Page 55 of Omega’s Fealty

I was the prince’s lover, says one poster, and there’s a whole page under that of people telling him he’s disgusting, and one person going, well, why the collar, though.

I don’t know why other people aren’t commenting on the collar. It seems obvious to me.

There’s a human rights lawyer uptown who gets quoted a lot. I’ve had a month to think about contacting him while I’ve lain low.

The thing is, I’ve met lawyers. Not nice human rights ones, to be fair.

The ones who show up at the station when you’re nineteen and sit across from you with their bored faces and tell you where to sign.

Slippery, the lot of them. They’re all in it for the money. I never met one who really gave a shit.

And I don’t have any money to hire anyone to be on my side.

So I don’t know what to do. The only thing I know is that I need to see him. I need to know that he is okay.

That’s the decision. I’ve been circling it for weeks and I’ve made my decision. I’m going to go and look at him.

Not talk to him. I’m not that stupid.

I know where he is. It’s not exactly a secret. Everyone on the forums knows where he is.

He’s in a hotel where they have sealed off the top floors and Monteverran security are standing at the front and back entrances glaring at guests as they come in.

I’m not dumb enough to get myself glared at.

I’m going to find a place with a view of the front of that building and I’m going to stand in it and wait and see what comes in and out of the doors.

They must let him out sometimes. There are trade delegations and that kind of thing. That’s what they use him for. He’s there to shake hands and look pretty.

I just need to see him once. Just once. I need to know he’s okay.

I get up and get the mirror out of the kit and look at myself in it.

The beard’s come in. After a month of not shaving, I look like a man who lives in a hole, which I am.

I’ve not grown a beard in years and it’s come in thicker than last time which is satisfying.

I hold the phone up beside the mirror with the license photo on it. Five years younger, clean-shaven, glaring. Then the mirror. Beard. Hat. A face that’s lost some weight.

You’d have to be looking. That’s the best I can say. You’d have to be looking, and know.

Nobody’s looking. I’m in the river.

I take my time getting ready, because if I’m going to do a stupid thing I’m going to do it properly.

I go through the bugout duffel and take out what’s useful and leave the rest. Cash, a few hundred in small bills. The dark wool coat. The hat. A pair of gloves that hide the state of my hands.

No weapon. If I’m stopped I’d rather be a guy with a beard than a guy with a beard and a gun or a knife.

I pull up a map on the phone and look at the streets around the hotel until I could walk them blind.

Across from the hotel, there’s a plaza with planters, a bank and the corner of a park.

The park’s the place. There are benches and trees, and most importantly a long sight line to the front doors and the drive where the cars come in. It’s far enough that nobody on the door would notice a man on a bench and close enough for me to see his face if he comes out.

When the light in the vent starts to slant, mid-afternoon, I put the coat on.

My arm complains as I get it into the sleeve. I pull my hat down and the collar up and check myself in the mirror.