Chapter 31 — Dear Marquis

"How are you feeling, my lord Marquis?"

The butler ventured carefully, his eyes settling on his master—Marquis ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Grig, slumped deep into the sofa, kneading his temples with both hands.

"Damn it. That insufferable little brat has me in pieces."

"The preparations for the banquet are nearly complete, my lord."

A servant darted forward, offered him a glass of ice water, and withdrew at once. The Marquis downed it in a single gulp and let out an enormous sigh.

"Whew…… The letter?"

"Yes, my lord. The courier arrived this morning."

A waiting servant respectfully held out a small note. The Marquis snatched it from his hand.

"That'll be all. Get out. I have work to do."

"As you command."

Heads bowed low, they scurried out of the room in a cluster, anxious to escape before the sky fell on them. Only when he was alone again did Marquis Grig unfold the note.

"Hmm……"

A moment later, the furrow between his brows finally smoothed out. The note's contents were simple enough.

The Marquis confirmed the signature carved beneath it, allowed himself a satisfied smile, then carried the note over to the candle burning on the table.

Moments later, the small scrap of paper burst into flame and vanished, leaving behind only a whisper of ash.

"I have no intention of squandering the fine opportunity His Highness the Crown Prince has so kindly arranged for me."

The Marquis leaned back into the soft embrace of his chair. The banquet, only days away now, would prove an exceptionally useful stage indeed.

There were no problems. Well—perhaps just one. The little addendum to the note had rubbed him the wrong way.

The situation in the palace is beginning to shift, is it.

The Marquis's expression crumpled once more.

The biggest event to rock the palace of late had been the trial of Arendt von Eckhart. The moment that creature had walked free from his cell and begun prowling the halls of the Imperial Palace, the law of the Empire had quite simply stopped meaning anything.

He knew the palace's movers and shakers were too busy to spare a thought for a mere apprentice knight. But the moment the letter mentioned the palace situation, the Marquis's mind conjured that face unbidden.

Merely recalling that slick, smirking mug made rage boil up inside him, and his fist clenched hard atop the armrest.

That pup of a knight. I'll tear him apart with my own hands.

Crown Prince Cantares and Laios seemed to be circling around the boy like dogs guarding a bone, but that hardly mattered. His opponent was nothing more than an apprentice knight, after all.

Little by little, the fury drained from the Marquis's face, leaving calm behind.

A bit of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠intimidation should do the trick.

And if luck ran against the boy—well, then he'd die. That was all.

A thin smile stole across the Marquis's lips as he reached for his pen. He pulled over the paper that had been sitting idle at the edge of the desk, and without a moment's hesitation, began to write.

With the banquet only days away, the Imperial Palace was busier than usual. Invitations had gone out to the nobles residing in the Imperial Capital, to the lords of venerable old lands, and to the officials serving within the palace itself. Servants and attendants darted here and there preparing to receive the guests, while knights and royal guards scrambled to shore up their security arrangements for the surge of visitors.

Naturally, work poured down on Zereon and Cantares as well. And yet the office where the two men sat together was utterly still. Only the occasional rustle of a turning page and the soft tak, tak of a pen tapping against a desk seeped faintly into the quiet air.

It was Zereon who broke the silence first. Without lifting his eyes from his documents, he spoke up.

"Still…… do you think it will be all right?"

"What will?"

"Sir Arendt."

Zereon raised the subject's name while keeping his gaze fixed on the papers. Cantares answered without looking up from his own.

"You're bringing this up now? You were the one who told me to stop second-guessing decisions I'd already made."

"That may be so, but still—isn't he a little too young to be tossed about at Your Highness's whim?"

"Wait—you were worried about him, not me?"

Only then did Cantares look ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up from his paperwork to study his confidant, who had delivered such blunt counsel. Zereon managed an awkward smile.

"Drawing too much attention within the palace can do him no good."

"Hard to say. From what I saw, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the boy seems to be enjoying himself to a certain degree. If it gets too much for him, he'll bolt on his own. He's got that much cunning—no need to fret over him." Cantares replied with airy indifference. "So…… what is our troublesome Sir Arendt up to at the moment?"

"He was asking for the location of a jeweler."

"A jeweler? What for?"

"I couldn't say. It sounded as though he intends to sell something, but I didn't hear the details."

"An apprentice knight's salary isn't enough for him?"

Not that the boy seemed likely to be short of coin. Cantares frowned briefly in thought, then shook his head.

"Never mind. Not worth the headache. I refuse to think about it."

"Hahaha. Then how about a different topic?"

Zereon let out a short laugh, eyebrows raised, and handed his superior another document.

"A report from the Royal Knight Orders. They intend to sign a contract with a certain guild soon to procure supplies separately. From what I hear, it's a new firm just established by Branch Manager Neumann."

"A guild? Ah—now that you mention it, I did hear something of the sort. So Branch Manager Neumann's new venture is going well, is it?"

Cantares knew of the deal struck between Arendt and the branch manager. Zereon nodded.

"He's long had a reputation as a man of considerable talent. That's why we sent Branch Manager Neumann an invitation as well. I imagine the nobles will take an interest in his new enterprise too."

"Good work. It'll be a fine opportunity for the manager as well—he'll be able to gather investors."

"In fact, that too was Sir Arendt's suggestion. He slipped it in as an offhand remark when he asked about the jeweler."

"……"

"I suspect that was his real purpose all along."

Cantares's briskly moving pen stopped dead.

Zereon stole a glance at his lord's face and added cautiously, "And there is one more thing……"

"Which is?"

"Word of Branch Manager Neumann's business began spreading only a few days ago—right around the time the banquet planning began in earnest, I believe."

