The Impossible Assassination Plan
“You two know each other?”
At Mrs. Randolf's question, Isaac and Carlson exchanged only a glance. In the awkward moment, Carlson spoke first.
“……He’s a young master from a southern house, uh……came to Winterband on his Grand Tour……to broaden his horizons. I, erm, agreed to serve as his escort.”
Carlson, uncharacteristically stumbling over his words, spun an excuse like a tale. Isaac had no idea what he was on about but played along for now.
“Something like that. I heard he’s pretty skilled.”
Fortunately, it seemed to work.
“Ah, I see. That makes sense. No wonder it felt like a young master from a fine house had arrived. With Carlson as escort, it’s reassuring. He said he feels safe leaving his back to you, after all.”
Mrs. Randolf spoke with her usual bright smile.
“Let’s move to the corner table. We need to talk about the journey ahead.”
“Yes. Madam, if you could bring some ale to the table?”
Carlson nodded at Isaac’s words. Mrs. Randolf brought two brimming mugs of ale to the secluded table.
Isaac and Carlson exchanged a few words, then fell silent.
“Carlson, what about dinner?”
“Ah. Yes. As you can see, I’m a mess. Spoils my appetite.”
“And the young master from the southern house? Not hungry?”
“I’m good. Gotta head to the inn soon anyway.”
“Is that so? Then I won’t disturb you further.”
As Mrs. Randolf withdrew, Isaac lowered his voice.
“So, the investigation?”
Isaac had tasked Carlson with digging into the upstart gang that had appeared in Bernsi’s sewers. The key intel was their forces.
“A new crew called Baisman. Five of their swordsmen are infamous. In the slums, everyone knows the Baisman blades.”
“They rose that fast in just a few months.”
Isaac toyed with his horn mug. The ale’s foam was settling.
“Doesn’t seem like a simple gang. Guards are backing them, looks like.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Yesterday, right in the middle of the square, Baisman clashed with Red Fang.”
“Red Fang?”
“One of the established four big gangs. But it was a one-sided slaughter by Baisman. Their swordsmen definitely handle mana. One even used aura. The guards didn’t show until Red Fang was nearly wiped out. Then they just arrested the boss.”
“Just the boss? Why bother?”
“Paraded him in the square. Head lopped off. No execution ceremony or anything.”
Carlson relayed the intel he’d gathered while staying at Mrs. Randolf’s inn. It all matched what Isaac had seen in the ancestors’ records. Inspector Dietrich Marquis was wasting time in Bernsi’s high-end inns and brothels, and he’d met with the market lord during that. Baisman swordsmen always loitered at those meeting spots.
“The swordsmen?”
“There’s a fight pit in the sewers. Baisman took it over, of course. Spent two days playing there, and one of their swordsmen took notice. Told me to come to a slum brothel. Said I might be their sixth blade.”
“That explains the sewer stench on you.”
Carlson’s clothes were streaked with filth everywhere.
“Believe it or not, I washed up. Even after scrubbing in the river, the smell lingers.”
“Tough break.”
“What’s the plan?”
Carlson eyed Isaac. Living with him had taught him a bit. Isaac wasn’t like other noble brats—not just that, but he had some uncanny foresight no ordinary person could match. For him to seek Carlson out personally meant it was time to move.
“Deliver this to Dietrich Marquis.”
Isaac held out a crumpled scrap of parchment.
“Can I read it?”
“Go ahead.”
With Isaac’s permission, Carlson unfolded it.
Bernsi is not your money pouch, parasite - Isaac von Goete
“……Sending something like this—what’s the point? Won’t it just provoke the marquis?”
Carlson couldn’t grasp Isaac’s intent.
“If we just sent the note alone, the marquis would have another excuse to pressure my father. He could blow it up over honor.”
“True.”
“But what if you drag one of those swordsmen to the manor and interrogate him? And the market lord gets assassinated out of nowhere?”
Isaac’s voice grew quieter toward the end, a whisper by the last words. But those final words hit Carlson hardest.
“You plan to kill me? The market lord always has an aura user shadowing him. Plus ten or so guards. Killing them’s easy, but assassinating him without getting caught? Even I couldn’t.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Isaac nodded readily at Carlson’s words.
“If I assassinate the market lord and get caught or chased, do you have a way to save me?”
Carlson’s goal was revenge. He helped Isaac only insofar as it aided that. His trust was like a merchant’s credit, far from a knight’s loyalty. He wouldn’t take needless risks or losses. Isaac knew that.
“Tough, yeah. You’d have to leave Goethe territory. Or my father would hunt you down somehow. Maybe to the kingdom’s edge. To uphold Goethe’s order.”
“I’d rather face a pack of hell wolves alone. Not this.”
Carlson scowled. He kept his cool always, but not when revenge was threatened.
“Who said you’re doing it?”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll handle the assassination. Time limit: before sunset tomorrow.”
“What…….”
“The city’ll erupt, no doubt. You’ll know even without me telling. Then you deliver the note to the marquis and grab a swordsman for the manor. We need intel.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Why not?”
“Are you sane? Sending a note with your name on it—they’ll peg you as the culprit.”
“They won’t suspect. A sharp marquis like him will suspect a third party instead.”
“Pardon?”
