Back to the North (4)
During the Founding Festival, I didn't just sit back once my tasks were done. There was one thing I'd instructed Roena to look into, just in case.
"My apologies, Your Grace. I made inquiries, but no such seeds could be found."
"A shame. It's not your fault, so no need to blame yourself."
Roena bowed her head upon her empty-handed return. I hadn't pinned great hopes on it anyway, but I'd harbored a faint expectation—and it hadn't panned out.
In a world where magic and divine power were real, I'd wondered if mages might have developed grains resistant to frost with spells, or if priests blessed the fields to make crops sprout vigorously. Apparently, the world wouldn't let you eat for free.
Then again, I'd read papers on Russia's chronic agricultural shortages. They'd briefly improved by pushing south into fertile black soil regions, only for population growth to ruin it all over again.
But we can't use those methods.
I shook my head. Russia had nomadic herdsmen and Turks as foes, so they could seize richer lands to the south. If I marched my army that way, it'd be a disaster.
Unless old man Haber could deploy his domain to pull off something like "Whoa! Baking this much bread from thin air...!" there was no breakthrough solution. We'd have to stake everything on iron exports like Sweden! Gazua! But somehow, that felt lacking.
As I pondered trying some twisted four-field crop rotation adapted to the north's climate upon my return, a voice interrupted.
"Your Grace, a visitor."
"Let them in."
After a cautious knock, an unremarkable man entered and bowed.
"Greetings, Your Grace. I've come today to deliver a personal letter from my lord, Duke Philip Iliad."
"Ah, right—I did say to send any messages by letter. Well done."
"As Your Grace requested, I took special care not to attract notice on the way here."
The man handed the letter to Roena, who passed it to me. As I took it, I asked,
"Does it need an immediate reply?"
"No, sir. I was only ordered to deliver it to Your Grace, so no need for you to respond right away."
"The Iliad seal is unmistakable. I've received the letter you brought. Tell the duke it arrived safely."
"I'll relay your words exactly, so worry not. With that, I'll take my leave, Your Grace."
The man bowed once more and vanished as swiftly as he'd come. Sensible—no one wanted prying eyes on this.
A subordinate of the duke's had to show that level of professionalism.
I broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter from Duke Philip Iliad, scanning its contents.
To the Grand Duke of Berg,
I entrust my daughter Helena to your care until the festival concludes.
In considering a gift to foster goodwill between our houses, I pondered what might suit you best.
I've heard the Berg Grand Duchy imports vast quantities of food. Through merchant guilds under my influence, I intend to lower the prices on supplies heading north.
This is no impure scheme, I swear by the goddess—merely my humble gesture to strengthen ties. Yet a gift's true worth lies in the recipient's joy. I'll handle it discreetly, so I hope you'll accept my goodwill gladly.
With utmost respect to Berg's Grand Duke in his sacred duties.
Philip Iliad
"Lower the prices...?"
I stared through the letter. It ended there.
What the hell is this gift basket?
Of course, cheaper imports would be welcome. As the duke said, it was just what we needed, and the low-key approach was thoughtful.
But what was the angle? You didn't bite into just anything offered, or you'd get stomach pains—that was the way of the world. It couldn't be purely about entrusting Helena.
Like finding a shiny gold bar in your dad's drawer waving hello. I glared at the letter, deep in thought.
Was "take care of Helena" just an excuse? Did he want something from me? Or was this to heighten our food dependency?
That doesn't fit—it's just 'buy from us and we'll discount.' No room for tricks there...
My deliberations deepened.
The world sees improbable events now and then, and calls them miracles. The miracle of the loaves and fishes was prime example—five loaves and two fish feeding five thousand men, unverifiable but legendary.
But Estiang's miracle had countless eyewitnesses, ripe for cross-verification.
On the Founding Festival's final day, as Estiang attended the closing ceremony in the palace, the rest prepared to head north.
They'd arrived with a modest thirty souls, but now their numbers had swelled over tenfold.
With so many volunteers abandoning homes for the north, how could this not be a miracle? Both created something from nothing.
"Haven't had this many fresh-faced apprentices in ages."
Maximilian of the Iron Fang Knights grinned proudly. He and the other knights had handpicked them, even measuring muscle development.
Another knight chuckled beside him. "We'll drill 'em just shy of breaking when we get back."
"Damn right. Apprenticeship's supposed to hurt. Can't hack it? We don't need weaklings."
Apprenticeships were grueling by design. Maximilian smirked wickedly. "Come to think of it, I was a total dunce as an apprentice. Embarrassing in hindsight."
"I was Captain Wolfgang's squire. First time armoring him, I got thrashed thirty times a day."
"Too slow?"
"He said if I was that pokey, the fight'd be over before I finished—might as well quit and farm."
"I was a klutz too, but you sound next-level. I'd have practiced after that."
Maximilian snickered, glancing at the green hopefuls. Technicians and families stood apart; the youths stood ramrod straight, eyes forward, brimming with resolve.
Mostly second or third sons of nobles, no inheritance prospects, bankrolled by families to become knights. Failure meant poverty, so the tension was palpable.
"Gotta grind 'em good. Imagine sailing north just to end up orc chow—total waste."
"Yep, for their own good."
The knights shared a laugh. It wasn't mere hazing; the north was perilous. Fail to pull weight fast, and you'd die. Those noble lads faced harsh days ahead, drilled by Maximilian and the veterans until they could contribute.
As the group awaited the festival's end in the palace grounds, a hooded man approached with jaunty steps, hood pulled low over his face.
They ignored him at first, but as he beelined toward them, hands drifted to sword hilts.
"...Halt. We're knights of the Berg Grand Duchy. State your identity and purpose. Why approach?"
Roena, arms crossed while waiting for Estiang, blocked him. Her eyes sharpened—no nonsense on her watch.
The man's attire screamed suspicious.
He stopped at her warning and looked up. "I seek. Grand Duke man."
His accent and phrasing felt off. Roena's brow furrowed.
"Why seek the Grand Duke? I said state your identity."
"Identity? Ah, I introduce. Name Billaine. I saw. Newspaper ad."
"...What?"
"Grand Duke recruits. Strong warriors. I need money. Work for Grand Duke, get paid. Hunt monsters. Often."
Choppy grammar, unnatural rhythm—but intelligible. Still dubious, he pulled a crumpled newspaper from under his hood.
This self-proclaimed Billaine, mysterious and shady. Roena moved to shoo him—
Then he doffed the hood. All eyes locked on his face—or rather, the wolf-like ears atop it.
"...Beastkin?"
Roena muttered, stunned. No mistaking it: Billaine was beastkin.
Beastkin weren't mythical rarities in the empire—just mostly enslaved or gladiators.
Billaine replied confidently. "Yes. I Silver Mane. Tribe great warrior. Fight good. Need me. Prove chance."
A sudden beastkin volunteer, claiming "great warrior" status. Speechless, Roena glanced back instinctively.
This wasn't for her to decide—Estiang should handle it.
Oblivious, Billaine just beamed innocently.