Chapter 57

Two corpses lay sprawled in the muddy road near the cemetery. Yet no one had bothered to collect them. It was truly ironic.

The cries of vendors hawking their wares rang out from the market, as though everyone were going about their lives without a care. The bodies ought to have been removed for sanitation alone, but the fact that no one touched them suggested something more than indifference or an unwillingness to bother.

The real reason was the Lokir Trading Company, to which Oder had belonged. People knew that laying a hand on the bodies might bring trouble down on their own heads.

Several days after Oder's murder, a group of hooded figures arrived.

Maggots seethed in patches across the corpse. On the severed head, insects had already eaten away the softest parts—the eyes, lips, and tongue. Holes had opened in the cheeks, exposing the maggots swarming inside the mouth.

One of the hooded figures searched the body with gloved hands. After opening the front of its clothing and examining it, the figure apparently failed to find what they wanted, stripped off the gloves, tossed them aside, and stood.

Their next destination was Oder's house. They examined his papers and the traces left by those who had stayed there, but found nothing that amounted to a clue.

They left the house and then Benholm. One carried something covered in black cloth. Lifting the cloth revealed a pigeon and a crow perched inside a cage.

They took out the crow, tied a small note to its leg, and released it.

The crow soared into the air and flew off. Following its training, it sped toward its appointed destination, reaching a tall tower attached to a large mansion late that afternoon.

As soon as it perched on the windowsill, a man retrieved the note and fed it some tasty meat. He stroked the crow briefly, as though praising it, then placed it on a perch inside. The room housed many pigeons and crows, and consequently reeked of bird droppings.

Taking the note, he left the room. He descended a long spiral staircase, emerged from the tower, and crossed a courtyard with a well-tended garden. Entering a building with a gallery, he reached a room and knocked.

KNOCK, KNOCK.

"The communications officer, sir."

"Come in."

The messenger opened the door and entered. A young, black-haired man sat working at a desk.

He raised his head to look at the communications officer. His hair reached his shoulders, and he was handsome, with rather gentle features. Yet his eyes brimmed with conviction and confidence, lending him an air of strength and composure.

"What is it?"

"A crow message, sir."

Crows were reserved for emergencies requiring immediate attention. Pigeons were used for ordinary messages.

"... Indeed?"

The communications officer approached and handed him the small, rolled-up note. The man put down his pen and unfurled it.

<Tax-collection agent dead. Deed granting the right to collect taxes missing. No significant clues concerning the death. Believed to be an assassination carried out by a skilled assassin.>

He studied the note for a moment, then casually tossed it onto a corner of the broad desk as though it were nothing of consequence.

"Hmm... Fetch Mas for me."

"Yes, sir."

The communications officer left the office. A short while later, a man named Mas entered. He was somewhat plump, with an amiable face.

"You sent for me, young master?"

"Our tax-collection agent has been assassinated, apparently."

"... Was it the Aria Trading Company?"

The Aria Trading Company was one of Lokir's many competitors. Lokir dwarfed it in size, but Aria's local roots meant it could not simply be crushed.

"You think so too?"

"For now, no one else comes to mind."

"Then pick five suitable people from their company and kill them."

"Without investigating further?"

"As you know, we have many enemies. Aria is merely one of them. What matters is not the truth, but the result. We must show results swiftly, so people know what happens when they cross us. If one of ours dies, the price is five lives. In the end, this too is a matter of arithmetic."

"Understood. I will see to it."

"Make a punishment of it. Killing them is not the sole objective. Hang their heads or leave their bodies somewhere well frequented. Make it as shocking as possible. Slit their bellies open to expose their entrails, for instance."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and I will execute the last one myself. Somewhere within Westlanding would be best. That cowardly earl needs a warning too. And we must make certain the real culprit feels afraid."

The Earl of Westlanding needed a warning because he had borrowed considerable sums from the Lokir Trading Company and failed to repay them on time. The right to collect taxes was, in truth, mere pocket change.

"It shall be done."

"You may go."

