Chapter 67

Grotesque Taste (2)

By late afternoon, the Goethe estate was besieged by a noisy procession of carriages.
Seven carriages filled the road in front of the mansion.
All but one—the one at the very front—were cargo wagons, and dozens of armed mercenaries guarded them.
It was a force that could easily pass for the army of a minor barony.

The head attendant, accompanied by servants and maids, went out to receive the guests.
Strictly speaking, the marquis was not a hereditary noble but a robe noble who had gained his status through administrative rank.
Regardless of his title, he was a second-tier noble whose legitimacy was difficult to assert.
Even so, the head attendant Waller treated him with the same courtesy as any other noble guest.

“It is an honor to receive your visit, Marquis Dietrich.”
“Is the count in?”

The marquis stepped down from the intricately carved carriage with perfect posture.
The middle-aged man, whose glossy long hair suited him well, wore a taffeta coat.
Between its folds, a glimpse of chainmail could be seen—no ordinary armor.
It was black chainmail with a faint green sheen, made of demesitrium—a magical protective gear.
The necklace and rings adorning nearly every finger were magical tools, and even the mercenaries he brought wore at least breastplates of plate armor.
He had come thoroughly prepared.

“He is waiting inside. Though… there are quite a lot of carriages and men. Is there some important matter?”

The Goethe head attendant asked.
The intention was obvious, but he chose to hear the excuse anyway.

“Well, I’ve committed the rudeness of repeatedly delaying my promise to the count. So I brought supplies that might help Winterband—barley and wheat, dried meat and medicinal herbs, and fifty arming swords. As for the number of men, one never knows if bandits might appear on the road.”

The marquis replied smoothly, as if his tongue had been greased.

“Indeed, with this much, the delay hardly seems worth mentioning.”
“Not quite enough, I’m afraid. I regret not bringing more. After all, the count is the shield of this nation. I wished to contribute even a little more, but my means are limited, so this is all I could manage.”
“Not at all. This will be a great comfort not only to His Excellency, but also to the soldiers of Winterband. Though, arming swords are somewhat unexpected.”
“I’ve heard that weapons in Winterband tend to rust due to condensation, or become brittle from freezing and chip easily. So I prepared these.”
“May I take a look?”
“Of course.”

The arming swords were loaded onto the last wagon.
Waller drew one out and examined the blade closely.

“Well? I had them specially made by a master craftsman of Baldarin. Balance, durability, sharpness—everything is excellent. The fuller work in particular is a masterpiece. The weight has been reduced while maintaining strength.”
“Truly a thoughtful gesture. The count will be pleased.”

Though he said so, Schiller’s gaze had grown heavy.

The fuller was the groove carved along the center of the blade.
It helped balance the sword and reduce weight.
At first glance, the marquis’s reasoning seemed sound—but only because he did not understand Winterband’s winters.

The swords supplied to Winterband were all made from Arger ore.
This mineral, also called black stone, barely deformed even under extreme temperatures.
Furthermore, through repeated folding and forging, the blades gained resistance to corrosion and exceptional durability.

Even then, it took years’ worth of shield taxes to equip barely a dozen soldiers.
There was a reason why Winterband was always short on supplies.
Even such hard-won weapons rarely lasted more than a few years before wearing out.

The marquis’s so-called consideration ignored these realities.
A blade thinned by a fuller would soon crack under such conditions.
In the end, both the troops and supplies were nothing more than displays of showmanship.
His mention of arming swords was merely a ploy to demonstrate his detailed knowledge of Winterband—
or perhaps a veiled threat that these very weapons could be used to seize the estate.

“This old man has taken too much of Your Excellency’s time with needless worry. Please, this way.”

The elderly head attendant pretended not to notice the marquis’s obvious intentions.

“However, only one person may accompany you from here.”

He added this to the mercenaries who were about to follow inside.

“Very well. You—come with me.”

The marquis readily chose one man.
A mercenary hired specifically for today—not merely a swordsman, but one skilled in reconnaissance.

As he followed the head attendant, the marquis suddenly halted.

“Say it again! Go on, say it!”
“Y-young master, please stop! Why are you doing this all of a sudden?!”

In one corner of the garden, a boy was kicking a guard relentlessly.
The guard curled up helplessly on the ground, unable to resist.

“Ah, that is the eldest young master. He’s recently taken an interest in swordsmanship.”

At the attendant’s words, the marquis turned his gaze toward the boy.

“As you know, the eldest young master has a peculiar constitution that prevents him from using magic. So he’s exploring new paths. Fortunately, he recently discovered a talent for swordsmanship.”
“So that boy is the first son?”
“Yes.”
“He’s taller than I expected. I heard he was only twelve.”
“He stayed in Vinfelt for a few months due to certain matters, and returned having grown quite suddenly.”

The marquis observed Isaac carefully.
Ash-gray hair, eyes resembling the count’s, and blue irises.
Yet his overall impression was far sharper, more irritable.
Indeed, he looked every bit the unruly heir of a noble house.

The wine bottle in his hand only added to the image.
Each time he kicked the guard, wine spilled from its mouth.

Though the marquis had visited the estate several times on inspection duties, he had never once encountered the young Goethes.
He had no business with children.
If not for the note he received after the assassination of Mayor Varis, he would not have paid attention even to the first son.
But now, he had to be cautious—even of the slightest possibility.

“He practices swordsmanship in a rather unusual way. Surely the estate has a training ground.”
“At this hour, the estate soldiers are using it.”
“So the count values the soldiers’ training more than his eldest son’s?”
“The count simply prioritizes the safety of the estate. As you know, the eldest young master’s constitution is… unique.”

Even as they spoke, the kicking did not stop.

