How Much Have You Looked Into? - 7
My choice had not been wrong after all. Surrendering the competition and bowing my head had been the correct decision.
That Ernesto Academy had bowed while I was principal was my personal karma, yet the fact that our students now received the Demon Duke’s instruction because of that bow was a blessing for the whole of Uven. Was it not an extravagantly generous gift in exchange for merely staining one old man’s name?
“The descendants of Ernesto truly are quick to understand.”
Moreover, the Demon Duke herself had spoken favorably of Uven’s hero and called us—who could not even reach the tip of our mentor’s toes—his descendants. What greater honor could there be? The students must have felt the same; their faces flushed or their smiles stretched so wide the corners of their mouths nearly reached their ears.
It was an unseemly display for mages who ought always to maintain a tranquil heart, yet I did not reproach them. Had I still been young, I would have looked exactly the same.
“The mages of the Empire and the mages of Uven may be divided by the barrier of borders, yet the truth that we lead continental magic remains unchanged. Another’s progress becomes my competitive spirit, and my competitive spirit becomes our rivalry. Endless competition is precisely what drives the continent’s advancement.”
Watching those students, the Demon Duke offered a light smile and continued. Though we were separated by nationality and borders, we were comrades striving for the progress of continental magic. Competition was only natural, yet even that competition would lead to the development of the continent and of magic itself.
Truly, it was the right thing to say—and therefore all the more moving. When the very pioneer who led continental magic held such a splendid ideal, the future of the magical world could only be bright.
“Do not think the advice I have given you is everything. Simply use it as a small stepping-stone when you move forward.”
With those words the Demon Duke left the lecture hall. I felt a faint bitterness, as though I had been cast out of a paradise where everything was abundant and perfect.
Yet I could not allow that sense of loss to swallow me. Under ordinary circumstances we would never even have set foot in paradise; to have heard the voice of a god while standing inside it left no room for complaint. The Demon Duke had called it a small stepping-stone, but today’s teaching would become a lifelong milestone.
So I must never forget this day. If we advanced further upon this foundation, the day would come when we surpassed the Imperial Academy. Had the Demon Duke herself not said that competition was only natural? For now we—no, I—had lost, but in the future we would win.
“Pardon the interruption. You are Master Kurt Schere, are you not?”
Just as I was about to return to the dormitory and review the teaching before the emotion faded, a young man in a black uniform approached.
…Black hair, black eyes, black uniform.
The Audit Department Chief.
No mage could fail to know him. Even setting aside his position as the Empire’s Audit Department Chief, he was the Demon Duke’s prospective husband.
What business could he have?
I only hoped it would not be a troublesome matter.
Fortunately—no, regrettably—the natural disaster that would have forced an early end never struck. Of course a fair packed with the students’ passion could not be allowed to conclude so emptily. That much was only natural.
Thanks to that I had been spending my time as a vacant booth totem, but for the moment I had to leave my post.
Kurt Schere.
I dredged up the information I had hastily crammed into my head.
Principal of Ernesto Academy, a major name in both the magical and educational circles of the Uven Alliance. Easiest to think of him as the Uven version of our own principal. In his younger days he had been rather hot-tempered, and our principal had likewise made a name for himself in the military when young.
What a nuisance.
And now I had to go meet the man. Honestly, it was a bother. Escaping the totem role and wandering elsewhere was welcome, yet the reason being negotiations with a foreigner I had never even seen before was far less appealing.
But what choice did I have? The principal had pleaded with genuine urgency, and once I heard the circumstances the reason had sounded quite plausible.
“Separately from the auction, we intend to sell cookies to Ernesto Academy as well.”
His opening remark alone was ominous. We had decided on an auction precisely to avoid chaos, yet now we were going to supply cookies privately to foreigners who were not even our own people.
Still, our principal was not the sort to dig holes for no reason, so I listened in silence. He promptly supplied a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“The funds an academy can mobilize and the funds a noble can mobilize are of entirely different orders. The former must somehow be wrung out of a strictly allocated budget and prescribed uses, so there are hard limits.”
Coming from a fellow academy principal, the persuasion was devastatingly effective.
“We need not make allowances for every individual participant at the auction, yet we must take into account that Ernesto Academy has swallowed its pride and come all the way to the Empire. Since they have already compromised their dignity by coming, we ought to secure them as much practical benefit as possible if we wish to maintain a smooth relationship.”
“Complicated, isn’t it.”
Hearing that, I felt anew how difficult the world of mages was. Wasn’t the usual rule that when the other side bows its head you strip them down to the soul? Apparently mages, who frequently interacted with one another, refrained from unilaterally thrashing their counterparts.
“Therefore we will give them a certain quantity of cookies, but we will accept something other than money in return.”
What followed was impressive. Gold coins would be scattered by the nobles at the auction anyway, so from Ernesto Academy we would obtain what only mages could provide.
Seminars where continental mages gathered, paper disputes, joint development, ruin excavations—every field was packed with demands for concessions from Ernesto Academy. The way they tumbled out so readily suggested these were things he had long and fervently desired. Perhaps the frustrations accumulated while serving as principal ran deep.
“Concessions are matters of practical interest, are they not?”
“They have already announced that they want the Demon Duke’s teaching and the cookies. Coming all the way to the Empire for them is as good as declaring they are prepared to surrender everything else.”
I knew little of mage customs, so I simply accepted it. If the expert said so, so be it.
