The Honeymoon Suite 6 - Deescalation

Oliver

Month 3, Day 20, Saturday 12:30am

Oliver had known from the moment Titus arrived, six hours late to the dinner party he had sent last-minute regrets for having to miss, that something strange was going on. He had not believed Titus’s claim of wanting to thank Sebastien. Despite his genial tone, the man’s eyes had been a little too intense, too assessing.

But Oliver had been drinking, and there was no way he could have anticipated being asked if he had some sort of sex contract with Sebastien. It was a verbal attack, and it had thrown him off balance and led to him stepping into Titus’s trap. Once caught, he’d been able to think of no way to reasonably deny that he had been sating his lust with someone that looked suspiciously like Sebastien. It was almost worse than admitting he was in a relationship with Sebastien himself, transactional or not. This way, it made it seem like he was pining so deeply for the young man that he had to go out and find someone who looked like him as a balm for his unbearable, unquenched longing.

It had only gotten worse from there.

Titus began digging into Sebastien’s backstory, asking strange questions and making even stranger connections to some Court Sorcerer from hundreds of years ago.

A Siverling.

Which was...unfortunate. Oliver had picked a name with no recent history, no other living members to contest Sebastien’s existence, but, he thought, just enough respectability that Sebastien could pretend to be from some long-lost branch line and smooth his way among the nobles of the University. As Titus had insinuated, Oliver was not exceedingly knowledgeable about this country’s ancient history. He hadn’t even read the book he pulled the name out of. It was just on the shelf in his office for appearances, in case he hosted the kind of person who was snooty enough to care about that kind of thing—for instance, most of the Crown Family members.

Explaining that to Sebastien—because Oliver would have to explain it, lest it cause problems—was going to be difficult, Oliver imagined.

The rhythm of the conversation was obvious. Titus was building up to some big reveal. Hoping to guide the conversation before it devolved completely, Oliver had taken the initiative to try and dispel Titus’s suspicion by guessing at his endpoint, or at least a possible endpoint.

And then Titus had dropped his metaphorical fireball. He’d hired an investigator to dig up information.

Oliver, admittedly, had frozen in horror for a few seconds there. Because if Titus was confronting him about it, the investigator must have found something. Had Titus discovered that Oliver falsified Sebastien’s identification papers? And if so, had he connected them to Silvia Nakai, or from her to Siobhan Naught? Had he discovered that Oliver Dryden was also Lord Stag? Oliver had always known the ruse would tear eventually, but he’d thought he’d have more time. Or had Titus, perhaps, somehow connected Oliver to the Architects of Khronos? He had thrown them under the metaphorical carriage wheels. Perhaps one of them had managed to do the same to him. Was there a squad of coppers waiting outside Dryden Manor to arrest Oliver?

All of that had run through his mind in a few seconds. Oliver was contemplating whether he should attack Titus and try to flee—because maybe the other man was talking so much as a stalling tactic—or if he should remain and use his influence and smooth tongue to try and ease himself out of whatever trouble they were in more gracefully?

Then, Titus had continued, spouting some nonsense about the third princess’s unborn baby and his suspicions that the child may have lived. Was this what Titus’s investigator had found? It was almost ludicrous.

Titus made some poorly founded connections to other events throughout history, and then began to ask ominous questions about Sebastien’s childhood. When he asked Sebastien’s age, Oliver recognized the source of his feeling of imbalance, and his suspicions turned in a direction he had previously not considered.

Titus had no intention of arresting him. He did not want answers. He had already come to his conclusion, whatever it was.

“Twenty, perhaps, give or take a year on either side,” Oliver was forced to admit, though he saw the connection Titus was trying to make with the date of Spalding’s fall to an Aberrant.

“Just old enough, then. And he had magical training before entering the University. Who would do such a thing for an orphan?” Titus asked.

Was this a trap? Did Titus know something that he was waiting for Oliver to contradict? But…unless they arrested and questioned him under the eye of a prognos, Oliver could easily claim that any falsehoods he spoke were due to his own misconception. He thought quickly, trying to come up with something that was both believable and as close to any truths Sebastien might have let slip as possible. And as a last, desperate effort, he tried to make Titus understand that Sebastien was an innocent.

But it didn’t work. “It would be ironic, would it not, if a babe was secreted away from certain death in the arms of a servant once more,” Titus asked, the threat in his words badly concealed under a tone of nonchalant curiosity.

And then, Oliver understood.

“Mr. Siverling does seem uncommonly reckless. Getting involved with another Blight-type Aberrant. Even associating, if peripherally, with the Raven Queen. I find that boon she gave him quite odd, don’t you? I wonder if there’s any connection to her own interest in Aberrants,” Titus said, hammering in the last nail of his threat and waiting smugly for Oliver to respond.

