The cock's crow came like a brass trumpet blown by an enthusiastic but tone deaf child. Merauve blinked awake, consciousness finding him sprawled across his bed like spilled wine across white linen.
"Well," he murmured to the timber-beamed ceiling, his voice that of a man who expresses disappointment, expecting it to be remedied.
He stretched then, a languid unfolding that would have done credit to a wild animal, each muscle awakening with the deliberate care of a musician tuning his instrument. To a casual observer, the ritual might have seemed almost leisurely. Someone who understood the art of movement would have recognized something far more impressive – and far more deadly.
"We must make music from whatever notes the day provides us, mustn't we, Tachet?"
The blade hung on its mount like a curse made manifest in steel, its length a great hand span of wicked sharp. It was a weapon that had been stripped of all pretense, all decoration, all mercy. Simply blade and handle, thin as winter's promise and twice as cutting. The blade understood its purpose completely. They were similar in that regard.
In a single fluid motion, Merauve rolled from the bed and plucked Tachet from its rest. His bare feet found the cold floor, and he padded toward the washroom with the blade held loosely in his grip.
The wooden barrel squatted in the corner, filled with water that had spent the night becoming intimate with the morning's chill. He dipped the ladle and brought the shock of it to his face, then drew the blade's edge across his skin. The steel sang its quiet song against his jaw.
Once satisfied with his work, the Inquisitor set the blade aside and lifted himself over the barrel's rim, settling into the water with a deliberate intake of breath. The cold embraced him like an old and unforgiving friend, and he sank beneath its surface entirely, counting heartbeats in the liquid silence.
Merauve surfaced with steam rising from his skin despite the water's frigid greeting. For a moment he stood there, water streaming from him like some pagan statue come to life.
"Breakfast," he announced to the morning, as if the very word might civilize the rooster's crude herald. Even the worst beginnings could be improved with proper provender.
Inquisitor Merauve emerged mere minutes later, transformed. Gone was the predatory simplicity of his morning ritual — in its place stood a figure dressed with the calculated flamboyance of a courting bird. His dress uniform (he wore it exclusively) bore the deep purples and silver threading that caught light like scattered stars, each element chosen to command attention while maintaining the razor-sharp precision that marked everything he touched.
He moved across the courtyard, his stride carrying just enough theatrical swagger to draw every eye without appearing to seek them. The polished leather of his boots rang against cobblestone with metronomic authority, each step a declaration.
Unseen hands swept the double doors of the officers' hall open before him. He didn't pause, didn't acknowledge the courtesy with even a glance.
The hallway stretched before him, mercifully free of the usual battlefield squalor that plagued lesser installations. The Inquisitor had, after all, taken considerable care to educate the staff on the proper maintenance of an officer's environment. The education had been swift, thorough, and — for three unfortunate souls — permanent.
In the dining hall, he paused just long enough for the attendant to slip the uniform jacket from his shoulders, revealing a tailored shirt of black silk that spoke of pre-war luxury. At his throat, a silver pin caught the morning light — a small vanity that served as both ornament and reminder.
His table waited in the corner by the tall windows, arranged precisely as he required: fresh wildflowers gathered from the surrounding countryside, the morning reports folded beside his place setting, and his chair angled to provide both privacy and a clear view of the room's entrances.
He took his seat with the bearing of a man entirely comfortable with his own authority, crossing one leg over the other in a gesture that managed to appear both relaxed and ready. Two deliberate taps against his teacup summoned the attendant—a signal established during his first ten here, when such communications had required more... emphatic instruction.
Merauve allowed himself a moment's pleasure as steam rose from his cup. Order from chaos — it was his gift, and this outpost had provided him with ample opportunity to practice it.
He unfolded the intelligence briefings with smooth ceremony, though he knew the real information would come during tomorrow's staff meeting. Still, appearances mattered, and a commanding officer who didn't review the overnight reports was a commanding officer who invited chaos back into his carefully ordered world.
The tea was perfect: hot, strong, and served without the offered sugar that had become such a precious commodity. He waved away the attendant's hopeful gesture toward the silver bowl, preferring his morning stimulants undiluted by sweetness.
It was then, scanning the ten's agenda with the casual attention of a man reviewing familiar territory, that he saw it. Merauve paused, leaned forward to confirm what he was reading, then settled back in his chair with a sharp smile that would have made Tachet proud.
A True One. Captured. Scheduled for interrogation.
The transport would arrive tomorrow.
The smile widened, revealing teeth as precisely maintained as everything else in his world. Oh, the songs he would coax from this throat. The melodies they would make together in the depths of his questioning chambers.
"Popover," called the Inquisitor softly, the words carrying just enough edge to remind the kitchen staff that some traditions were not to be trifled with. "I find myself suddenly possessed of a remarkable appetite."
Soon after first bell, the officers' hall filled with the familiar morning cacophony: boots on stone, swords against chairs, the particular masculine laughter that accompanies men who have survived another night in wartime. Merauve found their clamor tedious, though he considered it worth the cost of their raucous company if the delay meant that the kitchen staff had perfected his spontaneous order.
The jellied confection sat before him like a small, edible crown, its surface glazed to mirror-brightness. He brought the fork to his mouth with the reverence due to all perfect things, savoring the moment when sweetness met the bitter edge of his morning tea. It was then, in that precise instant of satisfaction, that he noticed the junior officer hovering at the edge of his vision like a moth uncertain whether the flame was worth the burning.
*Jerome*, memory supplied after a moment's consideration. One of those unfortunate western names that sounded like clearing one's throat. The boy — for truly, what else could one call someone who wore nervousness like an ill-fitted coat? — stood at precisely the correct distance, hands clasped behind his back in textbook deference.
