* * *

The castle atop the hill within Torvik Citadel was smaller than one might expect.

Perhaps that was because it had been built so long ago. Still, it was built of stone, and in terms of structural soundness and defensive function, it looked far sturdier than castles built these days.

Built originally for defense, however, it was not especially comfortable to live in. Little sunlight entered, leaving it dark even at midday, and it was hot in summer and cold in winter.

Yet beyond its defenses, it possessed one thing in abundance: majesty. From a distance, it looked like a crown set upon the hill.

The castle's ground floor served chiefly as an audience chamber, banquet hall, or dining hall. While grand feasts were held in the citadel courtyard, only the duke's confidants and other important figures were invited to feast here.

A lavish meal had been laid out, suggesting another banquet was being held tonight. Fires burned around the edges of the hall, and candlesticks placed along the long table lit its dark interior.

Trophies and relics passed down through generations of ducal House Viðing were displayed along the walls: necklaces made from orc tusks, troll skulls, tiger pelts, tapestries several meters long, and all manner of weapons and armor taken from slain enemies—helmets, swords, axes.

All bore witness to the house's strength and valor, and another would soon join them.

Valeri and his friends knelt on one knee and presented Duke Sven with Creed's head in its salt box, along with the signature weapon he had wielded in life.

The duke was grinning from ear to ear, as though unexpected sunshine had fallen upon his aging face.

"How is this any different from the tales of heroes who repay their host's kindness by slaying a monster? Creed has troubled me for many years. By putting him to death, you have performed a hero's deed worthy of those ancient tales."

Duke Sven was so delighted that he lavished upon them the highest praise he could muster.

"Raise your heads and rise, heroes."

At Duke Sven's words, Valeri, Arne, Skard, and Yorik stood. Knut was seated right beside the duke.

Whether overwhelmed by the hall itself or intimidated by the situation, Yorik kept darting his wide eyes about.

"Truly, you have the bearing of heroes... Who is that man?"

With a satisfied expression, Duke Sven looked from the strikingly handsome Valeri to the stalwart Arne and Skard. But when his gaze reached Yorik, he tilted his head.

Unlike the others, Yorik had a rather squashed-looking face. His new clothes did not suit him at all, and there was something distinctly slum-born about him.

"Pardon? I-I am..."

"His name is Yorik, and he is a ferryman. He used to take people across the river from the landing. We needed a boat for this mission, so he accompanied us."

Valeri stepped forward and smoothly supplied an explanation. He could hardly say the man was a thug from the thieves' guild.

"A ferryman? Well, yes, if he was of use, that is all to the good. In any case, heroes who have accomplished such a feat deserve a fitting reward, do they not?"

Duke Sven turned to ask the members of his council seated nearby.

"Indeed, Your Grace."

They nodded with smiles, though one person's expression was decidedly sour: the second young lord's. The eldest young lord, perhaps a fool, had eyes only for the food.

The second young lord was named Guttorm. He was enormously fat, with long, narrow eyes.

The Black Hand had previously reported that the kidnapping of Harald, along with the policies intended to keep Winslow in check, had originated with him.

And for some inexplicable reason, he kept fiddling with one of his nipples, all the while casting sidelong looks at Knut and Valeri through those narrow eyes.

"Skard, was it? You serve as a guard at the water gate, I hear. Well, what is it you desire? I shall grant it if it lies within my power."

At Duke Sven's question, Skard seemed to tremble with excitement.

"A knight... I wish to become a full knight. I have the qualifications, but I have neither a horse nor a knighthood yet. If I become a knight, I wish to devote myself all the more to serving Your Grace with unwavering loyalty."

Skard was an apprentice knight. That meant he had spent years as a squire, learning everything from tending equipment and horses to proper etiquette.

But a lack of skill, experience, and money had kept him from becoming a knight.

Duke Sven nodded firmly, as though he found the young man dependable, and addressed the captain of his bodyguard.

"Teach this stalwart, loyal young man mounted combat. You will take responsibility for making a fine knight of him. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And you, Arne. What do you desire?"

"My skills... are lacking in many respects. With Your Grace's permission, I would like to be excused from duty so that I may concentrate entirely on training."

"What a modest young man... How could I refuse such a small request? You shall be relieved of your duties starting tomorrow. And you shall continue to receive your wages. You have my guarantee."

On closer inspection, Duke Sven readily granted only small requests, deftly evading anything more substantial.

He had spoken as though he might generously give Skard a horse and knight him on the spot, yet had taken no concrete steps to do either.

Of course, given how much a single knight cost, he could hardly hand out knighthoods for every distinguished deed.

"And Yo—what was it? Yonik? Yorek? The ferryman, at any rate. What is it you desire?"

"Ah, I-I-I... I'd like to marry a pretty bride."

Duke Sven let out a puff of breath at Yorik's request, then laughed in disbelief. The council members laughed as well, lightening the atmosphere somewhat.

"Well, overseeing the marriages of his subjects is indeed one of a lord's duties. Chief steward, take responsibility for this, would you?"

