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In my station, I never abide lies or disorder, except when it’s really funny.
You probably don’t care very much about me. You’re here for the story of three liars who made absolute fools of themselves during an important social event. I promise to do my best to not intrude on their tale, but I have to give some context for why I’m the one who should tell it.
The Kingdom of Inaba resides among a cluster of similar nations, a phalanx pressed between a desert wasteland and a rapidly swelling coastal empire. Its prevailing reputation in the region is as the Kingdom of Truth. All its other charming features get overshadowed by its famous legal system, tasked to uncover truth and bring evil to justice, led by elite Investigators. Foreigners struggle to grasp how that society can commit so radically to the concept of ‘truth,’ but it works. There’s even a rumor that the King of Inaba commands a great power, the Myriad Truths, which lets him know everything that occurs within his borders, at all times, with total accuracy.
I don’t use that power for evil. But it proves that everything I’m about to tell you is completely true.
For example, it’s true that Inaba’s midwinter festival attracts important leaders from the whole region. Rulers come for the party, heirs debut themselves, everyone mixes and mingles, forms new alliances, and schemes at each other. They severely pervert the purpose of the festival as the traditional celebration of mist-clearing, but the King isn’t allowed to cancel the accompanying royal ball. He can lose track of time while fishing, and that’s almost as good.
One guest found the King’s absence distressing, nearly to the point of a very public panic attack. She picked at the violets embroidered on her silk opera gloves and stood away from the dance floor, watching the crowd. Despite wearing a glorious fluffy gown and a fat kitten’s weight in gold, most of it fashioned into a halo-like crown pinned into her perfect bun, she had a stomachache brought on by misplaced faith in the divine right of kings. She wished fervently that someone had come with her, but could only think of her sister and the Aschenputtelian Spymaster, both of whom categorically could not attend.
The decision to send a body double in place of First Princess Kasumi of Aschenputtel, specifically to a country founded on truth, is… bold. Years ago, the King and Queen had a chance encounter with a peasant girl who was a dead ringer for their precious daughter, as if they had been born as twins to different mothers. Little Sumire Yoshizawa’s parents agreed to let the royals adopt her, so she started her life as a second princess at age six. The girls became inseparable, attending lessons and learning dance and practicing fencing together for many years. I cannot overstate the truth of how much the sisters love each other.
Then, when Sumire came of age, she starting having lessons with the Spymaster, alone. In those lessons, she learned very well her value as a commoner with a royal face. Important, yet compared to Kasumi, completely disposable.
Her mission: investigate candidates for Princess Kasumi’s marriage.
Her mandate: don’t let anyone figure out she wasn’t the real Princess Kasumi.
It’s very difficult for a peasant girl with depression and low self-esteem to perfectly impersonate a famously extroverted princess, and come home with recommendations for who that princess should marry. She had to consider politically advantageous alliances while imagining the naked bodies that would come with them. Not all of her visions appealed to her. The common advice against stage fright, to mentally remove the audience’s clothes, only churned her stomach more. Sumire struggled to remember the protocols for how to puke with grace (It can’t be done, so there aren’t any.) while she repeatedly reminded herself: Don’t get found out. Don’t get found out. Don’t get found out.
While our first liar suffered, our second liar took it upon himself to approach, believing he could effortlessly charm a wallflower in distress. He wore a white military jacket decorated with a fistful of medals, shimmering with epaulettes, buttons, buckles, boots, and topping it all off with a red crossbody sash and a winsome smile.
“Pardon me, but I couldn’t help but notice that you seemed unhappy. Is something the matter?” He spoke in a pleasant tone.
Sumire suppressed her startle. So far, very few people had approached her, and nobody had come alone. She had so many questions about him. Why did someone so young hold so many military honors? Why had he sought her out specifically? Had he seen through her disguise? She decided to ignore all that (which was a stupid decision) and answer him. After all, Kasumi wouldn’t find him intimidating.
“Please, do not concern yourself with me,” she answered him with a neutral, assessing expression. “I am simply very far from home, so I was feeling a little wistful.”
The young man placed one hand on his heart and smiled. “I understand completely. Homesickness is a terrible traveling companion. Where do you call home?”
