Talent (1)
Jerry Greenhilt, second son of House Greenhilt.
At twelve years old, Jerry already cut a sturdy figure far beyond his age, and his features were so mature he could easily have passed for a grown man.
His temperament, however, was the exact opposite.
A troublemaker.
And not merely a mild one — he was so far gone that calling him a wild colt felt almost too generous.
In particular, the number of times he had caused trouble by tormenting the household staff was beyond counting. The incident at hand was no different: the servant had done nothing wrong. Jerry was the culprit.
He had harassed a servant a full ten years his senior so mercilessly that every maid in the manor spoke of it with the same bitter edge in her voice.
"There was a problem, so I reassigned him. Are you telling me now that I should leave the servant who caused the trouble unpunished and attach him to you instead?"
It seemed the baron, perhaps because Jerry was his own son, meant to frame the affair as the servant's failing rather than his second son's. Or perhaps he was testing how Roy regarded the wrongdoing of his own older brother — and what Roy intended to do about it.
Roy understood as much, and spoke as though he did not.
"I don't know how any of that came about. But I do know why a lord's child is given a personal servant from an early age. I've heard it's to prevent problems between master and servant before they arise — and, over the long term, to train a future butler."
"That's right."
"Then isn't sooner better? And in this case, it wouldn't even cost anything."
"You aren't wrong. But a servant assigned to a master who is still very young has little real work to do. At five years old, a child is still of an age to be looked after by a nanny."
"Exactly. Since this man is said to have committed a fault, why not punish him by placing him in the service of a child who has not even received baptism yet? Dismissal seems far too harsh. Considering Brother Jerry's age, this man has already spent five years in this house. It would be a waste of everything invested in him."
"Ahem…"
There it was — the weak point. The baron's frown deepened.
Selecting a trustworthy personal servant was not like hiring maids; it took considerable time. Word had to be put out among lesser nobles who might be interested. The candidate needed to be of a suitable age, free of character flaws, sharp enough for the work, and a good match for the child who would one day be master.
In that light, Marek — who had already spent five years in the manor learning his duties — was a proven asset. To cast him out when he had done nothing truly wrong would be to throw away all that training. And there was no opening for him among the estate's ordinary staff. Tradition also dictated that girls be attended by handmaidens, so that route was closed as well.
Aside from Anna throwing a fit and demanding a servant of her own, there's nothing much in the way. And as Roy says, it would make a fitting punishment.
From Marek's point of view, after five years of service, being suddenly reduced to the attendant of a five-year-old might feel like a demotion.
Still… who in the world taught Roy about servants?
The baron was more than a little surprised. He had long known the boy was sharp, but he had not expected this.
I can't even think of a proper counterargument.
Aside from Anna, the only real concern was whether Marek — formerly Jerry's servant — would accept the proposal without complaint.
"I'll think on it. I should ask Marek for his opinion as well."
"There's no need to ask him separately."
"What?"
"The negotiation is already finished. Hehe."
"You don't mean…"
"Yes. I've already spoken with Marek, Brother Jerry's former servant. This only needs Father's permission."
Marek was currently under house discipline. Even if Jerry had been the true root of every problem, raising one's voice and talking back to one's master was something a servant must never do.
The baron studied young Roy's face for a long moment.
Ha. This brat. He was confident he could persuade me from the start. What a monster.
At last the baron's expression eased.
"Hmm… Very well. I'll assign Marek to you. I still don't know why you want him, but… I've lost."
He nearly added, Don't you dare try anything foolish. Your father is always watching, but swallowed the words. It would be better, in fact, to use Marek to keep quiet track of what Roy was getting up to.
"Thank you, Father!"
Hah… Looking at how happy he is, maybe it's nothing after all…
The baron gazed at the child he had sired and felt a strange twist of feeling.
Marek could not help but be astonished.
He had only answered the youngest son of the lord half-seriously, the way one humors a child. He had never imagined that a five-year-old would actually make good on the promise he had tossed out like so much empty talk.
"I kept my promise."
"Yes, Young Master Roy…"
"Then Marek must keep his as well."
"Of course."
"Father will summon you soon. He'll almost certainly order you to report my every move."
"……"
"You gave your word. My instructions take priority over Father's."
"I will do as you say."
A bright smile bloomed across Roy's face.
Inside, his thoughts were thoroughly greedy — but to Marek's eyes, he looked like nothing more than an innocent child laughing without a care.
That impression did not last. What came next startled Marek so thoroughly he almost wondered if he had been wrong from the start.
