Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"Wait," said Locke. "You?"

"Me," said the smiling blond personage behind the desk. "I hope you aren't disappointed."

"Disappointed" wasn't the word, no. But maybe surprised? Annoyed? Feeling like someone somewhere was yanking his chain? There weren't supposed to be any more intermediaries. He'd been vetted thoroughly enough already. This meeting was supposed to be the real deal. To have - of all people! - this gleaming golden idiot thrown up as a final obstacle was an insult. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't set negotiations back months, so for once, remembering Banon's warnings, he said nothing.

But the fact was, he had seen this particular dumbass in a bar in Narshe not two months ago, wearing an off-kilter turban (probably to hide all that hair, Locke now realized) and an absolutely shameful false mustache. He couldn't have been more obvious if he'd worn a sandwich board saying MORON FROM OUT OF TOWN, PICKPOCKET WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE. Early in the evening the mustache had in fact come off, sticking to the lip of the man's tankard, and he'd just carried on as if nothing had happened. Locke had filed him away under "very drunk, very stupid, and/or has a big set of brass ones." He'd been on Returner business that night, and so hadn't been able to shake the guy down himself, but toward the end of the night he had seen him amble vaguely off toward the inn currently housing a delegation from Figaro.

So, on second thought, no, it wasn't entirely surprising to see that face here, beaming at him with the same sublime confidence. The issue was that he was here to see the king, not some dimwitted civil servant. Guy probably got this job just by marrying someone's cousin.

By now Locke had been quiet for too long, and he was doing a crap job at hiding his irritation. The man behind the desk said, "Mr. Cole, wasn't it? From Narshe? The climate here isn't too much of an adjustment, I hope. If you look at the meteorological charts, Narshe gets hardly more precipitation than we do - it just happens to be snow. On the other hand, you do have those steam vents -"

"Yeah," said Locke, "I'm Cole, and I can't deliver this message to anyone but His Majesty, so -"

"That's convenient," said the man behind the desk, waving to an empty chair. "Have a seat, will you?"

"Do I just wait for him here, or…?"

The man grinned. "You can wait as long as you like."

"C'mon, what's the holdup? He should be expecting me."

"Oh, he is, don't worry. Can I offer you some refreshments, or would you rather stand around and fidget?"

"I'm not fidgeting."

"Hm. I'm sure you're right. Word to the wise, though." The man interlaced his fingers and eyed Locke sternly. "I'd make doubly sure you don't do that in His Majesty's presence. Even given the nature of this meeting, there's still every need to stand on ceremony. He's an absolute dragon about that sort of thing."

Well, Locke thought, rich people were the same everywhere. "Right. Anything else I should know?"

The man looked pained. "Well, since you ask… Your bandana's the wrong color. He won't like that. I'm surprised nobody told you. The dress code rotates by the day of the week."

Locke thought, Banon, what the hell did you throw me into? I already hate this guy and we haven't even met.

"Anyway," said the man, "I'm dying for a coffee, so let's have something sent up while you wait."

"Can't I wait alone?" said Locke. "It's a private conference."

"Please, Mr. Cole. You may rely on my absolute discretion." He opened a drawer in the desk and flipped some kind of switch, and somewhere out in the hall behind them a bell rang.

"Can I? Does the king know how badly you embarrassed him on his last trip to Narshe?"

The man shut the desk drawer and looked up sharply at Locke. "Pardon me?"

"You tried to tip a waitress 150% because she had 'beautiful eyes.' I know that waitress. Her eyes are brown. And how was she supposed to carry home that much cash after everyone saw you give it to her?"

"First, I have no idea what you're talking about. Second, without knowing a thing about the lady in question, I strenuously object to your implication that brown eyes can't be as fetching as any other color. Third —"

There was a knock at the door, and Locke stepped aside to admit a maidservant.

"Ah, yes, there we are," said the man at the desk. "Coffee and snacks for me and my guest, if you would?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," said the servant, and curtseyed and retreated down the hall.

Locke froze. "You're kidding."

"Never," said the man at the desk. "Not once."

"You can't be the king."

"Oh. Except for that. It isn't even a good joke, but sad to say, no one you see today will break character. I've gotten the whole staff in on it. They're all under instructions to behave exactly as if I were the King of Figaro." He shrugged. "So sorry. But while you're here, I really insist you try the coffee. Though I say so myself, I think we've fully optimized —"

Locke, eyes narrowed, spoke the first half of the passphrase Banon had given him.

