* * *

There was a seldom-visited spot near the garden in Torvik Citadel’s courtyard. Valeri, Knut, Arne, and Skard had gathered there.

They sat or stood wherever they pleased, all watching Valeri. A practical crash course was under way—one meant for actual combat.

“We won’t be doing any conditioning for a while. We train for combat; we can’t let training get in the way of it. Agreed?”

Arne, who was practically a training addict, nodded in understanding.

“Arne and Skard, stay right beside Knut and protect him. If I need an errand done, I’ll send Skard. He knows more about how the backstreets work. I’ll handle how much salt we sell, at what price, and to whom, along with intelligence gathering, negotiations, operational planning, execution, extraction, and overall management. Any objections?”

Of course there were none. They had all regarded Valeri as their leader and commander from the beginning.

They merely found it strange, wondering where he had learned all this. Some of the words he used were unfamiliar to all three of them.

“And if something unexpected happens or a fight breaks out, don’t fumble around trying to use everything you’ve learned so far. Understood? That comes after you’re used to real combat. If you’re outnumbered, put your shield out front and simply charge. Put all your strength into a single push before they even have time to brace themselves. That’s how you knock them all down. And indoors, always use a dagger. Don’t stab anywhere else—go for the belly. Understand?”

“...”

No one spoke. It did not seem to be because they failed to understand, so Valeri continued.

“The point is to keep it as simple as possible. Forget all that about how far apart your feet should be, what to do with your upper body, or striking with the back edge. Push with your shield. Stab the belly with your dagger. Just remember those two things. Keep a sword on your belt, though. It’s still useful for intimidation. Understand?”

Once again, no one spoke.

“Answer me.”

“Understood.”

“...”

Arne answered, while Knut and Skard remained silent.

Skard, in particular, gave Valeri a skeptical look before speaking.

“What kind of place is Winslow, anyway?”

He asked because he could scarcely believe either the swordsmanship Valeri had shown earlier or his specialized, practical knowledge.

Valeri simply laughed it off.

“Go see for yourself sometime. And let me say this now: there’s no need to be too scared, but don’t let your guard down too much either. It might turn out to be less of an ordeal than you think. If things look dangerous, we’ll simply pull back. Be prepared to die, but don’t go out of your way to do it. Whether we succeed or fail, no one here is dying. I promise. I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.”

There was power in Valeri’s words. It was more than the persuasiveness of his delivery—something innate, or perhaps a self-fulfilling prophecy.

A power that took his listeners beyond feeling that things really would turn out that way and brought them close to certainty.

Put simply, his charisma was extraordinary. All three listening to him felt it without consciously realizing it.

Next, Valeri taught them how to use a dagger. The type was called a knightly dagger, a weapon commonly used by knights, just as its name suggested.

There was no strictly defined shape, since many owners modified theirs to suit their tastes. The one Valeri had chosen was lighter, its shape clearly specialized for thrusting.

Its blade formed a sharp triangle, designed to spread a wound open once it pierced flesh. A powerful thrust could penetrate mail, and it was also well suited to targeting gaps in armor.

Valeri taught them where to carry the daggers on their bodies and how many, how to draw them in different situations, and how to grip them.

Having spent several years as an assassin before returning to the past, he was extremely skilled with a dagger. Everyone’s eyes widened as he twirled one idly in his hand.

“You don’t need to practice tricks like this, but you do need to be this familiar with it. Like a sixth finger. Enough to inflict a fatal wound in one stroke, in any situation and from any position.”

At that, Knut sent his own dagger spinning over his hand in exactly the same way. Even Valeri’s eyes widened at the unexpected sight.

“What if I’ve already practiced?” Knut asked.

“Hmm... Well done.”

There was little else to say. Given that Knut had enlisted men to assassinate Ketilmund, he had never been ordinary in the first place. Nor was there anything ordinary about cutting open a servant’s belly as a child.

In any case, Valeri’s party spent roughly three days familiarizing themselves with the plan and their roles, and learning to use daggers and shields.

After those three days, word came from the salt merchant.

The goods were ready.

“Heh heh heh, my lords, no one was willing to come, so I’m afraid we’ll have to do the rowing ourselves...”

Yorik spoke with a servile grin at a fogbound landing amid the reeds. Somehow, he had put his gold tooth back in; one of his two front teeth gleamed gold.

The boat was somewhat larger than an ordinary ferryboat, with no sail; it had to be rowed.

“That’s fine. Let’s load the salt first.”

There were twenty full sacks of salt. All of them had trained bodies, so lifting the sacks into the boat was easy enough. The question was whether the boat could take the weight.

With the load balanced between bow and stern, the water nearly reached the gunwales.

There were five of them altogether. Knut sat in the middle, with two men in front and two behind. That brought the water almost level with the gunwales, and every slight movement of the boat let more spill inside.

“This doesn’t seem right...”

Arne muttered to himself, plainly uneasy. This had nothing to do with being brave or cowardly.

“We’ll be there in half a day. We’ll be fine if we’re careful.”

Valeri was a little uneasy himself, but reassured Arne all the same.

