CHAPTER 81: MIRROR GAME

Madrid — Two Days Later

The city had not yet shaken off the euphoria of the tram inauguration when the first whispers began.

They were quiet, almost imperceptible at first — a conductor telling a passenger about an "accident" on one of the test lines, a merchant claiming the water from his tap smelled of iron again. The words drifted through taverns and marketplaces like smoke, faint and insidious.

Isandro had already traced two of them back to the same origin: foreign agents operating under false trade licenses. But rather than sweep them up immediately, Lancelot ordered patience.

"Let them believe they are seeding doubt," he said in the Strategy Room, his finger tracing the faint pencil lines on a city map. "And while they think the seed is taking root, we’ll lead them to where we want them."

The plan was simple on the surface, complex in execution — a counterespionage maneuver built on misdirection, staged vulnerabilities, and one very dangerous piece of bait.

Royal Academy Lecture Hall — Afternoon

Lady Marguerite Ellenshire arrived early, as she always did when meeting Vargas. Her notebook lay closed before her, but her mind was alert. She had received no response from her last courier. That absence nagged at her — a frayed thread she couldn’t quite tie off.

When Vargas entered, he carried a rolled-up schematic rather than his usual stack of lecture notes.

"I thought we’d have a change today," he said, taking a seat beside her. "You’ve been asking what your Prince is really building. Perhaps you should see something... speculative."

Marguerite’s eyes flicked to the schematic as he unfurled it across the table. It was a tunnel map — not of the sewage system she had been briefed on, but of a subterranean rail line connecting the central district to the Royal Arsenal.

"This isn’t public," she said quietly.

Vargas smiled faintly. "No. And it may not even be real. But if it is, imagine the possibilities — troop movements under the city, supplies appearing where no one saw them delivered. War fought without ever showing your hand."

Marguerite forced herself to maintain composure. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because I think you’re trying to understand him," Vargas replied. "And understanding requires more than speeches and parades."

She met his gaze, trying to gauge the trap. If this was disinformation, it was well-crafted. And if it was real... she needed to get it out.

Fort Aurelius — Counterintelligence Cell

"That’s the first hook," Isandro reported, sliding a copy of the schematic across Lancelot’s desk. "Our agents planted it through Vargas, just as ordered. She’ll either transmit it or carry it herself."

"And if she suspects it’s false?" Lancelot asked.

"She’ll still send it — if only to verify. Which means we can trace her channel."

Lancelot leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Good. Keep Vargas clean. I don’t want her to think he’s our man yet. He must remain the bridge."

The next stage of the plan required more than just watching her. They needed her convinced she was winning.

Madrid — Calle Mayor, Midnight

Marguerite’s second courier was more cautious than the first. He carried no sealed letter, only a folded scrap tucked between the pages of a popular serialized novel. At a predetermined spot, he would hand the book to a contact posing as a bookseller’s assistant, who would then pass it along to the embassy.

What neither knew was that the assistant was already in Lancelot’s employ. The exchange went smoothly; the courier walked away unaware. Hours later, the book lay on Lancelot’s desk, the scrap neatly extracted.

The schematic was there, as expected — and with it, a code phrase written in Britannian cipher: "Requesting cross-verification against existing naval reports."

"She’s cautious," Isandro observed. "She doesn’t trust it yet."

"She will," Lancelot said. "We’ll give her reason."

Stage Two — The Incident

Two days later, the "incident" occurred.

A tramline inspector reported a collapse in one of the new sewage tunnels near the Arsenal District. Word spread quickly — too quickly. By midday, half the capital was murmuring about "structural flaws" in the new system.

Marguerite heard it in the plaza and saw her opportunity. The collapse, she reasoned, might tie directly into the tunnel schematic Vargas had shown her. If the underground network was unstable, it could undermine both military and civilian operations.

What she didn’t know was that the collapse was staged. The debris had been placed there overnight, sealed off with official warning signs, and photographed from specific angles that suggested a much larger failure. Those photographs were already being "leaked" into circles where foreign agents trawled for scraps.

By evening, Marguerite was certain she had stumbled onto something real. Her next dispatch went out through a different channel — a disguised street preacher who carried her coded message to the Britannian consulate.

