Chapter 125

The shepherd's house was no different from the other farmhouses nearby.

The fence was there in name only, and the stable off to one side of the yard was half-collapsed, apparently no longer in use — broken farm tools were piled up in it. Past the yard was a door, slightly askew, but bearing traces of having been repaired. The overall impression was one of disorder, but there were a few rough clay pots beside the steps with yellow flowers growing in them. There was a rag for wiping mud, too. Whatever else, someone lived here.

It was on the outskirts of the village, a little way off from the main road, but not so remote that there were no neighbors at all. Even so, roughly half of the few neighboring houses stood empty. They'd been the homes of elderly people without family, and once the owners had died, the houses too had faded from view. Even the houses that were still occupied held only a single elderly resident apiece — all but empty in their own right.

Not the kind of people who'd have the wherewithal to keep track of a shepherd who was often away from home.

The site had been chosen very well. A location where no one would take an interest in an outsider shepherd. So long as the name 'Nicola Rowell' stayed the same, no one would find it strange if the man behind it changed. They'd have picked someone of similar appearance too.

"......"

No sign of anyone. The woman who claimed to be his relative was nowhere in sight either.

Once he'd dismissed the shepherds he'd summoned, Harold had gone straight to Nicola Rowell's house.

He'd run, obviously. Or it was a trap. Either way, an excuse that blatant made you want to give chase on instinct alone.

Well — he could hardly not check either. And just in case, Harold hadn't come alone.

"You're going in yourself, just like that?"

The Intelligence agent, still in the shepherd's gear from before, asked in an offhand tone.

Harold gave a snort.

"He's supposedly down with a cold. This is a get-well visit."

"Most folks would faint dead away if they knew someone of your rank had turned up."

"I'm not that high-ranking."

"Out in the sticks like this, you are."

The conversation with Miles, the retired shepherd, came back to Harold, and he swallowed his retort.

They were keeping to a conversation that wouldn't cause a stir if overheard, but he still couldn't feel any sign of life inside. After a moment's thought, Harold took hold of the door handle and twisted.

Snap.

"Oh dear. The door's come open."

"......"

"Excuse me — is this Nicola Rowell's house?"

Leo gave Harold a flat, unimpressed look. Harold grinned and passed the door handle he was holding over to him.

The Intelligence agent sighed and set the handle down on the floor without a sound.

"I'm from the old Bertholdt manor."

Despite the leisurely tone, Harold's eyes were sharp as he took in the small farmhouse.

Nobody home. But signs of life. Someone had definitely been living here. Not spotless, but no obvious buildup of dust either.

There was something odd about the atmosphere, though. Outside, the weather was hot enough that the sun brought out a sweat, and yet the inside of the house was cool. The temperature had dropped unnaturally.

The cause was easy enough to find.

"Now this wasn't what I was expecting."

Harold scratched at his chin as he looked down at the body laid out on the bed.

"Ah."

"Is this Nicola Rowell?"

"Yes. That's him."

"Troublesome."

Nicola Rowell had died with his eyes wide open. A kitchen knife was buried deep in his left chest. His shirt was dark with red stains. Even without a closer look, the cause of death was plain.

The area around the body was damp. Harold touched a patch of the dark-stained sheet. No smell. Water. Cold water.

"Ice?"

"Ice."

"Where would they get enough ice out here to slow the decay?"

"It's not old. They were trying to buy themselves a bit of time."

"Time, hm."

Harold clicked his tongue.

The kitchen knife driven in that pointedly couldn't be meaningless. There was already an unidentified assassin out there who'd attacked with a kitchen knife.

"This is a problem."

He'd meant it. A murder happening right under his nose was one thing; the victim being a presumed spy was another.

But laying hands on enough ice to keep a body cold, out here in the countryside, was another matter entirely. And so was the fact that someone here would kill without hesitation the moment things went sideways.

Second in a row now, after Dustin Glenn.

"Step up surveillance on Gordon Devlin."

The last of the three names his brother had left behind.

"It's a problem if he goes down too."

"Understood."

"Take him in if you get the chance. Better to grab him and make him talk than sit around waiting for him to make a move and watch another one die."

Harold went through the house. He checked every corner of the wardrobe with its sour-smelling clothes, rifled through the bathroom shelves. Leo searched alongside him. They checked the kitchen cupboards and looked for any hollow spaces in the floor or walls.

Leo's hands stopped. He'd found something.

"Sir Bertholdt."

"What?"

"It's hollow here."

Leo shoved the dining table aside and pulled back the rug. There was a section of the stained old floor that stood out in color from the rest.

He went straight at the boards. There must have been a seam — a few good tugs and the piece came away.

In the small space beneath the floor lay a few sheets of paper. Blueprints. Harold's face darkened.

"Sir Bertholdt?"

"I'm heading back ahead of you. These are blueprints of the old manor."

"The body can't just be left. Stay here."

Harold didn't wait for a response before tearing out of the shepherd's house.

---

He picked up on it from a long way off — something wasn't right.

He didn't need to sharpen his senses. Any ordinary person, never mind Harold Bertholdt, would have caught that acrid smell. He could see it with his own eyes, too. The manor at the far end of the meadow, swallowed in red flames.

He gritted his teeth.

