It was much later that evening when I finally arrived back home, the two knights guarding the main entrance of my keep greeting me with the look of someone who's just thought the words “Oh crap, it's the boss!”

Talia didn't greet me at the door, which gave me a rough estimate of the time. Even the live-in staff that I employ have lives outside of taking care of my wishes or handling my affairs. It was unreasonable to expect an employee to be at my beck and call all hours of the day and night, after all.

Except Cyrus, of course. My Captain wasn't allowed to have a life ... not while he was busy protecting mine.

He probably wouldn't be back until later in the evening, returning only once he'd finished gathering the additional information on Teuring. I decided that I'd wait for him downstairs, go over the original notes that he had provided me with. There was nothing else to do really, save for mulling over everything I thought I knew from beginning to end, like I'd been doing for the entire walk home.

It hadn't helped. The only thing that walking had accomplished was to make my feet even more sore than they'd been when I had left.

Once downstairs I immediately went to the drinks cabinet, and after carefully looking over various bottles of brandy, scotch, herb infused absinthe and countless other concoctions, I sighed softly to myself and rolled up my sleeve, reaching into the frigid water of the wine cooler for a bottle of green wine. Some days I don't even know why I bother keeping those other drinks down there.

I was towel-drying the bottle as I walked back to my usual seat, when I noticed something I didn't recognize sitting right in front of the place I ordinarily do my thinking, perched on top of the various notes I had left there. It appeared to be a book.

Perplexed, I walked over to it. It was, indeed, a book. It was red-bound with some very pleasant golden threading on the outside, and looked as though it had been cared for a great deal. And it was thick, very thick, the entire thing more closely resembling a boot box than a book. Dauntingly thick. I was certain it wasn't one of mine.

There was a note tucked in behind the cover, with one corner sticking out just enough to be visible. I opened the front cover and inspected the small piece of paper. It was written on good, plain stock with handwriting I recognized.

“With everything else going on, I figured I'd reconsider something you'd told me earlier as well. Do any of these look familiar? -T”

Lifting the note revealed the contents of the first page of the book - a colorful drawing of a rope tied in an elegant and improbable pattern, three rolling hills sitting in the background behind it, two trees perched atop the leftmost one. The crest of Knothills.

Small bits of torn paper lined the top of the book nearest the spine, more of them than I could conveniently count. I opened the book to the first torn paper, and was greeted by an artist's rendering of a sword, hilt at the top of the page and point at the bottom, perfect in every detail.

Bless Theo's heart.

This drawing did not resemble either of the swords that I glimpsed in Teuring's possession that day at the Circles – it had a snake and flower I didn't recognize at the center, and I could make out a leaf or two in the guard. The page on the opposite side of it contained a wealth of information for anyone who actually cared about exactly how much birch charcoal had been used at what phase in its development, the theoretical force it could withstand, things like that. Most importantly, at the very top of that page was a single, carefully penned word, the name of the family that had commissioned the sword to be created – Aspyris.

It must have taken him hours, but he'd apparently gone through each sword in the book looking for any that had leaves on the guard, the only thing I'd thought to tell him about Teuring's two swords that I'd managed to glimpse.

Sometimes I feel I don't deserve a friend like him.

I hastily found a piece of paper of my own to write notes on, a rough quill and some ink. Careful not to get a spot of ink on the masterpiece I had before me, I went to work.

Bottle of wine unopened and forgotten, I pored over the tome with an urgency I couldn't explain. Each picture I inspected seemed to push me to the next one, and the next. I wasn't aware of time passing, being completely absorbed in the task at hand.

About two thirds of the way through the entire book, I heard the familiar tread of boots making their way nimbly down the booby-trapped hallway and towards me. Cyrus, returning from his visit to whatever mysterious reservoir of knowledge he acquired his information from.

I flipped a few more pages to get to the next of Theo's page markers when Cyrus walked through the door and into the hall, every bit of him radiating breathless excitement.

“Copperthorn!” he exclaimed, holding a sheaf of papers with some loose strings aloft like some sort of trophy animal horn brought back from a dangerous jungle expedition.

“Copperthorn,” I said aloud, not recognizing the name, quickly flipping the pages in front of me back to the section which had names beginning with 'C'.

“Milord, I'm positive. It's difficult to pick out exactly how it's all connected, but it's there. The trail for some of it-”

“Bide a moment,” I said, continuing to turn the pages of Theo's book, quickly but carefully.

