Chapter 20. Curiosity Killed the Cat...
Warm sunlight poured down over the seat where Arendt sat. Since it happened to be mealtime, the usually quiet restaurant had a smattering of customers.
Cantares's secret hideaway outside the imperial palace had, at some point, become a regular haunt where an apprentice knight dropped by now and then.
Arendt took a sip of the orange juice Lawrence had thrown in as a complimentary service, then speared a slice of pre-cut steak with his fork and popped it into his mouth.
Even as he ate, his gaze never once left the report he'd brought along.
Witchcraft, huh...
Cross-referencing the operating principle of the artifact that Arendt had described in his testimony with Count Stadler's research findings, Priestess Lumiel had concluded that it closely resembled the witchcraft of the dark elf race.
During her youth, when she had wandered the continent in service of others, Priestess Lumiel had once had the chance to speak with dark elves who had crossed the sea and landed on the coast.
One of the elf party had fallen ill during the sea voyage, and she had healed them with divine power. The dark elves, curious about that divine power, had exchanged all manner of conversation with her — and in the course of it, she had learned about their witchcraft.
A spell that transferred a patient's injuries onto another person.
The dark elves had called it a kind of curse, used to punish criminals.
When someone fell ill or was injured, the imprisoned death-row convicts were dragged out, and the patient's affliction was transferred to the criminal.
The convicts would take on the village people's sicknesses and wounds and end their own lives in their place.
The artifact, most likely, was playing the role of that shaman.
Arendt drained the rest of his orange juice in one gulp and read on.
Elves capable of becoming 'shamans' were born with a fixed mark from birth, and there was no particular standard governing it. They were born into high-ranking households just as they were into the impoverished classes who could barely scrape through each day.
Moreover, since the power to transfer illness and injury onto others belonged exclusively to dark elves, it seemed reasonable to regard the ability as an innate racial power that manifested randomly in a small number of individuals.
Then that would mean...
The natural conclusion was that during the war in the age of Hero Cahn, a dark elf shaman had sided with the evil god Cernion and crafted that artifact.
As he slipped the last of the steak into his mouth and closed the report, Lawrence, who had been watching from a distance, approached with a benevolent smile.
"Was the meal to your liking, my lord?"
"Of course. It was excellent, thank you."
Arendt placed the payment for the food in Lawrence's hand and rose from his seat.
"Have a good day. I'd be grateful if you'd pass along my regards to Lord Cahn as well."
"I certainly will."
Though that Lord Cahn was probably buried at his desk, wracking his brain about now.
Replacing a farewell with a simple nod, Arendt sauntered out of the restaurant.
He'd taken advantage of a rare stretch of free time to slip out of the palace, so he needed to get through as much of his to-do list as he possibly could.
Stepping out onto the main road, Arendt immediately set his course and began striding along at a brisk pace.
But it didn't last long. Something naggingly caught the edge of his vision, and his steps gradually slowed.
Then he took three deliberate steps backward.
There was a man crouched down, leaning against the side of a building.
The hooded robe pulled down over him to the tips of his hair was clearly no cheap article, but it was grimy and rumpled, as though its owner had been sleeping rough for days.
Even in an empire as prosperous as Callion, beggars were hardly a rare sight. Nor was 'Arendt' the sort of person so brimming with compassion that a homeless man encountered on the street would normally hold his attention.
And yet the reason Arendt found himself stopping short was that the face revealed beneath the hood was one he recognized.
"So... what exactly are you doing here?"
At the incredulous words that tumbled out of Arendt's mouth, the beggar — no, the priest Declan — startled and looked up.
"A-A-Arendt, sir?"
"What are you doing here... actually, never mind. Forget I asked. It wasn't worth asking in the first place."
He had apparently escaped a prison sentence, but with him thrown out of the temple and without a single relative to his name, there had been nowhere for him to end up but the streets. Even shamelessly stretching out his hand to Priestess Lumiel would have been beyond him.
He'd likely gone days without eating; his already pale face was gaunt to the bone.
"Have you eaten?"
"......"
As Declan hung his head in shame, a vigorous growl answered on his behalf.
Arendt pressed a hand to his forehead and let out a long sigh.
"Follow me."
"Pardon?"
"Ah — just follow me, and no back-talk."
When his irritation finally burst out, Declan scrambled hastily to his feet.
Arendt looked at him with a complicated expression, then let out yet another sigh.
A few minutes later, the two of them were sitting side by side in the top-floor executive parlor of the Neumann Merchant Guild headquarters, reserved exclusively for the guildmaster.
Neumann studied them in silence, his expression complicated — the disheveled Declan staring wide-eyed around the room, and beside him, Arendt sitting with a conflicted look on his face.
"Sir Arendt. I didn't notice it at first, but lately I've been realizing... you have quite a meddlesome streak about you, don't you..."
"So. Do you have a problem with that?"
"Not at all. Of course not. It seems your guest is hungry, so I'll have a meal prepared. He need only follow a member of the staff downstairs."
