Chapter 50

A city asleep.

Even the few streetlights that were on flickered and snapped out. The dark didn't slow them — dozens of figures crossed straight through it.

They weren't marching in formation. They split into small groups and ran through the alleys. The routes didn't overlap. But the destination was the same.

They moved smoothly, soundlessly, carefully. No hesitation.

If anyone had been up and watching them, they'd have noticed everyone was dressed in identical black. Even in the sparse light of the few working streetlights, small starlike glints caught on their shoulders now and then.

Most decent, ordinary citizens wouldn't have known it, but that black uniform was the capital city watch's operational kit. They wore it only when they had to keep out of the public eye, or when they had to "work" this late.

For ease of movement, there was nothing bulky or ornamental about it. But the silver buttons — finely engraved with the crest of the Kingdom of Alharn — and the watch insignia stitched in black thread on the epaulettes were hard to hide.

The officers in their black uniforms had a run-down warehouse surrounded in moments. Not just the entrance — every route someone could plausibly slip through was found and blocked.

Throughout, there was no sign of anyone inside the warehouse. Not that there would be. Who was going to pay attention to a rundown warehouse off the main streets at this hour?

Still, the officers exchanged hand signals and kept their guard up. This wasn't the kind of force you turned out just to catch a single criminal.

Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap.

One officer stepped up and knocked in a distinctive rhythm.

A moment later, a knock came from inside.

Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap.

The officer knocked again, another answer came back, and the exchange ran a few more rounds.

Clunk.

"Invitation?"

The man opening the door had his face covered by a mask.

"You know we close when the sun—"

The officer clamped a hand over the doorkeeper's mouth and pinned him in the same motion. Officers began slipping in silently through the open door.

Harold Bertholdt watched the officers take positions throughout the warehouse and moved deeper inside. Unlike them, he wasn't in uniform. But he was dressed in matching black. Despite his size, he blended into the dark naturally.

Harold's clothes bore no watch insignia like the others'. But there was an intricate silver snowflake brooch on his black vest — one only knights of the northern base above a certain rank were permitted to wear.

"..."

Harold looked the warehouse over. On paper, it had been built over a decade ago and had changed hands four times since. Currently, three merchants from a nearby merchants' guild were listed as joint owners. Naturally, they were also under investigation. By now those merchants — who at this hour would have been off in sweet dreams — had been hauled out of bed and thrown in a holding cell.

The inside of the warehouse had been partitioned off with makeshift walls. The sloppily stacked lumber and crates made for a chaotic look, but once you knew this was an illegal gambling den, it wasn't hard to pick out what they'd been trying to hide.

The partitioned-off spaces were the gambling floor. Some parts genuinely were being used for storage, but it was window-dressing. These bastards had even dug a tunnel through to the neighboring building and set up a private VIP room down there.

This is the biggest thing the watch has run in years.

Before they'd set out, Anne had walked him through it one more time.

Fair enough. They'd confirmed that some rather prominent names had been coming and going from that VIP room.

So that's why you didn't just arrest Adrien Renard, and waited.

Right. I was hoping other links might turn up. And now... now I'm nervous about what else might. I'd rather it wrap up at a reasonable point.

Why? It's all your win.

It depends on the win.

Anne had smiled ruefully. Now that royal succession was in the mix, whatever came out of this was going to be a headache — Anne was right about that.

Of course, that didn't mean Anne was giving up. If anything, that was why she'd pushed harder. The watch was grinding its teeth too.

The moment they had an illegal gambling den confirmed, this stopped being a straightforward raid to arrest a child abuser who'd locked up the young Bertholdt heirs.

A den this size, right under the watch's nose, and the watch hadn't known?

That was a matter of pride.

I'll say it up front — my target is Adrien Renard.

I know, senior. That's all I'm asking.

In turn, Anne had her own warning for Harold.

There's no telling what kind of mess is about to break out. Just get that one, senior. And don't kill him!

What am I— I can manage that much restraint.

I didn't hear that.

I left Dustin Glenn alive too.

I didn't hear that!

So it wasn't only Anne's own people on this. Or rather — it wasn't only watch officers at all.

The investigation had originated from Count Bertholdt's carriage accident. Given the scale of the gambling den, a few Intelligence agents were joining in. None of them — not Anne, not Gauss, not even Grisha — had said so, but their stride alone gave it away. There was no missing it.

Harold clocked the Intelligence agents in watch uniforms and kindly turned a blind eye.

The people inside, with no idea what was about to hit them, were letting every ugly appetite loose over the tables behind the partitions. Laughter, cursing, raw naked greed churned through the air.

"Capital watch! Everyone, hands up!!"

Chaos broke loose.

Tables went over. Coins and bills scattered across the floor along with the drinks. Boots stamped down over them. A wretched sight — like wet leaves trodden into the ground.

