18 #4
So does murdering your older brother for the inheritance.
“Oh, splendid. In that case, how would I have them release the funds?”
“They’d usually require the signature, seal and arcanic imprint of the owner,” said the lawyer. “If you’re the executor of his estate, though, an arcanically sealed will and grant of probate would suffice.”
“Excellent. I already have them,” Myria said, slipping the paper back into her satchel. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been most helpful.”
She consulted the schedule of fees set conveniently at her elbow, set a fan of lyrin notes onto the desk and swept away.
“Fine work, one and all,” said Myria, settling into a chair before the fire.
Leo lounged on a settee nearby, while Cassia sat cross-legged on the footstool and Felix paced the boundary of the room.
Their suite at the Claritas Majestus was a large one, but it was beginning to feel a little cramped with the prefect wheeling about like a corralled racehorse.
“Mmm. By Mercias, I’ve missed the black arts,” Leo said with a grin. “Two thousand lyrin!”
“You were masterful, my dear. We’re set for starting funds.”
“Trust the man to have a bleedin’ Imbrium Caelestis, though,” Cassia muttered. “This year’s model. Sericum transmission, four-hundred-fulmen engine—”
“Cassia?” interrupted Leo.
“Mmm?”
“Don’t care.”
“Barbarian.”
“Dashing scoundrel. Can you forge the crest?”
“Of course, but getting our hands on a replica to forge it on should cost a pretty sum.”
“Not to worry. We’ll find someone who doesn’t need theirs,” said Myria, tugging the copying paper from her sleeve. “As for the accounts, it’s as I thought. He banks at the Lynxias.” She glanced to the nearest bedchamber and raised her voice. “Lysander? Do you have a moment?”
There was a distant groan, followed by a shuffle.
Half a minute later, an ashen-faced Lysander came limping from his room, a book in hand.
He was a far cry from his usual self, with his hair tousled and his frock coat surrendered for a silk dressing gown.
The healing spells were working wonders, but three years of atrophy in the eternity cells wouldn’t fix itself overnight.
“Evening. You look awful,” said Leo, tossing a scrunched-up ball of paper at the unlucky man. Myria snatched it from midair, then rose to take Lysander’s hands.
“Aftereffects of incandaeum?” Felix asked. Lysander winced at the noise.
“With a touch of open-faculty therical surgery in a moving phaeton, on the heels of three years in the eternity cells,” he said faintly.
Felix nodded and retreated to the kitchen. The sound of chinking glass woke in the background.
“I’m sorry, you poor thing,” said Myria. “I’ll only be a moment. Turns out Evander’s got the usual window dressing in half a dozen respectable bank accounts, but he also holds a vault at the Lynxias.”
“Do you want me to reconstruct an arcanic imprint?” Lysander asked, rubbing his temples.
“If you’d be so good.”
“I’ll need a top-quality sample to fool them. It’s not something I could forge off residue.”
“Would his full banking seal do?”
“Very nicely.”
“Then you’ll have it.”
A moment later, Felix emerged from the kitchen with a wine glass full of pale rose aether. It swirled and glittered, halfway between fog and liquid.
“Here,” he said, offering it to Lysander. “That ought to take the edge off.”
Lysander frowned at the glass and gave it a quick sniff. He seemed to recognize the concoction, for he took a delicate sip and brightened.
“Not a bad brew. Didn’t think you’d have the ingredients.”
“Arcani Corps,” Felix said with a shrewd smile. “We learned to mix them from whatever we could scrape together in the field. That’ll see to the headaches. The cravings ought to be gone within six hours.”
“Decent of you,” said Lysander, looking over the prefect with new interest. Then, like a hound catching a scent, he cocked his head and stared intently at the younger man.
Noticed something? thought Myria, pretending not to see. A moment later, Lysander snapped back to the world and smiled.
“Much obliged. I’ll turn in.”
With a nod, he disappeared into his chamber. Felix turned an expectant gaze on Myria.
“You’re planning to break into the Lynxias, then?” he asked. “That’s an admirably efficient way of getting killed.”
Cassia chuckled, and Leo smirked. Myria only beamed at him and shook her head.
“Never,” she said. “Can’t be done.”
“They said that about Haideum.”
“Haideum was run by a different sort of penny-pincher,” she said. “The Lynxias won’t make mistakes like that. No, old boy, we’d be killed at the door.”
She supposed some manic glimmer must come into her eye whenever she spoke of impossible odds, though, for Felix’s gaze sharpened with interest.
“I see. You don’t need to break in, do you?”
“No,” she said with pure delight. “They’re going to give us the lot on a silver platter, begging our pardon all the while.”
“How civil of them. Ah . . . why?”
“You’ll see,” said Myria, clapping him on the shoulder. “First . . . would it injure your moral sensibilities to steal a phaeton?”