In other words, pick some reasonably pretty maid and marry her off to him, or arrange something of the sort.

"Certainly."

Duke Sven took a sip of wine and at last turned to Valeri. The young man's beauty struck him anew every time he looked at him. Now that Valeri had proved his abilities as well, he almost wondered how one person could possess so much.

"And now... our true hero, one might say. Frankly, you surprised me. I had no idea your abilities were so great. I thought you merely a young man with considerable talent for swordsmanship, but I was wrong. Perhaps we are witnessing the beginnings of a peerless hero. Limited though my power may be, Wid, I would like to grant your wish. Well, what do you desire?"

His words were markedly different from those he had offered the others. Understandably so: the duke had entrusted the mission to Valeri in the first place, and Valeri had taken responsibility for selecting the men and seeing it through.

But in asking what he wanted, the duke was also testing his mettle.

To employ, manipulate, or manage someone, the key was knowing what they desired and what they feared.

The three before him had answered honestly, but Valeri understood these political considerations all too well.

Valeri swept his gaze over the duke's council, his two sons and daughters-in-law, and his close associates.

In the light of the fires and the candles on the table, they looked less like living people than figures in a painting.

He glanced at Knut, who looked vaguely bored and dejected, then at the second young lord, Guttorm. Finally, he turned back to Duke Sven and spoke.

"There is nothing in particular I desire for myself. But I still cannot forget the suffering people of Gringen. Please lift the trade embargo. Their livelihoods will improve, and Your Grace will benefit as well. That is all I ask."

The answer must have been unexpected. Duke Sven considered it for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. A faint smile appeared on his face, as though to say, Well, look at you.

"Is that truly what you want?"

"Yes."

"Now that the man damming the waterway is gone, it is only natural for the water to flow again. That would happen without your asking. Did you not know?"

"Knowing Your Grace's wisdom, I was certain it would. My concern is that unless action is taken quickly, someone else may arise to covet what is rightfully Your Grace's—and begin tormenting the people again."

Valeri spoke artfully, mixing in just enough falsehood.

The lie was his concern for the people; he was not particularly worried about them. But it was true that the Ballsack Opener's death did not mean another man like him could not appear.

In other words, lifting the embargo was one thing, but measures concerning trade needed to be taken swiftly as well. Seizing control of the southern landing, for instance.

Why had Duke Sven wanted the Ballsack Opener eliminated in the first place? In part, it was to punish someone who acted against his interests. But he also wanted those profits all to himself.

Naturally, the duke could not act openly. The city lay within another lord's territory.

The duke studied Valeri through half-lidded eyes. He concluded that Valeri wanted to manage that trade himself. More ambitious than I thought.

Duke Sven had intended to make some use of Valeri to keep Winslow in check and allow his strength to grow to a degree. But he had never intended to give him any real power. It also occurred to him that the young man might prove somewhat dangerous.

Of course, Valeri understood exactly what the duke was thinking. He had brought up trade nonetheless because his words were meant not for the duke, but for the second young lord.

If that fool grew impatient and volunteered to handle it himself, he would ruin everything.

Valeri knew that by now, the Black Hand would have taken complete control of the landing. Interfering there would only bring losses. Sending a handful of men would accomplish nothing unless they brought an actual army.

If there was a solution, it was negotiation. Negotiating with the Ballsack Opener had been impossible, but the Black Hand, at least, could be reasoned with.

The second young lord, Guttorm, was now all but glaring at Valeri, and the hand fondling his nipple moved faster and more vigorously.

"... Though it was never my intention, the suffering of Gringen's people has grieved me as well. Measures will be taken before long, so you need not worry. But is that truly all you desire?"

At Duke Sven's repeated question, Valeri pretended to ponder for a moment before answering.

"City life is pleasant, but I do find it stifling at times. If you would appoint me a territorial patrol officer, I could get some fresh air while keeping Your Grace's borders and lands secure."

"A territorial patrol officer?"

Duke Sven's eyes, which had been regarding him suspiciously all this time, widened in surprise. A territorial patrol officer was something of a dead-end posting: dangerous, arduous, and unprofitable.

Knights took turns performing the duty, and none of them wanted it. A single patrol lasted at least three or four days, and sometimes more than a week.

They often had to sleep in the open, and sometimes confront bandits alone or with only a few companions. With bad enough luck, an encounter with a monster could bring a horrific end before they ever had a chance to fight on a battlefield.

Valeri had requested it nonetheless to gain some freedom from the restrictions on his movements. Even that much latitude would let him accomplish a great deal.

But Duke Sven could frown and puzzle over it all he liked without understanding why. Had the young man not been ambitious? What was this?

"Why?"

"As I said, remaining in the city all the time can feel stifling. But I do not wish to leave it altogether, either. I simply want to get some fresh air now and then. Just now and then."

"Hmm... Very well. I shall give you a warrant and a token of office. When you call at a gate, city, or village, they will open their doors and welcome you. They will provide food and lodging, and you may requisition supplies if you need them."

