The Banquet Gambit
Arendt watched Zereon's retreating back as the aide led the way, and for a moment he tried to picture the Crown Prince in his company.
The Crown Prince he had encountered some time ago had been a remarkably free-spirited, do-as-he-pleased sort of man.
So someone like that is able to keep a person like this at his side?
Showing up unannounced in plain clothes, slipping out of the imperial capital at a moment's notice—clearly second nature to him. And when you considered that he'd smuggled out a retired chef and even built himself a secret hideaway, the rest went without saying.
None of that would have been so easy if Zereon hadn't been cooperating from the sidelines. Had he been dealing with some ordinarily stiff-necked attendant, it would have been flat-out impossible.
"Sir Arendt, you were also rather rash. I understand you wanted to take that child's side, of course—but with one wrong move, Sir Laios could have found himself in a difficult position as well."
"I keep telling you, I wasn't taking anyone's side."
"Yes, yes, of course you weren't."
Zereon chuckled softly.
"Though in truth, Sir Laios hardly minds such things. He's terribly stubborn himself, you see…… which is no doubt why the knights follow Commander Laios so devotedly."
"……"
"I'm well aware that everyone works hard for His Majesty the Emperor and for the peace of the Empire. But many among the 3rd Knight Order remain in their posts because they're drawn to Commander Laios's character."
Again, Arendt offered no reply.
But Zereon didn't seem particularly bothered by the silence.
"Of course, I hardly need to tell you this—you already know, having spent nearly a year in his company."
"……I'm curious why you're saying all this to me now, when you clearly know it already."
"Ahaha. No particular meaning behind it. I simply hoped that you, Sir Arendt, might come to understand a little of Commander Laios's heart."
Zereon wore the easy smile of a kind-natured man.
Before they knew it, the two had reached a sparsely traveled corridor. Two knights stood bolt upright at attention before an enormous door carved with the imperial family's crest. They glanced at Arendt and scowled in visible displeasure—then, noticing that Zereon had brought him along, quietly stepped aside.
Zereon dipped his head to them in thanks, then knocked politely on the door.
"Your Highness, I've brought Sir Arendt."
"Come in."
At the word of permission, Zereon opened the door. The thick paulownia-wood door swung open without a sound.
"You treacherous little weasel. Couldn't even last a few days before running your mouth?"
Cantares grumbled from where he sat buried in his desk chair. Since it hardly seemed the moment for formalities, Arendt simply gave a lazy nod.
"Oh, spare me the outrage. You've always known what he is."
"……Fine. I'll say no more."
Zereon closed the door behind him and took his place at Cantares's side—as though that spot had always belonged to him.
Arendt approached the Crown Prince, letting his eyes wander over the office. Like the imperial capital and the knights' quarters, it looked as if it had been transplanted wholesale from the pages of some museum catalog. The office was larger than most banquet halls. The massive desk where Cantares sat gleamed with polish, yet carried the weight of considerable age. A wall of bookshelves filled one side of the room, its papers and volumes sorted by category, while an ornately carved fireplace held court on another. Judging by the enormous visitor's sofa and table, the room doubled as a reception hall. Between the glittering chandelier and the jeweled ornaments and statuary scattered about, the opulence bordered on suffocating.
But Arendt gave no sign of it, shifting his gaze back to the master of the office instead. And felt a faint twinge of irritation once more.
Cantares fit this resplendent space perfectly—almost too perfectly. As if he had been born for it from the very beginning.
"What? Why are you looking at me like I owe you money?"
"It's nothing, Your Highness."
The words came out a touch more surly than usual.
"So why did you call me here?"
"There are things to give you, and things you owe me."
At Cantares's gesture, Zereon handed over the documents he'd been carrying.
"Tch. Filthy now. Well, it's not like I'm the one reading it."
Clicking his tongue once, he passed the documents to Arendt, who took them with a faint frown.
"What is this?"
"Marquis Grig must be livid right about now. When he learns that the documents he slaved over all night are headed into your hands, he might just clutch the back of his neck and keel over."
"Did you do that on purpose?"
"The man's a nuisance, so I decided to have a little fun. Let him burn the midnight oil and come to his senses. Of course, it never occurred to me that you'd cross paths and butt heads on the way here."
"Don't come crying to me when everyone hates you."
Arendt handed over what he had brought, offering the jab along with it. Cantares burst out laughing.
"I get plenty of hatred as it is. Doesn't bother me."
"Yes, yes, how splendid you are. And this is?"
"Marquis Grig's primary income comes from civil engineering projects, so I ordered a report compiled on the overall situation under various pretexts. This is the result."
Cantares explained briefly.
"He's quite well informed about the affairs of nearby territories and cities. It should serve as a decent way to track each territory's circumstances and where the money flows. And…… how was the Marquis?"
"What do you mean, 'how was he'? If you want to ask something, ask it more clearly."
Arendt spoke without lifting his head, still leafing through the smudged documents.
"You did get to see Marquis Grig in person. I'd planned to stage an 'accidental' encounter in the office, as it happens."
"You did. He was throwing a fit fit to clutch the back of his neck and drop dead."
"He can't have been in a good mood. I refused to approve the project he's been pushing for ages."
Cantares gave a small laugh.
"That doesn't sound like mere pettiness. Why?"
"A few years ago, some land was supposedly set aside for development as a welfare facility. I learned it was being used for something else entirely. So I dug a little deeper."
The Crown Prince paused and began counting on his fingers.
