Chapter 29
He'd really messed up. And not just a little.
Blanc’s violet eyes wandered helplessly through the empty air.
No matter how hard he tried to act nonchalant, cold sweat trickled down his back.
“Ah… I, um, well.”
He tried belatedly to smooth things over, but his tongue simply refused to cooperate.
“….”
As if things weren’t bad enough, neither of them said a word.
A considerable amount of time passed, yet Vieta and Fulcare remained exactly as they had been.
Vieta held a plate, while Fulcare held a tart, and neither even blinked.
Golden syrup dripped from the tart Fulcare was holding.
Blanc swallowed hard, afraid he might be cast aside just like the syrup that had slipped from its place and fallen.
“…Could it really not be done?”
There was no way to take back what he had said now. After delivering his final plea, Blanc squeezed his eyes shut.
The tension binding him was even greater than when an assassin had stormed into his bedroom.
“Hahaha.”
“Ahem. Vieta.”
At the sudden burst of cheerful laughter, Blanc cautiously opened his eyes.
Vieta, red-faced, was clutching her stomach and wheezing, while Fulcare had one hand lightly covering his face.
The slight bobbing of Fulcare’s shoulders as he caught his breath made it clear that he was holding back laughter.
Blanc’s already flushed face grew even redder.
“Fine, then. Why not? But why are you making such a mournful face over something so simple?”
“…If that is what Your Highness wishes.”
At the end of a brief yet interminably long wait, the answer Blanc had wanted to hear finally came from both of them.
Blanc forced himself to nod as though calm. But his mind was spinning from the embarrassment and fluster that had rushed over him.
“So from now on, I can just call you Blanc?”
Vieta’s grin showed no sign of fading.
She wasn’t the only one.
Fulcare could no longer suppress his laughter and turned completely away.
“…Sure.”
Only then did Blanc’s tongue finally start moving.
He disliked being embarrassed, but, ironically enough, he liked that Vieta was speaking to him so casually.
“But Blanc, I’m thirsty right now, you know?”
Vieta pointed to the wine glasses in the cabinet.
“Ah, just a moment.”
“…I prefer whisky. Don’t you have any single malt?”
There might be, if we look.
Blanc hurriedly rose and began rummaging through the cabinet. To celebrate becoming friends, the prince ended up having to bring out every bottle of liquor he had been saving.
*
With a hiccup, Vieta thumped her head against the table.
Fulcare clicked his tongue—'Tsk'—then draped the jacket he had taken off over Vieta.
“You’ve been drinking a lot today. You’ll pay for it tomorrow.”
Perhaps because she was enjoying herself with the two of them, Vieta kept drinking wine without pause.
The wine Blanc had brought out was sweet but high-proof.
As a result, Vieta became completely drunk without even realizing it.
Until Vieta passed out, the two of them had to deal with her drunken antics without a moment’s rest.
“Is your stomach all right?”
Alcohol was truly remarkable: even Fulcare, who had initially been awkward, was now speaking in a much more relaxed voice.
“I can drink. I just can’t drink very much.”
That was what he said, but Blanc’s stomach felt slightly heavy. It wasn’t because of the alcohol, but because he had eaten far too much.
“Don’t clear your plate next time. Otherwise, it’ll just keep being refilled.”
When Blanc let out a brief exclamation, Fulcare chuckled.
“By the way, what had you so worried?”
“Hm? What trouble are you talking about?”
“A servant told me you even skipped dinner. And you didn’t turn on the lights in your room, either, did you? Usually, that’s what people do when something is weighing on them.”
After saying that, Fulcare glanced at Vieta.
“Tell me now instead of causing trouble later. Vieta really hates it when people cause trouble.”
Blanc picked up his goblet to organize his thoughts. Fulcare then lifted his glass and gave it a slight wave in the air. The archmage was urging Blanc on with his actions as well.
Blanc fell into thought as he breathed in the wine’s gently wafting fragrance.
It wasn’t a concern serious enough to make him cause trouble, as Fulcare had feared, but neither could he simply open up about it.
Saying that he had been acting that way because he was jealous of the two of them would make him seem so pathetic and wretched.
Still, with the opportunity laid out before him, it felt awkward to let it pass just like this.
Considering his indecisive nature, if he did not speak now, he might never be able to. Blanc drained his wine in one gulp and opened his mouth.
“Can I ask you for a favor?”
“Since you’ve plied me with drinks, if it’s something I can do, I’ll gladly hear you out.”
“Help me. No—teach me.”
“…Don’t leave anything out. Tell me from the beginning. Otherwise, things could go awry.”
Fulcare let out a soft sigh, then drained the little whiskey remaining into his mouth.
“The Noble Consort—in other words, my mother—thinks I’m a murderer.”
It was the first time Blanc had told someone else about his birth mother and his past, yet for some reason, he was not afraid.
***
The moment he parted from Blanc, Fulcare went to find the goddess’s subspace.
