The King and the Six Dukes
Winchester Royal Castle was perhaps the single most important building in all of Seophon. And its defensive posture was far more solid—and far more severe—than usual.
Crystal Jubilee.
Fifteen years after ascending the throne of the Seophon Kingdom, King Ianmarc Yates had invited guests to celebrate the occasion.
The kingdom possessed only six dukes.
Every last one of them was scheduled to gather and congratulate the king.
The royal castle’s security was already formidable in ordinary times. Now, with the dukes arriving for the Crystal Jubilee as well—the attitude of the castle guards and knights was only natural.
For the sake of the king’s dignity alone, they could not afford to look inadequate. No—mere inadequacy would have been a blessing. If some mistake punched even a single hole in the defenses, blood would flow.
And not in the sense of someone merely losing a post—in the physical sense of a head flying clean off a neck.
And so, with Alfred as the last to arrive, the absolute pinnacle of the kingdom’s nobility—the only six of their rank—had assembled at the royal castle.
—That, at least, was the publicly stated pretext.
The Round Table Chamber.
Originally the room where standing committee members sat as advisors and discussed affairs of state with the king, Alfred entered last, Victor at his side.
"I read the letter, and I saw you outside the outer walls as well, but—"
At the head of the antique round table prepared in the chamber, a fat man wearing a crown muttered under his breath.
"You’ve really slimmed down, my friend."
"And Your Majesty has put on weight."
"How dare you!!!!!!!"
The king’s roar rebounded off the sealed walls of the Round Table Chamber, echoing thunderously through the enclosed space.
Ianmarc’s mane of hair and beard stood on end like a lion’s, his face flushed crimson with fury as he panted. Then he shot up from his seat and strode toward Alfred with heavy, purposeful steps.
The dukes watching either soothed their racing hearts, looked on with indifference, or observed with calm composure.
Whoosh!
"I keep telling you to drop that damned formal speech, but you never bloody listen!"
"Your Majesty. The other dukes are present."
"Damn it, I’m the king. Tell them to watch."
As if nothing had happened, Ianmarc grinned and threw an arm around Alfred’s shoulders, dragging him to the only empty seat at the round table—the one to his right.
"Your Majesty and Duke Felwinter seem even closer than the rumors suggested."
Duke Richgold, Reed, drew a hand from the sleeve of his loose, plain white robe and stroked a chin as smooth as the top of his head.
A round table is a symbolic piece of furniture meaning that everyone’s opinion will be heard, no matter who sits at it. But even a round table has a seat for the royal favorite—right next to the king. It meant the king trusted that person most of all. So Reed had thrown in a light probe.
"Hmm? Of course! He’s my closest friend—I haven’t seen his face in over ten years!"
A frank answer with none of the noble flourishes, matching outward appearance to inner thoughts so perfectly that the dukes all sighed in unison.
"Still as honest as ever."
Victor, standing behind Alfred who had taken the seat to Ianmarc’s right, blurted out his true thoughts while staring straight ahead. The dukes nodded at that.
Politics only works when both hands clap. To someone who takes every word at face value and assumes that anything left unsaid is free to do as they please—and actually does so—embellishments, flourishes, and roundabout speech are meaningless.
That was the reality faced by those who sat at the pinnacle of blue bloods, the apex of power-seekers lusting after wealth, honor, and authority.
"Ah, to hell with it. Let’s speak frankly. Hands up—whose territories saw incidents this late autumn into early winter!"
Looking every bit the classic pirate, Duke Southcoast, Brian, heaved a deep sigh and raised his prosthetic left arm. The jeweled, glittering formal robes crumpled and folded with the motion.
At that gesture, the three dukes who had spoken so far—including Alfred—raised their hands.
"I heard Falkenstein hit Southcoast, and Garfield hit Richgold."
Alfred lowered his hand and asked the other three dukes. Watching this, Ianmarc stroked his neatly trimmed beard.
"Nothing happened anywhere else? Everything intact?"
"...Well, if I must say, there was something."
John, the youngest duke in the Round Table Chamber, tapped his lips with a dubious expression. Bloodshot eyes stared into empty space.
