Chapter 20 — The Traitor's Mark
By the time the sun had fully sunk below the horizon and the bustling main streets had gone quiet, Saif led the knights to a warehouse behind the bakery building—a storage space for flour, dried fruit, and other ingredients.
Walking deep into the warehouse with Saif and the seniors pushed out in front of him, Arendt found himself drifting into a light reverie.
A bakery that doubled as an exchange? That was something he'd never once seen in the novel.
So I figured it was nothing worth worrying about.
It had turned out to be a much bigger deal than he'd expected.
Which meant that even while the civil war raged and the empire was reduced to rubble in The Blue Knight of the Sacred Sword, there had been information Laios never properly uncovered.
Truthfully, it couldn't be helped.
As Knight Commander, Laios was tethered to the Imperial Palace. Even deploying every knight, soldier, and member of the Security Department at his disposal to sweep the empire, there were limits to what he could see.
To steer the scenario to a happy ending without major casualties, they would have to dig into even the parts Laios had never known about. Only then could they dodge the death flags.
What is this, a minefield sweep?
At this rate, shouldn't he be calling himself a director rather than an actor?
While Arendt was lost in these stray thoughts, Saif came to a halt.
"Um... it's over here."
He stole a glance at Arendt's expression.
Arendt lifted his head to look where Saif was pointing. There stood oak barrels for storing wine and aged spirits, each large enough to comfortably fit two or three people.
Arthur frowned.
"That would be the secret entrance, I take it?"
"Yes, that's right."
"What a trite little secret base. Hey, old man, listen up."
After delivering this bored assessment, Arendt gave Saif a couple of light kicks. When Saif turned back with a sour look, Arendt lowered his voice.
"We're your party. Roughly speaking... let's say, the degenerate young master of some wealthy house. You took a handful of coin to guide us here. Got it?"
"...Yes."
"If anyone asks where the clerk went, tell them you had other customers to receive, so you just came along with us."
Having said his piece, Arendt shoved Saif on the back.
"Good. Lead the way."
"Lead the way, you say?"
"Well, would you rather we did it? I told you, didn't I? You're the one who brought us here. Do your job properly. Open the door. Break it down if it's locked."
Muttering something about damned brats no ghost would even bother haunting, Saif trudged over and stood before the barrel. Fortunately, the misfortune of having to smash the lid himself never came to pass—the moment Saif fiddled with the barrel's round cover a few times, it came open with a soft click.
Inside the barrel, a staircase vanished into ink-black darkness.
"Ooh."
Arthur let out a whistle of admiration.
Saif heaved a deep sigh and stepped in first, and the knights followed him down the stairs.
Thud. Thud.
The deeper they descended, the more the chill air peculiar to underground spaces brushed against their faces.
Richt murmured, "It appears to be properly ventilated."
"They must have designed the bakery with the exchange in mind from the very start."
Arthur agreed readily.
After they had walked for some time, a large door appeared ahead. Two armed mercenaries stood guard before it, and the instant they spotted the group, they thrust their weapons forward.
"Halt."
"It's me—Saif."
Saif stepped into the lamplight and familiarly showed his face. The mercenary's features twisted.
"And Jeff? What about him?"
So the clerk Arendt had knocked out earlier was named Jeff.
Saif forced his stiffening tongue to move.
"...Said he had other customers to greet. These are my companions. I brought them to introduce them to the master."
The mercenary swept a dubious gaze over the three of them. Arthur and Richt, without quite meaning to, tensed and squared their chins.
After a moment, the mercenaries nodded.
"Go on in."
They stepped aside and opened the door, revealing yet another short passage. Unlike the damp, pitch-dark stairs, candelabras mounted on the walls lit the corridor brightly, and a thick carpet lay across the floor.
When the door thudded shut behind them, Arthur spoke quietly.
"They seem rather confident."
Letting outsiders into a hidden space so easily could only mean they were certain they could dispatch a few intruders without breaking a sweat.
Arendt tilted his head and drawled, "Whether they're wolves, lions, or just mutts, I suppose we'll find out when they fall over in front of us."
