We walked for what felt too short a time, to the other fortress. It was identical, with only a blue shift to the cloth of the lions' flags. In torchlight and overcast, they could have been the same color. We entered the grand hall, past soldiers lined up in similar helm and mail, and to the throne where sat the duke's twin, as far as I was concerned. His handler was a tall but skinny man of pale face and brown hair, with the same glass discs The Lady had, perched on his nose. He was wearing some kind of dress-robe with buttons and a vest, under a long leather jacket with matching boots. He didn't wait for us to speak.
"What plot is this?" he posed, in scholar's English – the type you only had if you practiced.
I spoke first. "I am The Reaper, sir. I've come to-"
"A moor of ruddy accent, in traveler's garb. Let me guess, a thief by trade. Do you intend to levvy us of our hoard? Because we don't intend to let you." The thin bristles on his square chin called of my father's, and I wondered if he'd fright to see my helm for HIS twin.
I was about to respond, but the Mistress huffed and shouted, "Scholar, you insult me!! Would I travel with thieves and have you knowingly host one?"
"Not knowingly, no," The Scholar cracked.
Nobody had yet addressed the twin duke, that was bad form. I knelt and put my hand on my chest. "Duke of Blue Lion's hold, I am an assassin sent by your twin to murder you. Instead, I offer you my services. Forgive my dour presence, let not my bloodied hands stain your walls."
The Mistress raised her eyebrows, unsure.
 The Scholar looked me over. "Clever, but a little too complicated. If I was you, I'd have stuck with-"
The blue duke raised his hand, and at once The Scholar closed his mouth, looking mildly disgraced.
The duke spoke, "Forgive my teacher, he lessons well and then forgets himself. I accept your services, and I would like you to kill my brother in his sleep so I may one day be king." His accent was French to be sure, but of learned English in its upper layer. His natural voice seemed higher than The Scholar had apparently asked of him. "First, you'll speak to my Lancer and Strongman. They're in the yard, I think they'll meet you well."
I asked, "Why am I to meet them?"
The duke paused, and The Scholar whispered in his ear. As he did so, the duke blushed and his mouth gaped. He must have reacted to the warmth on his face in a way that was new to him. The Scholar caught it, and glared, appearing to scold the boy for his nature. I squinted, and guessed that like the red duke, this one would have to wait. Still red at face, he said, "Before you betray our trust, you'll learn who we are to trust in."
I nodded, and expected The Mistress to lead me to the yard, but she was taking her place next to The Scholar, only difference being that The Lover had stood o'r there where she now stands here. An exact reflection.

In the yard was more fog, cows, grey grass, and patches of dirt. Same as what spread behind me and forever elsewhere in this muddy pit. On the harder spots stood targets for aiming practice, and straw dummies to swing at. I was exhausted again, now that the excitement of my situation had worn thin. Leaning against the wall were two men: an Ottoman broad and of medium height (but taller than I) holding a lance as foretold, dressed by armor and helm; and a Swede white as day with short blond hair, a small beard, and a button-toga over slacks – his massive, chiseled body was larger even than The Blacksmith's. As I came close, The Strongman picked up an iron ball and tossed it my way, shouting "Think fast!"
I blinked and dodged it with a quick step to the side, and it landed past me with a thud. My father's skull would have cracked to it as easily as my own.
The Lancer sneered, "You didn't catch it, shifferbrains," and the two shared a laugh and bumped shoulders. If I was to learn trust through them, the duke chose poorly – this was more likely a threat. By him or The Scholar, I couldn't say.
"I'm to speak with you before murdering the red duke," I announced.
The Lancer slid off his helm and laughed, his lance piked into the ground to lean on. "You're gonna WHAT?" he crowed, in disbelief that took his handsome, mature face and turned him a child again. His black, scruffy hair and blue eyes shone from ritual grooming and young wonder, in that order.
The Strongman's face went grim, and I sensed that before, he was only play – now he wasn't. "Why would you go and do a thing like that?" he pondered.
I looked down in fear, realizing my lie made darker of me than my mask. I cracked a sheepish smile. "Well, that's what I'm being told to do, anyway. But hey, no knife's drawn till the coin clinks, right?"
The Lancer jeered, "Haha, there's NO way YOU kill people! I've skewered more people than you've ever met! In more ways than one, ahaha."
Hand on my neck, I laughed along. "Aye, the red duke has a treasure of mine. He extorts me for blood, as does the blue."
The Strongman snorted, and spit on the ground. "Use plain words with us, lad, we're not politicians and you're no poet."
"My words are plain-"
"You arrange them to be fancy. It puts your head in a fog, like the shit that rolls through here day in and day out. Dulls your pain. Embrace the pain of putting in effort, or you'll never get stronger."
That irked me, reminding me of The Manager, but it was easy to cool off in the biting chill. And he was right – I was sparing my tired lungs the pressure to speak plainly, trotting gingerly through my words, dancing around barricades. I leaned next to The Strongman against the wall, and noticed his soft green eyes were similar to mine, though nested in hard, jutting bones that seemed a weapon of their own.
