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Description
Previously in the Capitol: [link]

---

All things considered, reflects Leon, the evening could have gone better.

So can the night that follows, if he's going to be perfectly honest with himself, but his holding cell is clean and relatively quiet, and his standards are really kind of low as far as government prisons are concerned. Besides, there isn't a lot he can do about the situation now besides try to sleep.

No, it's the soirée that rankles at him like a sore. All right, it wasn't exactly a comedy of errors, and as things went he navigated the Capitol minefield relatively well, but the ones he did make were significant, and obvious, and easily avoidable. Certainly he could've avoided landing himself in said holding cell if he'd only been a little more careful.

Who did you think you were mentoring? says the voice of reason in his head. Just a kid? What did you think you were doing? Trying to make up for old mistakes?

And Leon says nothing in response, because of course he was. Doesn't everyone?

He's quiet the entire night, catching sleep in fitful dozes, and when the guards finally arrive he swings easily to his feet and slides off his cot with a crooked half-smile. They're smart about the handcuffs: behind him, not in front, just in case he's ignored their assault rifles and decided to get any funny ideas in his head. Out in the hall, they don't give him a chance to get his bearings, spinning him down identical hallways for what seems like hours before they come to a cramped little room, with nothing but two plastic folding chairs and a rickety table inside.

Classic.

They sit him down, and they wait, and suddenly the thing that's been running through Leon's head all this time hits him again: Todorov is the Rook. An unassuming businessman from District Three is the best information broker in the Capitol, and gods know how he's been doing it, running the books here and keeping an ear to the ground all this time, but if he's not spearheading some kind of resistance here then may Leon's ancestors deal with him ever so severely. Reinald Todorov is the Rook, and nobody else can know.

Leon flashes a grin at his guards; they stare impassively through him. At least five minutes pass by his count before he hears more footsteps in the corridor outside. Then the door swings open, and Nichol Bellasseau drops into the folding chair across from him.

"Hi," says Leon, and then, "You know, if you wanted a mentor meeting, you could've just said so."

Bellasseau doesn't even acknowledge his existence, only rifles through some yellowed papers in a worn folder and harrumphs gently.

"I'm not so busy I can't just pencil you in," says Leon. "I don't need a small army of well-dressed young men with fancy swords to keep my schedule for me. Unlike some people."

Nothing. The yellowing pages rustle. It's a psychological thing, Leon knows—gods know he's done it to enough people before—but he can't help feeling apprehensive. Bellasseau feels comfortable enough to play this game with him, and that means he knows he has the advantage. And unlike some people, Bellasseau knows a real advantage when he sees one.

But Leon knows the game. Asking him what he knows means he's as good as lost. Instead he widens his grin and kicks his seat back dangerously far.

"You know," he says, "pretty sure this counts as foul play, and it won't do you any good. Rhona's kicking your Tribute's ass in the arena all by her lonesome."

Bellasseau looks up then, fixes Leon with a flat stare that sends his heart plummeting into his stomach despite himself.

"Not," says Leon, doing the best he can to keep the venom out of his voice, "that you were doing a very good job of keeping him alive in the first place."

And something flickers in Bellasseau's eyes, just for a moment, before he shuts it down. In a sharp, cold voice, without a trace of an accent, he says: "You're only making this worse for yourself, Wang Dazhong."

And the world drops out from under Leon.

Bellasseau's Mandarin is flawless. Utterly perfect. Like he learned it out of a textbook and it actually worked. He hits each tone like a goddamn hammer and Leon hates it on principle. He has to hate it on principle, has to focus on that, because otherwise he'll focus on the absolute and entirely unwelcome knowledge that he's suddenly become a dead man walking.

He doesn't blink. Bellasseau meets his gaze. Of course he isn't fooled. No security agent worth his salt would be. "First Lieutenant Wang Dazhong," he repeats. "Served with distinction in the rebel forces during the war. Gained some renown as a fighter pilot of considerable skill. Earned the nickname 'Sleeping Dragon' after a particularly brilliant tactical display against overwhelmingly superior forces."

