light cast shimmering, glowing shafts across General Bonnefaçon’s office. Marcellus couldn’t help but think they looked like gleaming prison bars, slashing their way through the room.
Flicking his eyes across the vast, wood-paneled study, Marcellus scrutinized every light fixture, every nook and dark corner, every First World relic lining the shelves. He zeroed in on a promising-looking lamp on the general’s desk, but then ruled it out a second later.
Too close to his eyeline.
“Your move, Marcellus.” His grandfather’s deep voice pulled Marcellus’s attention back to the center of the room until he was staring directly at his grandfather, sitting in the leather chair across from him, hands steepled under his chin. The general’s dark brows were furrowed in concentration and his eyes looked flat and hard, like two shards of unbreakable rock, as he studied the three-tiered game board between them.
Looking down, Marcellus noticed that the general had pushed one of his infanterie pieces toward Marcellus’s troop of unarmed peasants. Without a moment’s hesitation, Marcellus moved one of his own infanterie pieces in to protect the peasants. Then, once he was certain his grandfather’s attention was still locked on the game, Marcellus let his gaze return to the room, discerningly rejecting one potential hiding place after another.
Too big.
Too small.
Too risky.
For a moment, he really liked the look of the great twisting, forked horns on the head of the First World beast that hung on the wall. But then—after gauging their distance from his grandfather’s desk, where the general conducted most of his business—Marcellus quickly decided it was too far away. To have any hope of finding out what kind of weapon his grandfather was developing, the listening device had to be closer to the action.
“Marcellus!” his grandfather snapped, and Marcellus quickly turned to see that the general had made his next move and was now glaring at Marcellus with a dissatisfied expression.
“Sorry, Grand-père,” Marcellus muttered, avoiding his grandfather’s stern eyes, and returning his gaze to the game.
“You’ve been awfully distracted this evening,” his grandfather noted. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”
Marcellus swallowed through the growing lump in his throat. “No, sir.” He tucked his hands under his chin as he studied the board. His grandfather had moved one of his cavalerie pieces up to the second level, where Marcellus’s artillerie were lined up.
Sweat pooled beneath the stiff collar of his uniform. Being inside this room was making him uneasy. Not just because of the seemingly impossible task in front of him. But because he’d been in here for nearly half an hour and so far, his grandfather had made no indication that he’d watched the footage on Mabelle’s microcam. He hadn’t even so much as hinted that he knew Marcellus had been harboring evidence from a Vangarde spy. Even though Marcellus was fairly certain that he had watched that footage. That he did know.
Which meant General Bonnefaçon was currently playing two different games in this office tonight. The one that was playing out on the board between them, and the one that Marcellus couldn’t see. That was the scarier game. Because that was the game that toyed not with little stone pieces representing great battalions of the First World, but with Marcellus’s mind.
Marcellus picked up one of his artillerie pieces and rubbed his thumb over the ornately carved stone. He’d never liked the game of Regiments. The rules were complicated, and the strategy took years to master. Marcellus had, indeed, been playing for years, but it seemed no matter how many times he played, how many lessons his grandfather doled out, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on the game. He’d stopped caring years ago whether he won or lost. Not that he ever won.
He eyed his grandfather’s brigadier piece, gradually making its way across the top level of the board, toward Marcellus’s Monarch. Swiftly and decisively, Marcellus placed his artillerie piece on the same tier.
The general made a clucking sound with his tongue, and Marcellus glanced up to see he was shaking his head disapprovingly. “Always so hasty to act, aren’t you, Marcellus? Always rushing into things. You must learn to be more strategic. Plan your attack. Analyze your opponent. Play with your head, not your emotions.”
You mean be more like you? Marcellus thought scornfully. That was something he would never do.
“Sooner or later, Marcellus,” his grandfather went on, “you’re going to have to start playing the game like someone who actually wants to win.”
Marcellus sighed and allowed his gaze to dart back to the walls of the