Riding the Same Horse

The Red Cross Magic College. Known more commonly as the Red Cross.

A cabal of black magicians with ties to Ayres — the same ones who had driven Knight Adol Prime to suicide, then vanished like smoke.

At the time, Messi had searched House Ahental and House Prime alongside Benedict, to no avail. The two of them had reached a conclusion: either no black magician existed within the household, or it was someone they would never have suspected — or else a powerful black art was erasing the culprit's identity altogether.

At Viscount Ahental's request that he keep watch over the eldest son, Benedict had remained with the family right up until war broke out.

Ayres, for his part, had been uncharacteristically quiet. To Messi's eyes, that silence was stranger than any outburst.

He has to know Sir Benedict is here because they suspect him... and yet he hasn't reacted at all.

Word of what had happened in the study had spread among the servants, and rumors now circulated that Ayres might have connections to the Red Cross. When Sir Adol — Ayres's own confidant, tangled in the affair — took his own life, the household's unease only deepened. Everyone had begun to reexamine the First Young Master they had always taken for a decent man.

And now, on top of it all, a priest of the Church — an institution the viscount himself did not favor — was staying under their roof. What must they all be thinking?

Ordinarily, Ayres would have schemed Benedict out of the house by any means necessary. He was a severe perfectionist, a man who could not bear to see his image tarnished. And yet he waited, as if biding his time — composed, unhurried, as though none of it had anything to do with him.

There's something here.

It meant he had a move that would completely reverse his current disadvantage — a card worth enduring a stained reputation for.

What was it?

In truth, it wasn't hard to guess.

A war — that grand festival of killing and dying — is right on the doorstep. There's no way he'd let that opportunity slip.

Messi put himself in Ayres's position and considered every option available to him.

First: distinguish himself in battle. That would not only recover from the present scandal but also earn him points with the viscount.

Second: obstruct his rival. Until now, Ayres had always preferred tearing Ereb down so that he himself would look better by comparison. He was likely to try the same thing again.

Third: eliminate the rival entirely. Without Ereb, none of the rest would even be necessary. And a battlefield — a stage already furnished with the perfect pretext — had been prepared for him.

At this point, not making a move would just be stupid.

From that moment, Messi resolved to end this war as quickly as possible. He would obstruct Ayres from earning any military distinction, deny him the time to check Ereb, and let Ereb rack up achievements in a short span.

And...

Cut off any attempt to eliminate the rival at the source.

So he was here after all.

Messi studied Viscount Hurik from head to toe. A scrawny, unimpressive frame, and a sickly air about him. To the eye, he was nothing more than a frail man. But the stench that rose the instant he opened his mouth told Messi one thing.

The Red Cross.

It was the first method of identification Benedict had taught him. Messi recognized it because he had smelled it in the dungeon where Adol had died — though no one else seemed able to detect the odor at all.

"Hurik. You're asking for a private audience?"

"I am, my lord. I assure you, you will not regret it."

It was the first time Viscount Hurik had ever shown such confidence. Even the count's curiosity was piqued.

"Surely I, at least, may remain?"

"This is a matter for the lord of the house alone, Hiwork. You will need to step out as well."

There was no choice. Every retainer in the tent had to leave. Messi withdrew with them.

Hiwork looked worried — afraid that some variable he didn't know about might influence the count.

Messi pursed his lips and blew a faint whistle, threading his will into the sound. A wind spirit carried the voices from inside the tent to Hiwork and Messi alike.

......!

Hiwork whipped his head around, startled by the voices that had suddenly arrived in his ears. Realizing the other retainers couldn't hear a thing, he locked eyes with Messi on a hunch.

"Don't tell me you—"

"Shh."

At Messi's signal, Hiwork closed his mouth as well.

Whether he had been hooked by the argument that a winning fool beat a losing one, or by that final clause — so long as no one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠found out — the count did not reply.

So that was why he reeked of rot, like a mouthful of decay.

A few minutes later, the private conference between the count and Hurik came to an end. The retainers filed back into the tent, but Hiwork didn't so much as twitch. He stood staring at Messi.

"...Why did you let me hear that?"

"I may be an other-race who doesn't know the human world well, but I do have a brain. You're the only one here who actually thinks, Lord Hiwork."

Hiwork let out a dry laugh.

"I've considered you suspicious from the start. And now you go and show me an even more suspicious ability."

"Wouldn't that be because your judgment was correct, my lord?"

Hiwork's face went blank. Hadn't that just been an admission that he was, in fact, a suspicious character doing suspicious things?

"Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Messi — the one they call the Prince of the Foreign Race, and the Saint of the Foreign Race, of House Ahental. A pleasure."

"Wh-what?"

Hiwork was speechless.

The other-race standing in front of him had just casually admitted to being a spy. He nearly shouted — until Messi pressed a finger to his lips again, signaling him to keep quiet.

"We're looking in the same direction anyway, aren't we?"

"Nonsense! Anyone who overheard that would get the wrong idea!"

"It isn't a misunderstanding. You know as well as I do that a peace with Ahental is the only way to survive."

Hiwork said nothing. The man was right.

Under the present circumstances, there was no path to victory. Ahental in front, Alan Aster behind. It could not have been worse. The least terrible option was a single one: deal with Alan Aster first.

The spy explained the situation with a smile.

"Viscount Ahental has already won a great victory. He's extracted everything there is to extract from a fight among central nobles. He wants to use Alan Aster's rebellion as an opening to end this war."

The other-race was reciting, almost word for word, the same assessment Hiwork himself had given the count. His expression shifted. Spy or not, Messi had a razor-sharp grasp of the situation.