King Edgar Figaro spoke the second.

"Okay," Locke said, "fuck you." The king laughed. "When were you gonna set me straight?"

"I don't know, when were you gonna ask?" Still laughing, he held out a hand across the desk. "They didn't warn me you were such a stubborn piece of work. But it's nice to finally meet. Please, just call me Edgar. If we tried to be formal now, I'd never keep a straight face."

Locke, dubiously, shook his hand. It was stronger than he'd expected.

Then he said, "Wait. Explain Narshe."

"Well, like I said, in terms of weather patterns it's technically also a desert —"

"Not that."

"I can't help it if you've confused me with someone else."

"I know it was you."

"Well, whoever this man was, he seems to have left an impression on you. He must have been quite the looker. Certainly I've been to Narshe, but you must understand, hanging around in dive bars is well outside the scope of an official visit. I repeat: wasn't me. Don't know a thing about it."

Locke splayed his hands over the desk. "Okay, yeah, you're right, there's been a mistake here."

"I'm glad we agree."

"Because I was sent here to talk to… how did he put it?" He held up a finger for effect. "'An intelligent and careful man, and not to be taken lightly.'"

"Such lofty praise. I'm blushing," said Edgar, who wasn't. He was still smiling, but his air of thick-headed cheer had been replaced by undiluted smugness. It was not less annoying, but it was annoying from a different angle.

Annoying enough that Locke had been flustered and off-balance since he'd entered the office. But the thing was, while that could have been planned, it still could have risen from the king's native stupidity.

Is this a power move, Locke wondered, or is he just a dipshit?

And he kept wondering for a long damn time.

"Oh, Locke, there you are. Perfect timing. The Empire's trying to scare me with their superior tech again."

Locke pulled the hidden door back into place and waited for the click. "Is it working?"

"Hm. Well, just between us, I'll admit I'm concerned. Take a look." He handed over a thrice-folded sheet of paper, half of Gestahl's seal still visible in the broken wax.

Locke flipped it open and scanned through the ornate script of… some kind of invitation. "They love their dinner parties, huh?"

"It gets worse. Note the location." Edgar leaned over and tapped the last line. "I understand this to be a prototype Magitek gunboat."

"Oh, shit."

"Precisely. Now, we have a little over a month to prepare, and I should be able to smuggle two or three Returner agents on board in my entourage. I want you to talk to Banon and Arvis, see who they recommend. Maybe one of the mine engineers? Someone who can spot obvious failure points in a complex system. I can't expect to get more than a cursory look myself."

"Wait, you're going?"

"Of course."

"But it's a boat. In the ocean. If they're planning to kidnap you — or even kill you —"

"I don't think they are, for the moment." Edgar took the invitation back and smiled a flinty smile. "But if they try, I promise I'll make it difficult." He patted Locke's shoulder. "No need to worry. Just remember: I'm the king and I do what I want."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

"No, it's supposed to shut you up. Anyway, that's my news — how about yours? Have you eaten? I've never been sure how the rules of hospitality apply to secret revolutionary spies. In the strictest sense of the word, you're not a guest, but —"

"Okay, what's the secret phrase that shuts you up?"

"The question has driven sharper minds than yours into despair."

Although it was nearly midnight, Edgar had a cold dinner sent up, and Locke made his report in between wolfing down a succession of flatbreads. Edgar listened in silence, sometimes jotting down a quick note, sometimes discreetly nudging more food in Locke's direction. Locke couldn't decide whether to find the latter patronizing or to just be grateful.

When the recital was done, Edgar looked over his notes one more time, nodded to himself, burned them in the fireplace, and asked a few incisive questions Locke did his best to answer. It was 2AM.

"Right," said Locke, stifling a yawn as he got up, "now if you can lend me a chocobo —"

"We're out."

"What?"

"I regret to inform you we're completely out of chocobos." At that moment there must have been some minor disturbance in the stables; an aggrieved warking could be heard faintly through the window. Locke jerked his thumb toward the sound. "That's something else," said Edgar.

"Uh-huh," Locke said flatly. "And when do you expect to have birds again?"

