Assassination (1)
“It’s about Goethe.”
“Ah, that backwater. I hear something interesting’s been going on there lately.”
The Second Prince dragged over a chair and sat down. He rested both hands on the arm of the throne and propped his chin on them.
“From what I saw, it looked like you’d been outmaneuvered by the count. Was I wrong?”
The prince narrowed his eyes, his crimson gaze fixing on the marquis. A chill ran down the marquis’s spine. The Second Prince had a history of ruthlessly eliminating anyone who outlived their usefulness.
Dietrich had risen from merchant to marquis by proving his worth to this very prince. And so he knew full well that staying by the prince’s side was like walking a razor’s edge over a bottomless chasm—one misstep, and you were done for.
“No such thing, Your Highness. Everything is proceeding exactly according to my plan.”
“According to plan? The great families have been purged, most of your mercenaries have fled or been slaughtered, the black market’s been shut down, and the city’s economy is in shambles. Am I mistaken?”
Indeed, even dubbed the little tyrant, the Second Prince was still the Second Prince. His conduct might be deplorable, but his influence and intelligence network were not to be trifled with.
“Everything Your Highness has said is true.”
“You’re not claiming that was your plan, are you?”
“I humbly submit that using the count to clean up the city was my plan.”
“Clean up the city?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Through the black market, we expanded the city as much as we could. Now, don’t we need to think about how to actually use it?”
“Yawn. Go on.”
The prince tossed him a bored glance.
“Please recognize Goethe’s autonomy. Lift the bans on commerce and military buildup, and the city will normalize. The royal family will save on the shield tax paid to Goethe. It’ll benefit the treasury.”
“Shield tax?”
The prince snorted, twirling a lock of his red hair around his finger.
“I’m not sitting here to pinch pennies. There’s more to it, surely?”
“Of course.”
The marquis nodded as if he’d been waiting for this and continued.
“Count Goethe is already clearing out Bernsi’s black market and legitimizing the city’s economy. Recognize his autonomy, and the trade and tax revenues from the city will flow to the crown—straight to you, the overseer of the North.”
The Second Prince was also Duke of the North. Yet he’d maintained the bans on military buildup and commerce not for tax reasons, but political ones. Goethe was royalist, and the royalists backed the First Prince. To check them, the imperial faction supported the Second Prince. He’d been suppressing Goethe to keep royalist power in check.
“And? I get a bit richer, Goethe grows stronger, and the royalists gain ground. That’s it?”
The prince scowled.
“No, Your Highness.”
The marquis replied swiftly, his voice dropping lower, more conspiratorial.
“Goethe’s collateral branches are on the move. Led by Viscount Boatmer, they’ll declare war on Count Goethe under some pretext.”
“War? War!?”
The prince suddenly cackled and clapped his hands, reacting as if a court jester had cracked a clever joke.
“But Goethe won’t go down easy. He’s got five vassals, after all.”
“Not anymore. Shutting down the black market cut off their main revenue. The black market deals in everything under the sun. A quarter of wheat grains—about 225kg—goes for ten silver coins on the market, but the republic’s rebels will pay fifty for it. Same with military supplies. In the barren North, that was their lifeline.”
“And the count plugged it up.”
“Yes. The vassals have no reason to follow him now. Viscount Boatmer’s promised to turn a blind eye to their black market dealings and smuggling in exchange for sitting out the war. He’s even offering a bit of territory.”
“Hmm. So what’s in it for me?”
“Goethe’s land is barren, but it’s believed to hold untapped veins of ore. Once the collaterals seize northern hegemony, the mining rights and fief revenues go to you, Your Highness. They’ll hail you as the North’s true ruler.”
The marquis bowed deeply.
Crash!
The Second Prince stood and shoved another glass orb off the table. The corpse’s head lolled.
“Do it as planned, marquis. Let’s see how it plays out!”
The prince grinned, fiddling with the last orb on the desk—as if to say that if things didn’t go his way, the marquis’s head would be next inside it.
“Next time, bring something better.”
Crash!
He smashed the final orb.
“……Yes. I’ll do my utmost.”
The marquis bowed even deeper.
“Young master, time to get up.”
Late morning. Isaac cracked his eyes open, face twisted in a scowl. The morning air was frigid, with only embers left in the fireplace.
Hans had brought food and washing water, then rekindled the fire. Isaac couldn’t easily drag himself from bed. His body felt heavy. More precisely, his mind, his spirit.
This bout of the mage’s melancholy had crept in subtly but clung tenaciously.
“I heard you caused a scene at the closing ceremony. Turned the envoy with the declaration of war into pulp, they say.”
“Yeah. He barged in right after I got my title. Pissed me off.”
In truth, Boatmer’s chamberlain had arrived at the perfect moment for Isaac—just after he’d been recognized as an independent lord. A bit earlier, and Isaac wouldn’t have had grounds to accept the declaration on Goethe’s behalf.
“So, you’re really a baron now?”
“Yeah, I’m a baron.”
“Congratulations.”
Hans’s tone was flat.
“Not happy? Your master got a title.”
“Nothing changes.”
“Fair enough.”
“Should I call you Baron now? Or Your Excellency?”
“Nah, call me like always. It’s not a big deal.”
“Got it. But seriously, you getting up?”
“Yeah. Just... can’t be bothered.”
Isaac rolled around in bed.
“This is new. Weren’t you running at dawn just the other day?”
“Huh. Guess it’s been a while.”
