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Riches didn’t impress Pantalone.
Before him stood a vast, palace-like mansion at the far northern edge of the Snezhnayan main capital city, set apart from Stalnograd—the industrial city whose steel and iron fed the nation’s railways system and military industry. It was immense and magnificent, rivalling even the grandeur of the Lord of Sangeemah Bay’s Palace of Alcazarzaray. Some would go so far as to compare it to the Zapolyarny Palace itself.
Its walls were glazed in crystal white and dusted with diamonds, glittering coldly beneath the falling snow. Yet Pantalone did not so much as bat an eye.
As the elusive Regrator—the Ninth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, the wealthiest among them, and head of the Northland Bank—wealth clung to him like a second name. There had been a time, however, when mountains of Mora, rivers of liquid gold, and endless streams of coin were nothing more than distant daydreams. The person Pantalone was before donning the title of the fool, had been born into poverty, after all.
Pantalone remembered everything. He remembered the gnawing, twisted pain of an empty stomach after days and nights stretched thin without proper food. He remembered the bitter bile that brought no comfort, the times he was forced to swallow spoiled scraps just to survive. He remembered, most of all, the fury that took root in him when he realized that money ruled the world.
Imagine his shock, then, when he grew older and discovered that even money answered to the gods.
It was one thing for gods to rule over mortals; strength and power alone could justify that cruel hierarchy. But to insert themselves into the world’s economy? That was something else entirely. It was like stacking the deck atop an already unbalanced scale, where unfairness and injustice festered and spread like mold on bread.
As his resentment toward the world’s injustices grew, Pantalone remembered the long years of anger and bitterness. That fury had led him beneath Her Majesty’s banner, and since then he had driven himself relentlessly, mind and body alike, in pursuit of one goal: to wrest control of the world’s economy from the gods themselves.
A quiet, self-mocking scoff escaped him as he flipped a Mora coin across his fingers. They said Mora was the flesh and blood of the God of Gold, Deus Auri. Part of him relished the thought that a god had to bleed for every coin minted. Yet another part felt a familiar nausea at the arrogance of such higher beings, who presumed to dictate how the world should turn.
The scrape of boots behind him made the banker still the coin in his hand.
“Pantalone, sir. The third team has completed their assessment of the east wing, and the second team is nearly finished with the main residence.”
The Harbinger didn’t turn, but he acknowledged the report, nonetheless. “Very well. Once all teams have completed their tasks, have the reports compiled and sent to my office immediately.”
He waited a moment after the firm 'Yes, sir” rang out—but the officer didn’t leave.
“Is there anything else?” Pantalone prompted.
“No, sir. It’s just…” The officer hesitated. “The Doctor has taken an interest in the study room within the main residence and has forbidden us from proceeding inside. The head of the second team asked me to inform you that the study room assessment will be missing from the report.”
Pantalone's eyes manage a small twitch behind his glasses.
“I still don’t understand why he’s decided to interfere with this project… he’s never done so before.” Pantalone paused, considering, then gave a faint shake of his head. “Well, he has always done as he pleases. It seems this time I am the unfortunate target of his annoyance.”
A quiet sigh escaped him, enough to make the officer lower his head in silent sympathy.
“No matter. I’ll handle him.” Pantalone flicked the coin once more between his fingers before tucking it into his coat's inner pocket. “Leonid is the head of the second team, correct? Inform him that I will personally complete the study room assessment.”
“Yes, sir!”
Pantalone watched as the officer hurried away, the soldier’s shoulders noticeably less tense than before. The poor man had likely expected a reprimand and scolding for delivering such news.
Pantalone did, after all, abhor incompetence. He held his subordinates to exacting standards; every Fatuus under his command was expected to possess at least a working knowledge of accounting, as they effectively served as officers of the Northland Bank as well. The bank, being Snezhnaya’s state institution rather than a mere commercial entity, maintained its own civilian staff—specialists and senior accountants—though even they were granted pseudo-titles within the Fatui hierarchy.
Detail-oriented work was non-negotiable when handling money, especially state money. If anything went wrong on that front, even Pulcinella himself would come knocking, and the consequences would fall squarely on Pantalone’s ass.
Making his way toward the main building, Pantalone let his gaze sweep over the mansion—its lavish furnishings and extravagant décor now left in hollow silence.
Abandoned… or rather, forced to be abandoned.