No matter how thoroughly a plan was prepared, unforeseen variables always arose once it was put into practice.

Sometimes those variables called for pressing on, and sometimes for changing the plan. Sound judgment and the courage to make decisions were virtues a leader needed.

For now, Valeri’s decision was to proceed.

“Knut, bail out the water.”

“Me?”

“Or you can row, and I’ll bail.”

“I’ll bail.”

Now all five of them had a job.

The four holding oars, Valeri included, pushed hard against the landing. The boat lurched, and a great deal of water spilled aboard. Everyone’s heart lurched with it.

Knut immediately began bailing furiously with a dipper.

Still, with so much weight aboard, the boat did not seem likely to capsize easily.

They began rowing apprehensively. At first, the boat moved so little that they wondered whether they were making any headway, but slowly—very slowly—it gathered speed.

They headed northwest through the fog.

There were no particularly rough winds or waves, and after about three hours of rowing, the boat was steady. Their nerves settled along with it.

Just as they began to feel sure they could reach their destination, a light appeared beyond the fog.

They watched, wondering what it was, until another boat emerged from the mist, coming the other way. Someone at its bow held a lantern. That was the light they had seen.

Four or five people were aboard. If they had ill intentions, things could become very troublesome indeed.

But they merely watched Valeri’s party as they passed slowly by.

Their gazes crossed between the boats. No one spoke; the only sounds were the creaking of the boats and the water parting around them.

At last, the boats passed each other. The other vessel turned toward the marsh and disappeared behind the reeds.

“They knew we were coming,” Valeri said.

“What do we do, then?”

Arne sounded anxious, seemingly speaking for all of them.

“It’s a good thing. We won’t have to advertise.”

“That’s how you see it?”

“However reckless they are, they can’t casually lay hands on the Duke of Eldeira’s third son. For now, they were only watching. Think of them as predators. They won’t attack blindly. They’ll learn enough about their prey and wait for an opening before they bite.”

“... So we’re fighting predators?”

“You’re a predator too, Arne. Watch them as well. As though you’ll sink your teeth into them the moment you see a chance.”

Put that way, it was remarkably reassuring. He was a predator too...

“Understood, my lord. From now on, I’m a predator too.”

Apparently inspired as well, Yorik answered with firm resolve in his eyes. Valeri ignored him.

Another hour brought them out of the fog and to a wharf. Boats were moored there, but few people were in sight.

Because of Duke Sven’s embargo, most traffic used the wharf north of the city.

Half the people here looked like beggars, while the rest appeared to be warehouse keepers or laborers. It was safe to assume that anyone in decent condition belonged to some organization.

The beggars were gaunt, draped in scraps of matting, with no life in their eyes. Their ages were impossible to guess. They seemed merely to be waiting for death.

When Valeri’s party tied up the boat and stepped onto the wharf, every eye turned toward them.

Then Yorik suddenly shouted.

“You there!”

It was his own companions who flinched in surprise. What was wrong with him?

Regardless of their surprise, Yorik strode up to the nearest person.

“We need a warehouse to store our goods.”

“...”

As they unloaded the heavy sacks of salt, Valeri and the others could only stare at Yorik in bewilderment. Of course they needed storage, but they had not intended to secure it like this.

“Are you deaf? Why aren’t you answering?”

“... Go ask over there.”

A dockworker pointed. Yorik immediately marched over and addressed the man there.

“We’ll be using this warehouse.”

“...”

“Look at you lot! No answer again? You bastard! Do our lords look like dog cocks to you?”

Dog cocks seemed a rather questionable choice of words, but things certainly were moving briskly.

The warehouse keeper did not actually seem frightened, but Yorik had clearly overborne him.

“... Wait a moment.”

He went off somewhere, perhaps to report to his superior. A little later, he returned.

“Storage is one silver coin per day.”

“You bastard, are you trying to get yourself killed? I know the going rate here. Go bring your boss right now, or take five coppers.”

“... Wait a moment.”

Yorik had raised his hand as though to strike him. The warehouse keeper went back to his superior, and soon the warehouse manager emerged.

He looked at Yorik, then at Valeri’s party, who had just finished unloading the salt onto the wharf. Turning back to Yorik, he spoke.

“Five coppers pays for storage, nothing more. If the goods go missing or anything else happens, that’s no concern of ours. If you stay in the warehouse, it’s another copper per person, making one silver in total.”

Ten copper coins made one silver, and twenty silver made one gold.

Yorik scowled. Just as he was about to shout again, Valeri stepped forward.

“Agreed. One silver a day, including lodging for us. Five days to start.”

Valeri had spent eight of the ten gold coins Duke Sven had given him on salt, keeping two for incidental expenses. He handed the manager five silver coins he had exchanged for in Torvik.

The manager whisked the money away so quickly he might have been stealing it. He immediately opened the warehouse doors.

“I’ll call on you again in five days, my lord.”

The large hinged doors rumbled open, revealing the interior. There were not many other goods stored inside.

There was ample room, though several people were present. All were guarding their own goods or those of the organizations they belonged to.

