Page 109 of Kingmakers, Year Two

Everybody knows about the Undercroft and the swimming pool beneath the Armory. They know about the archives below the library, though only Miss Robin and her aides are allowed access.

But that’s less than half the space under the school.

I discovered the tunnels in my Freshman year. It took months for me to get access to one of the skeleton keys, and months more to make a copy. Apart from the Chancellor, only two professors and one of the grounds crew have access. Now me as well.

I break into the Chancellor’s office to get the keys to his boat. Picking the lock on his door is easy—it’s having the balls to enter his personal space that’s difficult. The second I set foot over the threshold, I’m hit with the scent of his cigar smoke and expensive aftershave, the smell of metal and leather, and I’ll admit, I want to turn and run.

For all the rule breaking I do at school, Luther Hugo is not somebody I want to fuck with. I’ve always steered clear of him, intentionally. Wade Dyer’s death was the first occasion that forced us to speak face to face.

On that particular day, I had already been dragged up the steps of the prison tower and chucked in a cell, so I’ve never actually visited this office before.

I’m on the top floor of the Keep. Rich, dark wood with inlaid panels cover the walls and ceiling. A bank of windows on the far wall overlooks the castle grounds. I’m discomfited to see how wide the view is, how much the Chancellor can observe from up here. The opposite windows look directly over the cliffs to the sea below.

Waves smash against the rocks. You would think there would be no exit on that side—after all, the barquentine has to come around to the lee side of the island to enter the sheltered harbor. But the Chancellor’s vessel is no sailing ship—it’s a sport yacht, shaped like a bullet, that can cut through almost any swell.

I’m quite sure he keeps his keys in here because the one time I observed him leaving the island late at night, he made a quick stop at his office first.

I should have been in the Spy division, like Cat. I’ve watched the Chancellor from afar plenty of times. He’s a curious figure to me. Fabulously wealthy, as all the Hugos are. And yet he chooses to stay at the school the majority of the time, never marrying, never fathering children, running his business interests from afar.

Maybe he likes the power of controlling the school, shaping the minds of the next generation of mafia. Still, it’s an unusual vocation for a man once known as the Widowmaker.

He might fear retribution from all those widows. The island is a good place for semi-retirement—quiet, and difficult to attack.

He still has all his luxuries around him. The office is stuffed with books, newspapers, cigars, cognac, a bearskin throw, and a box of unopened truffles. The Chancellor’s acquaintances likewise keep him company in the form of framed photographs on every wall.

I look them over in a glance, curious but knowing I don’t have time to snoop around as I’d like to. I recognize politicians and celebrities, as well as famous mafiosi. In the civilian world, the Hugos are known for their philanthropy and patronage of the arts. Most of these photographs were taken at charity events.

Other locales I recognize from the island. The photograph hanging to the left of the Chancellor’s desk shows Luther himself standing next to four students—three boys and one girl. Luther shakes the hand of the girl, who looks flushed and pleased, while the three boys, all significantly taller than her, range in expression from disappointed to bitter.

I’m guessing these are the Captains of some round of theQuartum Bellum.In which case the girl likely captained the winning team. She’s pretty, dark-haired, blue-eyed. Too young to be a Senior. I could probably find her name on the wall of winners down in the Armory.

Luther himself looks much younger—his hair is fully black, thick and wild-looking. His face is still lined, but only around his eyes and forehead. His cheeks are smooth and beardless. Usually that makes a man look shorn or weakened, but in his case, it shows that he was handsome once, in an aggressive, wicked sort of way.

I wonder if the girl became famous later, and that’s why he kept this picture. Everyone else on his walls is someone important.

I’m more interested in the set of keys hanging on a small hook directly next to the photograph. I snatch them up, stilling their jingling with my fingers.

I slip back out of the office, making sure to re-lock the door behind me. I even check that I haven’t left footprints on the plush rug.

From there, it’s an easy jog down the staircase to meet Ares on the ground floor. He’s holding my laptop under one arm, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.

“What took you so long?” he hisses.

“That was less than five minutes.” I hold out my hand for the laptop. I want to keep it with me, as it’s a fairly crucial part of the plan.

“Let’s just go,” Ares says. “The sooner we leave . . .”

“I know, I know. The sooner you can get back in your cozy bed and pretend that none of this ever happened. Come on, follow me.”

“I thought we were going out?” Ares looks confusedly toward the front doors of the Keep as I lead him further inside instead.

“Not out . . . down.”

I take him to a recessed door next to a musty old tapestry. The door is narrow and might well be a closet. If you didn’t know what you were looking for.

The lock turns with a screech. Ares winces, but I ignore it. There’s no onearound to hear.

This staircase is darker and damper than the ones above ground, the stone smooth and slick in places. I use my phone to light the way. The roof hangs so low in places that Ares has to stoop to avoid banging his head. I try to give him a warning every time I duck under some new outcropping of raw rock.

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