.:XII:.

Lucius knew something was wrong before letting go of Byron's hand and he regretted it even more now, all alone in the gaudy Deutsche palace guestroom.

The tea party had been cleared away as soon as the empress (no, her doppelganger, Lucius insisted) disappeared with her Sanqere suitor, leaving his delegation to mill, bewildered and ignored, and pick their own sheepish way back to their rooms.

The Chief Minister had been livid at first. How dare they be treated this way! Were they not honoured guests of the Empire? Until the unusually relaxed Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs pointed out that No, they were not. This suit was negotiated and arranged by her cabinet, as much as they themselves were responsible for Sanq's part in it and not their King. From a certain point of view, they could even be thought of as gatecrashers. Clearly, with the absence of their master, the members of his retinue are no longer of any consequence.

Lucius was sure they were being used as pawns in some sick Deutsche game. On the bright side, since no-one appears to know what more to do with them, there was a good chance that they hadn't decided what to do about Byron either. "So if there's ever some good to come out of your womanizing skills, this might be it," Lucius mumbled darkly.

.

There was an awkward lull in the world, under the Kaiser's roses. Then, because he couldn't help it, Byron laughed.

People, particularly those with things to lose and gain, spread stories about themselves all the time. Different tales for different ends, whether it is to warn, persuade, or obfuscate. It is the most common weapon wielded in any war of hearts and minds. It goes beyond simple lies and appearances and taps into the most secret, primal, sentiments.

Tell a tale of a midnight slasher and all of a sudden, every gaunt man met on a badly lit curb at the stroke of twelve is a potential murder. Spread the woes of a reluctant criminal and before you know, the world is a little kinder, and a little more vulnerable to crimes that might be thusly excused. Feed them fictions of a layabout King then watch them roll with it without further verification, convinced of his ineffectuality but unable to explain why.

Stories, he holds, are the heart and soul of things, the lies, hopes, dreams, truths, everything lurking beneath the surface of the common human existence. Fairytales especially are anthologies of all the greatest things those who tell them yearn for and want to believe— Naturally, this philosophy was beyond absurd to a pragmatist such as Catherina Vera-Stella Kaiser von Deutschland.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

The plainly dressed swordswoman scowled with just a hint of confusion and raised her weapon again, this time levelling its sharpened point at his naked throat. He'd put a chink in her armour with his erratic behaviour and frustration seeped through it, annoying her even further.

And he laughed, because it was comically ironic to him that the woman rising at the heart of her capital's rich (and bloody) new mythology was so truthfully unaware and baffled by it, and because somehow, with this realisation, it seemed suddenly obvious that she was intended to be his friend and not an enemy.

"I was wrong," he smiled guilelessly, genuinely. "There is no scam; well, not from you, anyway. You don't even play!"

"Your men are right," she said humourlessly, "you are insane."

.

It had been hours. Morbid, agonising hours.

Then, just as he thought he might throw himself out of a window from the stress of waiting, a palace steward liveried in official colours appeared and led him down to dinner.

Until now, all their meals had been brought to their rooms.

Dinner at Schloss Charlottenburg was served in the grand Audience Hall, where all other proceedings of the Empire were held, in front of the Imperial throne. Solid oak tables oiled and polished to a fine whiskey glow and inlaid with intricate panes of hand-carved marble were brought in night after night from a discreet side chamber by a small army of meticulous footmen and laid in two arched rows pointed towards the throne, with forty-eight matching stools arranged on both sides of the central crests and long benches on the ends. The importance attached to the seats is determined by its proximity to the throne, which stood on a half-moon dais eighteen, possibly twenty, feet wide and four steps high. A smaller, silver, table is assigned to the centre place on the first step, from which the Kaiser was served by two peripubescent boys, lotteried children of her Court.

Catherina Vera-Stella (or whoever that may really be on the throne, Lucius could not be sure) ate off a silver lap tray, although most evenings she did little more than pick at the crumbs. It was all very strange, Lucius realised when he thought about it afterwards, and regretted missing the opportunity to ask why.

Tonight she wore emerald so deep it was almost black adorned with ebony cameos strung on delicate gold chains and gathered at the waist with a cascade of lace dyed in Indian ink, her hair caught and coifed in luxurious waves to show off her alabaster back. A pair of writhing thorn-creatures sculpted from black leather and broken shards of harsh, glittering, black crystals, perched on the high shelves of her grim cheekbones, an inspired work of art like the rest of her mask collection, but Lucius no longer had the heart to appreciate such things.

