The Marquis De Quarrell (I would say his first name was Mark, but that would be dependent on anybody surviving him being.... well him long enough to ever get on first name terms. With the exception of his father, who he had assassinated on an unrelated matter, and his former wife, now very former as she tried to have him killed, and he won that particular race, nobody ever had. Yes that included his sons, of whom he knew at least two were trying to off him now, and it wouldn’t surprise him if the third pulled a dagger from his nappy. Murder was practically a family tradition, and the De Quarrells were very, very, very good at it, he just happened to be the best... for now.) Was one of those individuals to whom his family name was incredibly suitable.

You could find their families dealing in the quarrels between most noble families, usually taking a stick and stirring up the muck, (but always clever enough that nobody could make them lick the spoon.) Then selling them the Quarrels, and crossbows to fire them with a friendly wink.

His family had dealt armaments in pretty much every major conflict in the empires history. (One could probably say to both sides, but given that they had very good lawyers who would sue you into the dirt for saying it, and very permanent solutions to those who despite being sued did not refrain from saying it, one would not be saying it for long. Or would be saying it from the comfort of a custom tailored pair of leaden footwear you just happened to tragically decide to try out round about the time you took a brief walk off a pier.) That trade had made the De Quarrells a very influential family, and considerably rich, but The Marquis still chose to use the same office he always had, with a neatly arranged desk, featuring prominently a “worlds greatest dad” mug. (He knew it was poisoned with a cleverly concealed liquid soluble glaze around the rim, which covered a layer of cyanide, but he kept it, and proudly displayed his son’s first attempt. Both because it made him proud, and because it would keep the little sod on his toes every time he came in here. That could come in handy when he got older if he started to get too close for comfort.)

But there was another reason he chose this particular room as well, he knew every inch of it, every creaky floorboard (they were set up this way for a reason, and he regularly switched them around a bit to keep would be infiltrators on their toes, at least long enough for them to end up belly up.) That every hinge squeaked (again he took great care to mist said hinges so they were in just the right state of disrepair to creak, but not enough to appear shabby, oh no no no that would not do at all.)

He knew how the drawers opened, (they didn’t unless you pressed the decorative woodwork in a very specific combination.) And how they closed (Again they didn’t, and the combination to make them do so was different from opening, and any incorrect guesses would result in a poisoned splinter using a very specific neurotoxin only he had the antidote to.) So he was not in the least surprised at the intruder who had appeared in his office. After all he had heard them coming, and was staring down a loaded crossbow at them.

“Ah, what an unexpected pleasure, now may I ask what brings you here.”

The masked figure gently placed a report on the desk, being careful not to touch it. That desk had a reputation in the circles he moved in. Then stepped back a few steps, hands clearly raised to show he was no threat. Waiting patiently while the marquis placed the crossbow down, then pull out two pairs of tongs to unfold the report. (Contact poisons were a thing, and De Quarrells, at least the one’s worthy of the name were nothing if not cautious, the ones not worthy of the name? Well suffice to say they were the reason the ones deemed worthy were so cautious.) Then pull out a monacle and read it. (Technically he should have been wearing reading glasses, but he knew better than to show that level of vulnerability)

“I see, very interesting, you may leave now.” He said, to the suddenly conspicuosly less crowded room.

He then reached out and after checking the rope for potential hazards put on a pair of gloves, reached out, and rang the bellpull.

“You rang my lord?” asked Jeeves, the butler. “Oh yes it appears our dear Crown Prince is missing midway through a voyage to Harmsworth Kingdom.”

“That is unfortunate my lord.”

“Yes yes indeed, I really hope nothing has happened to him, or it will result in another conflict for us. Just in case we should step up production in the meantime, so as to be properly prepared.”

“Understood sir, I will begin the preparations immediately.”

“Yes, yes, in the meantime we will spare no expense in our quest to return the Crown Prince to his family, I just hope nothing tragic has befallen him. Conflict is always such a messy business, I have heard that Harmsworth Armaments are rather a large player, and they may be stepping up production too, so we should tread carefully. (Of course he didn’t own them, they were property of the De Quarrels, singular l, a completely unrelated family, who just happened to have a nearly identical name. The fact that the De Quarrells (double l) happened to own the iron mines they gained the majority of their supplies from via a shell company was pure coincidence, I’m sure.)

At that moment he grabbed the tray the butler was holding and raised it, to block an incoming crossbow bolt from the window. “Oh Jeeves, return this to my second son, it appears he accidentally got my window during target practice again, I really must remember to move his practice butts to a different location, one of these days.”

“Of course sir,” replied the butler. Gingerly removing the perforated platform promptly.

The Marquis couldn’t help an emotional moment once the butler left. A second attempt on his life within a week. They grow up so fast.