"Livestock died in droves. At first we thought it was just a plague and sealed off the villages where it appeared, but."
"That wasn’t enough, I take it."
"The first outbreak was followed by the next one at the opposite end of the territory. How do you stop that?"
Torpenhau bordered every region except Iceland and Southcoast—a major traffic hub thick with hills, knolls, and grasslands, primarily raising gentle monsters and ordinary livestock. Thanks to that, it ranked first in the kingdom for island transport and animal husbandry. Even the duke of such a place had no way to deal with a livestock epidemic that broke out randomly with no pattern whatsoever.
The reason John’s eyes were bloodshot was that he had been cleaning up for over two seasons with no time to rest.
"No—setting that aside, other than Duke Alfred and His Majesty, who might still have something explode on him, has anyone actually stopped an incident?"
The two elderly dukes who, like John, had simply considered themselves unlucky also swallowed their murmurs and stroked their respective beards. The incidents in their territories were rare but not first-time occurrences—yet hearing it like this made them suspicious again. Merkwood, thick with primeval forest, and Ruinhange, where dungeons were spawning and being cleared even at this very moment, had both seen incidents in the same period.
"But demons, you say?"
"Yes. I found it absurd myself. Of course demons aren’t extinct, and every time one turns up it’s a headache, but is this really their doing?"
Thud—
Ianmarc dropped something from under the table onto it—a limp, semi-transparent gray hide, shaken out like a rag. The hide of a Shapeshifter. The dukes directed gazes of doubt, curiosity, and demands for verification.
Brian rested his prosthetic on the round table, eyes gleaming.
"So this is... the evidence."
"Examine it as much as you like."
"Then I shall take a look."
"Victor."
Following his lord’s will, Victor produced another shed skin of a Shapeshifter he had been carrying, and Brian snatched both, appraising the hides with a greasy gaze and greedy gestures.
Southcoast was the region closest to the continent and possessed the largest port, so all the kingdom’s wealth concentrated and flowed through it. Which meant scams and fakes poured down like rain. The duke of Southcoast, where lies were daily life, possessed the keenest eye for appraisal in the entire kingdom.
"When did you say you found this?"
"Last winter, at the northernmost tip of Iceland. Bold enough to infiltrate Afterglow Fortress, apparently."
"When was the victim replaced by the Shapeshifter?"
"Estimated about three years ago."
"A Grand Mage vouched for it, so it’s no lie, and this texture and color are unmistakable. The filthy demonic energy too. It’s a Shapeshifter’s hide."
Having dispelled the dukes’ gazes of doubt and suspicion, Brian tossed the hide back onto the table and looked at Alfred.
"Then how exactly did you prevent the damage?"
The pirate-looking Brian’s eyes shone like gold coins.
"...Everything I say from this point on is the truth."
At that, the dukes who had been sitting casually corrected their postures. Ianmarc did the same.
"As you can tell from your reactions, incidents erupted twice in Iceland. Once was in a small village called Fungusby."
"And the Akusare mushrooms truly aren’t being produced anymore?"
"Regrettably. Yes. There are golemized mushrooms, but only a diluted scent remains."
"A tragedy."
At the news that one of the kingdom’s treasures had vanished forever, the king and dukes all sighed in regret together. They too had thoroughly enjoyed Akusare mushrooms, after all.
And as Alfred’s words continued, the faces of everyone except the speaker himself and Victor—the king, the dukes, and the attendants standing behind them—twisted. They had heard it once before, and he had boldly declared it was no lie, so it probably wasn’t false—but neither event was ordinary.
The incarnation of the evil dragon Naglfar, a figure from necromancer legends and myths, and a legion of golems that endlessly gushed forth, even if their material was mushrooms. An undead giant on par with a Sword Master commanding thousands or tens of thousands of undead, and a sage-class Grizzly Beaver black mage and Grizzly Beaver Sword Master commanding well-armed Grizzly Beaver packs that could lightly destroy an ordinary small kingdom. The fragment of the evil dragon Naglfar that linked two incidents with seemingly nothing in common besides the undead had been recovered by a god personally—a pity, that.