.

"So what's with the masks?"

"It's a hobby," she half-lied.

The greatest advantage of being raised in disgrace was anonymity. Whereas this was a far-off fantasy for those born into the spotlight of Royal Blood and a veritable nightmare for most teens, Catherina realised the tactical value of it very quickly in her youth and strove ever since to preserve it. It always helps when one's enemies are unable to recognise them readily, not to mention all the clandestine fun of spying on (and assassinating) your own Court and passing yourself off as just another nondescript member of staff.

"Quite a convenient one, I bet," he grinned. Of all the men in the world who would respond to a rapier at his throat by shoving his hands in his pockets and making flirtatious small talk, Byron was one of the foolhardiest. "Then all the stuff about daddy issues…?"

"Sorry," she smirked. "Men prefer that in a woman, yes? But I would never have got anything done if I am the sort to be bothered by what I kill."

This admission should appal him. He should at least be scandalized by the callous way she reduced the burden of ending a life, of patricide, to a trivial distraction. But Byron Peacecraft the Third, being the black sheep that he was, fell just a little in love. He had always admired a woman who did her own dirty work… even if she does it masked.

.

Seating arrangements on the lower benches were not unlike the children's game of musical chairs. Attendees unimportant enough to have places assigned to them scrambled to squeeze into whatever opening available and many spend their entire meals jostling for room and inching towards the top. Rumour was the new Kaiser enjoyed this part of the day as a sport, rather than a meal.

Lucius was surprised when, instead of being left to fend for himself as was the accepted norm, his guide led him to a spot near the centre of the hall.

"What's going on?" Sanq's Chief Minister Branos wrung his hands manically under the table as Lucius sat down across from him. "Have you seen His Majesty?"

"How did you not?" Lucius muttered sourly, because there was the man in question, boisterous and hale, plying drinks at the foot of the Kaiser's table with the Deutsche vipers. To Lucius' eye, King Byron, whom he had fretted himself to the quick and even shed a few secret tears for thinking he'd surely been turned into rosefeed, stuck out like a sore thumb.

"In about twenty minutes, he will either start a fight or take off his shirt and sing something that starts a fight," he moaned from years of experience with the Byron Peacecraft and alcohol, "and if we're lucky, it won't be a song about sex."

Branos cringed and didn't bother reprimanding Lucius' ignoble tone. His knuckles were a pasty white against his swollen purple fingers, though he did not seem to notice. Elsewhere in the room, there was a Deutsche man or two suffering similar symptoms.

"Smythe!" He hissed as the Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs joined them, "What have you heard? Are they accepting our suit? What's going on?"

And nothing.

The Sanqere King did not return to the guest quarters that night.

.

"We are both victims of our legacies, I think," he said.

Her laugh was a harsh, sharp bark. "Do I look like a victim, Herr Peacecraft?"

"No," he laughed, "I guess not. But let me help you with your enemies all the same, and in return, maybe you can help me out with mine. I am not your enemy, Madam Kaiser. In fact, I would very much like to be your friend."

"How convenient," she replied, sword and eyes and teeth flashing. "It is a terrible thing to be my friend."

.

Lucius and the ministers woke a little after seven the next morning, amidst the enormous racket Byron made digging through their things.

"Look lively, men! Get up, get dressed," he demanded cheerfully, "Isn't this what we're here for?"

On the fifth day of their arrival, the Kaiser of Deutschland decided to grant the Sanq delegation an audience.

A familiar face, Weridge of the rusty coated Blutigesgarde, was dispatched to herd them through the echoing corridors, under ominous portraits of traitors and dissidents and into the Audience Hall.

It seemed larger in the daylight, a trick of the sun streaming in through the domed glass ceiling: another modern update to the original building. Tinted panes cast beautiful coloured shadows across the freshly waxed floors, lending the space its cathedral feel, while lavish panels carved from ivory and amber lined the walls, depicting endless gruesome, bloodless, battles; and presiding over it all, behind an unwieldy Imperial Cabinet largely inherited from her father, was Her Imperial Majesty, Catherina Vera Stella Kaiser von Deutschland.

