The Knight Leaves the Stage (3)

It went without saying. Those who held power never looked kindly on anyone who might threaten their authority—and least of all on a threat that could turn, at any moment, upon ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠themselves.

"If the man is cut from the same cloth as an inquisitor, what would you have us do!"

"He is the sort who will split the kingdom! He must not be left as he is!"

"Do you have any idea what he has done to the kingdom's economy?!"

The Noble Council, and the Merchant Union with it, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressed the point with all their weight and poured their resentment out upon the knight. If one said they looked like mangy curs, flinching and shaking where they stood, would you believe it?

Well. It was not so difficult to understand.

"In short, you are afraid of him."

The words struck them speechless.

"And well you might be. A domain's Champion, an assassin of great renown—a man of strength whom neither poison nor intrigue can kill is nothing short of a calamity. I understand your fear."

Silence was their assent.

Yes. They were afraid. Afraid of that knight who wanted none of it—not their strength, not their power, not their honor, not even treasure, however costly and brilliant it might be.

And so they confessed the feeling without a struggle. Whatever had become of their everyday pride.

"…Yes. We are afraid."

"Your Highness the Crown Princess. We know you are shielding that knight. We know you are weaving some scheme. We will not ask what the scheme is. …But his existence, that we cannot accept. No—we will not permit Your Highness to keep him at your side."

"Do you mean to give orders to me?"

"Not an order—an entreaty! From those of us who are to be your subjects…!"

"He is not my subordinate. We merely cooperate, from time to time."

"We know. Short of the Martial God himself, how often does one find the caliber to keep a power like that in hand? What matters is that Your Highness is on close terms with him."

She did not answer.

"Hah… please, try to understand our hearts as well. We are only ordinary people."

"…Pathetic creatures."

Even under the insult, they held their tongues. They had something to protect: power, kept from generation to generation.

And so—

"—They haven't the courage ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to put you to death, nor the nerve to punish you."

"Who's going to just hold still and let themselves be executed?"

"Quite. Which is why they fear you all the more. You are a power that cannot be punished."

"Hm."

Lee Han shrugged.

"But, you know."

"Is there something else you wish to ask?"

"Yep. One thing."

"What is it."

Isis's eyes opened to slits. A flicker of hope—no, of unease—that anger might drive him, this time, to lay hands on the Noble Council or the Merchant Union. And then, wearing that grave face, he said:

"Since when have I been close with you, sis? We're not even that friendly."

"Those fine gentlemen are laboring under one hell of a misconception."

"…You rotten bastard."

He had dragged a curse out of her mouth.

Once the banter had run its course, Lee Han was quiet for a while. Isis kept still as well, as if waiting for him to finish thinking, and some ten minutes of silence passed before he spoke.

"Do you remember when I first said I'd play along with this farce that isn't even funny?"

It had nothing to do with what they had been discussing.

"It was a mere fortnight ago. Of course I remember."

Isis was not flustered. She only nodded, calm as ever, a light coming into her eyes as if she were already measuring why he had raised it.

"Good, then."

A fortnight ago—right about the time Lee Han had been beaten senseless by Albert and had only just come to. Isis, who had forced him into a change of clothes, had given him what amounted to a compulsory order: attend the banquet.

Of course—

"And I refused."

"You did. You looked ready to strike me."

"Hit you? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠If I just never looked at your face again, that'd be the end of it. Why would I bother?"

"…That is crueler still."

It bore repeating. Lee Han had no memory of swearing anything like loyalty to Isis. Theirs was only cooperation, or a contract. He would not deny that a little familiarity existed between them. But friendship? That was another matter. There was none.

Had it been anyone else—had Duke Blake, say, pulled a stunt of this kind—Lee Han would not have endured it. He would have gone on a rampage then and there. Choose coercion for the sake of using him, and one had better be prepared to bleed; he would have taught that lesson in person. In that sense Isis had tried to step over a line that familiarity between them could not excuse. She would have known it, and she had nodded without a change of face.

