A/N: Whoops, failed at updating in a timely fashion again - have two chapters today!
Also, thanks so much for the reviews, guys. I'm behind on replying but I really appreciate all of them. :D
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Chapter Four
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The hotel Gaius booked for them is exactly the kind of grossly opulent place Merlin imagines a prat like Napoleon Solo would be staying, so he supposes it'll be helpful for staying in character. His room is down the hall from Arthur and Gwen's, but since he's supposed to be Mr. Rich Playboy he actually gets a suite instead of a normal room. Or whatever passes for "normal" in this place.
He's distracted enough by the gilded furnishings, and the gold-leaf-trimmed ceiling, and the pillows so fluffy they're probably stuffed with the individually chosen feathers from a swan belonging to the Pope or something equally ridiculous, that it takes Merlin longer than it normally would to notice something off. It's only when he goes to change clothes that he figures out what's bothering him.
He glances down the hall before strolling down it and knocking on Gwen and Arthur's door—they're not meant to know one another, but it's late enough by now that they shouldn't face too much interruption.
Arthur answers the door, looking annoyed as usual by the fact that Merlin is still breathing air. "Does the idea of subtlety really escape you that much?"
"This'll be a short conversation," Merlin assures him, nudging into the room and reaching into his pocket as Arthur shuts the door. "Catch."
Arthur does, one at a time, as Merlin tosses the little listening devices into his waiting palm and punctuates each toss with a word.
"These…are…English…made." He tilts his head. "And the antenna on this one looks like it's got something wrong with its microphone. You should probably look into getting that fixed."
"Is that so," Arthur muses, closing the bugs in his hand. With his other hand, he reaches into his own pocket and adds, somewhat sardonically, "Catch."
Merlin knows what's coming, but instinct has him catching the bugs anyway as Arthur throws his own words back at him.
"These…are…American…made. With a shoddy design typical of your agency's R&D department." Arthur folds his arms. "Maybe if you stopped outsourcing everything your lot could keep up with Britain in that regard."
They're not 'my lot', you absolute snob. "You're one to talk. Speaking of R&D, are your people still letting Edwin dick around down there?"
Arthur ignores him. "If you keep putting bugs on my suits they're eventually going to tear, and I won't be happy about it."
"I could say the same," Merlin replies irritably. "Except I don't actually have an endless supply of suits like you do, so if you'd have some consideration for the peons—"
There's the click of a key, and the door opens again.
"Emrys? Is that you?"
Gwen is in the doorway. Arthur moves to the side to give her room, looking more displeased with this impromptu little party by the second. Merlin smiles encouragingly at her.
"How are you holding up?"
"As well as can be expected, I suppose," she says with a shrug and an attempted smile. "Nothing's really happened yet."
She glances at Arthur as she says it, and Merlin wonders what that's all about. He has an uncomfortable feeling it might have to do with the fact that Arthur's ring finger is currently empty. His own fingers drift to his watch.
"Anyway," Gwen is saying, "that's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I heard a few of the other guests talking downstairs about Agravaine duBois. Apparently he's hosting some kind of party at my brother's—" Her mouth twists. "At his new garage, that is. To show off some of the cars. Seems like the sort of thing we should look into, doesn't it?"
Merlin blinks at her.
"Definitely, yeah," he says after a second. "I'll get a hold of Gaius, see if we can't get some last-minute invitations."
"Last-minute invitations look suspicious," Arthur says. "I'll see if one of the lesser-known guests can't be conveniently detained."
Merlin frowns. "And what, hope nobody else attending knows what he looks like?"
"Better than a name suddenly appearing on the list of—"
Gwen clears her throat. "Gentlemen?"
She's holding up three pristinely white envelopes. Merlin gapes.
"How did you—"
"Agravaine might own the place now," she interrupts, "but it was Elyan's garage for a long time, and I do still have friends there. Even…even after everything that's happened."
Gwen looks between them as if daring them to say anything unhelpful. "Well? Will this do?"
