Legacy Protocol

THE PACKAGE

Arin kept his expression neutral. “Tattoo on the wrist. Lattice pattern.”

The informant nodded. “They had a leader. He moved like he belonged to a place that paid well and did not ask questions. I followed to the alley. I saw a man drop a package, then the man fell into the water.”

“Why tell us now?” Corvin asked.

“Because the man the package belonged to is important,” the informant said. “He is on Lucan’s lists. He is dangerous to have alive and not under our eye.”

Arin’s stomach shifted. Someone in the city had planned to make a delivery that would not be noticed. Someone had prepared men to watch the Voss route. That required money and planning. It also required inside knowledge.

He needed to know who had hired the watchers. He needed to know where the Tessera had gone. He needed to know what a lattice tattoo meant and which hands wore it.

Back at the manor, Arin let the questions sit with him like stones. That afternoon he took the long walk along the river and let the chatter of the city wash against him. Men called to sellers, an old couple argued, a child trailed a toy boat in the gutter. The normal life of the city went on in a way that felt almost obscene. Somewhere inside that stream his attempted murder had happened and someone had tried to make it disappear.

He met Lucan in the library. The patriarch had a book open but was not reading. He set the book down and watched Arin as if he were gauging harvest.

“You found someone who speaks,” Lucan said. “Good.”

Arin spoke plainly. “They watched our route. They took a package. They had a lattice tattoo. They said the client wanted no witnesses. That’s as far as the informant goes.”

Lucan’s fingers drummed. “Lattice. The symbol is not exclusive to anyone. It means access. It means permits. It is used by smugglers who trade in permissions and bribes. Whoever the client is, they have resources. You should be careful whom you trust.”

“You think Corvin might be involved?” Arin asked. He had reasons to ask. The informant had named a Corin Marr. The names were close enough to be a coincidence. They were also close enough to deserve attention.

Lucan smiled, small and contained. “I do not accuse my men lightly. Corvin has been useful. He has also been absent more than he should. You will watch him. Do not be obvious. Have a reason to question him.”

Arin wanted to say he suspected betrayal. Instead he nodded. All accusations in this house needed tact. Evidence did the work that outrage never would.

That night Protocol offered a new option: train for confrontation or cultivate deniability. Arin chose the latter. He knew that people made mistakes when they felt cornered. He wanted to watch Corvin stumble before he demanded blood.

In the days that followed Arin acted like a man with a role to play. He practiced at receptions, floated through small talk, and let the Protocol feed him corrections as if it were a patient teacher. He learned what phrases opened doors. He learned what phrases closed them. He learned that the Voss estate had an appetite for rumor.

Evelyn began to speak to him more without the practiced coolness. She asked about small things, the kind of questions that meant she wanted to know how he slept and what he ate. She asked them in a blunt way that did not pretend to the illusion of friendship.

“You must keep your guard up,” she said one night, handing him a cup of something hot. “Trust is a currency. Spend it with firm hands.”

He accepted the cup. For the first time since waking, he felt like he had a partner in the house who did not simply practice politeness. She was still an asset to be negotiated with. She was also, annoyingly, necessary.

Corvin began to make small mistakes. He arrived late to briefings, muttered about errands, and was seen speaking with men from the shipping yards. Arin watched and cataloged. The Protocol rewarded him with quiet confirmations. He timed Corvin’s movements, followed codes of courtesy when he needed to, and saved his questions for moments when they would hurt.

Then, late one night, as the house slept and the river shrank into reflections, Arin found Corvin leaning against the service entrance, a cigarette between his fingers. The handler’s face was raw in the lamplight. He did not look surprised to see Arin.

“You should not be out here,” Corvin said.

“You should not be meeting them,” Arin replied. “Who are you speaking for?”

Corvin blew out a long breath and did not answer immediately. When he did the words were small. “I owe favors,” he said. “I do what I must.”

“You work for Lucan,” Arin said. “And you meet his enemies.”

Corvin’s jaw clenched. “We all do what we must.”

Arin watched him for a long time. The Protocol cataloged the pause. It offered a small list of tactics and the likely consequences. Arin chose a different route. He stepped closer and laid a hand on Corvin’s forearm. The touch was a simple human thing, not a threat.

“Tell me where the watchers came from,” Arin said. “Tell me what you know. Or I will take Lucan what I have and let him decide.”

Corvin’s eyes flicked to the manor, then back. The cigarette’s ember glowed. “There are people who buy silence and call it investment,” he said. “I will tell you what I know. Not because I like you, but because I do not like the idea of a man who gets thrown overboard becoming something that drags us all under.”

Arin listened. The information Corvin offered was dirty and precise. Names of brokers. A ledger that ran under the docks. A smuggler with a crooked smile. A broker named Meran who handled permissions. Corvin said he had given Meran a list once, the kind of list that needed protection. He said he had not expected men to watch the Voss route.

When Corvin finished, Arin felt both nearer to the answer and further from safety. People lied when they were afraid. People also lied when they had to protect others. Corvin’s information could be self-serving. It could also be true.

Arin left Corvin smoking in the night and walked back to the house. The protocol offered no comfort. It updated his mission status with cold precision and left the rest to him.

He had more facts. He had the lattice tattoo. He had the name Meran. He had men watching the docks. He had a list that would lead him to the gala in seven days. Above all, he had the feeling that each answer only opened more doors.

Outside the manor, a delivery boat creaked against the riverbank. Inside, the lamps burned low. Arin folded his hands and let the quiet gather around him. He might be a guest in this house, but he was learning to move through its rooms like someone who owned at least a few of their shadows.

The clock in the hall chimed. Time counted down. Arin tightened his jaw and