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Claude clasps his hands over the smooth polished surface of his desk, hoping he looks regal instead of some kid playing in his grandfather’s office. Situations like this don’t help, and he prays to every god he knows and some he doesn’t in the hope he doesn’t burst out laughing the moment he opens his mouth. “So. There’s a swan.”
The city watchman nods. “In the market, yes. Your Grace.”
The honorific comes a beat too late, and Claude makes a mental note to sigh about it later. “And it’s bitten Lady Goneril.”
“Again.”
Yes, again; at least they hadn’t told him about this swan’s prior offenses, despite them being against a member of the nobility. Of course, now they want a solution, and woe to House Riegan if he fails. He puts on his best courtly smile. “I’ll put some heads together and see if we can work out a solution. For now, see if you can catch it and put it back into the water.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She stands, salutes, and walks out with a decisively faster clip than how she had walked in. A servant shuts the door behind the messenger with a wave of his hand, and Claude slumps forward to put his forehead directly on the mahogany the moment he’s alone. Enbarr could march on us any day now, and I’m expected to manage ill-tempered waterfowl. The cleanest solution—the offending swan graces his table roasted and stuffed with onion dressing—would depose him as archduke faster than Edelgard’s army ever could. The people of Derdriu are fond of the creatures—so long as they stay in the canals, anyway.
Claude leans back and rubs his eyes until it hurts. What the hell does he even know about wildlife management? He’s a politician, and this hadn’t been in any of Grandfather’s lessons. Or Teach’s. What would Teach do? As if the question could be useful in this situation; Byleth would be even quicker to skewer and eat the damn thing, and the citizens might even praise her for it.
What she would do, however, is want to observe her enemy directly, if possible. “The more immediate the information, the better,” she had said in her usual flat way. Claude doubts the swan will stop terrorizing the noblewomen of the Leicester Alliance just because he watches its removal from market, but it might give him a clue. He stands and walks decisively out the door, before he can talk himself out of this folly.
Even with the hubbub that arises with the arrival of the archduke, the city watch continue to focus on their task; Claude will inquire about giving them a token of appreciation for their dedication to the city later. Four of them, holding shields, have the swan cornered against a shop front; behind it is a lovely display of hats and gloves. The crowd is hushed, the swan is not, honking every time one of them inches closer, backing up as they do so. The nearest canal is still some distance away, and they seem to be forcing it to move in that direction.
One of them moves too quickly, and the creature lunges, beak wide and ready to clamp down on flesh; it meets metal instead, thudding ineffectually against his shield. “Slow. Don’t spook it, or it’ll fly away and then we’ll have to start all over.” As if it understands human speech, the swan flexes its wings, looking more wyvern than bird. No one moves an inch, not even Claude. It’s scared. He knows what it feels like to be backed into a corner and want to lash out.
They back the bird up onto an avenue and suddenly it takes off, honking and screeching with a great flutter of wings. People laugh, and the din of the crowd picks up again as people return to their haggling. Few recognize him, despite the gaggle of guards who had insisted on accompanying him. Claude scratches his neck, thinking the sunlight feels too hot on it. He doubts this is the last he’ll hear about Derdriu’s most irritable resident.
The days blur together, an endless march of paperwork and dry meetings punctuated only occasionally by vicious Roundtable meetings; no one outside the five members would believe just how loud Erwin Gloucester could shout. Well, maybe Lorenz and Judith know, as well. Claude’s in his office, as usual, hunched over the desk and staring at yet another document as the words blur together and lose all meaning. Maybe I’m actually illiterate. It would be a blessing, at this point.
A knock comes on the door and makes all his thoughts seize up. “Come in.”
It opens, and he’s vaguely conscious of a bow made in his direction. “Your Grace, there’s a man at the gate demanding entry. He says he has a letter from your mother.”
Now this is interesting, and terrifying. Who in the world would be here with a letter from Mama? Claude stuffs his paperwork away in a drawer and locks it. “Tell me what he looks like.”
The servant shrugs. “Big. Looks like a soldier. Dark hair, and a beard. He looks a little…pardon, Your Grace, but he seems the disreputable sort.”
So is Claude, in the wrong light. “My professor at Garreg Mach was a mercenary, I can handle a little rough speech.” She bows at the waist and follows behind as he winds his way through the marbled halls. He wonders if Raphael’s gone feral, as he’s the most likely candidate for who is at the gates; has he been spending too much time with Leonie? Doubtful he would lie about having a letter from Mama, however.
His heart seems to have lost all understanding of how to beat properly as he catches sight of his mystery visitor. What in the seven hells is Nader doing here? This must be some horrible prank of his mother’s, and it cures him of any regrets he had about running away. His powerful arms are bare and folded over his chest, which might be the only reason he hasn’t been chased away completely—he’s too intimidating to force away. Claude stops, chewing on his lip as they stare at one another. Nader nods, holding up an envelope. “Special delivery, kiddo!”