“Milord, I'm convinced he's involved. I have all-”

“Cyrus, I'm sure you have very good reasons for believing this, and I'll listen to all of them shortly. Bide a moment.”

He opened is mouth to speak, then closed it. Then he simply stood there, bundle of papers still in hand, waiting anxiously for me to finish looking for whatever I was looking for.

I urgently flipped the pages, convinced each time I did so that the next page would contain drawings of the blades Teuring had been holding that day. It took me a few minutes to determine that the name 'Copperthorn' was not contained within that particular book.

I did, however, have other books that name might appear in. Many other books.

“Come, we're going to the library,” I said abruptly, carefully closing Theo's book and pushing it unobtrusively to the side, not wishing Cyrus to see it. He probably wouldn't recognize the fact that it wasn't one of my books, but he'd surprised me before.

We both walked carefully down the booby-trapped hallway and headed to the third floor, climbing the stairs that would take us to my library, which also doubled as my vault.

As we walked I told him of my various suspicions regarding Lord Teuring, and informed him of my recent adventures at the Greybridge estate, giving him the gist of the conversation I'd overheard. (I did make myself look a tad more clever when relating the encounter between myself and the ill-mannered doorman.)

When I was done relating the events of the evening to him, he spoke.

“Milord, the voice you heard ... it was Lord Teuring, yes?”

“No, it wasn't him.”

“I knew there was some- uh ... oh,” he said, frowning at me. “You're sure?”

“I've heard him speak several times, in several situations. It definitely wasn't him. Besides, when I left Teuring this afternoon he seemed capable of little more than vomiting into a bucket.”

“Possibly it was Copperthorn then?”

“I don't think it was a Lord at all, actually. The speaker referred to 'his Lord' several times during the conversation, so was likely a servant or knight of some sort. Although, for a servant to have the temerity to talk to a Lord like that ... I don't know.”

Furrowing his brow even deeper than usual, Cyrus went quiet and pursed his lips in thought. For a while the only sound filling the hallways were the clomping of our boots against the stone floor and the quiet rustling of papers that Cyrus held to his chest.

Upon arriving at the library door, I removed from my tunic a rather cumbersome looking, multi-colored key, designed by an ingenious locksmith who shall remain nameless. It had been made from four different types of metal, a piece of whale bone, and a small piece of teak wood, the combination of which would disable all of my traps quickly allow me access to my library.

Inserting the key, I turned it a quarter-turn one way, a half turn the other, and then a half-turn back the first way. The doors swung open slowly amid the several dozen sounds of various items disarming or disabling themselves.

The first thing I did upon entering was to walk up to a small book that I keep on my reading desk. It contained the names of every author of each book that currently resided in my library, as well as any special title given to the book. I flipped it open and began to look under 'C', my index finger running down the list of hastily scrawled names that had been written in my own hand.

The name 'Copperthorn' was nowhere present. I had a gut feeling that I wasn't going to find it there, but I had to make sure.

I closed the book on my desk and walked up to the cabinet containing my collection of books written by Lord Elkgrass, a Lord whose personal journals were mostly composed of bits of gossip and rumor that he'd heard. If Copperthorn had done anything notable or scandalous in the past thirty years, his name would likely make an appearance somewhere in the collection.

“So, Cyrus, tell me what you've got on Copperthorn. I'm assuming you were about to tell me that he's the one supporting Teuring?” I returned to my chair once I'd pulled down one of Elkgrass's books, setting it gently upon the desk and opening it to the first page, which contained a list of names and the page numbers where they could be found.

“Errr. Right...” Cyrus began, sifting through the papers he'd been holding as if only suddenly becoming aware of them. “Dion Copperthorn. Without an estate himself, but currently managing the estate of a Lord Eagan Redforne, Copperthorn's cousin, who owns small country estate located to the northwest of the city.”

“Redforne?” I frowned. “I think I've heard of him. Wait a second, you said the estate's being managed for Redforne? How the deuce does something like that happen?”

“It's rare, but it does happen. Diplomats, dignitaries and so forth are often Lords who take up temporary responsibilities and wish to return to an estate that was kept more or less the same as when they'd left it. In this case there was a medical crisis, though there's been some scandalous talk about how that came about. The property itself is unremarkable – a tiny bit of land requiring the services of about a dozen staff to maintain. However, the size of the estate Copperthorn's managing is disproportionately small when compared to the estimated size of the Redforne fortune at present.”

