Chapter 220 - Hmm, Good

Count Molsen had three wives and six concubines. For a noble of this age, that was no fault. He had fathered many children—more sons and daughters than the royal family. Yet not one particularly pleased him. So little in life went the way one wished. “I will take care of him.” One of his sons spoke. The count looked into the eyes of the son who had come inside from the coachman’s seat. He could glimpse envy and anger there. Because he had taken a blow? Or because the fellow now making a name for himself across the Penn-Hanil continent had failed to look the part? Was that what rankled? Encrid’s name had reached even the kingdom’s capital. Envy was understandable. But to show it so openly. 'He is a decent fighter.' In other respects, this son left much to be desired. He could not distinguish when to suppress his feelings and use his head from when not to. At best, he would be useful as a bodyguard. This was why raising children never went as one intended. He had already prepared another means of continuing his line, so he no longer had any lingering attachment to the idea. That was why the count had stopped having children. 'If it were me...' Rather than envy and hate the fellow, he would have thought of making him an ally. Indeed, he was doing so now. There was just one small thing that nagged at him. “You didn’t see his eyes, did you?” His son blinked at the remark, his eyes plainly asking what on earth he meant. In a way, they resembled an ox’s. Was that why he fought so doggedly? They did say the eyes were windows to the heart, mirrors of the person. “That fellow.” The count paused to think. Had he seen correctly? Yes. There had been no mistaking or reading anything else into that attitude, that air. “He wanted a fight.”

“Pardon?”

“He seemed to want to fight me.” His son, already looking incredulous, erupted in anger again at that. “How dare he!”

“Why? Do you think he shouldn’t?” The count cut him off. Something akin to competitive spirit had stirred in him, too. Those eyes—straightforward and unwavering, frankly declaring a desire to pit their abilities against each other—had reached him. Seeing them had made him want to gauge just how skilled the fellow was. That did not mean he could fight him himself. He could hardly oblige. One must never give people what they wanted too easily. That was what life had taught him. In any case, stopping by to see the fellow’s face had not been a waste. 'An interesting fellow.' But he could not leave him alone simply because he was interesting. Now, then. How could he bring the fellow to his side? People were easy to manipulate once they felt indebted. How could he create that debt? “What shall we do about the demonic beasts in the south, Father?” That word, “Father,” caught at him. Not that he would reprimand the boy for it. Sometimes blood ties alone made oaths of loyalty unnecessary. The son before him was one such person. 'Who was this child’s mother again?' Greta? Helen? Whoever she was, having borne such a steadfast, loyal child, she deserved a small gift. That single act would send ripples through the power struggle among the wives in his household, but that was precisely why he would give it. Let them fight and quarrel. It all took place beneath him, after all. Everything was under his control. “Leave them.” The original purpose of this expedition had been to deal with the demonic beasts coming up from the south. He had disposed of some and left the rest. Eventually, Border Guard would have a headache dealing with them. 'Then they will ask for help.' It would happen within a few months at the earliest, a year at the latest. “And those vermin who move under cover of night?” His son bowed his head and answered the count’s question. He meant Georg’s Dagger, the assassin organization whose fearsome reputation rang across the continent. Hearing that some reachable members were in Border Guard, his son had made inquiries and just established contact. No sooner had they finished speaking than the coachman called from the front. “Someone is blocking the road ahead. What shall I do?”

“Stop.” Anyone in northern Penn-Hanil who blocked the count’s path without recognizing his crest must be of questionable intelligence. Otherwise, they had stopped him knowingly and had business with him. It was the latter. The fellow was covered from head to toe in black cloth. 'An audacious fellow.' With that thought, the count merely opened the carriage door and asked from inside. “Who are you?”

“Georg’s Dagger.” At that curt answer, his son stepped out of the carriage and shouted. “You wretch!” More followed: did he know whose presence he was in, the insolent bastard, and so forth. The man claiming to be from Georg’s Dagger simply listened without expression. “Why did you seek us out?” Then he said only what he had come to say. Deliberately ignored, the son drew his sword. SHING! “Let me cut off an arm before you resume the conversation.” His son was a recognized fighter within their territory, but his opponent belonged to that Georg’s Dagger. Standing alone to block their way showed considerable confidence, too. “Enough.” The count addressed his son. The skin around the boy’s eyes twitched before he stepped back. “I would like you to deal with someone in Border Guard.” These people made their living through assassination. He need only deal with them accordingly. He wanted to test the fellow. Would he withstand assassins sent after him? Even if they belonged to Georg’s Dagger? Half of him wanted the fellow on his side; the other half found him an eyesore and wanted him removed. This undertaking served the latter half. “Name?”