It wasn't a wrong statement, so the two of them held their tongues.
When they pushed open the door at the end of the passage themselves, bright light poured over them without warning. Once their eyes gradually adjusted to the glow, a lavishly appointed hall came into view.
"Wow..."
A crooked sound of awe escaped Arendt's lips. A massive chandelier hung from the surprisingly high ceiling, shedding light across walls finished in pristine white marble, while the thick carpet spread over the floor bore an intricately woven pattern—the finest quality at a single glance.
"Well, if it isn't Saif. Been a while."
While the group's attention was absorbed by the space that had opened up so abruptly, a man approached them. Arendt turned his head toward the voice.
There stood a man with both arms spread wide, wearing a warm, genial smile. His fleshy frame and easy humor might have made him look the very picture of a kind-hearted soul at a glance—but in the man's narrowly curved eyes glinted a luster that went by the name of greed.
This was Bread, owner of the bakery and master of this exchange.
"Uh, well. This young master here took an interest, so I went to the trouble of escorting him. Won't be a bad thing for you either."
"I see. Welcome, honored guests. I am Bread. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord."
The bakery owner, having introduced himself as Bread, bowed deeply at the waist.
Bread. The bakery owner's name is Bread.
It felt like being introduced to the owner of a pastry shop named Mr. Pastry.
"And the two behind you?"
"Pay them no mind. They're my valets."
Arendt tossed the words out with perfect nonchalance.
At the word valets, Richt's and Arthur's eyebrows twitched. But they exercised superhuman patience and kept their expressions in check.
"Today we're just here to look around, quietly. Saif, you go see to your business. I'll keep my word and stay out of your way."
"Understood."
Saif nodded stiffly, and Arendt calmly surveyed his surroundings.
Lamps hanging in every corner illuminated the spacious underground hall as bright as noonday. The guards stationed here and there gripped sharply honed weapons and glared daggers at the group.
"Some of them are wanted men. So this is where they've been gathering."
Richt whispered, low enough for only Arthur and Arendt to hear.
It seemed the exchange took in criminals with nowhere else to run and hired them as security. For an underground hall of this size, the manpower was if anything excessive—even a rough count put them well past ten.
Arendt gave a vague nod by way of pretense and turned his gaze elsewhere. Strange weapons of bizarre design were arranged neatly on what looked like a display cabinet, and on one side suspicious medicinal herbs were piled high, giving off a distinctive odor.
Bread, who had sidled over unnoticed, spoke to Arendt first.
"So then, is there anything in particular you're looking for?"
"No, like I said before, I came to browse. If it's no trouble, I'd like a tour."
Arendt shot him a sidelong glance, and Bread arched an eyebrow.
"Recommendations, hm. I'd be happy to, but I don't know your tastes, my lord. A young master from a noble house has no business lacking for treasures badly enough to come all the way to a place like this... Are you seeking thrills, then?"
"And if I am? You're not about to bore me with some musty lecture about how places like this don't suit a man of nobility, are you?"
"Heavens, no. Chasing one's interests is a perfectly admirable thing. You only live once—what's wrong with seeking a little excitement?"
Arthur watched the exchange between Arendt and Bread with mounting anxiety.
Arendt chuckled airily. "Now that's an answer I like."
"Oh, might I interest you in rare medicinal ingredients? It's the kind of stock one rarely gets to lay eyes on."
Bread reached into the sack beside him and scooped up a handful of dried lizards.
"A lizard that lives only on the island nations of the far northern seas. A very expensive ingredient."
"What's it used for?"
"Poisons and mysterious elixirs. It's also used as a treatment when swordmasters or mages suffer internal injuries from mana. Remarkably effective. It even helps one's mana swell explosively, moment to moment. A little dangerous, but once it's processed, it's quite a useful thing."
Bread held out a single dried lizard to Arendt, who reached out with a reluctant expression to accept it.
Or, rather, tried to.
Snap.
In that instant, Bread's arm shot out and seized his wrist in a crushing grip. Richt's hand flew reflexively toward his sword hilt.
"What the—!"
"What do you think you're doing?"
