Chapter 37: The Border
The Border was the line dividing East from West, the site where the first land race had begun. In terms of symbolism alone, calling it historic wouldn't be a stretch—but only five years had passed, so truly dubbing it a historic event was something only scholars would do.
There was another reason people didn't hold the Border sacred. It just didn't feel like a border.
"This is the Border?"
Marin stared around in bewilderment as they entered the Border. And no wonder—the Border was a massive city. She'd even stayed there for a few months once. Back then, she'd never dreamed it was the Border. She'd just thought of it as one of the gateways to the West.
"Bay?"
"Don't talk to me. I'm busy right now."
Bayola was gripping the reins with all her might, desperate to keep the horses from veering off. They were right in the middle of the main thoroughfare. If the horses spooked and bolted, people could get hurt or killed.
Marin sighed at the sight of her.
"Haa... They've gotten used to it by now. You could let go of the reins, and they'd still follow the road fine."
"They don't do that for me!"
Bayola felt deeply wronged. The horses were the picture of docility when anyone else held the reins, but the moment she took them, they bucked like demons had possessed them. It wasn't like they hated her, either. They'd nuzzle their heads against her when she approached, and they'd stand calmly with her on their backs. But touch those carriage reins, and this was what happened. And with Strekl needling her about it all day, she felt like she was going insane.
Ignoring Bayola's complaints, Marin snatched the reins away. The horses, which had been growling like fighting dogs, went instantly quiet. And without her even pulling, they started plodding obediently along the road.
"No way! Why only me? They're the weird ones! This is so weird!"
"You're the weird one. So, this is the Border, huh?"
Bayola clawed at her hair before drooping her head. Then, in a deflated voice, she said,
"Do you know what the precise definition of the Border is?"
"Nope."
"Figures."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm an illiterate bumpkin. And you don't even know how to build a toilet."
"Hey!"
Living creatures had to eat, sleep, and shit. You couldn't avoid it, no matter where you were. For those used to camping, whipping up spots for all three on bare ground was second nature. But not for Bayola.
Before the land race, Rebela had tailored everything to her schedule. Bayola had never imagined taking a dump without a proper toilet.
The land race hadn't changed that. With her arm intact, Rebela had handled everything flawlessly. But when Rebela got injured and Strekl started her real training, Bayola had been thrown to the wolves.
Strekl's fighting style came from a genius lunatic who'd forged it in the wilds. The training was just as savage. She had to learn to survive alone in the heart of nature—something utterly alien to Bayola.
Marin, on the other hand, had lived wild since the day she fled her hometown. She'd always had to scrounge her own food and clothes. Making a bed from nothing was as easy as breathing for her.
Even starting the same task, the gap between them was inevitable, and Marin teased her about it every time.
But Bayola gave as good as she got.
"You didn't even know what soap was."
"I knew the name. Just not how to use it."
"Or how to dress yourself."
"I didn't even know that was clothing!"
This was after Rebela and Bayola had dragged Marin—who still didn't recognize the bar of soap in front of her—back to the bath for a proper scrubbing.
The clothes Havarsan had prepared were leftovers from nobles or merchants who'd stayed at the inn. Marin had never seen anything like them, so naturally, she hadn't thought to wear them. After her bath, when she reached for her raglike old garb, Bayola had freaked out and forced her into the new outfit.
Strekl spoke up from where he lounged atop the carriage.
"You two play nice. I'm getting embarrassed just watching."
Marin and Bayola whipped their heads sideways. The carriage was already huge, rivaling a small house, drawing stares wherever it went. And now the pair of them snarling at the driver's seat? Even passersby had stopped to gawk.
Out of old street-habits, Marin scowled fiercely at the onlookers. Bayola just hung her head in shame.
"The Border refers to the starting point of the land race. To run a land race, you need flags—and you can't sell flags on bare ground, so they used existing villages and cities. That's why most Border cities are clustered with other towns or villages."
Strekl, perched on the carriage roof, drew as many eyes as the other two, but he seemed utterly unbothered. Back when war raged, he'd ridden in parades and given opening speeches. He was used to his face selling tickets. With the driver's seat quieting down, the stares lightened up.
The horses kept pulling the carriage along. Marin asked Strekl,
"This the right road, though?"
"They said someone would spot us and come out if we keep going... There, one's coming."
A man approached from the roadside. Marin halted the carriage, and Strekl leaped down from the roof.
He sized the man up. At least forty, by a conservative guess. Neat clothes, neat grooming.
Heavy killer's intent.
He looked like he'd never thrown a punch, but Strekl's war-honed instincts sniffed out the beast within. Hiding that much bloodlust perfectly took more than practice. Special techniques or bone-deep effort.
Joseph the general was the same. Where does he find these people? No—maybe only he could gather them.
The sole legitimate heir to the Bachea imperial line. Bearer of the emperor's paulownia crown. With Marhal's history, talent naturally gravitated to him.
"I'll drive the carriage. Everyone inside."
