Chapter 108
The Crown Prince’s Palace was currently a restricted zone for almost everyone, yet Spencer Grimaldi remained the sole outlier. He had been a fixture of the residence since the start of the current crisis.
After spending some time navigating the political currents of Ionad and consulting with various contacts, Spencer made his way back. He headed straight for the sitting room where Claude usually received him, bypassing the need for a formal introduction. Through the gap of the partially ruined, swinging door, he spotted Claude reclining on a couch.
The chamber was a wreck. Drawers had been yanked from their frames, and several pieces of furniture lay on their sides. Sharp fragments of ceramic and glass were scattered across the floorboards. No effort had been made to restore order.
Spencer’s brow furrowed as he entered. His arrival drew the attention of the head chamberlain, who stood vigil nearby. The servant bore a fresh injury on his face; blood had smeared across his cheek and dried in dark crusts on his uniform.
The Count understood the implications immediately.
Claude must have lashed out when the man attempted to tidy the room. It was obvious why the rest of the staff had kept their distance.
“Your Highness,” Spencer said.
Claude tilted his head just enough to acknowledge the Count’s presence. A jagged, mocking smile touched his lips.
“Ah, Count.”
His voice sounded like grinding metal.
“Marchioness Connolly is the one trying to ruin you, so why do you suppose she aimed her first blow at me instead?”
Claude spoke with a slow, simmering tension, as if he were fighting to keep his rage from boiling over.
“I wonder,” Spencer mused.
“She likely perceives Your Highness as the foundation of my influence,” the Count continued. “You have become a liability to her. She is a bold woman; rather than retreating or picking at the edges, she always aims for the heart of the matter.”
“You speak as though you understand her mind quite well.”
“My wife is to thank for that. I sat across the chessboard from the Marchioness several times years ago. You can learn a great deal about a person’s character by how they play a game.”
Claude remained silent.
“It occurs to me that we haven’t played in quite some time,” Spencer noted. “Would you be interested in a match today?”
As Spencer drew closer, Claude looked up at him before quickly masking his expression with a look of boredom. Spencer studied him, feeling a flicker of relief. Despite the Prince’s physical state, his mental faculties appeared sharp and focused.
The Count took a more detailed inventory of the room. A few drawers remained shut. Every bottle of spirits had vanished, and there was no sign of the Prince’s pipe. Furthermore…
“You had a visitor during the night, I take it?”
Claude’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. He seemed irritated by the observation, but Spencer viewed the development as a positive sign.
“Was it a physician?”
Claude offered no reply. However, their long history meant Spencer didn’t need one. He was intimately familiar with the Prince’s mannerisms and could read the shifts in his expression like a book.
“A practitioner of healing arts, then,” Spencer concluded with certainty.
Claude let out a sharp, derisive snort.
“Did the Duke arrange it?”
“It seems the Duke is still looking out for Your Highness’s interests. He went to a great deal of trouble. It’s the only reason you aren’t currently suffering through the agonies of withdrawal.”
“You seem remarkably well-informed. Did you have a habit of your own, Count?”
“I did not. My wife did. It was her undoing.”
Spencer looked at him steadily. “You should visit Grimaldi one day. If you witnessed the reality there, Your Highness would lose any taste for such dependencies.”
It was clear to Claude that the Count hadn’t hidden his wife away out of some sense of protection or love. Still, the Prince was too consumed by his own fury to dwell on it. The memory of recent events only stoked his temper.
Claude grabbed the pillow behind his head and flung it with all his might. Spencer didn’t flinch; he simply tilted his head, letting the projectile sail past. This only incensed the Prince further. He yanked off a shoe and hurled it as well. Spencer evaded that too, then looked toward the head chamberlain. With a silent command in his eyes, he signaled for the man to retrieve the discarded footwear. The servant scurried over to the wall to pick it up.
“Bring the chess set,” the Count ordered.
The chamberlain hesitated, glancing at Claude for permission. Though the Prince was breathing heavily, he didn’t protest, which the servant took as a sign to proceed. He bowed and vanished into an adjacent room, returning moments later.