Merlin has long been of the opinion that one of the key attitudes to cultivate, as a bona fide Secret Agent of Questionable Reputation, is a tolerance toward flexibility. It's truly astonishing how often he's been forced to build sandcastles from the ashes of his previously well-thought-out plans.
He likes to think he's become something of an expert in this arena, so it's with perfect nonchalance that he takes one of the proffered envelopes.
"Can't see why not," he says.
Arthur side-eyes him in a way that says, quite clearly, that Arthur can in fact see multitudes of reasons "why not" but is unable to think of any better ideas at this point in time. He too takes an envelope.
"Good," Gwen says. "That's settled, then. I hope everyone brought their party clothes."
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'Party', Merlin thinks, was possibly too strong a word.
Of course it's equally possible that he's just a hopeless plebe, despite all the work that's gone into making him capable of playing the opposite. Merlin thinks he could accept that, because his plebian idea of a party is leagues more interesting than whatever this is meant to be.
Fun fact about being a professional spy: it involves a lot less in the way of ball gowns and Venetian masquerades than you'd get from watching Bond. Merlin was sort of disappointed by this during his first few months on the job because even if he can't stand rich people on principle, he can still appreciate their food and the whole aesthetic of the thing. But he's never really been to an event like this—small, relatively private, and occupied solely by the excruciatingly rich.
As such, Merlin has no idea if the absolutely numbing level of boredom he's experiencing right now is typical of such events or not.
Agravaine wasted no time in attaching an honest-to-god racetrack to his new garage, complete with professional racers to show off Elyan Smithson's souped-up cars, so that's where the bulk of the attention seems to be (including Gwen's—she is a mechanic, after all, and Merlin can't really begrudge her for getting some fun out of this). The rest of them are under a wide white tent with assorted hors d'oeuvres and a gigantic ice sculpture (of swans, because apparently what Agravaine duBois has in business acumen he lacks in imagination) and not nearly enough champagne, in Merlin's humble opinion.
Arthur seems to have made himself scarce, the bastard, probably investigating the perimeter or something similarly dull, so Merlin is left alone to contemplate throwing himself onto the racetrack to end his misery. Or at least liven things up a little.
Forty minutes of polite greetings and staring down those damned ice swans and Merlin decides he's going to lose his mind if he doesn't do something petty to occupy himself, because the people around him haven't had any conversation so far that's more scintillating than 'so-and-so's horse lost at the races' and 'so-and-so spent the cost of a small island on her party dress'. This is not the Life of Excitement he signed up for as an agent. Hell, he'd almost prefer being shot at.
A middle-aged blonde woman practically dripping with jewels meets his eye and smiles. Merlin smiles back and prays she'll have something to say that doesn't involved horses or dresses. Horses in dresses, maybe…
"Lady Ragnell," she introduces herself, offering a hand. Merlin has the sinking feeling he's supposed to kiss it, so he does…and slips her diamond (from the look of it) bracelet off her wrist in the process, holding it against his palm, smiling all the while.
For the record, Merlin doesn't steal. Especially at fancy events like these; his mother worked as a waitress for eighteen years, so he's well aware than whenever anything goes wrong, the staff are the ones who pay for it. Usually with their jobs.
So, no stealing. That doesn't mean he can't occasionally move things around to keep his brain from leaking out of his ears and all over the pristine lawn.
He nods and smiles and makes what he thinks are the appropriate noises, fighting not to look down at his watch as Lady Ragnell regales him with tales of yet another horse, her husband's apparently, and how happy she is to see another Englishman here because she's been so bereft lately of people who appreciate True Culture. In Rome. Throwing himself in front of a moving vehicle is beginning to sound appealing again.
Finally, one of the woman's friends waves to her from across the tent and she offers Merlin an apologetic smile. Merlin waves her off cheerfully and even takes her hand again—shaking it this time because he does have his limits, thank you very much. As he does, he slips the bracelet back on her wrist. She doesn't even notice.
It killed a few minutes, at least.
"That was nicely done," a female voice says from behind him, and Merlin very nearly jumps. "I almost didn't notice it had moved."
