The Numerologist's Gift
The drive of a man who had spent his whole life shut out of real power, only to finally seize his chance, was nothing short of astonishing.
And this was before he'd even met Hormaric. Once he actually did, Johan figured, the man would probably tear out his own heart and hand it over.
The vagrants and beggars who had gathered were thrown into confusion when some strange rumor started swirling in their midst. They were supposed to earn every bit of the silver they'd been paid, and now someone was sabotaging the job.
"Why don't you shove off, then?"
"How dare you lowborn scum carry on like that! I'll fetch the guards!"
"You don't even know what the Bishop did!"
"What the hell does that matter!"
The shoving and jostling threatened to boil over into a full brawl, and that was when Johan stepped in.
"Gerdolf. Go shut them up."
"Yes, Sir."
"...Sheathe that sword. Use the whip."
Johan hurriedly stopped him the moment he saw Gerdolf reaching for his blade. A whip would do just fine.
"I know, Sir."
Do you, though? Do you really?
Gerdolf rode forward and reined in before the beggars. At the murderous glare of the hulking knight, even the men who'd been screaming moments ago flinched.
"Wh-what do you want... Gyahk!"
The whip cracked down from above. The beggars reeled, caught off guard by the unexpected assault. Beggars in name only, that was — a crowd like this could turn vicious and fly into a frenzy at any moment.
Even a knight could find himself in real danger if they swarmed him all at once, and yet here was this man casually laying about with a whip out of nowhere.
But Gerdolf had an ace up his sleeve. The soldiers behind him had drawn their weapons in one motion. If things escalated, the ones dying would be the beggars themselves, and they knew it. The fight went out of them at once and their tails tucked.
"Br-brethren! Stop this! We mustn't brawl inside the city!"
The Bishop, naturally, was having a collective seizure at the sight. What would become of his image if vagrants were being attacked within the city walls?
"They were about to attack first, Your Grace."
"No, they weren't! Those men have heads on their shoulders!"
"Were they not threatening the citizens, then?"
The Bishop was dumbfounded. As if an excuse that flimsy would ever hold water...
"Thank you, Sir Knight!"
"You saved us, Sir Knight!"
"?"
The Bishop was bewildered. Johan couldn't possibly have hired people in advance and planted them in the crowd...
Why on earth is he so popular?
Granted, the rumors about Johan were the kind that lent themselves to popularity. Brave young knights had been idols of the common folk in every age. But that sort of thing only spread where the story could travel — not in a city half a continent away from the Empire.
The knight he himself had roped into service was starting to look impressively formidable indeed.
He was more than I gave him credit for?
Impressive, certainly — though the Bishop remained convinced the man was dancing on the palm of his hand.
"Your Grace. Shall we be going?"
"Y-yes, let's."
The Bishop's mansion was the very pinnacle of luxury even within a city of excess. Without ever stepping outside, one could watch cold water flowing along channels through the inner courtyard, and the windows glittered row upon row with stained glass.
The servants inside wore silk garments and jewelry more expensive than anything Johan owned, and a few of them were draped in gleaming cloth of gold to boot.
Johan found himself marveling, once again, at the Bishop's wealth — and at the wealth of the Republic itself.
These people are absolutely rolling in money!
Trade really is the answer, isn't it?
Next to this, wringing every last coin out of a land full of serfs felt positively shabby.
"We're not to meet for two days, so rest and make yourselves comfortable, brethren. Think of this as your own home."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
The Bishop made a great show of his generosity, clearly hoping to be moved by Johan's gratitude. So Johan obliged him and acted moved.
"By the way, where might Your Grace's wife and children be?"
"Er..."
At Johan's question, the servant faltered and shot the Bishop a furtive glance, his face a portrait of a man debating whether it was safe to answer.
The Bishop, knowing full well what the answer was, had never married officially — and instead kept lovers scattered all across the city.
"H-his Grace is a man of great, er, discipline..."
"I see. Say no more."
The servant had danced around it, but Johan had already read the situation. Quite a collection of lovers, apparently. Given the look of things, there were probably a fair number of bastards running around too.
"Karamaf. Come here."