“You are the head attendant—yet you don’t stop him?”
“It is a daily occurrence for us. This way, please.”

The attendant brushed it off as if it were nothing.

“Tch. At this rate, he’s nothing but a disgrace.”
“I’m sure the eldest young master will come to his senses someday.”

The marquis deliberately used insulting words to test him.
The attendant’s response remained calm.

“And the second son?”
“At this hour, he would be studying ancient languages and introductory magic. There is a competition coming up.”
“It seems the count favors the second son.”
“Perhaps. We have arrived.”

“I’ve grown quite accustomed to coming here.”
“You have visited nearly every year.”
“Ahem.”

The marquis, having arrived before the count’s private study, cleared his throat.
He was about to engage in an important negotiation.

“Your Excellency, Marquis Dietrich has arrived.”
“You—go take a look around the estate.”

While the head attendant announced the marquis’s visit, the marquis spoke to the mercenary he had brought along.
In truth, his order was to keep an eye on the first son.
He looked no different from the typical unruly noble brat, but it was still too early to dismiss suspicion.
There had to be a reason why that name had been written on the note.

“Have you been well, Count?”
“You must be tired from your long journey.”

The count rose from his seat and gestured to the chair across his desk.

“Will you have a drink?”

Two clear glasses and a crystal decanter sat on the desk,
and a bucket filled with ice rested nearby.

“This ice was harvested last winter. I only bring it out for honored guests.”
“I’m truly honored by such hospitality.”

The count used wooden tongs to place chunks of ice into the glasses.
Then he tilted the decanter, pouring amber-colored brandy into them.

“It’s a drink personally aged by the head attendant. He says he picked up brewing as a hobby to pass the time. It’s perfect for warming the body in cold weather.”
“Excellent.”

The marquis brought the glass to his nose and immediately recognized it as high-quality brandy.
A subtle aroma of vanilla and caramel, drawn from oak barrels, lingered, followed by a sweet yet slightly bitter scent of berries.

“You can tell just from the smell?”
“I enjoy alcohol. I’ve also made quite a bit of money from it.”
“I see. That’s fortunate. I, for one, can’t appreciate the taste of such fine liquor.”

The count simply swallowed the brandy down his throat.
He neither smelled it nor savored it.

“I suppose things like this don’t suit me.”

The count put a pipe in his mouth.
He packed it with tobacco and lit it with magic.
Thick, harsh smoke rose into the air.

The marquis recognized it immediately—it was cheap tobacco used even by commoners.
That was the kind of man the count was.
A man of steel, incapable of indulgence, compromise, or scheming.
And because of that, he would gradually rust away and eventually fade into history.

“How is Winterband?”
“It stands firm.”
“According to reports, there seemed to be some issues.”
“What issues?”

The count crossed his arms, pipe still in his mouth.

“I’ve heard that two company commanders who visited the Goethe estate for a military council suddenly died.”
“There’s no rule that the biting winds of Winterband spare only the officers.”
“Yes. However, I heard something peculiar. It seems they didn’t die in Winterband, but in Bern City. Sir Randolph and Sir Fikel—you’re familiar with them, I assume?”
“How could I not be? It feels like just yesterday that we stood side by side on the fortress walls, risking our lives.”

The marquis studied the count’s expression.
Despite opening with what sounded like an accusation, there was no sign of anger on the count’s face.
It was the same man he knew.
A prince-elector with no ambition, concerned only with defending Winterband, his territory, his house, and the kingdom—nothing more.

At one time, the marquis had thought this was merely an act to avoid the scrutiny of the royal court.
But after years of observing him as an inspector, he knew better.
The count lacked even the basic sense of privilege expected of a noble, let alone grand schemes.
Despite being the head of a prestigious magical house, he was closer to a knight than to a noble.

“Since I have duties assigned by the royal court, I conducted a small investigation. It seems Sir Fikel attempted to sell the first son to a foreign power and was executed by Sir Randolph. Then Sir Randolph died while stopping a gang that tried to kill the first son.”
“That’s correct.”
“However, around that same time, Bishop Levonius, who oversaw the Bern diocese, disappeared. Do you happen to know anything about that?”
“No.”

The count answered, his gaze indifferent.

“I see. Then that’s quite curious. After the deaths of the two company commanders of Winterband and the disappearance of Bishop Levonius, the Goethe house has ceased paying tithes to the Old Church. Yet the Holy See has raised no complaints—nor have they even sent a replacement bishop.”
“Marquis.”
“Yes, Count?”
“Stop circling around it and get to the point.”

The count tapped the ash from his pipe into the ashtray.

The marquis smiled.
As expected—well within his predictions.
The count would neither feign ignorance nor evade the issue.
There was no need for unnecessary effort; he could be persuaded directly.

“You already know what I want, do you not?”
“You want autonomy over Bern City?”
“As expected of you, Count. You saw through it immediately.”
“Do you understand what that entails?”
“Is it really such a grand demand? Bern City is a city built by merchants, for merchants. I simply wish to establish laws and a security system that better suit them.”
“How amusing.”

Suddenly, their expressions reversed.
The marquis’s smile vanished, while the corners of the count’s lips twisted upward.

“Waller.”
“You called, sir.”

The elderly head attendant entered quietly and bowed.

“Bring it.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later, Schiller returned carrying something covered with cloth atop a square cushion.
The cushion was placed on the desk, and Waller removed the cloth.

“Marquis Dietrich… no, Conrad.”

The marquis held his breath for a moment.
It wasn’t just because of the glass sphere containing the severed head before him.
The air in the study had grown deathly cold.
It was the count’s mana.

“Do you know anything about this?”

A chilling light flickered in the count’s blue eyes.