I like to rethink my actions after the fact, make certain I haven't missed anything.

Well, perhaps 'like' is too strong a word.

I take comfort in the fact that my brain is constantly working away after committing a burglary or heist for political purposes, reconsidering my decisions that led to the act of thievery, wondering if anything that I did was out of the ordinary.

You know ... worrying.

And I suppose I don't really “take comfort” so much as convince myself that making myself sick with worry is a good sign, because it means that I'm not relaxed or complacent about-

Okay, I hate it.

Being plagued with self-doubt after you've done something that commits you to a certain course of action is a feeling that I've learned to live with, if not enjoy, as a natural consequence of coming up with intricate and overly involved plans. It kind of makes your stomach flip around in unusual ways, knowing that all your effort hinges on things going in the manner you've predicted.

There were so many unknown factors. Who was trying to steal the goblet from me in the first place? Were they any good? Did they lack the skill to penetrate my keep's defenses and security? Oh sure, given enough time and effort anyone can be robbed, but did I really know if my unknown antagonist was going to be able to pull this thing off? I'm no pushover when it comes to security, and some of my surprises can be lethal to an unskilled intruder.

What was worse was the fact that I couldn't overtly assist the person who was stealing from me. Making my place easier to break into would raise suspicions, possibly tip my hand. Putting out extra security would better preserve the illusion, but what if they lacked the skill to overcome my additional defenses and steal what I was expecting them to steal?

Or, what if they were after both goblets? My eyes flicked over to my dresser to reassure myself that the box containing the original goblet, which I didn't wish to be stolen, was still there. I wanted it within sight of me for the entire evening, in my bedchamber, the most secure place in my keep.

Were they even really after the goblet? What if my assumption was wrong? Had I broken into the keep of a very powerful Lord for nothing? Worse yet, if the thief was not actually after the goblet I had borrowed from Greybridge, how was I going to return the one I had stolen back to him?

And so I was nervous as hell when the hour was finally upon me, the window of opportunity that Theodore had been told the theft would be done during. There was nothing to do but wait and silently pray that my unknown enemy was after what I believed them to be after, and that they were accomplished enough to pull it off.

I had fetched a book from the library, which was part of the vault, my books falling into the category of things that I value above all else. I figured I could use some distraction, given my current state of mind.

Lying in bed in my chambers, I tried to focus on the words of an amusing story written by Lord Heukren, a most capable storyteller. The book was very old, so old that the leather had begun to split and crack around the glyph of the family name stamped on the spine, an interestingly designed symbol depicting a fishhook and a bird.

Two hours later, I firmly concluded once more that reading to distract myself just doesn't work when I'm that keyed up. I don't even know why I continue to try.

I kept wondering if it had happened yet, or if it was currently going on. In addition to all the intricate plans that could suddenly go awry and leave me in an awkward situation, there was something inherently troubling about someone breaking into your keep, even if you were expecting such a thing to happen. The idea of someone creeping about the halls of the place I called home doesn't sit well with me. It's disturbing, and creates a feeling of vulnerability.

Some Lords wish nothing to do with these games of prestige that myself and the other Lords engage in, and make no secret of the fact that they have no desire to become embarrassed by some Lord who wishes to advance their reputation. Some claim they simply wish to maintain their current territory without the fuss and bother. I think it runs a bit deeper than that – at some point you may well decide that you've had enough of living in fear, of jumping at shadows and feeling as though your home is nothing but a ripe prize for some aspiring thief who wishes to violate your sense of security and privacy for the sake of plundering your name.

Lord Greybridge was one of those Lords who valued his privacy and security above all else, as I had personally observed a few years ago. Burgling and thievery weren't the only tools in a Lord's arsenal, after all. Any Lord who felt that he had sufficient reason could petition for the Prince to personally approve a duel request, something that could not be refused by the challenged party.

Duels could be expensive as well as risky, since you either had to fight the duel yourself or hire a duelist to fight on your behalf, and those guys weren't exactly cheap.

I've fought in seven duels myself, an activity I began once I was comfortable enough with Theo's superior fencing instruction to believe I could try my hand at it. Only two of those duels were on behalf of someone else, and I was paid rather handsomely. I was fairly desperate for money at the time, being in the middle of a tricky financial situation.