“Which is?”

He told me.

My brain was telling me that if I attempted to make it go through one more seemingly insane mental contortion or impossible leap of logic, it would simply explode with a wet, squishy 'ka-bampf' noise and begin leaking out of my ears.

“...What?!” I managed to say about a billion years later. “Cyrus, that's a hundred times more money than even I have, and I'm not exactly poor.”

“Milord, I'm afraid that's merely the shark's fin with respect to this whole situation. It gets quite interesting.”

I closed the book in front of me, giving Cyrus my full attention.

“Please,” I said, gesturing for him to continue. There was no point in trying to multi-task all of a sudden.

Cyrus went through his papers, as if to make certain that they were in the right order, and cleared his throat.

“Okay, perhaps it would be best if I covered the items in the order I discovered them. First, we have Lord Angelo Teuring. He had a small country estate as well, also in the northwest, near the Redforne estate. First mention of Teuring I was able to find was his bestowing ceremony, four years ago this week, where he was given the territory he currently manages and his old estate was converted to a fiefdom. The technical requirements for establishing rule within the city were met, and he agreed to Surety for two years because of his age.” He briefly held up an official, plain looking document as proof, one that I would have given my eye teeth to find out how he'd acquired. “He was bequeathed the estate quickly and without too much fanfare or notice. More or less typical introduction of a country Lord attempting to get a foothold in the city.”

I raised my eyebrow at him and gestured towards the document. “Is that...?”

“Yes Milord.” He flushed slightly, putting it back on the top of the pile. “It must be back by dawn tomorrow or ... uh, bad things happen.”

“I can believe that,” I said with no small amount of admiration. “How in Hades did you manage that, exactly?”

Cyrus coughed apologetically. “I'm sort of, uh ... seeing someone who works in the palace records. She's fairly convinced that her life is rather boring, in need of excitement and intrigue, and...” He shrugged.

“I thought you were courting Talia. Didn't you and I have a conversation to that effect at some point?”

“Yes Milord,” he said, eyes searching mine just the tiniest bit, “I asked your permission to pursue her, as we were both in your employ. I thought it inappropriate to consider it without consulting you first.”

“Didn't work out?”

“I ... that is, she ... is rather taken with someone else, Milord,” he said, uncomfortably.

Poor guy. Talia was achingly beautiful, and you couldn't really blame the man for trying. Still, if my Captain's chiseled features weren't enough to win Talia over, what chance did any man have?

It was probably something of a sore spot for Cyrus, I realized, and opted to change the topic.

“Right. Okay, so you were able to confirm the time that he was awarded his estate. Four years ago, you said?”

“Correct. The Teuring family wasn't all that well known at the time, but the territory they were given in the city wasn't particularly large, nor did it pose any threat to neighboring estates. Documents appeared to be in order, although,” he gave me a brief look, “they're pretty sparse, and there's something rather odd about them.”

“Inconsistencies?”

“Not really, just odd. The oldest documents that exist on the family suggest that their fortunes were not exactly positive, and they appeared to hit rock bottom about fifty years ago or so. A case of several generations of bad or indifferent luck when it came to politics, and a sudden desire to cut their losses. They appeared to sell their property and run, become country Lords and live on what money remained. Still on the books, still paying tithes to the Prince, but just below the point of notice, not involved in the normal hustle and bustle.”

“Right. How is this odd exactly?”

“Well, those details aren't. It's just that the family kept extremely poor records, almost criminally so. Teuring ended up having to establish his lineage through written oath and patents drawn up by other members of the Teuring family, as well as a dozen or so other Lords.”

“No records before that?”

“Nothing for what would appear to be two generations. It appeared as though they wished nothing to do with Harael once they'd left, though that's not entirely uncommon either. A quick check indicated that fully half of the Teuring family on record have since died, and there were a good fifteen or so I could find that never got entered into the palace records in the first place.”

“I see. So, Angelo decides to be the one to move the Teuring estate back to the city, only he can't do that if he's not listed in the palace records.”

“Right. So, he gets the necessary documents in order, which had to have taken him a devilishly long time, and submits them about five years ago. The patents were approved by the Prince, and it's been written into the records and made official that Angelo Teuring, son of Mannas, son of Arturro...” He briefly squinted at the new piece of paper he'd been reading from. “Arturro Teuring? Who would name their son something so-”

“Cyrus.”