Everyone else is bewildered, even Claude, and yet he’s still expected to give commands. The soldiers look at him, and the one escorting him turns. “You know this man, Your Grace?”
How can Claude explain? Impossible. “Let him in, he won’t hurt me.” Mama will kill him twice if he does. He fixes a smile on his face, prepared to receive Nader the Undefeated, the premier general of his dear home of Almyra, in the most impossible of places: the Riegan Palace in the heart of Derdriu, capital of the Leicester Alliance.
Khalid,
It was the best I could do to convince your father to let Nader keep an eye on you instead of dragging you back to Neyshab. Use him well, and don’t complain.
Much love,
Mama
Is this a joke? Oh, how he wants to go back to Almyra just to run away again. From the other side of the desk, Nader smiles at him, smug enough to let Claude know he’s having a laugh at his expense. “And you agreed to this?”
“I mean, I am here.” Nader laughs, not unfriendly in the least. “I have always wanted to have a look around Derdriu.”
Claude wants to bury his face in his hands and whine, but that’s just giving Nader and his parents more ammunition to tease him later. “So what am I supposed to do with you, exactly? Just let you live in the palace, keeping tabs on me? Are you going to report everything I do back to my parents?”
Nader spreads his hands wide, his smirk back. “As your mother said, use me well. Think of it as one of your father’s tests, you know how fond he is of that.”
Damn the old rat. He adds it to his tally of crimes his father has committed against him, somewhere in the middle of the list. “You’re going to spy on me for them.”
“I thought that was obvious. Your father is impressed with you, Khalid, though I’m sure he’s heard far less than what has actually happened here in Leicester. You’re his peer as the archduke, something your siblings can’t even begin to dream of.”
Am I supposed to be flattered? Claude huffs. “I didn’t do it for his approval.”
Nader grins, and Claude feels himself relax at last; he might be here to spy, but he’s still loyal to Claude, in some way. “You’re going to make the old man cry when I tell him that.”
“He’ll survive the disappointment.” He scratches his scalp, then smooths down the disturbed hair. Nader will need to be integrated into the staff to avoid suspicion—Gloucester already suspects that Claude’s ascension is unusual, and he doesn’t need to add fuel to that particular bonfire—but still keep him close. This is one hell of a test. As if he doesn’t have enough on his plate as it is.
Respite comes at a knock on the door, followed by the admittance of a city watchman. Claude feels a swan-shaped rock settle into the pit of his stomach when the watchman bows. “Your Grace, the swan’s in the market again.”
Of course it is. Nader looks at him curiously. “Has it bitten anyone yet?”
“Not that I am aware of, Your Grace.”
An evil thought shoots through his mind; Mama did instruct him to make Nader useful. “I have just the man for the job. This is Nardel, and he is more than up to the task. Go on ahead, and let them know help will arrive shortly.”
“Nardel. You couldn’t have thought of a better name?” Claude grins, and Nader clucks his tongue. “Fine. Which way to the armory? A crossbow should do the trick.”
“Oh, you can’t kill it.” Claude finds Nader’s blank stare far more amusing than he ought. Enjoy explaining this to my parents. “The people of Derdriu are rather protective of the swans. It would be a scandal if you shot it, even if it is biting nobles. No, you need to find a way to keep it from returning to the market. Encourage it to live somewhere else in town.”
Nader squints, and Claude resists the urge to start giggling. “I’ll get you back for this.”
“Only if you’re successful.” He sits down with a flourish and picks up his quill. “My man outside will direct you to the market. The resources of House Riegan are at your disposal, Nardel.”
Nader stomps away, much to Claude’s delight. “Damn kid thinks he’s so great now,” he mutters into his mustache. “Doesn’t even have a damn beard yet…”
Once he’s alone, Claude allows him a snicker, pleased by his own cleverness. He’s killed two birds—no, he can’t use that idiom in this context. Maybe thinking of an alternative will give him the sanity needed to finish annotating this livestock report.
Nader comes back to the palace in the middle of dinner, sweaty and bruised with a beak-shaped scab on one forearm. Claude smiles as he dips his spoon into his soup as the general sits down without ceremony. “Damn bird’s fast and too smart for its own good.”
The servants have better control over their expressions than Claude does, and the manservant in charge of dinner sets a full service in front of Nader as if he had always expected the duke to have a late dinner guest, his face placid as ever. Another comes forward with the soup tureen, just as expressionless as his fellow. Maybe Claude should look into increasing their pay, as compensation for dealing with Nader’s quirks as well as his own. “That’s exactly the trouble, because no one’s been able to catch it.”
“Hrm.” Nader picks up the wrong spoon and dunks it into the soup in the most inelegant way possible; maybe Claude’s been in Fódlan too long, if he’s starting to care about their table etiquette. “I did figure out why it’s so aggressive. It’s made a nest in the north canal by the market.”
Claude tilts his head as he pictures the market. “By the dress shop?” Nader nods, and Claude huffs; no wonder it bit Lady Goneril, she’s just as loud as her daughter, and he thinks that shop is Hilda’s favorite. “The second quickest solution would be to close the street, but I’m not sure I want to deal with the angry merchants or their disappointed customers.”