"So that's why you came here. Pulling the count out of the flames and all. All of it was Viscount Ahental's will."

"That's right. He didn't want Crombell's losses to grow any worse. Crombell may have come at this ready to wipe a house off the map, but Viscount Ahental is a different sort of man."

"I thought as much. A man of Viscount Ahental's judgment would understand the political fallout of killing our lord or destroying House Crombell."

"Then we understand each other. May I take it we're riding the same horse now?"

"...This is absurd."

Hiwork found the whole situation ridiculous — that in order to make peace with Ahental, he was now in bed with Ahental's own spy.

Hiwork entered the count's tent alone.

Count Crombell gave him an odd look for arriving late, but didn't press the matter. What seemed to puzzle him more was that Hiwork hadn't brought Messi.

"Why didn't you bring the other-race?"

"The conversation you're about to have isn't one he should hear, is it? I told him to wait."

"...Ah. Yes. That's true. Well done."

The way he spoke — as if he already knew everything — left the count and Hurik visibly rattled. The count launched straight into it.

"Viscount Hurik has proposed an interesting course of action. It is—"

"My lord, you must not."

"I haven't even finished speaking."

"I don't need to hear it. I already know what Viscount Hurik is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thinking. He wants to bring in the Red Cross, doesn't he?"

The count and Hurik stared at Hiwork in disbelief. The other retainers looked startled at the mere mention of the name.

"H-how did you—"

"Viscount Hurik, did you think I wouldn't know? I've been investigating ever since your viscounty's wheat production suddenly soared."

"That's— that can't—"

He had only learned it from the secret conversation moments ago, but Hiwork played it as if he had known for a long time.

"And yet, my lord — if I knew of the Red Cross's existence, why do you suppose I never once proposed them as an option?"

"Because they weren't worth mentioning?"

"Precisely. First: they are not people you can trust. If they were the sort who could build credit and confidence, would they be flitting about like moths to a flame? They would have settled somewhere."

"Hmph."

"Second: if they were strong enough to let us face Ahental and Alan Aster at the same time... would they still be on the run?"

"...A fair point."

Hurik glared at Hiwork as if he wanted to chew him alive. Hiwork ignored him and pressed on.

"Third: once you connect with them, you cannot cut the tie. That is especially true of Crombell — as central nobility, we have too much we cannot afford to abandon. If they use this affair as leverage to blackmail us, how do you intend to respond?"

"Blackmail? The Red Cross has sworn, in the names of Ohgana and Ascaron, that they will not use this matter to hold us hostage. It is a magical pact. It can be trusted."

Hurik could not hold back any longer. At his words, the count and the retainers looked intrigued. If that third pledge held, it would make an alliance with the Red Cross considerably less unpalatable.

Hiwork asked, unconvinced.

"Viscount Hurik. If they're going that far — why does the Red Cross want to help Crombell?"

"Because they want a place in the sun. Give them somewhere quiet to live and support for their research. In exchange for actively aiding Crombell's revival, they wish to become a pillar of this house. They've offered to prove their worth by wiping out Ahental. Give them a chance. What have you got to lose?"

The answer sent a chill down Hiwork's spine. He was remembering the conversation he'd had with Messi before entering the tent.

If the spy is right... they really can't be trusted. A foot in Ahental and a foot in Crombell? What are they trying to extract from standing between the two?

And yet, there was a seductive side to it as well.

It was like a devil's whisper. Wasn't it picking out exactly what he wanted and laying it out for him?

Was this the other-race's own thinking, or Viscount Ahental's? Was Viscount Ahental even capable of this kind of scheming?

Strangely, in that moment, the black-haired other-race waiting outside the tent felt more unsettling than the Red Cross sitting right in front of him.

I think I know what the other-race wants. He wants Crombell's civil war to deepen further. So that neither side grows too strong...

The problem was that even knowing the intent, he had no choice but to go along with it.

Refuse peace with House Ahental, and they would be forced to continue a disastrously disadvantageous war — and to place the fate of the house in the hands of an unknown cabal. But if they made peace with Ahental and shortened the front, then even if they accepted help from that unknown group, their dependence would be reduced — and control would remain possible.

...We aren't riding the same horse. I'm the one being ridden.

"Hiwork. Are you opposed to working with the Red Cross?"

The count's question, edged with impatience, pulled Hiwork out of his thoughts. He made his decision and spoke.

"What if we did this?"

"Proceed with the peace overture to Ahental, just as before."

"But for dealing with Alan Aster, we borrow the Red Cross's strength. We still don't know how they intend to help us, or how strong they actually are. And shrinking the front to a single line would leave us better prepared for any contingency."

Count Crombell nodded. He could feel that Hiwork's proposal was the best they could produce under the present circumstances.

Hurik cut in, looking a little flustered.

"W-wouldn't it make more sense to deal with Ahental first, rather than Alan Aster? They're right in front of us—"

"Viscount Hurik, then by all means, go arrange a peace with Alan Aster and shorten that front yourself. I'll wager my entire fortune that the only thing that comes back is your head."

If the two of them had actually placed that bet, Hurik would have wagered his entire fortune on his own head coming back, too.

But as the Red Cross's advocate in this room, he could not simply let a peace with Ahental proceed. What the Red Cross wanted most was for Ahental's second son to die on the battlefield. Growing their influence within House Crombell by aiding the civil war was a secondary concern.

"Th-then... what do you intend to do about the peace with Ahental? There's no guarantee they'll even accept. Don't tell me you still mean to offer the Melta Barony and disgrace our lord's name?"

"Ah, don't worry about that either. I've thought of a better way."

Though it wasn't his own idea.