While they waited, Johan stroked Karamaf and played chess with Gerdolf. It was less a game than a lesson, almost, but it passed the time.
Karamaf, in evidently good spirits, purred and kept rubbing his head against Johan's leg.
"Sir. A visitor has arrived asking for you..."
"?"
Which was precisely why the announcement of a visitor caught Johan off guard.
Had Gareld sent someone? No one else would know to look for me here...
Astonishingly, it was not Gareld. The one who had summoned Johan was a city noble he'd never laid eyes on — an otter beastfolk by the name of Pirodaci.
Has word of me reached him somehow?
It wasn't so shocking, really. Thanks to Gareld spreading the tale, even strangers were whispering to one another — did you hear? He felled a troll with holy fire!
Meeting a valiant knight in person, showering him with hospitality, and basking in a share of his glory was a pastime nobles adored. Johan brought Gerdolf along. If the man put on some display of skill, everyone would enjoy themselves.
But the reception he walked into was nothing like what he'd expected.
"?"
"Welcome, welcome! I've been waiting for you. You know why I called, of course?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, sir."
"Hm? No... ah. My apologies. I seem to have forgotten to send word. House Alham! Now do you understand?"
"Still no, sir."
"Oh, come now! I've said House Alham — how can you not know? Sit, sit."
Pirodaci was a renowned numerologist and artist. In this age, numerology — the mysticism of numbers — was barely distinguishable from arithmetic or mathematics.
Every mage needed a patron, and Pirodaci enjoyed the sponsorship of House Alham. Then word had reached him of a knight versed in the mysteries of numbers, and curiosity had done the rest.
The moment they were seated, Pirodaci produced riddle after riddle, and Johan answered each as best he could. Gerdolf, listening to the two of them talk, went green around the gills and swayed on his feet — so Johan ordered him outside to get some air.
"Magnificent! Magnificent!"
Pirodaci was genuinely astonished by Johan's learning. The knowledge Johan carried was oddly, wonderfully warped.
In some areas he solved, faster and more cleanly than Pirodaci himself ever had, problems that had stumped the numerologist for years. In others, he stumbled over things so basic it made Pirodaci want to grab him by the shoulders and shout, you solved that, but not this?
One thing, however, was certain: this knight outclassed even the brightest young numerologists and university students in arithmetic. In some respects, he outclassed Pirodaci himself.
"You say a priest taught you? Your modesty does you too much credit. Nothing I've seen here could have come from a village priest."
"...!"
"To think how much you must have taught yourself to reach this level. It takes my breath away."
"Thank you."
The fact that he worked in Eastern numerals rather than Imperial ones was itself proof he had strayed far beyond any priest's instruction. Priests did all their reckoning in Imperial figures.
Pirodaci, thoroughly worked up, scribbled notes on everything Johan taught him. Despite the hours of excited chatter, he showed not a trace of fatigue. His head brimmed only with plans to run experiments on everything he'd learned today.
"When House Alham told me about you, I took it for a jest — but truly, this has made my year. Ah, yes. Take this."
"What is it?"
"A necklace imbued with the power of numerology. The city's been restless of late, and it may serve you well. A man like you has earned the right to wear it."
Had his sponsors in House Alham found out, they'd have raised hell — but Pirodaci, true to his calling as a mage, couldn't have cared less. Johan felt a current of magic humming from the necklace the otter held out.
A magic square?
From the necklace, woven from simplified glyphs into a magic square, he sensed the power of protection. Johan accepted it with thanks.
Two men could share the same body of mathematics and yet be worlds apart — Pirodaci, who felt genuine mystery in numbers, and Johan, who believed in none of it. A talisman like this would never come into being simply because Johan copied the pattern down faithfully.
Only after they'd exhausted every topic did Pirodaci seem to remember that the wider world existed.
He had a servant bring drinks, then fixed Johan with a worried look.
"Still — I hear you're working with Bishop Biagione. Are you quite all right? He isn't deceiving you, is he? He's not a bad man, precisely, but... well... he's hardly a good one either."
Pirodaci strained to put it as kindly as he could, and strained in vain. Johan answered with a faint smile.
"I have my eyes open."