"No, wait a moment. Duke Alfred."
John cut in, uncertainty in his still-bloodshot eyes.
"From what I’ve heard so far, hasn’t every incident broken out wherever the Grand Mage you took in as a vassal the year before last goes?"
"...Now that you mention it, that’s how it works out."
"That’s a complete walking..."
Ah, it’s nothing. John mumbled the rest, but the other dukes had thought the same thing. They had envied him for stopping incidents that erupted two seasons in a row—only to learn that every time his vassal moved, she brought disasters of that scale with her. Not enviable in the least, and nothing they wanted to emulate.
"More than that, how are you still in one piece?"
Unable to hide his bewilderment, Brian closed the gap-toothed mouth he had been holding open.
"The incarnation of a dragon from myth? A legion of Sword Masters commanding undead armies?"
"...The former was in its early stages so we could suppress it, and the latter was Afterglow Fortress, after all. It’s not unreasonable."
"No, I know that inhuman old man is posted at that fortress. Ah, Duke Alfred. No malice intended."
Answering Reed’s words, Brian waved his prosthetic. Alfred understood. Even if he was his father, Richard was willful and tyrannical in the extreme.
"Then, my lord. The reason we have gathered here is, as expected, to suppress the things that have been giving us headaches and then make them official, is it not?"
Duke Merkwood and perpetual Grand Mage, currently the oldest duke, Beregrin, raised one eyebrow as he regarded Ianmarc.
"And soon it will be the Crystal Jubilee. During that period, any minor disturbances arising in Pen Draig can be buried under the festival’s fervor. Am I correct?"
"Yes. That’s right."
"Then there’s nothing to do for the moment."
Clack! Duke Ruinhange, Hans—the only one at the round table wearing armor—clapped his hands.
"Then we can just enjoy ourselves a bit and gather every few days to chat like this, yes?"
"...We’ll investigate to identify the omens, but in general, yes?"
"Then—"
Bang!
Just as Hans was about to continue, the heads of the dukes, starting with Ianmarc at the head of the table, naturally turned toward the entrance of the Round Table Chamber. Hans had been about to speak but, sensing something, turned his head as well. Looking at the cause, he understood. It was inevitable.
"Oh, Your Highness!"
"Appa—!"
A baby in colorful clothes came toddling in, waving short arms and legs as if about to fall over at any moment. A maid chasing just close enough to almost touch the baby’s wiggling bottom saw the faces seated in the Round Table Chamber and went deathly pale.
"Eek!"
"You little rascal! It’s nap time, yet you’re tormenting the maid like a tyrant!"
Despite the scolding words, Ianmarc scooped up the running baby, set him on his knee, and laughed brightly as he looked around at the dukes.
"Since it’s come to this, let’s take a short rest. You—bring tea and refreshments. Lately if I don’t have teatime, I’m uncomfortable all day!"
Instead of a scolding, the maid received an order and left.
A short while later, when the Round Table Chamber doors opened again, pages and servants began setting teapots, cups, and various snacks on the table. A hot, refreshing aroma that cleared the nose began to rise gently. Surprise, discomfort, indifference, ambivalence, satisfaction—four kinds of reactions layered silently over the round table.
Alfred’s impression, having experienced it several times in Coldon before, was that it would certainly help with waking up. But that was as far as it went. For any other purpose... not particularly?
Alrune’s Tear would be better.
While calming a mouth irritated by the distinctive scent of Menthe’s Affair with jam cookies, Alfred noticed Beregrin, seated to his left, signaling with his eyes.
"What is it, Duke?"
"Mm, sorry for being so obvious about it."
"It’s fine. Please speak."
"I hear that your vassal, Duke Atanitas, has come with you—could you arrange a meeting?"
Duke Merkwood, Grand Mage Beregrin Forester. An aged Grand Mage for whom death was closer than remaining years of life. Decades ago he had been watched as a genius who would shatter Catherine’s record as the youngest, but now Beregrin had grown so old he might drop dead at any moment, and he yearned for instruction toward the next realm as desperately as a graduate student longing for freedom.