The Versailles Outcasts

Dakota stepped onto the manicured grounds at Versailles. A wave of awe washed over him as the sun bounced off windows and fountains, sparkling in a light ballet over this elaborate façade. The air was thick with the soft murmur of nobles, and the rustling of silk. He took in the scene of the courtyard: powdered wigs, laughter, and the scent of roses.

"Lost, monsieur?

The voice cut through Dakota's reverie. A lean figure detached from the throng, approaching with an ease that spoke of familiarity. It was Pierre.

"Monsieur Pierre, I am Henri Duval," Dakota said in such a measured tone. He was the outsider now, in a nest of vipers wearing velvet.

"Oh, so nice to meet you. Allow me—" Pierre's smile never reached his eyes. "Versailles can be… disorienting."

"Follow me, Henri. There's much you need to see."

He led Dakota through a grove of seclusion, the air thick with the musk of flowers in bloom and intrigue. They moved quickly, the gravel crunching with each step.

"See—Marquis de Lafayette," Pierre began, his voice low, a hum. "The king's cousin, removed twice over. His loyalties are as fickle as the wind." Pierre circled the tree, his fingers trailing over the bark. "He craves power and influence. Remember that."

"Who is that beside him?" asked Dakota.

"Comtesse Duval. A beauty with a mind for strategy. Her salon is a spider's web. Her guests–are flies." Pierre smiled, a thin knowing line. "She seeks knowledge and secrets she can trade."

"Enemies?"

"Many. But beware the Duke D'Aumont most. His ambition is matched only by his cruelty."

"Motivations?" Dakota asked further, his mind racing.

"Land, titles, favor. The usual currency of the court."

"Trustworthy allies?

"Few. But Mademoiselle Lefevre, the governess-sharp as a tack, ears everywhere." Pierre winked almost conspiratorially.

"Remember," Pierre said, facing him squarely now, "trust no one completely."

"Understood." Dakota's jaw set, his resolve hardening like forged steel.

"Then let us begin," Pierre announced, a spark to the promise of the game alighting in his gray eyes.

The sun was a silent witness to their clandestine meeting, its golden rays slanting through the high-set windows of a secluded chamber. Pierre beckoned Dakota closer, his eyes glinting with purpose.

"Posture," he began, gesturing at Dakota's stance. "Proud, but not arrogant. Like so." He straightened his back, chin slightly lifted, an air of nobility settling around him like a cloak.

Dakota assumed the stance, feeling a tug across the middle of his back. Too tight.

"Relax your shoulders," Pierre scolded, easing them with his fingers. "Elegance is effortless."

"Yes," Dakota echoed, adjusting as instructed.

"Next, the greeting." Pierre extended his hand, not to shake, but fingers curled, inviting a kiss. "Just your lips touch the knuckles. Anything more is presumptuous."

"Presumptuous?" Dakota parroted, practicing the feather-light touch of the knuckles, highly aware this world had rules for everything.

"Good." Pierre's encouragement was curt. "Now, walk. Glide, don't stride. You're not marching into battle."

Dakota walked a few steps, aware of every movement. His boots whispered against the marble floor, giving away his nervousness.

"Again," Pierre said, and Dakota circled the room, each step more confident than the last.

"Language," Pierre said sharply, halting him. "You must mimic their cadences, their idioms. Listen."

He spoke a sentence in French, the words flowing, lilting. Dakota repeated it.

"Accentuate the vowels. Soften the 'r'," Pierre instructed, demonstrating once more.

"Comme ça?" Dakota attempted rolling the 'r' gently.

"Better." A nod from Pierre, no smile, but a glint of satisfaction in his eye.

"Finery," Pierre said.

"Finery?" Dakota frowned at the thought.

"Silks, lace, brocades," Pierre counted on his fingers, his hand flicking aside in dismissal.

"They will notice if you are underdressed. Remember," Pierre's voice lowered, serious, "every detail counts. Your life, your mission, depends on your ability to become one of them."

Dakota felt the weight of those words, as thick as the velvet drapes that framed the windows.

"Let's move forward," he said, his face setting in determination.

"Indeed." Pierre stepped back, and Dakota tried again, the movements smoother, his patter more realistic.

"Again," Pierre ordered, and Dakota did as instructed, the focused attention to detail in each subtle movement a testament to the seriousness with which he took the craft.

"Convincing," Pierre granted finally after long moments of silent regard. "Very convincing."

"Then I'm ready?" Dakota asked, though it was less a question and more an affirmation of fact.

"Almost." Pierre's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile. "The real test is yet to come."

Dakota followed Pierre through the gardens where an evening gathering was playing out in the soft dusk.

"Madame Duval," Pierre murmured, gesturing towards a lady draped in sapphire silks.

Her hair, a tumble of curls was powdered to perfection. "Meet Monsieur Henri Duval."

"Madame," Dakota greeted, a voice dipped in new refinement.

"Enchanté," she said, her eyes flitting over him, calculating.

"Your gardens are the talk of the court," Dakota ventured, remembering Pierre's advice on flattery.

