Chapter 100: The Grand Duke Receives Rain (1)
The old botanical exchange stood near the northern wall of the Capital, half forgotten by everyone except customs officers, foreign merchants, gardeners with too much education, and criminals who understood the value of abandoned privileges.
It had been beautiful once. That was the first thing I noticed. The second was that its beauty hadn’t died properly. Glass roofs rose over the central structure in cloudy panes, some cracked, some replaced, some covered by creeping vines that had no respect for imperial architecture. Iron ribs curved over the conservatory wings. Stone planters lined the outer terrace, their contents long since gone wild, silverleaf shrubs tangled with thorn roses, pale moss climbing the steps. A small fountain in the courtyard held rainwater and floating petals, though no nearby flower looked capable of shedding them.
Foreign plants had a habit of being dramatic. Perhaps that was why diplomats liked them.
The rain continued falling lightly over the exchange, soft enough not to obscure vision but steady enough to turn the stones dark. It didn’t feel like ordinary rain. Each drop struck the ground with intention.
Abi noticed too. "This isn’t weather," he said.
"I assumed."
My father glanced toward the glass roof. "Verdant courtesy?"
"Verdant intrusion," I corrected.
A woman’s voice came from the covered walkway above. "How ungenerous."
We looked up. The Verdant observer leaned against the railing, hood lowered now, rain gathering on her dark hair without wetting it. She wore green beneath the cloak, not the stiff ceremonial green of diplomatic uniforms but something deeper, like a forest at the hour before dawn. Her thorn ring glinted faintly on one hand.
She looked entirely too comfortable. I disliked people who looked comfortable in my operations.
"Lady Observer," I called.
"Grand Duke."
"Does the Verdant Court consider entering ahead of allies polite?"
"Only when the allies are walking toward the wrong entrance."
"We are not allies."
"Not yet."
Abi made a soft sound. My father’s mouth twitched. I ignored both of them.
"Do you have a name?" I asked.
"Yes."
A pause. I waited. She didn’t continue.
How rude. I smiled pleasantly. "How fortunate for you."
Her eyes brightened, and the rain seemed to laugh. Not audibly. But I felt mocked.
Very well. A good villain lord recognized when he’d met another performer. The important thing was not to clap.
"Where is Lady Marielle?" I asked.
She looked toward the far wing of the exchange. "The winter garden below."
"Alone?"
"No."
"Hostages?"
"Perhaps."
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s an honest limitation."
I studied her. She held my gaze easily, no flinching, no rush to justify herself. She had the look of a woman who didn’t ask permission from rooms before entering them.
Interesting. Annoying. Possibly useful.
I turned away before the assessment became more complicated than necessary. "Arthur?" I asked.
One of the Sonomi shadows emerged from the rain. "Captain Arthur and his unit are two streets out, Your Excellency. They’re blocking the outer road and checking cargo exits."
"Good. Father, the upper exchange."
My father nodded.
"Abi, below with me."
The observer lifted a brow. "And me?"
"You may remain where I can see you."
"How flattering."
"It isn’t trust."
"I didn’t mistake it for such."
She stepped from the upper walkway, not jumped, stepped, the rain folding beneath her foot, holding just long enough for her to descend as though the air had agreed to make stairs for her. She landed without a sound on the wet stones.
Abi looked at her a moment longer than was strictly necessary, and she noticed, her expression shifting from amusement into something more careful, the way a scholar studies a manuscript that might be older than the library housing it.
Abi’s smile thinned. My father’s hand settled on his sword.
I looked between them. "No."
"No?" the observer repeated.
"No cryptic exchanges, no strange recognition, no unnecessary poetry, and certainly no ominous naming in the rain. We are pursuing a woman who uses children as ritual material. If either of you require professional curiosity about the other, schedule it after the arrests."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then my father laughed. Abi looked offended. The observer stared at me, then laughed too. Unlike Abi’s laughter, hers didn’t ask the room to look. It slipped into the rain and made the leaves tremble.