“Aschenputtel,” Sumire told him, before remembering protocol. She stood straight and faced him squarely, then dipped into a curtsy with her golden skirts spread wide. “Since this is our first meeting, I would like to properly introduce myself. I am Kasumi, first Princess of Aschenputtel. It is an honor to meet you.”
The young man nodded approvingly at her introduction, then reached for her hand. Simple black gloves cradled her fingers, made from material coarser than his impeccable dress uniform, but then he kissed the back of her hand. Sumire’s heart thudded too fast to supply her brain with oxygen.
“Well met, your highness. My name is Goro Akechi, prince of the Soran Empire.”
Goro Akechi is a lying bastard, literally. He lies and he is the illegitimate son of Emperor Shido of the Soran Empire. Born to a woman who would never be Empress, he grew up in a slum orphanage in the Capital, before he got the bright idea to volunteer his services to his secret father’s court as a prodigious inquisitor and clandestine assassin. I have issues with guys like him.
He arrived in Inaba a day before the ball as a valet for the real Soranese delegate, a humorless General who would ostensibly use our festival as a training exercise for the future killer. Then, Akechi surreptitiously poisoned his superior officer’s tea and gave him a bout of debilitating indigestion so he could steal the man’s uniform and official invitation. He had thus far spent his time in the ballroom swanning around and spreading rumors.
A kiss on the hand was not enough to fully dissuade Sumire from asking follow-up questions. Akechi’s very existence contradicted years of Aschenputtelian intelligence about the neighborhood’s most threatening empire. “How curious; I wasn’t aware that Emperor Shido had any heirs.”
Akechi chuckled lightly. “Yes, it is rather strange, isn’t it? You see, before I am publicly acknowledged as first prince, my father has required I build experience as a military officer.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Sumire said. (It doesn’t make sense.)
“Since our gracious host is a champion of truth in all forms, it would only be right for me to tell the truth of my identity.” Then he winked at Sumire. “I also found your proper introduction very inspiring.”
Truthfully, Akechi wanted to spread rumors of Shido’s secret prince so that, in the event that some disaster befell the glorious and loathed emperor, the international community would recognize that a legitimate successor existed and would honor Shido’s will to see his son ascend the throne.
Akechi is an overconfident, vengeance-hungry, self-absorbed twit, playing with dangerous and intricate systems of power, and he’s going to get himself killed.
But, regretfully, he’s also handsome and charming. Sumire lapped up the validation that at least someone in this ballroom believed she was a legitimate princess and found fluttery delight gaining ground against her anxiety. She figured she’d be commended for bringing home Akechi’s stupid rumor about a secret Soranese prince, and she did want to keep talking with him. “Happy to be an inspiration tonight!”
“I would love to know more about you, your highness. I’ve always found Aschenputtel’s history to be fascinating,” Akechi continued to layer on flattery.
“Ah, that little legend? I’ve heard the tale so often, I am a bit desensitized to it. I find the history of other nations far more interesting.”
“I must disagree with you, your highness. It was wrong of the international community to undervalue Aschenputtel prior to your discovery of abundant diamond mines. Even when your homeland was only known for coal exports, the other leaders should have valued your scholars and warriors.”
Sumire had opinions about her nation’s mythology—especially in light of all of the troubles she personally faced, to the point that she frequently thought of herself as coal being asked to impersonate a diamond—but tamped them down. “And dancers! Our country dance is absolutely breathtaking. I love it very much.”
“Are you also a dancer?”
“I’ve trained in traditional ribbon dance for nearly my entire life.”
“You must be incredibly skilled. Would you be capable of giving a demonstration?”
“We hold demonstrations quite frequently back home. My style is renowned for its boldness.”
“I mean, would you demonstrate here? My military service won’t allow me to go where my commanders do not send me, and I would love to see you dance.”
Sumire’s stomach dropped. She wished she had eaten less before the ball began. Still, she managed to giggle and swish her golden skirts. “I’m afraid I’m not dressed for a dance here. The ideal costume is very unique.”
“Later tonight, then? When the trappings of our station can be appropriately shed, and you can dress like a dancer?”
Akechi didn’t have enough common sense to know royals don’t just proposition each other so boldly. Your lascivious tales are lying to you. Illicit trysts happen, but with finesse that Akechi lacks, meaning his request blindsided Sumire. She went red-faced and stepped on her own toes with her stiletto heel to clear her head before she started stammering.