"Indeed?" A flicker of pride danced across Madame Duval's features.

"Perhaps you might share some insights?"

"Perhaps," she mused, her eyes narrowing. "If one proves worthy."

It was Pierre's slight nod now that dismissed Dakota, leaving promises hanging in the air like fruit on the tree. The next man stood tall, his demeanor screaming power, though his choice of attire remained understated.

"Comte de Girard," Pierre said in introduction.

"Comte," Dakota responded with a respectful bob of her head.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," she said, extending a gloved hand.

"Is it now?" The Comte's handshake was abrupt as his regard lingered.

"They say you are an influential man, sir," Dakota said.

"Words can be treacherous," he answered, a coy smile betraying his amusement.

"True," Dakota conceded, "yet I find them fascinating."

"Indeed." The Comte's eyes glinted. "One must choose them wisely."

"Advice I shall take to heart," Dakota assured before excusing himself with a practiced bow.

"Be careful," Pierre whispered as they stepped back into a shadowed alcove. "Eyes are on you. Remember, discretion," he stressed. "You're doing well, but the night is young."

"Of course." Dakota's reply came softly, a murmur, his gaze sharpening as he surveyed the garden.

"Here." Pierre halted beside a blacksmith's shed opposite the party. A light push opened the door onto a room full of darkness. "For secret meetings—keep this place in mind."

They entered the dark and dusty shed. Pierre lit candles. An ideal place to further the training.

"Imagine," Pierre said, his voice more serious now, "another faction has approached you. What do you say?"

"Nothing incriminating." The response was immediate and rehearsed. "I find common ground—flattery, perhaps."

"Good. Now act it out with me." Pierre's manner changed, a slight stiffening of his demeanor.

"Marquis," Dakota began, adopting an almost fawning tone. "Your favor towards the King's cause is legend. May I ask?"

"Too direct," Pierre cut him off. "You dance around. You draw them out."

"Yes, Marquis. Your gardens prosper with such passion-prosperity, doubtless, a reflection of your zeal for tending all projects." Dakota smiled, strained but believable.

"Better." Pierre's eyes gleamed with approval. "Now, there is something a servant has overheard. You want that information. Continue."

"Your work is unequaled," Dakota flattered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And speaking of unequaled, I understand that your stable lad has uncanny luck when it comes to listening in on other people."

"Subtle." Pierre's nod was almost imperceptible. "But watch for traps."

"Let's move on," Pierre said, Dakota back across the lawn to the late evening events.

Their footsteps were measured, their presence a whispered touch against the grandeur of the court.

Dakota swirled the wine in his glass, studying the rich burgundy as it clung to the crystal. He inhaled deeply, letting the aroma of fermented grapes and just a touch of oak fill his senses. Across from him, a contingent of courtiers laughed softly, their conversation a melody of French sophistication.

"Remember," Pierre whispered from beside him, "the wine is just a prop."

"Indeed." Dakota nodded, all the while eyes fixed on the light dancing across the surface of the liquid. "It sets the stage for dialogue."

"Good. Now mingle. Observe their gestures, mimic their ease."

Dakota pressed his way through with a fresh swagger, caught into knots of smartly-attired nobles; he listened for the cadence of their exchanges, and let the lilt of their laughter settle into his rhythm. With every step, the mantle of outsiderhood slipped farther down his shoulders. He was becoming one of them.

"May I say, monsieur, your attire is impeccable," a woman said, glancing at Dakota's finery.

"Thank you, madame," Dakota said, his smile sardonic and well-practiced, never quite reaching his eyes. "One does dress to impress at Versailles."

"Yes, indeed," she said, floating off on a wave of perfume and deception.

Pierre watched from the shadows, silent guardian. As Dakota moved back to his side, he saw something flicker in the man's countenance—a flash of pride.

"Your confidence grows," Pierre said, his voice smooth, neutral.

"It does," Dakota said. "Their customs are becoming familiar, almost second nature."

"Excellent. But remember, familiarity can breed carelessness."

"Carelessness," Dakota repeated, "or opportunity."

"Tomorrow–you begin. Alone. Use everything," Pierre said, his voice fading into the background hum of the court. "Every ally, every secret passage, every piece of knowledge.”

Dakota reached out his hand; the gesture was firm and resolute. "Pierre, your mentorship has been invaluable."

"Remember, this is only the beginning," Pierre said in response, grasping Dakota's hand with the same assurance of promise.

"Of course." The gaze of Dakota was a resolute reflection of what he knew.

"Versailles will not even see me coming," Dakota said, a thin smile managing to slice through the tension.

"Exactly." Pierre's voice was a low hum, a conspiratorial whisper between comrades.

"Good." Pierre fell a step backward, his eyes ranging over Dakota a final time. "And remember—"

"—Instincts," Dakota cut in. His voice was keener now, whetted by hours of hard training and preparation.

"Exactly," Pierre repeated with an edge of satisfaction in his voice.

Henri turned to look back at Pierre. It was the beginning of the mission.