A Morbid Hobby (2)
As the late afternoon sun hung low, Goethe Manor was beset by a noisy procession of carriages. Seven wagons clogged the road before the estate, all but the lead one laden with cargo, surrounded by dozens of armed mercenaries. It was a force rivaling a small baron's army.
The steward, accompanied by footmen and maids, greeted the guests. Strictly speaking, the marquis was no blood noble but a robe noble elevated by administrative rank—a second-class aristocrat whose legitimacy was hard to claim regardless of title. Yet Steward Schrader treated him with the deference due any noble visitor.
"We are honored by your visit, Marquis Dietrich."
"Is the count at home?"
The marquis stepped down from his intricately carved carriage door, posture ramrod straight. The middle-aged man with lustrous long hair suited his Taft coat well. Glimpsed beneath it was no ordinary chainmail—black links shimmering with an eerie green sheen. Dimegtrium armor, enchanted for magical defense. Necklaces and rings adorning nearly every finger were magitech artifacts, and even his mercenaries wore at least breastplates of plate armor. He had come prepared.
"He's waiting inside. Quite the entourage of wagons and men, though. Is there some grave matter?"
The steward's question was transparent, but he wanted to hear the excuse anyway.
"I've kept the count waiting on my promise far too long—such rudeness on my part. So I've brought supplies to aid Winterband: barley and wheat, dried meat and herbs, and fifty arming swords besides. As for the numbers... well, bandits on the road would be a nuisance, wouldn't they?"
The marquis's reply was smooth as oiled silk.
"Indeed, such generosity makes my delay seem trivial."
"Not at all. I'm only sorry I couldn't bring more. The count is this kingdom's shield, after all. I wanted to contribute what I could, but my hands are small—hence so little."
"No need. It's a great comfort not just to Your Excellency but to Winterband's troops. The arming swords are a surprise, though."
"I've heard Winterband's weapons rust from condensation or chip from frost impacts. So I prepared these."
"May I inspect one?"
"By all means."
The arming swords were loaded on the rearmost wagon. Schrader drew one and examined the blade closely.
"What do you think? I commissioned master smiths in Baldarin especially. Balance, durability, sharpness—all superb, but the fuller work is a masterpiece. It shaves weight without sacrificing strength."
"A thoughtful gesture. The count will be pleased."
He said as much, but Schrader's eyes were grave. The fuller was a groove along the blade's center—for balance and weight reduction. The marquis's claim sounded reasonable at first glance, but only to one ignorant of Winterband's winters.
Swords supplied to Winterband used iron ore from the Arzer Mountains—black stone, they called it, resistant to temperature shifts. Folded and layered repeatedly in forging, they gained corrosion resistance and immense durability. It took years of shield tax to equip a mere dozen soldiers. Winterband's chronic shortages weren't for nothing.
Weapons so painstakingly procured barely lasted years there. The marquis's "consideration" overlooked this. Thinned by the fuller for lightness, the blades would crack soon enough.
In the end, troops and supplies alike were mere show. Mentioning arming swords was just a probe into Winterband's intimate details—or a veiled threat of seizing the manor with them.
"This old man's fretting has wasted your time, Marquis. Please, come inside."
The elderly steward feigned ignorance of the obvious ploy.
"If I may, only one attendant from here on."
He added this to the mercenaries trailing the marquis.
"Fine. You, come along."
The marquis selected one without fuss. A mercenary hired for today—not just a brute, but skilled in scouting.
"Hm?"
Trailing the steward, the marquis suddenly halted.
"Keep talking, you bastard! Talk, I said!"
"Y-Young master, please stop. Why this all of a sudden?"
In a corner of the garden, a boy was kicking a guard mercilessly. The guard could only curl on the ground, defenseless.
"Ah, that's the eldest young master. He's taken a recent interest in swordsmanship."
The steward's words drew the marquis's gaze to the boy.
"As you know, the eldest can't wield magic due to his unique constitution. He's seeking new paths. Fortunately, he's discovered a talent for the sword lately."
"So that boy's the first young master?"
"Yes."
"Taller than expected. I heard he was only twelve."
"He spent months in Binvelt on business and returned having shot up."
The marquis studied Isaac's appearance. Ash-gray hair, eyes like the count's—blue and sharp. But the overall impression was far keener, more neurotic. A perfect fit for a noble house's wastrel. The wine bottle in his hand sealed it. Wine spilled from its neck with every kick.
"Hmph."
The marquis had visited the manor often on inspection duties but never crossed paths with the young Goetes. No need for greenhorns. Without that note after Baris the merchant's assassination, he'd have ignored the first young master too.