The work was dangerous and difficult, but it carried considerable authority. The right to requisition supplies from towns and villages was not given to just anyone.

In wartime, the officer could even levy local troops, form an army, and command it.

That made it an important office, but in practice such occasions rarely arose, and it was regarded as little more than thankless toil.

People would not necessarily obey a damned levy order, a few able-bodied men were of no immediate use, and if war truly broke out, the duke would raise troops himself rather than send a patrol officer.

"Now, now, we have kept our heroes standing far too long. All this fine food will go cold. Take your seats, and everyone, raise your cups!"

The duke raised his wine cup and spoke heartily, as though announcing the start of the banquet.

Unfortunately, there was no reward for Knut. It was not an attempt to keep him in check; he was simply treated as a son his father had more or less given up on.

With what could be called the important ceremony concluded, the feast began in earnest. Bards played their lutes while servants hurried about carrying food and drink.

As time passed, some guests began laughing at the tops of their lungs, perhaps drunk, while others spat on the Ballsack Opener's severed head and cursed him.

"Put his head on a spike outside the citadel at once! Let them see that no one who defies me will escape unscathed! Hahahaha!"

Duke Sven spoke loudly, perhaps drunk himself. What pleased him now was not his subordinates' achievement, but the simple fact that Creed the Ballsack Opener was dead.

The death of a man who had plagued him for so long was evidently deeply satisfying.

Yorik was drunk too, pestering the maids carrying food and drink.

"E-excuse me."

"Yes?"

"What time did we say we'd meet tomorrow?"

"Pardon? I don't think that was me. You've mistaken me for someone else."

"Huh?"

"Hey, please just stay put."

Arne practically seized Yorik by the collar and hauled him back into his seat.

"Where's Wid, anyway?"

"No idea."

Skard had asked, but Arne did not know.

Valeri had been watching the banquet all along, and had risen from his seat once everyone seemed too drunk to know what was happening.

When he deliberately moved in secret, he was difficult to notice. All the more so when people were drunk.

His destination was none other than Knut's room on the second floor. The uproar downstairs reached him as a muffled rumble.

The door was smaller than he had expected. He knocked, and Knut's voice came from within.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

"Who is it?"

Opening the door revealed a modest room crammed with all manner of outlandish objects.

Mobiles, toys of every kind, cheap and costly ornaments, a collection of daggers, stuffed dolls—the room was full of expensive, useless things. Apart from the space for sleeping, there was scarcely anywhere to set foot.

A single lantern atop a chest of drawers lit the room, lending it an almost unreal quality. Trinkets and ornaments glittered in its light.

"Huh? What's up?"

Knut, who had been playing with a toy, looked up at Valeri's entrance with eyes widened in apparent surprise.

"Don't you drink?"

"No. I don't. It tastes awful."

That explanation drew a small, incredulous laugh from Valeri.

He approached to see what Knut was doing and found him playing with a strange toy.

It looked like a small wooden box. When a gold coin was placed on top and a button pressed, a hand sprang out and took it.

Then, after the mechanism was wound and the button pressed again, a fairy doll holding the coin rose up and spun to a clear, tinkling melody. It was undeniably ingenious, but it failed to interest Valeri.

"Is it fun?"

"I'm just doing it without thinking."

"Hmm. Do you usually spend all your time in your room like this? Playing with toys?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"If I go out, I have to look at the faces of people I can't stand."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Say, there's something I wanted to ask."

"Sure. Go ahead."

"Have you ever wanted to become duke?"

It was an extraordinarily dangerous question. If anyone found out, it could cost him his head on the spot.

Yet Knut showed no surprise, let alone much interest—much as Valeri had shown little interest in the toy.

"No. Never."

"... Then would you mind if I killed your brother?"

That was even more dangerous.

At this, Knut finally turned from his toy to look at Valeri.

His large, catlike eyes shone green, like emeralds of the finest quality. Once again, there was not a trace of surprise in them.

"Those men aren't my brothers."

"What do you mean?"

"They put poison in the old man's drink and said Mother did it. I couldn't protect her. I didn't know what to do. I still don't. Ask me something like that, and I just have nothing to say. I won't get in your way."

Knut returned to his toy. Set down the coin, press the button, wind the mechanism. He simply repeated the same motions.

He seemed to want nothing more than to pass the time in a vacant, thoughtless daze.

To numb his mind, living as though he were dead—that was how Knut had chosen to survive.

Watching him was like seeing himself back when he had worked keeping accounts. That tedious, meaningless work, which had driven him relentlessly toward becoming numb to everything.

It was neither a refuge nor an escape, only a prison of his own making.

Valeri wanted to free Knut from that prison.

"Then, Knut, from now on, just trust me and follow my lead."

At Valeri's words, Knut plucked the gold coin from the doll's hand and waved it as if to say, Look at this.

Then he gave a playful little smile, without a trace of malice, looking as gentle as anyone could be.

"I don't accept presents from just anyone. How do I know they aren't poisoned?"

Perhaps it was his own attempt at a playful joke, but it was not funny.