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Chapter Seven
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The receptionist outside Morgana's office gives Merlin a false-bright smile when he tells her his alias's name.
"Miss Faye is expecting you," she says, and Merlin hides his surprise. Her stylish bob doesn't move when her head does; the combination of hair and smile distract Merlin with thoughts of animated dolls. "You can wait inside the office. She should be in shortly."
Merlin recovers his focus, nods his thanks, throws in what he hopes is a charming smile (it never hurts to collect more goodwill) and goes inside the office. The doll-like receptionist closes the doors behind him.
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Arthur knows Gwen and Emrys have both been waiting for him to say that he doesn't like this plan, which is the reason he's kept his mouth shut on the matter. It doesn't do for an agent to get predictable. Death typically follows shortly after.
All the same, they aren't wrong: he doesn't like this.
He can't even pinpoint exactly why. Gwen meeting with Agravaine duBois is a perfectly reasonable next step in their investigation—actually it's a better progression than they could have hoped for, and completely thanks to Gwen's own initiative. Arthur doesn't enjoy dealing with civilians on assignments, as a rule, but he can't help being impressed by her. She has the makings of a good agent.
Which is why she'll be fine, he reminds himself, and why this meeting will most likely go without a problem.
Engraving that thought firmly in his mind, Arthur burrows down a little further into the tall grass and adjusts his headphones and sound equipment. There's not much to hear at this point, just the clinking of glasses and silverware as various employees prepare for guests, but Arthur can hear all that well enough. They're just fortunate that the weather continues to favor them; it would be considerably trickier to do this if Gwen was going to be behind the walls of duBois's fortress the entire time.
By the time he'd finished cleaning himself up after the incident at the shipyard, Gwen had already finished informing Emrys of the new plan. What Arthur hadn't counted on, but probably should have expected, was that Emrys had his own ideas to add.
"He says he'll make an appointment to see Agravaine's fiancée, kill two birds with one stone," Gwen had said, a crease between her eyebrows. "I didn't even know he had a fiancée."
"You aren't the only one," Arthur had replied, grim. "Did Emrys happen to mention how he's going to contact M—the fiancée? Since she didn't go about handing her contact information out to all and sundry?"
Gwen had offered an awkward shrug. "Apparently she has an office within Agravaine's holdings. Emrys had me on hold for a minute so he could call room service for a phone book. 'Divide and conquer', he said. And—well, I'm assuming you're going to put some kind of listening device on me, and you both don't need to be there to listen through a pair of headphones."
Arthur hadn't liked it then and he doesn't like it now—everything feels too neat, although the thought would sound like madness if he said it aloud—but it makes enough logical sense that he couldn't overrule it.
"…so pleased you could join me today," a smooth male voice comes through the headphones, and Arthur focuses, leans forward. A dark-haired man—Agravaine—is leading Gwen out to the table.
"It was kind of you to invite me," she replies, smiling as she sits down.
Agravaine waits for the last waiter to pour their tea and disappear before he speaks again.
"I was told you would be able to assist me in a matter of some delicacy," he says.
"I did promise as much," Gwen answers. Arthur waits for her to elaborate on her longtime hobby of examining rare vehicles, but it doesn't come. Agravaine continues.
"Yes, and I appreciate your offer. One of my men is working on a project we fear he won't be able to complete in time. Not that he lacks the talent to do so, certainly, but he seems to be lacking in the proper…motivation."
"And as I said before, I can provide it," Gwen says, startling Arthur with the sudden cool tone of her voice, all demureness gone. "But first there's something you should know."
He can hear the eyebrow raise in Agravaine's voice. "Oh?"
"Yes." Gwen straightens in her seat. "I've been followed here by an undercover agent. He's probably listening in right now, but I imagine if you alert your security now you might be able to catch him."
Agravaine stands up so quickly he upends his chair, but his words are lost to the roaring in Arthur's ears. He's already moving on instinct, ripping the headphones off and shoving everything back into the bag he brought with him, even as he hears the piercing siren of alarms and the barking of very displeased dogs.
