The Grand Platz—a giant square in the heart of Brussels— was known as the most beautiful plaza in the whole world and as a fabulous stage.
The space was flanked by the "Home of the King," which was the Allied Government's headquarters and home to lots of other buildings of historic importance. It was in no way inferior to the great squares of Rome's San Pietro Platz and Venice's San Marco Platz.
White Rose House—a mansion that used to be the headquarters of the Brewers' Guild—stood at the south of the square. It was an inconspicuous building. But someone with good sight might have noticed guards hidden in the ancient building. They might have even noticed the smell of blood that surrounded the building.
At the top level of the building, the mansion's owner sat at the desk in his library and took a sip from his wine glass, perhaps satisfied with his property. "Humph, so Watteau was injured, but he still managed to get away. Perhaps I came down to earth a little preemptively?" Darsus eyed the ten men and women who were stood stock-still in front of his desk. He took a drag of his tobacco. "We've lost Gie. Now I'm the only one left of Count Four."
"Our deepest apologies, Your Excellency."
In front of him stood the men of Count of Bruges. Their heads were bowed and they all had glum faces.
Standing a little to the side of them was Blunt, He was eyeing the vampire. "It is my fault that we lost Count of Bruges. It is my crime! Death is not enough!"
"You feel too much guilt, Blunt," Darsus said, shaking his head generously. He looked over at the sullen men of the lost count as he tried to pacify the Terran. "Gie's death is a great sadness, but it is not your fault. It is all the fault of this assassin. You must find him at all costs. It is the only way you will atone for your crime."
"Wa-Watteau was seriously injured. We have mobilized the police forces into finding him. We will have apprehended him by tomorrow."
"I certainly hope you do." Darsus nodded, pleased at Blunts confidence.
Darsus turned to look out the window. The sun was just starting to set, and people bustled in the crowds at the Grand Platz, making long shadows. In the flickering light of the fire, carpenters and stoneworkers worked on scaffolding and a provisional stage for tomorrow's masked parade. Ever since he was a child, Darsus had enjoyed this event, which welcomed the start of the summer.
"Losing Gie is like losing a son to me," Darsus muttered and then fell silent. His expression was depressed. In truth, he wanted to celebrate that he had removed his strongest rival with little inconvenience. But he had to look like he was unhappy. "But tomorrow, you will find the man who murdered Gie. I look forward to you reporting the news to me."
"Won't you consider leaving the disposal of this assassin to us?" asked one of the black figures, his arms wrapped in white bandages. It was the same Methuselah who had been attacked by Watteau. "We would like to handle this enemy of Count of Bruges ourselves. Count Darsus, will you please consider allowing us this pleasure?"
"Of course. When the police find the assassin, I will hand him over to you so you can do as you wish, if it will make you happy to crush the enemy of your master."
Several of the men standing in front of Darsus expressed their thanks, and he acknowledged their gratitude with a sincere expression. He placed the sword on the desk and picked up a bell. "With Count Granwelle gone, I will look after Bruges. You take your revenge. Rooms are prepared for you. I will support your courage until you find Watteau." Darsus ordered the servant who appeared at the sound of the bell. "Show the sons of Bruges to their rooms. Ensure that everything is seen to." Darsus then turned his sights to the plaza again. He smiled as he watched the reflections of his guests retiring to their rooms. "The one who survives is the coward. Just like myself."
They were rehearsing for the show tomorrow. He looked down at the plaza that was filled with fake princes and princesses. Darsus took a satisfied toke of his tobacco. All his life, he had never been the one to pick fights. All his movements had been in secret. He tried to show the most respectable face possible to the Allied Government.
He didn't touch the church, and he didn't pick battles with the Vatican. Even when he had fled to the skies, apparently fearful of a Terran assassin, he had been mocked by the aristocracy for being weak. But look at the results: Three of his rivals were dead. The Vatican had come this far. The Allied Government did exactly as he asked. No one was going to make an enemy of Count Darsus now.
"All on my own, now."
He recalled the sight of the fleeing Terran, who looked like drowning rats. Darsus turned his eyes to the desk. Seeing the white sword on it made his grin even wider.
Hague de Watteau had ignored the orders of Rome and came after me himself. Now he's lost his arm and his prey. There's nothing else he can do. Even if he discovers my location and comes looking for me in a crazed lust for blood, the White Rose House is protected by thirty Methuselah and more than one hundred Terran. Not to mention the Lost Technology surveillance machines. He'll be sliced to bits as soon as he approaches the front door.
"Cheers to me!" He poured the red liquid down his throat, completely enraptured by his own cleverness.