I've also intentionally developed a bit of a reputation among the other duelists, practicing nothing but killing blows while in areas where I'm likely to be observed. As a result of this unusual and intentional practice, I've heard that there's a pretty steep asking price among duelists to even entertain the notion of going up against me.

It made me stand out, though I was already something of an oddity to begin with, being one of the only Lords who actually fought his own duels.

Not many duels were fatal, but they could get extremely nasty or humiliating from time to time. If a Lord made it a habit of hiring people who had a reputation for being nasty, the price other duelists charged in order to square off against them rose sharply.

Sometimes the price was so great that the unfortunate Lord had no choice but to represent themselves at the dueling grounds, whether they knew how to handle a sword or not.

Lord Greybridge employed some very nasty duelists indeed. The last duel of his I could recall was three years ago, where he'd challenged some luckless young Lord who had stupidly stolen some small thing or another. The duel received the blessing of the Prince, and the young Lord did not have the resources to pay the fee that even the most inexperienced and desperate of swordsmen were demanding for the privilege of fighting in his stead.

When the day of the duel arrived it was rumored that Lord Greybridge's duelist would get an extra thousand gold marks for shaving the young Lord’s head and leaving him beaten in the middle of the ring without a single scrap of clothing. That rumor seemed to be confirmed once the duel had begun, and the first yield had been declined.

The spectacle had lasted for hours, with hundreds turning out to watch, as there is no shortage of merchants and ordinary citizens of Harael who might wish to see a Lord humiliated. Perhaps that would be my fate if things didn’t happen as I’d planned.

I began to realize that such thoughts were not helping me to relax.

I tried to focus on the book before me a few times more before giving up and attempting to sleep.

Periodically, I'd awaken to imagined sounds in the hallway, or some half-dreamt notion that my bedchamber door might suddenly burst open, some sword-brandishing maniac throwing himself upon me as I lay there helpless.

I imagined droves of thieves, cloaked in black, scouring the hallways and taking anything of value, right down to the silver torch-holders that lined the hallways.

Each time I awoke I would close my eyes and try to return to sleep, but there was no limit to the scenarios that my imagination put forward. I dreamt of the burglary I'd just pulled off, only in my imagination everything seemed to go wrong, and I'd end up tripping alarms, running, falling...

I imagined members of my own staff secretly plotting behind my back, trying to set me up. My cook, my wait staff, trusted knights, my Captain ... they all seemed to be giving me knowing, mischievous looks, hands held behind their back.

“Milord!” I imagined Cyrus call out from somewhere that seemed far away.

I grunted and closed my eyes tighter, trying to sleep.

The voice called out once more, accompanied by the pounding of metal on metal, the last sound causing my eyes to shoot open.

“Milord! It's Cyrus! Please open the door, Milord, we have a situation!”

A brief check of the lines on the oil reservoir of the lamp beside my bed indicated that a few hours had passed, and it was now morning. Had I perhaps managed to get some sleep after all? I felt rather awful and disoriented at the moment, so it seemed plausible.

The goblet!

Rolling over and still wearing my evening's clothing I dropped to the floor and practically sprinted to my dresser, which had the box containing the goblet – the one that had been entrusted to my care – sitting directly atop it. The din from the hallway continued, Cyrus pounding away at my door in an effort to catch my attention or wake me from slumber. Ignoring the noise, I opened up the box to observe the contents.

It was still there, thankfully. I spent a few moments investigating it to ensure that it wasn't a fake or substitute, just to pacify my nagging sense of unease and paranoia.

The urgent thumping sounds coming from the door were start-ing to get tiresome.

“Coming!” I called out, loud enough to be heard in the hallway. This was evidently the case, as the pounding on my door ceased shortly after. I straightened out my clothing, tugging at the long shirtsleeves to ensure they both fell evenly, and went to the door.

It took a minute or so for all of the locks to be disarmed and for the door to open. Cyrus looked positively dreadful, his pale and stricken face showing signs of perspiration. Every feature, from his wide eyes to his mouth hanging slightly agape, conveyed shock and panic.

“Milord,” he said in his calmest yet characteristically urgent “there's-something-rather-the-matter” voice, “It's ... I know not how else I can say this. We've been burgled.”