He gets to his feet and he runs, trying to stay out of sight of any stray duBois employees, trying not to think about anything other than the immediate threat. He won't get far if he doesn't compartmentalize now.
But two thoughts keep intruding, no matter how hard he runs, no matter how hard he works to keep them out.
One, the obvious: Guinevere has betrayed them.
And two: Merlin, off to meet with Morgana, may very well be walking into a trap.
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The room Merlin enters is bright and spacious, painted white and soaking up the sunlight that's pouring in from a set of double doors leading onto a balcony. He has no idea how Morgana gets any work done with a view like that directly across from the polished mahogany desk—sparkling clear water dotted with the colorful sails of boats, a gorgeous blue sky, and all of Rome spread out below. It's a view fit for an empress. He wonders, briefly, if Morgana ever pretends to be one—an empress surveying her kingdom. If she's getting married to a man like Agravaine duBois, it stands to reason.
Merlin drifts aimlessly around the office, absently trying to find a window into Morgana's head from the way she's curated her space. Everything is ruthlessly organized, from the books on the shelves to the paperwork on the desk; Arthur was always the same way, which was something Merlin used to tease him about. He wonders if the tendency was something Arthur picked up from his older sister.
That's about the only personal glimpse he can catch of this room though, and even that only because he has knowledge of Arthur to connect it to. Everything else is…predictable. Fancy art on the walls, the occasional sculpture that's probably better suited to a museum; the kind of thing you'd expect a fan of antiquities like Agravaine to scatter around his living space and brag about at parties. The titles of the books are, likewise, both inscrutable and utterly expected—thick, dusty volumes in languages like Latin and Greek and, of course, Italian. Merlin can read most of them, but that doesn't help.
None of it feels personal. None of it feels real.
Merlin has to resist the urge to check his watch for the fifteenth time. Typical Pendragons, always putting him on edge without appearing to put any effort into it.
He walks over to the balcony and stares out at the sea until he can feel his nerves receding somewhat. Out of the corner of his eye he notices a small glass table with several bottles of unidentifiable alcohol and a set of glasses. Merlin considers.
Well, one sip can't hurt. He's likely to crawl out of his skin if Morgana leaves him alone in here much longer; one sip will help his nerves without compromising his attention or his focus.
Merlin picks a bottle at random, pulling out the crystal stopper. He pours a finger, takes a sip and cringes. Scotch. He hates scotch.
"Are my drinks not to your liking, Mr. Solo?"
Silently cursing in every language he's even remotely familiar with, Merlin turns around with a smile already on his face. "Miss Faye! So sorry, you don't mind if I help myself?"
Morgana waves him off as she sits down behind her desk. "Please, by all means."
Merlin still finds her politeness unnerving. Well, to be fair he finds everything about her unnerving, but the politeness has a special edge to it. He always feels like he's being toyed with, and it's not a nice feeling.
He takes another sip and clears his throat. "I wanted to apologize again for being…unavailable the other night, when you came calling," he says. "I thought I should come to you this time to make up for it. We can talk business all you like."
It's fast becoming clear that Morgana is watching him, watching him in a way Merlin really does not like. It's the panther thing again, some graceful forest cat waiting for its prey to drop dead in fear of its own accord. Her easy smile only makes it worse.
"What sort of business did you have in mind?" she purrs, like they're playing a game and she's hoping he'll say something amusing.
Merlin refuses to let on that she's getting to him. He keeps smiling. "Art and antiquities, of course. I couldn't help but notice that statue in the corner—is that actually a genuine Rodin? I don't have the sister piece in my personal collection, unfortunately, but I know the man who does. I could contact him for you if you like."
He's rambling, he realizes too late, letting his mouth run off without a leash. He hasn't done that on a mission in years. It's like he's gone and gotten himself sloshed, only Merlin knows he's just had two sips of the scotch…
"Are you all right?" Morgana asks. "You look a little pale."