Leon hesitates, and by his hesitation betrays himself. It's not a conscious decision. The only people who still know him by that name are old ghosts in the back of his mind, sun-bleached bones that have never been laid to rest.

But he fights. It's what he's always done. His own Mandarin is a lazy drawl compared to Bellasseau's. "Think you got the wrong file there."

Bellasseau only smiles behind his mustache and continues as if Leon has said nothing at all. "Thought," he says, "to have been killed in the nuclear strike at the close of the rebellion, along with his sister, Isolde Saclay, née Wang; her son, Talgo Saclay, and the rest of District Thirteen."

Leon says nothing. He thinks: old ghosts, quiet evenings, eager hands grasping at stars. Tell me a story, Uncle Leon.

"You're a long way from home, Sleeping Dragon," says Bellasseau.

Leon leans forward, lets his chair legs hit the floor with a clatter. "Ah, what the hell," he says, fooling nobody. "It was always a pretty cool nickname."

A guard coughs lightly from behind Bellasseau. The older man doesn't look up, but he switches back to English as easily as Leon switches gears, and Leon hates him all the more for it. "I'll admit I almost ignored you at first. As far as I was concerned, you were just another fortune-seeking idiot. I had bigger fish to fry at the time. The soirée changed things, of course."

"Of course," repeats Leon, and keeps his tone of voice neutral.

Bellasseau only glances at his papers again. "I'm impressed you managed to stay under the radar this long, Mr. Wang. How long have you been meaning to get into the Capitol?"

"Since just about forever." No more games, he thinks. Not that he's in the mood to play them anymore. And something's wrong, and he won't be able to figure out what by wrapping everything in more lies. "Since the war, if you like. Although I was expecting to have a little more time than this. How'd you find me?"

"Newspaper records," says Bellasseau. "I don't keep digital if I can help it. And you were a hero to some of the rebels, you know. You led me on a merry chase for a while, Mr. Wang, but you were easier to find than you like to think.

"I'll tell you the truth," he continues, reaching into his pocket, "I had my doubts up to the moment we took you into custody. But then I'd say this kind of evidence is fairly unequivocal, isn't it?"

Almost carelessly, he drops Ergo's note onto the table. Leon stares blankly at it for a moment before he laughs.

"A shoe store?" he says, letting a touch of that devil-may-care smile back onto his face. He's dead and he knows it, but if Ergo and Todorov are part of some Capitol resistance, the least he can do is keep mum. It's not exactly their fault he was stupid enough to get caught.

"I think you know better than that," says Bellesseau. "And I needn't remind you of how much easier it will be if you decide to cooperate. For you, and for your Tribute."

Leon looks at him then. Really looks. He's never seen Bellasseau up close before, and his face is only really familiar from muted photographs in old newspapers. The man who brought down a rebellion from the inside, all by himself. They called him a demon in Thirteen, in the last few days before Thirteen ceased to exist altogether.

"A man like you," Leon says slowly, "ought to know a useless threat when he sees one. Do you really think I wouldn't let a kid die just to watch the lot of you burn?"

Something glints in Bellasseau's eyes. "Is that an admission of guilt?"

"Guilt for what? The assassination attempt? Wasn't me." Distantly, he wonders if Rhona's okay. Wonders if he really means what he's saying about her, because sometimes the stories get mixed up in his head. "I'm not sorry it happened. I won't deny that. But you've got the wrong person if you think I had anything to do with it. Try asking the guy who actually did the shooting next time."

"He isn't talking," says Bellasseau. "But he doesn't need to. He's a terrified kid with a head full of big ideas and someone gave him a gun, a time and place, and enough ID to fake his way in. I'm not interested in the gun, Mr. Wang. I'm interested in whoever pulled the trigger."

"I'm flattered," says Leon. "Really, I am. But if there's a resistance in the Capitol, then I don't know about it."

"You honestly expect me to believe you." Bellasseau's voice is flat.

