The Founder Who Ruled A Country

Chapter Three: Terminal Two

The two men from Valmorre were at Zara's door before sunrise, and she called Lucien before they had finished introducing themselves.

"There are two very large men on my doorstep," she said, her voice low and sharp. "Grey suits, Valmorran passports, and they keep using the word protection. Did you do this?"

"Let them in, Zara."

"So that's a yes." He heard the floor creak as she moved away from the door. "Lucien, I'm the one with immunity now. Why would I need bodyguards?"

"Because Rayne can't arrest you anymore, and that doesn't mean he's finished with you," he said. "I have to go away for a few days. I'm not leaving you alone while I'm gone."

There was a long silence. He could picture her face exactly, eyes narrowed, the questions lining up behind them. Then she let out a breath. "When you get back, you owe me an explanation. A real one."

"I know."

"Come back, Kerrigan," she said, and hung up.

* * *

Harbridge International was loud with the morning rush. Lucien moved through Terminal Two with one small bag and a grey badge clipped to his jacket, a silver crest stamped beneath the words Special Services. It had arrived by courier at dawn, along with a time and a gate. He kept his head down and walked toward the private corridor at the far end of the hall.

He made it as far as the business lounge.

Bastian Vail stood at the glass with an espresso in one hand and his phone in the other, killing time before his flight to a conference. He saw Lucien first, and he smirked. Then his eyes dropped to the badge, and the smirk turned into something uglier. Bastian had been to enough summits to know exactly what that badge was. They were handed only to heads of state and the people who carried their bags, and the man wearing this one had lost his company to Bastian for a dollar the day before.

Bastian set his espresso down untouched and walked straight to the two airport officers by the security desk. Lucien couldn't hear what he said, but he could read it in the way their heads turned. Within a minute they were blocking his path.

"Sir, we need to see that clearance."

Lucien handed it over. The younger officer turned it in his fingers, frowning, and spoke into his radio. Bastian leaned against a pillar nearby, enjoying every second. "Check it properly," he said. "The man's bankrupt. His accounts are frozen. He isn't flying with any head of state, so that thing has to be forged."

Detective Pasco arrived less than ten minutes later. Everyone at Harbridge PD knew whose payroll he was on now, and after what had happened at the precinct he didn't bother hiding how much he was enjoying this. He took the badge from the officer, glanced at it, and tossed it onto the counter.

"Forged diplomatic credentials," he said. "That's a serious charge, Kerrigan."

"It isn't forged."

"Hands on the pillar."

Lucien could have argued. Instead he put his palms against the cold stone and felt the cuffs bite into his wrists, first one, then the other. The noise of the terminal faded into a different kind of noise, whispers and footsteps slowing, a hundred travelers stopping to watch a man in a grey jacket get arrested beside the departure boards. Phones came out everywhere.

Bastian's was already up. He stepped close enough to get Lucien's face in the frame and turned the camera on himself, grinning. "You're not going to believe who I just ran into," he told his followers. "The genius of Lattice, everyone."

Lucien turned his head and looked at him, and said nothing at all.

Then every speaker in the terminal crackled to life at once.

"Attention, please. Terminal Two is now being cleared for an arriving head-of-state delegation. All passengers must proceed immediately to Terminal One."

The message repeated in three languages. Before it finished, men in grey uniforms were moving through the hall in pairs, calm and quick, and the crowd began to shift whether it wanted to or not. Travelers were turned around and walked toward the exits. Shops pulled their shutters down. The two airport officers glanced at each other, then at the uniforms, and stepped back against the wall without being told.

Pasco frowned and kept one hand on Lucien's shoulder. Bastian kept filming.

A tall man with white hair and a dark coat came through the emptying hall at an unhurried pace. He walked straight past Bastian without a glance and stopped in front of the man in handcuffs.

Lucien had not seen him in two years. Aurelio, chief steward of the House of Varenne, had raised him from the age of ten alongside his mother. He had taught Lucien to sit still through state dinners and to keep his temper behind his teeth. He looked older now, and the lines around his eyes had deepened, but his back was as straight as ever.

Aurelio bowed his head, low enough that only Pasco and Bastian were close enough to see it.

"The aircraft is ready, Your Highness."

Pasco's hand fell from Lucien's shoulder. His face went grey, and it took him three tries to fit the key into the cuffs because his hands were shaking. When the second cuff opened, Lucien rubbed his wrist and picked his badge up from the counter.

Bastian slowly lowered his phone.

* * *

The jet sat alone on the far apron, white against a pale sky. Inside, it was quiet enough to hear the engines winding up. Lucien took the seat by the window, and Aurelio waited until the door was sealed before he took a cream envelope from his coat.

"From the Regent," he said.

The seal was pressed in dark red wax, the mark of Prince Casimir. Lucien turned the envelope over in his hands and did not open it. His grandfather had told him not to let his uncle know he was coming, and he had not told him. Yet here was a letter, waiting for him on the plane.

Before he could break the seal, his phone buzzed against his knee. It was a message from Zara.

There's someone in the Lattice garage.