For his part, Akechi had not intended the comment as a proposition. Disgusting fantasies had been floating around the edge of Akechi’s mind when he had approached the woman he believes to be Princess Kasumi: vindictive, crude daydreams about deflowering a royal maiden. However, the actual experience of speaking with Sumire for more than a minute eroded the desires. Nobody as kind, beautiful, clever, and graceful as Sumire had ever given Akechi so much attention before. His vengeful goals started to cave under a short-sighted craving to keep this gorgeous princess smiling at him.
Now, with his street-rat upbringing, Akechi knew he had to do everything in his power to keep this princess talking about herself, so she wouldn’t catch wise and throw him out.
And Sumire, trained as the royal body double, knew she had to do everything in her power to get this prince talking about himself, so he wouldn’t find her out as a fake princess.
I told you they were fools.
“You’ll have to exercise patience, your highness, until you are free to visit Aschenputtel on your own terms,” Sumire managed. “Now, it would be rude for me to talk about myself all night. There must be stories of your own you can tell. How do you spend your time outside of the campaign tent?”
Akechi feigned a look of wistful sorrow. “Oh… my service truly takes up a large amount of my time. I don’t have much time to exercise my hobbies. We should find another topic; I know that my empire’s policies distress our neighbors. How else do you spend your time?”
“I would find that all the more reason to relish in whatever joy you can find,” Sumire offered the advice a gracious princess ought to. “My ordinary days mostly center around my studies, and they are rather dull. Perhaps, do you enjoy reading? Anything catch your interest recently?”
“Of course, I am very well-read, but we can make better conversation than drolly reciting the titles of books.” (Akechi reads every embarrassing pulp novel he can get his half-orphan hands on.) “You must attend court alongside the King and Queen, correct? I’m deeply fascinated by the intricacies of foreign political systems.”
“Yes, I am a frequent visitor at court!” (Sumire has never been to court, because it is highly classified that there are two princesses.)
“What’s it like?”
“Surely very similar to your military meetings. Frankly, I spend most of the time in court contemplating what I want to eat for lunch after!” (She’s lying, but not about the lunch part.)
Akechi laughed politely, unable to confirm whether or not military and court meetings were the same, on account of never having attended either. “Do you consider yourself a gourmand, your highness?”
“Not in that sense of the word. Flavor is important, but nutrition is even more critical. The only way to control what I take into my body is to cook for myself.”
The dazzle that appeared in Akechi’s eyes was completely genuine. “A princess who cooks her own food… I never thought that I would meet such a woman.”
Sumire’s smile froze into a mask on her face as she began to scream internally. Kasumi couldn’t cook. She slipped up and revealed something about herself to a man that might be Kasumi’s future husband, something common and unflattering! She misinterpreted condescension in Akechi’s wondrous comment and decided she had to leave that instant before she screwed up any more.
“You simply must meet more women, then,” Sumire decided, hiding her pain with a smile (and accidentally slapping Akechi with a backhanded insult; luckily for her, Akechi was already whipped). “Please forgive me for monopolizing your time, Prince Goro. You likely have many more introductions to make. I must be on my way as well.”
Fearful that this gorgeous princess was about to toss him aside like garbage, Akechi matched Sumire’s retreat step for step. “The night is young still. Do we truly need to cut our conversation short?”
“I am truly sorry, and I mean no offense,” Sumire tried to qualify. She might drive their countries closer to war if Akechi cried to his father about his hurt feelings tonight (Emperor Shido has never once been moved by another human being’s tears.) “I simply don’t want to deprive you of the—the opportunity to introduce yourself more times!”
“I would feel more deprived if I missed the opportunity to speak with you further!” Akechi insisted.
“Trust me, I am greatly enjoying our conversation as well—that is, I was enjoying—but there are certain expectations placed upon me as well—”
“What kind of expectations? Could I assist you in fulfilling them?”
Sumire gave the suggestion fair consideration: what if she just recommended the (fake) Soranese Prince as her sister’s future husband? Would that absolve her of the need to search for other suitors, free up her time to giggle and play with the handsome man before her? A jealous twist in her heart killed that idea. Sumire had enough emotional self-awareness to know she would start to loathe her sister if she married the prince that Sumire herself had become infatuated with. Kasumi gets everything, she thought. Just let me have him!
