Orchestrating a Noble's Assassination (1)
Mercenaries could be found with ease anywhere in the Empire.
All it took was the guts to kill a man and a well-honed weapon. With those two things alone, anyone could take up the trade.
Their primary clients were, of course, the nobility. Nobles prized appearances above all else, so mercenaries who would handle dirty work for pocket change made for convenient tools. In an age when corruption ran rampant, the conditions for mercenary work could hardly have been better.
In terms of what they actually did, they were not so different from knights. Both carried out filthy tasks at someone else's command. The difference lay in their motives. Mercenaries moved solely for money, while knights held honor above all else.
Lately, however, that boundary seemed to grow ever more blurred. More and more knights were beginning to chase coin. That, too, was a symptom of the Empire's disorder. Once the Empire was set right again, those lost knights would surely return as well.
In any case—
The men who had come for my life belonged to the Dwinsen Mercenary Group, a name that carried considerable weight in the Imperial Capital.
Their leader, Dwinsen, was the man who had united the once-famous Garan and Sehan mercenary groups—the two outfits that had previously carved up the capital between them.
Word had it he possessed tremendous martial power. I held no particular interest in that detail. Settling everything through sheer force was their way of doing things. I would simply deal with them in mine.
Ding—.
I rang the bell resting on the desk. The door opened and the butler stepped inside, bowing with perfect formality.
"You called for me."
"Have a carriage ready."
"Yes. I shall prepare it at once."
It seemed I would have to meet these people myself.
Bang—!
Dwinsen slammed his fist down on the table. The liquor bottle perched on top toppled over, wine spilling across the floor.
"So what you're telling me is you failed to kill Caenderic?"
"Th-that's right."
"I believe I told you failure was not an option."
"I-I'm sorry—!"
Caenderic de Lichtenhaus. Failing to kill him was no ordinary matter. There was every chance the entire mercenary group would be caught in the backlash. Of course, dead men tell no tales. The mercenaries had been found that very morning, their throats cleanly slit, dumped in the woods.
But before dying, a man can still talk. These were mongrels gathered for nothing but coin; they would have spilled whatever they knew in a bid to save their own skins.
If Caenderic decided to move against the group in earnest, there would be no escape. Given the stature of House Lichtenhaus, nowhere in the Empire would be safe.
"You son of a bitch—! We're all dead because of you—!"
Dwinsen snatched up the overturned bottle and hurled it at the man before him. The bottle shattered against the fellow's skull in a spray of liquor. The man staggered for a moment, then recovered his balance. A sticky mixture of blood and wine trickled down his face.
"We go again tonight. No more mongrels like last time. Gather ten of the strongest we've got."
"Yes, sir—! Right away—!"
The man bowed and fled the room. Alone once more, Dwinsen let out a long sigh and leaned back against the sofa. The thought that he had stepped into something he never should have touched refused to leave his mind. But what choice did he have?
Mercenaries followed the money, and the sum on offer had been far too large to refuse. If they pulled this job off, they might well become not merely the capital's premier outfit, but the greatest mercenary group in the entire Empire.
Who would have thought failing to kill a single green brat would land them in this mess?
Dwinsen barked a hollow laugh and reached for the sword lying beside him.
The racing carriage gradually slowed, then came to a complete stop. We had arrived at the outermost edge of the Imperial Capital. The atmosphere was gloomy, the streets lined with shabby, poorly built structures. It was a place that truly deserved the name "the Empire's shadow."
I stepped down from the carriage at once. Before me stood a building that looked serviceable enough—none other than the hideout of the Dwinsen Mercenary Group.
Creak—.
I pushed open the door and stepped inside. Several pairs of eyes turned toward me. The interior was little different from any ordinary tavern. The only real distinction was that every man inside was armed. At least I had not mistaken the building.
That was when one of them—a massive bald man who had been nursing a drink—rose from his seat.
"Hey, mister. What business you got here?"
"I've come to see Dwinsen."
"Tch. A client, then."
He sounded almost disappointed as he started walking. Midway, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Follow me."
I did. We climbed a staircase, then proceeded down a corridor until we stopped before the room at the farthest end of the second floor. He knocked and called out.
"Boss. You've got a visitor."
"Send him in."
He opened the door for me with unexpected courtesy and stepped aside. Apparently he had mistaken me for their employer. Whether he had or not made no difference to me.
Thud—.