Merlin turns around. The speaker is a woman, dark-haired and absolutely stunning. Familiar, even, in the way these sorts of people all begin to seem after enough time. Merlin puts on his most gormless smile, the one he's been told comes off as both endearing and rather dim.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he says, slipping smoothly into the received pronunciation he defaults to in situations like this. The woman's amused smile doesn't budge.
"Lady Ragnell's bracelet is on the wrong wrist," she replies. "She's left-handed."
"Oh, is she?" Merlin takes a sip of champagne and tries not to show that he's impressed. Or embarrassed. "I hadn't noticed."
"I doubt that," she says, smoothly taking a champagne flute from a passing waiter without causing him to miss a step. "I haven't seen you at any of these little gatherings before, Mister…?"
"Solo," Merlin supplies, offering a hand. "Napoleon Solo."
She extends her hand in return. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Solo. Might I ask after your occupation—outside of hopelessly confusing the other guests, that is?"
"Antiquities."
One of her immaculately manicured eyebrows flickers upward. "Oh?"
Merlin spreads his arms in a calculatedly overexcited gesture. "Where better to hunt for new rarities than in Rome? I heard Mr. duBois is a fan of high culture. I was hoping to ask him about his personal collection; I have a few items lined up that he might be interested in."
She waves a hand dismissively. "Mr. duBois only ever spends the bare minimum of time at these parties," she says. "He'd much rather be spending time with that 'high culture' you mentioned." Her mouth curls up at the corner. "The man is all work and very little play, I'm afraid."
Merlin leans forward a bit, conspiratorial. "Actually, I wondered if Mr. duBois is, ah…diversifying his interests? Given this splendid garage and all. Is he looking to get into sport?"
The woman tilts her head to the side. She's running a finger along the rim of her glass in a way that doesn't quite seem absentminded. "Perhaps he wanted to shake things up. Make a change."
Merlin blinks. The woman is still smiling, perfectly friendly, but something feels strange. He feels like he's a step behind, like he's missing something.
Like she can see into his head somehow.
His skin crawling a bit at the thought, Merlin keeps a smile plastered on his face. "I've been spending time in Vienna lately, and the faces in these circles change so fast—I'm sorry, but I don't think I managed to catch your name?"
But he gave his, he remembers, as her smile widens in a way that would look apologetic if it wasn't so sharp. He gave his alias, but she offered nothing in return. And why does he still feel like he knows her from somewhere?
"Morgan," she says. "Morgan Faye. I'm Mr. duBois' fiancée."
Merlin's brain sticks briefly on fiancée—what the hell, why was that never in any of the surveillance reports?—before backtracking to the name Morgan, and a memory suddenly crashes into his head.
He knows her face. He's never seen it before in person though, only in a simple wooden frame: a photograph of a green-eyed teenager looping her arms around a blond boy in a footie jersey. Both of them were smiling.
Merlin had been searching for spare boxers when he'd found that picture. It had been shoved in the back of Arthur's dresser drawer.
Training keeps his mouth moving even though his brain has stalled, the charming small talk of a boringly posh alias. "It's good to meet you, Miss Faye. I'm staying at the Piazza Hotel while I'm in Rome—I hope we'll be seeing more of each other."
She takes a sip of her drink, green eyes still fixed on his. That smile has never once left her exquisite face. "I'm sure we will, Mr. Solo. I look forward to it."
She's swept away before Merlin can so much as blink. He forces himself to wait two seconds, three, four, before making his way to the loo in deliberately slow movements. He waits until he's out of sight of the rest of the party before tossing his champagne flute into a bin—he's suddenly a lot less willing to take chances on some overzealous security worker deciding to check for fingerprints.
Thankfully, his first guess was correct—Arthur is lurking in the stalls to avoid the general populace. He frowns when Merlin appears.
"What are you doing here? Aren't you meant to be slithering into the good graces of our hosts?"
"You have to get out of here," Merlin cuts him off, his mind racing. Shit, what if this place is bugged? What if they're all bugged? "Now. Make sure no one sees you."
Arthur unfolds his arms and steps closer, his frown deepening. "We haven't finished gathering intel. We're staying until—"
"The situation has changed." Merlin takes a deep breath. "I just met Agravaine's fiancée."