Mas bowed to the young man and left the office.

The man resumed his paperwork. Some time later, someone rudely flung open the door.

No one in the Lokir Trading Company dared disturb his peace—with precisely two exceptions: his father and his younger sister.

"Brother!"

A sweet, high voice like an oriole's seemed to pierce the office, and a young woman as dazzling and pretty as her voice burst inside.

Her blond hair was braided and pinned up with extravagantly ornate accessories set with colorful jewels. With a little exaggeration, selling those alone might have bought an entire estate.

Add her necklace, earrings, brooch, and rings, and she looked practically like a walking jewelry display.

She appeared fourteen or fifteen, and the beauty peculiar to that threshold between girlhood and womanhood outshone all her ornaments. By anyone's standards, she was beautiful.

For some reason, however, she looked unhappy. Thoroughly sulky, she glared at her brother.

He looked troubled, though a faint smile touched his face.

"Lucy, haven't I told you not to interrupt me while I'm working?"

Her name was Lucilia; Lucy was her nickname.

"How can you say that at a time like this?"

"What do you mean? Calm down and explain."

"The treasure! The treasure! Sigurd the Dragonslayer's holy remains. You're giving them to that Valkyrie, aren't you? How could you?"

"Who told you that?"

"Does that matter right now?!"

Lucilia shrieked. Apparently realizing he had made a mistake, he hurriedly rose and approached his sister with a look of distress.

Gently taking her arms as though to comfort her, he said, "I'm sorry, Lucy. But this is for our family. You know you're the only woman in the world I love."

"Then why are you marrying that Valkyrie woman?"

"As I said, it is for our family..."

"Didn't you promise to make me shine brighter than anyone in the world? Then why are you giving her the world's most precious treasure too? Marriage, the brightest treasure—she gets everything."

To anyone else, it might have seemed like trivial jealousy. To Lucilia, it was an injustice more heartbreaking than anything in the world.

Born the only daughter of the Lokir family, which led the Lokir Trading Company, she had grown up surrounded by everyone's love and attention.

Sheltered though she was, she was not ill-natured and could be considerate. Her unhappiness had begun when, for the first time in her life, another woman appeared who attracted as much attention as she did—or more.

People who once visited stopped coming, and the attention she received dwindled. Everyone seemed interested only in impressing the Valkyrie, leaving her feeling worthless.

Anyone who worried about scraping together even one meal a day would have found it absurd. Yet the feeling itself was evidently real, for tears began spilling down her cheeks.

At the sight, the man wore an expression of profound sorrow and regret and gently embraced his sister.

"I'm sorry. This is my failing. Blame your brother. But please believe this one thing: you are the only one for me. No other woman can take my love. It already belongs to you."

He gently lifted his sister’s chin and kissed her.

"Luke..."

Lucilia called him by his nickname rather than addressing him as her brother.

His full name was Lucas, the elder of the Lokir family's two children, a son and a daughter. With his father bedridden by illness, he was also effectively running this enormous trading company.

Meticulous and bold in equal measure, he was already considered more capable than his father despite his youth.

Whether such behavior was possible between siblings was another question, but quite a few people privately suspected something about their relationship. They simply dared not voice it, cowed by the trading company's power.

In the quiet night, the stars twinkled, singing in silence.

A wagon stood beside the paved road. Freed of their harnesses, the horses grazed at leisure.

Beside the wagon was a makeshift canvas shelter, not quite a tent, and a crackling campfire.

"Hook it there. With your little finger. Then pick this up," Knut said.

He appeared to be playing cat's cradle with Yorik and Ivy, the three of them taking turns holding the string. Whether Yorik's fingers refused to cooperate or he simply could not learn, he caught the string strangely and tangled it.

"No, you're supposed to spread it upward from below! Why would you just pull it?"

"Well, I'm afraid I'll lose the loops around my fingers if I get it wrong."

"Just a moment. I'll try untangling it. Hold still."

It was Ivy who spoke. Cleaned up, she was an adorable child with long, straight blond hair and large eyes. Whenever her eyes moved, they looked like smooth marbles rolling.

