Chapter 56

Second District, the residence of Marquis Roys.

The house had stood mostly empty for a long time, and now people were coming and going again. It had been freshly done up to welcome its master home from abroad, but the carriage accident had made everyone wait a little longer.

The wait had been worth it. Still limping, Marquis Roys had returned home. A few reporters trying to sniff around one of the capital's powerful houses circled the walls, but the high walls kept outsiders out.

Even the carriage from the hospital didn't stop at the gate — it drove straight in through the walls. The reporters watching from the alley shadows across the way clicked their tongues and turned back.

"Welcome home, young master."

The house's butler helped Marquis Roys down from the carriage. The marquis's ankle wasn't healed yet, and he leaned unsteadily onto his crutches.

Marquis Roys — Grisha Lambert — refused the butler's arm and went inside. The man who'd ridden in with him followed.

"Why are you here? Is my father in the capital?"

"Yes. He came back to time it with your discharge, young master. He'll be by this evening."

"A busy man like that has that kind of time?"

The butler smiled.

"It's about you, young master. How could he not?"

Having deftly cut off Grisha's grumbling, the butler turned to the man following behind and greeted him.

"It's been a while, Viscount Manfred."

"Pardon the intrusion."

"I've set out refreshments in the ground-floor sitting room. Do take your time."

The moment the two of them sat down in the sitting room, they got straight to business.

"Adrien Renard?"

"He's reached Marberg. One of the First Prince's men has been on him as an escort the whole way, so we couldn't get close, but confirming the final destination was no trouble."

Grisha narrowed his eyes at Gauss Manfred's report.

"Marberg? I've heard the name."

"Yes. It's where Sir Bertholdt's—"

"Ah. The murdered butler. That's where he was headed, wasn't it?"

"Correct."

Gauss pulled a slim file out of the bag tucked under his arm. Grisha opened it at once. Inside was a brief profile of the household guardsman escorting Adrien Renard, along with documents on a small country estate in Marberg.

Everything Grisha had missed while laid up was laid out in careful order. A secretary Albrecht had personally picked and trained was in a different class.

"...The owner of this estate is Gerald? The Second Prince?"

"Yes. He put it under the name of a servant who only just joined. Keep reading."

As Grisha turned to the next page, Gauss spoke.

"But the one who signed for the estate was William Zenner."

"That man's out signing property deeds now?"

"He is the First Prince's favorite tool, after all."

"But the owner on paper is Gerald?"

Grisha's face turned bored.

"So this is one more of Carlisle's little country houses. Flag it."

"Already under surveillance."

There was something subtle in Gauss's tone. Grisha turned the page.

"...Here. So it connects on that end."

Only a few days to look into the estate, and he'd pushed the investigation this far. Since Grisha's carriage "accident," Intelligence had really put a fire under itself too.

Once he'd worked his way to the last page, Grisha moved the key page to the top and set the file down. In the mass of text, he pointed to one man's name.

"Gordon Devlin."

The name from the report Albrecht had hidden away in his office.

Even Grisha, who'd worked with Albrecht for years, didn't know what that name meant. Albrecht had probably spotted something suspicious and been on the verge of starting to dig.

He knew Albrecht hated working with anyone else... but on something like this, could he not have left things in some kinder form than a puzzle only he could untangle?

Then again, Albrecht hadn't planned on dying either, so there was no use blaming him.

"Gordon Devlin's been in and out of the estate?"

"I got an update just before your discharge, marquis. The grocer's where Gordon Devlin works has been supplying the estate."

So Gordon Devlin was the go-between?

"That grocer is in Katelburg, isn't it? Neighboring town or not, is it really the kind of place to be supplying an estate in another town? I'd heard it was small."

"Yes. The Second Prince's estate is technically Marberg, but it's out on the outskirts. As the crow flies, Katelburg is actually closer than the center of Marberg."

"Clever spot for it... That far out, is surveillance going to be a problem?"

"There's plenty of grazing land around it, so we've put a man in as a shepherd."

There had been limits to what he could do from the hospital. Starting tomorrow he could get back to work properly, so the priorities needed to be sorted before then.

Anything to do with the First Prince was information only a very small circle of people currently had. Even Intelligence couldn't be trusted with it. The moment word got out that the succession was in play, someone somewhere would talk.

Intelligence was operating on the premise that the Kingdom of Barun was plotting to assassinate His Majesty. If the trail happened to lead to the First Prince, so be it.

"A shepherd... that reminds me — what about Nicola Rowell?"

"He's under watch too. Honestly, the Bertholdt domain is harder to keep eyes on than the First Prince's estate."

For Gauss — who'd worked under Albrecht for so long — to call something hard...

Privately, Grisha was rather surprised.

"Why? Even with the family's lawyer helping?"

"The Bertholdt domain runs itself with or without a master."

"Albrecht rarely went down there either."

