Chapter 133

Albrecht Bertholdt was a genius.

He wasn't arrogant enough to deny it.

Albrecht didn't stand in the world straight, the way other people did. He'd realized this at a very young age. Try as he might to press what he saw on others, all he got back was puzzled looks.

Still, Albrecht was captivated by this world. Whether others stood in it straight or he stood in it crooked, there was much in this world Albrecht didn't yet know. Finding those things out, one by one, gave him pleasure.

For a man like that, his own son was something like a gift. Ah — how vast the world was! How could it be anything but a delight to know that beyond his own world lay still more 'worlds'?

When he'd said as much, Edwin had made a face too old for his age. Watching that small face twitch the way a child's does when handed a toy he doesn't like, Albrecht had laughed out loud.

Albrecht was a genius. Albrecht had found his pleasures in the life of a one-of-a-kind genius. He had met the person he loved, and he had two precious children. And a reliable younger brother — even if reaching him was another matter.

Edgar and Edwin.

His thoughts drifted back to his children. There was no way he was unaware of the expectations around them. Being the children of 'that' Albrecht, the same expectations settled on his sons. That Albrecht and Harold had been geniuses in different directions didn't help either.

But Albrecht and Cecilia had never wanted their sons to be geniuses. Cecilia too, in her own field, had earned the right to be called one, and she agreed with him. A parent's talent shouldn't become an inheritance. Albrecht knew he was a genius, and had found his own pleasure in the fact, but he couldn't say he was satisfied with the life it gave him.

He didn't want to hand a life like that down to his children.

Fortunately, Edgar and Edwin were brighter than most children their age but stopped short of genius. That Edwin came off as a genius was entirely down to his 'memories.' The gap between the age of his body and the age of his mind was enough to make him look the part.

Leaving that alone was a kindness he did them as a father. Because their father was Albrecht Bertholdt, intelligence too far beyond the boys' years came across as an overflow of brilliance rather than something unsettling.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Master. You have visitors."

"Visitors?"

"They're from the western magic institute."

"Ah. Them. They got here sooner than I expected. Show them up to the study."

Albrecht straightened the papers scattered across his desk. The small boy sitting on the floor with an atlas, as he often did, looked up.

"Sounds like they're in a hurry."

"Magic costs a lot, but there aren't many people who want to try it out."

"Hmm."

A little hum.

"Even though you can't explain history without magic?"

"History just stays history."

The boy closed the book.

"What's the chance they're con artists?"

"Not zero. But the western institute is the only one that survives into the future, didn't you say?"

Albrecht took the book from him and set it back on the shelf.

"Do you want to meet them?"

The boy thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"If they turn out to be all right, I'll meet them then. I don't want to waste time right now, and——"

He looked at the door.

"I have to go play with Edgar."

"Right. He'll be waking up from his nap soon."

"I have to be there before he wakes. He gets fussy if I'm not there."

Albrecht gave a small laugh and nodded. He opened the study door and had a nearby servant take the boy along.

The boy waved a little hand at his father with a shy smile, then set off for the playroom where his twin was.

Albrecht stood in the corridor watching him go for a moment, then went back into the study. He never brought the truly critical papers home, but that didn't mean anything on hand was fit for other eyes. The institute scholars coming to court his patronage weren't likely to overstep, but there was no telling.

The King was still dithering, unable to land on a decision, and the First Prince, yanked this way and that by it, carried on like a child who'd never grown up. The Second Prince, crushed under a brother like that, was quiet — but whether that meant one could go so far as to call him harmless was another question. It would be nice if the royal family kept still, but Albrecht had never held out much hope for people to begin with.

"Master."

"Come in."

Seated at the neatly cleared desk, Albrecht received the guests from the western magic institute.

He forced his thoughts about the royal family to a stop. There was no end to worrying over what hadn't happened. Albrecht focused on the present.

"……I hear you're from the western magic institute."

"H-hello, sir!"

"Hello……"

Albrecht glanced at the letter he'd deliberately left in view. It was the reply agreeing to his suggestion that they talk in person before he decided on the patronage.

Every magic institute, without exception, was a sad lot always short on money. A letter from House Bertholdt saying they were considering patronage would have been received as nothing less than a heaven-sent chance. The reply had come back without delay — two whole pages of it, asking after 'the merciful Count's schedule.'

"I-I'm Messio, of the western magic institute."

Magic institutes in the capital had it comparatively easy when it came to catching a noble's interest. By handling stage effects and such at the grand theatre, they'd carved out a living of sorts. Whether that qualified as research was another matter, but a way to make money mattered. On that point Albrecht rated them highly.

