Chapter 43
The sounds of wind instruments built layer upon layer over the booming drumbeats.
And the people's unceasing applause and cheers.
Ahan's residents cheered Prince Roen wholeheartedly.
That was only natural, since the Marquis of Ahan had made a major announcement before the procession arrived.
[Prince Roen has wiped out the pirates.]
A single short line, but it was more than enough to win the hearts of the people of Ahan.
Flower petals fluttered all along the streets.
Some ran out and bowed to him, while others gazed at Blanc with tears welling in their eyes.
Blanc was far from pleased by this.
That was because the Marquis of Ahan was asking him about it.
The marquis had laid the groundwork in advance, saying he would ask whether the achievement truly belonged to him, making it impossible to avoid bringing up the subject at the banquet in light of the people's cheers.
After the evening banquet, where they had spent their time probing one another, came to an end, Blanc returned to his room and leaned back on a long couch.
Before long, Fulcare came to visit him.
The moment he saw Fulcare, Blanc spoke as though he had been waiting for him. With things between him and Vieta having become strangely strained, Blanc was the only person he could confide in.
“Like a cockerel puffing out its feathers in front of a hawk.”
Blanc's voice was self-deprecating. To prove to the marquis, who was sounding him out, that he himself had wiped out Kardu, Blanc had even displayed magic.
The astonished looks on the marquis and his aide's faces, their mouths hanging open in disbelief when Blanc cast the spell, were still vivid in his mind.
“Why act as if that’s anything new? Isn’t that how politics works?”
“That’s what makes it even worse. Even knowing that, I can’t do anything with my own power.”
Blanc sprang up from the sofa and picked up the bottle of whiskey. He did not particularly enjoy drinking, but it seemed he needed alcohol's help to forget how pathetic he felt.
Blanc handed Fulcare a glass filled to the brim, then drank straight from the bottle.
“Blanc, even if our names weren't included in that official document, most people will know that my companions and I have taken your side. So you don't need to feel sorry for us just because our names aren't written there.”
Fulcare continued, slowly swirling the whiskey in his glass. The sharp scent of alcohol spread faintly through the heavy, subdued atmosphere.
“And don’t think you did nothing. A game of chess can continue only because the king is alive. Wouldn’t it help to think that capable chess pieces can bring their strength to bear because you’re there?”
Though they had discussed many things, Blanc clearly had a resolute side. To persuade someone like him, it was better to appeal to reason than to emotion.
“…Then what happens to Vieta?”
Why was he suddenly singling Vieta out here? Sensing that this would not be easy, Fulcare set the glass in his hand down on the table and faced Blanc.
“Why Vieta? As far as I know, Vieta told you what reward she wanted, too. Is there a problem?”
“…Fulcare, do you really think that’s enough? Vieta saved Celine, saved me, and even captured Kardu’s leader. And you’re saying twenty pennies is enough? That’s the price of a sheep! I wasn’t going to say this, but Vieta is in debt, too, isn’t she…? I heard she lived on nothing but jerky. So why….”
Blanc couldn’t bring himself to finish. Fulcare did not particularly want to hear the rest, either.
Fulcare knew better than anyone that Vieta had sacrificed so much for the Empire, yet received no compensation whatsoever.
And that wasn’t all. The goddess had erased the hero Alicia, created a doll named Vieta, imprisoned her in the goddess's grasp, and even reimposed the oath on her so that she could not rebel.
Even if everything had been the goddess’s will, the Empire that had been saved through Vieta’s sacrifice had effectively thrown her back into the gutter.
As the living witness who had watched it all unfold and a citizen of the Empire saved by Vieta, Fulcare felt an overwhelming sense of indebtedness that he could scarcely put into words, and struggled to answer.
“…It’s probably fine. Vieta wants that, too.”
“…I knew you didn’t trust me, but I never thought you’d take me for a fool. Or is it because I’m a prince the Empire has cast aside, making everything I give you feel like a burden?”
