Lose Some Weight, Young Master! (1)
There are those who imagine that in an age steeped in aristocracy and bloodline obsession, carriages, wine, and terraces must have changed hands among the powerful as freely as breathing—all for the sake of more wealth and greater honor. That is a profound misunderstanding.
Of course, things were different when a house was crowded with members who hated one another, or when power had stagnated so thoroughly that it had nowhere left to go. Even then, however, murdering one another remained a last resort. Killing someone made everything far too complicated.
These days, thanks to compulsory education, reading and writing are considered basic foundations. Yet only a few hundred years ago—no, mere decades—people who could read and write were rarer than those who could not. Even now, travel through the Third World or developing nations and you will still encounter plenty who cannot read their own country’s script.
How much more so in a place where knowledge itself was power and authority? In Europa, where bloodline and house name translated directly into credibility, the scarcity was even sharper. And Iceland, poorer in every respect than most nations or provinces, was no exception. Naturally, educated people were precious human resources.
If someone of Iona’s caliber vanished, it would not merely shake a single house. Every simmering issue—petty affairs of the heart, blood feuds, duels, territory disputes, rival houses—all of them temporarily quieted under the Felwinter name would quietly lift their heads again. Of course the Felwinter history and reputation were not so light that every problem would explode into open conflict at once. A minor border squabble, for instance, was something Alfred could shatter with a single gesture; after that everyone would hold hands and play nice. At least in Iceland.
But as already noted: Iceland lacked everything. Intellectuals most of all.
And the chief seneschal of a noble house was a different matter entirely. The seneschal of a ducal house—of which the entire kingdom possessed only seven? Add to that the value of an elder of Iceland’s dominant faith? No wonder Alfred, even after hastily dispatching a rescue party that included a Sword Master, still trembled with anxiety. A single injury would be catastrophe—not only political crisis, but the administrative vacuum Iona’s absence would create. The man could pulverize an ancient tree with one punch, yet he was still an old man who might die at any moment. Injury meant recovery time; death…
Oh Tutatis, have mercy.
Alfred prayed to the gods whenever he had a spare moment. And not long after, in his study, his wish was granted.
"Tutatis be praised! The gods are good. You’re unharmed!"
"My lord. Forgive me for causing you such worry."
"You’re not hurt anywhere, are you? You’re not as young as you used to be. I trust you won’t stubbornly claim you’re fine when you’re not."
"Would this old body ever dare speak falsehood to my lord?"
Alfred watched the thick folds of neck and belly jiggle as Iona bowed again in apology, and relief flooded him. Once the excitement settled, he heard the full account of everything that had happened—matters far more important than mere Grizzly Beavers.
"…A Sword Master. You’re certain?"
Alfred fixed Iona with a long, searching look, brows drawn. He had already confirmed it by letter, yet he needed to hear it once more. Iona understood and simply nodded.
"Yes, my lord. Without doubt he is a Sword Master."
"And in the full bloom of his prime?"
"Indeed. Footwork invisible to ordinary eyes, that swordsmanship… I never saw him release aura, yet the precision of his mana control leaves no room for doubt."
Catherine, who had traveled with Sir Churchill—another Sword Master—had confirmed it as well. Alfred could barely suppress his smile. Not some ordinary knight: a Sword Master, and one still at the peak of his powers with long years ahead. How on earth had they met him? What trials had they shared? Questions piled up, but Alfred pushed curiosity aside for the moment.
"So. Can we keep him?"
Iona’s hand paused mid-stroke of his beard, then lowered to the table where he laced his fingers and gave a small nod.
"He is remarkably fond of money. With sufficiently certain compensation, it is entirely possible."
"If you say so, I trust it."
Iona had already taken Gordon’s measure on the journey and knew exactly what the man wanted; this meeting was merely to obtain his lord’s permission. And Alfred would refuse only if the sky itself fell. A title and the lands that came with it? Iceland overflowed with titles and territory; what it lacked was people. Preparing a rank that would satisfy a Sword Master was simplicity itself. Fortunately for them, Gordon valued coin far more than fame.
"Ah, and one more thing."
Iona made a small sound of recollection.
"Sir Gordon appears to be acquainted with both Duke Atanitas and her exclusive chef, Karem. From what I gathered, they traveled together as far as Borderster."
"Sir Gordon’s value keeps rising."
"Though the time was short, they seemed to have formed a rather solid friendship."
Iona shook his head with a wry smile. Gordon teasing the moment he found an opening, Catherine punishing him for it, and Karem reacting with explosive vigor—anyone who did not know better would have taken them for an uncle playfully tormenting his young cousins.
"To an outsider’s eyes… they could easily be mistaken for blood relatives."
"Hmm. That close?"
"They actually fought over a single snack."
"A snack?"
"Oh, but the custard tart Karem made with that newly discovered spice was certainly worth fighting over."
Iona himself had tasted it on the way to Winterhome. The familiar flavor and aroma of a cooled egg tart, yet transformed by an exotic note into an entirely new harmony of taste and scent!
"Only…"
Something about it still bothered him; his face unconsciously soured.
"If only that spice hadn’t come from a Grizzly Beaver’s reproductive gland—"
"What did you just say? From a what?"
"Ahem. The scent a male Grizzly Beaver uses to attract females."
Iona clearly had no desire to repeat the word. With his laced hands he sketched a rough outline in the air. Alfred, who preferred not to picture it either, waved the description away as sufficient.
