A Lady's Heart Is Like a Reed (1)
"Wh-who did you say he went to meet?"
The boy gray hair suited so well asked it again, his face caught in open bewilderment. Garand looked at him as if something were odd, but there was a gentle corner to the man that his fierce features did not suggest, and rather than snap back he was kind enough to answer a second time.
"From what I heard, he went to see Young Master Arno's father."
"..."
"What's the matter, young master? Head hurting?"
"Ah, no. I just had something I wanted to confirm. ...Thank you for answering, Mr. Garand."
The boy, Derek, stumbled over the words, but he had not lost his head. He gathered himself quickly.
"Hm?"
Perhaps he had caught the thread of unease beneath it. The former mercenary, now a student, went on.
"Talking like that makes my skin crawl, so let's not. Speak plain. Plain."
"Ah, n-no, that's..."
"Oh, what—are you looking down on me because I came up a mercenary? That actually stings a little..."
"N-no! Absolutely not! I, I really don't mean it that way...!"
"Ahahaha! Joke. It's a joke."
Whap. Whap.
"M-my back hurts."
"Some fuss. Sturdy as anything."
"Nn..."
Derek swallowed the groan, but he was grateful to Garand all the same. He could tell the man was thumping his back on purpose, teasing, because he had looked rattled.
...A considerate man. As expected of the future mercenary captain.
A man whose Leadership reached ninety-three out of a hundred. He had hoped to become a knight, only to grow sick of the nobles while studying at the Academy, return to the mercenary world, and found a company of his own. And besides—
He was the one who scouted Mr. Kunta and Mr. Arno as vice-captains.
His combat rating sat below either of those two, yet Leadership alone made him extraordinary. The reigning king scored something like forty-four. Set beside that, well.
Ah. This isn't what matters.
Watching himself take Garand apart as a character, as naturally as if some chronic fit had come over him, he had no right to complain when the instructor cursed him for a game-addicted brat. This world was plainly reality, not a game, and still—
My head knows it. My heart hasn't fully accepted it yet.
Derek smiled bitterly, freshly aware of the old flaw. He kept resolving to fix it. It never came easily. ...Still, if he were allowed one excuse this time—
If the instructor heard what I have to say, he'd be plenty shocked too. And no wonder.
Because a character who ought to have died long ago was still alive.
The last head of House Offen. Iliad de Offen.
In the story of the game, that was the name of a man who should already have been dead.
It had not been by his own will, but Lee Han had met the masters of noble houses often enough. Some were parents he saw regularly after becoming an instructor; before that, a fair number had crossed his path at the Royal Castle. If those heads, encountered so often against his wishes, shared a single trait—
...They have no manners.
Yes. Arrogant. Or perhaps "arrogant" was already putting it kindly. Men who headed houses lived drunk on the savor of their own greatness. Not that it was beyond understanding. They believed, with all their hearts, that they had been born to noble blue blood, and they wore the office of leading that blood. It would have been stranger if they were not arrogant.
And yet.
From experience—and he would rather not say what kind—what ran in them was red blood, not blue.
Not a story for company, so he let it pass. His point was simple. For the head of a noble house, arrogance and a lack of manners were a passive, and one was a fool to expect anything human of them. In that sense—
"Thanks to Sir Turtle, Arno seems to have grown into a fine young man of late. The talent was acceptable, but there was a sharp edge to his character. That edge is gone because of you, Sir Turtle, so you are nothing less than a benefactor of our house."
"F-Father...?!"
"I have said nothing untrue, so do not make that face. Swordsmanship improves if one applies oneself, but a crooked character is hopeless. You have no idea how many wastrels I have seen bring astronomical ruin on a house through character alone. So I could thank Sir Turtle a hundred times and still fall short. He made a proper human being of our heir. Indeed!"
"...I have never had a crooked character."
"Tsk, tsk. You don't even know what an ill-mannered wretch you were before the Academy, you shameless boy."
"..."
To meet a noble this humble, this free of reserve, was nothing if not unfamiliar.
An odd one.
House Offen wielded a presence to rival the great noble houses, and Iliad led that formidable house—yet he was thoroughly polite, easy in his manner, and humble besides. Not like a noble at all.
"Sir Turtle, if it is no bother, might you spare me a little conversation? I hear this is a 'nominal' home visit, so I should like to hear how my son is getting on at the Academy."
"...I don't mind."
"Haha. I am grateful."
See that? He did not even circle the point. He simply said he was grateful.
It had been a long time since talking to a noble failed to give him a headache.
No need to decode political language, and the relief of that was absurd. By another noble's measure the man was eccentric enough to be called a crank, but to Lee Han it came as nothing but goodwill.
...And in another sense, he was someone worth respecting.