Confusion crosses Arthur's face. "Fiancée? We weren't told anything about a fiancée, are you certain?"
"She's using the name Morgan Faye, but she's—" He swallows hard. "Arthur, it's Morgana. Your sister is here."
Arthur's expression goes carefully blank.
"That's impossible," he says quietly.
"I would've said the same thing an hour ago," Merlin replies. Arthur's eyes narrow.
"Emrys, you have no idea what you're—"
Oh, for god's sake.
"Do you think I would mistake something like this?" he hisses. "Do you honestly think I would throw her in your face if I wasn't sure? What the hell do you take me for, Arthur?" Arthur opens his mouth, but if he actually answers that question then Merlin might actually strangle him, so he barrels on. "Look, you can break in to review security footage or whatever you like later if you don't believe me, but right now you need to leave. I don't know if she knows something or if this is just a massive coincidence, but if she sees you here then we're all fucked."
Arthur is staring at him. Merlin shuts his mouth and keeps it shut, even if he does feel a sudden urge to apologize—this is a bombshell he's dropping right smack in the middle of Arthur's life, and ideally they would be in a situation where he had more time to break the news gently (read: not like an arse), but this is not an ideal situation and he's trying to do what he can.
It's not like Arthur can hate him much more at this point anyway.
"I need to get Gwen," Arthur says at last. It sounds like he's trying to talk from underwater. "It'll look strange if the professor disappears without his wife."
Merlin shakes his head. "You can't go back out there," he says. "We can take it from here, and I can look out for Gwen. You need to go."
Slowly, Arthur nods. "I'll report back to my—back to Uther. This changes things. He'll…he'll want to be informed."
Some stupid leftover thing in Merlin aches for him, but all he says is, "Be careful."
Arthur nods again, still looking like he's been slapped out of a sound sleep. He walks past Merlin to get to the door, and it takes everything Merlin has not to reach out.
Instead he gives it a minute so it doesn't look like they're been having a nice chat in the loo before going out and rejoining the party. Arthur is already out of sight, which is good; Merlin had half-expected him to go striding right up to Morgana and demanding explanations. At which point, from what few stories he'd managed to wrest from Arthur's mouth way back when, Merlin imagines Morgana would have clawed his eyes out.
He bypasses the party tent this time in favor of the racetrack, and tells himself it's not because Morgana Pendragon unnerves the shit out of him.
He nabs another champagne flute from a passing waiter (that he is not going to drink, he tells himself sternly, because getting tipsy on the job never ends well even if it does wonders for one's nerves) and looks out at the same sleek black car speeding round and round. The wealthy people around him seem to think this is the height of entertainment, but personally, Merlin finds it utterly mindless.
All the better then, because he's got plenty on his mind as it is.
Why is Morgana here? Merlin barely knows anything about the woman, only that she was an agent and that her disappearance caused a stir that was still rippling when Merlin joined up a few months later. If she went rogue, maybe she needed money and that was why she took up with Agravaine?
Or does she approve of his work? Is she helping him?
She's Arthur's sister!
And Uther is their father, what's your point?
Even if she doesn't have some sort of game going with Agravaine, she's still a former agent. How much does she know, or suspect? Is Merlin just being paranoid?
His thoughts go round and round like the damn car on the track, only they don't stop when the vehicle in question finally does.
Merlin doesn't notice that the driver is getting out to join the crowd until the people around him start making appreciative sounds of surprise. Like they've just been gifted with some new entertainment. He looks up, trying to see over the absolutely massive hat of the woman in front of him, and—
Agravaine duBois.
The funny thing is, the man actually looks like the sort of person you'd suspect of being an under-the-table arms dealer. Which is almost disappointing. Some part of Merlin (that apparently never grew past five years old) has always been intrigued by the thought of having a nemesis, some recurring foe to play the cat to his mouse and vice versa. He doesn't actively want one, of course, because childhood fantasies don't justify putting people in harm's way, but in Merlin's imaginings the nemesis had always been someone quietly intimidating. Someone intelligent. Someone subtle.