Leon laughs, lets himself think it hides his nerves. "What, you expect me to bring this place down around your heads just because I've got a past? Find me anyone from the Districts who doesn't have one. All you've proven is I'm a vet who wanted to visit the Capitol. Scope out the area, get a feel for the residents, help a smart kid win a game. There's no law against that."

Bellasseau inclines his head—whether in acknowledgment or in thought, Leon can't tell. "That's where you're wrong," he says. "We have irrefutable evidence you made contact with the individual known as the Rook more than once at last night's soiree."

"The who?" says Leon, but Bellasseau pushes right past him:

"We've had our suspicions for almost a year, but we weren't absolutely certain until now. All I need from you is a brief physical description and a summary of what you talked about. That's all."

"Easy enough," says Leon, but inwardly he's frowning again.

This is wrong. It's all wrong. Bellasseau turned up not three minutes after Todorov left, and everyone was on high alert after the assassination. Even if Todorov made it past the Peacekeeper cordon, they would've known who he was the instant he went off the radar. Only a moron wouldn't connect the dots, and Bellasseau is a lot of things, but he isn't a moron.

So why are they asking him the obvious?

His mind whirls. Is he wrong? He can't be wrong: Todorov all but spelled it out for him. Unless Todorov's the proxy for someone else. Silvestris? Atreo? Impossible; the man was as conversational as a brick. But there's only one way to find out.

"Sorry, but I talked to a lot of people last night. It's part of being a mentor. You should know." It's a cheap shot, but he can't resist. "I don't know who you mean, but I'm not sure how much we could have talked about, whoever he was."

And Bellasseau smiles. Actually smiles. It's an indulgent smile, a grandfatherly smile, one that would work on anyone who doesn't know how much blood his hands are soaked in.

"It's a good effort," he says. "An admirable one. I can respect that. But trying to protect the Rook won't do you any good, especially when we know you danced three waltzes with her."

Leon's instinctive line about the net worth of Bellasseau's respect dies on his lips.

"Her," he repeats.

"Her," agrees Bellasseau patiently.

No. He couldn't have been that stupid. But Bellasseau only sits back, his smile never flickering, and waits for a response, and slowly disbelief gives way to shock.

The Rook wasn't Reinald Todorov. The Rook was Reinald Todorov's date.

Her disguise was perfect, he realizes. Even now, he can't remember anything of her face but the bland mask of makeup, the same as any other pretty face in the Capitol. As simple and straightforward a cover as any.

And he'd fallen for it, fallen for every word she said as she goaded him into revealing his own anger. He'd fallen for it because she'd been everything he'd wanted a Capitolite to be. And then she'd made her escape when the assassination had gone wrong, and not even the Peacekeepers had seen anything but a shallow courtesan terrified of blood.

"Judging from the look on your face, I don't think I need to tell you that Lucretia Enyo doesn't exist," says Bellasseau. "She never did. We ran her name until the computers started to smoke. As far as the Capitol is concerned, she never existed at all. All the witnesses we've managed to corral only remember her clothes and her hair—both of which were found abandoned in an alley two blocks from the President's mansion."

You've been vetted, Todorov had said. And he had been. But not by Todorov. Leon opens his mouth to say something, but for the first time in as long as he can remember, nothing at all comes out.

That's probably what tips Bellasseau off. For a fraction of a second, Leon thinks he sees confusion on the other man's face. Confusion, or some kind of realization that Leon's not lying after all. Not now that his entire world's been turned upside down.

"You didn't know," says Bellasseau, and Leon lets out a disbelieving laugh.

"Hell, I don't think I would have let myself get caught if I had."

Bellasseau opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the door swings open and a young man with a sword—an honest-to-gods sword clipped to his belt—strides in, looking harried. Aras Duval, Leon's brain supplies. One of Kane's honor guard.

"I thought I said no interruptions," says Bellasseau.

"You did," says Duval, "but this is urgent."

