Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 101 - Hundred And One
Ian moved a bit.
"YOU! I SAID YOU SHOULD HALT!"
The Captain’s voice was a whip-crack. Ian, just feet from the side-door escape, froze. His back was to the Captain, but he could feel the man’s eyes, and the point of his sword, aimed directly at him. He was caught.
His mind, trained for years in the art of war and espionage, went perfectly calm and cold. He could feel the weight of the ledgers and the map of Strathmore, tucked securely inside his rough-spun tunic. He could not, under any circumstances, be captured. His hand, hidden by his body, moved slowly, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the thin, razor-sharp dagger hidden in his belt. He would kill the Captain, and as many guards as he had to, before he let them take those papers.
High above, on the private balcony, Derek saw it all. He saw Ian freeze. He saw the Captain, his hand on his sword, advancing. He saw the other guards beginning to turn, their attention focusing on the new "fugitive."
His "drunk" act was not enough. A simple diversion had failed. He needed something bigger.
He let his body go limp, a true, dead-weight, drunken collapse. He fell forward, slamming his chest against the balcony railing, a loud, pained groan escaping him. He grabbed the bottle of wine he had been waving and, in a single, desperate, and brilliant move, he put it to his lips and chugged. He drank almost half the bottle in one, long, ragged swallow, his eyes wide, his throat working. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦
He then pulled the bottle away, and the dark, red wine he hadn’t managed to swallow gushed from his mouth, pouring down his chin, soaking the front of his fine, white, linen shirt in a stain that looked, in the dim, chaotic light, exactly like a spray of fresh blood.
He clutched his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Someone... help me," he groaned, his voice a perfect, wet, choking sound. And then, he fell, slumping from the railing to the floor of the balcony, completely, and very dramatically, out of sight.
As he fell, his hand, fast as a snake, slipped into his boot. His fingers closed around the smooth, weighted, and perfectly balanced handles of three small, silver darts.
He and Ian were now both ready. They would strike at the same instant—Ian at the Captain, Derek at the guards below—and they would turn this raid into a bloodbath.
It was at that exact, heart-stopping moment that a new sound, a new chaos, erupted from the main entrance.
SMASH!
A full, crystal glass of wine flew through the air and shattered on the floor, just inches from Captain Murry’s boots.
The Captain, who had been advancing on Ian, stopped dead, his head snapping toward the entrance, his hand flying to his sword.
A woman was standing there. Her face a mask of pale, beautiful, and absolutely magnificent fury. It was the Grand Duchess.
She had come here, her mind a cold knot of calculation, to follow up on the investigation she had found on the accounts. She had walked, with a grim determination, into a full-scale military raid. She had seen the Royal Guards, the same men from the night before. She had seen Ian, disguised, trapped. And she had seen, high above, her husband, the Grand Duke, pretending to be drunk and collapsed.
She understood. In one, single, blinding instant, she understood everything. This was not a raid; it was an attack. They were trapped. And she was the only one who could create a diversion big enough to save them.
"DEREK THOMPSON!" she shrieked, her voice a raw, hysterical, and utterly convincing sound of a wife pushed beyond her limits. "GET OUT HERE, NOW!"
The entire hall froze. The patrons, the guards, the dancers... everyone. This was a new, and far more interesting, development.
The Captain, his mind reeling, was now trapped between a "fugitive" servant, a "collapsed" Duke, and a "hysterical" Duchess.
On the balcony floor, Derek, his hand still holding the darts, his body tensed to spring, froze. His eyes went wide. What... what is she doing here? he thought, his mind a complete, stunned blank.
Marissa did not pause. She stormed into the center of the hall, her dres swirling behind her, her eyes blazing, fixed on the balcony above.
"It is not enough that you brought that... that dancer into our home?" she screamed, her voice cracking with a perfect, fake sob. "Now you come back to this... this filth pit? You waste your nights, your money, your name, on these... these women? On drinking yourself till you waste your life? Do I mean NOTHING to you?"
It was magnificent. It was a raw, primal, and deeply, deeply embarrassing dispute between a husband and wife , unfolding in front of two dozen heavily armed Royal Guards.
Ian, at the side door, saw his moment.
Every eye in the room, including the Captain’s, was now fixed, in horrified, rapt fascination, on the dueling Duke and Duchess. No one was looking at the "kitchen servant."
His hand, which had been gripping his dagger, relaxed. He did not run. He did not panic. He simply, and quietly, bent down, picked up a dirty, forgotten tray of empty glasses from a nearby, overturned table. He hunched his shoulders, making himself small, unimportant. His head down, he walked, not ran, with the shuffling, weary gait of a servant, out of the side door. He vanished, the map, the ledgers, the entire secret of Strathmore, disappearing with him.
On the floor, Derek had seen it. He had seen Ian, in his peripheral vision, see his opening. He had seen him grab the tray. He had seen him slip away.
She did it, he thought, a wave of stunned, disbelieving, and utterly profound admiration washing over him. She saw the entire board, understood the game, and, in ten seconds, she created a move that checkmated them all.
He discretely, slowly, slid the three silver darts back into their hidden sheath in his boot. The fight was over. The performance, however, was not.
