Chapter 38: Azenman Lifts His Head
Azenman Riantl raised his head. He glanced at Marhal once, then stared long and hard at the people beside him.
Bayola Muesilrigo looked at Azenman as well. He was an utterly ordinary man, save for the wart on the bridge of his nose. Far more telling was his posture. Kneeling with his forehead pressed to the ground—that was utter submission. Even the imperial emperor wouldn't lightly demand it of nobles. It meant crushing their pride entirely and burying them in high society. As far as she knew, the Duchy wasn't much different. And just now, Azenman—the so-called genius of the age—had slammed his head to the floor before Marhal and begged for his life.
Before her thoughts could continue, Azenman rose to his feet. He straightened his disheveled clothes and spoke calmly.
"Everyone except one, please leave us."
Bayola realized one thing. At least one of the many rumors about Azenman was true. Azenman Riantl could make women weep and nations move with his voice alone.
"You heard him. The master of the house has spoken—step out for a bit. Turn the corner, third room down, and you'll find the steward. Ask him for a snack or something. This house's chef is a master; you'll regret it if you don't eat."
Marhal shooed the others away. The door to the now-empty room closed behind them.
Azenman sank into his own chair and tore at his hair.
"What the hell is this! My dignity! My face!"
"Compared to what you pulled, this seems like a bargain. Or should we settle the full score?"
"No, absolutely not. It was all my fault."
Azenman slid from his chair and slammed his forehead to the floor again. Marhal perched on Azenman's desk and poured tea straight from the nearby pot into his mouth.
"I really like that side of you, Your Excellency. The groveling that tosses pride aside for a goal."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"And that lightning-quick shift in attitude."
Azenman returned to his chair. Seated by the window with a grave expression, chin in hand, he exuded a certain authority—it was true. A man once near the heart of a nation's power would naturally accumulate such history.
Marhal remained on the desk. He nudged the stack of books atop it, sending volumes and papers tumbling to the floor in a heap. Azenman's eyebrow twitched once, but he betrayed no reaction.
Marhal couldn't kill him. But short of that, he could do anything.
"I hate when people touch my own. Let's hear why you did it."
"The reason's always the same. To become master of the West."
"You're already all but the master."
"'All but' and 'truly' are worlds apart. I won't stop until I achieve it."
"You'll die before your time."
"You're the only one in the West who can kill me. And as long as I truly repent, you can't bring yourself to do it. Which means my chances are infinite."
"What makes you so sure?"
"It's the history you've built as a man."
Clink. Marhal set the teacup on the desk.
"Reminds me of our first meeting. The first land race, right?"
"I never want to remember that nightmare of a day."
Azenman shuddered. His first encounter with Marhal was more than a nightmare—it was hell. The rumors of Azenman Riantl's embezzlement were true. And that was just the tip of his crimes. Embezzlement, adultery, fraud, even instigating murders. He'd dabbled in every crime words and deeds could commit. He'd escaped the Duchy alive because its nobles were entangled with him too. Touch him wrong, and the already shaky Duchy might collapse entirely. There had been attempts on his life. But Azenman always found a devilishly clever way out. Fleeing to the Border, he'd joined the first land race—and met Marhal.
"I never imagined someone else using the exact same methods as me."
"I was terrified. My tricks were just stolen glances at what thieves did. Nothing compared to learning from the master himself."
The demon wars, then the Union wars. Twice the chaos had wrecked security around the Border. Poor security bred vigilante groups, and those often morphed into crime syndicates. Marhal and Azenman had exploited them the same way—with the thieves' methods that now dominated the imperial underbelly. Marhal had learned those methods, that history, directly from the thief. Azenman's case was a bit unique. Some of his shady businesses tied back to the Empire, through networks the thief had built. Azenman had traded with those networks, stolen their structures and operations, then adapted them to the chaotic Border.
Marhal and Azenman had vaguely known of each other. And on the day of the first land race, they finally met face-to-face.
Recalling that day, Azenman rested his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands tight—to hide their relentless trembling.
"Pitch-black night. Gale-force winds unfit for the season, rain so heavy it snuffed oil-soaked torches. I still remember the eyes I saw that night."
Azenman hadn't moved by day. Too conspicuous in the first land race. He'd waited for night. When rain and wind hit, he'd rejoiced at the luck. Taking a few trusted underlings, he'd crossed the white line marking the race's start. He'd killed the first person to plant a flag, seizing the spot and banner. Once surveyed, he'd be a landlord for all intents. Prime land hugging the Border. Manage it well, and he'd make more than he ever had in the Duchy. He was thrilled. Then came the dying screams. Blood mixed with rainwater and flowed away. One underling crumpled beside him. The instant he registered it, light bloomed from the darkness. Glowing eyes. That was the first time he learned humans could emit such light at night. The eyes flowered like snowflakes, melting into the sleet and shadows like fine snow, only for another underling to fall seconds later. Then faint eyes bloomed like snowflakes again—and vanished. One snowflake, one life. Death bloomed like flowers. When he came to, all his men were down. Marhal emerged through darkness so thick you couldn't see a step ahead. Even in the storm-like hell, Marhal's voice drove like a stake into Azenman's ears.