“Second? What’s the first?” Claude raises an eyebrow, and Nader chuckles. “Ah, so you did think about it.”
“Of course. I consider all possibilities, you should know that by now.” Claude leans on his elbows, watching Nader finish his soup. “I need you to find a third solution. I can’t have that swan taking chunks of out noblewomen’s arms any longer.”
“You really think you’ve bested me, kiddo? It’s only been an afternoon. Just you wait.” Nader sets his spoon aside and picks up his bowl to slurp the last of it. Claude feels a wash of affection for his mentor, and for home. Maybe he was too harsh in handing this task to Nader, too quick to irritate; it seems he and their rogue swan had something in common.
Very rarely does Claude find the household in an uproar, with any giggling and gossip confined to the servants’ areas well out of the way of the duke. Today, however, a squeal comes flying up from the courtyard and through his window, and Claude pauses in his work. He’s had three blissful, swan-free days, and it seems his peace might be coming to an end. There’s a general commotion down below, a gentle din that sounds like people shirking their tasks; he does love a good shirk. Claude sets his quill in its gold holder and stands up to see what the fuss is.
The sun is bright, the sky a perfect blue, and his carriage is sitting in the middle of the courtyard with four black horses hitched to it. “I’m not going anywhere today,” he says aloud, alone in his office. What in the world is going on? This is Nader’s doing, no doubt. He opens the window and leans out, trying to catch any bit of conversation he can use to make sense of this. Then, he frowns, leaning further out in the hopes that he’s misunderstanding what he hears. Is that a swan honking?
Nader appears from around the stables, carrying a large shield typically used by cavalry. Several watchmen follow him, and Claude watches Nader direct them to take positions. One of them, a scrawny looking guy, stands by the carriage door. Is that damn swan in my carriage? What a mess will he find? He’s going to have to reupholster all the seats. Gods damn it, Nader.
The general nods, and the skinny guard yanks the door open. Claude’s heart drops as two swans burst out of the carriage, molted feathers flying, and they immediately charges at Nader, noodling their necks, trying to snap at him around the shield. Despite being such a large man, Nader is rather spry on his feet, and he dances back, making sure the swans don’t take their attention off him.
Claude watches as two of the watchmen, keeping one eye on the birds and Nader, duck into the carriage, and they exit carrying a large nest with a half-dozen cream-colored eggs in the center. They step carefully, the other watchmen standing between them and the swans with their own, smaller shields at the ready, and they creep toward the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Claude’s fingers ache from gripping the windowsill. There wasn’t a better solution?
Several things happen in succession rapidly: one swan catches sight of the watchmen carrying the nest and whips around to charge them; Nader crashes his shield on the ground to attempt to catch its attention again just as the other swan dives at him, hitting the shield with a clang and collapsing; the watchmen, spooked, lose grip on the nest, and it tumbles into the fountain. Claude sighs when he sees the eggs still safely nestled within its confines.
The watchmen scatter, and the remaining swan hisses at them, flapping its wings as it runs to the fountain and plops itself on the eggs. The servants tittering has turned to concern as Nader bends over his swan foe, examining it. Then it shudders, startles at the sight of a human leering at it, and lunges at the man before fluttering off to join its mate.
Claude leans out dangerously far, and clears his throat. “That was all very entertaining, but we have a palace to manage, yes? I like roast pheasant, not burnt pheasant.” The crowd laughs and disperses. Nader catches his eye, and gives an ironic salute. I’ll get you for this. Claude rolls his eyes, and shuts his window. Now, he has to hire someone to manage those damned swans.
It’s fairly typical for at least one noble to come into Claude’s office to complain per day—that is what nobles seem to do best, Claude has come to understand. As the archduke of dubious origin, he seems to be a lightning rod for their irritation.
Now, some solace. The nobles come less frequently these days, and an example for the reason stands before him now. He watches impassively from the other side of the desk as Margrave Edmund holds up his arm to show the bloodied, tattered velvet of his sleeve. “Your swans again, Your Grace. Must you keep them in the fountain?”
Claude puts on his best winning smile. “My Lord, you know how fond Derdriu is of their swans, and I thought it was only fitting if the palace—being the heart of the Aquatic Capital, after all—had their own mated pair. And Gertrude and Berenger are the pinnacle of their species, and greet every guest that comes to call on the archduke and his family. They’re lovely birds, don’t you think?”
“Yes, they are so very beautiful, but also exceptionally territorial. What would happen if my dear Marianne came to visit? I would hate to see her maimed by a pair of nesting birds.”
He doubts very much that Marianne would come to any harm, considering how much birds seem to flock to her. “I would take the utmost precaution to protect her. Now, what business?”
“Yes, of course. My business.” The margrave stares at him a moment, his mind clearly blank of what he actually meant to complain about, and Claude tries very hard not to feel a gloating exultation about it. Gertie and Bernie would be getting extra feed tonight.