Unfortunately, Sumire’s faith in the imaginary class boundaries between a peasant girl and an imperial prince crippled her confidence to ask for what she wanted. If she couldn’t have Akechi, and she would die inside if Kasumi had him, it was best to leave him behind. Even more unfortunately, Akechi had abandonment issues strong enough to topple dynasties, so he pursued her across the room.
“Princess, please stay! We’ll find something else to talk about—”
“This isn’t for my sake, your highness, it’s for yours—”
In that instant, Sumire’s frantic searching for another guest on the fringes, someone she could pawn Akechi off onto so she could find a secluded corner and weep quietly about her dashed hopes of romantic happiness, identified a likely target. The excesses of royal pageantry had let this otherwise-ostentatiously dressed guest blend into the crowd: a vivid red robe, wrapped with precision and decorated with droplets of polished obsidian like a black rain, stormy curls of hair crested with a tiara of exotic feathers, bright as gemstones, and earrings that connected with moonlight-silver chains to a medallion on the wearer’s chest.
Yes! Sumire thought. She had studied this; visiting royalty from the Desert Countries were rare as roses in winter, but Sumire had been drilled on how to correctly show friendliness across all cultures, the sandy ones included. The only complication came from the hot guy breathing down her neck, desired and unattainable in equal measure, throwing off her focus.
“Excuse me! May we introduce ourselves—” How do I address them… It’s in the robe… One way for a man, the other for a woman—?! “Excuse me—Princess!”
Our first liar had breeding, but no blood. Our second liar had blood, but no breeding. And our third liar had absolutely nothing but shameless audacity manifesting as total disregard for authority.
Akira Kurusu was a thief. This was the only consistent element of Akira’s identity. Nicknames and aliases sprouted off the side of this thief’s true name like barnacles. Occupations came and went from city to city as this drifter helped anyone who seems to need it and gathered intelligence for the next crime. Even Akira’s gender shifted with the same regularity as the waxing and waning moon. Frankly, Inaba’s enshrinement of ultimate truth could learn a thing or two from this criminal’s comfort with all that exists outside of the narrow categories of ‘man’ and ‘woman.’
The issue was, again like the moon, Akira’s gender changed regularly, but not on command. Recently passed out of a feminine phase (spent with particularly abundant joy in a bar two countries over, dressed in leather and loving every second) Akira stood in my ballroom as a masculine individual. He stared at the woman calling to him—a bonafide princess in his eyes, trailed by an even more authentic prince—and wondered how she had mistaken him for a royal woman.
“Miribáhn, your highness!” Sumire continued as she exited impolite shouting range. “What a delight to see someone from the Desert Countries here! You must have traveled so far!”
Akechi leaned a bit closer to Sumire, a small doubt in his mind. “Are you positive that you’ve addressed this guest correctly?”
“Yes, I am!” Sumire doubled-down, because Kasumi is never uncertain. (Kasumi is a human being who feels uncertainty, just like the rest of us). “In the desert, women customarily wear their coats folded left over right.” (The men wear their coats left over right.)
“My apologies for questioning you. Your worldly knowledge is stunning!” Akechi complimented, because he had no clue how gender presentation worked in the Desert Countries. He had to trust Sumire’s judgment of the situation, lest she discover he was lying.
Akira also had no clue how gender presentation worked in the Desert Countries. He had assembled his costume out of flashy articles that had stuck to his fingers over the last few months, and completely failed to consider that royalty often had nothing better to do than hyper-scrutinize each other’s practices. He had learned a little bit from his previous attempt to eavesdrop on visiting royalty, during his failed attempt to infiltrate the palace’s waitstaff at the young Inaban Princess’ birthday party (an event the King cared a great deal more about.) Because of that experience, he believed it would be much easier to create a royal persona from a mysterious faraway land, then rub elbows with the royals until they spilled their secrets.
Akira hadn’t learned to leave well enough alone. At least his opinions about cats are correct, but that’s neither here nor there.
Clearly, this actual princess knew how he looked better than he did. So Akira cleared his throat, donned an accent in a lighter lilt that would have come more naturally to him two weeks ago, and replied, “Miribáhn. I am welcome here today.”
“Miribáhn,” Akechi parroted. “It’s an honor to meet you. I am Goro Akechi, Prince of the Soran Empire.”