That was the inevitable outcome when one crossed the state bank.
The Northland Bank was known for its extremes. Generous in offering loans, ruthless in collecting them. This particular victim had once been a highly successful businessman in the steel industry. With multiple companies competing for dominance, the true prize had always been securing a contract as the primary supplier to the Royal Armory Palace.
The former owner of this now-empty mansion had once held that title.
Had he simply done his job properly and remained within his bounds, Pantalone believed the man might have grown into a true industrial giant, with influence reaching far beyond Snezhnaya’s borders. But greed consumed him. In the end, his company embezzled a substantial portion of the state funds allocated for weaponry and landcruiser production.
The worst part was that the man had been both clever and meticulous. For five consecutive years, he maintained his company’s position as the Royal Armory’s primary steel supplier while quietly cutting production costs, diluting the ore used in processing iron and steel, yet continuing to demand the full, original funding from the nation. The excess was siphoned away, piece by piece.
The result stood before Pantalone now: a magnificent, palace-like mansion built on stolen wealth.
Ordinarily, such a matter would have fallen to Pantalone. Or perhaps Pulcinella. But when the audit report reached them, Her Majesty the Tsaritsa herself issued the decree. The man’s actions were judged a grave crime against the nation, an act of treason, and a direct hindrance to Her Majesty’s grand design of waging war against the heavens.
It was almost ironic. Years of careful planning unravelled in a single night, simply because the Doctor happened to involve himself in a routine quality inspection.
Dottore was… a unique individual. No one could truly predict the workings of that genius mind. The Second Harbinger’s pursuits ranged from the most brilliant innovations ever seen across Teyvat to ideas that bordered on outright blasphemy. The delusions, the curing of the incurable disease, all the weaponry the Fatui soldiers used, to the Fake-God project, Dottore was the type to keep you on your toes in regard of his next projects.
In any sense, the fraud itself had been nearly flawless. By all conventional measures—appearance, structure, even durability—the altered steel was indistinguishable from the original. It was only when Dottore handled the material himself that he noticed the discrepancy. According to him, the elemental composition was off; the Geo elemental energy traces were weaker than they should have been.
Most chose, quite deliberately, to ignore the unsettling implication that Dottore could recognize and remember the precise level of elemental energy in a material by touch alone.
Hence, the swift execution of the head company, along with the complete confiscation of all his assets.
The scale of the losses accumulated over those five years was enough to make even Pantalone wince. It more than justified Her Majesty’s decision to have the man’s head displayed upon a spike. Though the altered steel had functioned well enough at first glance, it degraded far more quickly than the original. Worse still, when exposed to corrupted forces such as Abyssal energy, it broke down at an alarming rate. The steady rise in damaged landcruisers, alongside the escalating costs of weapon and vehicle maintenance over those five years, stood as a glaring and undeniable proof.
Childe had volunteered to act as the executioner under Her Majesty's name, and the sentence was carried out in broad daylight, right at the front gates of the man’s own mansion.
And now Pantalone was here to assess the remains of the man’s estate, to determine whether his fortune could cover even a fraction of the losses the Fatui had suffered because of his fraud.
Dottore was here as well. Why, precisely, was another matter entirely. Dottore often required no reason beyond his own amusement, and even Pantalone could not claim with certainty why the Second Harbinger had chosen to attend.
As the Fatui’s foremost financial mind, with years of experience shaping banking systems and the fiscal policies of a nation, Pantalone could judge the worth of something with barely a glance. During his walk to the study on the third floor, he had already calculated the approximate value of every antique and piece of furniture he passed. Each figure had been sorted neatly in his mind into two categories: current market price and auction price. He looked forward to reviewing his team’s report later. The division assigned to the main residence was among his longest-serving, and he expected to see measurable improvement in their auditing and assessment skills.
But even with the highest auction prices for all the items, it would not cover even a tenth of the losses. With that thought, Pantalone found himself wondering—somewhat coldly—whether the man’s family had hidden additional assets elsewhere under borrowed names.
Pantalone’s train of thought came to an abrupt halt the moment his leather shoes stepped onto the carpeted floor of the third level. Since Dottore had forbidden Pantalone’s team from carrying out their work there, the floor had remained untouched since the morning they arrived at the estate. With the corridors left empty and undisturbed, even the faintest sound was impossible to miss.
A subtle noise drifted through the silence. Barely audible.
It was the sound of a piano.