"Marek. Have you managed to put a good bit of money aside?"
"Pardon?"
"I'd like to borrow some. I'll pay you a generous rate of interest."
Looking at Roy's face — smiling so wide every tooth showed — Marek could have sworn, just for an instant, that he was staring at a tiny devil.
Chapter 3. Talent
Between Roy's persuasion and Anna's stubborn fussing, Geren was fortunately able to keep his post as tutor to House Greenhilt.
But after that incident — after Roy collapsed — every lesson had to be conducted with extreme, repeated caution. The baron had given a firm order: Geren was never to say anything that might fill Roy's head with wild notions.
"All right. Today we have our first outdoor lesson."
Not theory — the first class that would put their bodies to work. Anna was thoroughly excited.
Unlike Roy, who had changed so much of late, Anna had always been spirited. Not long ago, when the two of them walked together, people used to remark that their temperaments seemed swapped — as if the boy and the girl had traded natures. And just as often, they said Anna had been born with a gift for the martial path.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The way she swung the wooden sword every which way, never tiring, carried a force that in no way belonged to a six-year-old girl.
The baron and baroness, who had come out to watch the first outdoor lesson, shared much the same thought.
"Anna takes after you."
"Oh, please. I'm a good deal calmer than that."
"And what about Roy, do you think?"
"Who can say. A boy who only ever shut himself in his room with books… and after what happened not long ago, I can't help but worry. Well, he can start learning from now. He has your blood, after all."
"Our blood."
"Same difference."
Geren's method of teaching was unusual. The moment warm-up ended, he put wooden swords in their hands and told them to swing freely — straight at him.
Anna, heaven only knew whom she took after, seized the wooden sword for the first time in her life and flailed at Geren with wild abandon. Geren simply blocked each blow with his own thick practice blade, stepping steadily backward one pace at a time.
Panting hard, Anna chased after him as he opened the distance and kept attacking, but she never landed a single clean hit. That much was only natural. What was remarkable was that she had kept it up without rest for a full ten minutes or more.
Drenched in sweat, Anna finally sank onto the dirt, gasping. Her nanny brought a towel to wipe her down and handed her a cup of water.
"That was so much fun! Roy, you go next!"
It was all the girl managed after drinking. Those who had feared she might throw a tantrum over every strike being blocked exhaled in shared relief. Then every eye turned to the boy standing blankly off to one side.
It was Roy's turn.
Fun, my foot…
Roy had never been the type to handle his body well — least of all in his previous life.
Still, what choice do I have? When your parents tell you to do something, you do it.
So what would their youngest son — their youngest young master — show them now? Master and servant alike watched with open curiosity.
"He only ever reads. Surely he can't…"
"Come now, don't talk nonsense. Is the lord's bloodline ever ordinary?"
"Looking at Young Lady Anna, Young Master Roy can't be anything less either, can he?"
Even the gardeners pruning the hedges, and the maids who ought to have been busy in the kitchens, watched the scene with interest through the windows.
And Jerry — still under discipline, stuck in his second-floor room and thoroughly bored — had his face pressed to the glass as well, eyes fixed on the makeshift training ground within the manor grounds.
"Young Master Roy, just as Young Lady Anna did, take this wooden sword and attack me."
"……"
What am I supposed to do about this?
A complicated swirl of feeling turned in Roy's chest. Then he let the tension drain from his shoulders.
Well. I'll just do it halfway.
Roy gave the wooden sword a light swing.
Thok. Thok.
His blade was clearly slower than Anna's. Where her lively strikes had produced a crisp, satisfying sound, the noise of Roy's wood meeting wood was dull and limp. He was not only slow; he looked far short of strength as well.
Even Geren's expression, as he defended, subtly eased. He kept having to stop instead of continuing to back away — Roy simply did not close the gap quickly enough.
"Oh dear…"
"What are you all standing around for? Get dinner ready already."
"Is the youngest young master hopeless when it comes to using his body?"
"Shh. What if the lord hears you?"
Everyone felt much the same, but the most crumpled face of all belonged to the baron. This was a world of the strong devouring the weak. Cleverness alone was not enough to survive.
Disappointment hung plain on every face — save one. Geren, facing Roy directly, was forming a rather different judgment.
This boy…
All at once Geren stopped retreating. Only then did Roy's gaze lift to him for the first time.
"Young Master Roy. A lesson must always be taken seriously."
"Pardon? I am being serious…"
"Is that truly so?"
Geren's eyes turned sharp and cold. Around them, the air drew taut as a bowstring.