“Encrid.”

“Impossible.” '...?' A refusal? Without even pausing for breath. Was the name familiar to this man, too? Well, the fellow had certainly become famous lately. “You need not kill him, you know.”

“Impossible.” Another refusal without hesitation. He was not even asking them to kill him outright, only leave him half-dead, and still they refused. Weren’t these the people who would do anything for enough gold? “Do you lack confidence?” The provocation brought no response beyond another “Impossible.” “Then simply investigate his circumstances. Whether he has family, who is around him, what he owns, how he came to be where he is, what he wants to do. Do you understand?” The man covered entirely in black, the assassin from Georg’s Dagger, considered this before nodding. “I will send someone on the second day of every month. Exchange payment for information then.”

“Do not play too hard to get, you creatures who live on drops of blood.” The count seldom expressed his feelings openly. To his son, that remark seemed made for his benefit. To the man from Georg’s Dagger, it sounded less like a threat than an exhortation to do the job properly. The assassin withdrew without a word. The count boarded the carriage again. “Father.”

“Restrain yourself when you must. Showing your emotions carelessly is no virtue.” Having admonished his son as though teaching him statecraft, the count rode away in his carriage. The man from Georg’s Dagger watched until it was gone, then removed his mask. Covering himself completely for the first time in so long felt stifling. 'To think it feels this stifling.' He had spent too long living with his guard down. Fighting on the battlefield with his face exposed left him no choice but to fight honestly. To Jaxon, battlefield combat was a bold, open affair. True, he crept up behind people and slit their throats, but why get his own hands dirty when there were so many easier ways to kill? Why approach on foot when the enemy might notice? By his standards, then, it was a fair fight. Almost bold and open, in a way. 'No, perhaps not bold and open.' He had seen his captain, the barbarian, and the religious fanatic fight. It was hard to describe his own battlefield that way. Not that he disliked it. He had a battlefield of his own. “How was it?” After he had walked some distance toward the city, a companion joined him. It was the woman from the red-light district. Personally, she was something like a lover; within the organization, she led those skilled at gathering intelligence. “Like a snake.” He meant the shape of the man as perceived through intuition and Sixth Sense. The count was a snake, full of guile and cunning. That was how he appeared. “Hmm. That’s bad.” The woman answered. “Did you look into it?” She nodded at Jaxon’s question. They talked as they walked toward the city. “We believe he is connected, though that remains an inference.” Belonging to Georg’s Dagger did not mean accepting every commission. All the more so when Jaxon was in no position to take commissions now. But he did have his own objective—the reason he had joined the army. This clue fit that purpose. He had originally intended to leave when the trail went cold, but this changed things. He had come here for revenge. This was a clue toward it. “I thought he might ask you to kill that company commander.”

“I refused.”

“Is that all right?” This was the noble known as the Grand Duke of the North. His actual title was merely count, but only because the royal family kept him in check. His true power befitted a grand duke. Frankly, if his forces attacked in earnest, even Georg’s Dagger would have difficulty weathering it. Such was a great noble who ruled a territory. “Not my concern.” Jaxon answered. Hmm. The woman nodded inwardly. Well, he had always been like this. He claimed his company’s commander was growing steadily more insane, but Jaxon himself could hardly be considered normal. “I’m going.” At the city, Jaxon went ahead. The woman called after him. “Come by more often.” There was no answer. Georg’s Dagger had agreed to undertake the task. By supplying information, they could learn plenty in return. Jaxon felt no burden over it. Should he warn the captain beforehand? The thought occurred to him, but there was probably no need. In truth, all he had to report was: 'No family. Lives for the sword. Dreams of becoming a knight.' Hmm. Excellent. Deliver that, and the recipient would ask if he was joking. But what could he do when such a man really existed? Even if a mere mercenary had become a soldier and then a company commander, Encrid’s dream would still look like a futile delusion from the outside. But how did those who watched him up close see it? Even Marcus now seemed to believe him. At any rate, this city was full of crazy bastards. With that thought, Jaxon finished preparing to return to their midst. It was time to be not Georg’s Dagger but the Sneaky alley cat, a soldier holding the battlefield, a subordinate supporting his company commander. Left alone, that mad barbarian would do something mad again. Keeping him in check was Jaxon’s job, too. At least for as long as he stayed here, he intended to do his part.