Lee Han hated being used. Hated it to an extreme. Who, of course, likes being used? He simply loathed it more violently than most, and he could not help it. His previous life, and this one as well—no. More precisely, even after he recovered the memories of that past life, he had lived for a time as a man whose life was toyed with by other people. So he had never neglected his effort, and he had striven to grow strong, so that no one could insult his life on a whim, so that he might live by his own will.

And so he had cooperated with Isis. She had given him a reason that held, and a justification fit for joining the play. She had shown him cause, just barely, for crossing the line.

And yet.

"I've been thinking it over, from then until now…"

From the moment he was told the circumstances of King Edmund's betrayal and the truth of it, all the way to this moment, when he had decided to play his part—the question had never left him.

"—Did you really not know?"

"Truly? You only found out then that the king had betrayed us, and that's when you came asking me to cooperate?"

"It wasn't that you knew from the start?"

An unease he could not set down. It rested on no clear chain of deduction. It was closer to instinct. But that instinct had saved Lee Han hundreds of times—no, tens of thousands—and for that reason alone he had never once let a bad feeling pass him by.

"I know it sounds like I'm asking you straight, but I'm not asking. Just treat it as me talking to myself."

"…However one looks at it, that is not talking to oneself. It sounds like an accusation."

"If that's how it feels, then you've got something to feel guilty about with me, sis."

She was silent.

"Anyway. I think you already knew the king had betrayed us. Maybe you didn't know he'd been in league with them for thirty years, but that he was up to something—I figure you knew at least that much."

"An amusing supposition."

"Yeah. That's right. Just a supposition. Nothing but me talking to myself. So hear a little more."

His supposition was not finished. Lee Han gave the iron bars a light tap, as if telling her to attend to his words, and cool, gemlike eyes met him without the slightest waver, as if in answer.

"I spent the last fortnight trying to pin down what that bad feeling toward you actually was. I worked at putting into words why I felt uneasy at all. And, surprisingly, I managed to boil the thing down to about two points."

"Oh? With that thick skull of yours? It must have been hard labor."

"You bet."

He ticked them off, crisp.

"Two things felt wrong. The first was that it didn't add up."

"Did not add up?"

"You told me this banquet had to succeed. That your son—Arthur—had to draw every eye at it, and that if Arthur drew every eye, it would help the unification of the South. And yet…"

The bars groaned.

"You went and caused an incident, contrary to every word of that. You, of all people. The one who said it to me."

The iron screamed and warped. Under a monstrous grip its shape changed, and then it began to give way.

"The second question has nothing to do with what I just said. Thinking back on it, I haven't seen your son once since the spring of last year."

"And why should that unsettle you?"

"It does. You were clear that Arthur had to be noticed, and yet, strangely, you never once brought him to an official function, or to any other occasion. Not to the War Game, back then. Not through all those meetings. Somehow I never saw Arthur. No—you never brought him. Which means…"

"There's a reason he must not be shown to me. No. More precisely, isn't there a reason he must not be shown?"

More precisely, to the Lee Han he had grown into. Once, she had judged that his senses were special. A year on, they had only grown more special, more formidable—special enough that he had known, before anyone else, the truth of Irene Windler's parentage, a thing even Duke Blake had not been sure of. And if she had noticed how uncanny those senses were, and for that reason had not brought her son before him, then a certain hypothesis planted itself in the mind.

"…Arthur Pendragon. That child."

The possibility that she had hidden him because it might come out that the child was not one she had given birth to. And if that was the right answer—

"The other day, when the Brass Knight Order slipped in, I saw the bastard they called the vice-captain. I never saw the one they called the captain. And if you met the captain of the Brass Knight Order, and if that captain told you something close to what I'm thinking now…"

She said nothing.

"…then what you've done adds up. Every reason you moved so suddenly."

"And every reason for my unease. All of it…"

He muttered it like a man talking out a grudge—and at some point he was already outside the bars. It was no different from a beast slipped off its chain. Her face still did not change.

"Splendid."

She was only smiling, pleased, as if he had done something admirable. Meeting that smile, Lee Han let out a drained, hollow laugh.

"…You could've at least denied it."