39. The Uninvited Guests (2)
Darkness crept in from the west.
The sky had grown dim, but the tiny fief below the mountain was still awake. The soldiers on the palisade had lit their torches early on, and the tavern and smithy glowed with firelight. A leatherworker finishing his day's work, laborers locking up the storehouse, peddlers tidying their stalls — each carried a lantern at their side.
The lord's manor had grown busy as well.
With the older maids and male servants mostly dispatched to the garrison at the gate, only the young girls remained to light the manor. Half a dozen of them hurried about on tiptoe, kindling the candelabras one by one. Perhaps sensing the shortage of hands, soldiers and retainers pitched in to help.
By the time the manor had finally brightened, Dionea and I had arrived at the lord's hall.
From the hall's high ceiling, iron chandeliers bloomed like morning glories, scattering light in every direction. Under that glow, the first to greet us was a man and a woman.
“Baroness. Sir Phoenix.”
“......Simos?”
It was the one-eyed swordswoman Simos and the boy mage Ethan. A few days ago, when we'd entered Longville, I had entrusted my horse Speckles to the two of them — with orders to lure the Anupad horde and then flee to the mountain lodge.
“How did you get here? The roads can't be safe yet.”
“Atilia arranged for us to travel with a convoy, so we arrived without trouble.”
“Atilia did?”
At that, I looked around at the people gathered in the hall.
Near the crossed-leg chairs, the six retainers of House Agni were assembled; across from them, seven visitors were waiting on Dionea.
The most conspicuous among the visitors was a man who appeared to be in his late twenties. He sat at the table at the center of the hall, dressed in a purple velvet vest and a luxurious green coat. He was chubby and short, but his pale face was reasonably handsome.
I studied him for a moment, then whispered to Simos.
“Is that him?”
“......Who do you mean, sir?”
“The man sitting over there by himself. I heard he's the Count's son or something.”
“Ah, yes. That's Doyle Mulin, second son of Count Tristan.”
Doyle Mulin. Behind him stood three men — one in plate armor, one in chain mail, and one in a baggy green bliaud.
Come to think of it, the one in chain mail was none other than Sir Killian. Why was that old man hanging around over there?
I shot him a questioning look, but Sir Killian, meeting my eyes, quietly turned his head away.
A little apart from them stood three others, all in Nu-dein tribal dress. Two were elders wrapped head to toe in black cloaks, and the third was a young woman.
Arm guards of steel scales, a tight-fitting leather armor, short breeches that left her thighs bare, and leather boots covering her shins... The golden-eyed beauty — Atalante.
She had been standing with a stiff face, but the moment she spotted me, her eyes went round. She opened her mouth as if to greet me, then glanced at the elders accompanying her and shut it again.
Hmm, she doesn't look too happy, does she. What's that about?
By the time my gaze had made a full circuit of the hall, Dionea, who had been standing in silence, finally spoke.
“Acquaintances of yours, Sir?”
“Ah. Yes, my lady. They're part of my company — we'd split up briefly to enter Longville.”
“I see.”
Dionea offered Simos and Ethan a smile.
“Anyone who is a friend of Sir Phoenix is a friend of mine. Was there something you wished to say?”
“No, my lady. We only came looking for our companions.”
“I see. If you wish, I'll prepare another room for you to stay in.”
At Dionea's words, Simos stole a glance my way. When I nodded, she and Ethan followed a maid out of the hall.
As Dionea moved toward the crossed-leg chairs, I took my place beside drillmaster Chester and asked in a low voice.
“Are those seven the whole of the guests?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chester covered his mouth with a feigned stroke of his beard as he went on.
“Once you count out the escort soldiers waiting outside, that's your lot.”
“What business brings them here?”
“Couldn't say. They haven't opened their mouths once.”
The Count's second son, who had been nursing his cup at the table, suddenly spoke up.
“It's been a while, my lady. You grow more beautiful with every passing day.”
Dionea paused for a moment, then settled into her chair and returned the courtesy.
“......Good evening, Lord Doyle.”
“I've waited quite a while. You must have been very busy.”
“Receiving unexpected guests, you see.”
Doyle flashed a grin and lifted his cup. At once a maid standing in the corner hurried over and refilled it.
“I understand, of course. However small the fief, ruling it is hardly a burden a young widow can shoulder on her own.”
