The Ranel-Antanau Dispute
Politics is a truly repulsive thing.
In a way, it resembles chess or shogi. The players themselves never die; only the pieces on the board are sacrificed and discarded.
And this place was no different. At least in his previous life, it had been an age without open war. That much was the same. Here, however, it was pure cold war.
A local conflict had broken out between lords, and the trade route had been cut off as a result. Erika and Ren had been dispatched to resolve it.
Ren looked back from inside the carriage. The vehicle had been loaned by the merchant group; apparently they could use one per operation.
Erika sat opposite him, dozing. She seemed to sleep a great deal even on ordinary days. Yesterday, after exploring the underground city, she had promised to explain things—then simply gone into her room and slept. She had risen late this morning as well; it was already around eleven when they set out.
And as they rode, she had told him that the original commission had not been this at all. It was supposed to have been a simple job mediating a private dispute.
The Ewaz Merchant Group was clearly more than a mere seller of information or courier of messages. They involved themselves deeply in diplomacy, acting in effect as surrogate diplomats. That made their influence enormous by necessity.
Ren had wondered why such an organization would keep its headquarters in the shadows, but the answer was obvious enough. Something that large and private—belonging to neither noble house nor nation—would never have been left alone by aristocrats or states. Colluding with the lord of Viten City and hiding underground was simply the wiser choice.
The carriage was surprisingly swift. Before they boarded he had noticed runes carved into the horses’ bridles; they seemed to function like a form of magic.
He picked up a sheet of paper that had slipped from Erika’s hand and unfolded it.
It listed their personal particulars. Ren’s information was exactly as Rahen had recorded it. Erika’s details were rather more interesting.
Erika Ewaz. Pure-blood dark elf, along with the usual identifiers, and a guarantee that both of them belonged to the Ewaz Merchant Group. A seal had been stamped at the bottom. That seal, he suspected, was what gave the document its weight.
There was nothing more worth examining. Before Erika woke, he carefully returned the paper to its original place.
The carriage did not arrive until nightfall. When they stepped down they found a tall fence blocking further progress. Tents stood on either side of it, and armed soldiers patrolled with torches.
“Stop right there!”
As Erika and Ren approached the fence, a soldier thrust his torch into their path and barked the command. Ren turned toward him and took in the man’s appearance: full plate from head to toe.
The face was hidden behind a helm whose long snout made him look almost rat-like. Chain mail protected the neck beneath it, and iron plate covered the rest. Dirt and dust clung to the armor as though it had seen hard use.
On the shoulder was an armband painted with a star. The sword at his hip was easy enough to guess; three runes were carved into the hilt, glowing brightly at regular intervals.
The structure of rune magic was simpler than one might expect. According to a book Ren had browsed in a bookstore while touring the underground city the day before, what mattered was not the user’s skill but the engraver’s. Once properly inscribed, the magic could be used indefinitely.
To keep an effect active at all times, one carved it into a weapon or piece of armor. To use it oneself, one had to etch it into the skin like a tattoo—or, failing that, brand it in with a hot iron so that the scar itself remained.
Compared with the two of them, the soldier’s armament was excessive. Erika’s metal gear consisted of little more than knee guards and articulated plates at shoulder and elbow; the rest was leather, with chain mail covering the torso and abdomen. Ren had only the dagger Erika had given him. No armor at all—just a thick fur coat.
“We’re with the Ewaz Merchant Group.”
“Show proof!”
Erika sighed and produced the paper—the same one Ren had picked up beside her earlier. The soldier examined it, returned it, and spoke again. The helm muffled his voice.
“Identity confirmed. Enter the tent.”
Erika did as ordered. Ren followed her inside. Within stood another armed soldier like the torch-bearer outside, and in the center sat a single man.
The man wore a mustache waxed sharply upward. Unlike the soldiers, his clothing was clean—lighter and thicker furs, with no armor whatsoever. In terms of armament he was as lightly equipped as Ren.
The quality of the fabric, however, was far superior. Rings of gold and silver adorned his fingers; two of them bore runes.
“Welcome. You are from the Ewaz Merchant Group, yes?”
He waved roughly toward the chairs set before him. Erika and Ren sat. The seats were hard and poorly made—crudely hewn, uncomfortable enough that one would not wish to remain long.
At the man’s gesture a soldier brought a document, opened it, and stood beside him again. The noble leaned forward, finger on the page, and spoke.
“I trust you saw the border with the County of Antanau as you approached.”
“It looked rather shabby.”
At Erika’s words Ren stared at her in shock.
…?
Does she not know diplomatic rhetoric? Or does she simply have no social sense? Doubt flooded Ren’s mind. Or was this simply how people spoke in this world?
Fortunately—or unfortunately—it was not. The noble’s face flushed; his brows knitted openly. Was he looking down on them as lowborn? There was no other reason for such a reaction. Perhaps he had not been a lord for long.
“I apologize for Lady Erika’s remark.”
Under the cover of the table Ren seized Erika’s hand, silencing her, and spoke in her place.
An apology was clearly required. Erika had committed a breach of etiquette; that much was plain. The man opposite them was a noble. They worked in the shadows.
Even in his previous life—the modern world—people still spoke of how every profession deserved respect, yet plenty of highborn and lowborn alike still ranked others by status. And this was a medieval fantasy world where a true class system existed.
For a collective of “commoners”—even if the reality was larger—like the Ewaz Merchant Group to speak so freely to a noble was unthinkable. Face had to be preserved. That was the etiquette between nobles, and between people.
“A mistake is only a mistake. In any case, your task is to deliver this document and assist at the talks next week.”
The noble composed his expression, smoothed his mustache, and continued. His manner was that of a natural aristocrat. The document he extended was brighter and of far higher quality than the paper used by the Ewaz Merchant Group.
“Understood. Is there anything else you wish us to convey?”
“…When you meet Count Antanau, tell him this: we care nothing for collateral damage.”
Ren decided at once that he would not deliver that message. He was no master of diplomatic language; he knew only that one usually spoke in circles. Even so, this much he understood.
Collateral damage meant civilian casualties in war or military operations. This side, it seemed, was prepared to go as far as open conflict. Of course, since it would be civil war, the words were likely little more than bluster. War was never as simple as “go and die.” Justification mattered enormously.
Besides, both the County of Antanau and the Duchy of Ranel sat astride the southern trade route. Both thrived economically because of that route; neither had good reason to wage war. War was the use of force for gain. There was no profit worth the inevitable losses here.
Ren and Erika showed the paper to the soldiers and were allowed past the fence. They drove the carriage onward at once. Count Antanau, they had been told, was not camping in a tent like Duke Ranel; he resided in his own castle.
The carriage raced through the night. The fortress was evidently some distance away.
“My lord Count.”
“What is it?”
“People from the Ewaz Merchant Group.”
Count Antanau frowned. She rose from her seat and settled properly, smoothing her skirts to preserve her dignity.
“How many?”
“Two. Their arms are meager.”
“Would it matter if we simply killed them?”
Antanau murmured as she gazed out the window. She was enjoying the weather with a cup of tea. She could drag this out another two days without trouble. The next caravan of merchants would arrive soon enough, but this time the goods were traveling from south to north, so they would pass through the County of Antanau first.
She had expected the other side to yield. Her own forces were stronger; she did not believe she would lose a war.
Yet instead of coming in person or sending their own envoys, they had hired that band of lowborns for coin—the Ewaz Merchant Group. Was that not the height of insult?
“…Let them in for now.”