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Alexander watched as his wife obligingly climbed into bed, lingering on the way the sheets outlined her figure and hinted at her curves. It was difficult to pull away from that enticing picture, but the matter couldn't wait.
He had half a mind to shackle her to the bed, lest she find some other hiding place before his return. The idea amused him, but he dismissed it as unnecessary - this time. She seemed to be under the impression that behaving well would serve her own interests.
As he reentered the parlor, he indicated for the guard to admit his guest.
It was only a few moments later that Bartholomew emerged, bowing low enough that half his features were temporarily cast in shadow. "I do apologize for the intrusion," he said, clasping his spidery fingers together. "But ah! Your Majesty did say to alert you when I had news?"
"Yes," said Alexander, briskly. "You found him?"
"He's on his way now," confirmed Bartholomew. "I assumed you wanted to question him personally. Though of course I am always delighted to conduct such investigations myself - "
"No, I will handle this."
It was not even a question. Anyone reckless enough to make an attempt on his life automatically became worthy of his personal attention. There was more to this, though - whoever behind it had more leverage than the average small-time conspirator. He'd given the public a false destination for his retreat, and only entrusted the real location to a small circle. And yet, his plans had been compromised all the same.
He would not allow that to happen again.
Alexander looked back across the room. "You found him quickly." Too quickly, almost. "Where was he?"
"Attempting to flee the city, through the Butcher's Gate. He had little with him - a dagger and a small sack of coins. Confiscated, of course."
Alexander's frown deepened. "Only a fool would attempt to flee now, with the whole city searching for him. Any man with a lick of sense would secret himself away until the attention is elsewhere."
"Well, you know what they say, Your Majesty. There are more fools in the world than drops of cum in a whore's belly."
Alexander uttered a short laugh. "And who has said that?"
"Well, I have. Just now," said Bartholomew, cheerfully.
Alexander smirked, just a little. Bartholomew was always a colorful character - as colorful as he was good at his job, and so Alexander was content to be generally amused by his antics.
"Perhaps that's so." And yet... he said no more, deep in thought. If their culprit intended to get caught, then to what end? All that awaited him was an ignoble death, steeped in pain and humiliation.
There was a knock on the door.
"Bring him in," ordered Alexander.
Two soldiers hauled in their prize: a sallow-faced man with greying hair and pale eyes. The years did not seem to have treated him well, for he carried the hard wrinkles of premature age, and his complexion was not helped by the fresh bruise purpling at his temple. He was dressed finely, though some of his garments looked roughly handled.
"Ah, Count Jarrett," said Alexander. "Good of you to join us. Have a seat."
The soldiers dragged him to the nearest divan and forced him down. Jarrett's first look was to the grandfather clock, to his left, before he lowered his gaze.
"You know why you're here, I presume?" continued Alexander. He sat as well, making himself comfortable.
Jarrett said nothing.
"Your King asked you a question," said Bartholomew.
Alexander waved away the threat, however, and merely studied the man for a few moments. There was something subtly wrong that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Jarrett should have been anxious, fearful; Alexander was not in the habit of being merciful, and he was well aware of his own reputation for cruelty. But Jarrett seemed calm - unnaturally calm, his eyes glazed over as if he did not see what was before him. He bore the serene look of one who had reached some resolution.
And yet, if he viewed himself as a martyr, why attempt to flee the city? Or if he had accepted the futility of escape, why not take his own life, painlessly, rather than turn himself in and suffer the excruciating consequences? Alexander paused, something occurring to him. Perhaps Jarrett did not
intend
to suffer such consequences.
Alexander's gaze fell on the man's expensive clothes, and then drifted to the clock which had so captured his attention before. He felt the eyes of both Bartholomew and the soldiers upon him, confused as to his silence.
Finally, he allowed himself a smile. "You know, I find myself in the mood for some wine." He snapped his fingers at a nearby slave. "The red one," he indicated, to the wine rack, "at the bottom. And a glass for my esteemed guest as well."
Two glasses were set on the table between them, and the slave knelt to carefully pour a share into each.
"All the way from Majapian Valley. Aged to perfection, or so I'm told," said Alexander, as if the situation were perfectly friendly.
When Jarrett hesitated, he smirked. "If I'm going to kill you, I'd be more creative." And to put such doubts at ease, he took a sip from his own glass. "Come, Jarrett. Enjoy the finer things in life. While you're still able."