"For you? Eight, maybe ten hours."

"What's to stop me stealing one before then?"

"I think even you would find that difficult, because we don't have any." More indignant chocobo noises in the distance, and the yet more indignant yells of a cat fleeing the scene of a crime. "On the other hand, we do have guest accommodations in a corridor that won't be disturbed until noon, so —"

"I thought I wasn't a guest."

"These are bold times in improvisational etiquette."

"Just wondering, do you ever get tired of your own BS?"

"Nope!"

Locke sighed. A soft bed was tempting, as was a break in a week of constant travel. On the other hand: letting Edgar have anything resembling a win.

"Get me back another time, if it's so important to you. Stow away on the boat and stab an Imperial Guard. Whatever you see fit."

"Yeah, I definitely won't be doing that."

"Oh, come on. Intrigue. Stealth. Fighting at close quarters. That sounds like exactly your element." Locke shrugged, feigning indifference. "Unless," Edgar mused, "the sea isn't your element."

"Or maybe I don't care if you bite it."

"Nonsense. Everyone cares if I die, whether they're for or against. It's in the job description. No, no, I have this figured out. You're a bad sailor, aren't you?" Something else occurred to him. "And the Returners send you all over the world like that?"

"Yeah," Locke said grimly. Not much use denying it now.

"Oh. That's awful." Edgar laughed. "That's just awful. Poor you."

"It's not something I advertise."

"No, you wouldn't. Well, my old nursemaid has an herbal preparation she swears by for any kind of travel sickness — I'll make sure you leave with some."

"Does it work?"

"I wouldn't know — I've never needed to put it to the test myself. But I suppose we can't all have my iron constitution." He snickered. "I'm sorry, but your life must be a misery."

"You're a dick. I'm gonna steal every chocobo you don't have."

But the medicine did help, to a point, so there was that.

A week before Edgar was scheduled to leave for Albrook (and from there, for what Locke thought of as "the big floating death party"), Locke returned to Figaro. After reviewing the Returners' final plans, the two went onto the ramparts and opened a bottle of wine as a red sun sank beneath the dunes.

"I still have no plans of being assassinated," Edgar said at length, "but I don't think it hurts to be prepared."

He spoke lightly, as always. Locke stopped and lowered his glass and gave Edgar a searching look — but there was nothing to see. "Need me to do something?" he said, aiming at the same casual tone, and by his own estimation hitting within a degree or so.

"I've discussed it with my council. The throne will pass to a cousin of mine —"

"Not your brother?"

Edgar sighed. "I may have you beat for charm, looks, and intelligence, but there's the one arena where you have the advantage. All my baggage is a matter of public record."

"You? Baggage? You barely even have feelings."

Edgar inclined his head in acknowledgment, smiling wryly. "One does one's best." Then he swirled the wine around in his glass and took a long swallow. "So: my cousin. He's only twelve at the moment, so his mother will rule as regent for some years. I don't know entirely where her sympathies lie. But let's be optimistic. If I'm the victim of foul play, let's assume it's blatant enough to sway her to your side." He handed Locke an envelope. "All this being the case, here's a letter of introduction. Only if you feel it's safe to approach her, of course. The situation may be... volatile."

The paper was oddly warm in Locke's hands. "Wait, did you just have this down your shirt?"

"I'm reliably informed that pockets would ruin the lines of the garment."

"And why does it smell like penetrating oil?"

"You're imagining things."

This didn't square. Unless… He snorted. "You know it's not that kind of penetration, right?"

"Locke, please. We're talking about my dying wish here."

"Yeah? I don't see you dying." He studied the envelope.

The world started to go gray around the edges. The cooling air curdled in his lungs.

"Aw," said Edgar, "will you miss me that much?"

The note was addressed in small, plain letters to My cousins in —

"Kohlingen," said Locke. "She's in Kohlingen? That's — fine. Yeah. Got it."

Edgar stepped closer, frowning. "Will that be a problem?"

"It's fine." Locke stared down at the stones under his feet a moment, took a breath, and then looked up and made himself remember what a sarcastic smile felt like on his face. "The people around there aren't my biggest fans, but I'll manage."

"Oh, boy. I'm not sending you into some kind of mob justice situation, am I? What did you steal from these people?" Edgar leaned in conspiratorially. "Was it worth it?"

