Outer Port Obsidianberry (1)

The notice came so abruptly that Karem was thrown into a complete fluster.

Even so, he grasped what she wanted soon enough. Judging by Catherine’s reaction, the “outing” she had mentioned was clearly nothing as simple as a stroll beyond Winterhome’s inner or outer walls. It had to be something on the scale of the Iceworm subjugation from before.

And “prepare thoroughly” could only mean one thing: get food ready—dishes worth eating, or at least proper provisions.

The cheese, dried fruit, sausages, jerky, and butter biscuits from last time hadn’t been bad, but even those grew tiresome after days on end. With Mary’s help, Karem spent the next several days preparing.

When the day of departure arrived, he packed his gear in bulging loads and followed Catherine out of the tower.

“Huh? Mary?”

“What is it, Junior Karem.”

“Doesn’t look like a simple outing.”

“Tell me about it.”

Karem still remembered the composition of the subjugation force that had accompanied them last time: dozens of knights and riders mounted on every sort of beast; a hundred-odd adventurers and soldiers under the command of the hippo knights; and the laborers who trailed along for supply and odd jobs.

What filled Winterhome’s plaza now far surpassed even that.

A rough count put the fully armed knights alone at well over a hundred. Their attendants and laborers already outnumbered the soldiers and adventurers of the previous expedition, and the rank-and-file troops looked three times as many. Carts, splendid carriages, and still more workers completed the throng. Not since Winter-Ascend had the plaza of Winterhome been this crowded.

The carriage assigned to Catherine, Mary, Olivier, and Karem was larger and roomier than before as well. The reason became clear only after the procession set out and the carriage began to roll.

“Of course it is. The lord himself and his children are traveling in person.”

“Wait—His Grace and all his children?”

“Strictly speaking, the lord, the eldest son Godwin, and the second son William.”

It was only natural for a force of this size to move when the duke himself was on the road. But to take both the heir Godwin and, just in case, William as well… and no other family members?

“Heir training, then?”

“Mm. Looked at one way, that isn’t wrong.”

“But is it all right to bring Young Master William along for heir training? Feels a bit… improper.”

“If anything happens to Young Master Godwin, William is next in line.”

Well. That wasn’t wrong either.

Barely any time had passed since departure when Catherine ordered Mary to hand over a snack and continued between bites.

“More importantly, the person His Grace is going to meet in Obsidianberry is someone who may be as vital to all of Iceland as the king himself.”

“…Is some other duchy or foreign duke paying a visit?”

“A duke—well, that isn’t wrong either.”

In general a duke, regardless of blood ties, was little short of a king within his own domain, so Karem’s guess was natural. Yet if that were the case, rumors would normally have been circulating through the castle for a month already.

Catherine answered with perfect calm.

“Of course. This is practically a fixed event that happens every few years.”

“With a force this large, and the duke himself moving?”

“Yes. Because of who the other party is.”

Just who was this person that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠she kept drawing it out like this? In no mood to give a straight answer this time, Catherine merely grinned and chewed the biscuit Mary offered her.

It was Olivier, of course, who spoiled her fun. Watching the scenery outside the window, he snorted that there was no point dragging it out and supplied the answer at once.

“Naturally. Before any talk of driving off the hungry predators and monsters that survived the winter, the other party is none other than the most treasured treasurer of the New King of Adobis.”

“A mere treasurer—wait. The New King of Adobis?”

“That’s right. Lord of the Desert, Herald of the River Sobek, Incarnation ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the Sandstorm—”

Olivier launched into a long string of the countless epithets belonging to the ruler of the Adobis New Kingdom. Catherine, who had just had salt sprinkled on her carefully paced reveal, shot him a sour look. Under ordinary circumstances she would have launched a spell or two, but given the situation she merely clicked her tongue loudly and picked up where she had left off.

“Yes. His standing is high enough to match most dukes, so either a proxy of the duke or the duke himself must receive him for form’s sake.”

“And if His Grace is going in person, the other party must be extremely important.”

“Naturally. That man half feeds Iceland all by himself.”

“Ah… I see.”

Only then did Karem nod in understanding. With a status like that, of course the prestige would be—hang on, what did I just hear?

The boy scrubbed at his ear, half-convinced he had misheard. Even though he had never left the Seophon Kingdom since his reincarnation and had only personally visited Kingsland and a few villages and towns in Iceland, he still knew the approximate location of the Adobis New Kingdom.

By land one had to cross more than a dozen countries to reach that desert nation. By sea the journey was shorter, yet it still took a solid month and more, and foul weather routinely stretched it further. And a country that distant was half feeding the Seophon Kingdom? What on earth did that mean?

“Master Atanitas. Why would people from a far-off desert kingdom come all the way to a place overflowing with snow and ice?”

“Because the Adobis New Kingdom goes mad for the timber that grows here. Not only the ruler and the nobles—commoners and slaves alike are said to scramble desperately for any scrap they can get.”

“Hmm? Wait. Ah… I see.”

For a moment he thought, Is that all? Yet the more he considered it, the more it made sense. The Seophon Kingdom was surrounded by sea on all sides; they would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠certainly come by port. If merchants would circle the globe more than halfway by land or sea for profit alone, this world was unlikely to be any different. Spices and silk had been Asia’s classic exports westward, and even in more ancient times gemstone routes had formed commercial spheres much like the Silk Road. Go further back and trade had existed in the Stone Age. The only precondition was that the goods had to be worth the journey.

“But is Iceland’s timber really that fine? Fine enough to travel this far?”

“The main trade goods are specific varieties such as Mellburn Oak. Their peculiar trait is that once the surrounding temperature rises past a certain point they release the mana stored inside and cool the area.”

