Chapter 119
Chapter 119
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 119
Chapter Title: The Count's Hunch
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No matter the field, anyone who sticks with it long enough accumulates experience.
And that experience breeds something called a hunch or intuition.
You could call it unscientific or pseudoscience, but anyone who's done anything for several years knows that hunches and intuition exist.
Even just working part-time at a café or convenience store makes it clear.
A total newbie after six months on the job can hear the ding of the door chime and, in the brief moment it takes a customer to reach the counter, tell by their gait and face alone whether they're a real customer or a troublemaker.
And that intuition usually proves more accurate on the bad side than the good.
Count Rundle, who had spent several times more years wheeling and dealing in the capital and royal palace than in his own territory, felt a very bad "hunch and intuition" about the man the information guild called Whale.
It was the instinct honed by politics: if he didn't make direct contact himself, not only would nothing come of it, but their relationship would sour even further.
That was why Count Rundle had come in person.
* * *
"Ah, you're the one who caused a ruckus in August Territory. I've heard about that. The proxy lord of Olrot Territory had quite the ordeal. Though I don't know you at all, please accept my deepest regrets."
Out came the magic word "regrets," perfect for offering or receiving apologies.
Unfortunately, Jenna wasn't cultured enough to grasp the subtle (bullshit) implications of "regrets," so she just grinned.
"If you don't know me, Your Excellency doesn't need to express regrets. I'm fine."
Jenna really was fine.
She'd gotten beaten up a bit due to Yens's scheme, endured some forced groping, and spent a few days in jail, but for someone in the information trade, that was nothing.
Around here, you get beaten half to death, raped regardless of gender, locked up for months, and tortured—that's the norm. This was peanuts.
But Jenna's sincere words reached Count Rundle, pickled in politics, in a distorted form.
'As expected of Whale's underling. The master's success makes the dog strut too.'
Count Rundle's gaze darkened coldly.
Before coming here, he had dug up and memorized everything he could about Jenna Olrot.
A branch chief in some backwater who lucked into meeting Whale and turned her life around.
But apparently talented enough to earn recognition from Whale and even the higher-ups in the information guild?
In short, a classic rags-to-riches story.
Handling someone like her was child's play for Count Rundle.
"Though I barely know you, I couldn't rest easy thinking the proxy lord of Olrot Territory might have been scarred by the incident."
"Uh...."
"So I looked into it a bit, and that Botan fellow left behind a fair bit of wealth. Even though he's dead, wouldn't it only be proper for his heirs to compensate you somewhat for your wounds?"
"No, that's not...."
Jenna tried to say she wasn't wounded at all, truly, but Count Rundle raised a hand and continued.
"I've arranged a settlement: 300,000 diens as consolation money to the proxy lord of Olrot Territory. It's a tenth of what that Baron Botan I barely know left behind. It should wash away some of those wounds—what do you say?"
"It feels like my body and soul have been utterly purified."
Come to think of it, one corner of her mind had felt uneasy until just now. It was uneasy for one second and relieved the next, but hey, if that's how it felt.
'Look at that. So predictable.'
Confirming his intentions had landed, Count Rundle felt relieved. He also sensed it was time to broach the real purpose of his visit.
"By the way, proxy lord—no, branch chief—of Olrot, I hear you handle a particular client. How's that person doing?
Oh, don't misunderstand. I'm a former royal minister of the interior, you know? I just thought it might benefit the kingdom to forge even a small connection with someone who could greatly aid our national interests."
"Ah, you mean Sir Sailun?"
"Hm? Ah, yes."
He was slightly thrown by her straightforward answer but chalked it up to the effect of the 300,000 diens, convinced Jenna was fully on board.
"If it's Sir Sailun, he could meet you anytime without coming to me first."
"Hm...?"
Jenna smiled brightly as she spoke.
"He's already gone to Burgos. About three days ago. He said anyone looking for him should just head to Burgos."
She didn't mention that he had also told her to compile a list of those people and send it along.
Because it had been Sion's orders three days prior.
- Anyone approaching you first to meet me in this situation likely knows specifics about you.
- Specifically, the alias the information guild uses for me and our relationship.
- They'll try to win you over or dig into me through you.
- Take whatever they offer. Make a list of them and just say one thing: come to Burgos themselves.