It was an easy out, and for a moment Locke thought he would take it. But then he thought, No. Too much is riding on this. The Returners needed Figaro, and if anything happened to Edgar, the future of that alliance was uncertain. Everyone should know who they were dealing with before they made any big plans.

"It's not that," he said, finally. It made him feel lightheaded again, and slightly unreal. He thought, Am I doing this? He tucked the envelope into his pocket, freeing one hand to brace against the parapet. He swigged down half the contents of his glass and tasted nothing, and tried to concentrate on the feeling of sandstone under his fingers. "I — lost someone there. I made her a promise. And I failed."

Edgar said, "I'm sorry." And no more.

Locke had been prepared for Edgar to pry, or needle him about it, or — the most remote possibility but by far the worst — steer too far in the other direction and come over all sympathetic. Whether this was tact or simple not giving a shit, Locke was grateful.

"I'll do it, though," he said, at last. "Stopping Gestahl is more important than my drama." He could make the world safe for Rachel now, if he hadn't then. Too little, too late was still more than nothing.

"Thank you," Edgar said somberly. "And thank you for trusting me with this."

"I mean, you just handed me your entire legacy no questions asked. Kind of a dick move if I didn't."

"Well, all the same." He went on in a lighter tone, "I'll just make sure to come home alive and spare you the trip, huh?" and slung a jokey arm across Locke's shoulders.

It was a joke, right? This was a normal thing between friends. Kind of weird, honestly, kind of pathetic, that the warmth and weight of the gesture went through Locke like a knife, lodging somewhere in his guts. Stupid to think now about how long it had been since anyone had offered him such casual acceptance, and how little he deserved it.

A normal thing between friends. Maybe it would still be normal if, for half a second, he leaned into his friend's side. But no. Better not risk it.

They had a meeting on the books for nine days after Edgar's return from the Empire. And Edgar did show up, apparently none the worse for the trip. Locke's relief was tempered by the fact that he showed up twenty-five minutes late and — oh yeah, by the way — dead drunk.

"So terribly sorry to have kept you. I misplaced my agenda," he said, pretending like he wasn't swaying in place, and like he hadn't been herded up to the study by a couple of servants who reported they had found him "wandering around."

"Where'd you drop it, down a wine barrel?" Locke snapped.

"No. It would be too dark to read in there." He squinted. "What are you trying to suggest?"

"I'll come back another time."

"What's wrong with now?"

Locke waved at him disgustedly. "Look at yourself."

Edgar looked down at himself. Then he looked at Locke, dubious. "I cut a dashing figure. What's your point?"

He couldn't believe he'd bothered being worried about this asshole. "My point is, I'll get your report sometime when you're not hammered."

"Now, now, that's putting it a bit strongly," said Edgar, and pulled his chair very carefully back from his desk, and very carefully lowered himself into it, and with the most elaborate caution rested one ankle on the opposite knee. If he'd meant to inspire confidence in his sobriety, he should've performed this maneuver faster than half speed. "I'm fully prepared to answer your questions."

The only question occurring to Locke at present was Man, what the hell, so he refrained. He could be diplomatic sometimes.

Edgar glanced toward the door to confirm that it was shut and the servants had gone. Then he said, "Can I be blunt? We're friends, right?"

"Is that the blunt part?"

"Because..." he uncrossed his legs and sat forward, gripping the arms of his chair. "Because what I saw on that ship scared the piss out of me." He leaned into it like he didn't say that word often, and relished the chance at vulgarity. Locke gave up congratulating himself for his own restraint. I'd never get anything done in politics, he thought, I'd be concentrating too hard on not calling people motherfuckers. "The damage that thing could do — and he wants to commission five. And — I don't know how to stop it."

"We weren't expecting you to stop it," said Locke. "Just get a look around."

"And if I... as you put it, 'got a look around.' And then didn't try to stop it. I think I'd never sleep again." Locke just stared at him, with a growing suspicion that he'd misread something. Edgar shook his head and leaned back again. "I went in there thinking, 'I can handle this.' I've been doing this king thing for a few years now, I can handle myself in a fight, I can equivocate with the best of 'em. How hard could it be? Just be pleasant and don't commit to anything and don't get taken hostage or beheaded or whatever. Easy enough on paper." In what world was that easy? "But actually getting on that thing. Having to smile and make conversation, we're all friends here, you definitely never killed my father, it's fine that we're eating stuffed mushrooms on board a floating war crime. I'm so far out of my depth it's not even funny. I'm just a regular dumbass," he said. "And the only thing protecting me is that people think I'm just a regular dumbass!"

