Terms of the Deal (4)
The moment Marek returned with the materials, Roy set to work.
Having spent nearly all of his remaining gold, the haul was substantial—more than enough to reinforce twenty of the daggers he had made before, with plenty to spare. This time, however, the circumstances were different. The object to receive the enchantment was a longsword, far larger than a dagger, and Roy meant to go further still by concentrating the mana solution itself.
If the solution he had prepared last time ranked as the lowest grade on a scale of ten, what he would produce with these materials would sit around a two. The quality of the mana stones played its part, but the true difference lay in the base ingredient: the blood of an orc giant. Orc giants possessed far more mana than ordinary orcs—as much as their bulk and monstrous strength would suggest—and the byproducts they yielded were of a different order entirely.
The solution itself is done.
His plan was to pour the finished solution into a pot and simmer it while flooding it with his own mana—not simply adding power, but using that mana to burn away impurities until only pure magical force remained. It was exacting, high-level work. He had not been able to attempt it before for two reasons. First, the method was little more than a shortcut available only to those already rich in mana, and at five years old Roy had simply not had enough. Second, the previous solution had been so foul with impurities that no amount of filtering would have salvaged it; even if he had managed to concentrate it, the yield would have been too meager to strengthen so much as a single dagger.
In his previous life, Roy had taught this method to his disciple Albert and set him to preparing the solutions. The boy had been a monster of raw talent, born with so much mana that even Roy had taken notice.
This life, I'll find myself a well-behaved, obedient assistant. Pretty wouldn't hurt, either.
He began the concentration. Roy worked with intense focus—except for one considerable distraction.
This goddamn horse-dung stench. Next time I need to do this, I'll set up in the middle of the training yard before I come back here.
The reek kept breaking his concentration, forcing him to spend more mana than he had planned.
With the solution finished as intended, Roy turned his mind to presentation. He needed a more dramatic reveal—something that would seize the baron's imagination completely. The grand design he had drawn up required the baron's absolute cooperation if it was to be carried through.
One swing of the finished piece and he'll feel the difference, of course…
Just then, visitors arrived at the mansion. They were strangers to Roy, and their faces were hard enough to make an ordinary man look twice. Marek, who had been standing watch with Misha amid the same reek of horse dung, leaned in and whispered into Roy's ear.
"Those men are mercenaries."
"Do you know them?"
"Not personally. The shorter one is the branch leader of the Sword Mercenary Group's Greenhilt outpost. Nearly every mercenary operating in our territory answers to him."
"What brings someone like that here? The whole countryside is buzzing about monster outbreaks."
"What else? They want more money."
"I see. Get back to work, Marek. I have things to do in my room."
"Yes, my lord. Call if you need anything."
Roy hurried to his chambers. Of all the places in the house, the spot beside his bed offered the best vantage for eavesdropping on conversations held in the study below—especially with the hole he had carefully bored there for just that purpose. By the time he settled into place and activated his spell, the formal greetings downstairs were already underway.
"My lord, it is an honor. This is Galbert, newly appointed as our branch's deputy leader."
"It has been some time. Good to see you as well. What brings men as busy as yourselves all the way here when you ought to be fighting monsters?"
"We have already sent several petitions, so I trust Your Lordship understands the situation. A few days ago, another of my men was badly wounded and had to leave the front—fighting an orc giant."
"…A regrettable loss."
A brief silence settled over the room.
"Over the past two years, the mass raids on the villages have always come in mid-autumn, right at the height of the harvest."
"I am aware."
"With our present strength alone, we do not believe we can survive this autumn."
Silence fell again. It was Ibaldo, the chief butler seated nearby, who broke it.
"His Lordship fully grasps the gravity of the situation. You may speak more directly."
"Indeed. From the moment I heard you intended to come, I knew you would have demands. Speak plainly."
"We are prepared to pay the penalty and dissolve the Greenhilt branch entirely."
"What!?"
Padec's hard line sent the baron slamming a fist onto the desk as he shot to his feet.
"What are you saying? Without you, what becomes of the farmers? Agriculture is worthless if the harvest that crowns the year is lost! Are you in your right mind?"
The roar was loud enough that even Roy, listening in secret, flinched.
So much for needing a amplifying spell…
Faced with the baron's fury, the others clamped their mouths shut and stared at the floor. Padec had expected the conversation to turn this way, but that did not make it any easier. Even mercenaries who lived on the razor's edge of life and death did not throw their lives away lightly.
The baron exhaled a long breath and spoke again.