“And I am the first princess of Aschenputtel, Kasumi!” Sumire added.
Akira stared at them and tried to process these false facts. First, Emperor Shido had no children. (We covered that.) Second, Aschenputtel’s princess didn’t even blink when Akechi announced himself as Soran’s prince. Third, Akira believed himself a rebel against tyranny, so it concerned him to see Soran and Aschenputtel’s heirs spending time together. What risk did that alliance pose to the liberty of the common man? Fourth, Akira wanted to know if Princess Kasumi was as pretty under her skirts as she was over them. Fifth, he knew he had to do everything in his power to keep the prince and princess talking about themselves, so they wouldn’t find him out as a culturally-appropriative interloper.
I told you. They’re all fools, the lot of them.
Akira nodded and found his voice again. “I share in your honor. I am Akira, my clan is—Belcaln.” (Belcaln is an anagram of the name of his favorite coffee house.)
“Has Belcaln sent delegations to the mist-clearing festival in the past?” Akechi asked, the best question he could use to gather information without admitting ignorance or blundering into an unnecessary lie.
“No, highness. I am first.”
Sumire breathed a sigh of relief. “Belcaln must be particularly remote, then. Exactly how far did you travel?”
“I… slept through most of it.”
“Oh, that must have made the time pass faster!” Sumire assumed Akira to be comedically exaggerating rather than lying. “Hopefully that means you are well-rested. Prince Goro is also taking a well-deserved break from his military campaigns to be with us. I believe you two will find many interesting topics of discussion together!”
At the words military campaign, Akira’s eyes locked with Akechi’s. Not just the secret heir of a hated tyrant, but one possessing military secrets? The opportunity to interrogate this prince and uncover methods of striking against imperialism counterbalanced the risk of discovery.
Akechi, for his part, noticed the steel glint in Akira’s eyes, feeling it strike against a flint inside of him. He recognized something in that gaze, something that burned for justice and would sacrifice anything to attain it. He wondered, could it truly be possible to meet the most incredible person he’s ever seen, twice, in a single night? (Meet better people.)
Sumire noticed sparks and thought they signaled her escape. “Lovely to meet the both of you. I will remember this night for years to come. I’ll be taking my leave now—”
“Wait!” the other two liars cried. No matter the reaction occurring between them, Akechi’s hang-ups about abandonment hadn’t magically vanished upon meeting Akira, and Akira feared losing access to the only person in their triad of foolishness that knew anything about the Desert Countries and could run interference if Akechi tried to interrogate him. Sumire squeaked in shock, confused why the two seemed so panicked—did that mean she should be panicking? Rule number one of Sumire’s training was to never panic!
“Princess Akira has traveled such a great distance, it would be a shame not to learn as much as we can from her!” Akechi argued. “For example, Princess Kasumi is an accomplished chef. What cuisine is typically served in your region?”
Cursing that the clock of his self-expression had been out-of-sync with the beginning of the ball, Akira feigned inexperience with a second language and hummed. His attempts to look mysteriously foreign worked a little too well; Sumire and Akechi found Akira’s eccentricity to be tantalizing, exotic and enviable all at once. In their own ways, they approached royalty as a foreign concept, and they fully believed Akira—a foreign royal—to naturally possess what they both lacked. The only things Akira naturally possessed were frizzy hair and a silver tongue.
“It is called… ulekumchi,” Akira made up a word. “It is my favorite.”
“It sounds delicious,” Sumire lied politely. “What are its ingredients?”
“…Spices are the most important ingredient. Ulekoochi means ‘many spices.’” (He immediately got his made-up word wrong.)
Akechi put his hand on his chin. “Fascinating… Based on that description, I would infer that it is a dish that can be made with a wide range of ingredients, so long as the blend of spices is correct?”
He’s smart, Sumire thought with infatuation.
He’s smart, Akira thought with a blend of infatuation and challenge.
Please let them think I’m smart, Akechi thought.
(None of them are smart.)
“So ulekoochi sounds like it can be prepared similarly to a stew or curry. Is there a signature ingredient that your clan favors?” Sumire asked.
“You must have limited options when it comes to ingredients, since large-scale agriculture is impossible in such an arid climate.” (I can’t get into how incorrect that oversimplification is.)