"Very well," she said. "No naming in the rain."
"Excellent."
Abi leaned toward me. "She started it."
"You responded with your face."
"My face?"
"It became significant."
"That isn’t a crime."
"It is in my operations."
The observer’s smile suggested she was enjoying this far too much. I decided to dislike her more.
We entered the exchange through the side arcade. The interior smelled of wet soil, old glass, and roots. Not rot, that would have been easier, rot announced itself. This place smelled alive in a manner that didn’t care whether humans had abandoned it.
The main trading hall opened beneath a glass dome where foreign plants had grown around old counters. The customs windows stood empty, brass scales resting beneath vines, shelves that once held catalogues and trade permits now housing moss, roots, and several small blue flowers that turned their faces toward us as we passed.
I looked at them. They looked back. I moved faster.
"Those flowers have eyes," I said.
The observer tilted her head. "Not eyes."
"They’re staring."
"They’re curious."
"I do not consent to being inspected by plants."
"Then do not be so noticeable."
Abi made a choked sound. I glared at him. He looked away.
Traitor.
My father moved ahead with two shadows toward the upper records office. The winter garden entrance lay below the central staircase, behind a pair of iron doors half covered by ivy. The ivy had been cut recently, not torn, cut with a sharp blade.
A professional exit. Or entrance.
Abi crouched beside the doors. "Black salt."
I saw it then, thin dark grains scattered along the threshold, almost hidden beneath damp soil.
"Fresh?"
"Yes."
The observer’s expression cooled. "Someone used foreign customs privilege to move temple materials," she said.
"You sound offended."
"I am."
"Good. Offended people can be useful."
"Does the Grand Duke of Sonomi categorize everyone according to usefulness?"
"No. Some people are decorative."
"And me?"
"Currently undecided."
Abi placed his hand near the lock. Violet light spread through the iron, then recoiled. He frowned. "This was sealed from inside."
"Can you open it?"
"Yes."
"Will it alert her?"
"Likely."
The observer touched the ivy, and it withdrew from the door, not withered, withdrew, as if it had been asked politely by someone it respected.
"How convenient," I said.
"You’re welcome."
"I didn’t thank you."
"I know. I’m giving you practice."
Abi’s expression suggested deep delight. I missed when my operations contained only priests, bells, and crimes.
"Open it," I told him.
Abi pressed two fingers to the lock. The iron door clicked, then screamed. Not metal. A voice, high, thin, and childlike.
"Do not come in."
My sword was in my hand before the echo faded. Abi’s eyes flashed. The observer raised one hand, and the rain outside the exchange intensified, drumming softly against the glass roof.
"Borrowed voice," Abi said.
"I know."
I stepped through the door.
The winter garden below was vast, far larger than the upper structure suggested, built underground with glass channels guiding light from the surface. Now evening rain slid down those channels in trembling silver lines, throwing broken reflections across the chamber. Rows of dormant trees stood in stone beds, their branches pale and leafless despite the season, narrow paths paved in dark tile running between them.
At the center of the garden stood a white pavilion. Inside it, Lady Marielle Rouvier waited.
She wore rose. Of course she did. Muted, elegant, respectable rose, the same kind of color that made charitable patrons look gentle in morning light and invisible in ledgers. Her pale gold hair had been pinned neatly, her gloves white, not grey. No visible weapon. No panic.
Beside her stood a young man, perhaps seventeen, thin, dark haired, dressed in a clerk’s coat too large for him, his hands clasped around a small brass bell with no clapper.
A soundless bell. How disappointing.
The willing witness. I could see it immediately. Not because he looked fanatical. Because he looked hopeful.
That was worse. Hope was such a dangerous thing when handed to desperate people by monsters with soft voices.
Lady Marielle smiled when she saw me. "Your Excellency," she greeted. "You arrived faster than expected."
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