Blanc gave him a bitter smile, then said nothing more.
The silence seemed to be reproaching him, so Fulcare turned around and left the room.
Fulcare wanted to tell Blanc everything and be done with it, but there was the matter of the oath, and he also had to worry about the blow Blanc would suffer.
Even if he left out the fact that Vieta was the hero, Blanc was the Empire's next crown prince and would one day lead it.
Fulcare did not want to saddle Blanc with the same pitch-black guilt he carried.
'This is truly the worst.'
Should he keep hiding the truth and hurt Blanc, or reveal it and cause him pain?
Fulcare walked on, wondering which of the two lesser evils was preferable.
***
At four in the morning the day after the prince arrived, the marquis began his day's work before dawn.
Since Ahan Territory lay at the Empire’s southernmost point, morning arrived earlier there than elsewhere in the Empire, while evening came later.
No one lived Ahan’s industrious daily routine more diligently than the marquis.
“Phew.”
While he was busy handling his work, the marquis set down his pen with a sharp clack.
He had just thought of the prince, who had boldly raised a magic circle before him yesterday.
The more he recalled the prince’s relaxed smile of victory, the more irritating it became.
‘To think he could use magic.’
It had been a trump card he had never anticipated. Because of it, the carefully prepared game had been overturned.
Even that wasn't all: at the welcoming banquet, the marquis had suffered a crushing defeat at Blanc and Fulcare's hands.
Even setting Tuang's capture aside, he was curious how the prince had gotten that straight-laced chief mage onto his side, so he kept trying to draw him out. Yet each time, the prince slipped away from the question with infuriating deftness.
He had sounded out the Archmage several times as well,
but the Archmage, who must have had dozens of sly snakes coiled inside him, seemed intent on shutting down his questions before they could even begin; whenever the marquis spoke to him, he smoothly redirected the question to the prince, saying it was not his place to answer.
“What exactly is the problem? Do you dislike the prince, or is it the big shot hiding beside him that you dislike, just as you predicted?”
Anatole said as he examined the documents the marquis had handed him.
He knew very well that his master did not like Prince Roen.
He also knew that the marquis had pulled strings when planning the pilgrimage itinerary to make them come to Ahan first.
“No, I was wondering whether he really was the prince I knew. And isn’t it a lord’s duty to find out what kind of big shot stands at his side? If that person is hostile to us, we’ll have to reconsider our position.”
“Are you considering not supporting Prince Roen?”
“…That would be a little difficult, too. If I don’t support Roen here, I’ll naturally end up supporting that madman Charles. That’s the one thing I truly want to avoid.”
He wanted neither this nor that, so what exactly did he intend to do?
Anatole could not make sense of the marquis’s thoughts at all.
“Then you can simply support Prince Roen. From what I can see, all you’d need to do is give up a little of your stubbornness, Your Excellency.”
Had this been the Prince Roen of old, Anatole would have objected, but Roen had changed greatly—in his manner of speaking and his bearing alike.
He seemed likely to become a fairly decent ruler, even if he fell short of Crown Prince Gabin.
“No, you—! Haven’t I been saying this all along? For Ahan’s safety, I need to find out who that big shot beside the prince is! If he’s our enemy, wouldn’t Ahan naturally be put in danger?”
The marquis slammed his hand down on the desk in frustration.
At the marquis’s childish display, Anatole could only fall silent.
The marquis himself may have constructed his own logic—that because he did not know who stood beside the prince, he could not completely trust him—but to Anatole, it looked as though he simply refused to admit that his former self had been wrong.
When Anatole failed to answer, the marquis scowled, propped his chin on his hand, and asked another question.
“…Anatole, would it look very strange if I asked the prince to solve Ahan’s problem?”
“As Ahan’s lord, I believe you can certainly make such a request. But why are you suddenly asking the prince?”
“If the prince finds himself in a bind, that big shot will naturally show himself, too.”
At the sight of the marquis’s subtly upturned lips, Anatole shook his head.