Pressured now to name a cooking ingredient and something that grew in abundance in an ‘arid climate,’ Akira swung…
“We use… how you say… ah… cactus?”
He missed.
Sumire’s smile wavered as she struggled to reinforce it against her revulsion. She wanted to meet Akira halfway and share in the joys of cultural exchange, but no spice or blend of spices she knew of could salvage the taste of the verdant pincushion she imagined when Akira said the word ‘cactus.’ Akechi, experienced with flavors far worse than spiced pincushions, still fixed Akira with a blank stare as he tried to process what had just been said. Akira immediately picked up on their disgust and realized he had only one path forward: commit to the bit.
“The flavor is so warm, on long desert nights,” he described. “And I have eaten it my whole life. It is… a part of me. The urekunchi.” (He’s changed the word again.)
“You speak so… fondly of it,” Akechi found his manners first. “Perhaps this is the true value of these international gatherings. Advancement cannot occur if disparate ideas are not brought into communication with one another.”
“About cacti?” Sumire questioned, but Akira recognized the rhetorical setup. Deepening his fake accent to make them sound like poorly-articulated loan words, he purred, “‘Thesis’ ozt ‘antithesis.’”
Akechi liked being smart. Barring that, he liked sounding smart. Even more, Akechi liked being recognized as smart. Akira’s recognition speared his heart and gave the lying bastard yet another addiction to someone else’s approval.
Princesses are a breed apart, he thought. (Princesses are people.)
One good thing came of this madness: by sheer coincidence, the liars had neutralized themselves in a triad of egotistic deception off in the corner of my ballroom. They had their individual goals for the night, but each thought those goals could be fulfilled by keeping the other two from leaving. Akira wanted to keep high-priority heirs in his sights and hoped that one or both of them would reveal secrets regarding their nations’ relationship (which wouldn’t happen, because Sumire was a decoy princess and Akechi was a nonsense prince). Akechi thought he could win their allegiance for his future imperial coup (those are harder than he thinks, and also, he just wanted to feel loved for once in his life). And since Sumire had completely lost track of her true mission, she fell back on Plan B to learn about Soran and Belcaln culture so she wouldn’t return to the Spymaster empty-handed (she will be reprimanded for her gullibility, but in the moment, she was thrilled to spend time with people who viewed her as an irreplaceable treasure, not an expendable copy.) The mist-clearing ball carried on around them in all of its foggy turpitude, while those three turned deception into a razor-edged ballet.
“Your complexion is so pale! How do you protect your skin against the sun?” Sumire asked.
“I am not allowed outside, by order of my clan leader,” Akira lied. “When our clan travels, I ride in a plantain.”
She probably means ‘palanquin,’ they both thought, as they failed to interrogate any other part Akira’s statement.
Lies have a peculiar power, to force people to lose track of reality. A single liar can usually keep track of their falsehoods, provided they don’t panic. Accomplices have a harder time, but so long as they are all united about what they are trying to conceal, why they need to conceal it, and who they’re concealing it from, those conspiracies can be harder to unravel. But when deceivers are stuck together, chasing their own tails and each other’s, the very concept of objective truth starts to crumble. Common sense is the first to go.
“Have you commanded soldiers in battle, Prince?” Akira tried to act the part of the fawning fangirl.
“Of course I have. These medals are awards of courage.”
“Are there upcoming battles you hope to win?” Akira pressed.
Akechi shook his head and smiled. “No, none at all. For you see, when my father passes his crown to me, my reign will begin an era of peace!”
Even though the other two reflexively thought, Fat chance, they accepted the pacifistic fantasy out of fondness for Akechi.
Of course, there’s no such thing as a pure lie, either. Every lie reveals at least some truth. Perhaps the intended fact can be obscured, but there will be other truths left behind, things that can be inferred about the hidden piece reality due to the fuzzy edges around it. Most frequently, liars reveal who they are when they lie. These three had all become infatuated with each others’ false identities, because in spite of themselves, they had shown fragments of their true personalities. Determined, passionate, witty, ambitious people, seeing their true selves in each other.
“Are you certain you don’t need assistance holding that? It looks… heavy,” Akechi offered, gesturing at Sumire’s loaded-down plate of food. Her nervous stomach finally settled by the validation of her fellow deceivers, she had appetite to attack the offered refreshments.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine! This is to keep my energy up through the rest of the night.”
