Book 8. If You Must Go Mad, At Least Do It with Style
Is he out of his mind?
That was the only thought Marquis Grig could summon. If that brat had even a shred of sanity left in him, there was no way he could behave like this.
He had already been informed that the boy hadn't died, so he'd expected something of the sort. Apprentice status aside, young as he was, the knight was widely rumored to be a genius, and Marquis Grig had never imagined he could be disposed of so easily. But surely the least he could do was lie low for a while? The marquis had assumed the boy would be buried in the knights' quarters for some time, invisible to the world. He might even have hoped to see him slinking about with his tail between his legs, thoroughly cowed.
"Whatever is the matter, my lord? Ah, we're hardly on friendly terms, you and I, so I suppose that's understandable."
Arendt curled the corners of his mouth upward in a slow, deliberate smile. "But today is a good day, isn't it? It might be best to call a temporary truce and enjoy ourselves for once."
"You little……"
The marquis's face flushed crimson. But he exercised restraint and barely managed to swallow the shout that had risen to his throat. Losing his temper here would make a fool of no one but himself.
Noticing how the atmosphere had turned lethal, Guildmaster Neumann hurriedly stepped in. "M-Marquis Grig! It's been some time. How have you been?"
"……It has been a while."
Unable to hide his sour expression, the marquis nevertheless shook the hand Neumann offered.
"To be that bad at managing his expression. Honestly."
Arendt clicked his tongue. The instant the enraged marquis whirled toward him to yell something, a booming voice rang out from the entrance of the hall.
"His Highness the Crown Prince is entering!"
The marquis had no choice but to close his open mouth. Servants pulled open the doors, and Cantares, dressed more resplendently than usual, strode into the hall with Zereon in tow. The nobles bowed with a hand laid over their hearts, paying homage to the rightful heir of the imperial line. Arendt did the same—ignoring the marquis entirely, offering his knightly courtesy solely to Cantares. Grig, too, could only grind his teeth and follow the example of those around him.
Cantares glanced around as though searching for someone, and soon spotted Arendt. Moments later, he found Guildmaster Neumann bowing politely in his direction, and beside him, Marquis Grig radiating displeasure so nakedly it was almost impressive.
Looks like they've already had their first round.
With a faint curl of his lips, Cantares moved toward the seat of honor prepared for him. A servant rushed over and respectfully offered him a champagne glass on a silver tray. Raising it high, the Crown Prince spoke with cheerful grace.
"I am delighted that so many of you have gathered, even for a banquet arranged at such short notice. Today, I ask only that you set aside your worries and enjoy yourselves freely. May the God Luce bless this gathering."
"Glory to His Imperial Majesty!"
"May the blessing of the God Luce rest upon His Majesty and His Highness!"
When the tidy toast concluded, cheers erupted, and the crisp clink of lightly touching glasses rang out from every corner. The banquet had officially begun.
As time wore on, the marquis grew more and more restless. At some point he'd even begun gnawing at his fingernails.
It can't go on like this.
This banquet was a chance that would never come again. A social occasion was, for a man of business, the single most important place to snare investors and clients all at once. The marquis had attended expecting to gain a great deal from this very gathering. They had even boasted boldly that this time, at last, they would line up a whole roster of patrons.
But……
Marquis Grig shifted his bloodshot gaze and glared at the noble ladies who had gathered in small clusters.
"I hear that marquis sent assassins after a young knight."
"The silver-haired knight, you mean? The one who defended the East Vault. Though I hear that young knight is quite the difficult character himself."
"Still, honestly—what sort of man goes after a boy not even half his age……"
They thought they were whispering with their voices properly hushed, but every word reached the marquis's ears with perfect clarity. Elsewhere, the financiers clustered around Guildmaster Neumann were happily deep in talk of business.
"I hear you've acquired several ranches on your own. Separate from the supplier that provides goods to the East Merchant Guild, it seems?"
"Yes, that's right. Recently we imported a quantity of an unusual breed and have been raising them. It's a species never kept in the Callion Empire before—the color of its wool is said to be absolutely lovely."