The study sat at the centre of the building, overlooking the sprawling garden and pool below. With every measured step Pantalone took toward the slightly ajar mahogany door, its red lacquer polished to a gleam, the melody grew clearer.
He quietened his steps and looked through the narrow gap in the door—
Dottore was playing the piano.
His back faced the entrance, the instrument positioned before the tall window. One side of the window stood half-open, allowing Snezhnaya’s frigid air to slip softly into the room. The translucent curtains stirred and swayed as though dancing to the melody. In the Nation of Snow, the sun is almost always hidden beneath the thick blanket of clouds, yet the pale warmth of the afternoon light filtered through the fabric, scattering gold across the room and glinting against the endless snowfall beyond.
And there sat Dottore before the white marble piano, his body moving in slow, fluid motions, as though he were riding the music itself.
Each note flowed with deceptive gentleness; different keys pressed into perfect harmony. The tune was beautiful in a restrained, almost mournful way. Pantalone was no connoisseur of music, nor a man who concerned himself with the finer points of artistry, yet even his untrained ears could recognize the sombreness woven through the piece.
Before a single out-of-tune key shattered the performance.
Pantalone did not know whether he had been holding his breath out of amazement at the Doctor’s unguarded display of artistry, or because he had hoped the Second Harbinger would not stop on account of his presence.
“Ah. My apologies. I suppose having an audience gives me a touch of stage fright.”
The silky voice of the mad genius carried easily through the dim room, teasing him without effort.
What had Pantalone expected? Mad as he was, Dottore remained the Second of the Fatui Harbingers. Hell would freeze over before Pantalone developed the ability to catch him off guard.
Since he had already been acknowledged, Pantalone stepped fully into the study. Only then did he notice how dim the room had been kept. The smaller wall lamps cast pools of muted gold across the chamber, while the grand chandelier above remained dark.
“I did not expect you to be a skilled pianist,” Pantalone said truthfully. His heels clicked against the marble floor as he crossed the room and came to a stop beside the piano bench.
“I never formally studied it. It is merely something I acquired over time,” Dottore replied, tilting his head back slightly to look at him. An amusing gesture, considering the beaked mask made true eye contact impossible. After a moment, Dottore lowered his gaze again to the keys.
“Then again,” the Doctor added, gloved fingers brushing idly over the ivory, “I never studied anything in the proper, traditional sense.”
Pantalone raised a curious brow at that. “You did not finish your education?”
The question earned a scoff as a reply.
“It is more accurate to say that finishing it was unnecessary. Grading someone’s understanding at the end is pointless—the process carries far more weight than some tedious final examination.” Dottore’s hand drifted across the keys, pressing several in no discernible order as he continued, “Back at the Akademiya, I changed Darshans every few months. Never finished any of them.”
As the answer hung in the air between them, Dottore started playing the piano again. The melody the Doctor drew from the instrument was different this time. Before, it had carried—dare Pantalone admit it—something melancholic. This piece was slower, yet its shifting chords were sharper, more deliberate. It sounded weary. Angry, too, in its own restrained fashion.
The blue-haired Harbinger moved from the lower register to the higher with practiced ease. The slight pauses between each change made it feel less like music and more like a conversation—an intensely theatrical one, with the piano serving as both voice and stage.
The lower notes came first, aggressive and unyielding. Dottore struck the opening chord with enough force to make the strings groan, then held it with the sostenuto pedal until the sound lingered heavy in the room. A pause followed. Then he shifted to the far right of the keyboard, where the notes turned lighter, choppier, deceptively delicate. Yet there was something in those bright harmonies that set Pantalone’s teeth on edge. They sounded as though they were looking down on him.
The tune ended as quickly as it had begun, cut short so abruptly that it felt unfinished, as though Dottore himself had not yet decided what came next. Pantalone took that as his cue.
“It is a beautiful piece, Doctor. From Sumeru, perhaps?” he asked. Certain turns in the lower melody had struck him as peculiar—combinations unfamiliar to the orchestras and opera houses of Snezhnaya.
As one of the few Harbingers willing to endure courtly obligations, Pantalone was no stranger to such performances. Capitano despised formal gatherings, Childe preferred field operations, Dottore and Sandrone rarely emerged from their laboratories, and Columbina ignored invitations entirely. As a result, royal summons was usually passed to Arlecchino, Pulcinella, or, more often than not, Pantalone himself. Signora, too, once upon a time.