* * *

“The Grand Duke of the North’s position is this: give me a dukedom. But the royal family refused. Why? The count claims it’s because they’re trying to push him out. “Why? Afraid he’ll take the throne? Then let it be taken. If you lack the strength, you lose what you have, cough it up, hand it over—isn’t that the world we live in? That’s the count’s argument. “But the royal family gives no answer. They merely say they’re treating him according to the law, that everything is for Naurilia. If he wants the rank of grand duke, he should do something worthy of it. That sort of thing. “Really, it’s a transparent pretense. Anyone who knows anything about political struggles knows the count is interested in usurping the throne.” When Krais finished his lengthy explanation, Encrid asked what puzzled him. “The people who call themselves nobles in Border Guard don’t seem to know anything.”

“They’re halfwits.” So that was it. Encrid nodded. They knew nothing and considered titles they had not even inherited yet something magnificent. Those were Border Guard’s nobles—men scarcely worthy of the name. Besides, Rem’s axe had recently sent one noble off to heaven or hell, wherever he had ended up. It was said bandits had killed him, that Black Blade was responsible, but a few perceptive nobles suspected Marcus might have had a hand in it. None of that was Encrid’s concern. He was simply curious about Count Molsen. Through constant training and countless experiences, he had built his body with the Isolation Technique and developed an eye for gauging an opponent’s skill. Thanks to Jaxon, his Sixth Sense had awakened, too. 'That son of his...' He had felt no sudden urge to fight him. But the count? The moment he saw him, something akin to competitive spirit had flared. His body was like tempered steel. And those eyes... 'A mage.' It was not as though he had seen only one or two mages. Besides, he had a panther who turned into a human right beside him. If Rem knew, naturally Encrid knew, too. Esther did not seem to consider it much of a secret. Well, Encrid had noticed before Rem. When Esther heard that, she had asked, [“Even when we bathed?”] But weren’t mages people who explored arcane secrets and walked amid mysteries? He had assumed they did not care about physical contact between men and women, so he had thought little of it and moved on. Lately, though, Esther had been falling asleep in his arms less often. Her explanation was, [“I don’t need it as much as before.”] It was hardly something to worry about. “What’re you doing?” Rem asked beside him. With nothing to do, Encrid had let his thoughts wander. Unit training was in full swing, and he was practicing the Isolation Technique on the platform. Meanwhile, the men he had sent running returned. “Everyone back?”

“They’re back.” Rem grinned as he spoke. This bastard drew energy from tormenting people. He had an exceptionally nasty disposition. “Did they all finish the run?” Looking over the allied troops, Encrid had thought: 'Their stamina is abysmal.' Didn’t everything begin with a strong, steady heart? That was why. For seven days, they had done nothing but run in full gear. One might call it simple training, but those actually doing it would have recoiled at the description. And why wouldn’t they? From morning to lunch, then after lunch until evening, all they did was run. They circled the training ground, ran outside the city, and climbed the hills clustered beside it. They were utterly breathless, of course. Every muscle in their bodies screamed. First Company suffered the most. “Our company’s training is different from yours.” A few had displayed a peculiar sense of superiority, but they quickly went pale and came to share the other soldiers’ complexion. “We should get to run in light armor, too. This is unfair!” They had been told to run carrying their own equipment, so naturally the heavy infantry Company wore heavy armor. Hearing that complaint, Rem bounded over in delight. Standing before him, he found the very soldier who had been putting on airs since training began. Encrid had cautioned him not to hit people indiscriminately. Without a legitimate reason, it would be torture, not training. The idea was to hammer them into something tougher, not make them give up on everything. Rem thought it absurd to say that while putting them through training like this, but that was the captain’s business. He was simply delighted that his moment to step in as an instructor had arrived. “There it is! Unfair, is it, you bastard? Then transfer to Second Company! Weren’t you the one saying your training was different? Where’s that First Company pride now?” Rem stepped forward and glared at him. One more act of defiance and he would resort to force. The soldier promptly lowered his eyes. There was no reasoning with this lunatic. 'Hmm, good.' Watching this, Encrid thought training was going fairly well. He was even a little worried that it might not be intense enough. A delusion worthy of the Lunatic Company Commander. Understandable, in a way. Hadn’t Encrid himself been put through far worse? So this was a suitable level.