"You said the same thing twice."

He reined himself in. "There is this practice," he began gravely, but then wavered, and swallowed, and lost his dignified air, "called sandbagging."

"Like in poker."

"Yes." He didn't elaborate. His eyes had gone distant. Locke discreetly angled himself away; when you saw that look on a drunk person they were either thinking deep thoughts or trying not to hurl. But eventually Edgar said, "I should probably show you," so it must've been the first one. He got up and walked with surprising steadiness to the door. Then he paused, squinting back at Locke. "But first. You promise to keep your greasy hands to yourself."

"'Greasy?' Just a damn minute —"

"Grubby, oily, whatever." He opened the door. "No touching." He stepped out into the hall. He stepped back into the study. "I mean it."

"No touching what?"

"Follow me." He went out into the hall again, and down the stairs. Locke thought briefly of taking his arm so he wouldn't stumble, but then thought, Fuck it, if he's gonna talk to me like that, these greasy hands are staying in my pockets. Still, he kept close at Edgar's back in case of mishaps.

Across the arcade, down another staircase. An old man waited at the bottom of these stairs, in a small room with sharp shadows cast by the bluish light in the ceiling. Parts of the castle had electricity, Locke had noticed on his first visit, and parts didn't, with no apparent rhyme or reason —

"The generator?" he said. Then at least the injunction not to touch anything would make sense. And he could hear something humming, somewhere, growing louder as they went underground.

"Your Majesty," said the old man, looking dubiously between Edgar and Locke. "This is —"

Edgar flapped a hand at him, unconcerned. "No, no, I'm not doing any tinkering in this state, of course not. I just need to be down here." He nodded toward Locke. "Locke's fine. Any questions?"

"Why —"

"Because I said so." He softened this pronouncement with a genial smile. "Don't lose any sleep over it, okay? We'll be perfect schoolboys. Locke, this way."

Halfway down this next flight of stairs, Edgar remarked, "Actually, I've never been to a school. Are schoolboys known for good behavior?"

"In my case? The opposite."

"Oh, excellent."

Locke could feel the rumbling through his feet as they descended the last stretch. Instead of the cool damp he expected from basements, the air was dry and smelled like hot metal.

"Mind you," said Edgar, "it's only on standby at the moment."

"What is?"

Edgar reached the bottom. The heels of his boots rang against a steel plate. "Come and see," he said, without turning, and threw a switch on the wall. A second or two of a low buzz and fitful electrical snapping, and then, row by row, lights blinked on overhead.

Locke took the last few steps down, onto a walkway overlooking... shit, it was the size of a city block. And it was all one machine, pipes and belts and fans purring to each other — he followed one tube with his eyes as far as he could, until it snaked around to disappear behind the gigantic cylinders of...

If this wasn't the biggest engine in the world, it was easily top three. And if this wasn't the biggest engine in the world, Locke would be afraid to look at the winner.

Edgar braced his hands on the railing before him and gazed out at the sprawl of metal and tubing. "This is it," he said. He'd gone all vague in the face. "This is my baby."

Finally Locke managed to say, "Funny-looking baby."

Edgar whipped around and said with a vehemence that would've been beneath his dignity if he'd been sober, "I'm doing my best."

Locke held up his hands. "Okay, okay, sorry. It looks very smart. It's got your… eyes?"

Edgar relaxed again, turning back to his study of the engine. "Always liked machines," he said. "They make sense. Y'know, I used to… When Dad was alive, I used to…" His voice dwindled. "I shouldn't say."

"I won't tell anyone," Locke said. He was in no position to turn down any clues to — whatever was going on here.

Edgar considered, and then nodded. He spoke toward the engine, its thrum almost swallowing his words. Locke discreetly moved to his side. "I used to daydream about — if I wasn't a prince, I thought — I'd have a house by a river. Couldn't think of anything more exotic than rivers. A river, and a water wheel for power, and — I'd make machines to help people. Just — fixing things." Edgar took his hands off the railing and contemplated them, until he lost his balance and had to grab on again to hold himself up. He sighed wistfully. "But that's not realistic. Sabin…"

He fell silent. Locke, as much as he wanted to, didn't ask.