Bellasseau huffs out a breath and beckons Duval forward. Duval leans over, whispering in Bellasseau's ear, and Leon mimics the motion instinctively, straining to hear, but only catches fragments of a language he recognizes but doesn't understand: détenu, and raide mort, and corbeau. Bellasseau's expression doesn't change, except for a slight drawing together of his eyebrows.

"Vraiment," he murmurs. "Vous êtes certain qu'elle était le corbeau."

"Sir," says Duval, stepping back, "we don't see how it could be anyone else."

The older man sits back in his chair then, staring at Leon with calculated grimness for what seems like an eternity. Finally he shakes his head and sighs.

"I won't deny you're a threat, Mr. Wang," he says. "More than you know. Your Tribute's gaining popularity in the Capitol after last night's little display, and there were cries of foul play from half the attendees at the soirée when people heard you'd been taken into custody."

"Good," says Leon, and Bellasseau's eyebrows draw further together.

"And yet, much as I hate to admit it," he says, "we're still District partners first and foremost. It looks bad if people think I'm trying to sabotage your chances. It looks worse if you're suddenly accused of being a traitor—though in my mind you might as well be, regardless of how little you know about the political situation here in the Capitol."

Leon stills for a moment. Then he carefully, deliberately, uncurls his fists. "Can't betray something you never swore loyalty to."

"Be that as it may," says Bellasseau, "it appears that it's in my best interest to let you walk free for the time being. Or appear to," he interjects briskly, as Leon's mouth drops open. "I'd prefer it if you neither waste your time nor mine, so I'll tell it to you straight: you're going to be followed from now on, by as many men as I can spare. The moment you step out of line, you're getting the firing squad you so richly deserve."

Leon doesn't say anything for a moment. It's a bold move. One he hadn't predicted. One that gives him a chance, but only just. If anything, he'll be even more of a prisoner than he is now. But it tells him something: Bellasseau is on edge, and he's nervous enough to consider the Capitol's fickle heart.

It tells him the Rook just might be on the move.

"Kind of you," Leon says at last, and he offers Bellasseau a smile as the guards uncuff him. "I'll be sure to play by the rules."

Description
Previously in the Capitol: [link]

---

All things considered, reflects Leon, the evening could have gone better.

So can the night that follows, if he's going to be perfectly honest with himself, but his holding cell is clean and relatively quiet, and his standards are really kind of low as far as government prisons are concerned. Besides, there isn't a lot he can do about the situation now besides try to sleep.

No, it's the soirée that rankles at him like a sore. All right, it wasn't exactly a comedy of errors, and as things went he navigated the Capitol minefield relatively well, but the ones he did make were significant, and obvious, and easily avoidable. Certainly he could've avoided landing himself in said holding cell if he'd only been a little more careful.

Who did you think you were mentoring? says the voice of reason in his head. Just a kid? What did you think you were doing? Trying to make up for old mistakes?

And Leon says nothing in response, because of course he was. Doesn't everyone?

He's quiet the entire night, catching sleep in fitful dozes, and when the guards finally arrive he swings easily to his feet and slides off his cot with a crooked half-smile. They're smart about the handcuffs: behind him, not in front, just in case he's ignored their assault rifles and decided to get any funny ideas in his head. Out in the hall, they don't give him a chance to get his bearings, spinning him down identical hallways for what seems like hours before they come to a cramped little room, with nothing but two plastic folding chairs and a rickety table inside.

Classic.

They sit him down, and they wait, and suddenly the thing that's been running through Leon's head all this time hits him again: Todorov is the Rook. An unassuming businessman from District Three is the best information broker in the Capitol, and gods know how he's been doing it, running the books here and keeping an ear to the ground all this time, but if he's not spearheading some kind of resistance here then may Leon's ancestors deal with him ever so severely. Reinald Todorov is the Rook, and nobody else can know.

Leon flashes a grin at his guards; they stare impassively through him. At least five minutes pass by his count before he hears more footsteps in the corridor outside. Then the door swings open, and Nichol Bellasseau drops into the folding chair across from him.

"Hi," says Leon, and then, "You know, if you wanted a mentor meeting, you could've just said so."