Titus was threatening Sebastien. His wild connections to some ancient king made Sebastien a hypothetically plausible political threat. His concocted exposure to a Blight-type Aberrant made him a safety hazard. And by linking him to the Raven Queen, Titus both put a nice pretty bow on this little bit of blackmail and made his true purpose clear.

He believed that by threatening Sebastien he could get to the Raven Queen.

And he thought that Oliver would allow himself to be goaded, trod upon, and intimidated. Oliver wished he hadn’t been drinking. Maybe his mind would work fast enough to come up with some clever maneuver here. But he couldn’t see any. In the game of wits that had been played underneath their conversation, Titus had defeated him.

Oliver had no good options left.

But Titus had underestimated him, too, if he thought that Oliver was enough of a coward to let such a blatant threat go unchallenged. Oliver might have had no good options, no perfect responses, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take a more dangerous path. He had been on the defensive. It was time to flip the tables. “What is it that you want?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Titus asked with deliberate obtuseness.

He stood, any facade of amiability gone, and turned to regard Titus.

The man returned his gaze with what almost seemed to be anticipation.

“Everything you’ve done tonight has been for a purpose. You’ve been hoping to get something out of this conversation.” Oliver spoke as he moved toward him, his words an afterthought. He was thinking furiously, though he kept his face as still as if it was Lord Stag’s featureless mask. Titus was threatening Sebastien in hopes of reaching the Raven Queen. Did that mean, at least, that he didn’t know they were the same person? And, during the entire conversation, except for accusing him of paying to sleep with Sebastien, Titus had never hinted that Oliver was involved in any nefarious activities. If Titus had any proof, or even suspicion, there was no reason at this point to keep it hidden. Did he want to arrest and question Sebastien? Or, more likely, he hoped to use Sebastien as some kind of bait to lure in the Raven Queen.

Oliver laid his hand on Titus’s shoulder, noting the small hitch in the man’s breathing, the heavy swallow. He pressed his thumb against the man’s carotid artery, noting the quickly elevating heartbeat. “But I’m done playing along. Whatever it is you want, say it clearly.”

Whatever his plans, it was obvious that Titus meant Sebastien harm. And any of the possible options were likely to end in disaster for Oliver. Both were unacceptable.

“What will you give me?” Titus asked.

“I have no way to procure the Raven Queen for you, but I assure you, I can and will ensure that you don’t involve Sebastien with whatever you’re scheming. You may be powerful, Titus, but I am influential, and not without means of my own.”

Titus blinked twice. “Ah. You thought I wanted to use Sebastien as bait for the Raven Queen? That…actually isn’t the worst idea.” He frowned and shook his head disapprovingly. “Please don’t tell me he actually prays to her after getting that ‘boon?’ She only did it to rub our faces in the fact that we can’t find her, and even when we happen upon her, we can’t catch her. If he actually is getting involved with her in any way, it’s completely unsafe. No one has any idea what she might do next. She is not benevolent.”

Oliver felt a little dizzy, though he wasn’t sure if it was from Titus’s incongruous response or the effects of the alcohol. “What?” Stars above, even listening to the word come out of his own mouth made him feel like an idiot.

Titus sighed. “I’m not trying to set Sebastien up as some kind of sacrifice. Oliver, do you realize how very unsubtle it is to become so flustered at the mere hint of danger to someone that you threaten a Crown Family member? And the leader of the coppers, no less? If I had any doubts about your greatest emotional weakness or wanted to know the perfect way to blackmail you, you’ve made it abundantly clear.”

Slowly, Oliver released Titus’s neck and took a half-step back. Now that he thought of it, Titus had insinuated that the Raven Queen had some particular interest in Aberrants. Did the man have any reason to believe that or had he just been spouting realistic-sounding bullshit that he thought Oliver wouldn’t know enough to distinguish from the truth? And if that was a deception, what about the rest of it?

Titus rolled his shoulders, crisply adjusted his suit jacket, and rubbed his neck. “Luckily for you, I already got what I want. To answer your earlier question, the purpose of this conversation was to discover what kind of relationship the two of you have.” He stepped forward, brushing past Oliver. “What kind of person Sebastien Siverling is.” Picking up his half-finished glass of whiskey, he downed the remainder in a single swallow, then let out a slow breath through pursed lips. “What kind of emotions he inspires,” he finished.

Titus turned back to Oliver, who was still standing by the wall, bewildered, and said, “I admit, I may have gone a bit overboard, but I got carried away with the fun of it all.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug, smiling drolly. “You can’t blame me for taking a little enjoyment where I can find it. You have no idea how tedious my job is.”