Merlin thinks she probably has that look of concern on her face again, the one that would be perfect if not for the warning in his gut, but he can't tell because her face seems to have gone all fuzzy.
Oh, bloody hell. Bloody fucking hell, he's really gone and stepped in it this time.
"If I didn't know better, Miss Faye, I'd think you put something in my drink," Merlin says, proud of himself for managing not to slur. A sliver of white flickers in his increasingly hazy vision and he knows she's smiling.
"Didn't your mother ever teach you it's rude to drink someone else's scotch without asking?"
"How did you even know I'd drink the scotch?" he retorts, because it's better than focusing on the roiling in his stomach. "I bloody loathe the stuff." Oh, there goes his accent as well, but he supposes it doesn't really matter now.
"Don't be ridiculous," Morgana scoffs. "I laced all of the drinks. It never hurts to be prepared—which is something you ought to know by now, Emrys."
Merlin has to swallow twice before his tongue unsticks. "Ah."
"That's all you have to say?" She sounds like she's about to start laughing. Merlin turns his back on the desk and manages a shrug.
"'m a bit preoccupied," he mumbles. He walks into something that feels reliably like the sofa and collapses into it, remembering at the last second to set his glass down on the floor so he doesn't drop it. No need to get shards everywhere on top of everything else.
"What on earth are you doing?" Morgana asks, still sounding incredulously amused. Possibly she's noticed that Merlin is now feeling around for a pillow. He shrugs again, noting how his vision is beginning to go black instead of just fuzzy.
"I've done this before," he informs her. "Only the last person used something that knocked me on my arse in two seconds flat. I hit the floor pretty hard and ended up with a concussion. Not something I really want a repeat performance of."
He finds a cushion at last, bless interior decorating trends and useless bits of furniture, and shoves it under his head. Morgana is coming closer, but Merlin isn't too worried. She wouldn't drug him only to kill him in his sleep.
It's what'll happen when he wakes up that concerns him.
"If it makes you feel any better, you were doing quite well," Morgana is saying. "It's just your bad luck that I happen to be even more paranoid than you are."
Fear yanks suddenly at his insides, sharp enough that Merlin is almost jolted into opening his eyes.
Gwen. Arthur. Have they been compromised too? Just how far does Morgana's intel go?
"Sleep well, Emrys," Morgana's voice murmurs, close to his ear, and Merlin would dearly love to tell her to sod off and find someone else's personal space to invade, but his consciousness slips away before he can manage it.
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He wakes up and remembers at the last second not to open his eyes. To take as much stock of his situation as he can before anyone else realizes he's no longer unconscious.
There are restraints around his wrists—leather, and worn, but when he tries to move his arm even a bit he finds them holding fast. His legs are likewise strapped to the chair he's sitting in—a chair that is apparently made out of wood. Something about that is unnerving.
More unnerving, however, is the third restraint—the one across his forehead—and the odd sensation at his temples. Like small plastic circles have been glued there.
He shifts ever so slightly and feels wires trailing from the circles. It's suddenly a lot harder to keep his eyes shut.
That can't be good.
"You can quit pretending to sleep, Mr. Emrys," a wry voice says. "I've done this enough times to know when someone's faking."
Merlin opens his eyes. "Not faking," he says. "Just trying to go back to sleep because honestly? This doesn't look like fun."
And it really, really doesn't. The room is dark save for the painfully bright lamp shining directly in Merlin's eyes, making it hard to see anything of his surroundings. Including the man speaking with the Cockney accent. The obfuscation is intentional, he's sure.
Which makes it even more worrisome that the wooden table has been set squarely in his peripheral vision, where the light doesn't blur it out. Where he can't possibly miss noticing it.
The table is set with knives, but they're not meant for eating. They're meant for butchering—razor-sharp blades gleaming in the lamplight, some of them with edges serrated in order to rip through flesh and get straight to bone. Next to the knives are shears, the sort you use for pruning particularly stubborn rosebushes.