"I've heard of that too. It's treated as a luxury item in the kingdoms, isn't it? If breeding succeeds within the empire, it'll be a tremendous success."
"Yes, I'm looking forward to it myself."
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. Even those who met his eyes were too busy slipping subtly away to offer so much as a pleasant greeting.
There was no place for him here. No opening to wedge himself into.
He'd made a mistake. This was clearly his own blunder. He had entered fashionably late, thinking it would look better to appear once the crowd had filled out a little—and that had proven his undoing. If he'd known Neumann would seize the room so early, he should have arrived even earlier than that……
"No. No, that's not it."
There was no need for any other explanation. Every root of this disaster was Arendt von Eckhart. If only he'd killed the wretch outright from the start, instead of merely trying to scare him!
"If I disappoint him……"
He would be discarded. He had to salvage this situation somehow.
Just then, someone at his side spoke up carefully.
"Marquis Grig, if I may have a moment?"
Lost in his thoughts, the marquis flinched and spun around—then, recognizing a familiar face, let out a sigh of relief. "Baron Günther."
"Yes. I-I'm not sure whether it's rude of me to even ask this, but…… are you quite all right?"
Baron Günther asked with the utmost caution. And he had not come alone. Behind him stood several others wearing expressions as laden with anxiety as his own.
His relief lasted only a moment. The thought that he had degraded himself so badly that these people had felt compelled to approach and ask after him made the marquis sour all over again.
"What would I not be fine with? I'm perfectly well."
"That's a relief. Well, you see……"
When the marquis answered curtly, Baron Günther managed a stiff smile. "The garden…… project is going smoothly as well, I trust?"
"Of course. What could possibly go wrong? Unless…… don't tell me you doubt my word?"
"Doubt you? Heavens, no! Never!"
Baron Günther nearly leapt out of his skin, shaking his head wildly. The others who had accompanied him likewise couldn't conceal their anxious air.
Marquis Grig clicked his tongue inwardly.
"You can rest easy. As long as you do exactly as I say, a very great profit will come to you as well."
"Y-yes…… of course. We'll trust you, my lord."
Only then did color return to Baron Günther's pale face. Relief was plain on the faces of the other nobles as well.
Weak-willed fools.
Well, they could hardly help being nervous. This was a matter with enormous sums at stake. And besides, they still had no real idea what the enterprise they'd be collaborating on actually entailed.
The marquis's expression softened slightly. But at that very moment, an uninvited voice barged into the conversation.
"Profit, is it? And how am I to trust a man whose only selling point is squawking 'big profits' like a parrot?"
"……!"
Without any need to decide who would go first, they all whipped around. A young man with an utterly familiar face had somehow planted himself directly behind them.
Baron Günther, whose eyes met those calm golden ones, nearly jumped out of his shoes. "A-Arendt, sir? When did you……"
"Oh, did I startle you? I'm afraid silencing my footsteps has become something of a habit. Nothing personal."
Arendt dipped his head at a crooked angle, wearing an expression entirely devoid of apology. The face of Marquis Grig, who had only barely regained his composure, began to burn red once more.
"You insolent whelp—do you have any idea where you are……"
"Where? The Imperial Palace, of course. Within the palace, there is nowhere a knight of the Imperial Knight Order cannot go. If necessary, I could even enter His Majesty's private chambers."
"Wh-what did you just say?!"
Ignoring the scandalized gasps around him, Arendt twirled the champagne glass caught on his fingertips and spoke with impish relish. "I happened to overhear. So you're preparing a new venture too, my lord? 'Big profits,' was it? Now I'm a little interested myself. And I suppose these gentlemen are gathered here because they share an interest in your business?"
Arendt's eyes swept over Baron Günther and the others one by one. Everyone whose gaze met his quietly turned their heads away.
Arendt shrugged and turned his attention back to the marquis. "That said…… the timing is rather poor, isn't it? Gathering people willing to put up capital will be difficult right now. Will you be all right?"
"……That is none of your concern, sir knight."
Grind. The marquis clenched his teeth. But Arendt did not stop there.