Oliver’s relief gave way to anger again, but he suppressed that as quickly as it rose. There was no need to make this situation any worse. “All of the things you were saying about me sleeping with Sebastien, or him being the long-lost heir of King Krell, or being connected to an Aberrant. You don’t actually believe any of that, do you? The whole thing was just to see how I responded.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. I did suspect you were paying his way in exchange for a sexual relationship. Though now it’s clear you’re not even getting that much out of it. And Mr. Siverling could, in fact, have a few drops of royal blood in him somewhere. It would be exceedingly hard to prove. Perhaps even impossible. As you have repeatedly pointed out, all of my evidence was circumstantial at best, and there’s nothing except the last name and an unusual hair color to link any of it together. You’d be surprised how the spelling and pronunciation of a name can change over hundreds of years, especially if the bearers are illiterate. But even if he was confirmed to be a descendant, I don’t think anyone would care.” Titus paused, narrowing his eyes. “Well, except for his fan group.” He raised a finger to his chin, tapping the center as he stared into the distance. “And maybe the newspapers. Dethroned, outcast prince, trying to make a name for himself off of his own merit alone… It makes for a good story.”

Refocusing on Oliver, Titus continued. “And if he had been affected by an Aberrant in his infancy, there would certainly have been signs by now, don’t you think? I don’t believe Spalding’s Blight-type was the kind that could have gone unnoticed for twenty years. And even if some are intelligent—evil canker on this world that they are—I’ve not heard of any that are both intelligent and patient. Their whole purpose is to propagate their effect.”

Oliver took a few deep breaths to steady himself and rubbed harshly at his face, wishing he had some ice-cold water to splash on his skin. “Are you satisfied, then?”

Titus hummed noncommittally. “I learned a lot. About both of you. It was actually nice to see you aren’t always the saint you pretend to be.”

“I’m no saint. But I am honest about my goals. And what of it if I like to help people because it makes me feel good or makes people admire me? Those who need help still receive it.”

Titus huffed. “True enough, I suppose. It’s no different than doing it out of duty.”

“But Titus?”

Titus raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Have you ever even met Sebastien? How much can you really learn just from talking to the people who know him, no matter what kind of ridiculous, antagonistic methods you use?”

“I have met him.”

Oliver was confused for a moment but soon realized what he meant. “Oh, while he was freshly traumatized and making a witness statement? Do you believe you know him, just from that?”

Titus stared at the floor for a moment, though his thoughts remained unclear.

Oliver let out a sharp laugh that didn’t do much to hide the acidity behind hit. “Though I admit, I would love to watch as you tried something like this on Thaddeus Lacer.”

Titus froze, then shuddered. “I’m not a complete idiot. And then Damien would find out about the whole thing and throw a vase at my head. He did that once, when he was eight, you know? We’d been fighting about something Father ordered. I ducked the vase instinctively. It hit the wall and shattered. We were both so shocked and frightened Father would find out, and then we looked at each other and saw that our expressions were completely identical…” He trailed off, covering a small chuckle with his fist. “It’s getting late, Lord Dryden. I’d best be off. Thank you for your…hospitality.” Though earlier he had been aggressive and amused, like a cat unrepentantly playing with its prey, now he was awkward. Oliver wondered if, as the adrenaline rush wore off, embarrassment was setting in.

Oliver crossed his arms. People in Lenore only called him Lord Dryden when they were trying to suck up to him. Osham’s titles weren’t as respected here as they were in his birthplace.

Titus coughed, pulling out a booklet of cheques from his inner jacket pocket. “I’ve just remembered, I was planning to give a donation to that orphanage you run. Or was it an infirmary? A house for the homeless?” He waved a hand. “No matter. If I might borrow your pen?” Without waiting for a response, he moved to Oliver’s desk, filled out the cheque while bending over the surface, and then waved it softly the air to speed the ink drying.

Oliver walked over to him and plucked it out of his hand. He read the amount and raised one eyebrow. “The orphans, or possibly sick or homeless commoners thank you.” It was written for five thousand gold coins. An expensive apology. “I will walk you to your carriage.”

Out on the street in front of Dryden Manor, a cold drizzle had started to fall. They walked quickly, the air between them still too awkward to make smooth conversation.

As Titus climbed into his carriage, he looked back. “I hope you won’t hold tonight against me.” He smiled more genuinely than he had the whole evening, a small expression tinged with sadness. “I love my little brother. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to ensure his safety and happiness. I’m sure you understand. Obviously you’d do the same for Sebastien, after all.”

Oliver didn’t know what to say, and before he could think of a response, Titus had already signaled the coachman to drive away.

Author Note:

I am helping my mother move this weekend, and I anticipate (based on the last time I did this 6 months ago) that I will not have time leftover to do other things. She is a money-poor apocalypse prepper, and that should tell you all you need to know. So I'll probably post the next installment in this novelette on Monday. (Edit: Tuesday)

Do you guys want to see anything more from Oliver (and if so, what), or just go back to Titus?

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