There Is No Law, and Fists Hurt
Count Montpellier's summons tangled my thoughts into knots.
His response had been far too fast.
According to the big data I'd gathered over the past few weeks, feudal lords moved at a pace that could put you to sleep. Even when something actually happened, it took forever for word to reach a lord's ear. Anything that seemed minor got postponed or brushed aside. If a vassal had a personal stake, reports got delayed or buried entirely. Simple clerical mistakes left things out all the time.
A modern administrative system is the product of civilization itself — an enormous investment of technology and wealth. In an age without telephones, without even telegraphs, where you had to send a messenger, where paper was so scarce you had to ration it, expecting swift and accurate administration was about as realistic as handing a kindergartener a university textbook and telling them to solve it.
"I am Thomas Montpellier, eldest son of House Montpellier! Where is the headman of this village? Asty, maker of the Water Frame — answer the lord's summons!"
But Count Montpellier had done it.
That attention-seeking specimen bellowing in the middle of the village was living proof. How long had it been since I'd asked the traveling merchant to spread the word? And already they had decided to secure the inventor of the Water Frame.
A response speed that utterly shattered every medieval average I had experienced. Even South Korean civil servants hadn't been this sharp.
The problem was that I had no idea why he was reacting at this particular moment. Rebecca was under the absurd misapprehension that I had picked a fight with the clothing industry on a whim, but every move had been calculated down to the last detail.
What I had spread was a rumor of the Water Frame — not blueprints, not a finished product. I had been handing out flyers saying, I've made this incredible machine, so get your money ready, not launching a spinning business that would torch the livelihoods of everyone already in the trade. And given how slowly information traveled in this era, the odds of nobles reacting to a floating rumor like that were low. For a lord who ruled a domain as vast as the County of Montpellier, lower still.
And yet he had reacted.
He had punched through the barriers of time and space, past the hideous technical and structural limits of the Middle Ages, and sent someone to this backwater. Solely to verify whether a rumor was true.
No. Wait.
What the Count had sent was his eldest son — the heir to House Montpellier. If the goal were simply to check a rumor's authenticity, a random errand-runner would have been enough. Why throw his own successor into a nowhere village like this?
One of two things. Either Count Montpellier believed in the Water Frame's existence with absolute certainty… or something entirely different — something political — was buried underneath.
"Let's go. We might as well hear what he has to say."
"B-but if they harbor any ill will—"
"Then the Goddess will handle it somehow."
I blocked Rebecca's fretting with a shield of faith and stepped out into the open. She had said it herself — if we made an enemy of the Count's house, we had no chance of winning. I was still far too weak to flip the table on a lord. If I could use Divine Power, I could have had the Count's eldest son crawling on all fours — but our taciturn Goddess still hadn't said a word.
"Um…! Are you the ones looking for me?"
From here on, everything was uncharted territory. I held no illusions about holding an advantage over a noble without the Saintess title to lean on. I would play the most innocent, well-mannered girl I could manage and slip out of this situation without incident.
"You are… no. Are you Asty? The inventor who built the Water Frame?"
"Yes. If you'd like, I can show it to you myself!"
Pretending to know nothing and looking pure-hearted turned out to be harder than expected. Even as I beamed at the Count's eldest son, sweat poured down my back like rain. Damn it. Acting was not my major. Was this really coming across as innocence? What if it just looked rude?
The guards' helmets glittered in the sunlight. So did the balding crown of young Thomas Montpellier. I had to fight with everything I had not to burst out laughing. A peasant's daughter mocking a noble was not a particularly entertaining way to die.
The crude medieval caste system I had only ever read about in books began to close around my throat.
"Insolence! How dare you look His Lordship full in the face—"
"That's enough. Let us see it first. We ought to confirm whether the rumor is true."
Thomas, however, turned out to be a more gentlemanly noble than expected. From the way he had been shouting in the village square I had taken him for a lunatic, but his character was clearly a cut above his own guards. And apparently a commoner merely lifting their head in front of a noble counted as rudeness. What a dizzying era.
"The spinning machine is by the river over there… just a moment. Rebecca! Could you come with me?"
"H-huh? Sai— I mean, Asty?"
I absolutely could not go alone. How was I supposed to know these people wouldn't suddenly turn into bandits and take my head off? I summoned the Rebecca I had just dismissed and worked my mouth frantically, sending signals.
Play along.
Fortunately, Rebecca seemed to understand. She nodded. I bolted over and hid behind her back.
"Ah… my apologies. Our little sister is rather shy around strangers."
"Ah, of course. Are you family to Miss Asty?"
And out of Rebecca's mouth came the perfect excuse. One of the guards looked ready to open his mouth again, having found some fresh pretext for a tantrum, but Young Master Thomas — possessor of top-tier medieval character — simply nodded and accommodated me without complaint.
Right. An eleven-year-old is allowed to be a little shy. The guy who flipped out over eye contact earlier can go reflect on himself.
"Not family, but like family…?"
"She's my sister!"
I added one line so Rebecca wouldn't slip, then hid again. My current concept was a shy genius girl. I was absolutely not hiding because I was scared.
"Haha. You two seem quite close. If it wouldn't be an imposition, might I invite you along as well?"
"In that case, I would be glad to accept."
Rebecca accepted Thomas's request with perfect courtesy. In that brief span she had already read her role and adapted to it. I was still dying of discomfort playing the youngest daughter of a medieval backwater farm, and she already looked like she had a talent for acting.
"Come, Asty. You should show this gentleman the work you've made."
Good. Nothing changed just because the Count's eldest son had shown up. I would introduce the product I had built in the ordinary way and extract patronage without crossing any lines that would sour his mood. Even if they took the blueprints or the finished machine, it didn't matter. A patent wouldn't be respected here anyway. Did anyone think people of this era would honor an inventor's intellectual property? When the inventor was a peasant girl from a nowhere village and the other party was a noble, the question answered itself. Pointless resistance would only get me crushed — volunteering the technology was several times more profitable. And if the goal was to accelerate civilization, the new technology had to spread somehow regardless of form.
"You put the cotton here like this—"
"My word, truly remarkable. A machine so extraordinary the city's craftsmen wouldn't even dare attempt it! Don't you agree?"
"Y-yes, certainly."
"I believe I understand why His Lordship sent the young master!"
But why was this guy just standing there marveling? He had a faintly suspicious look in his eyes, yet showed no particular sign of coveting the Water Frame itself. What was this. What was this. The medieval nobles I knew were not this conscientious.
"Ah, look at the time. We must go present ourselves to the Count… for now, let us walk as far as the nearest post station."
Even as we left the village, questions chased one another in an endless chain. What did Count Montpellier want? Was he after my brain, or my severed head? Was his competence a tool for personal advancement, or the product of simple duty? And why was that balding Count's son being so damn kind?
I thought it through carefully, but if thinking hard enough could have produced an answer, I wouldn't have needed to worry in the first place.
One thing alone was certain.
Something was there.
Something I was missing.