The Madwoman's Invitation (4)
Thanks to the chill from Asenaris, the door to the room stood wide open, letting me catch sight of Francois lounging diagonally on her bed, absorbed in a book. Spotting me, she sat up with a tousle of her hair and flashed a gentle smile.
"What's up?"
"Mind if we chat for a bit?"
"I'm always happy to see you. Come on in, Bertrand."
I stepped inside and perched on the empty bed opposite her. Francois straightened up too, facing me squarely. Tall and graceful, with porcelain skin, flowing blonde hair, and that subtle smile—she was nobility personified. Even if you dressed her in rags and dumped her in the market square, folks would bow before recognizing her as a lady of high birth.
"You've been working at the inn for a while now. How's it treating you?"
"I'm thrilled. I can cook without a care in the world. And you, the others... I love it all."
"Good to hear. Ever been to the royal palace?"
Francois didn't miss a beat at the sudden question, answering with her usual elegance.
"Always wanted to, but never made it. Why do you ask?"
I fiddled with the card for a moment before thrusting it at her outright. She immediately recognized the royal seal, and her expression tightened a fraction.
"What's this?"
"Take a look."
Francois read the inscription on the front—something about Bertrand's faithful service to the palace—and glanced up at me.
"You worked at the palace...?"
"Just briefly. Ignore that and check inside."
She flipped open the card and scanned the invitation within. Her smile faded bit by bit.
His Majesty's Funeral
Bertrand is cordially invited, with one companion.
"The king's funeral... that's no small thing, Bertrand."
"Yeah. But it says I can bring one guest. How about coming with me to the palace?"
Francois didn't answer right away, just staring at me steadily. It wasn't some casual outing—this was a royal funeral. No one could commit on the spot.
"I know it's sudden, but I've got my reasons for asking you. What do you say to sampling the palace cuisine while you're there?"
"Palace cuisine..."
"Yep. Wouldn't it be inspiring to see and taste what the kingdom's top chefs whip up?"
"You're right. The royal kitchens only take the most seasoned graduates from Cuisine Academy. It wouldn't hurt to check it out."
"Great, then it's settled."
I explained that a palace mage would fetch us bright and early tomorrow, whisking us straight there via dimensional gate. At the mention of a mage and gate, Francois's eyes widened in surprise.
"Bertrand. Why's a mage coming all the way here personally? What did you do at the palace?"
"Nothing major. Anyway, get some good rest tonight—you'll need to be up early."
I bid her goodnight and stepped into the hall, where Marim stood with her long ears perked up like antennae.
"Boss."
"What're you doing lurking here? Go hit the sack."
"Boss, why just Francois sis? Are we too lowly to tag along without embarrassing you?"
"You little pea-brain, eavesdropping again. It's one guest only! Bam!"
I raised my fist like I was about to flick her forehead, and Marim yelped, clutching her head before blinking away in a flash.
From inside the room, Francois let out a soft chuckle. Then Pelle's icy voice drifted from Marim's side of the shared space.
"Ears. Cut the crap and behave."
"Ugh, come on! Boss is taking Francois sis to some fancy spot and leaving us out!"
"Clean your side first. It's such a pigsty I don't wanna room with you."
"Okay... sorry..."
Pelle as drill sergeant for the mischievous Marim? Smart rooming choice.
Back in my room, I flopped onto the bed. The pattering rain made my whole body feel limp. On top of that, the sudden news of Brione and Elua had tanked my mood, which Francois's boeuf bourguignon had lifted just earlier.
Had Brione slunk off by now? Nah, she was probably still moping dramatically alone in the dim hall. Whatever, let her.
But no matter how I sliced it, Elua had to be behind this somehow. Brione always hid the truth and spun lies, so I couldn't take her word at face value... I'd figure it out at the palace tomorrow.
Whether Elua killed the king or he just croaked from illness suddenly, I wasn't planning any heroics. Still, knowing how the palace ticks couldn't hurt. New king, new policies—better to stay ahead for business.
Speaking of, the card mentioned invites going to counts and higher... Never asked about Francois's family. If they're that rank, she might run into relatives at court. Nah, she was set to marry into the Audrion barony, so probably barons themselves. Noble matches usually pair similar titles, or the bride's side lower.
Her folks wouldn't make the cut then. Dodged an awkward bullet. If the wedding blew up completely and the runaway bride showed up with another guy, her parents would lose it. After botching the alliance and getting the groom's family wiped out, a prodigal daughter wouldn't be welcome.
It tugged at me—Francois, once a proper lady of the manor, now slinging pots in an inn kitchen, unable to go home. She claimed to be happy... but was she really? Who could say. Sure, she hummed tunes while cooking...
Heading down for dinner, Brione was nowhere in sight—must've left. Over the meal, I told the staff I'd be off to the king's funeral with Francois at dawn.
Pelle, already in the loop, showed zero reaction. Marim puffed her cheeks in protest.
"Hey, Marim, don't sweat it. A half-elf stepping into the palace? The guards'd chase you down and tear you apart."
"Why?! Half-elves are kingdom folk too! What, we Demon Army now?!"
Marim clamped her mouth shut, realizing her slip, and peeked at Pelle. Who just stirred her spoon stone-faced—creepier that way.
"Heh... sorry... Pelle sis..."
"No yelling at the table. Bad manners."
"Mmph..."
Francois smiled indulgently at the antics. Idi giggled, wishing us fun. Funeral vibes aside... Della vowed to pack plenty of travel cash this time, still guilty about our Apenzel trip's tight budget.
"It's fine, Della. Dimensional gate both ways—no travel funds needed."
"Eek?! For real? That's magic, right? Can you do it, Idi?"
Idi scratched her head with an awkward grin.
"Nah... only proper mages. I'm a black mage, can't touch it..."
"So what's the diff between black mage and regular?"
Ukun boomed from his bowl.
"Thought you were a mage when you heated my bathwater in one go!"
"Dwarf pops, no yelling at dinner. Bad manners."
Marim sniped, earning Ukun's snort.
"Pipe down and eat, squirt. Or I'll whack ya with my hammer and you'll bawl."
"Who's calling who squirt... you're shorter..."
Ukun patted his hammer-head fondly; Marim mumbled under her breath.
With the bickering done, Idi continued.
"Mages use nature's mana—no side effects. Black magic? Heavy backlash. It pollutes everything... kills the living..."
"Like that gagabur brain fluid, huh? So you're killer curses and hexes?"
"Heh heh..."
Idi brushed it off with a laugh. Knowing her dark past, I caught the edge in it. This innocent cow-girl was once a dank cellar witch peddling shrunken-head charms from beggars' skulls—my little secret here.
That night in the first-floor bar, Pelle milked me for protein once more. Sweet dessert after dinner, she claimed. Delusional.
"Keep this up, what if a saintess drops by?"
"You block her, boss."
Kneeling between my legs, wiping her mouth with her sleeve, Pelle said it deadpan.
"That squares us for recent stuff."
"Uh... yeah..."
After Pelle headed upstairs, I snuffed the hall candles and climbed to my room. Packing for the palace? Nothing jumped out. Holy Sword? Might spark dumb misunderstandings or fights, so leave it. Clean black attire would do.
Someone knocked on my open door. Della stood there, peeking in, hiding something behind her back.
"Della? What's up?"
She hesitated, glanced down the hall, then stepped inside a pace.