Chapter 166: The Search (3)
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 166: The Search (3)
At the Winter Palace of Robrus, I exchanged many words with Zerof, yet the substance of our conversation was hollow. Even so, Zerof—his face gilded with a practiced, gold-rimmed smile—kept nodding with satisfaction, repeating a single refrain: "I will convey this."
"I shall pass everything we've discussed today on to the Chairman. He will surely find it most intriguing."
Diplomacy is merely diplomacy, and politics merely politics. What truly matters is the person pulling the strings. In the end, Zerof was nothing more than Chairman Varmil's faithful lapdog.
"I hope he does."
There was no need to fear the approaching future. The Chairman would make a rational decision. He would accept the deception known as the non-aggression pact.
That was precisely why, on this tedious and tangled chessboard, the advantage lay with me.
I knew how history would unfold. I had already witnessed the inner workings of Izenheim.
"The results will likely be delivered to you after one more night's rest, before your return to the Empire."
Zerof's expression suddenly shifted to one of curiosity.
"By the way, what sort of aircraft did you arrive in, Sir Knight? It looked like a military transport."
This, too, was a move I had anticipated.
"Yes. It's a Kanilan-made military transport. Would you like one as a gift?"
"...Are you serious?"
Zerof's face transformed instantly, the temptation plain to see.
"Of course. In fact, it's a gift I'd be more than glad to present. Would an aircraft of the same model as mine suffice?"
Goodwill bought with money is the cheapest kind. Besides, that transport was an outdated model anyway.
"In that case, we shan't refuse. Hahaha!"
With those words from Zerof, our meeting concluded. I had one lingering regret—I had not come face-to-face with the General Secretary himself. I was already reasonably certain he was Izenheim, but confirming it with my own senses was another matter entirely.
*
Back at the hotel, I sat by the window and spread out the Eastern newspapers. Most of the headlines were criticisms of the Empire, which I found rather amusing.
Knock, knock—
A sudden rap at the door.
I opened it to find Yelena standing quietly before me. She offered a small smile and handed over a single document.
"The caviar supply contract."
"...That was swift. Please, come in."
I readily welcomed her inside.
"I hear you had quite a lengthy conversation with Commissar Zerof of Internal Affairs," Yelena remarked the moment she settled onto the sofa. So, that was her real purpose for coming.
"Yes. We discussed, in modest terms, the bright future between the Empire and Robrus."
I answered evenly, scanning the contract. The terms were quite reasonable. As expected of a house with genuine pedigree within the Eastern Union—there wasn't a trace of the upstart about them.
"Excellent. May I sign at once?"
"As you please."
Yelena watched the tip of my pen as it moved, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur.
"The next time we meet, we may well be enemies."
Without pausing my pen, I replied indifferently.
"Who can say."
I handed the papers back to her. Yelena turned her gaze toward the penthouse window. Sleet drifted through the air, the scene shimmering grey under the moonlight, looking as though it might crumble at any moment.
"The times ahead will be long and cruel," Yelena murmured bitterly, watching the snowstorm beyond the glass.
"...Perhaps it is necessary. If it is for the cleansing of the continent."
Cleansing. I had no choice but to use such a word. For this continent—this world—had been contaminated by Izenheim.
"Ha. Cleansing, is it..." Yelena’s expression hardened. "It seems I cannot divide the value of human lives quite so conveniently as you, Sir Knight."
"..."
Instead of answering, I quietly raised my teacup. Yelena rose from her seat.
"Then, I shall take my leave."
She did not yet know the true shape of the hell that was coming. I wondered if her "righteous" conviction would hold when she finally stood face-to-face with the malice of that sub-species.
"Take care, Commissar Yelena."
Over the rim of my teacup, I met her sapphire eyes directly and gave the warning. She left without a word.
* * *
The Empire, the uppermost floor of the Sentinel Knights' headquarters.