Spencer took the board, set it upon the table, and began lining up the pieces. Claude sat upright. While they prepared, the staff moved in to begin restoring the room. They worked with such efficiency that the wreckage was cleared by the time the game was ready to begin.
Claude fixed his gaze on Spencer.
“Will you take the opening move?”
“Do you think my skill is so lacking that I need the advantage?”
Claude grumbled under his breath about the Count’s arrogance, then pushed a Pawn forward. The move was calculated, clearing lanes for his more powerful pieces. It was typical of Claude—always seeking the most efficient path through careful deliberation.
“Not at all. It is simply because I was once your mentor,” Spencer replied.
The Count’s style was the polar opposite: a direct, aggressive assault.
“I sacrificed my own flesh and blood to dedicate myself to Your Highness’s cause.”
He didn’t bother with the footmen. He brought his Queen out immediately.
It was a risky strategy that sometimes led to disaster, but more often than not, it overwhelmed his opponents.
“Tell me, what transpired while I was away in Grimaldi?”
Spencer decided to apply the same direct pressure to their conversation.
“Exactly what kind of people have you been involving yourself with?”
“And if I told you?” Claude countered. He moved another Pawn, testing the waters rather than committing to a full engagement. It was his nature to be cautious. “What would you do about it, Count?”
“What power do I have to do anything?”
Claude felt a surge of internal disgust at the old man’s feigned humility.
“I am simply curious,” the Count said, his voice losing its light edge. He looked up, his eyes boring into Claude’s. “I want to know who was responsible for breaking Your Highness.”
It was the look of a man inspecting his property. Claude recognized it instantly. It was the same way Spencer used to look at the Crown itself. Years ago, when Claude was a mere prince who looked up to the Count more than his own kin, he had seen Spencer look at the King this way. Like a puppet master admiring a favorite toy.
Now, that gaze was fixed on him.
Claude wondered why he hadn’t seen it sooner. It was so obvious now that they were face-to-face.
What grated on him most was the realization that he still required the Count’s help to reach his goals. He had to use the man and discard him simultaneously. He pondered the mechanics of such a betrayal as he moved another piece.
Chess was a duel between two minds, but the world of power was far more chaotic. It was a landscape of shifting loyalties and sudden strikes.
Betrayal and aggression.
The path became clear.
“There is a certain nobleman who arrived from Dunbar,” Claude said.
He would let the two of them destroy each other. While they were occupied, he would find the space he needed to forge a new path.
“The Duchy of Dunbar?” Spencer asked, capturing a Pawn. The Count’s position was bold, bordering on reckless, but in the end, the only thing that mattered was the survival of the king.
“Correct. He was once a high-ranking vassal there, but he crossed over to our side some years back.”
Claude intended to be the one left standing. Survival was his only priority.
“He didn’t care for land or a high-profile role. He only requested that we recognize his existing status within Dalcatir so he could move his operations here.”
“And you simply granted it?”
“The only honors I can bestow are non-hereditary knighthoods—titles for guards.”
“Then it was His Majesty who gave him his rank?”
“Yes,” Claude confirmed, finally moving one of his minor pieces. Spencer felt the move was long overdue. “I’m not certain what kind of deal they struck.”
Claude lifted his Bishop, hovering it over the board with a look of indecision before finally setting it down.
“It was a sudden thought, bringing that man to the King’s attention. My father must have seen something useful in his talents.”
He paused. “Just as he did with me.”
Spencer didn’t agree with that assessment. In his view, Claude wasn’t made of the same high-quality material as some of his peers. If only the Prince had the natural aptitude of someone like Julius. The previous Duke Woodpecker hadn’t been much to work with either, and Claude was similarly flawed compared to the current Duke. However, he wasn’t without merit—especially when compared to a disaster like Luigi.
This was still the best move on the board.
“What is his name?” the Count inquired.
“I doubt you’ve heard it before.”
Claude finally reached for a major piece, ready to force the issue.
“Macauliffe.”
The trap was being set.
“Pasalis Macauliffe.”
“That doesn’t sound like a name from Dunbar,” Spencer remarked, his voice sharpening with suspicion.