At length Edgar said: "I mean, I've never done laundry in my life! How would I live alone?"

"I'm just guessing, but you could probably make a machine for that."

"Genius!" Edgar slapped one hand down on the rail. There was a ping of metal on metal; distorted echoes bounced back from the depths of the machine. Edgar stared down at his hand in perplexity. "Wait," he said, "that's not supposed to come down here," and stripped off his signet ring. "Though maybe it doesn't matter since I'm not actually working on anything." He slid it back on. "Don't rat me out, okay? I swear I'm more responsible than this."

Locke looked at him sidelong. "You missed our meeting getting drunk by yourself, but sure. You're plenty responsible. Whatever you say."

"I'm sorry. I really am. I…" He stopped. "There was…" And he stopped again, and shook his head. "I won't make excuses."

"Did something happen with Gestahl?"

"Diplomacy," said Edgar, in a tone so suddenly withering that Locke was taken aback. But after a moment he sighed and waved a dismissive hand. "But it's important work. Never mind me. It's what I'm here for. Of course I'd rather — well, but who wouldn't? Let's not be frivolous."

And here I thought you were the most frivolous motherfucker I'd ever met, Locke thought. He couldn't decide whether he should feel bad for underestimating the guy, since after all, he wanted to be underestimated. Still…

He cleared his throat. "So, not to put too fine a point on it, but, uh — what does this thing do?"

"It won't save us, I can tell you that. It'll protect… some people. For a while. But I can't do everything. We need more — more weapons, more time. And we may not get it."

"And?" said Locke. "Say we don't get any more of anything. We'll still make do with what we've got. I at least wanna go down swinging." He waved toward the engine. "So I'll ask again. In layman's terms, please. What does the big damn machine do?"

"Right, let me dumb this down for you," said Edgar. He held up his forefingers a short distance apart. "Castle wings… retract." He brought his hands together. "Castle… digs hole." He pointed both fingers at the floor. "Hole under mountain —" He couldn't figure out where he was supposed to be pointing now, made an awkward scooping gesture, and then stood there blinking in confusion.

"You're lucky you're drunk," said Locke. "Otherwise I'd have to punch you for being such a patronizing asshole."

"You'll get your shot," Edgar said seriously. "I'm just as annoying sober. That's a promise."

Locke snorted. "Oh, I'm sure."

"Anyway, look. It tunnels — or, well, in the ideal case it takes advantage of natural caverns once it's underground." He waved a hand. "Saves wear and tear. You know how it is."

"Your castle goes underground."

"Yeah?"

"And you built this?"

"We had stuff, I just made it better." Locke wondered, What the hell kind of stuff? "No, no. Compliment me on retrofitting the library to take the strain. Do you have any idea what kind of shock absorbers —"

"I wasn't gonna compliment you."

"Liar. And then, there's keeping it illuminated when it's in motion, you probably wouldn't think of that problem, but I did."

"Why? So you can keep reading dirty magazines when you're under siege?"

"Gentlemen," Edgar said primly, "read dirty poetry."

Locke shook his head, laughing. "You pretentious fuck."

"I'm not kidding. If you had more culture, you'd know. Some of the great writers of antiquity were legendary horndogs." He frowned. "And… and usually wrong about astronomy. But I digress. Humans have never changed, and I think that's good. I think. If all of history is just — lovable dimwits doing their best, then…"

"Then we're in good company, huh?"

Edgar smiled at him. Which wasn't rare, because Edgar was a smiley bastard to begin with. But for once Locke didn't see any posturing, any irony, any defensive wall. It couldn't serve any conceivable agenda. It was just... sunshine.

Then the idiot tried to put a foot up on a lower rung of the railing, overbalanced, and almost toppled, and Locke had to grab him and pull him back. How far I've come, Locke thought. I just started out in the spy business six months ago and I'm already manhandling world leaders. In another year maybe I'll be sticking a knife in Kefka's face.

"Okay," said Edgar, patting Locke's arm, "I've got this. Thank you. I've got it."