“Ah—I understand completely.”

In his previous life the man who invented the air conditioner, K. Willis, had practically been treated as a saint. If a mere tree produced a similar effect, of course people would stamp their feet to obtain it. And the Adobis New Kingdom sat in the middle of a desert. No further explanation was required.

“Is it only Iceland, though? There must be other regions just as cold.”

“When you factor in travel time by land or sea, Iceland is still the fastest.”

“From that desert all the way out there… to here?”

“Yes.”

Catherine cut him off with two syllables.

The journey to their destination, Obsidianberry, proved utterly uneventful. It could hardly have been otherwise: the knights and soldiers were pathologically obsessive about the duke’s safety, and any monsters foolish enough to attack were physically obliterated. Bandits? No bandit in his right mind would assault—or even approach—a procession this heavily guarded. As a result the trip was so safe it bordered on boring, and reactions split sharply.

Olivier, accustomed to desk work, and Karem, who could more or less endure boredom, were fine. Mary, forever tormented by workaholism, and Catherine, who hated sitting still, fidgeted restlessly the entire time. Of course they were not restless all day long. Three times a day, when meals were prepared and rest taken, pure liberation bloomed across their faces. It was a luxury no ordinary commission or merchant caravan could ever enjoy.

“Contractor. I have declined every meal invitation so far.”

“Haa… Why do they keep inviting us? I still can’t understand what that old coot finds so enjoyable about these things.”

Catherine, who had refused every dinner invitation since the day they left on the pretext of poor condition, grumbled as usual.

“Isn’t it because you are now officially the highest magic advisor?”

“By custom, rank alone places you on equal footing with Iceland’s Grand Knight-Commander. Of course they invite you.”

“Wait—that high a position?”

“Mm.”

Olivier stroked his beard and confirmed it for Karem. Confronted with a reality she would rather not have recalled, Catherine muttered that she had known it would become this bothersome.

So she’s risen that high…?

The Grand Knight-Commander was the one who, on behalf of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Duke of Iceland, commanded the throng of knights bound by feudal and loyalty contracts throughout the territory. Unlike other regions, Iceland maintained no separate knightly orders; in practice the Grand Knight-Commander was vice-commander of the single largest knightly force that existed in Iceland. The commander, of course, was His Grace the Duke himself.

Karem shook his head vigorously to dispel the dazed feeling. Status rose every time he blinked, so the reaction was natural—yet he could not afford to stand around wool-gathering in front of the fire.

“Hmm? Doughnuts for lunch today?”

Catherine peered into the pot. The spheres bobbing and frying to a deep brown in the vigorously bubbling oil looked for all the world like doughnuts. Mary, however, denied it with absolute firmness.

“They are most certainly not doughnuts.”

“They look exactly like doughnuts, though?”

“I swear upon my honor as a Brownie that they are not doughnuts.”

“Not honor—instinct, more like.”

The house elf did not contradict her contractor. At that, Catherine turned on Olivier, who was still stroking his beard.

“Hey, old coot. You saw the whole thing, didn’t you?”

“Naturally. I have been watching from start to finish.”

“Then if those aren’t doughnuts, what are they?”

“Is that not the joy of a dish when it is finished? Still so impatient, Kitty.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times—if you call me Kitty—”

“Oh, looks like they’re done.”

The moment Olivier cut her off, Karem, who had been rolling the brown spheres floating in the boiling oil this way and that with a ladle, decided they were perfectly cooked and transferred them at once to a plate.

“They’re still hot, so please be careful, everyone.”

“Then I shall check first.”

Hardly had the words left his mouth before Mary transferred one of the still-steaming spheres onto a plate already set on the table and stabbed it with fork and knife. The instant the gleaming silver knife pierced the sphere with a crisp crack, a yellow, sticky liquid burst forth; the moment the cut was complete, the rich aroma of savory meat juices exploded from the cross-section.

Thick, molten yolk ran down the slanted white of the half-set egg, mingling with the juices of the appetizing ground meat that encased it and pooling on the plate. Time seemed to slow as Catherine watched in admiration.

“You wrapped a soft-boiled egg in a meatball?”

“It’s called Highlander Egg—a local dish of the northern tribes of Iceland. Jigmeser refined the recipe.”

A boiled egg wrapped in seasoned meat, coated in egg wash and breading, then deep-fried. Ingredients, method, and appearance were identical to a Scotch egg. Of course the original Highlander Egg Jigmeser had described had been a rather different affair—fully hard-boiled eggs wrapped in chopped scrap meat, roasted dry, then dried further, or so he had said. Jigmeser claimed that with nothing more than salt it was reasonably edible, but from the standpoint of ingredient utilization Karem could only give it a failing grade.

Meanwhile Olivier, who had cut open another sphere, exclaimed in delight.

“Mm! Is this a meatball wrapped in pie crust?”

“Meatball Wellington.”

“They’re all different kinds?”

Olivier’s knife parted the outer pastry and ground meat; cheese erupted with the meat juices like magma, slowly flowing and pooling on the plate. When the jam and sauces prepared in advance were added, the result was perfection itself.

While the two mages continued their meal in continuous satisfaction, the house elf attending one of them inspected the spheres filling a large platter and then fixed Karem with a stare.

A piercing gaze that seemed to drill straight through him.

“I only managed two kinds because time was short, but I’ll show you some real skill at dinner.”

“Mm.”

“How about thick, fluffy pancakes?”

“Mm!”

Karem raised both hands in surrender. Mary snorted with satisfaction and returned to her proper work.

Pictures drawn by ChatGPT for me.