Some were dragged out by the watch, half-dazed. Others, unable to let it go, tried to run, only to be pinned down. The cursing and fists thrown at officers didn't last either.

Harold cut through the chaos. There was no sign of the red-haired man.

Anne and the rest of the watch broke through the passage down to the basement. A tight cordon was already up around the neighboring building so no one could slip out that way. The signal had gone out; entry on that side would have started at the same moment.

"D-do you know who I am!"

"You can tell it to the judge in court."

"Aaagh!"

If not for the situation, Harold would have laughed out loud. It was that absurd.

Similar scenes were playing out everywhere. None of the faces were ones Harold recognized. Maybe they really were the big shots they claimed to be, maybe not. Either way, they'd have plenty of time to come to their senses in a cell.

Harold and an officer checked the rooms one at a time. The deeper he went, the more ornate the decor became. Same with the clothes on the people inside.

Still at it at this hour. Gamblers were an industrious bunch. Ridiculous.

"...Ah."

In a room he'd long since lost count of, Harold finally found the man he was after.

Red hair. Patchy stubble. Sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Trembling hands clutching a hand of cards.

A far cry from the well-turned-out butler in the portrait. But this was, without question, Adrien Renard.

"Eek!"

He wouldn't have gone stark white at the sight of Harold, as though he'd seen a ghost, otherwise.

"Adrien Renard?"

"Ghk!"

Harold rushed him and hauled him up by the collar. Renard wasn't a small man, but Harold lifted him with no effort at all.

Renard clutched Harold's arm desperately. His feet kicked helplessly in the air. There was something ridiculous about the way he choked and struggled, and, in spite of the noise around them, Harold held him like that for a long moment.

"Sir Bertholdt!"

He caught the sound of footsteps hurrying out — and then Anne was rushing over.

"...Ahem."

Harold gave Anne a sheepish smile and dropped Renard. Renard couldn't hold himself up and dropped straight to the floor, staring up at Harold, ashen.

Harold stepped toward Renard.

"He's just... a criminal, Captain Archibald."

"Right. You there. Restrain him."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"I'll do it."

Harold hauled Renard over himself and cuffed his wrists behind his back. If a few fingers snapped in the process, it was an unfortunate accident.

Anne winced but looked the other way. Harold watched Renard groan in pain and smiled savagely. Given what Dustin Glenn had ended up looking like, this was downright gentlemanly.

Waving off the watch officer who'd come to take Renard, Harold hauled him out himself. With any luck, if no one was looking, he could snap an arm too. The arm that had locked the boys in that room...

"...?"

Harold's hope didn't come to anything.

Never mind out of the building — the moment they stepped out of the room where Adrien Renard had been hiding, something felt off.

Watch officers who'd been moving without hesitation were now edging back, and the restrained gamblers were glancing toward the far end with a strange gleam of anticipation.

Something unpleasant was at the far end of the corridor. And it was coming closer.

"Which unit are you with?"

A voice.

A voice he hadn't heard in a very long time. One that had no business being here.

"Watch, is it? Ha ha, hard at it this late — good work, good work."

He drew his words out like a drunk. Each syllable stuck to you, sticky as grease. Given the choice, Harold would never have laid eyes on that face again.

A man with light brown hair loosely tied back shoved a hesitating officer aside and stepped out into the corridor. However the gambling den's dim lights fell on his hair, brown never turned to gold on him. If anything, it darkened toward a deep chestnut.

"Well now — if it isn't Sir Bertholdt!"

The man saw Harold and broke into a delighted smile.

"I'd heard you were in the capital. How does it feel, coming back after all this time? Nothing quite like the capital, is there? Enjoying yourself?"

"..."

"Still going around with that scowl on your face? You've picked up nothing but Grisha's bad habits."

The man snickered and clapped Harold on the shoulder. A wave of liquor came with it.

"Well, well — and my friend's here too!"

The man scowled as he spotted Adrien Renard in Harold's grip.

"He's my friend, I said. Are you deaf?"

"S-sir?"

"My friend. Is this any way to treat someone I've invited?"

The officer stammered, out of his depth. The man's face twisted, and he pointed at the cuffs on Renard's wrists.

"Did I not make myself clear?"

"What's going on?"

"Oh, Captain Archibald!"

In the end, Anne stepped in. She looked between the man and Renard, then spoke flatly.

Her fists were tight at her sides.

"Are you acquainted with this criminal?"

"Criminal!"

The man laughed, unfazed.

"There must be some misunderstanding — he's a good friend of mine."

"This man is accused of abusing the sons of the late Count Bertholdt."

"And?"

"..."

"And?"

Anne looked at Harold. Her face was full of apology. She didn't hold his eyes. She didn't wait for Harold's response — couldn't, more likely — and turned away.

Anne unlocked Adrien Renard's cuffs.

"No, Your Highness."