"Though I do think it's only natural that Guildmaster Neumann looks far more trustworthy as a man of business than you do, my lord."
"What did you say?"
"Between a man who does nothing but repeat that he'll hand out handsome returns without ever properly explaining what the business even is, and—well, say, a man who gushes with genuine excitement over the exotic new breed he's imported—which one would you sooner trust?"
The corners of Arendt's eyes curved slightly. "That's why I entrusted my modest fortune to Guildmaster Neumann as well. Word is, I'm to be the very first shareholder in the 'Neumann Merchant Guild' he's about to launch. A most grateful arrangement, truly."
Arendt propped his chin lightly on one hand and tilted his head to the side. The gesture carried unmistakable mockery. The nobles standing at the marquis's side listened to his words in a daze, the souls all but knocked out of them.
"And Guildmaster Neumann did say he never forgets a debt of gratitude. To be honest, we were only doing our duty as knights—but turning it down on purpose would hardly have been proper either."
Someone has to shut this brat up.
Marquis Grig's fury had boiled past rage into blank white noise, and his clenched fist began to tremble violently.
"Besides, he'd never do something so petty as sending assassins over a minor offense. Really, it just reeks of small-mindedness. It…… it……"
"Oh dear? My lord, you're looking unwell. Are you still not feeling yourself?"
Arendt leaned in to examine the marquis's face as it cycled through shades of red and purple, playing the jester to the hilt. "Only joking, only joking. Surely you would never do such a thing, my lord. The assassins must have been sent by someone else entirely. There was that seditious faction hostile to the imperial throne recently, after all. Thanks to those rascals, I even got a tour of the underground dungeon—a place I'd never have seen otherwise."
With every word out of the young knight's mouth, the faces of Baron Günther and the others grew paler by degrees.
"A day like this calls for smiles! Shall I fetch you a glass of wine? The financiers are exquisite too. His Highness the Crown Prince personally commissioned the chefs to make them, he said."
By now the marquis seemed to hear nothing of Arendt's chatter at all. His shoulders had begun to rise and fall in rapid, jerking waves.
"The music is lovely, the company is fine, and the hall is magnificent—yet you alone look thoroughly miserable, my lord. Hmm. Surely you wouldn't let one young knight not even half your age get under your skin, would you?"
The marquis's gaze was nailed to Arendt's lips as they poured out words without end.
Arendt mumbled on, cheerfully oblivious. "Oh, I've got it. That venture you're heading, my lord—I'm curious about it, so why not tell me about it? Nobody else here cares for your affairs, so I might as well listen in their stead."
Snap.
There, the last frayed threads of Marquis Grig's patience severed completely.
Baron Günther, sensing the disaster unfolding, cried out. "My lord Marquis!"
"You goddamn little bastard!"
Roaring, the marquis swung his fist straight at Arendt's face. Startled onlookers let out short screams at the sudden commotion. But none of it reached Marquis Grig's ears. His rage-filled eyes held nothing but Arendt's infuriatingly calm face.
The marquis's fist hurtled squarely toward Arendt's cheek.
Or rather—it tried to.
Got it.
A hand shot out from behind Arendt and snatched the marquis's arm mid-swing. The marquis's eyes went round as saucers. Caught off guard by the unexpected intervention, Arendt too turned to look back with a hint of surprise in his eyes.
Someone he had never seen before was standing there. A tall man was gripping the marquis's wrist with a rigidly stony face. His pallor was beyond pale, and the single spectacle hanging from its chain reflected Arendt and Marquis Grig exactly as they were.
"My lord Marquis, you appear to be quite agitated."
"……C-Count Stadler."
The marquis stammered out his name. The count carefully released the marquis's arm, then turned his gaze toward Arendt. "I would suggest Sir Arendt let the matter rest here as well."
Arendt studied him for a long moment—then, rather than replying in words, simply took a step back from the marquis. A silent promise not to escalate any further.
Not that there was any need to keep pressing. The goal had already been accomplished, after all.
I didn't expect him to show up, though.
An unexpected heavyweight had just taken the stage.