"No, I mean… haah. A new spice has been discovered. You’re certain?"
"My lord, I verified it myself."
"And the… taste?"
"Of course."
Alfred clutched his head. Of all things, a Grizzly Beaver’s reproductive gland. True, the Red Witch’s Finger—once treated as a poisonous herb—was now spreading across Iceland as a spice, but this time it was… balls? No, reproductive glands? Every step this boy took somehow exceeded expectations and vaulted past imagination.
"That… Grizzly Beaver…"
"Ah, he has named it vanilla."
"Right. Can I taste something made with this vanilla right now?"
"Before arriving I handed the recipe and usage instructions to the head chef. If you wait only a little, you will be able to sample the real thing."
Alfred could not hide his mixed feelings. After all, musk came from the glands of musk deer, and the legendary magical ingredient ambergris was sometimes harvested from the excrement of rare sub-dragons. Using such things in perfume or sachets was one matter; eating them was quite another.
Then again, herdsmen and butchers regularly ate the blood and offal left after selling meat and other by-products as their staple food. Alfred himself had eaten any number of dishes that made use of intestines—sausages and the like. Viewed that way, was this not simply an extension of the same principle?
He wrestled with the doubt for quite some time. Of course what Iona had prepared was not the raw material Karem had once diced in a frenzy of discovery. Catherine had been asked to refine it further: purified through strong alcohol and alchemy until every impurity was gone, leaving only the pure, sweet essence—true vanilla.
Even with the finished egg tart, thick with vanilla fragrance, sitting before him, Alfred still chewed while harboring a thin thread of suspicion.
Crunch.
"…Iona?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You know what needs to be done?"
"Before we even reached Winterhome I already sent word through the subjugation force to every corner of Iceland."
The reaction that would follow was obvious.
While Alfred and Iona passionately competed over an unseasonable snack in the study…
"So this is—"
"Well now. Look at this."
"My workplace. What do you think?"
Gordon marveled as he took in the surroundings. He looked exactly like a parent touring the workplace of a successful child—or a friend suddenly seeing another friend in a whole new light. His reaction was only natural. Nearly a year had passed since the young Karem had run away from his village, yet something in the boy still reminded Gordon of his own younger self. A kind of vicarious satisfaction filled him as he inspected the kitchen.
To succeed this thoroughly at such a young age…
"All of this is yours to use as you please? And even if it’s only one kitchen, you’re the head chef?"
"Well, I got kicked out of the head-chef position ages ago."
"What? Why?"
"Apparently once more people started arriving I began making mistakes, so I was told to focus on my real work. By Lord Atanitas."
"Aaaah."
Come to think of it, the kid still hadn’t even held his coming-of-age ceremony. Gordon glanced down at Karem, who merely shrugged as if to say it couldn’t be helped. When Gordon had followed Catherine on a sightseeing tour of the Mage’s Tower after the welcome gathering for Iona and their benefactors, the number of mages alone had easily reached several dozen. Double that, and the idea that an eleven-year-old boy could feed every last one of them was absurd. He wasn’t even using magic.
"So there are other cooks besides you, the exclusive chef?"
"No. The house elf handles everything."
"What? There’s a house elf?"
"Yep. Her name’s Mary."
"A house elf, huh."
Gordon, still surveying the kitchen, bent at the waist toward Karem and whispered.
"So… is she pretty?"
"Pretty? Yeah. Not on Lord Atanitas’s level, but she’s pretty."
"Oh, bold answer. Precocious little brat."
"Nothing to hide. It’s just a fact."
"Then why does your reaction sound so dry?"
Karem’s face twisted as if all the enthusiasm had drained out of him.
"Outer beauty doesn’t always match behavior, I guess?"
"Hmm. She must do something pretty jarring, then."
"Workaholic enough that even other workaholics would tell her to take a break—true to house-elf form. You’ll understand the moment you see her eyes roll back when someone tries to steal her workload."
"Come on, calling someone a workaholic… that’s just a beauty’s charm."
"Pfft."
Karem let out an involuntary snort of laughter at the sheer absurdity. Mary was a beauty, of course. Flawless milk-white skin. Soft hair cut neatly into a bob. Large, demure eyes and a high nose. Lips pressed together like a cat’s. And a figure so perfectly proportioned that most entertainers from his previous life would have stepped aside—curves in all the right places. Catherine was simply on another plane entirely, and her wardrobe never changed; inside the Mage’s Tower, aside from Narke, no one else could match Mary’s looks.
The problem was that the moment work entered the picture, that beauty radiated murderous intent so thick it erased every other thought. How to explain that? Did it even need explaining?
"Karem! Karem! I heard you were here—oh good, you are!"
A desperate voice yanked Karem back to reality. Godwin stood just outside the kitchen, gazing at him with pure longing.
"Ah—Young Master?"
"Yes. But you’re with a guest?"
"You would have seen him at the great hall. This is Gordon. Gordon, this is Young Master Godwin."
The two men, who had recognized each other’s faces in the hall but never exchanged greetings, shook hands. Then Godwin suddenly flinched as if realizing he had gone off track, and seized Karem.
"No, this isn’t the time! Karem! Only your miraculous cooking skill and that genius knowledge far beyond your years can save me from the pit of starvation! I need help!"
"What? Oh. Yes?"
"Mother is going to starve me to death!"
Oh. I knew it.
Karem somehow managed to swallow the words that nearly escaped at the sight of the belly and cheeks that jiggled far more noticeably than before.