After moving the sacks inside, Valeri spoke to Yorik.

“Well done. This is for the boat and your trouble. Including that security deposit you mentioned.”

He handed Yorik five silver coins. Yorik’s eyes widened; he had not expected to receive payment.

Whether their first meeting had gone well or badly, Valeri always paid what he owed.

Besides, while demanding a gold coin had been absurd, five silver was still a substantial sum.

Yet Yorik’s reaction was strange.

“A-are you abandoning me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told me to become a predator.”

“... You don’t need to do that.”

“Please!”

Yorik abruptly dropped to his knees and clasped his hands in supplication. Arne, watching beside them, spoke up.

“Haven’t we already paid for him to stay too? Another person would help when we take turns guarding the goods. Let’s just keep him.”

“Thank you, my lord!”

Valeri had not agreed, but Yorik thanked him as though he had.

At this point, there was little Valeri could do. Returning alone now would be dangerous too. He remembered the boat they had passed earlier.

“All right, just be quiet.”

Then he turned to Knut.

“If we stay at an inn, there’ll be security concerns, and we’ll have to split up. I’m thinking we should stay here. Is that all right?”

“It’s much better than living in a birdcage.”

“Good.”

Next, he addressed everyone.

“For now, we’ll all stay here. Whenever we go out, at least two people must remain to guard the goods. If something dangerous looks likely to happen while there are only two of you, leave everything and run. Understood?”

Everyone nodded, though somehow they looked as if they would defend the goods with their lives.

“I’ll have a look around the city alone first. Don’t go far. Just get to know the immediate area.”

“Are you sure you don’t need company?” Arne asked.

Valeri smiled.

“Actually, I’ve been here before.”

“... What the hell kind of place is Winslow? Sending a child somewhere like this?”

Skard shook his head as he spread out his bedding, settling in for their stay at the warehouse.

“I’ll be back.”

Valeri left.

Once he rounded the wharf and entered the city proper, it felt both familiar and utterly strange.

He had come here at twenty, after the king died. This was six years before then.

Starting here, he had done just about everything. It was truly a world where the strong devoured the weak—a world that had driven him to inhuman extremes.

To survive in hell, he had had no choice but to become a demon. Was that merely an excuse?

Earl Æthelred, Lady Sibild, Harald, and his friends. Coming here made him realize just how much they had changed him.

The wind blowing in from the marshes carried a distinctive smell: damp earth and smoke. The smoke came from burning peat, which was used here more often than firewood.

Whether chasing memories or retracing his future, Valeri followed wherever his feet unconsciously led him. He felt eyes on him from every direction, but let them pass like the brush of the wind.

Alleys were dangerous in places like this, yet he walked into them without hesitation.

Then he spotted a black handprint on the corner of a stone building. The Black Hand. The symbol of the thieves’ guild he had once belonged to.

Valeri reached toward the handprint as though to compare the size of his hand against it. Or rather, he tried to.

“Hey. You can’t just touch that.”

He turned toward the voice.

He could swear there was no one here he had ever dreamed of seeing again. Even the friends he had helped out of kindness had betrayed him, costing him his fingers.

When he turned, he found not one man but several. The one who had called out had a long scar splitting one corner of his mouth. He was none other than the man who had cut off Valeri’s fingers.

The man who cut off fingers whenever someone failed to meet their quota of tribute, whether earned through pickpocketing, robbery, or begging.

Yet facing him did not stir the slightest anger in Valeri’s heart. The man merely looked utterly insignificant.

“Still cutting off children’s fingers, Pale?”

“... Who are you?”

“Ah, are you more used to your nickname, the Finger Collector?”

“...”

The man called Pale flinched, visibly shaken. Violence was familiar enough to him, but this stranger’s knowledge of him inspired a deeper fear.

The Black Hand, Gringen’s thieves’ guild, valued secrecy above life itself. It was their most important, most solemn, and most absolute rule.

Breaking it did not end with a few severed fingers or death. The offender would be tortured until they revealed whom they had told and how far the connections went.

In practice, they would be tortured until every last memory had been dragged from their head.

That was why Pale’s companions were equally startled and dismayed. A complete stranger knew about him. The quicker thinkers among them were already afraid they might be implicated too.

“What shall I do... This will do nicely. His Grace the Duke knows all about you selling information to the Ballsack Opener. There’s a hideout behind Toad Rock to the north, isn’t there? You move a stone, and there’s a staircase leading underground, I hear. I’m told it connects to somewhere...”

With a gap of six years, Valeri’s information might be inaccurate. But that did not matter. If even part of it was right, Pale would be tortured until he spilled even memories he did not possess.

“Wh-what! What are you talking about? Th-that! How did you find out about that? It’s impossible! It wasn’t me! It really wasn’t!”

Utterly bewildered, Pale protested his innocence to his companions.

“If you want something from me, don’t bother coming at night. Come during the day.”

With that, Valeri simply walked away.

Behind him, Pale frantically shouted something. Soon the noise stopped, as though someone had clamped a hand over his mouth.