Bellasseau doesn't even acknowledge his existence, only rifles through some yellowed papers in a worn folder and harrumphs gently.

"I'm not so busy I can't just pencil you in," says Leon. "I don't need a small army of well-dressed young men with fancy swords to keep my schedule for me. Unlike some people."

Nothing. The yellowing pages rustle. It's a psychological thing, Leon knows—gods know he's done it to enough people before—but he can't help feeling apprehensive. Bellasseau feels comfortable enough to play this game with him, and that means he knows he has the advantage. And unlike some people, Bellasseau knows a real advantage when he sees one.

But Leon knows the game. Asking him what he knows means he's as good as lost. Instead he widens his grin and kicks his seat back dangerously far.

"You know," he says, "pretty sure this counts as foul play, and it won't do you any good. Rhona's kicking your Tribute's ass in the arena all by her lonesome."

Bellasseau looks up then, fixes Leon with a flat stare that sends his heart plummeting into his stomach despite himself.

"Not," says Leon, doing the best he can to keep the venom out of his voice, "that you were doing a very good job of keeping him alive in the first place."

And something flickers in Bellasseau's eyes, just for a moment, before he shuts it down. In a sharp, cold voice, without a trace of an accent, he says: "You're only making this worse for yourself, Wang Dazhong."

And the world drops out from under Leon.

Bellasseau's Mandarin is flawless. Utterly perfect. Like he learned it out of a textbook and it actually worked. He hits each tone like a goddamn hammer and Leon hates it on principle. He has to hate it on principle, has to focus on that, because otherwise he'll focus on the absolute and entirely unwelcome knowledge that he's suddenly become a dead man walking.

He doesn't blink. Bellasseau meets his gaze. Of course he isn't fooled. No security agent worth his salt would be. "First Lieutenant Wang Dazhong," he repeats. "Served with distinction in the rebel forces during the war. Gained some renown as a fighter pilot of considerable skill. Earned the nickname 'Sleeping Dragon' after a particularly brilliant tactical display against overwhelmingly superior forces."

Leon hesitates, and by his hesitation betrays himself. It's not a conscious decision. The only people who still know him by that name are old ghosts in the back of his mind, sun-bleached bones that have never been laid to rest.

But he fights. It's what he's always done. His own Mandarin is a lazy drawl compared to Bellasseau's. "Think you got the wrong file there."

Bellasseau only smiles behind his mustache and continues as if Leon has said nothing at all. "Thought," he says, "to have been killed in the nuclear strike at the close of the rebellion, along with his sister, Isolde Saclay, née Wang; her son, Talgo Saclay, and the rest of District Thirteen."

Leon says nothing. He thinks: old ghosts, quiet evenings, eager hands grasping at stars. Tell me a story, Uncle Leon.

"You're a long way from home, Sleeping Dragon," says Bellasseau.

Leon leans forward, lets his chair legs hit the floor with a clatter. "Ah, what the hell," he says, fooling nobody. "It was always a pretty cool nickname."

A guard coughs lightly from behind Bellasseau. The older man doesn't look up, but he switches back to English as easily as Leon switches gears, and Leon hates him all the more for it. "I'll admit I almost ignored you at first. As far as I was concerned, you were just another fortune-seeking idiot. I had bigger fish to fry at the time. The soirée changed things, of course."

"Of course," repeats Leon, and keeps his tone of voice neutral.

Bellasseau only glances at his papers again. "I'm impressed you managed to stay under the radar this long, Mr. Wang. How long have you been meaning to get into the Capitol?"

"Since just about forever." No more games, he thinks. Not that he's in the mood to play them anymore. And something's wrong, and he won't be able to figure out what by wrapping everything in more lies. "Since the war, if you like. Although I was expecting to have a little more time than this. How'd you find me?"

"Newspaper records," says Bellasseau. "I don't keep digital if I can help it. And you were a hero to some of the rebels, you know. You led me on a merry chase for a while, Mr. Wang, but you were easier to find than you like to think.