“Right. So in the end, he's given an estate and has basically done nothing with it. Records suggest he makes next to nothing, presently.”

“That's a bit daft. If collecting tithes is your sole source of income, you kind of want to help it however you can, right away. Kind of defeats the whole point of him moving to the city. Why wouldn't he want to improve his situation?”

“No idea, but it struck me as being strange enough that I should keep looking into the history of the territory, which led to,” he shuffled a few more papers out of his way, “an interesting little skirmish that happened just over a year ago. Do you remember that flare-up between Whiteleaf and Harpin?”

I raised my eyebrows at that. “I'd hardly call that a skirmish. The whole town was talking about that one. It's related?”

“Whiteleaf borders Teuring to the East, and had made a few unfriendly overtures suggesting that he'd like some or all of Teuring's puny estate. There were a few pokes in his general direction, one confirmed thieving, and then suddenly Harpin comes at Whiteleaf from the other side, from out of nowhere. I believe that Harpin forced him to retire to the country later that same year.”

“Hmmm,” I mused, sitting further back into my chair and considering. “Okay, so the timing is rather fortunate for Teuring. How is this relevant?”

“Copperthorn visited Harpin just prior to him initiating the territory war.”

“So you're suggesting that Copperthorn may have financed this little flare-up?”

“It appears that way, and there's a few other things that support the idea.” Cyrus shuffled through yet another sheaf of papers. “It took quite a lot of digging, and great pains had been taken to cover it up. I had it double-checked once I'd found out. Really, Copperthorn didn't have a particularly good reason to be involved at all, so I made a note of the name.”

“And Copperthorn's managing the Redforne estate, you said?”

“Correct. Learning that the Redforne estate was nearby the old Teuring estate made me a little suspicious.”

“It doesn't really make sense though, does it? If Copperthorn was involved, as you've said, that whole mess with Harpin and Whiteleaf would have cost a pretty copper. Why would Copper-thorn be simply managing another Lord's estate if he had that kind of money sitting around?”

“He didn't. I dug a little deeper into some courier and treasury records. Turns out the entire thing was funded through Redforne's estate.”

“Wow. And won't Lord Redforne be a little pissed when he finds out?”

“If he finds out,” said Cyrus, reaching for another sheet of paper from within his pile and peering at it closely. He cleared his throat. “Lord Eagan Redforne, sole heir to the Redforne family fortune, collapses during a visit with several family members some time ago. A short while later some healers conclude that he's suffering from a blood related brain ailment, citing the sudden paralysis of the right side of his body and loss of comprehension as indicators.”

“Ah. We call them 'strokes' down at the Circles. I don't really know why they're called that, but...” I shrugged.

“Management of his estate fell to his cousin, Copperthorn, as per his explicit instructions. Eagan Redforne was whisked out of the way to recover, waited on by family and private healers. Of course, it's been speculated by many families living in the area that Copperthorn had a hand in Redforne's condition. Given his current state, it's unlikely that Lord Redforne will be in a position to object to the handling of his estate anytime soon. His health was very well documented, since the estate would instantly revert back to him should he recover. A few of the notes I found regarding Redforne's initial health suggested memory loss, lack of speech, sudden inability to walk ... and it's just been getting worse.”

“I swear I've seen that name before. Or heard it. Maybe because he was rich – that sort of news would have turned a few heads. So, Copperthorn's more or less got access to the whole fortune?”

“Apparently, although he can't simply take it for himself. If he can justify the money he wishes to spend by offering up a reason why it benefits the Redforne estate, he can do whatever he wishes. Even if it doesn't really benefit the estate at all. There were very few safeguards left in place to prevent abuse.”

“Why finance Harpin though? Why not simply give Lord Teuring enough money to fight back against Whiteleaf?”

“I don't know, Milord. Perhaps Copperthorn doesn't want Teuring to know he's looking out for him.”

Maybe. Perhaps this was a local squabble that had stretched its way into the city. Perhaps young Teuring was a friend of Copperthorn's. Or perhaps even a hostage, kept in the city where he could easily be put into danger, a threat to keep his parents in line? Maybe. That sort of made sense, kind of.

Not really.

I sighed, rubbing my temples.

“So Teuring wouldn't appear to be involved in politics at all, with the exception of the move against me, which Copperthorn may or may not have any connection to, because he's using Redforne's estate to prop up Teuring, but only enough so that he doesn't starve to death, and even though he doesn't really appear to have any reason to.”

