The morning court was restless. Servants moved quickly, eyes lowered, as nobles entered in small groups, whispering louder than usual. Tafari noticed it at once—the sudden shift in atmosphere, like a flock of birds startled by a shadow overhead. Something had happened.
A report reached him by mid-day: one of the Emperor's favored nobles, Lord Gebru, had been seen late at night receiving crates from foreign merchants at the southern gate. Officially, the crates were filled with "spices and cloth." Unofficially, Tafari's spies said the weight was wrong for mere trade goods.
Tafari's jaw tightened. "Tonight, we watch the noble's house. Quietly. No arrests yet."
---
That evening, Tafari himself stood in the shadows across from Gebru's compound. With him were two trusted guards disguised as servants. Lantern light flickered through the courtyard. Carriages rolled in, and men carried the crates inside.
From the darkness, Tafari heard snippets of conversation—Italian words, hurried and sharp. His blood ran cold.
The doors shut, and for hours, nothing moved. Finally, one carriage rolled out, its driver cloaked heavily. Tafari's men followed, slipping through side streets, until the carriage stopped at a warehouse by the river.
There, under the cover of night, the crates were pried open. Inside gleamed rifles, their barrels stamped with marks of Italian manufacture.
---
Tafari felt his chest tighten—not with fear, but with rage. The noble was not merely plotting. He was arming himself with foreign steel.
He whispered to his guards: "Seal the warehouse. Quietly. Let no man leave."
The trap was swift. The conspirators found themselves surrounded by Tafari's hidden soldiers, their rifles aimed with deadly calm. Not a single shot was fired. By dawn, the Italians were in chains, and the crates of weapons were hauled away under guard.
---
But the real test came in court.
The next day, Lord Gebru strode into the palace hall, his expression proud, as though nothing had happened. He bowed with exaggerated flourish before the Emperor's throne.
"My Emperor," Gebru said smoothly, "rumors have reached me that certain merchants were arrested last night. Foreigners, no doubt. But I fear, perhaps, these arrests were made hastily, without noble oversight." His eyes flicked toward Tafari. "Such matters require balance, do they not?"
The court stirred. Some nobles smiled faintly, waiting to see how Tafari would answer.
Tafari stepped forward, bowing deeply to the Emperor before speaking. His voice was calm, but it carried like steel.
"My Emperor, it was no rumor. The men were foreign agents. And the goods they carried were not spices nor cloth, but rifles."
The hall gasped. Gebru's smile faltered.
Tafari continued, "The crates bear Italian marks. They were received under Lord Gebru's watch. I have witnesses. I have the rifles themselves. And I ask the court—what should we call such dealings? Trade… or treachery?"
All eyes turned to Gebru. His face drained of color. He stammered, searching for words, but none came.
The Emperor, frail but still sharp, raised a trembling hand. "Bring… the evidence," he ordered.
Tafari bowed. "As you command, Majesty."
The trial would come soon. And with it, the first noble would fall, caught in Tafari's snare.
But as Tafari left the hall, he saw something in the nobles' eyes—not just fear, but calculation. For every Lord Gebru who would fall, others would grow desperate, more reckless. The silent war was only beginning.