Dottore let out a thoughtful hum. “No. It’s something I came up with recently myself.”
On second thought, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Dottore was a genius—picking up new skills came naturally to him. Still, Pantalone hadn’t expected that to extend to artistry as well. The realization sparked a flicker of curiosity.
“Are you skilled with other instruments too?” he asked.
“Not particularly. I used to play a Sumerian string instrument, but I never pursued it further.” Dottore answered lightly, his fingers already drifting into a melody Pantalone recognized; one often performed by Her Majesty’s personal choir during royal gatherings. Pantalone heard from hearsay that it was a lost chant of the Snow Faes.
The Second Harbinger cast him a sidelong glance from his seat, a smirk curling across his face. “Take a guess, then. Do you think I play anything beyond those two?”
Ah. It wouldn’t be Dottore without a little mind game.
Pantalone allowed himself to indulge him this time; after all, he was the one who had asked. “I would assume you play the violin,” he said, one hand rising thoughtfully to his chin as he considered what other instruments Dottore might have mastered.
“The violin?” Dottore let out a soft chuckle, strangely lacking his usual sharp-edged arrogance. “There’s a certain cultural bias, you know. Violinists are often thought to be cooperative, accustomed to working within orchestras or chamber ensembles. Are you suggesting that I’m a particularly cooperative person?”
Pantalone had to admit, it was difficult to picture Dottore with the instrument of his own answer. But he couldn’t think of any other instruments. Violin, guitar, piano—those were staples of the musical world, yet none seemed to suit him. The image of Dottore with a guitar, especially, felt almost absurd. And so, he had settled on the violin anyway.
“Since when do you care about stereotypes?” Pantalone let out a faint, offended huff. “Is that why you chose the piano, then? It stands alone, yet guides the piece and commands attention. It can blend into harmony while leading—and when given the spotlight, it draws every eye. Quite similar to how you usually operate.”
Dottore’s hands stilled over the ivory keys. Slowly, he turned toward Pantalone. With the mask in place, Pantalone couldn’t discern his expression, but the tension in his shoulders suggested he was considering the remark more seriously than expected.
“…Interesting. Is that how you see me?” Dottore asked at last, his voice quieter than usual.
Pantalone blinked, momentarily taken aback by the softness of the question, but he gave a small nod.
“Yes.”
Dottore let out a low laugh—this time tinged with disbelief… and something else. As though he had glimpsed something faintly absurd, something almost amusing in Pantalone’s perception of him.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Doctor said, his tone slipping back into its familiar confidence and edge. “Though you’re missing one more thing about the piano. Yes, it can blend into an ensemble—or command the spotlight. But it can also perform in duet, paired with a strong violin.”
He lifted a gloved hand to his beaked mask and removed it with effortless grace. Pantalone’s gaze followed the motion despite himself, eyes tracking every deliberate movement from behind his glasses.
“Perhaps,” Dottore continued, scarlet eyes— those strikingly vivid scarlet eyes—locking onto Pantalone’s violet ones, mischief glinting in their depths as he tilted his head. “If the violinist proves worthy enough…”
A faint smile tugged at the Doctor’s lips as he stood up, crowding suddenly into Pantalone’s personal space.
“I might consider sharing the stage.”
With their height difference, Pantalone had to tilt his head downward to meet the burning gaze fixed upon him. He did not move from where he stood; the space between them had become so slight it was scarcely worth acknowledging.
Instead of answering, Pantalone reached out and gently gathered the long strands of pale blue hair into his hand. He lowered himself just enough to press a kiss against the silken strands.
“Are you offering me a duet, then?”
A satisfied smirk curved Dottore’s mouth. He placed one gloved palm flat against Pantalone’s coat-clad shoulder and gave a firm push. The taller man allowed himself to be guided, yielding to the pressure until the backs of his knees struck the nearby velvet chaise longue beside the piano.
Even when his back met the cushioned backrest, Pantalone’s attention remained fixed entirely on the man before him. Dottore moved with serpentine ease, sliding into his lap as though the place had always belonged to him.
“That depends,” Dottore murmured, settling comfortably astride him, “on how quickly you can learn, Regrator.”
Dottore was unpredictable, first and foremost. Who could say what purpose lay behind his sudden advance in the middle of a confiscated estate belonging to some fool who had crossed the Fatui?