- I'm looking out for you like this. Let's keep doing well.
Honestly, when she got the orders, she'd thought, "Sure, whatever."
But today, in just three days, it was proven.
'Sion's a god, as expected.'
She'd pocketed 300,000 diens for free!
"So Your Excellency should go to Burgos too."
"I-is that so?"
Count Rundle felt like things had gone his way, yet a nagging unease lingered.
But trusting his hunch about "Whale," he regained his composure and said,
"Anyway, thank you. When I meet Sir Sailun, I'll be sure to pass on word about the Olrot branch chief. And I'll mention you to some pretty decent con.tacts I know."
"Oh, no need for that."
This was sincere too.
What kind of person was Sion?
Jenna knew Sion wouldn't believe hearsay from others—only what he saw and experienced himself.
He had endless time since he didn't age.
So once he judged for himself, no one else's words would sway him.
Thus, out of service spirit toward Count Rundle, who had so generously handed over 300,000 diens, Jenna told him the truth.
No need.
It wouldn't change her client's mind anyway.
But Count Rundle, master of royal palace politics, read between the lines and inferred meanings Jenna never intended—like a self-proclaimed critic overanalyzing an author's work.
"I'll make sure to tell him. If Sir Sailun learns the proxy lord of Olrot is his confidant, it'll be good for me, him, and everyone who'll build good relations ahead, right?"
"Sigh, really not."
Confidant my ass—a frozen confidant.
Knowing full well she was more like a sidekick than a confidant to Sion, Jenna spoke the truth again.
Just in case this conversation reached Sion: "I really said no!"
But Count Rundle, like a professor grading a Hitchcock essay—written by his granddaughter with advice from the man himself—as a C, twisted the author's intent to his whim yet again.
"Haha. The proxy lord of Olrot is truly humble. I get your meaning fully. Now, back to work."
"Yes, yes. Thank you."
For this sucker who'd handed over 300,000 diens of his own accord, Jenna showed thorough service spirit, escorting Count Rundle to the castle gate.
"Take care."
"Yes, yes. Good work."
After Jenna's bow, Count Rundle boarded his carriage with a pleased smile.
But the moment the door shut, it turned sinister.
"Hmph. Parvenus from the gutter, as expected."
It was revolting how a bit of cash made them spill their guts and gall.
But to catch the master, grab the dog first. That lowly materialist still had plenty of use.
"Your Excellency, back to the palace?"
"No, I'm heading straight to Burgos. Contact the crown prince's office too. Tell them to prepare—we're going together."
Even as Duke Lloyd's "straw," the realm's top heir and a former minister of the interior showing up unannounced would fluster anyone.
But he couldn't allow that.
Too much prep time was bad, but none at all was worse.
He needed to give just the right amount.
Politics was all about timing.
That's why he'd come personally to the master's top hunting dog—to nail that timing.
'It'll bark straight toward its master, right? Using the information guild's branches, it'll take about ten days. So schedule arrival in Burgos in eleven or twelve days.'
With the crown prince—a VIP among VIPs—visiting, announced through the dog, and no proper "welcome ceremony"?
It would subtly expose Sir Sailun's lack of noble polish. And he and the crown prince could forgive the blunder, showcasing their "magnanimity."
If they did prepare a proper welcome?
It would broadcast to all how highly Sir Sailun valued them.
Yes, this was Count Rundle's checkmate. Win or lose, Sir Sailun would be tied to him and the crown prince.
A gambit only the pinnacle of royal politics could craft and play.
But.
Even as a self-proclaimed master of politics, Count Rundle was a man who'd only played among similar high-level peers in the palace for years—nothing new.
Moreover, his workplace, the palace, had been split into factions for over a decade since the CEO—who held over 90% of the shares—stopped attending board meetings after he became a real power player.
And he didn't realize the "customer" opening the door at his "convenience store HQ" was a case unlike any he'd seen.
In fact, not a customer or troublemaker, but a relative empowered by proxy voting rights from the long-absent CEO.
More crucially, that relative had been empowered long ago.
Before Count Rundle was even born, back when his grandfather sat on the board, that person had flipped the entire board (palace) upside down, forcing his grandfather to beg tearfully for mercy.
He had no inkling that his grandfather, too terrified and ashamed, never breathed a word about it to his children.
(To be continued next time)