"Forgive me for raising my voice. Is this how you mercenaries negotiate? What do you actually want that you open with a threat like that? I know you don't mean it. If you did, you would be a disgrace to the name of the Sword Mercenary Group."
Half the baron's outburst had been performance. The other half had been genuine anger. Both sides were testing strength, each trying to seize the high ground before the real bargaining began.
"We are critically short of men. At this rate annihilation is certain, which is why we have even considered the extreme measure of dissolution. I ask that you understand that."
"One question. I have heard that if you counted every man who has ever joined your company across the continent, you could swallow most nations whole. That is a great many people. Can you not request support from other branches—or from Claymore?"
Claymore was the headquarters of the Sword Mercenary Group, the city-state founded by the mercenary king Karl himself.
"I regret to say it is too late for that. Claymore is far too distant, and the neighboring territories face the same crisis we do."
"So every mercenary company in every territory intends to dissolve as well?"
"Not at all. The plan would be to abandon certain regions and concentrate our strength on others—"
"Which I take to mean our territory is of no importance to you! Do you truly believe that makes sense? If one of the kingdom's foremost grain producers is laid waste, the price of the very bread you eat will soar through the roof!"
Once more the baron's voice rang through the study like a struck bell. Roy listened quietly from above.
The territory's situation is worse than I thought.
Life inside the mansion had not changed for Roy in two years. From servants' talk and his eavesdropping on the study, he had known the baron fretted over the monster outbreaks, but he had never grasped how severe the damage truly was. From what the mercenary leader was saying, the farmlands had suffered heavily.
So that's how it is. The princesses I knew in my previous life were the same—cooped up in the palace, utterly ignorant of the world outside, soft as unbaked dough.
Roy was forced once again to confront how small the well he lived in really was. And he found himself wanting, with sudden urgency, to get out of it.
I've already had the baptism. Time to use what I can. It will benefit those men out there—and the people of this land—just as much as it benefits me.
He steeled himself. The grand design he had drawn was already near completion. The mercenaries' arrival, if anything, would only make persuading the baron easier.
I need to start the business at once.
Roy snatched up pen and paper. The sheet was already dense with writing; he began revising a small portion of it. What he held was nothing less than a business proposal meant for the baron's eyes.
The conference between the baron and the mercenaries ended without a conclusion—there simply was no ready answer. Autumn was nearly upon them, and with every neighboring territory facing the same crisis, finding fresh troops at short notice was like plucking stars from the sky. They agreed to reconvene the next day and parted for now, though whether any stroke of genius would visit them overnight remained doubtful.
The baron had intended to invite them to dinner, but neither he nor the mercenaries wanted the discomfort of such a meal. Padec and Galbert fled the study as if escaping and made for the mansion's front entrance—only to run straight into Geren, just returning from an outing.
"Geren!?"
"Lord Padec. It's been a while."
"Why is it so hard to get a look at that face of yours?"
"Haha. Maybe because you keep saying strange things whenever you do."
"Strange? That dagger was northern work, no question. And you're the only northerner anyone around here has ever heard of. The man we were looking for back then went into this very mansion, too—more than one person saw him."
"It absolutely wasn't me. I'm no witch."
"Right now I'd take a witch's help and be grateful for it. A weapon like that in our hands, in a situation like this… it'd be a real comfort."
Geren offered the two mercenaries a bitter smile. For nearly two years, every time they met him it had been the same conversation. As monster raids grew more frequent and the men spent longer away from the city, he had almost stopped running into them and had begun to relax—only to collide with them here, of all places. You never could tell with people, Geren thought.
"We're in such straits I'd get on my knees and beg for even a scrap of your strength."
What he wanted most was to leave. Why were they clinging to him when he wasn't even a mercenary? Their connection amounted to a few joint monster hunts, nothing more. Then a savior's hand descended upon him.
"Master Geren!"
"Ah—Lord Roy!"
"Might I have a word with you?"
"Of course, of course. Well then, gentlemen, you looked as though you were on your way out—farewell. I'll be going myself. For all my modest appearance, I am tutor to His Lordship's son, after all."
The more Geren saw of the boy, the more he was astonished. Brilliant magical talent was one thing, but Roy's quick mind had already pulled him out of awkward corners more than once. He could be stubborn at times, but most noble children were.
"How may I help you?"
Almost at once, Geren regretted asking. Roy had heard every word of the exchange with the mercenaries from the start.
"You said 'witch,' didn't you?"
"Pardon…?"
"Tell me—have you ever considered becoming a real one?"