[ Deputy Commander of the Sentinels, Chiron von Graf ]
Chiron gazed at the nameplate resting on his oak desk with entranced eyes. He picked up a cloth and began to rub the surface of the nameplate, his movements slow and deliberate.
Wondering if perhaps some dust had settled, he wiped—again, and again.
And again.
Careful not to leave a single scratch, he polished it with obsessive thoroughness until, at some point, his hand paused.
"...Ah."
It wasn't dust. It was an engraved pattern. Chiron let out a dry, airy laugh.
"Haah."
With a look of pure satisfaction, he sank into his chair, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. His reflections on the man who had seized this seat this very day were—
"...Flawless."
Anton was gone, and Commander Alberich was an old man with nothing left to do but await retirement. Before long, the position of Commander would be his.
"Hahaha."
Chiron laughed. This joy belonged wholly to him. Some people babbled about how achieving a dream left them feeling empty—but that was only true for fools. Not him.
"Kuahaha!"
There was only rapture. There was no need to share this triumph with anyone. No need to shout it to the world. He would simply savor it with every fiber of his being.
"Kuahahahaha! Hahahahaha—!"
He threw his head back and laughed, loud enough to make the spacious office ring.
"Phew."
After venting his excitement, Chiron regulated his breath and recovered his composure. Truth be told, the atmosphere within the Sentinel Knights was not nearly as bright as his own mood. Since Anton's fall from power, the rift between the factions had only deepened.
And on top of that...
"..."
Chiron picked up an official document sealed with a crimson stamp, set neatly at the corner of his desk.
[ Imperial Edict ]
Establishment of the Office of Minister of Commerce and Guidelines for Cooperation with the Sentinel Knights.
In order to strengthen the Empire's military and public-order capacities, a new post of "Minister of Commerce" shall be established to coordinate the regular army's budget, personnel authority, and the police force in their entirety.
The incoming Minister of Commerce shall enhance the transparency and efficiency of both the regular army and the Knights, therefore...
Chiron's eyes narrowed into cold slits. The Palace scum were, at long last, moving to place limits on the Sentinels' authority.
*
Nearly every top-secret document and confidential historical record generated within the Empire was permanently housed in the Imperial Library—specifically, in the deepest subterranean forbidden archive.
A barrier was maintained there at all times, forbidding entry to outsiders. To step inside, one had to be a member of the imperial family, or at the very least hold authority on par with the Emperor's closest confidants.
Creak—
And yet, someone pulled open the door of that forbidden archive with perfect composure. Because someone possessed precisely that level of authority.
Having tucked a single volume of records carefully into the folds of her robe, the figure slipped out and began walking down the marble corridors of the palace.
"Hm? What's this?"
Reutern II appeared out of nowhere.
"Well, well~ What perfect timing!"
As he approached with exaggerated cheer, as though delighted by the encounter, the Emperor's eyes and ears—the Agentes, Sonette Kandel—merely gave a slight nod.
"Hey. Hey. Have you heard the rumors? That slippery bastard Kents Bertem... word is he's about to be raised to some high post. Minister of Commerce or whatever the hell it's called. I mean, come on~ does that even make sense to a sane person?"
"..."
"Seriously, that guy was always trampled on by his older brother—leftover scraps even within his own family—and now suddenly he's a minister? The bureaucrats must've collectively swallowed something funny, don't you think? Complete morons~ Oh, and another thing..."
His grumbling continued at length.
"First of all, it starts with his face. Don't you think? He looks like a frog. People with frog faces should never be given high office. They should just make a law about it, the idiots. No frogs in positions of power..."
Watching him, Sonette found she simply could not comprehend it. Could this imbecilic countenance truly belong to the meticulously calculated performer, the grand actor Reutern?
"If you're so dissatisfied, then petition the Council."
"...Why would I? I'd have to be mad to bother with something so tiresome."