"I'll tell you the truth," he continues, reaching into his pocket, "I had my doubts up to the moment we took you into custody. But then I'd say this kind of evidence is fairly unequivocal, isn't it?"

Almost carelessly, he drops Ergo's note onto the table. Leon stares blankly at it for a moment before he laughs.

"A shoe store?" he says, letting a touch of that devil-may-care smile back onto his face. He's dead and he knows it, but if Ergo and Todorov are part of some Capitol resistance, the least he can do is keep mum. It's not exactly their fault he was stupid enough to get caught.

"I think you know better than that," says Bellesseau. "And I needn't remind you of how much easier it will be if you decide to cooperate. For you, and for your Tribute."

Leon looks at him then. Really looks. He's never seen Bellasseau up close before, and his face is only really familiar from muted photographs in old newspapers. The man who brought down a rebellion from the inside, all by himself. They called him a demon in Thirteen, in the last few days before Thirteen ceased to exist altogether.

"A man like you," Leon says slowly, "ought to know a useless threat when he sees one. Do you really think I wouldn't let a kid die just to watch the lot of you burn?"

Something glints in Bellasseau's eyes. "Is that an admission of guilt?"

"Guilt for what? The assassination attempt? Wasn't me." Distantly, he wonders if Rhona's okay. Wonders if he really means what he's saying about her, because sometimes the stories get mixed up in his head. "I'm not sorry it happened. I won't deny that. But you've got the wrong person if you think I had anything to do with it. Try asking the guy who actually did the shooting next time."

"He isn't talking," says Bellasseau. "But he doesn't need to. He's a terrified kid with a head full of big ideas and someone gave him a gun, a time and place, and enough ID to fake his way in. I'm not interested in the gun, Mr. Wang. I'm interested in whoever pulled the trigger."

"I'm flattered," says Leon. "Really, I am. But if there's a resistance in the Capitol, then I don't know about it."

"You honestly expect me to believe you." Bellasseau's voice is flat.

Leon laughs, lets himself think it hides his nerves. "What, you expect me to bring this place down around your heads just because I've got a past? Find me anyone from the Districts who doesn't have one. All you've proven is I'm a vet who wanted to visit the Capitol. Scope out the area, get a feel for the residents, help a smart kid win a game. There's no law against that."

Bellasseau inclines his head—whether in acknowledgment or in thought, Leon can't tell. "That's where you're wrong," he says. "We have irrefutable evidence you made contact with the individual known as the Rook more than once at last night's soiree."

"The who?" says Leon, but Bellasseau pushes right past him:

"We've had our suspicions for almost a year, but we weren't absolutely certain until now. All I need from you is a brief physical description and a summary of what you talked about. That's all."

"Easy enough," says Leon, but inwardly he's frowning again.

This is wrong. It's all wrong. Bellasseau turned up not three minutes after Todorov left, and everyone was on high alert after the assassination. Even if Todorov made it past the Peacekeeper cordon, they would've known who he was the instant he went off the radar. Only a moron wouldn't connect the dots, and Bellasseau is a lot of things, but he isn't a moron.

So why are they asking him the obvious?

His mind whirls. Is he wrong? He can't be wrong: Todorov all but spelled it out for him. Unless Todorov's the proxy for someone else. Silvestris? Atreo? Impossible; the man was as conversational as a brick. But there's only one way to find out.

"Sorry, but I talked to a lot of people last night. It's part of being a mentor. You should know." It's a cheap shot, but he can't resist. "I don't know who you mean, but I'm not sure how much we could have talked about, whoever he was."

And Bellasseau smiles. Actually smiles. It's an indulgent smile, a grandfatherly smile, one that would work on anyone who doesn't know how much blood his hands are soaked in.

"It's a good effort," he says. "An admirable one. I can respect that. But trying to protect the Rook won't do you any good, especially when we know you danced three waltzes with her."

Leon's instinctive line about the net worth of Bellasseau's respect dies on his lips.

"Her," he repeats.

"Her," agrees Bellasseau patiently.