“However, it is awkward for a mage to mention concessions directly, and a meeting between principals at this juncture would only draw eyes. I would be grateful if the Audit Department Chief, in his capacity as auction overseer, would meet with him.”
If only that last sentence had been left out. Auction overseer? I was merely the Baking Club advisor whose name had been put down for form’s sake.
Even now it still seemed odd. It was not as though we were dealing with the fragile soap-bubble minds of adolescent youths; how could fellow mages be unable to speak freely of concessions among themselves? Diplomatic rhetoric this advanced bordered on pathology.
My high trust in the principal was the only thing that kept me patient. If a man who handled everything he could on his own was asking me personally, the problem must truly be delicate.
“Pardon the interruption. You are Master Kurt Schere, are you not?”
And so it had come to this. The reason I was meeting a major foreign figure was to sell cookies. A faint sense of self-loathing stirred.
“Through my connection with Her Grace the Demon Duke I have been placed in charge of this auction, and I wished to exchange a satisfying conversation with you, Master.”
“An intriguing remark.”
Still, it looked as though the talk would proceed smoothly. That was a relief.
Fair proceeds were split half to the academy and half to the club. One might find it strange that the academy took half of the profits a club had earned by grinding and sweating, yet tradition was tradition. Nobles were hardly going to obsess over the pocket change from booths anyway; they regarded it as gratitude for the academy’s teaching.
Thus every club focused more on booth performance than on the revenue itself. The Baking Club had been the same last year.
But not anymore.
“Seven pieces sold to Count Pellan at twelve gold coins each.”
Whoa.
The auction that had begun only on the final day of the fair. I had attended in my capacity as nominal overseer and barely managed to suppress the gasp that tried to escape. Had no one been watching I might well have given a standing ovation.
The Demon Duke, who was not a formal member or advisor yet essentially an honorary Baking Club member; the auction goods themselves being cookies, the product of baking—thanks to that, the utterly extraordinary conclusion had been reached that the auction proceeds would count as Baking Club booth income. The Demon Duke had no interest in the money, and the academy could hardly swallow one hundred percent, so they had roughly compromised.
As a result the Baking Club’s revenue was soaring to insane heights. A frenzy of an auction where anything below gold coins dared not even be mentioned, where figures equal to or greater than my annual salary were tossed about lightly. And this was with a fairly large quantity released.
More expensive than me.
With a bitter heart I glanced toward the seats of the auction participants and spotted Kurt Schere wearing a thoroughly appalled expression.
Fortunately our conversation had ended amicably and Ernesto Academy had secured a reasonable amount of cookies, yet even so the present auction was enough to make anyone’s spirit wilt. Had they not made that back-room deal with us, Ernesto Academy would have had to join this mad auction and win with pure money.
Of course, the more their spirit wilted, the more gratitude they would feel toward our side for proposing the deal. Cherish that feeling for a long time, foreigner.
“O-Oppa, are we really getting half of this?”
Just as I was about to turn my gaze back to the auctioneer, Luise—who had come to watch the auction as a member of the Baking Club—spoke in a trembling voice.
Yes, you must be stunned as well. How could anyone keep their sanity after watching a lunatic auction that was producing roughly ten gold coins per cookie, not even as a total? And Luise was from a baronial house far removed from wealth.
“Can’t we just give everything to Master?”
Her voice was nearly on the verge of tears. I stroked her hair. Whether she was cowed by the overwhelming sum or simply free of greed, the question was adorable.
“Well, Club President. Looks like the club budget just went up. Happy?”
“I’m not happy!”
Seeing Luise pull an even longer face made me snort with laughter. Sorry, but that money is yours to manage. The Demon Duke refused it, so what else can we do?
“Don’t take it too hard. This is only because the Golden Duke isn’t here. Had he participated, he would have swept everything at five times the price at the very least.”
Ainter, who had been watching the scene, offered a faint smile and tried to console Luise.
Well, whether that counted as consolation was debatable, but at least the intention was kind. Meaning the present situation was the second-worst rather than the absolute worst, so she need not grieve too deeply.
“Five… times…”
Regrettably the consolation failed to reach her. The dreadful word “five times” had been branded into her brain and left her mind blank.
Yet it was true. Had the Golden Duke descended upon the auction house he would have clubbed every other competitor with pure money.
“Come to think of it, it is strange. The Golden Duke is famous even in Uven, yet that man isn’t participating here?”
“He didn’t even send a proxy. Looks like he washed his hands of it entirely.”
Meanwhile I overheard other club members whispering. Even though the Demon Duke’s special doping cookies—an item of the century—had appeared, they were puzzled by the Golden Duke’s absence.
As if he gave up.
The members might not know, but the Golden Duke had not given up. On the contrary, he had contacted me faster than anyone.
“Audit Department Chief. I’ve heard an interesting rumor. They say the Demon Duke has crafted something amusing.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I’ll compensate you handsomely. Just send me thirty.”
The moment he made contact he skipped the entire bothersome auction process and planted money directly. The price he sent was truly nothing to complain about.
I felt no particular prick of conscience. High personages living comfortably was simply the natural order of things.
Besides, had the Golden Duke personally attended the auction he would have taken not thirty but the entire stock. That was good fortune for everyone else, no question.
“Six pieces sold to Count Stinel at fourteen gold coins each.”
Watching so many people happily make their purchases improved my own mood as well.