She is resplendent today in a silver-grey satin dress that wrapped around her from neck to hip over a bodice of delicate pearlescent scales then fell away into a full floor-length skirt and small round train; elegant and simple, a stark contrast to the baroque fantasy that was the traditional seat of the Deutschland Kaisers. Her arms were bare and unadorned. Her face was a lake cold and impassive, a smooth, liquid-shined veneer across all the features that make her human, save the gold-dusted lips. A faint frost pattern flowed around its edges playfully, a clever trick of liquid crystal engineering. Lucius fidgeted, suddenly reminded of the fading pen stains on his shirt tails and tugged self-consciously on the offending area in hopes of hiding it in his hands.

Not that he needed have bothered, since all eyes were fixed on the man at the head of their little procession, a broad and imposing figure even in the current foppish trend of dramatically flared sleeves filled with a cornucopia of frills and the resurgence of a matching ruffed bib.

Byron, whether by coincidence or some piqued design, wore a coat the blackened red of heart's blood similar to but several shades darker than the russet uniforms of the Kaiser's personal guard and trimmed with layers of creamy fluted silk, over a festive red shirt.

The Monarchs of the Sanq Kingdom did not believe in crowns, electing to invest in a thick platinum armlet worn around their left arms as their symbol of sovereignty instead. Partly, it was sometimes speculated, for ease of transaction should ever the need for a quick liquidation should arise. It is a utilitarian thing, heavy and dull, cast in a solid ring around a dim grey-blue diamond the size of a dove's egg and a half dozen small, uncut stones in shades of blue and black. The jewel might have been worth something once, with a better cut and polish. Unfortunately, the fashion for fancy coloured diamonds had died quite some time ago, taking the value of such pieces with it. And yet, even so, three generations of Peacecrafts have defended it with pride and reverence. Would Byron be able to give it up? Lucius wondered. Should he?

It was the sort of question Chief Ministers were meant to raise, but Branos was too busy feeling… actually, what was he doing? Lucius' eyes snapped suddenly to the rotund man sweating uncomfortably a half-step behind Vice Minister Smythe when he should have stood beside his king.

Branos was good at announcing his presence, which he has done consistently throughout their stay in the empress' perilous house. He had made himself heard at every turn, constantly complaining, cajoling, demanding; but his strides shortened and slowed as soon as they'd entered the Empress' presence and his chest had started to cave. Was he… afraid? Now that Lucius thought about it, the man only seemed to shut up when it came to furthering the delegation's agenda with the Deutsche, as if reluctant to get involved. That can't be right. This whole expedition was his baby, wasn't it? Whose idea was the match anyway?

The world seemed to spin and all Lucius could think was going back home to his library and the uncomplicated peace and routine of his work, away from the dazzling lights and fancy dress, from ministers and marriages and the childish madness of bachelor kings and empresses who insist on being emperor.

A mild, reed-like man, some sort of official matchmaker, heralded them before the assembly, sneaking nervous glances at his friends amongst the ministers. It had been sheer fluke that they'd come across someone, anyone, bold or reckless enough to consider their difficult mistress for a bride. Imperial traditions expect her to be wed before age twenty-three, or it would be his head. There will be many large and joyful favours to be repaid, though it was still a little early to be optimistic. He still had to sell her on Byron Peacecraft the Third, King of Sanq, accomplished sportsman, gentleman of valour and, uhh… "consummate" connoisseur…?

He didn't get very far when the young king stepped in himself. "Madam Kaiser," he said, then, to the shock and consternation of all, "I had never been given cause to put much thought to your grand Empire or illustrious self. In these past days, however, I have come to feel deeply for your radiance and magnificence. I come before you now, therefore, as one sovereign to another, with a gift—*" and before he could be stopped, Byron grabbed two men at apparent random and hauled them behind him as he climbed up the Imperial dais—

"Madam, I present to you, these two traitors to your sovereignty. You will find that they thought to stab you in the back through me and in the process, engineer both our dooms.*"

"Unhand me*!" "This is outrageous*!" The men roared in protest. Branos rocked on the balls of his feet, moments from fainting, as a murmur rose around the room. Even Smythe looked a little green around the gills.

