Root didn't say anything, as if ignoring her was going to get him anywhere.

It was too late now. The twin warcries shattered the morning quiet and the pain ensued. Root was never that religious, but he was inclined to see Providence in God giving Man two kidneys as he was pretty sure a knobby knee just destroyed one. One of the things you learn early as a responsible parent is to suppress your profanity no matter the situation. This was definitely one such situation.

God help him if they started their eardrum-bursting squealing. It was all the incentive he needed to stop procrastinating and get up. He rolled over with the express goal of shaking off his two tormentors. Unfortunately for him, they were wise to that trick and now he just exposed even more vital spots to the enemy. Before the family jewels could suffer the same fate as his kidney, Root snatched up the two girls in his arms.

He then play-mauled the girls' necks, making them squeal exactly the way his eardrums would never forgive him for. They were having fun at least.

Root thought he was pretty careful about that, but maybe he was wrong. One thing you learn as a man in marriage is that you're usually wrong.

The woman was Trish his wife and the two girls were his daughters Sara and Anne. The girls were two little copies of their mother with the same mess of curls for hair and skinny little bodies that made you think they weren't being fed enough. In Trish's case, eleven years and two kids had filled out her figure a fair bit, but Root still liked to look at her with her clothes off. Also, he couldn't criticize the toll of the years on her because all this time in a cushy staff position hadn't done any favors for his figure either.

Root looked down at his gut and replied, "That probably wouldn't kill me."

Root set the girls on the floor, telling them, "Don't you got school? Why don't you try gettin' 'round yourselves 'fore you come in here botherin' me?"

Once the girls were shooed out of the room, Root went to the bathroom to wash his face, shave and comb his hair before getting dressed. He missed the days when he only had to wear his dress uniform once in a blue moon, but he couldn't very well serve in the palace wearing his BDs. His assignment afforded him far more ribbons and medals on his chest than he would have ever earned otherwise, but that wasn't something that mattered much to him. However, he was making a good living for himself and his family, so that was more than enough reason to be grateful to the King. Who would've imagined his life would turn out like this?

When he went downstairs to the kitchen, Trish was already setting out breakfast. It wasn't much, just a croissant with butter and marmalade, half a grapefruit and a cup of coffee.

So he was a good ten or fifteen kilos over. It wasn't that remarkable for his age, but then again, while the generals could afford custom uniforms to accommodate their growing waistlines, field grade officers like Root were expected to mind appearances more. Of course, he imagined the little woman would be minding his weight for him regardless. Because he valued his life, he would never dream of making mention of the extra kilos she had on her. All it takes is a little common sense to preserve marital felicity, you know.

It didn't take long for them to come trundling down the stairs dressed for school. As always, Trish had to fix things like upturned collars and poorly tied ribbons before they could sit at the table. Unlike their father, they got to have eggs, ham and toast, the lucky devils. Sara had taken to putting it all together as a sandwich while Anne would just pick at her plate until the bus would come.

Root looked at the lonely single pat of butter he was allotted. It was better than nothing, but he made a point to use extra marmalade to compensate. If he wasn't careful, though, Trish would stop leaving the jar and just set out a tablespoon for him.

Back in his days in the Legion, during a punitive expedition he found himself separated from his unit and lost in the desert. About to die from thirst, he came across a weird plant with this spiky fruit that he ate in desperation, but the juice was so sharply alkaline that it turned his guts inside out and nearly killed him before the desert could. That was the only fruit that was worse than grapefruit as far as Root was concerned. How could something that looked like a giant orange taste so much worse?

While he was drinking his coffee to get rid of the taste of the grapefruit, he heard a car honking outside.

Root went out the door and Sergeant Kranowitz his orderly was there waiting for him with the car.

Sergeant Kranowitz saluted and said, "Good morning, sir."

Root returned the salute, saying, "Mornin', Kran."

Sergeant Kranowitz opened the door for Root and once Root was seated, he went around to the driver's side and drove them to the palace. The South Gate was used for general access, but regular workers at the palace would enter via the East Gate. Sergeant Kranowitz parked the car at the steps leading to the entrance to the East Wing, then got out to let Root out of the car. Honestly, Root didn't like all the trouble, but there were certain expectations tied to rank and particularly when you work at the palace, you can't ignore those things.

They exchanged salutes once more and Sergeant Kranowitz left to go park the car in the motorpool while Root went on in. He checked his watch. He was supposed to be at the foreign ministry by nine, which meant he had about ten minutes to make his way to the West Wing. You weren't supposed to run in the palace, so he would just have to walk a little faster.

The palace seemed busier than usual, with more people milling about. No doubt it had something to do with the reason why he was supposed to report to the foreign ministry. While King Charles named Root an aide-de-camp for the purpose of keeping him close at hand, his regular assignment was with the Public Affairs Section of the Army General Staff. Normally he was dealing with the press and if he was getting involved with the foreign ministry as well, that likely meant a war was brewing. Twenty-nine years wasn't a bad run, but peace couldn't last forever.

The Office of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs was located in Room 132 of the West Wing. It was the headquarters for all the kingdom's diplomatic activities. They were probably wanting to settle the talking points to give to the press, but wouldn't that be a job for the Chief of Public Affairs? What did they want with him?

He approached the reception desk and told the receptionist, "Colonel Maartens here for a nine o'clock."

Root followed the receptionist's instructions. After taking the right turn, he had to take left when he reached the end of the hall. This hallway seemed to arc in a semicircle that probably looped back around to the front. When he found Room A-22, it opened into an office with over a dozen people either on the phones or on typewriters clacking away. While Root was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do, a man with slick hair and horn-rimmed glasses approached him, saying bluntly, "You're late."

'His Lordship'? The foreign minister? Probably not the sort of person you wanted to keep waiting.

The man did just that, leading Root through the office and the reception area beyond with only a curt nod to the receptionist before he cracked open the door to the foreign minister's personal office and rapped on it before entering.

The man opened the door and gestured for Root to go in. There was a large window behind the desk at the back of the office facing one of the inner courtyards. Lord Bartlebert was standing there at the window staring outside. The foreign minister used to be a rather portly man, but a bout with some illness left him much thinner with saggy folds of skin around his neck like a chicken's wattle. According to rumor, under his clothes he looked like a deflated balloon, but Root didn't want to think about that too much.

Lord Bartlebert turned slightly to look at Root, saying, "So you are Colonel Maartens."

Root stood at attention and replied, "Yes, m'lord."

Root could feel his guts sink. He looked around and saw that the man from before was gone. Since it was just the two of them, perhaps it was safe to say it.

Lord Bartlebert closed his eyes and nodded gravely.

That was what the King told him when he was first given this assignment. Root recalled the interminable debriefing sessions with Second Bureau as the tried to squeeze every last drop of intel from his experience. There wasn't that much he had to offer, honestly, and he intended to let Lord Bartlebert know it.

Root paused for a moment. He could feel the weight on his shoulders, but there was no getting away from this.

So Lord Bartlebert had done his homework. As the order likely came from the King himself, there was no point in disputing it.