“Right.”

“Cyrus, I have an idea,” I said, fingers pressing against my tightly shut eyes. “Why don't you fetch me a large mallet from the kitchen so I can dash my brains out and bid farewell to this whole sordid mess...”

“Heh,” Cyrus chuckled.

I furrowed my brow in thought. It made no sense. If Copper-thorn was helping Teuring and didn't want his help to be noticed, how would Teuring come into possession of two fabulously expensive swords in the first place? Were they an anonymous gift?

Could Copperthorn have given him the swords and some other things, like paying for that fencing instructor, as a way of convincing Teuring to go through with the duel?

Of course, on top of everything else that didn't make sense, there was Theo's belief that Teuring actually possessed some level of skill with a sword, and was hiding it from me deliberately.

He was either a victim, or a tool. In either case though, it appeared that my enemy was actually Copperthorn.

Maybe I was getting somewhere.

“Seriously Cyrus, what is going on? If Copperthorn was responsible for financing the flare-up between Harpin and Whiteleaf, there had to be a solid reason, considering the money involved. What do you have on Copperthorn, or Redforne?”

“Not much to the Copperthorn family other than what I've already told you. They'd done nothing remarkable prior to Dion Copperthorn becoming custodian of the Redforne estate. The Redforne family,” Cyrus said, inspecting a few leaflets from the substantial pile he was holding, “was one of the 'new rich' that sprung into being a couple of generations ago, much like your rather abrupt neighbor, Lord Haundsing. It had become fashionable to hire duelists, so much so that laws were created specifically to prevent nonsensical duels from happening over contrived insults or similar fictions. The current Lord Redforne inherited the estate at a very early age, resulting from his father's death a little over twenty years ago, when he was found at the bottom of a rather tall set of stairs. The unfortunate fellow was the family founder, a rather exceptional swordsman by the name of Salvatori Redforne.”

Click. I had it.

“Salvatori. That's it. A moment,” I said, standing up suddenly. I stood briefly in front of the collection of my father's books, pausing thoughtfully before grabbing the third one on the left. Cyrus stood mute as I flipped quickly through the pages near the front, finger tracing over the handwritten words as my eyes scanned the page for the name I sought. After less than half a dozen pages, I found it.

“Salvatori Redforne,” I said with a hint of triumph, turning the book and placing it open on the desk, my finger pointing to one of the pages. Cyrus came closer and leaned down to inspect it.

It wasn't long before his eyes widened.

“Killed? Here?”

“Accidental,” I shrugged, “or perhaps 'unintended' would be a better word. From what my father wrote, there was an array of pressure-sensitive concussive traps lining the tops of the walls of the keep at some point in time, which aren't exactly lethal per say, but...”

“Enough to kill someone attempting to climb over the walls, engage in a bit of high-altitude burgling,” Cyrus said.

“For someone who wasn't looking for it, yes. Father felt horrible, from what I've read. He figured that the late Lord Redforne wished to shed his reputation as a 'newly titled' Lord who bought his way into an estate, perhaps gain a little prestige through some high-profile robberies or clever thieving. If I recall, he'd also wrote something about how incredible a swordsman he was reputed to be.”

“Fearsome reputation, and I couldn't find record of a single duel he'd lost,” he agreed. “The fees he was charging when he worked professionally were pretty substantial at times, borderline absurd at others. And of course, if the current state of the Redforne fortune is any indication...”

“Right. That's a lot of money. So I'm guessing it happens like this; a talented swordsman finds himself with whopping loads of cash as a result of being really, really good. Decides to retire from swords and take up a new profession that doesn't have a finite lifespan, or potential for serious injury. He buys a Lordship, title, but encounters a brand new problem...”

“He's not respected among the other Lords?” Cyrus ventured.

“Right. He's suddenly gone from commanding huge respect to receiving very little.” I sat back down in my chair and parked my boots on a corner of the desk, leaning back with my hands behind my neck. “And so, he attempts to garner the respect he's used to through the traditional means by which Lords acquire respect among each other.”

“Cunning, subtlety,” Cyrus nodded.

“Thieving,” I agreed. “There were many of them about that time - a bunch of inexperienced would-be burglars with lots of money, looking for victims. Most were unaware of what they were up against and ended up either looking very silly, or very dead. Or both. Amateur night, typical story.”