Urging the horse on didn't close the distance any faster. He knew this was as fast as it went, and it made his chest tight all the same. Right there — right there in front of him, and he couldn't reach it.

If the flames were visible from this distance, this was no small fire. They'd be lucky if the manor was the only thing that burned. If the fire so much as caught in the meadow, there'd be no containing it. No way to put it out until it rained.

Thank god Harold had gathered the servants and the shepherds — at least there were plenty of hands at the manor. And there was no way a manor built in the middle of a meadow hadn't been outfitted against fire.

Even so, by the time Harold reached the old manor, the fire hadn't gone down at all. He'd seen a scene like this not long ago.

Too identical to be coincidence. It was practically shouting for attention, begging to be recognized. A provocation. A trap. Knowing so didn't stop his teeth from grinding.

The woman who'd set the city watch hospital on fire and killed Dustin Glenn. It had to be her.

"Young master!"

This wasn't the time to be picking his way carefully around things. He'd been working within legal lines to keep from putting a mark on Grisha, but at this rate he was the one at a disadvantage.

There was no time now to weigh anything. The wind carried heat across to him. Thank god he hadn't brought Edgar and Edwin. He hadn't had any intention of bringing them anyway, and for a good while yet he wouldn't.

"Anyone trapped inside? Anyone hurt?"

"N-no! Thankfully, everyone got out! No one's hurt!"

"The fire?"

"It hasn't spread up yet, but the flames on the ground floor are too strong!"

Diane spoke hurriedly. Long service at the old manor had taught her to see that this was no ordinary fire.

The old manor had been built during the 'age of magic.' To keep fires from spreading, the Bertholdt family heads of that era had called in renowned mages and laid a number of spells on the building.

Time had weakened those spells, sure, but the magic hadn't gone entirely. And nobody had left magic to do all the work either.

The flames weren't going down at all.

"Are we short on water?"

"N-no! But the fire—"

"Just keep at it, and don't let the fire jump to the meadow. That's the priority. Let the manor go if it comes to it."

One look at Harold's face, and Diane pressed her lips together and turned to it.

If the meadow caught, he didn't even want to think about the damage. Sweating hard, the shepherds pulled apart any haystacks a spark could reach and cut firebreaks into the ground. No one knew the meadow's importance better than they did.

Harold couldn't take his eyes off the old manor. Only hours before, it had stood proud and alone in the middle of the field. Even if this fire was put out, it wouldn't come back the way it had been.

Even the greatest of knights was powerless against a disaster like fire.

"......"

But then — an odd sense that time was slowing.

The acrid smell. The heat. Smoke blurring his view. People moving to fight the fire. The sound of the manor coming apart.

Somewhere in all of it, there was a 'something' that didn't belong.

The fire had his senses in disarray. But he could feel it. He could see it.

"Young master!"

A shadow was flickering at a second-floor window.

The fire and smoke made it hard to see clearly. But it wasn't his imagination. It was the shadow of a person. Someone was inside.

Harold wasn't about to make the naive mistake of thinking that was someone who hadn't made it out. Diane had confirmed everyone was accounted for, and the figure at the window wasn't moving with any urgency.

"Young master! You can't go in!! It's dangerous!"

"Young master!!"

Leaving the servants' cries behind him, Harold ran for the manor.

The ground floor entrance was blocked off. Taking the stairs up was out of the question. But the fire hadn't fully caught on the second floor yet. Harold picked the section where the flames were thinnest, grabbed hold of the decorative moldings on a pillar, and hauled himself up.

"Young master!! The fire! Everyone, put out the fire!! Get water, quick!"

Chaos broke out outside as Harold smashed a second-floor window and swung himself in.

Paying the commotion no mind, Harold snapped instantly alert, sweeping the interior with his gaze. This wasn't the room where he'd seen the shadow, though.

"......"

A small laugh.

Harold ran down the corridor, chasing the sound. Even if the fire hadn't reached upward, the second floor was hardly untouched. The stairs were already ablaze; so were the walls. Sparks scattered every which way.

"......!"

Footsteps. Harold shouldered through the flames and vaulted up to the third floor. Black smoke filled the corridor. This was the floor where his brother had kept his study.

The Bertholdt estate in the capital had shown signs of being searched. And the informant had been eager to get inside the old manor.

They must think his brother had held onto evidence they'd rather not have surface. Since it hadn't turned up at the capital estate, they figured he'd left it here?

Harold twisted his lips and kept moving. Had they thought a fire would panic the household into carrying the 'important documents' out? Possibly. Why else would they be baiting him in like this?

The old manor had a safe of its own that only family could open.

Adrien Renard would have known where the safe was at the capital estate, but not the one here. Even so — no. That was absurd. His brother would never have left documents that important somewhere he couldn't reach them himself.

Albrecht was the sort of man who wasn't satisfied unless everything was in his own hand.

Harold stopped in front of his brother's room. Even if everything burned to the ground, it made no difference to the other side. So why go out of their way to show themselves, to draw him in...

"......"

Harold swung out his arm. The one who'd been closing in on him through the acrid smoke, crouched low, jerked back. A hat fell to the floor.

Brown hair. Dark brown eyes. In her hand — a kitchen knife. A slender face, younger-looking than he'd been expecting.

The woman smiled brightly and lunged at Harold.