Chapter Text
“You’ve made this request before, Your Grace. What makes you think the answer will be different today?” Cyril’s tone was mild.
“Because today I am of age, First Chair, and no longer under your authority. I make this request because I would fain join your efforts as they exist, rather than set off on my own.” And because now, Joshua had a true reason to fight for it.
Cyril took a long, measuring look at him. Joshua met his eyes without hesitation, showing none of the trepidation he felt. It seemed as if Cyril could see right through him, past manners and poise and regality, down to the real reason. Down to the plan he’d been making, these past three months.
(Jote had brought him the news. An Undying agent in Ran’dellah had been present when Sanbrequois assassins had come for the Minister of Sanitation, who had apparently anticipated the attack. One of the assassins had died in the counter-ambush.
Another had only survived by using what the agent had been certain was Phoenix Shift.
Joshua had run out of the room with no real plan, had fought everyone trying to stop him, had screamed at them to let him go.
“Go where?” Jote had asked with brutal practicality. “There’s no way to tell where he is, or where he’s going next.” Cyril had agreed with her. They couldn’t let the Empire know Joshua had survived.
He’d known they were right even as he lashed out, accusing them of making excuses to do nothing, of abandoning his brother. Accusing himself, most of all.)
A position on the survey team wouldn’t be much, but it would at least let him leave Tabor. After the near-disaster three years back, they wouldn’t even let him go shopping anymore.
Finally Cyril nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll make the arrangements. Have you thought of an alias?”
Time for the other gamble. Joshua kept his voice casual. “Margrace, perhaps?” How well did Cyril know his ducal history trivia?
“Hm. That should work. I’ll have to speak to the Second Quill…” Cyril nodded to himself and refocused on Joshua. “You’ll need to report to her in the morning. Do you still wish Jote to accompany you?”
Right. Now that he was eighteen, it was his choice. “I would appreciate it, if she is willing.” Joshua had come to depend on her advice, once he’d grown out of hating her for not being Clive.
“That’s settled, then. Anything else, Your Grace?” Cyril looked at Joshua, and he thought he saw a touch of respect in the man’s eyes.
“No, that’s all. Thank you, Cyril.”
“Of course, Your Grace. May the firebird’s flame burn ever in your heart.”
“And yours.” Joshua nodded and took his leave, hiding the flicker of amusement the Undying’s benediction always sparked. It was, after all, faintly absurd to wish the Phoenix’s flame on its Dominant.
Clive would understand. For the first time, that thought brought more than just guilt and grief. His alias still had to pass the Second Quill, but if Cyril hadn’t recognized the name, she wasn’t likely to either.
Lady Hanna had told them the story. The twelfth Archduke, their great-great-grandfather, almost hadn’t taken the throne. His uncle had led a coup against his father, and he’d been presumed dead, only reappearing three years later.
Margrace had been one of the man’s more obscure titles.
It really wasn’t much better of a plan than wandering around hoping to run into Clive, but... it was something.
Joshua had to believe there was something, anything he could do to help his brother, if he ever wanted to be able to look Clive in the eyes again.
(The cyanide guilt prickling at his joints and cheeks told him he’d already failed.)