Once again, the preacher was already marked by Lancelot’s counterintelligence.

Royal Palace — War Room

"They’re biting," Isandro said, placing two intercepted messages on the table. "Glanzreich has sent a request to their naval attaché in Cadiz for confirmation. Britannia is mobilizing a cipher team to decode the schematic."

"And Francois?" Lancelot asked.

"They’re keeping quiet — which means they’re watching. Waiting to see if the others confirm before they move."

Lancelot studied the map of Madrid on the wall, the tunnel routes marked in faint chalk. "Good. We’ll give them one more push."

Stage Three — The "Witness"

Three nights later, Marguerite met Vargas again. This time, he seemed unsettled.

"I shouldn’t tell you this," he began, glancing around the quiet courtyard, "but one of my students works in the Arsenal’s maintenance division. He claims soldiers have been moving heavy crates into the tunnels — after midnight, under full guard."

Marguerite felt her pulse quicken. "Crates of what?"

"He wouldn’t say. But he’s afraid. He thinks... he thinks they’re preparing for something."

Vargas leaned closer, lowering his voice. "He’s willing to talk to you — but only if you meet him in person."

Marguerite hesitated. Every instinct told her it was a risk. But the chance to meet an eyewitness was too valuable.

The Meeting — Lavapiés District

The "student" was in fact a trained counterintelligence operative. He met Marguerite in a dimly lit tavern, speaking in hushed tones about seeing artillery parts moved through the tunnels, and strange generators unlike anything in the Arsenal’s inventory.

Every detail he gave had been scripted — enough truth to sound plausible, enough falsehood to lead her further into the maze.

When she left, her mind was already assembling the pieces: hidden tunnels, structural weaknesses, covert arms transfers. It was a dangerous picture — and exactly the one Lancelot wanted her to carry.

Fort Aurelius — Observation Gallery

Through a narrow slit in the wall, Lancelot watched Marguerite leave the tavern, her steps brisk, her expression set.

"She believes it," Isandro murmured beside him.

"She believes something," Lancelot corrected. "Belief is like molten metal — it must be poured into the right mold before it cools."

"And the mold?"

"Will be ready by the time she tries to leave Madrid."

Overseas — Britannian Intelligence Analysis Bureau

In a candlelit room lined with cipher wheels and codebooks, Marguerite’s intercepted dispatches were spread across a long table. Analysts debated their authenticity.

"If true, this would give Aragon the ability to reinforce any district in the capital within minutes," one officer said.

"But it could be deliberate disinformation," another countered. "The schematic might be a trap."

The debate raged for hours, but in the end, the decision was made: Britannia would treat the intelligence as credible until proven otherwise. Which meant planning for it — and allocating resources accordingly.

Exactly as Lancelot intended.

Stage Four — Closing the Net

With her channels fully mapped, Lancelot moved to the final phase. Marguerite would be allowed to operate just long enough to receive one last, decisive piece of "intelligence" — the existence of a second tunnel network, deeper and more secure, connecting Madrid to the outlying fortresses.

The leak would come through Vargas, couched in the language of reluctant disclosure.

When she sent it, every courier, contact, and safehouse she used would be rolled up within twenty-four hours — not arrested, but quietly replaced with loyal doubles.

From that moment, every message she sent home would pass through Lancelot’s hands first.

Royal Palace — Midnight Balcony

Lancelot stood alone, the city spread out before him in the silver light of the moon. The tramlines gleamed, the streets hummed, and far below, the pumps of the sewage system throbbed like a hidden heart.

Behind him, Isandro approached quietly. "It’s done. Her network is ours. She doesn’t suspect."

Lancelot nodded slowly. "Good. We don’t end her yet. Let her think she’s winning. Let her empire think it has eyes in my city."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime," Lancelot said, his gaze fixed on the distant lights of the Arsenal, "we decide what truths we want them to see — and what lies we want them to believe."

A tram bell rang faintly in the distance. To Lancelot, it sounded less like a signal of arrival, and more like the tolling of a clock — counting down to a moment only he knew was coming.