If that was the case, then it took no great effort to guess where the news had originated. Just exactly how the boy had managed it, however, was anyone's guess.

Cantares finally set down his pen and heaved a tremendous sigh.

"Zen. You said it was a different topic. Start to finish, that's been nothing but talk about that damn brat."

"Ahaha…… that wasn't my intention, but…… somehow it turned out that way."

Ignoring Zereon's uneasy laugh, Cantares let out another long, deep sigh.

What on earth is he running around doing this time?

Picking his pen back up with a disgruntled look, Cantares muttered, "Well, it'll be fine either way. I'm the one holding his leash, after all."

"Hmm. I wouldn't be too certain of that, Your Highness."

Zereon offered the advice, but Cantares simply turned his face away and pretended not to hear it.

"S-Sir Arendt… is it really all right, with just that?"

The boy, who had been fidgeting and stealing glances at him, finally asked. Arendt waved a dismissive hand.

"More than enough. Just don't forget—keep it secret. Absolutely."

"Yes, yes! Of course!"

The boy—Siton—nodded frantically, the wide calf-like eyes he fixed on Arendt shining bright. It was the look of a village boy gazing upon a conquering hero returned from war.

"It was truly an honor to be of service to you, Sir Arendt. I—"

"Yeah, yeah. Spare me the honor."

The actual recipient of all that adoring devotion only waved his hand in irritation. But Siton's burning enthusiasm showed no sign of cooling.

Though he had entered the palace only recently, Siton had already heard plenty of rumors concerning Arendt. Tales of a knight so arrogant he answered to no one, who bossed around even the Knight Commander himself, who had even tried to sell information to an unknown enemy and been hauled before a tribunal for it—the endless list of outrages committed by an apprentice knight had been more than enough to terrify a newly arrived boy.

But it was all lies.

To be sure, the man's temperament did seem genuinely rotten. Still, one fact would never change: Arendt was his savior. Once Marquis Grig had marked him, Siton would have been thrown out that very day, unable to utter a single word in his own defense, had it not been for him.

And so Siton had resolved to repay that debt however he could. The opportunity had come sooner than expected. Just days after the incident, he happened to run into Arendt in the main palace. He was about to rush over in his delight when Arendt spotted him first and greeted him.

"You. Come with me for a minute."

……And honestly, when he'd been dragged off to some secluded spot, Siton had been more than a little scared.

Once he had Siton somewhere no one would see, Arendt had smoothly produced something from inside his coat.

"Put this somewhere with a lot of foot traffic."

"I'm sorry—what?"

"The dining hall, a meeting room, anywhere's fine. Anywhere the nobles go often."

Someone had asked Arendt for a favor, he said—leave it at that. Don't tell a soul the task came from him.

That had been the entire explanation. Bewildered as he was, Siton had carried out the order without trouble. It turned out to be a promotional pamphlet announcing that Branch Manager Neumann den East was launching a new enterprise.

And today, Siton had received a second summons.

Now a devoted follower of Arendt through and through, the young servant stepped closer, his face alight with eagerness.

"If there's anything else you need done, just say the word! Anything at all!"

"Nothing comes to mind. Here—your wages."

Arendt answered half-heartedly, fished something out of his pocket, and pressed it into the boy's hand. Siton's eyes went wide.

"Sir Knight! I don't need this! I only wanted to help, because—"

"Keep it. I'm rich. Or if it bothers you, do me another favor worth as much next time. I'm off."

Arendt dusted himself off, rose, and strode away without so much as a backward glance.

When Siton looked down at what had been pressed into his palm, a bright smile bloomed across his face. A clean silver coin lay gleaming in the sunlight.

Arendt shot a sidelong glance at the boy waving both hands furiously behind him. What could possibly be so wonderful? There he was, beaming from ear to ear with the silver coin clenched in his fist.

Snorting a small laugh, Arendt turned his gaze forward again and continued along the palace path, freshly swept and lined with clean stone.

'Rich,' huh.

It was the first time in either of his lives he'd introduced himself with that particular word.

'They did say the original had expensive tastes.'

He'd given the man's room a thorough search and out had poured a cascade of jewelry—brooches, rings, and accessories dripping with gemstones. Appraised at the jeweler Zereon had pointed him to, every last piece had turned out to be of the very finest quality. Arendt had kept back only a handful and sold off the rest.

Thanks to that, even after pouring money into every place it needed to go, a tidy sum remained.

'Although—the man supposedly refused to even tie his hair back.'

The reason had been simple: it might damage the ends. Truly, there was no ailment like his ailment. It had happened to work in his favor, in the end.

'This should just about do it.'

The groundwork was more or less complete now. All that remained was to wait for the day of the banquet—or so it seemed.

Then a strange feeling crawled over Arendt.

He slowed his pace. A few steps later, he stopped dead in his tracks.

At some point, the street had emptied entirely—not a person in sight, not even a stray mouse. And yet he could feel it: a blatant stare, thick with malice.

"……"

The surroundings were silent. Silent, and nothing more.

No wind, no birdsong—not even the small, natural noises that should have filled the air. He had deliberately chosen an inconspicuous spot, true. He'd needed somewhere he wouldn't be seen while paying Siton for his errand.

But even accounting for that, this was excessive.

The next instant, killing intent flared from his flank—and Arendt's blade was already out, slashing reflexively through the air.

CLANG!

Something came hurtling in at terrible speed, struck his sword, and was flung aside. With a soft thud, a finely honed dagger dropped onto the grass.

It was enough to turn anyone's hair white.

"Whoa……"

He'd admit it: honestly, that had startled him more than it should have. But still—really.

Arendt muttered under his breath, almost without meaning to.

"You unbelievable bastard of an old man. You'd really go this far?"