I asked, "So what's really going on with his so-called 'war'?"
The Lancer spit on the ground, and shook his head. "It's fuckin' babysitting, man. Their dad is dead, their mom's at the castle getting wasted red. She can't stand her two little bastards with all their FIGHTING. Obnoxious little shits yelling all the time, makes me wanna smack their heads together so hard they get stuck that way."
The Strongman asked, "What finally tipped you off?"
I thought. "Two forts within jogging distance on flat ground surrounded by mud? There's no tactical advantage to being two stone's throws away from your enemy at all times, not a hill in sight to hide by. This is a training ground, for drills."
"That," The Lancer adds, "and all the soldiers are still alive, even though I'm still here!"
"Huh?"
"Becau- are you stupid? Because I would have killed them all!"
Seeing his anger flash startled me, but I stayed amused. "Ohh, okay."
The Strongman growled, "Just an immature game played by rich brats too neglected to become true kings. That they'd resort to murder is disturbing, but not unexpected. It's what their father did to his brothers to become lord."
"But why shoot at travellers?" I asked.
He grunted, "Because ordinary people don't matter to them."
The Lancer kicked the wall, and picked up his lance. He thrust the lance into a straw dummy, over and over with grace, his mind elsewhere, his body plenty capable without it. "I was supposed to be Captain of the Guard, but when our lord died, all his land went to the lord down south. That's what he gets for calling himself a king against the French one, I guess.
I remembered, just then, that The King I knew wasn't actually a king at all – he was just a wealthy realtor who looked like one. The Realtor and this dead lord were an example of why nobody dreams past their first job – someone already has all the best positions.
"At least," The Lancer smirked, "I have The Lover's good company at night."
The Strongman chuckled, "As do I, my friend."
"Well, she likes me better."
I was confused. "But she works for the red duke. She's promised herself to him."
The Strongman explained, "We're waiting for our last payment from the ex-lord's treasury to part ways, after the new lord takes his cut. We play our roles for the brats, until their drunken mother remembers what she's in charge of."
I felt sad. Grain isn't the only thing that in liquid ferment becomes worse for you. I asked, "Shouldn't you each take a side, to balance things out?"
"They wager us to trade in games, and we swap colors and change houses. But it's all the same. Just like a real war, I suppose."
The Lancer butted in, "Except here, soldiers hardly ever die."
I raised an eyebrow. "Hardly?"
The Lancer shrugged. "I get bored sometimes."
I was now wary of him, seeing him as being truthful, and frowned.
The Strongman went on, "Anyway, we'll probably be on opposite sides again when their mother hears their next squabble tonight, over dinner."
The Lancer smiled, "But I like our matches. I usually win!"
"Not by my count", said The Strongman, who leapt at The Lancer and grappled him until his lance fell. They wrestled and laughed, punching one another. I watched in humor, wondering if I'd ever see The Knight again.

The Scholar walked by, and elbowed me on the shoulder when I was least expecting to be spoken to.
I jolted and turned to him. "Hey," I croaked.
He laughed, "I just got your pun: you're an assassin who calls himself 'The Reaper'! Trés macabre."
Uneasily, I nodded. "Yeah, just a little joke."
Entertained, The Scholar walked on. The Mistress found me there, in the blue dining hall, bag on her shoulder. She reached into her bag, and pulled out my father's skull, and set it down on the table.
I slurped on carrot soup, and swallowed. "Thank you," I told her, "But why do you take this game so seriously in the first place? Why do The Lover and The Scholar promise so much to children barely grown? Especially love."
She sat down, and sighed. "We're all practicing for a bigger battlefield. The Lover and Scholar are husband and wife, neither intends to deliver to either child, at least I hope not. It would only make them MORE spoiled, honestly." She grabbed my glass of water, put her thin, pale lips to it, and drank. "I think they're just... (glug)." She set it down and grunted. "They're experimenting on the dukes, figuring out what makes people do what they do. What promises motivate them to behave. Kings and children are more the same than women and men."
"So neither will be here when those boys age. And you?"
"Oh, I don't intend to stay here any longer than I have to." She clasped her hands under her chin, leaned on the table with her elbows, and smiled. "I want to rule the world."
The Lancer came up from behind us, and saw my mask on the table. It disturbed him at first, his head swivelling as he walked until he came to a stop to keep it from breaking off. "What IS that?!"
I confessed, "It's my father's skull. I'm using it as a helmet."
The Lancer grew excited, and barely managed to keep his voice moderate. "I need something like that! I could really scare the SHIT out of people! God, you must have old ladies fainting when they see you. Isn't that right, Mistress?"
The Lancer slapped The Mistress on the back, and she was none too pleased to be called anything by him, let alone touched. She stood straight up, dusted herself off, and left without a word. The Lancer sat down in the seat's warmth she left behind, much too eagerly. He turned my father's skull towards him and crossed his arms on the table to lay his head into them, and he stared into the skull's empty eyes. Into the darkness inside them. I was afraid I'd brought out something in him that should have stayed asleep.