“Jean.”
Jean Erhardt turned to look back. Darkness reigned in the alleys. He could see nothing but the exceptionally dark and long shade. Jean walked toward that shadow. His steps were so light and careful that no sound was made. The shadow moved. Jean followed it. After passing by a few more alleys akin to a maze, a small door appeared. The shadow opened the door.
“Look who’s here! Why, if it isn’t it the heir to the Duke of Erhardt.”
A crowd had gathered inside. Jean grinned, taking off his hat and coat. Cornell, the shadow that led the way to this place, stashed away Jean’s possessions to be stored in an appropriate place.
“It is most reckless of you to call on a person without consulting him prior, Sir Wickham,” said Jean as he took a seat.
Across from him, a man with reddish brown hair sat. Nathan Wickham. He was a knight. And the knight had a tankard of ale in his hand.
“What is to worry about? I am confident our dear Lord Jean had made sure that there was no one watching,” said Nathan, raising his ale.
He was not wrong. Had Jean felt another’s presence, he would not have followed the shadow. He grinned. Nathan handed Jean a pint of ale. But Jean shook his head.
“I’ll have to say no.”
Instead, he flicked his fingers, and someone brought him tobacco. Jean leaned back on the chair. The smoke from his cigarette slowly climbed up.
“Have you met the Grand Duke?”
Wickham asked. Jean nodded his head, and the face of the Grand Duke Robert Joachim crossed his mind. He was a crafty man in the middle of his life’s journey. A smart and greedy man. The Grand Duke was the commander who had made history in the previous civil war. And, like the commander he was, he boasted a great physique and used words and manners just as pompous. The way he treated Jean said that the man might be smart and quick in his calculations, but he did not look the careful and deliberate type. The Grand Duke did not hide his fascination with Jean. He was already turning his head to look at the young man before even the ball had ended. He did it as if he had never treated Jean invisibly.
“I think I have a chance,” said Jean.
Wickham put on a satisfactory look at Jean’s words. Jean removed the tip of the tobacco from his lips.
“He’s not vigilant toward us. He seemed unaware of our existence, let alone our plans. He subtly implied that he was in need of finance.”
“That pig. Everyone knows that since the emperor has fallen ill, the royal riches have been transferred to the Grand Duke’s castle. Did the wealth not satiate him?”
“Men indulging themselves know no end. The success of our deed seems more promising than my apprehension.”
“Good job. Any other trouble?”
Jean stared at the smoke filling the space at Wickham’s inquiry. Other trouble. The question reminded Jean of the unpleasant memory at the ball earlier. He handed the cigarette pipe to Cornell, standing next to him. Cornell proceeded to smoke the pipe.
“...Wickham, you seemed to have missed a figure.”
Slowly, Jean spoke. Wickham raised his eyebrows, taken aback.
“Missed a figure?”
“The Crown Prince Maximillian Joachim. He came to the ball.”
“Oh,” Wickham was tense at the thought of who it might be. He let out a moan, relaxing, “You scared me,” said Wickham.
Wickham leaned back on his chair, ruffling his hair. Jean waited for what his friend would say next.
“You need not mind that man. He’s not important enough to be a hindrance to our cause. He’s just a wayward son.”
“The Crown Prince is?”
“He beds men and women alike. That is his greatest joy in life. He does make appearances in balls and banquets, but oftentimes, he revels in nasty intoxicants or indulges in debauchery. You got to meet him. It’s a rare chance, to meet him in sobriety.”
“Isn’t the Crown Prince the next in line to the throne? Wouldn’t he take after the emperor should he pass away?”
“Oh, my, wouldn’t that make everything easier. Maximillian Joachim would be much simpler to get rid of than Robert Joachim.”
Wickham responded, shrugging. His manner said that the Crown Prince was neither a man of significance nor trouble.
Jean recalled the beautiful man who wouldn’t let go of his hand. The man did not flinch in speaking his thoughts of offense. The distinct ashen color of the Royal Joachim swirled in his eyes as he did so. A catamite. Jean gnawed on the word the man said to him. He smirked. Jean did not find the remark offensive. Not anymore. However, he did find it amusing, for the man who said it to Jean himself would have been the one sold as a catamite had he not been born as a royal.
“No news of my patron yet?”
Jean had no mind to spare for the man. Wickham whistled at Jean’s change of subject.
“You mean the Little Pearl of Lord Jean, the heir to the Duke of Erhardt? Unfortunately, not yet.”
Wickham’s tone was jesting, but the message was not. Jean responded solemnly.
“Make haste. We need my patron with us before the deed begins.”
“We are trying, my lord. We are combing through noble heirs and offspring who would have that much awareness. We are also searching among foreign lands and their men who were high nobles during your time there. However, we would appreciate it if you keep in mind that it is not an easy task to seek someone you know not of the person’s name, face, and even hair color, Lord Jean Erhardt.”
Wickham was not wrong. However, there wasn’t much time. Jean grabbed Wickham’s jug of beer to quench his thirst. Wickham seemed to be watching him. The knight’s whistling grew softer, then stopped altogether.