The western institute was in a different position. The west didn't have the sort of nobles who threw money around on hobbies the way the capital did. The western institute wasn't working on the sparkle-effect magic they used on stages. They were a gathering of half-mad historians trying to reconstruct the great magics of the past.

They had no way to make money. They wouldn't want to let Albrecht slip.

But——

"……Albrecht Bertholdt."

Albrecht looked at Messio. The black hair with a strange blue shimmer stood out. Beyond that, the impression was nondescript. Only — he was oddly young.

Albrecht turned his own letter over in his mind. He'd written a line about wanting to hear about their research record, but the reason he'd called someone from the institute in was, in the end, to settle the patronage. For someone sent by an institute that had to see this patronage through by any means, he was far too young. Young enough to read as a boy. Early twenties at most.

"……"

Messio's companions couldn't hide how tense Albrecht's gaze made them, and stood there uncertain what to do.

If Albrecht had entertained even a slight thought that these were institute people, their behavior just now would have put an end to it. These weren't institute people.

Youth or no youth, an institute this desperate would never have sent people with no grasp of noble etiquette whatsoever.

In the meantime a servant came back in, set down a light tea service, and left. Only then did Albrecht speak.

"And the rest of you?"

"Ah — a-ah! My apologies. These are my, uh, aides."

Aides.

Not 'assistants'? A curious word to reach for. Just like his son.

"Rosanna Ryl."

"Monika Hill."

The two women, whose faces looked nothing alike, answered in perfect unison, like twins. These two looked even younger than Messio.

Still, he'd heard the surname Hill before. Albrecht asked Monika Hill:

"You are, to Victoria Hill…?"

"Um. Sh-she's my great-aunt, sir."

"I see."

Albrecht gave a faint smile.

He didn't know how they'd done it, but what had happened here, he could tell. The world was still full of things Albrecht didn't know.

Albrecht gestured to the guest sofa. The three of them cautiously settled onto it.

"As I said in the earlier letter, I'd like to sponsor the western institute. There are conditions, but I don't think they'll be much of an issue."

"……"

Messio traded looks with the 'aides' seated on either side of him. Did he think a move that blatant wouldn't show?

But even with this suspicious group in front of him, Albrecht said nothing. For the director of Alharn's Intelligence it could look like slack — but if Albrecht's guess was right, this wasn't the sort of thing the director was needed for.

Though in a certain sense, it did bear on Alharn's rise or fall.

Albrecht raised his teacup to hide his mouth. He didn't think these tense young people would pick up on what he was thinking, but there was no reason to spook them for nothing.

"Th-thank you……"

Messio stammered his reply. His face said he wasn't sure if his answer was the right one. Albrecht kindly played oblivious and sipped his tea.

"Um, uh, Count Bertholdt——"

Perhaps finding this exasperating to watch, Monika Hill cut in. Whether she was really related by blood to Victoria Hill of the western institute wasn't clear, but her eyes at least held together better than that young man Messio's.

Beside her, Rosanna Ryl tapped Messio and whispered near his ear. Even keeping her voice down, they weren't far enough away for the sound to disappear completely — and yet, oddly, none of it carried. An interesting trick she had going.

"……"

"Something the matter?"

Monika Hill looked at Messio. Whatever Rosanna Ryl had told him, Messio met Albrecht's eyes with a much clearer gaze.

The young man clenched the hand on his knee. The movement shifted his sleeve, and something at his wrist glinted. A bracelet? A fragment of glass, or perhaps a jewel — he'd caught only a glimpse.

Noticing Albrecht's gaze, Messio tugged his sleeve back into place and spoke.

"Count Bertholdt — do you believe in magic?"

---

"Magic……"

Talking with Edwin, Edgar found himself at a loss for words more than a few times. Lately it had been happening often, but this was something else.

"A mage……"

After all that going on about magic, had Edwin finally lost it?

No. Edgar forced himself back to calm.

He wasn't denying magic. On top of anything else, the miracle of turning back time to bring back a dead brother was something only magic could explain. Edwin himself wouldn't say how the magic worked, but he'd flat-out said magic was what did it.

But?

Dad being a mage was another matter entirely.

"Edgar, think about it."

"What am I supposed to think about, exactly?"

"Dad's an incredible genius."

"Sure……"

Everyone said the same thing. Albrecht Bertholdt was a genius unlike any before or after. Even without many memories of his father, Edgar didn't doubt that.

At the academy itself, hadn't they used Albrecht's writings as coursework? The sheer number of his father's works Edgar had run into during class had been staggering.

"So you think a dad like that couldn't manage a bit of magic?"

"……"

Edgar slowly traced back through his father's research.

All those… a body of writings so vast there was no telling by what standard he'd worked. Among them, of course, there had been magic.

"……He could have."

"Right?"

"I mean……"

He was Albrecht Bertholdt, after all.