Agravaine duBois is about as subtle as Herman Munster. Only less lovable. Seriously, the man looks like he stepped off the set of a Bond film; all he needs is a revolving chair and some unfortunate-looking cat. Maybe one of those hairless Egyptian affronts against man and nature.
The longer Merlin looks the more disappointing it gets. Agravaine without the driver's helmet has greasy black hair, a smarmy smile—he's wearing all black, for god's sake. And it's summer. The personal betrayal Merlin feels is probably very unprofessional, but it's there.
All the same, he's preparing to muster his best Wealthy Prick impersonation to try and get Agravaine's attention when Merlin realizes Agravaine's attention is already occupied. By a petite black woman with curly hair and bright copper eyes.
Gwen is talking to Agravaine. Gwen is actually smiling at Agravaine. Merlin would gape if he weren't surrounded by people; the woman obviously has nerves wrought from solid steel.
He backs off. Too many new friends at one time might make Agravaine suspicious, and if he's being honest, Merlin is very curious to see what Gwen does next.
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"Mr. duBois?"
Agravaine duBois turns from his circle of admirers and looks at Gwen, the corner of his mouth curling up in a manner that would probably be charming if Gwen didn't have any idea who he was.
"And who might you be?"
She offers her hand and tries to ignore her heartbeat pounding in her ears. "Abigail Teller. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," Agravaine murmurs, taking her hand and bending down to brush his lips over it. Gwen represses a violent shudder.
"Your car," she says brightly. "Is that a McLaren Mk6?"
His eyebrows go up. "You're familiar with the design?"
"Oh yes." Gwen doesn't have to fake her enthusiasm. "It's got a top speed of two-hundred, doesn't it?"
"Two-hundred and seven, to be precise." Agravaine smirks. "I'm having my engineers go to work on upping even that."
"Maybe if you adjusted the front wings a little?" Gwen draws a shape in the air over the (admittedly beautiful) car. "Like so?"
It's working, she can tell. She has Agravaine's undivided attention.
"I fear I haven't seen your face before, Miss Teller," he says. "A crime, to be sure."
"I'm here on my honeymoon." Gwen adopts what she hopes is a suitably downcast look. "But my husband is terribly busy, you see, so I'm afraid I've been left to fend for myself."
She sort of wants to throw up in her mouth, but Agravaine looks sympathetic.
"Perhaps I can assuage your loneliness, then. Would you like to come to my villa for tea sometime? We could further discuss improvements to the McLaren if you like." That smile again. "I could even show you my private collection of racing cars."
"That would be lovely," Gwen says warmly, hating herself a little more with every syllable. "I'll be at the Piazza Hotel, should you like to contact me."
Agravaine duBois kisses her hand again. "I most certainly will."
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It's been said on many an evaluation that one of Arthur's greatest strengths as an agent is his ability to compartmentalize. When faced with a particularly chaotic or fraught situation, rather than panicking or drowning in a rush of adrenaline, he enters a place of icy calm. Outside sounds are muffled and sharpened all at once; his senses are strangely muted and yet, paradoxically, he's the most focused he's ever been. Not a single thought is allowed to remain in his head outside of the immediate objective.
Currently, his objective is to leave the party without being seen by anyone who might stop him. Including—
Morgana, my sister who is gone, my sister who left—
Morgan Faye, Agravaine duBois' fiancée. No point in showing his face before it's necessary. If their identities have been compromised by Morgana's involvement, it's even more important that he stay as far away from Emrys as possible.
Arthur walks with unassailable calm, with ease, maybe even with a bit of boredom—typical of a wealthy partygoer searching for new diversions. His pace is not fast or slow enough to attract attention. He is a perfect blank, nondescript, not worth noting. His breathing doesn't even speed up.
The only shaky moment is when he passes the main tent and hears a trill of high, female laughter. His steps slow, just for a second.
It could be Morgana. He could turn around and see his sister's face for the first time in years.
But the mission is more important, so Arthur keeps walking. He makes his way to his car and drives back to the hotel.
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