“This was common?” he asked, looking interested.

“Yeah, there was enough 'new rich' back then that some Lords jokingly made a sport of it ... attempting to catch would-be thieves in non-lethal traps and hosting a banquet or impromptu luncheon to display the inept burglar hanging upside-down from their rafters, humiliated. Or worse, if the Lord's tastes ran that way.” I pointed at the book. “Father wrote that the trap that got Lord Redforne was not exactly lethal, and could be survived by anyone who knew how to fall properly, or had done a bare minimum of preparation and training. Redforne apparently did not, and had not.”

“And now, he is not.”

I nodded. “Broke his neck, landed poorly from all indications. Father felt pretty terrible, like I said. He didn't even try to claim responsibility for thwarting the attempted theft, saying something about it being beneath his honor. He simply staged it to look like an accident – which it was – somewhere else away from his territory. And thus, I believe you mentioned a tall flight of stairs?”

“Indeed. Well, at the very least your father was successful at keeping his name out of it – there was no mention of your family anywhere when I was doing my research.”

“Father was thorough when it came to covering his tracks, this I know for certain.” I nodded for him to continue.

“Right. Well, that left Eagan as heir to the Redforne estate, Lady Redforne having died giving birth to him. Salvatori died when the lad was six years old. He was left in the care of the Copperthorn family, Redforne's brother-in-law, who took him to the countryside and forfeited the city estate.”

“Just like that? They simply left?”

“Well, there are indications that they'd been encouraged,” Cyrus amended.

“Ah. Yes I see. So, Redforne is taken to a country estate as a lad.” I waved for him to continue.

“With his uncle, yes. He grows up amid considerable wealth and takes possession of the country estate and inheritance upon turning eighteen years old, country Lords not being required to wait until twenty-three. Does an okay job of managing things, but that wouldn't be hard given the enormity of his family fortune. He was doing fairly well prior to his collapse.”

“How bad was this stroke exactly? Maybe it was Copperthorn that I overheard, mentioning his 'Lord'. Could Redforne still be calling the shots, maybe coordinating things from his bedside or something?”

“Not according to my notes. Barely responsive, doesn't talk. Confined to bed, no visitors whatsoever, except for healers and family. Miserable luck for someone so young.”

“Pretty miserable luck for an entire fledgling family, when you stop and think about it. First the mother, then the father, then the son,” I said. “A stroke is a serious thing, and can happen from a head injury, from bleeding out ... even just from being too uptight, for seemingly no reason. In my experience, nobody comes back from a stroke the same way, if at all. Diminished control over your reflexes, your muscles ... I've seen duelists have their careers ruined by it. If that kid wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, or had any measure of talent with swords whatsoever, he-”

Click. I had it.

Oh...

Holy crap.

“Milord?”

It was right then that I saw it, the whole thing in its entirety. All the pieces fit suddenly, and perfectly.

Even the bit with Greybridge made sense now. The whole thing - it was gorgeous. It had everything a cleverly wrought scheme could have asked for. The subtlety of it, the patience, the sheer audacity that was required...

“Milord!” Cyrus was looking alarmed.

“Gods above and below!” I said, breathlessly. The beauty of it! Awe and admiration bubbled up inside me. The conversation I'd overheard, the swords, the new information I'd gathered, every-thing that he'd-

“Milord, are you alright?”

“Cyrus, I think I've figured it out, but ... gods,” I marveled, unable to keep from smiling and shaking my head as I looked at the ceiling, eyes not really focused on anything, “I've never heard of anyone doing anything quite like this before. It's brilliant, and I don't even ... hang on a second, I just thought of something. We need to go back down to the exercise hall.”

I very quickly got up and walked briskly out of the library. Cyrus had to practically run to keep up with me, arms clutching his various papers to his chest.

He was looking somewhat alarmed, and I realized that he had a good reason to be. I'd just figured it out - understood why things were happening the way they had been...

I had no idea what I was going to do to stop it.

It only took a couple of minutes for us to make our way to the solid wooden door of the exercise hall, Cyrus waiting patiently for me to finish hopping over the assortment of traps guarding the hallway before attempting the feat himself.

“Cyrus, in your notes there, do you have information on where the Redforne estate used to be?” I asked as I finished disarming the last of the locking mechanisms and swung the door open. “Unless I've missed my guess entirely, I'm positive that we'll find that information very interesting.”