“You know my reputation. With the market lord dead, his suspicion turns to certainty. He won’t act rashly until he figures the third party’s game. Buys time. Meanwhile, make contact with Baisman—threaten, bribe, whatever. Dig up the marquis’s weakness……”
“Hold on. How far does this go?”
Carlson raised both palms in disbelief, scowling for a different reason now.
“Drunk and reckless? Fine, using your rep to sow confusion with the note. But it’s impossible from the start. An assassination even I can’t pull off—you? Or do you figure your status saves you even if caught?”
Isaac had acted boldly before, but never recklessly without options. This felt like walking into a trap.
Carlson stuck by him for the credit: foresight, kept promises despite youth, useful for revenge. But this? One slip, and both were done.
“Carlson, my head’s clearer than ever.”
Isaac met his gaze steadily, eyes unwavering—the Isaac he knew.
“That’s why I said: move after I succeed. If I’m caught or outed as the killer, ignore my orders. Figure you stepped in shit and go your way.”
“……You mean it?”
Isaac drained his ale at Carlson’s question.
“Never said anything I didn’t mean. Order food or more ale.”
Isaac tossed a silver coin on the table, stood, and left the inn.
They say strategy is just 1% of chess. The rest—99%—is tactics. I didn’t know that.
I was drunk on ideal strategies. Yonas’s words from my past life held their own hard-won truth.
Goethe’s city-state declaration won many victories, but suffered equal defeats. His words stemmed from one such loss.
Our inexperience in war showed as lack of tactics. We planned for ideal wins, but reality had more variables than a chessboard.
Tactics realize strategy. Step-by-step actions to reach the goal. Sometimes distant from ideals, cold, or brutal.
Assassinating Bernsi’s market lord, Baris, was one such.
Bernsi’s disaster rested on three pillars: Inspector Dietrich Marquis, Market Lord Baris, Baisman.
The marquis and Baisman could serve Goethe if used right. Baris was the city’s parasite.
Remove him cleanly, and their plans crumbled—saving rivers of blood ahead.
A dingy inn, incomparable to Mrs. Randolf’s. Late night, Bill and Isaac sat at the table, hoods up.
“Ah, assassination. Poison’s safest. But Baris has a personal chef—hard to use. Right, slit his throat. Oh, but those ace swordsmen make approach tough. Crossbow then. What? You don’t know crossbows? No reliable archer? Shame.”
Bill rattled off opinions on Isaac’s plan.
Yeah, the ale here tastes like crap.
Isaac thought. The ale he’d downed happily at Mrs. Randolf’s felt laborious now. No fruit or malt in this wooden mug—just fishy reek.
This outskirts inn was near the execution society building, not far from Baris’s manor. Biggest perk: Nears’ hideout, easy ops.
Bill bunked here, monitoring Baris per orders. Day and night, every move spied.
Baris’s routine, guards’ lax moments. Nears shattered by Baisman, Bill had grudges too. Unwanted boss or not, nobody likes losing what’s theirs.
Three days solid on Baris. Conclusion: one.
The fat slob never went without guards. Even bedding his wife or whores, guards everywhere. Execution hall, manor, fancy inns, brothels—always over ten.
Paranoid? Flaunting power? Hated for crimes? Approach impossible.
“How about this? Torch his building. Bear down when he bolts. Ah, swordsmen won’t sit? True. But, young master—one question?”
“Shoot.”
Isaac spun the wooden mug, untouched.
“You nuts?”
“Hearing that a lot today.”
Isaac chuckled, recalling Carlson’s sanity check.
“Hit Baisman first. Easier assassination then. They’re just gang trash.”
“Five mana users, right? Can’t touch till we map their full strength.”
“Then what?”
“Doesn’t change. I’ll handle Baris.”
“Hoo.”
Bill sighed.
“Problem?”
“Me? Have a problem? Never.”
Isaac stared; Bill shook his head unwittingly. Flashed to the magic contract in Nears’ jail. Since then, his lifeline was Isaac’s.
“I just mean, with guards everywhere, slitting that pig’s throat without a whisper? Impossible.”
“Make the impossible possible.”
Isaac tossed a few coppers to the innkeep with a word.
“Ale’s shit.”
“Then fuck off and don’t come back.”
“Planned to.”
Isaac exited; Bill grabbed the innkeep’s collar.
“Fix the damn ale.”
“Wh-what?”
The innkeep blinked, a Nears survivor.
“Why, boss? Only desperate half-deads come here anyway.”
“……True.”
Bill released, then yanked back as something hit him.
“Got beef?”
“No, not beef, just……”
“Then piss off if you wanna live.”
Bill shoved him rough. Instinct since his life tied to Isaac—sensitive to anything upsetting him.
“Coming?”
“On it!”
Bill bolted at Isaac’s outdoor call.
“Fuck, what’s his deal all sudden.”
The innkeep smoothed his collar, grumbling.
“Got a way?”
Bill asked trailing Isaac.
“Thinking.”
“What at this hour? Night watch’ll hassle.”
“Hmm, this way maybe.”
Isaac ignored, gazing skyward, scanning.
“Baris is at the manor now. This is opposite. Young master! Where the hell……”
Bill’s frustration peaked; Isaac halted.
Bernsi’s grandest church loomed.
“Perfect.”
“Pray and Baris drops dead from heaven’s wrath?”
Bill was dumbfounded.
“Depends how you pray.”
Isaac rapped the arched heavy doors, shut tight.