had recognized her at once. Sarg looked at Hyderlin with a questioning expression. Hyderlin gave him a small smile.
“Where’s the building owner?”
“Gone to his villa in Saint-Junais, I hear.”
“Don’t give me that. I know full well he sold that villa in Larrochelle.”
“Saint-Junais, was it? Or was it Sakiram?”
“He abandoned construction on that place halfway through—budget ran dry.”
“Hm.”
“Where is the building owner? Go and tell him the Princess has come calling.”
The owner summoned a runner and said something to him in a low voice. A short while later, the runner returned from wherever he had disappeared to.
“Right this way.”
Hyderlin led Sarg after the runner through the tavern floor. In a corner of the room, the runner pulled open a trapdoor set into the wooden floor, revealing a staircase leading down into the dark.
The steps creaked beneath their feet. Below, the interior was dim—lanterns hung from the ceiling cast a thin, grudging light. The air was thick with the smoke of dreamweed, musty and close. People were clustered around tables, playing at dice or cards.
Sarg saw the underground gambling den and showed no surprise. He had clearly known it existed.
Hyderlin navigated past men with glazed, reddened eyes and was guided toward a small room at the far end of the space.
Inside, a young man sat tilted back in his chair with his legs propped up on the table, a pipe clamped between his teeth.
His curly blond hair was tied back with a satin ribbon, and his clothing was extravagant to the point of excess—a velvet coat embroidered with roses in gold thread, the cuffs finished with the finest lace. Every one of his ten fingers sparkled with thick, gem-studded rings.
The man dropped his feet to the floor and sprang upright. He bared his teeth in a grin.
“Welcome, Your Highness! That you would grace this humble establishment with your presence—this lowly soul doesn’t know where to put himself.”
He swept into an exaggerated bow, as though auditioning for the part of a street entertainer, then turned his gaze to Sarg.
“And this must be… ah yes. Duke Gloriosa’s adopted son.”
The current Duke Gloriosa had no sons of his own. He had taken in the child of a distant collateral relative and raised him as his heir—that child being Sarg. But by a cruel twist of fate, Sarg had gone on to become a Holy Knight, and the line of succession to the dukedom had been left empty once again.
Sarg’s brow tightened slightly at the particular emphasis placed on the word adopted.
“It’s stuffy in here. Open a window once in a while, will you. Leone.”
Hyderlin waved a hand at the smoke filling the room. Leone—this garishly dressed young man—stretched his grin wider and replied:
“My apologies. It’s underground, so there’s little to be done.”
When Hyderlin dropped into the chair across from him, Sarg naturally took up his position beside the door. Leone settled back into his own seat.
“So, to what do I owe the honor of Your Highness’s visit?”
“There have been disappearances in the slums recently. Do you know anything?”
“Your Highness. We deal in stolen goods, we run protection, we traffic people, we lend money, we take contracts—but kidnapping is not something we do. Not kidnapping.”
Sarg, leaning against the doorframe, asked with cold precision:
“You said you don’t do kidnapping?”
“Correct. Even we have professional ethics.”
Sarg’s reply came without warmth.
“I wasn’t aware criminals who make their living off others’ misery had anything so dignified as ethics.”
Hyderlin noticed Leone’s hand drift toward the dagger at his hip. Sarg had certainly noticed it too.
Leone showed his teeth in a smile. There was no goodwill in it. Only hostility.
“By the standards of a Holy Knight born to holiness and privilege, I’m sure this hardly qualifies as ethics—but there’s no greater gentleman in this underworld than me. None at all. The fact that this back-alley even has something resembling order is entirely thanks to my efforts.”
“If you understand that you and the people beneath you are exploiting the citizens of Lotsa, you couldn’t say such a thing. Your very existence is a disturbance to the order of the entire nation.”
For the love of—I didn’t come here to start a fight.
Hyderlin slammed her palm down on the table with deliberate force, yanking both men’s attention back to her.
“Leone! I know you don’t do kidnappings. But your people might have done it without your knowledge. Your grip on them may have slipped—it’s possible.”
Leone shrugged.
“Since Your Highness puts it that way—let’s say, for the sake of argument, that some of my people did pull something like that. Moving a headcount that large would cost a fortune in food, shelter, and lodging alone. Which means there would have to be records. And if there are records, I’d know about them. But I’ve noticed nothing out of the ordinary as of late.”
“Still going to stick to that story?”
“I’m not sticking to anything. I’m telling you the truth.”
Hyderlin said bluntly:
“A noble’s child has gone missing.”
The easy smile dropped from Leone’s face.
Hyderlin rubbed her forehead, irritated.
“I’d rather not go stirring up your nest if I can help it. But the moment nobility gets involved, I have to do unpleasant things. If you want to go on running your little operation in peace, cooperate with this investigation.”
Hyderlin rose from her chair.
“Dig around thoroughly on your end. If you turn up anything useful, send word. You know my address.”
She grabbed Sarg’s arm and walked out. Behind her, Leone could be heard erupting in shouted orders to his men.
Halfway up the stairs leading back to the ground floor, Sarg stopped Hyderlin in her tracks. She turned to find him raising one neat eyebrow at her.
“Leone? Leone Collozzo? Self-styled lord of the back-alleys?”
“That’s right.”
“You deal with that piece of human filth?”
“Mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Sir Biche.”
“Ah, ah, ah—spare me the lecture. At the most fundamental level, what Leone and I do isn’t so different. Leone watches over his organization and makes sure it operates by his rules. I watch over the nobility and make sure they operate by the King’s will.”
“He is a criminal. He flouts the laws of Lotsa, he commits extortion, he stands at the front of the line to ruin the lives of common people—”
Hyderlin cut him off.
“He is a manager. He stops the criminals of this back-alley from crossing the line. It’s because of him that the people on the right side of that line can live in peace.”
“And the ones on the wrong side of the line?”
Sarg ground his teeth. His eyes stirred with a cold, boundless fury.
“Are you saying it doesn’t matter what becomes of them?”
Hyderlin looked at him for a long moment.
He had thrown himself into investigating the disappearances of paupers in some forgotten corner of the city—people no one else would spare a thought for—alongside Margarite, and he was furious about things most people would simply let go.
She had always been quite fond of this quality in Sarg. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be shackled by it.
Hyderlin forced coldness into her voice.
“If you feel so strongly about it, go back down there right now and cut off Leone Collozzo’s head.”
Sarg’s fist closed tight. But he did not turn back toward the stairs.
“I can’t do that. If he died, chaos would flood the streets.”
Hyderlin found, for some reason, that she could not look Sarg in the face. She turned her back on the Holy Knight and pushed the door open.
“Sir Sarg. Life will bring moments when you have no choice but to compromise. Accept it.”
Sarg Gloriosa would understand someday. He would compromise. He would accept it.
He would be worn down.
It was only a matter of when.
Hyderlin swept the bitterness from her chest and turned away.