At his words, herald Tollomy bristled and stepped forward.
“Longville is no small fief, and the Baroness is no widow. Mind your words, my lord.”
“......Mind my words, you say?”
Doyle let out a hollow ha and looked back over his shoulder.
“Sir Eselda.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Only then did I realize that the knight in plate armor was a woman.
“If that insolent old man opens his mouth again, slap him across the face at once.”
“......A slap, my lord?”
“Yes, a slap.”
The mature female knight, who looked to be in her mid-to-late forties, twitched her eyebrows briefly and then said nothing. She had simply brushed off Doyle's order entirely.
...God, that's cool.
My interest freshly piqued, I gave the knight called 'Sir Eselda' a closer look.
The plate armor she wore was no cheap imitation but the genuine article. Like the armor of Prince Ulkar and his knights, it was a masterwork from the Royal Dormena Armory.
She stood with a helm tucked under her arm and her legs planted shoulder-width apart. Her build was clearly well-drilled, and for a woman she was very tall, with long limbs.
Sharp eyes, a squared jaw, a nose bridge curved like a lightning bolt, hair cropped short at half-back, and beneath it, flat, pressed-down ears...
In short: a fearsome-looking middle-aged woman who looked like she could swing a sword or two.
“That is Sir Eselda the Beautiful.”
“......Beautiful, you say?”
At my skepticism, drillmaster Chester stroked his beard.
“It's her long-standing nickname.”
“Ah. Famous, is she?”
“Very. There's no one in the Marba region who doesn't know it.”
Chester side-eyed Sir Eselda as he continued whispering.
“They say she's felled more than fifty knights in duels — a true master of close combat.”
“......Knights?”
I never got Chester's answer. Of all moments, Doyle's silence happened to break right then.
“I notice it every time, but the wine here is truly, magnificently awful.”
He set his cup down with a scowl. Whether the wine was genuinely terrible or he was simply seething at Sir Eselda for ignoring his command, there was no telling.
Doyle clicked his tongue and beckoned to the maid.
“Oi! Forget the wine — bring me cider or mead, if you have any.”
Ugh. What an insufferable piece of work. Why is he acting like he owns the place in somebody else's house?
“Ah. By the way, my lady.”
“......Yes, Lord Doyle.”
“On the way here, we saw some mercenaries. It looked as though they were being driven out of the fief.”
“We did not drive them out. There were concerns about public order, so we merely advised them to leave.”
“Oh dear.”
Doyle shook his head with exaggerated regret, his tone one of manufactured concern.
“Even the same words carry a different weight when spoken under the authority of a lord. Call it an advisory if you like, but to the mercenaries, it will feel like banishment.”
“They may feel however they please. Proper compensation will be paid to them, following due procedure.”
“Proper compensation, you say.”
When Doyle smiled thinly, Dionea's face stiffened.
“I would like to know what business brings you here.”
“Ah, of course.”
At his slight gesture, a middle-aged man in the baggy bliaud, sporting a goatee, stepped forward. He bowed to Dionea and spoke.
“It is an honor to meet you, my lady. I am Hephin, envoy of Count Tristan.”
“A pleasure, Hephin.”
The envoy Hephin laid a hand over his chest, his face clouded with sorrow.
“The Count has expressed his deepest condolences over the calamity that befell Longville. His beloved only daughter, Lady Clarissa, has resolved to fast and pray for two days for the welfare of the good folk dwelling in Longville.”
At Hephin's courteous bearing, Dionea's expression softened a little.
“Thank you. That is a great comfort. Please convey my gratitude to the Count and the young Lady.”
“The honor is mine, to carry such gracious words. Oh — and one more thing.”
As if he'd just remembered, he drew a parchment scroll from inside his coat. Dionea received it through Chester and unrolled it with a puzzled look.
“What is this?”
“Documents for a change of contractual party.”
“......Contract?”
“Yes. If you sign those papers, a portion of the debt your late husband incurred during his lifetime will be forgiven.”
At those words, Dionea read through the scroll, and confusion spread across her face.
“Th-this is... what on earth is this? Debt, you say—”
“......Oh dear. So you didn't know.”
The envoy Hephin stroked his goatee with a look of troubled sympathy.
“Surely Baron Mallory could never have made a decision of such gravity on his own authority.”