He had drunk quite a lot, and he could have gone to bed like Blanc, but Fulcare was constitutionally incapable of tolerating work piling up.
“Get up.”
Along with a cold voice, a sharp ping rang out, and Noe and Giselle, who had been lying on the floor, laboriously opened their eyes.
“I think it’s time we had a more in-depth conversation….”
Fulcare crooked a finger.
He could investigate them himself, but he didn’t have enough time to fulfill Blanc’s request, which was more difficult than he had expected.
“These two?”
Eventually, a sturdily built man appeared from behind Fulcare. He was dressed in a light shirt, but the muscles visible through the open collar told anyone that he was no ordinary man.
“That’s right. I’m counting on you. I should do it myself, but I’ve had a little to drink.”
“I can tell. You reek of alcohol. Did you drink with the captain?”
Fulcare shook his head.
“You wouldn’t drink this much when I asked you to drink with me. Who did you drink with?”
“…The prince?”
“Oh, you got friendly with the prince already? Is he a decent guy?”
“He’s not terribly bad.”
At Fulcare’s answer, Laurent put on an expectant expression. His smile was bright and unclouded, but a peculiar madness lurked in his eyes.
“Anyway, I’ll be going now, so I’m leaving those two to you. Don’t kill them.”
“Don’t worry. Who do you think I am? A polite berserker, that’s who. I’ll treat them with the utmost courtesy.”
When Laurent knocked his two fists together, the spikes on his gloves made an ominous metallic sound.
***
Sunlight streaming through the clear windows struck the golden accents and lavish ornaments, making the already luxurious Empress’s receiving room even more dazzling.
Thanks to the roses arranged in every fine vase, an intensely rich rose fragrance always filled the Empress’s palace.
In the reception room filled with gold and roses, no one save the Emperor could dare deny the Empress’s majesty.
Seated in her perfect surroundings, the Empress’s body trembled.
Then, with a crumpling sound, the letter in the Empress’s hand lost its shape.
The message was utterly unbelievable: they had lost contact with the assassins, and it seemed the commission had failed.
The Empress lit a candle and burned the letter. Crumbled ashes fluttered over the gold-trimmed table, and the Empress’s golden
dress was stained red. She had commissioned the most famous criminal guild on the continent of Rodina, yet she had never dreamed killing a single prince would be this difficult.
“Your Majesty.”
Harowa trailed off as she hurriedly offered the Empress a handkerchief. The handkerchief she used to wipe the corner of the Empress’s mouth was dyed bright red.
“Harowa, tell them to resume tracking the missing people and place another commission. Include Charles this time. We must succeed somehow.”
This was already the second failure, enough to make anyone give up, yet the Empress had no intention of backing down.
The sword had already been drawn, and the Empress had only two choices left: flee to the duchy, become a nobody, and live quietly, or capture and kill everyone involved.
If not,
‘…then what awaits me is death.’
The Empress gave a pale, bitter smile.
Even so, she did not regret her choice. She was prepared to do anything for Gavin’s revenge.
Even if it meant wallowing in mud, she would seize the Noble Consort by the hair and roll through it; and even without knowing how deep the hole was, she would throw herself in alongside the Noble Consort if that was what it took to send her plunging.
“What is the Noble Consort doing?”
“The Noble Consort has gone out.”
Harowa efficiently tidied the ravaged table. Normally, this would have been a maid’s job, but the situation did not allow anyone else into the Empress’s room.
“The Noble Consort?”
The Empress’s carefully groomed eyebrows rose.
Whether to establish her alibi or avoid a possible assassination, the Noble Consort rarely left Samplu Palace, surrounded as it was by tall walls.
“Was today June 14, by any chance?”
The view outside the window was a fresh early-summer scene.
“Yes, it is.”
The maid Harowa refilled the teacup with fresh black tea.
Whenever this date came around, the Noble Consort would leave the palace in black, unassuming clothes accompanied by only a single guard and spend the entire day watching the Mayu River, which cut through the Mayurian Plains beyond the city walls.
They had investigated her discreetly several times out of suspicion, but gained nothing of note.
They had dismissed the Noble Consort’s strange outing as meaningless and set it aside for the time being.
‘There is definitely something to it.’
But this time was different. She had to grasp at any straw.
“Could you investigate the Noble Consort a little more? No matter how much it costs. Search the Madak Kingdom from end to end, if necessary, and bring me anyone who knows about the Noble Consort’s past.”
The Empress held out the ring she was wearing to Harowa. It was an ordinary item with an ordinary gemstone, one unlikely to be traced.
“Of course.”
The maid Harowa bowed.
“I suppose I must write a letter to send to the duchy.”
Since they made a living through crime, they would likely be meticulous about covering their tracks, but one could never be sure. Now that the assassination had failed, there was a chance they might discover that she had commissioned the prince’s assassination.
The Empress could not die—not until she had completed Gavin’s revenge.