Professor Lawson hurried up the steps to his office. The tower was a tangle of staircases and circular windows cut in the four cardinal directions—a relic of the time it had been a place of worship for the mages. Each professor here had his own office, fitted with doors made of many metals extracted from the red canyons. The professor`s own door was a brilliant copper, polished to a bright red sheen, with a heavy brass lock wrought with clever scrollwork.

　　Inside his office, he kept his rarest books, his favorite wines, and his dearest treasures—tokens of esteem from families whose sons he educated. The silk Boccean rug spread over the stone floor had been a gift from a distant cousin of the emperor. His lacquered wooden wine cabinet had come from the matriarch of a powerful merchant family. Many of his fine leather bound books on his shelves came from King Anathas throughout the years—growing in size, as the professor rose in the King`s esteem.

　　This was also where the professor kept his papers, locked inside felt lined drawers of a magnificent leather-topped writing desk—a gift from Duke Cesar. One drawer held students` essays and notes, one kept his fine dip pens and their ink, and a third was devoted to state papers.

　　The professor pulled a pen from the drawer and took out a scrap of vellum to scribble a note for his teaching assistant: Prince absent—check rooms.

　　He tucked this into the brass mail tray at the edge of his desk—and then reviewed his red leather appointment book, a modest gift from Lord Gruffydd that matched the lord`s opinion of him. Here, too, Professor Lawson had done his best to balance conflicting interests. In the final drafts of the marriage contract, he`d written a provision for Gruffydd the Elder to marry Duke Cesar`s sister-in-law, as a contingency should the primary marriage in the alliance not produce heirs. The waste of paper and ink was a small price to pay mollifying a greedy man.

　　Professor Lawson thought of going to Prince Anryn`s rooms in the dormitory himself. He scanned the red book and realized that he would not have enough time between appointments that day. Every hour of his time was accounted for months in advance, including a detailed set of pages devoted entirely to the wedding—down to the minutia of the bride`s retinue.

　　The professor flipped through these pages now, agonizing over how to copy them to later dates to account for Prince Anryniel`s delay. He needed to alert the proper authorities immediately. If word of the prince`s ill-timed vacation got out, it could reach the Duke of Sanchia—and strain relations between countries.

　　The professor had just handed off his brass tray when his first afternoon appointment arrived. He tucked the appointment book back into the drawer with the state papers and locked it.

　　Throughout the year, he received young men sent to him by the dean to interview for potential placements within the University. Usually, Professor Lawson required a sample essay prior to agreeing to meet with a prospective student—but in this case, the dean had urged him to make an exception. Someone must`ve offered the admissions committee a bribe, thought Professor Lawson.

　　When the man, Ciamon Caelt, stepped into his office, he thought instead that it may have been a death threat. He was built like a soldier and slouched like a farmer. Tall, with a broad back and sloped shoulders, and wiry black hair cut close to his scalp. Yet his clothes were of decent make—linen and cotton, dyed green and black. Perhaps Ciamon was the bastard son of an important general, the professor thought. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

　　Professor Lawson shook his hand. He felt his knuckles crushed together by the force of Ciamon`s grip. That close to Ciamon`s face, the professor could clearly see the white patches of scars on both eyebrows and that his nose was crooked as if it had been broken and reset.

　　The professor again balanced conflicting interests—the urgency to locate Prince Anryniel and the need to maintain the appearance of calm and order. The Professor offered Ciamon coffee, and seated himself in the high-backed leather chair gifted to him by King Anathas on the occasion of Prince Anryniel`s first full year at Amwarren. He began with the usual questions asked of prospective students—small talk of his academic interests, what texts he might be familiar with.

　　Ciamon surprised him by immediately shifting the conversation to the prince.

　　"I understand the King of Ammar`s son is in your cohort. Is he a very bright student?" he asked.

　　Under normal circumstances, the professor seized any chance to laud his students—and emphasize his own position of influence over the future king. Yet Professor Lawson was no fool. The timing of the man`s appearance aroused suspicion. That he could not place Ciamon`s accent also unsettled him, but he couldn`t say why.

　　"All my students are bright, sir, each in his own way," Professor Lawson answered. "Amwarren University holds its students to the highest academic standard, demanding an intellectual capacity.`"

　　"Naturally," Ciamon said in an agreeable tone.

　　It struck Professor Lawson that the man not only looked like a fighter, but approached conversation as one. Circling, looking for an opening.

　　Ciamon made his next move: "Tell me more about the theories of international relations taught at your lecture. You`ve heard of the hegemonic theory? Do you also teach its counter-argument, the anarchic theory?"

　　"Those are the titles of the introductory reading materials for my first year course," Professor Lawson said. He doubted Ciamon had read either of them. "Perhaps you saw those words on a pamphlet on your way here&?"

　　Ciamon countered by changing the subject: "You teach the prince the laws of his own land, correct?"

　　"I teach diplomacy," Professor Lawson corrected him. "The subject of which can be expressed across various disciplines—law, philosophy, culture& It is a subject that expands well beyond any one student and his country."

　　"I see, of course. But& he will one day be your king," said Ciamon. "Might that inspire you to bend the subject to suit his needs? To cover such topics as would interest the future king of Ammar&?"

　　"Such as?" Professor Lawson asked, lifting his eyebrows as he had at Gruffydd.

　　"Such as how to get out of a marriage contract," Ciamon answered.

　　Professor Lawson felt himself backed into a corner by the directness of the attack. Was this man an agent of the Duke of Sanchia? His mind raced through recollections of the marriage contract, negotiated over the last three years with frequent visits to court between terms. Of course Professor Lawson knew every contingency that could result in termination of the contract—but to divulge such state matters would certainly result in his head on a spike. Even if Ciamon were sent by Sanchia`s Duke, Professor Lawson had no intention of arriving at the red X in the prisoner`s dilemma.

　　With nowhere else to go, the professor launched his own attack: "Where did you say you were from, sir?"

　　Ciamon Caelt set down his cup of coffee, untouched, and thanked Professor Lawson for his time. He left without answering the question.