"You sure?" Locke let him go, but stood ready to grab hold again if need be. Edgar was starting to look woozy again. He might have rallied enough to show off the engine, but the crash was coming.

"What'd I tell you?" he said carelessly. "Iron constitution." And lurched forward. Locke caught him with a hand against his chest. "Just a little tired. It's warm."

"You can't pass out down here. Do you have any idea how bad that would look for me?"

He grinned. "Oh, pretty bad."

"Don't sound so cheerful about it. I can't carry you up all those stairs, you big lug."

"I am not a 'big lug,'" said Edgar, matter-of-factly, "it's just that you have the physique of a… like a..." He thought about this, and then straightened, and then declaimed, "A half-starved ferret that's been left out in the rain."

Bold words for someone that half-starved ferret was still half propping up. "I'll let you fall," said Locke.

Edgar snorted. "Do it. I'll stay there and I won't get up. If you want to, you can abandon me here, and maybe get arrested, for being so cavalier with the person of the king. Otherwise we both have to sleep in the engine room. I'd enjoy that. You wouldn't."

"What," said Locke, "you've slept down here before? You?"

"Is that weird?"

"You always seemed like a canopy bed type of asshole to me. Five or six servants fanning you with palm fronds. The works."

"First of all, that is so inefficient. And you know, if you wanted to see my bed, you could've just said so. We could make arrangements."

Locke rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I don't doubt it. What was your phrase? 'Legendary horndog?'"

"No, no, be fair. I haven't entered into legend yet," said Edgar. "But I'm all of twenty-four, so I figure there's time." He leaned a little harder into Locke's shoulder. "Anyway. What's your verdict? Are we sleeping down here? You could try it. The sound is relaxing."

Locke stared at him. "You're serious," he said, dubiously, and looked out at the engine again. "This is yours? You made this?"

"I maintain it. You don't listen. I make — other things."

"So — what you said about sandbagging."

"Perhaps you've noticed. I have access to a lot of sand."

"If this thing works like you say —"

"Of course it does," Edgar said, suddenly stern. "But you'll have to take my word for it. People live here. I'm not declaring a state of emergency just to show it off and — and gratify your whims. I find the request shocking and disappointing. And selfish." Then he grinned, and this was one of the most annoying ones. "And it's very cool and you're missing out. Ha ha." He jabbed a finger into Locke's sternum.

"Ow, fuck off."

"But if you're curious. I could show you something on a smaller scale."

Locke heaved an exasperated sigh. "No, Edgar, I don't wanna see your dick."

"Oh, you wish that was on offer." He leaned in and said, close to Locke's ear, "But it is, for the record, an extremely sophisticated mechanism." Then he withdrew, waggling his eyebrows. Never had the word "sophisticated" seemed less relevant.

"Ugh, fuck you. We're going upstairs," said Locke. "I can't listen to any more of this."

"Very well." He did not resist as Locke rearranged them both to better support this dumbass up the stairs. "But I do want it known that you started it."

Locke slipped an arm around Edgar's back. It was warm. The guy radiated heat, like the stones of the castle at the end of the day. Like the engine that had been sleeping down here in secret all along.

Or, y'know, like a regular person who just happened to run slightly hotter than average. Any inclination to feel all cozy and metaphorical vanished when faced with the reality of all these fucking stairs. At the top of that first narrow flight, while Locke caught his breath, Edgar said, "Oh, bravo, well done. Three more to go."

"Hell with it," Locke wheezed, "you're sleeping here."

"No, no. You have to finish what you started. Remember what I said about having you arrested." Was he deliberately throwing more of his weight against Locke? Was he dragging them down on purpose? Fucking prick. "Good luck! I'm rooting for you."

The last flight felt like ten. "Well, I for one am exhausted," said Edgar, and Locke almost pitched him back down the stairs. "Here's my stop. Take a guest room. You know where. Please refrain from treasure hunting any of the smaller objets d'art."

"What about the big ones?"

"If you can make off with any of those, I'll just be impressed. Good night," he said, and shouldered open the door to his chambers, after which, judging by the sound, he immediately threw himself facefirst into bed.

Once in the guest room, Locke tried picking up a bronze statuette, only to find it was bolted to the shelf. And so was everything else he tested — or it was strapped in, or screwed into place. He slipped into the next room over and found the same.