“Indeed,” I remarked, sounding unconcerned. “Do we know what they've stolen?”

“Not as of yet, Milord. The knights are still going over the inventory in the vault and are looking for any sort of clues that were left behind. It seems that they came up through-”

“Yes, yes, I'm sure there will be a full report. Have you been to the vault yourself? Seen it with your own eyes?”

He nodded that he had.

“Well,” I said, walking back to the box that contained the goblet and closing the lid, suddenly not wishing for it to spend a moment out of my sight, “there was a rather plain stand that had been put there recently. Did you see the Copperfen goblet on it?”

“The Copperfen- why, it's in your exercise studio, is it not? I glimpsed it there not a day ago!”

“Indeed. I moved it to the vault myself yesterday afternoon. Was it there?” I asked calmly, hefting the box under one arm.

“No,” he gulped, his eyes becoming even wider, “it wasn't Milord. I would have noticed it had it been there, and do recall an empty stand that I did not recognize. If you've put the goblet there, I fear that-”

“Excellent,” I said, beaming at him. “Tell the men to clean up and reset all of the security measures, and report to me any alarms that have been permanently disabled or require replacing. Also, let them know that I'm extremely happy with my security, as always. I would hate for any of them to feel as though they were responsible in some way.”

“M-Milord?” Cyrus appeared to be on the verge of complete collapse.

“Oh, and also there's one last thing. I anticipate that I'll be receiving an invitation to a dinner gathering tonight, arriving by messenger sometime early this morning. Could you please look after it yourself, and then bring the invitation directly to me once you've received it? Show no one if you can help it. If you don't recognize the messenger try to give him a look of astonished confusion or bewilderment,” I favored him with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, much like the one you're wearing right now, actually. That would be perfect!”

Moments passed, and the expression he wore gave the impression that he was on the verge of saying something but could not find the words. Then, his face changed, and he looked at me with a sort of wary recognition.

“Copperfen, from Lord Greybridge. You ... you had me find his floor plans the other day, and,” he said, struggling to piece things together from the bits of information he'd been given. “You've been ... expecting this? This was anticipated?”

“Quite, and all appears to be going as planned. I shall share the details with you later, but for now please ensure that all of the follow-up details are taken care of would you?” I smiled in a relaxed manner.

He stood there before me, mute for several moments, before meeting my eyes and sketching a brief and unhappy salute. His eyes registered a certain amount of hurt just as he turned away to walk down the hallway, presumably to do what I had just bid him.

Considering how spectacularly well things were going, that was a bit of a downer.

I made a note to take him into my confidence at a later date and describe some of the intricacies that led to decisions like this, ones where he was kept in the dark. Surely he would see that the precautions I routinely employed were necessary.

I opened the box and snuck a look at the goblet again, just to be safe, before entering the hallway and closing my bedchamber door. I felt well rested and full of vigor, despite my apparent lack of sleep. There's something about the feeling you get when things are going just as you've planned that does remarkable things for your energy levels.

The messenger could arrive at any moment, I realized. I headed down the stairs leading to the main dining hall to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, already looking forward to receiving the invitation that would allow me to identify my as of yet unknown enemy.

I briefly detained Talia as I encountered her coming up the stairs. She looked puzzled, quite possibly because of the early hour, but more likely due to the fact that I actually appeared to be awake and moving about.

“Ah, Talia. Glad I caught you. I'll be requiring some rather dashing formal wear for this evening. Could you please set out a few things, possibly hang around to give your opinion on what might look good? I can't afford to look anything less than devastatingly handsome this evening.”

“You'd hardly need clothes to ... uh-” she began before suddenly looking shocked and coloring slightly. “That is to say ... I meant that ... y-yes, Milord.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Talia,” I smiled, politely ignoring the fact she'd misspoken, continuing past her towards the hall and descending the stairs two steps at a time. I'd given up trying to put her at ease – she'd been in my employ for nearly nine years, and yet despite being one of the most senior of my employees she always seemed to become flummoxed and nervous when in my presence, like she were caught in the act of doing something wrong. Some people were like that around Lords.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I headed to the dining area to see if any tea had been made up. I ceased my cheerful whistling once I realized I was doing it, just in case Cyrus was still within earshot.

The grin, however, remained firmly planted on my face.