Orchestrating a Noble's Assassination (2)
"But how did you figure out it was Gasfield? He wouldn't have shown his face somewhere like this unless he was a complete fool."
"You're right—he never came himself. He sent a servant with the down payment. The sum was large enough that I took it, but something still felt off. No one in their right mind would try to touch the Lichtenhauses."
"So you dug into him."
"Exactly. You're quick."
A mercenary investigating his own client. That was unusual enough. These were men who would do anything so long as the coin was good—the fact that they had come after my neck, second son of House Lichtenhaus, was proof of that. Thanks to his account, the events of that day fell into place in my mind.
Well then. Let's repay him in kind.
"Dwinsen. Are you any good at gathering information?"
"People always get the wrong idea. They think I climbed to this seat with nothing but my fists. Truth is, this is where I really shine."
Dwinsen tapped his temple with a careless finger—meaning he trusted his brains more than his brawn.
"Then here's your first assignment. Gather everything you can on Gasfield and the Rosman marquisate."
"As you command."
With that, I rose. Too long in the reek of liquor, and my head had begun to throb. I was just about to leave the room when Dwinsen spoke again.
"Ah—hope you'll cut me some slack on this one."
"On what?"
"I just got my head slammed into a table. Might be a little stupid for a while."
"Then this will be your last assignment."
"Damn, you really don't take a joke. Fine—just get going already."
There was a great deal I could have said, but in the end I said nothing at all. The moment I stepped out of the room, mercenaries armed to the teeth blocked the corridor. The instant they saw me, they recoiled in panic; a few of them even tumbled down the stairs.
"…Move."
They glanced at one another, then pressed themselves flat against either wall. I walked the path they had opened, unhurried.
Gasfield de Rosman.
He would pay the price for aiming at my throat.
After entrusting the information gathering to Dwinsen, I began collecting material of my own on Gasfield and the Rosman marquisate. Taking any single source at face value was dangerous; only after several rounds of cross-checking could a report be trusted as genuine intelligence.
Days slipped by. One afternoon, when I opened the window of my study for air, something came flying in. I caught it out of the air.
A letter…?
A stone about half the size of my fist had a scrap of paper bound around it. Before reading it, I looked down from the window. A hooded figure met my eyes, then bolted. From the way he ran, he was wearing a sword at his hip—almost certainly a man of the Dwinsen Mercenary Group. Which meant the letter, too—
At the hideout by dusk — Dwinsen
As expected. The letter was from Dwinsen. The result didn't stray from my prediction—and yet it was galling all the same. Who did he think he was, summoning me like that? Had slamming his head into the table really made him that stupid?
Time passed, and dusk arrived. I took a carriage to the Dwinsen Mercenary Group's hideout. When I opened the door and stepped inside, a few men looked up—but only for a moment.
They quickly turned their eyes elsewhere and went back to what they had been doing. I had never expected a grand reception. So long as they didn't block my path or talk down to me, it was enough.
At last I found Dwinsen in the innermost room on the second floor.
"Ah. You made it."
"Well? Is the investigation finished?"
"Don't know if it'll please you, but we did our best on our end."
He handed me a bundle of papers. On them, in a crooked scrawl, was everything they had gathered on Gasfield and the Rosman marquisate. I read it through then and there. Nearly every detail matched what I had uncovered myself. So the title of the capital's foremost mercenary company hadn't been won by a game of chance.
"I'm satisfied."
"Huh. Figured you'd slam my head into the table again if you weren't."
"I have no interest in picking fights over nothing."
I drew a small pouch from my coat and tossed it to him—payment for the job. Dwinsen opened it, and his eyes went wide.
"You're seriously giving me all of this…?"
"Keep working hard under me. I won't look down on you just because you're a mercenary."
"Holy—! For this much I'd lick your boots—!"
"…I'll pass on that. And buy yourself at least one decent set of clothes. I won't be coming here again."
My estate sat at the very heart of the Imperial Capital. Nobles were everywhere; eyes were everywhere. That was why Dwinsen had been careful enough to summon me here. I could have sent a servant to collect the report, of course—but that didn't suit me. I was the sort who preferred to handle things myself.
"I'll be going, then. If I have another job for you, I'll send a letter."
"Yes, sir—! Safe travels—!"
Dwinsen shot to his feet and bowed. Once I left the hideout, I climbed straight into the carriage. With a faint jolt, it started forward. Outside the window, the sky that had been red had already deepened into indigo.
A magic tool workshop…
The magic tool workshop was the Rosman marquisate's greatest source of wealth. From my memories of the previous life, they even held a contract with the imperial family and supplied the imperial army—so it was fair to call it the house's main cash stream.
The reason the business had grown so far was simple: three vast magic stone mines sat right next door, in the Candel Viscounty. With almost no distribution costs for the stones, production expenses dropped, and the Rosmans became competitive in the market. By now, Rosman magic tools claimed the lion's share of the trade.
Going straight to Gasfield and calling him to account wouldn't have been a bad approach—but this time, I thought I might start a business of my own. Open a magic tool workshop.
It would be another step toward stepping out from under the Lichtenhaus shadow. It wouldn't be easy, of course—but fortunately, I knew someone exceptionally capable in that field.
After Caenderic left, Dwinsen sat alone, staring at the pouch on the table. Inside it were five gold coins—more than Gasfield had offered as a down payment for the hit. He still couldn't quite believe it. He had sent mercenaries to assassinate the man.
And not only had he been forgiven—he had been paid an absurd sum for the privilege. Yes, he had gathered information, but it was nowhere near a five-gold job. Ten silver would have been a fair haul.
Until now, he had never liked answering to anyone. That was why he had forced the two mercenary companies that once split the capital between them into one, and why he had become their captain.
But after meeting that man, his thinking had changed. It wasn't that serving under someone disagreed with him. He simply hadn't met anyone worth respecting and following.
Cold judgment. Overwhelming force. The man was a walking blade. And he paid handsomely on top of it. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance. Stick with him, and something enormous was bound to come of it.
That same night—
"Boss. You've got a visitor."
"Send him in."
The door opened, and a man stepped inside—neat clothes, hair streaked with gray. It was the servant who had once come demanding Caenderic's head on Gasfield's behalf. He looked around the room, scowled, and looked down at Dwinsen.
"What happened to the contract? Don't tell me you took the down payment and failed."
"Hate to say it, but that job's canceled."
Dwinsen set the original three gold of the down payment on the table, then added one more gold coin beside them.
"Consider this an apology. Take it and let the matter drop."
"Are you joking? You're the one who said it could be done."
"Circumstances on our end. Deal with it."
"The capital's finest mercenary company, was it? Nothing but empty bragging."
The servant clicked his tongue, scooped up the four gold coins, and left. Dwinsen wanted nothing more than to put his fist through that arrogant face—but he clenched his teeth and held himself back. The Rosman marquisate might not equal the Lichtenhauses, but they were still a power to be reckoned with.
Still. It was fine. The Rosman marquisate would fall soon enough. That was the price, in this empire, for laying a hand on House Lichtenhaus.
The carriage jolted along a rough forest road and finally stopped. Outside the window stood a cabin built of logs—the reason I had come all this way. As I stepped down, someone emerged from the cabin at the same moment: an old man whose hair had gone pure white. He regarded me with wary eyes.
"…What business brings you this far?"
"I've come to see you, sir."
"I don't know what this is about, but I'm only an ordinary old man. I'd be grateful if you left."
He turned at once to go back inside—until my next words stopped him where he stood.
"Don't you want revenge on the Rosman marquisate?"