After a moment, Jarrett seemed to shrug. He reached for his glass, drinking from it.
"Good, isn't it? Now then... As you know, I was recently wedded," said Alexander, his tone still deceptively mild, almost pleasant. "I decided to retreat to Ibarith with my new wife and enjoy our time in privacy. Imagine my displeasure when such blissful days were interrupted." He swirled the content of his glass, before bringing it to his lips again. "My assailant disguised himself as a monk. Naturally, after I disposed of him, some inquiries at the monastery were in order."
Jarrett did not give any indication of hearing this. He sipped some more of the wine.
"Your name was given." Alexander studied the man before him. "In fact, Brother Galen's assistant seemed very convinced that you were the mastermind behind the whole enterprise. You brought him the plan, you paid him his weight in gold." He tilted his head. "I must express my disappointment, Jarrett. What have you to say for yourself?"
More silence. Distantly, the temple bells tolled, heralding the advent of midnight.
Oddly, it seemed to be this that roused Jarrett. He twitched in the direction of the grandfather clock, glancing briefly at it, and then finally to Alexander. He took a final swig of the wine and set it down.
"Ten years ago..." began Jarrett, his voice low and gravelly. "Ten years ago, you seized my family's mines. You turned every last one over to House Wippennus. You left us nothing."
Alexander raised a brow. "Is that what this is over? A few mines?"
"They were our livelihood," said Jarrett, for the first time showing a trace of emotion. "My ancestors built those mines. We've tended to them for generations. And you spat on all of our traditions because - "
"Because you and your father refused to supply me with what I needed for my wars, yes," said Alexander, without any trace of guilt.
"We did not support those wars - "
"Nonetheless, you have a duty to obey your King, just as any faithful subject should," cut in Alexander smoothly. "I was being generous, actually. I could have taken more."
"You left us destitute. That - that is your generosity?" He hesitated, glancing at the clock again, and then to his hands. "Yes, I coordinated the attempt on your life. I do not regret it."
"You claim responsibility, then?"
Jarrett jerked his head in a nod. "Full responsibility. And - and I would do it again."
Alexander merely stared at him for a few moments. Then he shook his head and laughed - long enough that Jarrett actually broke his trance to look up in confusion. The soldiers appeared equally bewildered, behind him.
"Well done, Jarrett," he said, not bothering to mask the patronizing tone. "Very well done. And if you weren't so poor a liar, I might have even believed you."
"I don't understand," said Jarrett, though he subtly stiffened.
"Oh, I commend you all the same," said Alexander. His smile became sharper. "Not every man can find it within himself to take the fall for another."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said the other man. As if it were a nervous tic, he looked at the clock again.
"You're not stupid, Jarrett," said Alexander. He sighed, as if the explanation were beneath him. "Attempting to escape through the Butcher's Gate, when the whole city is looking for you? Wearing your most expensive clothes, instead of donning some less conspicuous garment? Your intent was to get captured and brought before me, all so you could play the sacrificial lamb and save the rest of your conspirators from my bloodlust."
Bartholomew's eyes lit with comprehension, peering at Jarrett with a sharper scrutiny.
"The product of panic," said Jarrett, "nothing else -"
"Don't insult my intelligence," said Alexander, coldly. "You called yourself destitute but a moment before, and yet you had the gold to curry favor with monks and assassins?"
Jarrett looked uneasy. "A loan..."
"Who would give you one, when you've no manner of repaying them?" Alexander said, dismissively. "I'm certain you were paid well yourself. Not well enough, of course, to suffer my punishment. But then, you never intended to."
Now was the time to test his hypothesis. He leaned forward. "You poisoned yourself, didn't you?"
Jarrett went quiet again, but it was a different sort of silence; he stared incomprehensibly across the table. "How could you know?"
"Easier than attempting to smuggle in a weapon, isn't it?" said Alexander. "You didn't confess until you heard the bells toll. I imagine you timed everything so you'd have just enough time to tell me what you needed, and save yourself from whatever consequences might arise afterward."
Jarrett exhaled deeply, looking resigned. "Even if you're right, there's nothing you can do. I've failed, but I'll be gone before you have your vengeance. It won't be long now."
Alexander allowed his smile to become unsettling. "Won't it? You haven't checked the time in a while. It's past time your poison should have worked, isn't it?"