'It's you. Using the same methods as the thief. An acquaintance of that old man's? Or a disciple?'
The rest was a blur. In any case, Azenman bowed low and begged. A commoner-born like him had no stiff-necked honor to uphold. He survived. Became a landlord. Climbed to this position.
"A few brushes with death confirmed it. You can't kill someone who begs forgiveness. I still don't know who you are. But the history you've built must be that kind."
Marhal clapped. Genuine applause.
"Impressive. You're the first to figure that out without me telling you."
Strekl had half-guessed, but Marhal had dropped blatant hints, so exception made. Azenman was the only one to reach it purely on his own.
Marhal leaned in close. The wart on his nose was perfectly visible. So were his eyes, quaking with unease.
"If you always bow your head to me like this, I can't kill you. But we both know death isn't everything. Shall we wager everything but our lives and try to destroy each other?"
"No, you won't. You have more to lose than I do."
"True. I've got too much at stake to do it lightly. But every rule has exceptions, as you know."
His eyes shook, hands trembled. Still, Azenman never broke from Marhal's gaze.
"I really like your brand of despicable, spineless cunning—quick-witted, smart, and greedier than most. The world needs people like you to keep turning."
"What an honor."
"So I'd like us to meet often, and for a long time."
"I have zero desire to see you often. Ideally, drop dead soon."
Marhal slid off the desk. It was over. Azenman instinctively sensed it and drew a deep breath he'd been holding.
"Vengeance sated. Now, business."
"Business here?"
"A few wagons will pass nearby in a couple days. Loaded with cash, treasure—maybe even relics. Let's rob them."
"Your Excellency, act your station. The underworld boss of the West doing highway robbery?"
"Even if it's from the Empire? Rumors say imperial royals are involved."
"How do we split it?"
Marhal had scores to settle with the imperial royals. Big ones.
* * *
Azenman pulled a map from under his desk. Maps were state-level assets, especially ones charting the West's geography—treasures not traded even for money. What he produced was a full continental map. Amid the ongoing western reclamation, it could buy a city.
Azenman traced a line with his finger.
"Projected route. One week from now. Three wagons crossing the Border into the wilds."
"Security's laughably lax."
With royals, cash, and treasure involved? If real, info would be locked tight. Routes especially—vital. Set a proper ambush, and even ironclad knights would fall.
"Everything but the wagon count is my guess."
"...You guessed the route? Gone senile at last? I'm out."
Travel was a chain of unpredictables. A busted wheel delayed a day; lame horse, days more. Weather? Don't get him started. Even insiders fell short—pure guesswork? Even heaven-sent Azenman Riantl had overshot.
"Hear me out! Info from a deal with a thief-run subgroup!"
"Not from the thief herself—and even she can't read tomorrow's weather."
That was Mar or mage territory.
Though that big sis doesn't read the weather—she changes it.
Two women who could banish unwanted clouds: one with magic, one with sword.
"He's a thief, not a mage. Word is a top mage's escorting the wagons. Mystery trackers, they say. That's why no incidents, steady pace. Predictable."
"Royals and mystery trackers? Yurel?"
"Seonik's no slouch at magic either. Not every tracker's his."
Fifth prince Yurel and tenth Seonik. Royal magic talents, with mages flocking to them. But a mage escort didn't confirm either. Mages were eccentric folk; guarding wagons might be some whim.
"So even royal involvement's uncertain?"
"Saw some cargo from the palace. That's solid. I stake my name on it."
"Your name means less than tomorrow's sunrise."
A man who'd begged for life head-to-floor mere minutes ago had no credibility invoking his name.
"My land then! Happy?"
"You wagered land?"
"Damn you."
"Got it. Detailed plan tomorrow or the next. Oh, Your Excellency—know any good priests?"
"Heard a new nun's exceptional. Reattaches severed arms, they say."
Azenman scrawled on a random book page, ripped it out, and handed it to Marhal.
"This should do. If not, we'll shove it up the church brass. After all the cash that bastard's pocketed."
"Thanks. I'll put it to good use."
Leaving the study, Marhal stared at the paper Azenman had given him.
'Reattaches severed arms.'
Even healing a single wound took dozens of injuries and recoveries. To reattach a severed arm through repetition? What history had that person accumulated?