The door shut the moment I entered. A powerful stench of liquor assaulted my nose, and my brow furrowed of its own accord.
"Ah—my apologies. We had a bit of a situation just now…"
"So you're Dwinsen."
"Yes, that's right. Why don't you take a seat over here first…"
A large man lounged arrogantly on the sofa. The long scar running across his face matched everything I had learned about him. This was the leader of the mercenary group—Dwinsen.
Had he realized who I was? He never finished his sentence. He simply sat there blinking at me with a vacant expression. I took the seat opposite him, just as he had invited.
"I trust you know why I've come."
"…Just say what you want."
"You seem to be laboring under a serious misconception. Do you truly believe you're in any position to make demands?"
Hahahaha—!
Dwinsen burst into booming laughter. Spittle flew in every direction—thoroughly unpleasant.
"You're the one who's mistaken, Caenderic. You think the name Lichtenhaus is going to protect you even in this room?"
"No. I don't think that at all."
"Oh-ho. And yet you can still talk like that. Must be nice having two lives to spare."
No matter how vast one's power, it could never be stronger than the blade at one's throat. I knew that truth better than anyone. Still, hearing the name Lichtenhaus thrown around like that was rather galling.
"Then let's renegotiate—!"
Dwinsen surged to his feet and seized the sword resting on the table. The keenly honed edge shot straight for my throat. Clean, economical motion—no hesitation whatsoever. I could see why people called him a man of tremendous martial power. In this little pond of his, that was more than enough to play at being king.
A frog in a well who had never seen the outside world. Yes. That was exactly what he was.
Crack—.
I caught his blade bare-handed. Fractures spiderwebbed across the steel, and a moment later the sword shattered into pieces. My palm remained unmarked.
Dwinsen's eyes went round. Clearly he had not anticipated this. From the moment those mercenaries' throats were cut, he had been given every chance to understand what he was dealing with. His own arrogance had wasted that chance.
"Yes. Renegotiating sounds like an excellent idea."
Crash—!
I seized him by the head and slammed him face-first into the table. The wood split under the impact with a deafening crack. Almost immediately, hurried footsteps pounded up from below. The men downstairs were coming. The door burst open and they poured in, weapons already in hand.
"B-Boss—!"
"Get out…"
"W-what do you mean…"
"I said get the hell out, you bastards—!"
Dwinsen roared even with his head still gripped in my hand. That he remained conscious after taking a blow like that bare-headed was genuinely impressive—far better than the rabble of knights I usually dealt with. Startled by their leader's fury, the mercenaries hesitated, then filed back outside. Their ragtag confusion nearly made me laugh.
Well. That should be enough preparation for a proper conversation.
I resumed my seat.
"Dwinsen. I trust you know why I've come."
"Yeah. I know. Because we tried to kill you."
He wiped the blood from his face with a rough swipe of his hand and dropped back onto the sofa. The arrogance in his posture, at least, remained unchanged. I decided to let that much slide. If I tried to correct every single thing that displeased me, we would never finish talking today.
"Who ordered it?"
"If I tell you, will you spare me?"
"You never had a choice to begin with."
"No, no. There's still the option of dying with my mouth shut."
Remarkable nerve. It almost seemed a waste that a man like him was stuck as a mere mercenary. As it happened, I was in need of people I could use as my hands and feet—
"Answer me, and I'll let you work under me. The pay will be more than enough to keep you entertained."
"Are you out of your mind? I tried to kill you."
"Do you feel threatened when an ant bites your toe?"
Hahahaha…!
Dwinsen threw his head back and laughed again. This time blood mixed with the spit flying in all directions. If he did end up working for me, the first thing I would have to correct was that habit.
"House Lichtenhaus, huh…!"
"Not House Lichtenhaus. I'm hiring you privately."
"Ah—so that's how it is."
Dwinsen gave a great nod and thrust out his hand.
"I'll take that offer."
"Then from now on, you will address me with proper respect. And always wash your hands before offering a handshake."
His palm was caked with blood and grime. I had no intention of taking it as it was.
"You still haven't answered my question about who ordered the hit."
"Rosman."
"Can you swear that is the truth?"
"I may look like this, but I've never told a lie. Or rather—I should say, I have never told a lie, shouldn't I?"
"…I'll take your word for it."
Gasfield de Rosman. Third son of Marquis Rosman—and an inspector belonging to the 3rd Division of the Inspectorate.