But caution was warranted now. Better safe than sorry.
"Odd way to practice swordsmanship. There's a training ground in the manor."
"The guards train there now."
"Does the count deem the first young master's drills inferior to the guards'?"
"He prioritizes the manor's safety, as you know. Given the young master's condition."
Even as the marquis spoke with the steward, the kicks continued.
"Aren't you going to stop him, as steward?"
"It's routine for us. This way, please."
The steward brushed off the wastrel antics as nothing.
"Tch. A proper degenerate."
"He'll come around someday."
The marquis baited deliberately with insults. The steward remained impassive.
"What of the second young master?"
"At this hour, studying ancient tongue and magic theory. The tournament's soon."
"The count favors him, then."
"Perhaps. Here we are."
"I'm quite at home visiting now."
"You come nearly every year."
"Ahem."
Before the count's private study, the marquis cleared his throat. A crucial deal loomed.
"Your Excellency, Marquis Dietrich has arrived."
"Go tour the manor."
As the steward announced him, the marquis instructed his attendant. In truth, to watch the first young master. He seemed a typical noble wastrel, but suspicion lingered. The note bore his name for a reason.
"Well met, Count."
"You've traveled far—my thanks."
The count rose, offering the seat opposite his desk.
"A drink?"
Two crystal glasses and a bottle sat on the desk, ice chunks in a bucket nearby.
"Ice harvested last winter. Saved for honored guests."
"Such lavish hospitality—I'm touched."
The count tonged ice into the glasses, then poured amber brandy from the bottle.
"The steward aged it himself. Boredom bred the hobby. Perfect for warming chilly bones."
"Excellent."
The marquis sniffed the glass, recognizing fine brandy instantly. Subtle vanilla and caramel from oak casks, followed by berries' bittersweet tang.
"From the aroma alone?"
"I like my liquor. Made a fortune on it too."
"Lucky you. I can't tell fine spirits from swill."
The count gulped his straight down—no savoring, no sniffing.
"Guess this suits me better."
He lit his pipe with magic, stuffing cheap tobacco—the kind commoners smoked. Billowing harsh smoke.
That was the count. No taste for luxuries, no compromise, no scheming—a man of iron. Doomed to rust away into history's shadows.
"How fares Winterband?"
"Holding strong."
"Reports mention issues."
"What issues?"
The count crossed his arms, pipe in mouth.
"Two captains visiting for a military council died suddenly."
"Winterband's gales spare no one, not even officers."
"True. But odd tales... They died in Bernsi, not Winterband. Sir Randolf and Sir Pfeil. You know them?"
"How could I not? We held the ramparts together, lives on the line—just yesterday, it feels."
The marquis watched the count's face. Despite the chiding tone, no anger surfaced.
The count he knew: indifferent to all but defending Winterband, the territory, the house, the kingdom. No ambition, no elector schemes. Once thought a ploy to evade the royals, but years of observation proved otherwise. No aristocratic entitlement, no grudges. More knight than mage lord.
"On royal orders, I investigated. Sir Pfeil tried selling the first young master abroad; Sir Randolf executed him. Then Randolf died repelling a gang after the boy."
"As you found."
"Coincidentally, Bishop Lebonius—Bernsi's diocese head—vanished then. Know anything, Count?"
"Nothing."
The count's gaze was indifferent.
"I see. Curious, then. Since those deaths and the bishop's disappearance, Goethe pays no tithes to the old church. And the Holy See voices no complaint—no new bishop sent."
"Marquis."
"Yes, Count."
"Quit circling. To the point."
The count tapped ash into a tray. The marquis smiled. Just as expected—no denial, no evasion. No wasted effort; he could be grilled easily.
"You know what I want."
"Bernsi's autonomy?"
"Sharp as ever."
"You know what that means?"
"Hardly extravagant. Bernsi's a merchants' city for merchants. Favorable laws, proper policing—that's all."
"Amusing."
Suddenly, their expressions flipped. The marquis's smile vanished; the count's lips twisted.
"Schrader."
"You called?"
The old steward entered quietly, bowing.
"Bring it."
"Yes."
Moments later, Schrader returned with something cloth-draped on a square cushion. He set it on the desk and unveiled it.
"Dietrich Marquis. Or should I say... Konrad."
"......"
The marquis froze, breath caught. Not just from the glass orb holding the severed head before him.
The study's air had turned to ice. Mana radiating from the count.
"Know anything about this?"
Permafrost gleamed in the count's piercing blue eyes.