NOVEL NEXT 133. Kenric Jade
Republic City of Otto, Southern Islands, in the Luminous Seas, off the Coast of Hilde Kingdom, Eastern Continent
The hotel suite smelled of expensive whiskey and something far more acrid—the metallic tang of death. A handsome man in his mid-twenties crouched beside the corpse, his tailored suit straining slightly at the shoulders as he examined the diplomat's contorted fingers. Sunlight streamed through the balcony windows, glinting off the half-empty whiskey bottle on the side table.
"Aithe vaadu ilaane chanipoyaada?" (So he just died like this?) His voice carried the polished cadence of someone accustomed to giving orders rather than asking questions.
The hotel manager, a middle-aged woman wringing her hands nodded vigorously. "Avunu, vaadu breakfast ki raaledu kaabatti, memu atani daggara dooru knock chesaamu." (Yes, when he didn't come to breakfast, we knocked on his door.) She swallowed hard. "Pratirodhinchaka, memu dooru terchesaamu." (When there was no answer, we opened it.)
The brown-haired man hummed, straightening with the effortless grace of a predator. His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor as he circled the room, pausing to study the harbor view before turning back.
"Vaadu Ancorna nundi oka diplomat kada?" (He was a diplomat from Ancorna, correct?)
"Avunu, Mr. Kenric," (Yes, Mr. Kenric) the manager confirmed, bobbing an awkward curtsy just as two sun-weathered guides, the same men who'd escorted the dead diplomat through Otto's streets, entered the suite.
Kenric acknowledged them with a curt nod before resuming his search. His movements were methodical: tilting paintings to check behind them, running fingers along bookshelf edges, finally kneeling to inspect the bedside table's drawer. Across the room, the guides rummaged through cabinets with considerably less finesse, their calloused hands sending glassware clinking.
A forensic physician bagged the whiskey bottle, standard procedure for suspected poisonings—while Kenric's slender fingers traced the drawer's interior seams. His peripheral vision tracked the others: the manager lecturing a trembling maid, the guides arguing over a map's significance.
Perfect.
With practiced precision, he triggered the hidden compartment. The false bottom gave way with a nearly inaudible click. Then he placed a folded letter inside that carried traces of sandalwood ink—the dead man's preferred brand.
"Danni chudandi," (look at this) Kenric announced just loudly enough to draw attention as he stood, holding the parchment aloft. "Ancorna bhashalo rasindi." (Look at this. It's written in Ancornan.) His performance was flawless—the slight arch of his brow, the way he turned the letter as if examining it for the first time.
Kenric started reading the letter. "My Final Confession,
I write this with a trembling hand, having stolen away under cover of diplomatic privilege. The Foreign Ministry's crimes weigh too heavily upon my soul—their secret dealings with Conley agents. When I discovered their treason, I begged Duke Roland's office to transfer me here under the Economic Ministry's cover.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
But even in Otto, their agents watch. The whiskey in my decanter tastes wrong tonight. I know what this means.
To His Majesty Emperor Andrew—forgive my cowardice. I could not bear to testify against my own colleagues. Better this quiet end than the scandal my survival would bring.
To the Honorable Duke Roland—thank you for granting me this final kindness. My replacement of Foreign Ministry personnel was done with your tacit approval, though you knew not why.
Let my death be the last sacrifice Ancorna makes to these vipers in our midst.
—Lord Ethan Flask"
After few minutes,
The heavy oak door of the hotel suite clicked shut behind Kenric as he stepped into the misty morning. A light but persistent rain slicked the cobblestones of Otto's merchant district, turning the bustling streets into a shimmering tableau of blurred lanterns and hurried umbrellas.
One of the guides called after him in their Hilde tongue as he was walking off, "Idi Ancorna Samrajyamo lo antarika sanghatanamo la undi." (This looks like some internal conflict within the Ancorna Empire.)
Kenric paused beneath the hotel's awning, allowing just the right beat of contemplation before responding in kind, "Manaku prati okati pattukune samayam ledu. I pani Ancorna vadiki ichestamu." (We have enough on our plate. Let's leave this matter for Ancorna to handle.) His tone carried just the right mix of bureaucratic weariness and civic responsibility as he adjusted his cufflinks. The guides exchanged satisfied nods—this was exactly the reaction he'd engineered.
The rain provided perfect cover as Kenric took a meandering route through back alleys, his polished boots splashing through growing puddles. After precisely seven minutes, enough to shake any amateur tails, he ducked into a nondescript carriage waiting in the shadows of a spice warehouse.
The interior smelled of aged leather and clove cigarettes. A man in his mid-fifties occupied the far seat, his Conley heritage evident in the cut of his embroidered waistcoat and the silver rings weighing his fingers. The scent of sandalwood oil clung to him—too strong for Otto's humid climate, marking him unmistakably as foreign aristocracy.
"The letter's planted," Kenric announced in Ancornan as he settled against the velvet cushions. He shook the rain from his sleeves with the causal grace of a man who'd never known financial want. "Otto's senate will probably make it public within the week to avoid taking any sides in Ancorna's internal conflicts."
The Conley noble's lips twisted around his heavy Ancronan dialect. "You're certain? We need that suicide letter read aloud in their marble halls. Every merchant guild must hear of Ancorna's corruption so it reaches their imperial court."
Kenric's laugh sparkled like the raindrops on the window glass. "Really, Viscount, must I explain my own craft? The letter specifically antagonizes Ancorna's Foreign Ministry while implicating Duke Roland's economic Ministry's involvement." He leaned forward, the carriage's brass lanterns casting dramatic shadows across his sharp features. "Emperor Andrew already distrusts his spymaster Frank Eldric, head of foreign affairs. This will have the imperial court tearing at its own throat for months."
Viscount's ringed fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his knee. "By the time they look up from their squabbles, Conley will control both free cities."
"Precisely." Kenric extended a gloved hand palm-up. "Now. My payment?"
A leather pouch hit his palm with a satisfying clink. "Thirty Ancornan mana coins, as agreed."
Kenric made a show of counting each enchanted coin—not because he doubted the amount, but because he enjoyed watching the Viscount's patience fray. Satisfied, he tipped an imaginary hat as he exited the carriage.
"Pleasure as always. Though do tell your shadows to be less conspicuous." His smile showed too many teeth. "The senate's intelligence agents may be provincial, but they're not blind."
The carriage door slammed shut behind him. Kenric melted back into Otto's rainy streets, already mentally spending his earnings.