At the curt reply that came back without missing a beat, the guildmaster burst out laughing and waved a hand to summon an employee. The quick-witted staffer gave a nod and led Declan down to the lower floor.
Once the pair had vanished entirely beyond the stairwell, Neumann spoke.
"A meal I can offer at any time, of course. But with a gambling record to his name, hiring him gives me some pause. That said, our business has been growing lately, and we are short of hands..."
"In other words: show me an offer worth biting on. Is that it?"
Arendt gave a wry smile, and Neumann nodded with an easy grin.
"As expected — you ask, and it's done. You wouldn't have suggested meeting today unless there was something behind it, would you?"
"You really do have a nasty personality, you know that?"
Even as he said it, Arendt drew something from inside his coat and set it on the table.
Neumann's eyes, which had been tracking the movement, went wide.
"This is... isn't this a promissory note?"
"I pried it out of His Highness the Crown Prince."
At Arendt's shameless declaration, Neumann couldn't hide his bewilderment. But a seasoned merchant of his caliber quickly gathered his composure and asked,
"You mean the gambling den affair? It seems there are details that differ from the official announcement. When I heard that the 3rd Knight Order had led the crackdown, I suspected as much."
"More or less. Anyway, the money's not dirty, so rest assured."
Having said that much, Arendt paused for a moment before coming out with it.
"What's your take on information brokering?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Not the shady information brokers lurking in the back corners of alleys. I'm talking about something that provides only safe, verified information."
At first taken aback, Neumann's eyes began to glitter with growing interest as Arendt went on.
"So what you're proposing, Sir Arendt, is a business venture. Might I ask for an example of this safe, verified information?"
"Such a region is short on such-and-such goods — begin trading in them and you'll strike it rich. A family member has gone missing, and someone matching their description was sighted here... Things like that."
Arendt shrugged.
"You can't run a merchant guild without intelligence networks in the first place, can you? So we'd simply be turning it into a product on the side."
"Certainly, the information you mentioned first is the kind every guild keeps a razor-sharp eye out for. Even if we couldn't move into a market ourselves, simply selling that intelligence to other guilds would yield considerable profit."
The guildmaster stroked his chin as though weighing the matter.
"With branch offices scattered across the empire, gathering information wouldn't be difficult either. We'd station a few specialists and have each branch share intelligence on a fixed schedule. The headquarters would serve as the central hub where it all converges. However..."
He continued in a more serious tone.
"There are problems all the same. People's perception of information brokers isn't exactly favorable, to begin with."
"Couldn't that be settled under the Neumann Merchant Guild's name? Perception is just something you change as you see fit."
"Sorting the information that may be sold from the information that must never be sold would take enormous effort as well. That's part of why brokers have always kept to the shadows."
"I have every confidence that a man of your caliber, Guildmaster, is more than capable of handling it."
"Hahahaha..."
At his deadpan response, Neumann let out a laugh of sheer disbelief — though it carried no real displeasure.
"If you're going to such lengths to push this, then I take it this venture is something you need as well, Sir Arendt?"
"I suppose it is, yes."
Arendt nodded.
"I'll front the starting capital. And my share in the Neumann Merchant Guild is yours to draw on as you see fit."
"Then even if the venture fails, it would deal me no great blow."
Dragging something out of the shadows and into the sunlight was a considerable gamble — but in truth, it was a business that couldn't fail so long as someone tried. After all, every major guild on the continent already ran its own intelligence department.
The first principle of commerce: certain knowledge above all.
It was the foundational rule every guild placed at the very top.
In any case, once this went into effect, even the moneyed nobility would have no more reason to sneak off to back-alley information brokers, and if the Neumann Merchant Guild were the one supplying intelligence, the smaller guilds lacking networks of their own would surely welcome it with open arms.
After a long stretch of deliberation, Neumann curled his lips in a playful smile.
"Very well. Let's give it a try. Rather than watch this money slip away into another guild's hands, I'll leap into the flames myself."
"I knew you'd say that."
Arendt flashed a broad grin and slid the promissory note across to Neumann.
"That should be more than enough to cover the cost of taking Priest Declan on as well... or rather, Mr. Declan. Once the business takes off, your coffers will be bursting at the seams anyway, Guildmaster."
"We'll take him on as a temporary hire for three months and observe. It would be best to place him at the very bottom of this new venture. Would you leave the question of formal employment until after that?"
"If he pulls any more stunts, whether you hand him over to the Security Department or kick him out on his rear is your call. That part's none of my concern."
Arendt added this as he firmly clasped the hand Neumann extended.
"Ah, and one more thing. Keep it a secret that this was my proposal."
"Naturally. It wouldn't suit our guild, either, for word to spread that we were so easily swayed by an apprentice knight."
"You seem quite willing to admit the 'easily swayed' part."
"A merchant without that much self-awareness has no business being in trade."
The two men's knowing gazes met in midair.