“Are you a warrior?” Akira had only known vicious brawlers to pack away food so efficiently.
She had to finish chewing a bite of grilled chicken to answer him. “No, I’m not. I hope that’s not a disappointment. I had mentioned to Prince Goro earlier, but I am merely a dancer.”
I still think she can kick my ass, Akira and Akechi assumed. (They were correct.)
I cannot overstate the truth of how much these three deserve each other.
At the midway point of the ball, suspicious information had piled high enough that Inaba’s Investigators had no choice but to make a very unfortunate announcement. The music fell silent as my loudest deputy took center stage.
“To all of our esteemed and honored guests!” she shouted over the crowd. “Please, do not panic! On behalf of the Crown, we wish to inform you that we have determined there is an impostor present at this event!”
The three liars froze. Each one was convinced that they had been found out, and they struggled to recount their actions and wonder where they had made their great mistake. (This is the only part of the party I wish I had seen.)
“Remain where you are as we conduct our investigation!”
None of the visiting royalty complied—too accustomed to giving rather than following orders, and too scandalized by the announcement to resist turning to each other to gossip.
The three liars finally moved too, possessed with the need to get the fuck out of the Palace before the Investigators found them. First, they needed a hiding spot. They glanced around and realized that a hiding spot existed underneath a nearby floral arrangement, suitable for one person.
All three of them dove for it.
Skulls cracked. Elbows jabbed. Knees knocked, and a second later, all three of them found themselves sprawled out and bruised and very much still in plain sight of the Investigators beginning their search through the ballroom.
But more importantly—as one of Akechi’s medals popped from its pin, the princess crown tilted askew, and one of Akira’s ‘authentic’ obsidian beads broke like colored glass—they realized the truth at the core of their misadventure: none of them were royalty.
“Everyone, please remain still! We will ask your name and compare it against our list of announced guests!”
“Shit,” Akechi hissed, and Sumire gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth. They had been announced under false identities, known to the valets in the palace. Akira had shimmied up a trellis and dressed himself in the servant’s kitchen, meaning no one knew he had arrived.
So, he decided to abandon the operation… but not without stealing something.
Akira righted himself, lunged across the floor, and grabbed a fistful of Akechi’s military jacket, drawing him forward into a deep kiss. The lying bastard yelped for a second, but melted in a near-instant. Emotions had been running high all night, and Akechi had never dreamed someone as spectacular as whoever-Akira-was would care about him enough to kiss him, tender and deep.
Long before Akechi wanted, Akira pulled back. He left Akechi dazed and desiring as he coiled into a pounce and reached for not-quite-Kasumi, holding her by her shoulders and claiming her lips with his. She couldn’t help but squeak. Things were too confusing, and happening too fast, and she wanted so much more—
A thief, through and through, Akira didn’t linger. He abandoned Sumire as well, rising to his feet and running at a full tilt to the far end of the ballroom, where a giant window allowed guests to overlook a lovely tiered garden. He raised his arms, braced them across his face, and dove through the center of the window. Glass rained down, guests screamed and Investigators shouted, but the thief dashed out into the night, straight through a thriving patch of tomatoes.
(Those were Nanako’s. I declare war on Belcaln.)
The Investigators abandoned their interrogations to chase the obvious criminal. Sumire crawled into the coveted hiding place and pulled the tablecloth down. Later in the evening, she’d appear when no one was looking, collected and fully in command of her sister’s identity, and give a false testimony about her location at the time of Akira’s escape. Without witnesses to corroborate, the Investigators would let her go. Akechi escaped like a rat into the servant halls and returned to the General’s quarters, where he mended and pressed the stolen uniform back to a pristine condition while his poisoned superior miserably occupied the bathroom. He would successfully pretend that he had been in the room all night and had nothing to do with the incident. Neither of them would have gotten away if not for Akira’s distraction. Neither of them could forget Akira’s kiss.
These liars have not returned to Inaba since. I like to think that they’ve learned their lesson. They’re outside my borders now, so I can’t know for sure what they’ve learned. Frankly, apart from the unforgivable destruction of royal vegetables, I’m not that angry with them. That was the funniest mist-clearing ball we’ve had in years.
I’m not sure how these lying idiots are going to find one other again… but I’m rooting for them.