"Then I'm glad to hear it. The city's been uneasy lately. It doesn't feel like a good time for an outsider to linger long."
"People do hurl all sorts of abuse at the Bishop..."
"No, no — not that. That's always been the way of things."
Cursing someone, anyone, was a civic tradition of the city. They'd cursed whoever came before the Bishop, and they'd curse whoever came after him. Johan's face darkened as he listened.
Is this Republic really worth taking?
"Some madman keeps attacking citizens in the night, you see... That's why there's talk of a demon stalking the streets."
"?"
Somebody had indeed shrieked at the Bishop, there are demons in the city because of you! — but Johan had assumed it was pure nonsense. Suddenly, his curiosity stirred.
"Is there any known information about who the attacker might be?"
"None, none at all. The authorities are so desperate they've even come begging help from me."
The most Pirodaci could offer was a reading of numerological lots to hunt the man down — and in a city this crowded, even that was a long shot.
"My guess? A retired mercenary or knight. One who came back from the East."
The attacker cut his victims' throats in the dead of night and then vanished without leaving so much as a thread behind.
He dispatched not only vagrants defying the curfew in the streets, but people inside locked homes as well, without breaking stride. That was not a skill just anyone possessed.
The East crawled with wicked assassins — perhaps a sellsword or knight had learned his trade there.
"What about a monster?"
"A monster... could manage it, I suppose, but wouldn't a monster behave far more savagely? This is too cunning for a monster."
Killing only the target and slipping away cleanly was not the kind of restraint a monster could show.
When their talk wound down, Pirodaci saw Johan to the door and urged caution on him again and again.
"If the Bishop starts smelling too suspicious, there's no shame in simply withdrawing. Contracts are, of course, bound to the divine — but now and then, one may be broken..."
Pirodaci, having no idea that Johan was already toying with the Bishop like a cat with a mouse, could do nothing but worry. Johan accepted the goodwill quietly, and gratefully.
"Do write to me now and then!"
"?"
On the way back with Gerdolf, Johan noticed something strange. The necklace tucked against his chest was vibrating — softly, steadily.
Ahead, at the far end of the narrow alley, two figures were walking toward him. Behind, two more were approaching the same way.
All four wore long cloaks draped to cover one side of their bodies. It took no great deduction to guess a sword hid beneath each of those covered flanks.
The servant guiding Johan back hadn't grasped the situation at all and was still trudging obliviously along, so Johan seized him by the back of the neck and hauled him to a stop.
"Wh-what is it, my lord?"
"Gerdolf. Ambush. Stay sharp."
Gerdolf's hand went straight to his weapon. Being inside the city, the two of them were carrying nothing but a single longsword apiece.
"Sharp eyes, this one."
One of the men walking toward them from ahead stopped, swept his cloak aside, and drew a short sword — narrower in the blade than most, and longer, a weapon perched right on the border of a rapier.
Johan had to admit their choice of arms was a fitting one. Easy to carry, and in a cramped alley like this, a one-handed blade optimized for thrusting was the superior tool. No amount of skill with a two-handed longsword would buy you the room to use it.
"Won't you tell me who sent you?"
"My apologies. I'll tell you after you're dead."
These swordsmen reeked of long, disciplined training — from the developed muscle to the measured poise of their stances. Sword guild men, without a doubt.
Johan clicked his tongue, having failed to pry loose even a hint of his employer. If a chaotic melee broke out here, the servant and Gerdolf might well take wounds.
Thud.
Johan rapped his knuckles lightly against the wall beside him. As luck would have it, one side was a thick wall of stacked brick — and there was space on the far side of it.
Johan kicked the stone wall with everything he had.
"...?"
The mouths of the swordsmen closing in from ahead and behind fell open. They couldn't begin to process what had just happened before their eyes. The wall beside him had simply collapsed, opening a passage where none had been.
They had plainly watched him kick it — and still their minds refused to make the connection. Common sense itself rose up in protest.
"Passage open. Gerdolf! Get to the side and guard the servant!"
"Yes, Sir."
Johan snatched up a broken chunk of stone and hurled it. It made a sound like something loosed from a trebuchet. A swordsman standing slack-jawed took it full in the chest and was flung backward.