Yorik, however, frowned and snapped at her.

"What would a girl who's done nothing but milk sheep know?"

Despite his words, he held out his hands to let her try.

Knut rebuked him on her behalf. "And how can a pickpocket be so bad with his hands?"

"Pickpocketing only takes these two fingers. You don't use them all like this. Only the bad ones use their whole hand. Then they get caught and have it cut off at the wrist. In its own way, pickpocketing is just like risking your life in a sword fight."

"What on earth are you so proud of...?"

Meanwhile, Ivy concentrated on pulling and hooking the strands one by one. Then she spread them apart somehow, producing a shape like a star.

"Oh, that's impressive! Yorik, we don't need you anymore. Go away."

Knut's eyes widened with admiration before he addressed Yorik mercilessly. Naturally, Yorik's face soured, and he shot Ivy an undeserved glare.

He left, muttering things like, "Who wanted to play anyway? I was only keeping him entertained."

The only place left to go was beside Valeri, who sat on a flat stone, shelling and eating boiled green beans.

Valeri sometimes—or rather, often—spent long stretches alone in contemplation. He was not particularly lost in thought just now, but solitude seemed to suit him better than anyone else in the world.

Paradoxically, that also meant he did not look particularly lonely when he was alone.

Yorik sat beside him, interrupting his contemplation that was not quite contemplation.

"Childish games like that aren't for grown men like us."

"Right."

"He has a childish streak, I tell you. You know that perfectly well yourself, Master Valeri."

"True."

"The way he gets along with a ten-year-old proves it."

"Right."

"Am I bothering you, by any chance?"

"No."

Though Valeri was more or less letting it go in one ear and out the other, he knew Yorik was acting this way out of needless jealousy.

Until now, Yorik had looked after Knut more closely than anyone, often keeping him entertained. Knut's growing closeness to Ivy over the past few days had left him feeling peevish.

Valeri did not consider jealousy an inherently negative emotion. It was simply one of the emotions people naturally felt, and finding an appropriate outlet for it was healthy.

A little talking behind someone's back, so to speak, was one such outlet.

"How did we end up with that country bumpkin anyway? Let's leave her in the next city."

"No. That's for her to decide."

"Then shouldn't you instill some discipline, Master Valeri?"

"What discipline?"

"She's the new recruit, when you get down to it. In a thieves' guild, she wouldn't even dare speak to me. That's how big the gap is. This big."

Yorik spread his arms wide.

"Then why haven't you disciplined her yourself?"

"Well, she is a child, after all..."

"Same here."

"But she's closer to your age, isn't she?"

"What are you talking about? How does this hierarchy work?"

"If we're ranking by strength, you're at the top, of course. But if it's by age, aren't I the highest? You said yourself that keeping two sets of books makes things more accurate."

Valeri let out an incredulous laugh. Perhaps Yorik had been joking too; only when Valeri laughed did he grin in apparent satisfaction.

The mood was pleasantly light and comfortable. It seemed to lighten Valeri's heart as well.

A short while later, however, Snow began snorting, which was unusual for him. The repeated snorts sounded deliberate, and Valeri naturally turned toward him.

Someone stood at the boundary between light and darkness. So tall was he, and so broad were his mountain-range shoulders, that Valeri initially wondered whether a werewolf was standing there.

To make matters worse, it was already night, and he wore dark monastic robes. More precisely, he was an armed monk: a man with a sword at his waist and armor beneath his robes.

He seemed to be carrying something on his back and was visibly exhausted. Peering toward their camp, he looked at Valeri and spoke.

"Might we share your fire? I have a sick man with me. It isn't contagious. Old age. Please."

He spoke, certainly, but somehow it felt rather like encountering a wild animal. Meeting a stranger on the road could be like that. Especially when his sheer size made his very presence a threat.

Valeri, however, looked steadily into his eyes, then nodded.

"Very well."

The armed monk approached. Knut and Ivy turned from their cat's cradle to look at the stranger. He was so tall that they had to tilt their heads far back to see his face.