There are more tools, but Merlin forces himself to stop looking after the garden shears. Uther had placed heavy emphasis on the ability of his agents to withstand psychological pressure and interrogation, and one of the first lessons had been this: Don't do the enemy's work for him. Merlin can't let on that he's afraid, and the best way to do that is to not be afraid in the first place.
But he is. He's fucking terrified.
The still-faceless man is bustling about somewhere a few feet away, moving things around, flipping switches. Merlin can hear the low hum of some machine being woken from sleep. But he can't see it. Whatever is coming, he won't be able to see it unless the man wants him to.
The thought is not comforting.
"Miss Faye doesn't know about what I do down here," the man is saying. "She's not part of the family yet, so t'speak. She only wanted me to put you away somewhere until she'd figured out what to do with you." Footsteps behind Merlin's chair. He can't turn around. "But Mr. duBois is my employer, see. Not her. Not yet."
A stool is dragged over to the right of where Merlin is restrained. The man sits down.
Merlin still can't turn his head, but he gets a decent look at the man regardless. And it's not really what he'd been expecting. The man sitting down is thin, brown-haired with a wispy little mustache. He's…ratty-looking is the best way Merlin can think to put it. Like a weasel. He doesn't look overly threatening.
"My name's Cedric, " the weasel says genially. "And you're the famous Emrys."
Merlin manages a laugh that doesn't sound too fake. "Famous? I must not be doing my job right."
Cedric half-shrugs. "Famous in some circles. Not every day a high-profile agent ditches his own agency and then has the balls to up and join another. Only one ocean removed, no less! You don't mind my saying so, Mr. Emrys, but I'm a fan."
The potentially insane and definitely morally dubious torturer is a fan. Fantastic. Merlin can go ahead and check that one off the bucket list, then.
"If you're such a big fan, how about getting me a more comfortable chair?" he says. Cedric shakes his head, apologetic.
"No can do, 'm afraid. You've got a unique seat here, Mr. Emrys, make no mistake." He actually pats the arm of said chair, like it's a pet. "It sent over a hundred men to their graves, an' that was before I got a hold of it. Been making improvements for a while now, but I haven't had anyone to try it out on." He grins, and it sends chills straight down Merlin's spine. "Until now, anyway."
Oh, fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
He's sitting in an electric chair.
It takes a herculean effort to keep his breathing steady and unhurried, but Merlin makes it. He's been trained for this, he tells himself fiercely. Trained to withstand pain and questioning and not break. He's always known, logically, that every mission had a chance of ending up like this one—completely sideways, with him at the mercy of one sociopath or another.
But there's a hell of a difference between knowing something logically and looking it in the face. There's a hell of a difference between training and reality. And for all the prospect of torture and death was always lingering in the back of Merlin's mind whenever he cut things too close, he's never actually been caught before.
Leave it to Morgana Pendragon to break that record, he supposes.
Cedric is still rattling on. "Wasn't easy, you know, getting this into the country. If it'd been just me I never would've managed it, but Mr. duBois takes care of his own."
Merlin lets out a sigh, nerves abruptly receding. His mother always said it was better to rip the plaster off fast.
"Look, I don't want to throw off your rhythm here, but can we move it along? Sorry, but I get enough monologuing from my bosses and I don't really feel like listening to it from you as well."
Cedric blinks. "Well, I guess if that's the way you want it."
Merlin tries to nod, but the strap against his forehead stops him. He can taste bile in the back of his throat but somehow he doesn't feel as scared. Maybe his survival instincts are drowning in adrenaline or something. Cedric pushes himself off the stool and shuffles along to someplace behind the chair, starts fiddling with switches again. And, well, Merlin can't help letting his mouth run off one more time.
"Just for clarification, are you going to be asking me any questions or is this solely for your benefit?"
There's a thoughtful pause.
"No, this is pretty much just for me," Cedric answers. "But if you feel like telling me something that'll get me a raise from the boss, I'd be much obliged."
He flicks another switch; Merlin hears it just before the humming noise intensifies and that's the last coherent observation he has for awhile.
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