There were arguments in favour of indulging him. The entire floor stood empty, courtesy of Dottore’s eccentric claim over the study. Besides, the operation was nearly complete; most of the soldiers and Northland Bank officers had already gathered near the railway line they had used to reach the mansion.
There were arguments against it as well. Though Pantalone liked to think of himself as an opportunist—and the creature in his lap was, undeniably, an opportunity—he preferred to consider himself a professional first. They were still in an ongoing official operation.
It was also surprising that Dottore had initiated anything at all. More often than not, it was Pantalone who had to bridge the distance regarding their... current, conveniently unnamed arrangement.
Pantalone would indulge him, as he so often did.
But of course, he would not make it easy.
“Haha. Then I shall step back and instead sponsor your solo performance.” Pantalone’s hands came to rest lightly at the man’s waist, innocent in placement if not in intent. They remained still, doing nothing more. “The only instrument I can play, besides money, is the Liyuean flute. It is rather ridiculous that I still retain such sentimentality for my homeland.”
Dottore grinned. His thin lips parted, baring those unnervingly sharp canines. The slow pass of his tongue across them carried all the lazy menace of a predator studying prey.
“Are we not both?”
The question lingered in the study room as Dottore bent low, exhaling warm breath against the shell of Pantalone’s ear.
“Disgustingly sentimental about our homelands?”
The gesture was intimate enough to border on indecent, yet Dottore went no further. He seemed perfectly content to remain an added weight in Pantalone’s lap—one that would no doubt leave him with cramped thighs by morning.
So, Dottore would not make the first move either. Very well. Two could play this game.
“You should play more. Back at the Palace, I mean,” Pantalone said smoothly. His hands, which had rested at the Second Harbinger’s waist, began to wander upward, tracing the narrow lines of his frame along the seams of the white uniform. There was more weight in his touch than strictly necessary.
It was almost absurd to comprehend that this slim, near-fragile figure in his grasp possessed enough power to erase him from existence without effort. That this man could—and would—lift his head even before beings far greater than mortals, glimpse truths no human mind was meant to perceive, and decide they were worth studying anyway.
“Mm. There is no piano in the Palace.” Pale lashes fluttered shut as Dottore arched subtly into the touch, pressing himself further into Pantalone’s hands; the only indication he offered that the attention was, in fact, welcomed.
Pantalone leaned forward. At this distance, his lips hovered near the curve of Dottore’s neck, bare of its usual black-furred adornments, likely discarded alongside his Fatui Coat on the nearby table.
“I can procure the most exquisite piano in all of Teyvat,” Pantalone murmured, brushing a light kiss just above the edge of Dottore’s collar. “We could place it near Her Majesty’s hearing halls. The acoustics would be ideal. What do you say?”
“I say you should divert those funds into my research budget instead.” Dottore’s reply came edged with incredulity, his voice vibrating faintly against Pantalone’s lips. “Why waste resources on such trivialities?”
One of Pantalone’s hands settled against the small of his back while the other remained firm at his waist, drawing him closer until there was no space left between them.
“Oh, please. You know your experiment’s funding is always under my consideration.”
Dottore smirked, no doubt recalling past disputes. Sandrone’s particular displeasure came readily to mind. She accused something of ‘Regrator playing favourites when it came to allocating funds’.
“Is it now?”
“Do stop fishing for compliments,” Pantalone chided lightly. “Though I would not mind indulging you, if that is what you are after, Doctor.”
In that moment, Pantalone could admit—if only to himself—that he was precisely where he wished to be. Dottore was not someone who was sexually active; it was a curiosity in itself that the Second Harbinger had agreed to their arrangement at all. Pantalone, on the other hand, remained painfully human. Desire came easily, sharpened by stress, by proximity, by the allure of something just out of reach, and he had never been inclined to deny himself for long.
Dottore tutted, draping his arms loosely over Pantalone’s shoulders as he tipped his head back, baring the line of his neck in a silent invitation. “Compliments lose their meaning when given with intent.”
Desire came easily to Pantalone—far too easily. And what was he meant to do when Dottore so carelessly exposed one of the most vulnerable points of the human body? Resist? Hardly. Pantalone was only human, after all.
“Who said they were empty compliments?”
The reply left him before he could temper it, but he meant every word. He would have lavished the man with praise without hesitation; composed verses, commissioned hymns, eclipsed even the finest bards of Mondstadt or the long-forgotten musicians of the Golden Kingdom beneath the waves, if only to match the strange, infuriating brilliance before him.