In that instant, Reutern II's expression stiffened ever so slightly—a change so minute it almost vanished in the same breath. Sonette did not miss that flicker. Unmistakably, a chill foreign to the halfwit he had been a moment ago had passed through him.
"I'm too busy studying tactics and strategy, you know. Learning to be a commander."
At his words, Sonette gave a light bow.
"Yes. I wish you every success in becoming a splendid commander. Good day."
With that, she passed him by. There was no continuing the conversation beyond this point. The palace corridors were dangerous. Someone was always listening.
*
"Hm. So Reutern II said something like that..."
As Sonette had anticipated, the substance of their brief exchange found its way to Grossman.
"Yes, Chief Secretary. He apparently disparaged the rumor of Lord Kents Bertem's appointment as Minister of Commerce."
"As expected. The two of them have been at each other's throats from the start."
Grossman drew on his cigar, lost in thought. Reutern II's political acumen had already been proven by his dismissal of Julius. Yet to openly interfere in this ministerial appointment would carry an enormous political risk, even for a member of the Imperial family.
The creation of new ministerial posts was, by its very nature, a prerogative of the Imperial Household. If he rashly raised a banner of opposition, the backlash would strike him instead. Even so, Reutern's movements were impossible to predict.
"He seems to be trying to curry favor with the nobles, pointlessly... Keep a thorough watch over his every move. Tighten the twenty-four-hour surveillance net—we need to know every mad scheme that bastard might cook up behind the curtain. Whom he meets, what he plots. Report every detail."
A royal's sphere of activity was, in the end, confined to the palace. And the palace had countless eyes and ears fixed upon him.
"Understood."
After his aide had withdrawn, Grossman fell into silence. At his feet, his shadow rippled like smoldering embers.
Slither, slither, slither...
Presently, the darkness peeled away from him and seeped into the many shaded recesses of the palace.
Kurt Grossman. The man who had left his own house to become the Emperor's Chief Secretary had not seized this seat through politics and pedigree alone. Unlike the cowards of the palace, Grossman did not fear Zebestian. There was a reason—a concrete one—at the foundation of that confidence.
* * *
A military airfield in Robrus.
"That paper. Do not lose it."
Zerof, who had come to see me off, pointed at the document clutched in my hand. It was the draft of a secret pact bearing the General Secretary's signature.
"Would it not be, for both of us, the 'beginning of a promise' most weighty and most costly?"
A deception, each side ready at any moment to sever the other's throat. And yet, a single sheet of paper that both sides needed.
"Yes. I shall."
I gave a small smile and nodded.
"My gift should be delivered around next week. I look forward to meeting you again, Commissar Zerof."
"Hahaha. Yes, Sir Knight. Next time, let us cast aside these cumbersome uniforms and raise a toast together somewhere more comfortable and far more pleasant."
I responded to his clinging flattery with a simple bow of the head and boarded the transport.
Kuguguguung—!
By the time I arrived back in the Empire, it was late at night. It felt like coming home. At last, I thought, I might be able to rest a little.
"Sir Maximilian."
But the moment I stepped onto the runway, a man in a suit approached without a sound.
"From here on, we shall be your escort."
He discreetly flashed the seal of the imperial family.
"...Let us go."
I got into his car. The vehicle swept out of the airfield and arrived at a shabby, dilapidated building that looked like an abandoned warehouse.
"This is the place."
The man carefully pulled open a rusted door that creaked on its hinges. In the middle of a narrow, dust-laden room, someone sat quietly. Hidden within the shadow of a pulled-down hood—yet unable to mask the lofty, chilling grace beneath—was Princess Justine.
"Maximilian. How did the diplomacy fare?" Justine asked.
I saluted her with proper courtesy and handed over the paper.
"I have returned with this intent, Your Highness."
She lowered the hood of her robe halfway. After a cursory glance over the contents of the paper, she murmured in a cold voice, "...You've accomplished it flawlessly. Father will be greatly pleased as well."
It was a voice too icy to count as praise, but neither of us would be moved by such trivialities.