Lee Han gave him a meaningful look. Should he call it the feeling of being impressed by him? It was not an appraisal a mere knight had any business making of a great house's lord. Even so, he could not help it.
—He hasn't put down the sword.
He could not use his legs, and yet the calluses set into his palms were hard as flint. How was that not worthy of respect?
This man...
He had a romantic soul.
"I hear Sir Turtle founded an art of his own, rather than Fighting Art. To found a school at your age—calling you a genius would not be wasted."
"'Founded' is a strong word. It just started from an idea anyone could have had. The genius talk is too much."
"Haha, and modest besides. But be too modest, and people will only call you tiresome. Now and then it does you good to look as if you are overflowing with confidence."
"...No, I'm really not a genius."
"Hah! Modesty to that degree is a poison of its own."
"..."
The two men got along surprisingly well. Age, station, the tracks of their lives—everything about them differed, and yet through the subject of the sword the talk flowed. True, it was one-sided, Lee Han on the receiving end of questions and praise, but he met every one of them, smiling as if the compliments sat awkwardly on him.
"Your son is already skilled enough to serve as a knight tomorrow. The trouble is that he still lacks real combat. I could tell he had hunted monsters a few times, but against people he is still a little clumsy."
"Hmm. Did I raise him too gently?"
"On the contrary, you raised him well. Honestly, what is there to boast about in teaching someone how to kill?"
"Haha. To hear you say so puts my heart considerably at ease."
"Anyway, what your son needs now is field experience more than training. If knighthood is the goal, it's a shame, but early graduation is worth considering."
"...Even so, I think it better that he keep attending for now. Rather than hurrying to become an adult, savoring even a little of his youth will mean more in the years to come, will it not?"
"That's fair too. He's still a kid."
"Keh heh. While we are wishing, I hope he brings a bride home with him when he graduates. A marriage for love would be best, wouldn't it?"
"Don't worry about that. He keeps an iron wall up, that's all. He's popular with the girl students. If he sets his mind to it, he'll give you a grandchild in no time."
"Oh-ho!"
"...Instructor? Father?"
A special talent of adults: even with the person himself standing right in front of them, they hardly seemed to care.
Reduced to a bundle set in the corner, Arno wore a look of pure disbelief, and Kunta and Levi each patted him on the back.
"Arno—no, young master—do not mind. Adults all like that. Kunta was twelve. Clan custom almost made Kunta a papa by force. Lucky thing. Kunta ran away one year. Did not become a papa."
"...Is that meant to be comforting?"
"More than that, Lord Arno really is popular. Even among the young ladies of the sword faculty, there are a few who mean to send a matchmaker to you starting next year. I think?"
"Y-young ladies!?"
It called a scene from a sitcom to mind, and yet it was nothing if not warm. Elsa, the head maid, brought in steaming herb tea; the children chattered happily; the two men talked with an easy fondness. How warm a sight it was. Nothing short of a scene from a fairy tale. And Lee Han liked this peace, sitcom and fairy tale at once. If only a man could always live this way. He almost wished it.
...Which was why.
"So, as I see it, a look at the Scarlet Eagle might be the way to broaden his—"
"...My lord."
"?"
"Sorry for cutting you off. Only, I'm starting to feel a sense of danger."
"Pardon?"
"...Judging by that reaction, it's the real thing. Doesn't look like you arranged this together."
"??"
Lee Han had made up his mind to correct the injustice of being the only one shut out of this peace. And, while he was at it, to shake off the presence that had been bearing down on him since a little while ago.
At the sudden words Iliad looked bewildered, and the others were no different. They simply could not understand what he was saying out of nowhere. Lee Han gave them a bitter smile and, just as abruptly, went up to Arno.
Then—
"...I'd be grateful if you'd stop throwing your presence around, Elder. My neck and back are starting to sting."
"I-Instructor?"
"Or should I call you Lady, instead of Elder?"
"..."
"Ah, now that I think of it, given your years, even 'Lady' is a little..."
A thin, keening ring tore through the room. Crack—hairline fractures opened across the furnishings of the parlor all at once. It had only been a voice, yet it struck like a high-frequency assault, and Lee Han, taking the whole of it through his body, broke into a cough. An internal injury, in the end.
"Y-yes. I'm sorry, my lady."
He apologized at once. He had no wish to chafe her temper and see something worse. And perhaps the speed of that apology pleased her.
Only then did "Arno"—no, the lady who had been masquerading in Arno's likeness—give a deep, satisfied nod.
"You should have done that from the start. Remember it, child. Laying a hand on a woman's age is an unwritten law."
"I'll be sure to remember."
Lady Felicia.
Sword Duke Felicia de Offen. One of the three Aura Users of whom Pendragon boasted, together with Baltar and Albert—that woman was she.