He carried an old man on his back, his hair and beard white with age.

Gently laying the old man down, he took out a waterskin to moisten his throat. But not a drop remained. Looking troubled, he turned toward Valeri and the others.

"Wait a moment."

Valeri went to the baggage wagon and returned with a bottle of oil, water, and some herbs and medicines for basic first aid. Bringing them over, he examined the old man's condition.

Judging by his skin and temperature, the old man really did not seem to have any particular illness. Even the powerfully built young monk looked exhausted; it seemed the arduous journey had simply been too much at his age.

Valeri therefore applied no medicine. Instead, he gave him oil and water to swallow, then ground some herbs, mixed them into water, and had him drink that too.

The old man had been barely conscious. After taking some fluids, he managed to look around, then spoke as though delivering his final words before falling asleep.

"Thank you..."

Valeri wetted a cloth, wiped the old man's face, and laid it on his forehead. Then he addressed the young monk.

"Wet it again and change it frequently."

"... Thank you. I did not know righteous men still existed in this world."

"I helped because I could afford to. Had I not been able to, I would have looked the other way."

"Of course."

"Are you on a pilgrimage, then?"

"Not exactly..."

The young monk trailed off. His short blond hair was plastered down with sweat. He wiped his face, brushed back his hair, and spoke again.

"There is a traitor. Once our brother, he stole the holy remains and fled. Father and I are pursuing him."

"Whose remains?"

"The sacred skull of Sigurd the Dragonslayer."

He rose, unfastened his belt, and removed his robes. Beneath them he wore chain mail and a surcoat bearing an emblem of a skull at the center of a cross.

Things resembling charms were affixed here and there with red wax. His attire was certainly unusual—solemn, yet also frightening and grotesque.

"We honor the saint's spirit of sacrifice and follow his teachings and life in our devotions. We revere truth, preserve chastity, and place our faith in courage, trustworthiness, and a disciplined life. We are the Jomsvikings. You have saved a life in our hour of need. We shall repay this kindness."

Valeri had never heard that Sigurd the Dragonslayer had any particular teachings, but the Jomsvikings—Jómsvíkingr—were so famous that even he knew of them.

They revered Sigurd the Dragonslayer almost as a god and were both a monastic order and a mercenary company.

Their charges at the very forefront of the War of Conquest, and their decisive roles in numerous famous battles, were the stuff of legend and myth.

Yet they were equally famous for never taking part in succession wars, for their loyalty belonged to the king alone.

Members were selected through rigorous tests assessing physical health, martial prowess, courage, and self-restraint. Once admitted, they were required to remain chaste and observe the order's discipline for life.

They spent almost their entire lives at their headquarters, Jomsborg, on the island of Jom. The order had never suffered a single defeat in its history, giving rise to the saying, "When they march, invincibility marches."

It was difficult to believe that such men had had their holy remains stolen and been reduced to this wretched state.

Then again, considering their strict rules and near-total withdrawal from worldly affairs, perhaps it was possible for something this absurd to happen.

"I do not share your faith. Still, there seem to be points where our ways of life overlap. If we're headed in the same direction, you're welcome to travel with us for a while."

Valeri readily extended the offer.

"... Thank you."

"What is your name?"

"Sigbold."

"Bold victory, eh?"

"And yours?"

"Valeri. This is Yorik, and those two are Knut and Ivy."

"A pleasure, Valeri. And all of you. Thank you. I shall pray that heaven be with you."

Then he sat upright, clasped his hands, and offered a solemn prayer. With his eyes squeezed shut, he murmured with such profound earnestness and fervor that it was almost frightening.

Hiring a warrior of his caliber would have cost a considerable sum. If he traveled with them, Valeri and his companions would actually have reason to be grateful themselves.

Unlike a certain someone, however, Valeri had not calculated the arithmetic before offering his kindness. Nor had he acted out of sympathy or pity.

It was simply that, when people's paths through life crossed, they could travel together for a while.