But Arendt was faster. Raising his free hand to wave Richt back, he lashed out in an icy voice.
Then Bread smiled broadly.
"Your hands are unusually rough and calloused... It seems you've trained with the sword, hmm?"
"Get your filthy hands off me."
Arendt shook him off. Bread retreated obediently, his eyes narrowing slyly.
"For a young lord of a noble house to have learned merely self-defense... For something like that, your sword hilt seems to carry an awful lot of wear from use."
"..."
Richt's face hardened.
Arendt simply crossed his arms and met Bread's gaze head-on.
"So?"
"Besides, you made even Saif cower. I'd say you're no ordinary man. That one fears absolutely no one. He's not the type to be nervous over some curious noble brat."
As the atmosphere took a strange turn, the mercenaries began stealthily closing in around them.
"Jeff has either been bought off already, or you did something to him."
Clatter.
The scrape of steel rang in their ears as the mercenaries fondled their weapons. Without their realizing it, they were now completely surrounded.
"Reveal who you are."
Bread grinned, baring his yellowed teeth. Richt clicked his tongue inwardly and tensed his body.
I appear to have underestimated him rather badly.
Noticing the shift in Richt's aura, the mercenaries, too, dropped into crouched stances, looking ready to draw their blades and axes at any moment.
"Arthur."
"Yes."
Richt murmured quietly, and Arthur answered just as calmly. His hand was already resting on his hilt.
The mercenaries' eyes grew fiercer still. Arthur and Richt likewise glared coldly at their enemies.
A taut tension hung over the hall—an instant from eruption, a situation where a single spark could set everything alight. Amid the naked killing intent flowing back and forth, Arthur's and Richt's nerves wound tighter and tighter.
Then a voice, laced with amusement, slackened everyone's strings at once.
"You really do have to go this far before you can call yourself a proper merchant."
"Y-you..."
Arthur's jaw dropped. Richt, forgetting the situation entirely, stared at Arendt in sheer disbelief. The same thought struck them both simultaneously.
What is he going to spout this time?!
Bread, evidently caught off guard as well, knit his brow.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
"If you can't even read a cue that obvious, you deserve to die. You've got no business sitting on your hands running a place like this."
Arendt added lazily. Bread's expression darkened further—but before he could squeeze out another word, Arendt beat him to it.
"You keep your ear to the ground for rumors, don't you? A man who does business in his own way. Then surely you've heard something of what's been happening at the Imperial Palace lately."
"The palace?"
"You'd better know. It concerns your bread and butter, after all."
Arendt raised his arm. The sudden movement made the mercenaries flinch and tense—but Arendt did nothing at all. He merely pulled back his sleeve to show it off.
Wrapped snugly around his pale wrist was a silver bracelet. Bread could see, engraved upon its clasp, the crest of the imperial family.
"Huh?"
Bread went blank for a moment.
Bearing an item belonging to the imperial household meant belonging to the Imperial Palace. But that bracelet carried a slightly different meaning. It was a thing bestowed, since times past, by the emperor upon a noble showing signs of treason—or upon that noble's own child—to hold their very life as collateral.
Of late it had been used to restrain criminals of noble houses released on provisional parole, but its significance had not dimmed in the slightest.
After blinking stupidly a few times, Bread's mouth fell wide open.
"Then, don't tell me—"
"You asked who I was, didn't you?"
Arendt flashed him a crooked smile, then declared with utmost confidence:
"I am the traitor of the Imperial Knights—Arendt von Eckhart."
A voice that seemed to burrow insistently into the ears filled the entire hall. Startled by the sudden turn, the mercenaries' eyes went wide, while Bread could only open and close his mouth like a landed fish.
"Don't tell me you don't know my name. Not when I wear that mark, of all things."
With every eye in the room fixed upon him, Arendt put a pointed stress on his words. There was no one present who didn't know what mark he meant.
The underground hall fell dead silent in an instant.
Arthur, who had been quietly watching Arendt's performance, murmured low enough for only Richt to hear.
"I officially know nothing anymore."
"Neither do I."
Richt replied just as calmly, low enough for only Arthur to hear.