"The plot meant to become an orphanage had turned into a farm. And the place that received subsidies to build a cathedral of God Luce at the request of local notables had become a shopping district. The buildings were registered under different names—but those names were, presumably, the Marquis's own aliases."
In other words, every coin earned there went straight into the Marquis's pockets. Arendt responded without tearing his eyes from the documents in hand.
"Taken at face value, that's ordinary embezzlement and tax evasion. Couldn't you simply squeeze the Marquis himself?"
"For all that, the Marquis's assets remain almost untouched."
Only then did Arendt look up.
"I tracked it separately to find out where he'd hidden it all. But it was nowhere to be found. So I turned my attention to the aliases he uses instead."
"And that's where the money went?"
"Exactly. The wealth piled up under the name Josef Julian—Marquis Grig's alias—and then…… leaked out in a rather unexpected direction."
Resting his chin on his hand, Cantares's brow creased slightly.
"There was a noble who planned to build a tourist garden on the outskirts, a little ways from the palace. But the man driving that project died suddenly, and the land was bought up by someone else who declared they'd continue the construction."
"The Marquis was investing in it, then?"
Arendt cut in, finishing the thought. Cantares nodded.
"That's right."
"So what's being built there now?"
"A garden."
"I beg your pardon?"
A sound of pure idiocy escaped Arendt's mouth before he could stop it. Cantares groaned, as though he'd been expecting exactly that reaction.
"Absurd, isn't it? Astonishingly, it's the truth. I sent someone to snoop around, and they found a perfectly healthy garden under construction. Still mid-build, mind you."
Chin in hand, Cantares continued.
"What's more, the owner of the land making this garden is a complete unknown. Neither the laborers nor the people in the nearby village have ever laid eyes on them. Every time, they conduct business through a proxy."
"And the odds that the landowner is Marquis Grig?"
"Probably none. I can't be certain. But having uncovered this much, it's more than enough to arrest the Marquis for embezzlement and be done with it. That alone, however, is all it would get us. In my view, it's worth digging deeper."
Having said that much, Cantares lowered his voice a little.
"Arresting one Marquis and calling it finished—that's not something I can afford to think about so simply anymore. As you well know, there's been no shortage of incidents around us lately, has there?"
"……"
Confirming that Arendt was listening intently, Cantares added on.
"The Marquis won't be the only one who invested in that garden. And the true owner of that land is certainly out there somewhere. My instinct says that's where the real story lies. So……"
A mischievous smile spread across Cantares's face.
"I intend to hold a banquet in the imperial capital before long."
A banquet.
At that single word, a flicker of something sharp passed through Arendt's eyes.
Come to think of it, the timing does line up.
In the original story, the imperial banquet had been an event held while the Empire steadily sank into an abyss. The Empire now appeared, at least on the surface, quite peaceful—so Arendt had assumed the banquet might simply never come to pass.
The one standing in that hall in the novel had been Laios. By then, Arendt had already been executed, and the shadow of Arthur's death lay thick over the 3rd Knight Order.
Arendt recalled the events of the novel. Cantares summons Laios, who has grown despondent over Arendt's execution and Arthur's death. Encouraged by Cantares, Laios finds his strength again—and Cantares issues him a new command.
"I want you to keep watch over the nobles when you attend."
—Or something to that effect.
Then a voice rang out, matching the remembered line word for word.
A strange thrill washed over him, and Arendt allowed the corner of his mouth to curl up slightly. Thanks to his interference, the East Vault was safe, and Arthur was no longer fated to die in an ambush. Perhaps that was why the tone of Cantares's command was so light.
"The seasons are about to turn…… so I'm thinking we'll hold a banquet and do a bit of friendly networking."
This was no grim order issued in mourning for the dead—it was a deal struck between a troublesome knight and a mischievous Crown Prince.
"We'll invite the nobles, their families, promising young talents—all of them. And naturally, those to be watched closely are Marquis Grig and the crowd that keeps his company."
A playful grin stretched wide across Cantares's handsome face.
"And that's where you become essential. The palace troublemaker, the traitor knight, the turncoat who came back from death itself. Someone like you can wander about freely, mucking about to your heart's content without a soul minding."
"……"
"All you have to do is help us narrow down a few suspicious individuals. The rest is my job. Well? Can you manage it?"
Arendt paused for a beat. As if mulling it over seriously, he let his eyes fall downward, scratched the back of his head, and idly scuffed his foot against the floor for good measure. Then, when he raised his head again—
The cursed apprentice knight was wearing his trademark sulky expression. Which meant, in no uncertain terms, that he had a complaint.
"……And what is it this time?"
"So you're telling me you want to delegate the sifting process to me, is what I'm hearing."
"I can't hand it over entirely. But for now, yes?"
"Honestly. Your Highness, with all due respect—even if this is the Crown Prince's command, there are quite a few nobles out there who'd like to see me dead as we speak."
As Arendt stretched out a shameless shrug, Cantares's face curdled as though he'd bitten into a rotten insect.
"Your Highness will be lounging in the safest place in the palace with the strongest knights at your back, of course. But me? I'd have no one to blame if I got quietly ambushed and killed in some dark corner. I'm a mere apprentice knight, after all…… and, to top it off, I've got that delightful little nickname—'the traitor.'"
"……"
A bead of cold sweat crept down Zereon's smiling face.
"S-Sir Arendt. Is there, perhaps, something you want?"
"Nothing grand. It actually just occurred to me."
Arendt spat it out, as if he'd only been waiting for those words.
"Provide me with a training ground. Somewhere no one's eyes can reach."