"Where to?"
"Ask the master yourself."
"Let's go."
Strekl opened the carriage door. Inside was quiet. Banter lasted a day or two on long trips; eventually, silence settled in. Some called it the hardest part of travel.
The three climbed in, and the carriage rolled on.
"Rebella, something wrong?"
Bayola noticed Rebela—always composed—seeming unusually excited.
"We're going to meet Lord Azenman Riantl. Aren't you thrilled?"
"What? Azenman Riantl?"
"You didn't know?"
Bayola whipped around, and Marhal shrugged.
"Should I have mentioned it?"
"Well, no, but... it's Azenman Riantl. The brain of the Duchy. The man who handled their logistics."
"And the one who embezzled from those supplies and got booted from the Duchy."
"Azenman Riantl's too smart for that. No way he'd get caught over mere embezzlement."
"So you were one of those, Bay. The 'he was framed' crowd."
Azenman was so renowned as an intellectual that types like her popped up now and then. The man who'd propped up the Duchy till war's end, with a guaranteed rise—why dig his own grave over embezzlement? It had to be a jealous rival's plot.
"So you're saying he didn't?"
"We'll find out when we meet him. Asking straight-up's the fastest way, right?"
For the record, Marhal—who knew exactly what Azenman was like—thought embezzlement suited him perfectly.
* * *
The carriage stopped. Before Karian, by the window, could open the door, the driver did it for him.
"Hugo, good work."
"Just doing my job."
"Everyone out. You too, Karian."
"Me too?"
Since the bandit fight, Karian's mood had been in the dumps. He'd achieved his dream of becoming a landlord. But waking from that dream meant facing harsh reality's cold winds. He wasn't versatile like Marhal, nor strong like the others here.
"To be a good landlord, you need connections. Plenty of problems solve themselves if you know the right people."
"Can someone like me even be a landlord?"
"You're already top-tier, Karian. If it's too much, sell the land."
"That's..."
Karian hesitated. He lacked confidence as a landlord. But he didn't want to sell, either. Selling would give him enough to settle stably elsewhere. But then what? Back to scraping by on someone else's land, at the whim of some lord or landlord.
"Decide later. For now, come on. Meeting people won't wear your face out—and if you sell, Lord Azenman might give you a fair price."
Marhal pushed Karian's back. Rebela and Bayola were far from ordinary, and so was Marin. It was natural for Karian to feel inferior.
But in Marhal's eyes, Karian had real talent for being a great landlord. Most landlords he knew were obsessed with squeezing taxes. Plenty delegated everything to agents and just wined and dined near the Border. Wanting to manage his own land put Karian among the West's best already.
Prodded by Marhal, Karian stumbled out of the carriage.
Azenman's home was a grand mansion. Built when the Border emerged, it had expanded repeatedly into a lavish space that made nobles envious. Black iron gates were guarded by two gatekeepers, who opened up at the sight of Hugo.
"In we go."
Beyond the gates, a garden hidden by walls revealed itself. Over a hundred evergreens were impeccably trimmed, flanked by seasonal flowers.
"Maintenance alone must cost a fortune."
"That's why it pays off. And it's all an investment. Right, Rebela?"
"Precisely. Gardens gauge a master's dignity and wealth."
Bayola had a small palace garden too. Modest in scale, but Rebela had maximized it with the priciest plants her budget allowed. By now, her siblings had probably trashed it.
As the group reached the mansion entrance, the doors swung open on their own, revealing an elderly man.
"Lord Marhal and company, welcome. His Excellency awaits."
"Long time. How's His Excellency?"
"Same as always. This way."
The mansion had three stories; Azenman's office was on the first.
"Thought it'd be upstairs..."
"Symbolism says top floor, but first has its perks. You'll ponder it someday, Karian."
Like emergency exits. Building one from the first floor versus the third? Construction costs alone were worlds apart.
Everyone but Karian knew, so they fell silent.
At the office door, the old man said,
"All entering?"
"Problem?"
"No. Call if needed, as always."
He retreated. Marhal gripped the knob but didn't turn it, waiting.
Rebella couldn't hold back.
"Why not open it?"
"It's the deal."
The man rounded the corner and vanished. Marhal turned the knob.
"Lord Azenman. Coming in."
Rebella and Bayola swallowed hard.
Azenman Riantl was famous for two things: his genius, and his mystique. Rumor held he'd skipped every party, even the king's invitations. The thrill of meeting someone who ignored royal summons had them buzzing.
The door opened, revealing the office. Neat and orderly. Bookshelves lined the walls, stuffed full. The massive desk held stacks of books and papers; the back window overlooked the garden.
But no sign of the desk's owner.
A booming cry from the floor drew their eyes down.
"Please, spare my life!"
A scrawny man knelt, head bowed. No dignity, no intellect—just the ragged desperation of a beggar pleading for coins.
"Lord Azenman?"
Rebella murmured in shock. His face was that of shattered dreams.