"Are the Eastern dogs having some trouble internally? For them to hand over a document bearing the General Secretary's signature so readily."
"I do not know the precise details, but it seemed they, too, needed time to settle their internal affairs and consolidate their power."
"Consolidate their power..." The Princess stroked her chin and posed a question back to me. "Does our Empire have no such need?"
There was a barb buried in her words. I kept silent for a moment, then spoke.
"...There are rumors openly circulating among the top brass of the Eastern Union that Chairman Varmil, their General Secretary, is an Izenheim."
In that instant, Justine's brow convulsed. For a flicker of a moment, an exceedingly fierce contempt and revulsion settled over her face. She was the sort of human being who regarded every sub-species on the continent as vermin.
"I do not believe that rumor to be wholly baseless. And even if he is not, in fact, an Izenheim, the General Secretary's father was a base merchant dragging fish entrails through harbor gutters, and his mother was a nameless maidservant."
The Izenheim cannot claim the standing of "true nobility." The lineage of those creatures, who emerged out of nowhere, extends back only a few centuries at most. That is why the Izenheim cling so obsessively to finance. They must purchase their background with money—only then can they raise their kind up.
"For such a lowborn, rootless bloodline to reign at the pinnacle of the Eastern Union, a process of reshaping power is inevitable. However," I looked up at the Princess, "the Empire has already coalesced around His Majesty and Your Highness. It is taking on a form more befitting of the Empire than ever before."
The Princess seemed to weigh my words quietly for a moment, then the corner of her mouth twisted into a faint smirk. She exhaled softly.
"...Yes. Your words are quite correct. The Eastern dogs are, after all, rootless, disgusting beasts."
The Princess rose slowly from her seat.
"Maximilian. There were many strange aspects to your conduct reaching me from here and there. To speak plainly, I was deeply displeased when you made an exception for that sub-species called the Yaken. Yet the reasoning itself was, to some extent, understandable. It is never too late to beat a hunting dog to death once the hunt is over."
The Princess's cold fingers lightly brushed the collar of my uniform.
"From now on, everything you see, hear, and do—you shall report it to me first."
She drew something from within her robes and placed it against my chest.
"This matter was conveyed to you through Grossman, but that man is difficult to trust. No—I have no wish to trust him. He is the sort who raises tens of thousands of snakes in his breast."
It was a sheet of mana parchment, shimmering with a faint blue current.
"If you have words to say, use that. If there is a meeting to be had, it will be here."
I surveyed this half-ruined safehouse once more, more carefully this time. I sensed a current more mysterious than magic. According to the analysis of my virus—
"Arcane, is it."
The Princess smirked. "Yes. The linking of spaces. An Arcane your father presented to mine. If I open the wardrobe in my chambers, it leads directly to this place."
A perfect space for a clandestine meeting, beyond compare.
"Maximilian." I looked up at her. She looked down upon me and laid a hand on my shoulder. "Become my vassal."
Justine's foundation was still insufficient. The Imperial Household in its entirety was not yet hers. She would only become the undisputed Crown Princess once the Emperor himself granted it. For the sake of the days to come, she would want vassals sworn to her alone.
"As your father did."
From my end, it felt as though I had passed her test. Or perhaps the true test was only just beginning.
"..."
As an imperialist, as one who feigns the role of loyal vassal—could that aspect of me be conveyed to Justine? Humanity's greatest enemy lies outside, but perhaps my own greatest enemy lies within.
The Emperor had extended to me—Zebestian's son—the same trust he placed in my father, without reservation. But Princess Justine was not a person soft enough for that.
"Yes," I lowered my head and offered her proper courtesy. "I shall devote all my heart and strength."
Princess Justine was a person cut from the same cloth as I. At the very least, the grain of our ambitions ran in similar lines.
And yet... within my chest, a darkness writhed—one I myself could not fully understand.
It was probably, I thought, because I was not Zebestian.