Chapter 4: A Simulacrum of Lies

Chapter 4: A Simulacrum of Lies

The Duke of Normandy’s office was a chamber of quiet, suffocating power. Dark wood paneling absorbed the light from the tall, arched windows, and a map of the Angevin Imperium, its territories rendered in exquisite detail, dominated one entire wall. The Duke himself, a man whose weary eyes held the weight of a thousand secrets, sat behind a desk large enough to serve as a battlefield model.

"The Polish-Lithuanian Embassy," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. He steepled his fingers, his gaze fixed on a point between Alex and Valerius. "You are certain of this… sympathetic link?"

"The thaumaturgy was precise, Your Grace," Valerius affirmed, his posture rigid with formality. "The source of the fiber recovered from the crime scene resides within the embassy walls. Of that, there is no doubt."

Alex remained silent, letting the sorcerer handle the arcane explanations. He was more interested in the Duke’s reaction. There was no surprise in the man’s eyes, only a deep, profound weariness. He had suspected this.

"Lord Harrington was not merely a trade councilor," the Duke said, confirming Alex's hunch. "He was my chief negotiator for the Northern Treaty. A secret pact of mutual defense and trade with the Scandinavian kingdoms, designed to counter the Commonwealth's growing influence in the Baltic." He finally looked at them, his eyes sharp as razors. "His death was not a murder. It was an act of war, committed in the shadows."

The pieces clicked into place. The killer wasn’t just silencing a man; they were crippling the Imperium's foreign policy. Countess Katarina Volkov and her 'cultural' interests suddenly took on a far more sinister dimension.

"Her glamour was… formidable," Valerius added, a note of unease in his voice as he recounted the confrontation with the Countess. "She possesses a skill in mental arts that is uncommon outside of certain… less reputable schools of magic. Lord Alistair was only able to resist due to the lingering thaumaturgical static from his own incident." It was a neat, plausible lie, one that explained away Alex's inexplicable defense and saved Valerius from admitting his partner was a complete anomaly.

The Duke nodded slowly. "She is the personal agent of the Commonwealth’s Chancellor, a viper in our midst. But she is untouchable, protected by diplomatic immunity. You cannot lay a hand on her or set one foot in her embassy without giving them the very war we are trying to avoid. You need proof. Undeniable proof."

"To get proof, we need to know who she's working with," Alex interjected, his voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. "She didn't kill Harrington herself. She's a handler, a spymaster. She used an asset. We need to force that asset into the open."

The Duke raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest crossing his features. "And how do you propose to do that, Lord Alistair? Your predecessor was a fine investigator, but he was a man of… convention."

"Desperate times, Your Grace," Alex said simply. "I believe Master Valerius has unconventional means at his disposal."

---

Valerius's sanctum was nothing like the opulent manor Alex now called home. Located in a secure wing of the city's Chantry, it was a sterile, circular chamber that smelled of ozone, old parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of condensed magical energy. The stone walls were carved with complex diagrams and calming wards, and shelves were crammed with arcane treatises, crystals of varying sizes, and alchemical glassware.

On a plain stone altar in the center of the room lay a long, dark wool coat—Lord Harrington's overcoat, which Alex had insisted they retrieve from the evidence locker. It was their link.

"What you are asking is not a simple tracing, Alistair," Valerius warned, his expression severe. He never used Alex’s first name unless the matter was grave. "To create a Simulacrum is a Major Rite. It draws heavily on the Sympathetic Principle, using an object of intimate connection to build a perfect magical duplicate of the subject. It is a tool for finding truth, sanctioned by the Church to re-witness a victim's final moments."

"Then let's witness them," Alex urged, though his mind was already leaping far ahead.

Valerius sighed, the sound echoing in the stone chamber. He clearly believed this was a waste of energy, but the Duke’s command had left him little choice. He began the ritual.

The air grew cold. Valerius’s low, monotonous chanting seemed to weave the very fabric of the air into new patterns. He laid hands upon the coat, and the silver embroidery on his robes began to glow with a fierce, white light. Energy flowed from the sorcerer into the garment, which began to tremble and smoke, not with heat, but with a cold, grey mist.

The mist coalesced, rising from the coat like a ghost. It thickened, swirled, and slowly, terrifyingly, took on human form. It shaped itself into limbs, a torso, a head. Features resolved out of the roiling grey fog. Within a minute, a figure stood before them. It was Lord Harrington.

He was perfect, down to the last silver hair on his head and the signet ring on his finger. But his eyes were empty, milky-white voids. He was a shell, an echo in physical form. A Simulacrum.

"It is done," Valerius said, breathing heavily. A sheen of sweat covered his brow. "Now, we will give it the letter opener that killed him. It will re-enact the murder, moment by moment. We will see the face of the man who stood before him."

Alex stared at the blank, soulless duplicate of the dead man. His modern, pragmatic mind saw not a sacred tool of truth, but a perfect, unprecedented opportunity. A re-enactment was useless. A skilled assassin would have been masked, or Katarina’s glamour would have clouded Harrington's perception. They would learn nothing.

"No," Alex said, his voice quiet but firm.

Valerius looked up, his exhaustion mingling with confusion. "No? What do you mean, 'no'? This is the entire purpose of the Rite."

"Its purpose is to find a killer," Alex countered. "The method is secondary. We're not going to use it to see the past. We're going to use it to create a lie."

The sorcerer stared at him as if he'd just started speaking in tongues. "Explain yourself."

"We animate it," Alex said, his idea taking shape with thrilling clarity. "Not to re-enact the murder, but to walk. To live. We put Harrington's coat on it, we put him in a carriage, and we have him driven to the Ministry of Imperial Security. We ensure a known informant for the Commonwealth sees him. The news will fly back to the embassy within the hour: Harrington survived. He's talking."

Valerius’s face, already pale from the ritual, turned ashen. "You… you cannot be serious."

"They'll panic," Alex pressed on, ignoring him. "They'll think their operation is blown. The assassin, their asset, will be ordered to finish the job before Harrington can spill everything. They'll make a move. A fast, sloppy move. And we'll be waiting."

For a moment, there was only the low hum of the ambient wards in the room. Then Valerius spoke, his voice trembling with a mixture of fury and horror.

"Blasphemy," he whispered. "That is utter blasphemy. This is a holy Rite of the Church, a tool to reveal God's truth in the face of violent sin. You propose to use it to craft a deception? To pervert its sacred function into the creation of a falsehood? That is the work of heretics! Of demons!"

"It's the work of a detective trying to catch a killer who is threatening the security of this Imperium!" Alex shot back, his patience snapping. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to an intense, urgent pitch. "Your 'holy Rite' will show us a ghost. My 'lie' will catch us a man of flesh and blood. Tell me, Master Valerius, which does the Duke want more? Which does the Empire need more? A pristine conscience, or the head of a traitor on a pike?"

Valerius recoiled as if struck. He looked from Alex's hard, determined face to the blank, waiting Simulacrum. He was a man trapped between the sacred laws he had devoted his life to and the undeniable, brutal logic of the man standing before him.

Alex had asked him to set a trap. But to do so, he was asking the sorcerer to commit a mortal sin to catch a mortal killer. And in the chilling silence of the sanctum, Valerius's soul hung in the balance.