Merauve continued eating with deliberate slowness, each bite a small performance. Let the boy wait. Patience, after all, was merely another form of suffering, and suffering was the Inquisition's stock in trade. Only when he had dabbed the corners of his mouth with the linen napkin — Southern cotton, he'd insisted, despite the war — did he allow his gaze to "discover" Jerome's presence.
A single nod. Permission granted.
"Jerome," Merauve greeted, making the name sound like an observation about the weather.
"Inquisitor Merauve, good morning sir." The words came quickly, but Jerome's voice held steady. Interesting. The boy had some steel in him after all, buried though it was beneath layers of provincial breeding.
Merauve let the silence linger between them, examining Jerome with the thoroughness of a man appraising a horse he had no intention of buying. The uniform was correct, the stance acceptable. Pity. Nothing obvious with which to dismiss him.
"Where are my manners," Merauve said at last, gesturing to the empty air across from him. "Would you take a seat?"
The cruel precision of it pleased him. His table, by careful design and repeated demonstration, possessed only one chair. Jerome hesitated just long enough to reveal he understood the game, then fetched a seat from a neighboring table.
The dining hall's waitstaff hovered at the edge of readiness. A single gesture would bring tea, settings, the full courtesy due to an invited guest. Merauve kept his hands perfectly still.
"Forgive me, Inquisitor, I know you are a busy man." Jerome paused to swallow what might have been pride or merely fear. "One of my subjects has appealed to Virtue, given the lack of evidence against him." The junior officer's hands found each other in his lap, fingers weaving patterns of anxiety. "I was unable to secure a confession."
"I see." Two words, weighted with exactly nothing.
Jerome gathered his scattered words like a man collecting spilled coins. "I was wondering... if you might be persuaded..." The urge to tug at his collar was written large enough to read from across the room. "Would you be willing to represent the sword of the Inquisition in this matter?"
Now here was something interesting. Merauve signaled for more tea — for himself alone — and waited while the porcelain sang its quiet song of pouring.
"Why, Jerome, representing the Inquisition in substitution is indeed an honor." The tea arrived at perfect temperature, steam rising like incense. "But why would you offer this to me?" He paused, tasting the moment as much as the tea. "And perhaps more importantly, why would I accept?"
The transformation in Jerome's face was really quite artistic: hope draining away like color from a sunset, leaving only the grey of despair. "He is Water School trained. The duel is to be this afternoon. He's appealed to Temperance itself." And then, with the recklessness of the desperate, Jerome met his eyes directly. "I'm... decent with a spear, but—"
"But?"
"I have a family. Please, if there's anything—" The words died in his throat, stillborn.
Merauve allowed concern to flow across his features like oil across water: visible, but never mixing with what lay beneath. "Come now, surely an officer trained by the Imperial Inquisition would have no difficulties with a mere prisoner. If you were truly worried, couldn't you simply have something slipped into his food? A practical solution to an impractical problem."
Jerome's head was already shaking before the suggestion finished its journey across the table. "No, my Lord, he's *actually* trained. He can detect poison: I've watched him reject three meals already. And his forms..." Jerome swallowed hard. "I've seen him practice through the cell viewport. I don't have a chance."
*My Lord.* How delicious. The title belonged to those within two political steps of the Imperial throne, not to interrogators stationed at frontier outposts. Yet here it was, offered like a sacrifice on the altar of Jerome's fear.
"Please," Jerome continued, his voice now barely above a whisper. "I'll do anything."
Ah. There it was. The magic words, spoken with such guileless sincerity that they might have been scripted. Merauve gazed out the tall windows, affecting the distant look of a man wrestling with moral complexities.
"My dear boy," he said at last, each word measured and weighed. "Of course I could represent you. But I'm afraid I have half a dozen interrogations scheduled — cleanup from the smuggling ring last quarter — and only one of critical import. A trial by combat may leave me quite unable to fulfill my more mundane interrogations for... oh, at least a month."
The hook was baited. Time to see if this particular fish would bite.
"I could take them!" Jerome nearly leapt from his chair, discretion forgotten. "I could take your entire caseload until the next moon!"
Too easy. Far too easy. The boy needed to bleed a little more before this transaction was complete.
"Oh, no doubt, no doubt. A generous offer." Merauve tapped one long finger against his teacup, a beat of consideration. "Only..." He let the word hang between them like a blade. "I simply cannot afford any blemishes on my record. I've worked so very hard to maintain certain... standards."
"No trouble at all, my Lord!" Jerome's enthusiasm was almost endearing in its desperation. "I'll ensure a full confession for each of your cases. Any neutrals or appeals I'll take on my own record."
Perfect. Merauve smiled inwardly while keeping his face a mask of thoughtful deliberation. The boy had now said "my Lord" twice, each usage a tiny acknowledgment of hierarchy that existed in his frightened imagination. Deserved, Merauve thought.
Merauve rapped his knuckle on the table – a sharp, decisive sound that cut through the dining hall's murmur. "Officer Jerome, you have yourself an agreement. I shall serve as Imperial Champion in this afternoon's Virtue duel, and you shall ensure my case record remains... unblemished for the next month."
He rose, allowing the waitstaff to settle his coat about his shoulders. The weight of it was familiar, comforting: authority made cloth. Jerome stood at once out of deference, his face a mask of relief and gratitude.
"I trust," he said, looking across at Jerome, "you understand what would happen should even a single irregularity appear among my cases?"
Jerome, drunk on relief and blind to the pit he'd just agreed to dig, nodded eagerly. "Yes, my Lord, I understand completely. Only the best cases will bear your name. Thank you, sir. Thank you."
Merauve turned without another word, leaving Jerome to his relief. The morning had shaped itself into something quite pleasant after all. A month to focus solely on the True. A duel to add spice to the afternoon. And a belly warmed by an exemplary popover.