Surprisingly, no-one moved. There was a chaotic rush of voices, disbelief, condemnation, you-never-would-have-thought-s, but nothing loud, and nothing that was likely to draw attention to any one individual in particular. Nobody leapt forward to cry foul on Byron. Nobody uttered a peep to the shimmery empress. This abnormality, more than anything, chilled the foreign delegation.

Byron kept his prisoners easily pinned on either side of him, barely six feet from his fiancée-to be. He was silent as she took a sharp breath and discreetly bit the inside of her lip. Her knuckles were pale and quivered from the effort of keeping them from her mouth. Her eyes were narrowed behind the beautiful mask, quietly hurling bloody murder at him for his dramatic display. He knew she knew what was going on. He knew she was reluctant to unravel their tangled web, for reasons of prudency and strategy, she hastened to add. It certainly was not cowardice, no! Not her, Friedrich Eleventh's Daughter!

She shifted in her seat, willing the rage to dissipate as she stretched her hands out to grasp the armrests of the ancient baroque throne and tipped her head serenely to one side.

"Marlyne, is this true*?" She asked lightly, cruelly, in her flippancy, as if it were a mere triviality.

"Yes, ma'am. We have proof*."

"So*," the empress leaned down and fixed the men with a piercing blue stare. "And what, I wonder, is the penalty for that*?"

Seamlessly, in mere heartbeats, a gunshot rang out across the length and width of the grand hall, followed closely by another. The two men crumbled, their faces twisted in guilt and disbelief. Lucius hadn't even seen the tall Blutigesgarde woman beside the throne move.

"Death, Imperial Majesty," she said dispassionately in a voice that did not carry past the dais, her flintlock eyes fixed firmly down the barrel of her gun still, on Byron Peacecraft III, just as his had been fixed on her the moment he'd entered the room and not the woman on the throne.

.

"Marry me, Catherina Vera-Stella," he shrugged, all matter-of-fact, devoid of any mischief or romance. "We can make it work, think of the possibilities. Think of what we could accomplish between the two of us, together, against the world and both our enemies."

For the two rotten apples they had hoped would destroy each other for them to band together and turn on them? She had to admit, the irony would be fantastic.

"What good is that to me?" she asked instead, unfazed.

The Deutschland Empire is a rich prize, particularly for men such as he, and she did not fault him for it. But what could he do for her that she has not already accomplished by herself?

"I have no designs on your empire, Madam," he seemed impatient now, like a boy waiting for his mates to catch up to the brilliance of his latest scheme. "In fact, let's make things interesting. A wager! I bet I can make you fall in love with me before we wed.

"And when I do," not 'if' but 'when', she noted wryly, "when I do, you must give up everything to do with your petty empire. Then you'll see how little it means to me!"

"And if you fail?" Her eyebrows arched in villainous ways, almost with a life of its own. "What is there Sanq offers that I could possibly want?"

.

Lucius gave in to the urge to be sick. Mercifully, he was not important enough to warrant any attention from anyone except a sympathetic Weridge, who led him gently to a spittoon and quietly handed him a stack of napkins.

"Thank you, Herr Peacecraft," the empress smiled. It was an innocent smile, but oh-so-bloody. "But now you have left my administration two men short. Do all your gifts end this way?"

Byron bowed humbly, with flourish, almost mockingly.

"I am sorry to have left you at an inconvenience, Madam," he countered without hesitation, waving his hand broadly behind him, over his entourage. "Allow me to put my own men in your service. They are hard workers and generally competent, though I am sure they are but dullard drones compared to the men of Deutschland. You need only command them and put them to whatever task you see fit."

"Sire?" The Sanqere Vice Minister of Foreign Affairs ventured a dazed step forward.

"Lord Branos especially, has had several years serving us as Chief Minister," his King continued brightly, "I am confident he will make a smooth transition into your cabinet."

He said more, but Lucius was too busy throwing up again to catch it. A moment later, Byron turned with a wicked glint in his eyes and strode back down the dais. "Smythe, you've been promoted. We'll find Trenton a new Vice Minister when we get back. Good news, Branos," he beamed and slapped the pale, sputtering creature heartily on the back, "Her Imperial Majesty has agreed to let me court her. You are now officially the Empire's hostage."

…

A/N:
It may be worth noting that historically, it is thought that he who carries a diamond bound to his left arm shall be victorious, no matter the enemies.
Also, where does all the time go?