"Smartass," he muttered, letting himself back out, and checked the hall clock. By their standards, this meeting had been an early one, and it was only a little past 11PM. There was still time to do some asking around, and fuck knew, after that encounter he had some questions.

He managed to hunt down the housekeeper, a Mrs. Abano, near the kitchen on her nightly rounds. He hadn't often spoken to her directly, since he was usually here at stupid hours of the night, but he'd asked a couple of the servants he did know to put in a good word for him. "Evening, Mr. Cole," she said, with a polite nod, and a look indicating she could already guess his first five questions. Okay. The word must've been good, then.

"Good evening," he said, and cut to the chase. "What is wrong with the king? Does he do that often?"

"No," she said, "not often at all. It's the strangest thing. Normally the worst he'll do is rearrange furniture, but he's been a nightmare since he got back."

"Nightmare how?" said Locke, who was familiar with the ways rich bastards could make life hell for the poor bastards working under them. He wouldn't have taken Edgar for the type, but people surprised you all the time. "I can sm — I can talk some sense into him if you want."

"The ministers are all out of sorts and saying he's ignoring them. They'll come out of a meeting and say he spent the whole time staring right through them and drawing weird diagrams. Which didn't affect us, much, except the ministers being cranky just makes everyone's lives a little worse. But then," she said, leaning in, "but then, couple days into this, he starts going from room to room pointing out random things. Sharp corners and heavy objects and bits of glass. 'That's a hazard,' he says, and just sails out again. What's he expect us to do, wrap it all in mattresses?"

"Nail everything down?" Locke suggested.

"Oh, you noticed. Well — it's all we can do. He keeps getting underfoot, but then he's never anywhere to be found when you need to talk to him, and I ask you, king or no, how does a person do both? And this latest embarrassment — roving around the portrait gallery, of all places, with enough booze for a small army — we're all lucky it was you he stood up and not someone less understanding."

And then she realized how much she'd said and leaned away again, biting her lip. "I shouldn't. His Majesty — but he might listen to you. You might tell him to settle down and quit being — quite frankly — a nuisance."

Locke considered the state in which he'd left His Drunk-Ass Majesty. "Going out on a limb here, but I think he'll be pretty quiet tomorrow."

"Thank you," she said, with conviction.

"I mean, sure, I hope it makes your life easier. But I can't take credit." And wasn't gonna take the blame, either, if by some chance a hung over Edgar was even more of a nightmare.

But he had defenses in place, and he was apparently standing ready to use them. Banon would want to know.

The next time Locke came to Figaro, Edgar instructed him to use a completely different secret passage, which just raised the question — how many secret passages did one man need?

"Hey, asshole," Locke said by way of greeting, turning the crank that pulled the ladder up behind him, "how many secret passages do you —" And he turned, and looked around. He had never been in this room before. There was a hulking tool chest in the far corner, and more stuff arrayed on nails and hooks in the walls, and — what was that, a grinder? A lathe? A bunch of other big menacing shit with big menacing moving parts? A giant maze of cams and crankshafts linked up for fuck knew what purpose?

"Sorry for the trouble," said Edgar, who was not sorry. "For reasons both boring and complicated, I need to take extra care about what's discussed in my study in the next couple of months. Back to normal after that. But we'll be private here." He looked slowly around his workshop, then gave a satisfied nod. "No one comes here but me. So if it's ever compromised, I'll know, the instant anything isn't how I left it."

Locke blurted out, "And you're not gonna, like, stick my hand in that press? If you don't like my information?"

"What?" Edgar bridled. "No! Did you think this was — this isn't meant to intimidate. I just wanted to — here, can I show you something I'm working on?"

Do you promise it's not your dick, Locke thought of saying. But he didn't. He'd never seen the guy look this earnest — at least, not sober. "You know I probably won't understand it, right?"

"That's fine. Just humor me?"

He could be weirdly hard to turn down. So Locke humored him — then, and for the next couple of months. He didn't really get the details, and he didn't try to. But around the time Edgar showed him a hand drill that could punch through steel plate (even if the sound was absolute torture), he understood something else.

Edgar was good at this. This was what he wanted to be doing. And he'd confined it to this one little room, out of the whole castle, and knuckled down and run a country instead.

Banon might want to know this, too.