Mages, they say, mostly meet bad ends. Without constant physical training, they go mad, vanish in madness, or end it all by suicide. All thanks to this damn melancholy.
Since regressing, Isaac had strived to keep his feet on the ground—running, swordplay, anything to move his body.
But there was no cure for the mage’s melancholy when it struck unannounced. You just waited it out.
At least this wasn’t severe; he could still get his duties done. But he never knew when it might flare up explosively.
It hit hardest at Randolf’s inn.
Watching the Baismen rejoice, the thought of Goethe’s future had struck—distant, uncertain...
Don’t think about it.
Isaac shook his head.
“The manor’s mood is sour. Word is you got a declaration of war. This okay?”
“What else can I do?”
“Prepare for war.”
“War, war.”
Isaac stared at the ceiling. Boatmer was stronger than Goethe. Binvelt’s forces were a drop compared to them. By common sense, Binvelt was doomed.
But Isaac had never fought a war. He didn’t truly know what it meant. So facing one didn’t feel real.
“You’re not worried?”
“Of course I am. That’s why I’m drilling with the guards every day.”
Isaac glanced up at Hans. Lately, the boy had bulked up noticeably. Broader shoulders, veined forearms bunching under rolled sleeves. Whatever his training, he wasn’t slacking.
“Opponent’s Boatmer. Richest house in the North. With collaterals and mercenaries, that’s over two thousand.”
“Eh, that’s above my pay grade. You’ll handle it, young master.”
Hans spoke like it was someone else’s problem, tidying the bedroom. He wiped the ink-stained desk, cleared fruit rinds and scraps, tossed clothes into the laundry, straightened crooked furniture.
“You’re awfully chill.”
“Must be from hanging around you. What’s with all this?”
While cleaning, Hans eyed the pile of cotton fibers on the desk, all scrawled in ancient script, not common tongue.
“Had someone to give them to, but no word yet.”
“Oh, right—two messenger birds came for you. Paul brought them, but you were busy, so I took ’em.”
“Hand them over.”
Hans rummaged in his belt pouch. One from Mayor Benders, the other anonymous.
“The news you were waiting for?”
“Probably.”
Isaac sat up, dressing.
“Hans. Hitch up the carriage.”
“Huh? Where to?”
“Hendelbrook.”
“That far?”
Isaac was already shrugging on his fur coat, heading out. Hans followed, baffled.
Hendelbrook was a trading city in Count Adalbert’s territory, a waypoint from Goethe to the capital.
Morning mist cloaked the cobblestone streets. Carriage wheels jolted, hooves clattered everywhere. Near the crossroads, a smithy’s monotonous hammering rang out. Merchants from afar clustered by inns. Narrow alleys reeked of spices, leather, and horse dung from stables. A monastery bell tolled for prayer.
Boatmer’s chamberlain, Gutrurt, paced before his carriage. Soon, a dark brown wooden coach upholstered in thick, glossy oxhide pulled up. A man in a knee-length tunic and beret stepped down—wavy long hair suiting him, but his face etched with worry and irritation.
“Marquis.”
“What happened to your face?”
Dietrich Marquis frowned at Gutrurt. Crooked nose like it’d been broken, one eye swollen shut, stance awkward from a bad back.
“……Let’s talk inside.”
The discussion in the inn’s private room dragged on. Report of the spirit rampage failure, Isaac von Goethe’s untimely interference.
“That damned wastrel ruined everything. At this rate, we’ll be at war with him, not the count.”
“What’d the viscount say?”
“Sent a letter, no reply yet.”
“How the hell did you—”
Grind!
The marquis glared at Gutrurt in fury. The chamberlain brushed it off. No reason for a dispossessed noble like Dietrich to scare him now. The marquis was just an informant.
“Don’t worry. You secured Goethe’s autonomy, so pulling in the collaterals will be easy. I’ll handle the brat myself.”
“Handle how? Kill him?”
“Isn’t that the surest way?”
“Assassinate him now, and the viscount gets suspected.”
“Our goal’s war with Goethe anyway. If the viscount loses his head over his son, Goethe might strike first. Sounds good to me.”
“……”
The marquis frowned.
“How?”
“Better if you don’t know.”
Gutrurt smiled meaningfully.
“Goethe and Boatmer will clash. Let’s move on to what comes after.”
Gutrurt and the marquis fine-tuned their plans. After Goethe and Boatmer collided, how to draw in imperial families. How to provoke royalist leaders. How to secure imperial aid.
“The empire doesn’t want the Second Prince. Someone who’ll rule steadily and hand over what they need.”
“How much does he know about this war?”
“Cunning, but shortsighted. Toss him a mine or two, he’ll be happy.”
The talk stretched hours. Tasks for the marquis and viscount set. All that remained was Gutrurt’s report to Viscount Boatmer.
“Let’s have a drink.”
After, they ordered liquor and food. The marquis stuck to brandy, soon tipsy.
“Tell the viscount straight: don’t underestimate Goethe. Lose this fief war, and it won’t end as a simple defeat.”
He stared out the rain-streaked window, droplets trailing down the glass.
“Don’t worry. You know what we’ve prepared. This war will change so much in the kingdom……”
Crash!
The window shattered.
“Gurk—”
Gutrurt choked, blood gurgling. The panicked marquis checked him. Throat pierced. Gutrurt waved his hands, clawing at his neck, eyes bulging as his head snapped back. Staring into nothing. Dead before realizing it.
“Guards! Guards!”
The marquis ducked behind the wall, shouting.