He was already flipping through documents as he walked into the hall, his fingers finding and tracing over the details of a crudely hand-drawn scrap of a map on yellowing paper, following the lines marking streets and other landmarks within the city, reading whatever names had been listed there. His finger stopped under a particular word, and his eyes got the tiniest bit wider.

“North of Silhouette? But ... but that's...”

“Our friend Lord Greybridge's territory, I'm sure you were about to say,” I said, shaking my head. “The other thing that you're going to be confirming for me in a few moments is precisely when Lord Redforne suffered his stroke. No doubt the actual dates haven't been recorded, or may be a little off, but I'm certain that you'll find that his unfortunate and sudden debilitating event happened just over four years ago.

“You'll also find that he hasn't been seen or heard of by anyone other than close family, and that other well-wishers, friends, and acquaintances have all been turned away. There's probably some talk of conspiracy of some sort, his cousin attempting to usurp Redforne's estate from under him, keeping Redforne isolated like a prisoner, doesn't matter. What does matter is that nobody's seen him ... nobody who isn't extended family or trusted servants, anyways.”

“My Lord? I'm afraid I still don't understand how a detail like that can-”

“Don't you see?” I interrupted excitedly, “This was never about an inept young Lord trying to make a name for himself, or even someone wanting to set him up. This was about revenge, the most simple and basic motive there is.

“My father was thorough, and although he probably erased every trace of his name from the accident involving Salvatori, he missed an important detail. Father wrote stories detailing his own activities and escapades in his journals, usually after the fact. Not all Lords do it that way. Some simply record what they've done on a given day, or document what they plan on doing. Salvatori's son, just a boy, grows up with the knowledge that his invincible swordsman father was found dead at the bottom of a set of stairs. Later, he reads in his father's journal that the very night of his death he'd been planning to steal something from Tucat Estate. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what must have happened.

“And so, as soon as he's of age he becomes the dutiful, prodigal son. He concocts a plan to strike back at those he considers responsible for his father's death. He somehow manages to bankrupt Greybridge, who would appear to be the Lord responsible for squeezing what remained of the Redforne family out of Harael and into the country. Ironic, poetic justice ... he regains possession of the family estate in addition to all of the property that Grey-bridge had worked a lifetime to acquire. All this he has to do covertly, without notice, because he's not done there.

“And that's because there's me, the last surviving member of the Tucat family, the very family he believes responsible for his father's death. He wants me to suffer, wants it to be personal, and with the most fitting form of revenge possible. And so the proud son of one of the best swordsmen who has ever lived decides to fake a medical crisis, and re-invents himself as a naive, young back-woods country Lord of no great significance or intellect...”

Cyrus gaped at me.

“You're saying-” said Cyrus, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“...that Lord Teuring is Lord Redforne,” I finished, quietly.

There were several moments of silence.

“Just look at what he gets to accomplish by doing so,” I continued, walking over to the table which still had Theo's book resting on it. “He bankrupts the Lord responsible for driving him out of the city, going so far as to use him as an unwilling accomplice. He learns all he can about me and how I'll react, knowing enough to narrow all of the options available to me down to one, which is to accept a duel against an opponent that I'm convinced I'm better than.”

I was flipping through the pages of the Knothill book hurriedly as I spoke, sorting through the bookmarked pages with names beginning with the letter 'R'.

“But why,” asked Cyrus, mystified. “Why not just arrange to have you killed? He certainly has enough money for it.”

“Because in the end he gets to personally kill me, the son of the man who he believes killed his father. And he gets to do so in a public duel - the very hallmark of the Redforne fortunes. The distasteful act of murder is overshadowed by the subtlety required to pull it off, doing more for his reputation than a hundred small and clever token thefts could have done. He gets revenge for his father's death, re-acquires his family's estate through financial brute force, and restores the prominence of his family name, all in one fell swoop.”

At that point, I found the page I'd been looking for. The drawings of the swords they contained practically leaped off the page at me. There was no question – I was looking at the same swords I'd glimpsed in Teuring's bag that one day at the Circles.

The name 'Redforne' had been penned very carefully at the top of the page.

“And look,” I said quietly, pointing to them and looking over at Cyrus. “He even gets to use his father's swords.”

The silence continued unbroken for half a minute as I watched Cyrus staring at the pages of the open book, putting it all together much like I had moments before. He began to nod.

“Oh crap!” he said, breathlessly.