"Which makes it hard for outsiders to work their way in. The domain itself hasn't been developed much either, which only makes the atmosphere sharper."

But that also cut the other way — a place with few outsiders had its own advantages.

"So Nicola Rowell isn't the only one there, is he?"

"A few of the people around him look off. And there are shepherds who work back and forth across the river."

Marberg and Katelburg lay across the river from the Bertholdt domain's grazing land.

Grisha looked down at the file and fell into thought. Without his glasses he couldn't actually read the text. Not that it mattered — everything important was already in his head.

"In any case, we'll have to hold off on any direct moves for a while. Founding Day is coming up."

"I'm aware."

"Barring anything unusual this year, the First Prince will be presiding over the festival. Which means Carlisle's going to be strung tight."

Gauss lifted his eyes to Grisha.

"What is it? Something you want to say?"

"The plan you were working on with Director Albrecht — what have you decided about it?"

"..."

Grisha bit his lip lightly.

"Right now... it's too much to carry. Without Albrecht, I don't think I can keep it in hand."

A sigh escaped him. It was a shame to waste the plan, he knew. Which was surely why Gauss had brought it up.

"Since Albrecht's accident, there's more on my plate. The ones who used to watch their step around him... you saw the reporters loitering out front too, didn't you?"

"That's exactly why I'm bringing it up."

"..."

"Why do you think the First Prince pulled Adrien Renard out that brazenly? Isn't it because, with Director Albrecht gone, he's grown arrogant — excuse me, overconfident?"

Gauss said it with heat.

Among those still carrying a grudge over Albrecht's death, Gauss Manfred was very much included.

"Strip him of a prince's duties, and given his temper he won't be able to swallow it. He's bound to slip up."

"..."

"Marquis."

"All right."

Grisha raised a hand to stop Gauss.

"I'll think it over."

At the flicker of dissatisfaction that crossed Gauss's face, Grisha shook his head.

"I mean it. Since Albrecht's accident, everything's been on hold. First I have to work out whether we can pick it back up at all."

"...Forgive the impertinence, marquis."

"No. It's a fair point. And with Harold in the picture, the timing isn't bad."

"Sir Bertholdt—"

"With Harold around, at the very least, no one's going to assassinate me."

Gauss didn't look entirely sold, but he said nothing.

Grisha shrugged.

"When I was young he headed Carlisle off plenty of times. That's exactly why Carlisle hates him."

Gauss looked like he wanted to press further, but a knock at the sitting-room door ended the conversation.

Grisha checked the clock. What was supposed to be a brief conversation had run long. Gauss noticed as well.

"What is it?"

"His Grace has arrived, young master."

Through the window, a carriage bearing the Lambert crest was pulled up in the inner courtyard.

Gauss gathered the papers and tucked them away. Grisha turned to him with an apologetic look.

"In any case, we'll pick that plan up again."

"Understood, marquis. Then tomorrow...?"

"I'll be in. I can't leave Intelligence to its own devices any longer — that's going to cause problems."

Grisha limped out of the sitting room. He wasn't used to the crutches yet, and it made his gait awkward.

Gauss followed close behind, tense at the thought that Grisha might go down. The Lambert butler was hovering just as close on the other side, clearly thinking the same thing.

Bang!

The front door swung wide, and a man in a black coat strode in. The hair that had blazed red in his youth was mostly gray now. So was his neatly kept beard. But under thick brows his eyes were as bright as a young man's. When they landed on his son on crutches, they lit up further.

Age or no age, the muscle honed by long years of military service hadn't slackened. Duke Hendrick Lambert launched himself straight at his son with the force of a charging boar.

"My boy!"

Grisha gave up and resigned himself to his fate. He'd never once succeeded in dodging his father, and with a bad leg there was no chance of it now.

Hendrick barreled straight into him and swept Grisha up into a tight hug, lifting him clean off the ground. The butler smoothly took the crutches.

In his father's arms, Grisha sighed.

"...Father. It's been a while."

"I'm sorry I couldn't come while you were in the hospital. I wanted to head straight back to the capital, but your mother wouldn't have it. Said if I finished up my work first, I could stay longer."

"That's just as well. The Eastern Commander leaving his post for no reason would cause real problems."

"No reason? My son is hurt!"

"It's not serious, I keep telling you."

"Not serious? Then why can you barely walk? I brought food that's good for the bones!"

"Nothing's broken, so it's not—... never mind. Thank you, Father."

Finally free of the duke's grip, Grisha waved Gauss over, his face slightly flushed.

Thinking, as always, that this was a scene he'd never really get used to, Gauss took his coat from the butler and stepped out. Duke Lambert's booming voice, still fussing over his son, carried right out into the courtyard.

His eyes met those of the knights who'd escorted the duke, and a wry smile spread across one of their faces. Gauss returned the smile awkwardly.

A red-haired duke and his blond son.

The two didn't look alike in the slightest. But anyone who knew them both would never have said they weren't father and son.