No. He couldn't have been that stupid. But Bellasseau only sits back, his smile never flickering, and waits for a response, and slowly disbelief gives way to shock.

The Rook wasn't Reinald Todorov. The Rook was Reinald Todorov's date.

Her disguise was perfect, he realizes. Even now, he can't remember anything of her face but the bland mask of makeup, the same as any other pretty face in the Capitol. As simple and straightforward a cover as any.

And he'd fallen for it, fallen for every word she said as she goaded him into revealing his own anger. He'd fallen for it because she'd been everything he'd wanted a Capitolite to be. And then she'd made her escape when the assassination had gone wrong, and not even the Peacekeepers had seen anything but a shallow courtesan terrified of blood.

"Judging from the look on your face, I don't think I need to tell you that Lucretia Enyo doesn't exist," says Bellasseau. "She never did. We ran her name until the computers started to smoke. As far as the Capitol is concerned, she never existed at all. All the witnesses we've managed to corral only remember her clothes and her hair—both of which were found abandoned in an alley two blocks from the President's mansion."

You've been vetted, Todorov had said. And he had been. But not by Todorov. Leon opens his mouth to say something, but for the first time in as long as he can remember, nothing at all comes out.

That's probably what tips Bellasseau off. For a fraction of a second, Leon thinks he sees confusion on the other man's face. Confusion, or some kind of realization that Leon's not lying after all. Not now that his entire world's been turned upside down.

"You didn't know," says Bellasseau, and Leon lets out a disbelieving laugh.

"Hell, I don't think I would have let myself get caught if I had."

Bellasseau opens his mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the door swings open and a young man with a sword—an honest-to-gods sword clipped to his belt—strides in, looking harried. Aras Duval, Leon's brain supplies. One of Kane's honor guard.

"I thought I said no interruptions," says Bellasseau.

"You did," says Duval, "but this is urgent."

Bellasseau huffs out a breath and beckons Duval forward. Duval leans over, whispering in Bellasseau's ear, and Leon mimics the motion instinctively, straining to hear, but only catches fragments of a language he recognizes but doesn't understand: détenu, and raide mort, and corbeau. Bellasseau's expression doesn't change, except for a slight drawing together of his eyebrows.

"Vraiment," he murmurs. "Vous êtes certain qu'elle était le corbeau."

"Sir," says Duval, stepping back, "we don't see how it could be anyone else."

The older man sits back in his chair then, staring at Leon with calculated grimness for what seems like an eternity. Finally he shakes his head and sighs.

"I won't deny you're a threat, Mr. Wang," he says. "More than you know. Your Tribute's gaining popularity in the Capitol after last night's little display, and there were cries of foul play from half the attendees at the soirée when people heard you'd been taken into custody."

"Good," says Leon, and Bellasseau's eyebrows draw further together.

"And yet, much as I hate to admit it," he says, "we're still District partners first and foremost. It looks bad if people think I'm trying to sabotage your chances. It looks worse if you're suddenly accused of being a traitor—though in my mind you might as well be, regardless of how little you know about the political situation here in the Capitol."

Leon stills for a moment. Then he carefully, deliberately, uncurls his fists. "Can't betray something you never swore loyalty to."

"Be that as it may," says Bellasseau, "it appears that it's in my best interest to let you walk free for the time being. Or appear to," he interjects briskly, as Leon's mouth drops open. "I'd prefer it if you neither waste your time nor mine, so I'll tell it to you straight: you're going to be followed from now on, by as many men as I can spare. The moment you step out of line, you're getting the firing squad you so richly deserve."

Leon doesn't say anything for a moment. It's a bold move. One he hadn't predicted. One that gives him a chance, but only just. If anything, he'll be even more of a prisoner than he is now. But it tells him something: Bellasseau is on edge, and he's nervous enough to consider the Capitol's fickle heart.

It tells him the Rook just might be on the move.

"Kind of you," Leon says at last, and he offers Bellasseau a smile as the guards uncuff him. "I'll be sure to play by the rules."