“Alright, that is enough.” Dottore chuckled, pulling away from the trail of kisses. “You have no reason to sweet-talk me, Regrator.”
Like a crow satisfied with the attention it had drawn, he pressed lightly against Pantalone’s shoulder and slipped off his lap. The absence was immediate—weightless, hollow in a way that bordered on irritating.
“It is getting late. I imagine your subordinates are trembling somewhere, waiting for you. Too afraid to call for you outright. You should be kinder to them, my dear Regrator.”
Damn crow.
“Rich, coming from you.” Pantalone exhaled slowly, equal parts displeasure and disbelief coloring his tone. “And you are hardly helping matters. This entire floor has yet to be audited because a certain someone decided to claim it without prior agreement.”
Dottore hummed softly as he reached to unfasten the piano’s lid prop.
“I suppose your brief walk here was enough to compromise that?” Dottore asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. Incorrigibly smug, as always.
“Is that why you have been stalling this entire time?” Pantalone huffed, folding his arms. “So that I might take in everything within this study? You place a great deal of confidence in me, considering you are fully aware that you yourself are a far more effective distraction.”
Pantalone’s gaze followed the slow descent of the piano lid. The polished white surface caught the warm glow of the room, reflecting it in muted gold.
“It is always amusing,” Dottore continued idly, “how well you mask your expressions. Even I cannot always tell whether your attention lies with me… or with the contents of this room. Is that a skill required of all bankers?”
Pantalone did not answer. His focus had settled instead on the smile lingering across the Doctor’s face. With the mask gone, even he could catch the faint crinkle at the corners of those crimson eyes.
“I see you are in a good mood, Dottore. Has something… favourable occurred?”
“Mm. You could say that.”
The reply came absentmindedly, Dottore already occupied with lowering the fallboard, carefully concealing the ivory keys beneath.
Dottore crossed the room, retrieving his coat, mask, and furred accessories, slipping them back into place with effortless elegance. “Let us not waste any more time. I have matters to attend to back at the Palace.”
He was already out of the study before Pantalone could so much as respond. Rude bastard.
Pantalone was not a man inclined toward prayer, being someone close to an unbeliever himself, but in that fleeting moment, he found himself offering a silent plea to the Tsaritsa for patience. It was nothing short of a miracle that his body had not betrayed him more obviously under Dottore’s earlier provocations.
Another sigh escaped him as he rose from the chaise longue. His gaze swept the study one last time, sharp and methodical; cataloguing the shelves of books, the fine china behind glass, the Radiant Spincrystals stacked neatly beside the phonograph, the polished furniture, and the mounted animal heads adorning the walls.
At the very least, much of it would fetch a respectable price at auction.
Dottore was already halfway down the corridor and beginning his descent of the staircase by the time Pantalone caught up.
“I meant what I said, Dottore,” he began, falling into step beside him. “If you wish to continue playing at the Palace, you need only say so. I know of a highly sought-after instrument craftsman in Fontaine.”
The beaked mask turned toward him briefly before Dottore gave a small shake of his head.
“If we return to the Palace, all of my attention will belong to my laboratory,” he replied. “And I am not particularly fond of being watched while I play. As I told you… Perhaps I do suffer from a touch of stage fright.”
“Then we could place the piano in my office.”
Dottore halted mid-step, turning to stare at him. “Is this your indirect way of asking me to serve as your personal entertainer?”
“Not exactly—” This time, it was Pantalone who allowed himself a smug smile. “But I cannot say the idea is entirely unappealing.”
The Doctor shook his head like a disappointed teacher would. “What a shameless man.”
How Dottore had the gall to sound inconvenienced, as though it were not he who had been methodically fraying every last thread of Pantalone’s restraint just a couple of seconds ago.
“If you desire entertainment, go watch Ajax train the recruits. It is quite amusing to wager how many will vomit by the end of the session. The Mayor tends to linger nearby, too. You could bond with him in the meantime.”
Disgusting. The mere suggestion was enough to sour Pantalone’s expression.
“I think I will pass.”
In the following months, no one could quite explain why an exquisite grand piano had suddenly appeared near Her Majesty’s hearing halls. Nor could anyone quite determine the source of the refined melodies that, on occasion, drifted from the Regrator’s office.