Muttering thus, he glanced sidelong at the retainers of Longville. Amid the general bewilderment, one old woman heaved a deep sigh. It was Selma, the majordomo of House Agni.
“......Selma. Do you know something about this?”
“My lady.....”
Selma shuffled over to Dionea and whispered in her ear. When I strained my hearing, the small voice came through clearly.
“......The Baron took out a loan for this hunting festival.”
“How—how much?”
“Well, you see...
“Selma. Quickly.”
“......One thousand gold coins, and five thousand silver.”
“Good heavens.”
Insane. I was thinking the same thing. Where did all that money in this tiny barony come from? Turns out it was all debt?
Dionea's face had gone white as she pressed further.
“How—how much remains of our assets now?”
“No gold. Three hundred silver, and that's all of it.”
“......And the fief's property?”
“Worth less than that, my lady.”
At Selma's flat verdict, Dionea squeezed her eyes shut.
“Then what—what are we supposed to do now?”
“Hold out, my lady. Tell them that given time, you will repay it.”
“And if I hold out? Is there a way to pay it back?”
“Yes. There is.”
“How?”
“......I'll explain that later.”
That old woman clearly knows about the gold mine.
Cast your memory back, and the place where Akhanku Karamek had opened the rift was inside the mine — or to be precise, the working face of the gold mine at the summit of Mount Graduil.
According to Simos, the giant chunks of pure gold scattered about meant the yield would be absurdly profitable. If her guess was right, a few thousand gold coins could be mined out in no time.
That, no doubt, was the context in which Majordomo Selma had insisted they hold out somehow.
Dionea gazed at Selma for a long moment, then nodded. Once the old majordomo withdrew, Dionea turned back to the envoy Hephin.
“What happens if I sign these documents?”
“As I said before. All interest on the debt will be forgiven — you need only repay the principal.”
“......And if I refuse to sign?”
“Oh. What a dreadful thought...
Wearing a look of shock, Hephin laid out his words in a low, measured voice.
“To renege on a contract is a grave dishonor for any noble. Moreover, Baron Mallory was a lord — and a vassal of Count Tristan. To break a contract within the bond of liege and vassal is outright treason. You would face not only the wrath of the Count, your liege lord, but legal penalties, and the condemnation of all people regardless of rank.”
Calm in tone, but Hephin's words were effectively a threat. Dionea pressed her lips tightly together. Her deep-green pupils darted busily over the documents, but they didn't seem to be accomplishing much.
“You will no doubt have guessed from the content and format, but this document was drafted with counsel from the various jurists of Multingham. The author, of course, is Lord Jeremiah, a judge of Marba — a renowned scholar who once served as a High Justice in the capital...”
...Hold on, doesn't this guy's tongue run a bit long? What's with him?
Watching Dionea fidget with her signet ring, taking it off and putting it back on, I couldn't bear the suspense any longer and stepped forward.
“My lady. Might I examine it first?”
“......Sir Phoenix?”
Dionea looked at me as if surprised. Meeting my steady gaze, she pressed her lips together for a moment — then nodded.
“......Sir Phoenix, you say?”
The Count's second son, Doyle, who had been sipping at his cup, showed interest in me for the first time.
“Sir — as in that Sir Phoenix?”
“......What's 'that' supposed to mean?”
“The blood-soaked swordsman. A knight of Prince Ulkar.”
I stepped toward Dionea, took the documents, and nodded absently.
“That's right. I'm that Phoenix.”
“So it's true! Haha—!”
Doyle slapped the table, laughing, then jabbed a finger at me as he looked back at his men.
“Hwahah! I knew it at a glance! The moment I laid eyes on you I thought, now there's a man who's no ordinary sort. So — the Black Knight of the Silver Prince!”
Unrolling the scroll, I found that it declared that since the debtor, Baron Mallory, had suffered an unforeseen circumstance, the contract would pass to Dionea.
The creditor remained Count Tristan, as before... Hmm. The change of contracting party itself was unavoidable, I supposed.
“I've heard the tales of you, and they left a deep impression. The eight-legged witch, the head of a mage band — even a crawling dragon lost its head to your blade, or so they say.”
Looking over it a second time, the oddity wasn't hard to spot. A document with the simple purpose of changing a contracting party had the entire contents of the original contract crammed into it.
“I heard about today's affairs as well. Driving off those rough mercenaries in one stroke. A pity to have missed such a magnificent spectacle.”
Why would they bother with such a tedious trick?
They only needed to state the justification and basis for the contract change, the effective date, and then fob off the details with 'as per the original contract.' Why burn expensive ink on all this drudgery?
“The knights of Multingham are one and all a stuffy, tedious lot, so listening to your dashing exploits—”
“Here. Show me the original.”
Doyle's face scrunched up mid-sentence, but I ignored him and fluttered the scroll at Hephin.
“Deaf, are we? I said show me the original.”
The envoy Hephin smoothed his goatee, brow furrowing.
“......My apologies, sir, but you have no standing to make such a demand. You are, after all, a third party to this matter. Indeed, your having seen the document at all is already—”
“Is that so?”
I turned to Dionea with a courteous air.
“As an upright knight and your sworn retainer, I wish to protect you. Will you grant me this request?”
“Uh......” Dionea's eyes wavered violently, caught off guard for a moment. In the flickering candlelight, her pale skin flushed red.
“I—I am, *keh-ek*.”
Her voice cracked mid-sentence, and Dionea cleared her throat several times before nodding.
“Ahem... Yes. Um, I accept your request, sir. Ah— gladly.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
Having paid her a formal bow, I left the red-faced Dionea behind and turned back to Hephin.
“My lady is now my lady. So — the original, if you please.”
“Hah...
Hephin gave an exasperated laugh, as if his patience were being tested, and shook his head.
“Regrettably, the original of the contract is in Multingham. It is not here.”
You son of a bitch.
I swallowed my curse and looked back at the old majordomo.
“Then, Selma — can we see the contract that Baron Mallory received?”
She pressed her lips together and hesitated, glancing around. Only after Dionea urged her on with a look did Selma produce the contract from somewhere.
I spread the two parchment scrolls side by side and compared them meticulously. After churning my eyes until my head ached, I caught it — a single word was different.
“Ha. Honestly.”
The long-winded speechifying, the scroll packed dense with text — it had to be a smokescreen to bury this one word.
“Sons of bitches, crooked bastards, every last one of them.”
My voice must have carried, because everyone gathered in the hall flinched and looked my way. I shrugged and gave them a smile.
“Just talking to myself.”
Then I beckoned to the envoy Hephin.
“Come over here and have a look. There's something strange in this contract.”
“......Strange, you say?”
“The principal repayment period has shrunk from five years to five months. Anyone might take this the wrong way — as a petty, low-down swindle.”
At my barb, Hephin answered with perfect composure, without so much as a blink.
“One might indeed. But look at the clause below, sir. It will read that the principal repayment period may be adjusted by mutual agreement.”
“And this was mutual agreement? Common decency would dictate explaining any change to the contract to the other party, wouldn't it?”
“Does it? That's a novel notion of decency to me.”
So they set out to swindle her from the very start.
I was contemplating whether I might just knock this guy's teeth out when Hephin continued.
“Besides, there is a legitimate reason for the shortened repayment period.”
“......A legitimate reason?”
“Yes. Has the debtor not changed — from Baron Mallory to his wife?”
“And?”
“It is an established fact, empirically speaking, that women are less committed to honoring contracts than men. It is therefore quite common practice to forgive the interest in exchange for moving up the deadline, so as to conclude the debt swiftly.”
There goes that long tongue again, the bastard. And this time he's spouting nothing but horseshit.
Deeming him unworthy of an answer, I shook my head and thrust the documents back at him.
“Enough. Go back and tell Count Tristan: no seal is getting stamped on this.”
“Sir. Why would you scorn the generosity of one who seeks to lift the crushing burden laid upon your lady?
“......Ha. Unbelievable.”
The 'crushing burden' he spoke of was, of course, Longville itself. Baron Mallory had put up the fief as collateral.
“You're an envoy. Go deliver a message.”
“Wh-what insolence—”
Meeting his eyes, I forced the documents into his hand.
“Whoever drafted these papers is a swindler beyond doubt, so you'd best cut his throat right away.”
“Wh-what on earth—”
“If you like, I'll even help. It happens to be my specialty.”
“......Uh, ah—”
The envoy Hephin's legs buckled — and with a resounding crash, he landed flat on his backside.