Chapter 64

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A luxury inn simply meant renting an entire building. Fresh ingredients for one meal were supplied each day, but there were no other special services for the guests. Truly wealthy people, after all, brought their own attendants.

At a time like this, lodgings within the city were hard to find even with money. Thanks to Lucas, however, they had secured an inn with a stable. That, too, was a kind of talent.

“The contests are held as tournaments. You fight roughly three or four matches, and the final winner is decided over a day or two. That is the trial of valor.”

Lucas spoke over his chicken stew. It had been made with an old laying hen, and the meat was tough enough that he struggled to eat it. Unable to bear watching any longer, Ivy shredded his chicken for him. Only then did he begin eating it a piece at a time.

“The problem is that the roster of contestants is practically fixed by now. Their abilities have been proven over the past two years. Brokers put clients in touch with them, but they decide the results among themselves. Who wins, who loses, who becomes the final victor—that sort of thing. If you don't know this, you can spend a fortune hiring a champion and have nothing to show for it.”

In other words, they were openly fixing matches.

Not every contestant was involved, of course, but two years had been enough to weed out most of the riffraff. Those who remained were using the contests to make money rather than risking their lives in earnest. It was a form of collusion.

Add gambling to the mix, and it became an industry unto itself. Enormous sums changed hands over a single match.

“That doesn't sound as though it has anything to do with valor,” Yorik said.

“Well, that's how it goes. People will find ways to use their heads.”

“But we're competing ourselves, so does it really matter? All we have to do is win.”

Knut made it sound trivial, though he wasn't the one entering. It came from his faith in Valeri, but it was still rather thoughtless.

“True, but by the second or third match, they may start trying to sabotage you. In extreme cases, there are even assassinations from time to time. I'll introduce you to someone I know; leave your tournament horse in his care. Be careful what you eat, too. Don't eat the meals supplied by the inn anymore. I'll arrange food for you separately.”

Perhaps Lucas had decided to make the best of the situation, or perhaps he felt some responsibility for the broken holy remains. Whatever the reason, he was actively helping Valeri's party. It could simply have been fear of the Jomsvikings, of course, but Valeri didn't think so.

After watching Lucas quietly, Valeri asked, “Don't you feel wronged?”

“About what?”

“When you get down to it, you weren't personally at fault for buying the holy remains or for their destruction.”

“What's happened has happened. One shouldn't deny the past, but there's no need to dwell on it either, is there? My best option now is to make allies of you, not enemies. That's how I've run my trading company.”

The curious thing about people was that even someone who seemed unimpressive could have redeeming qualities.

Lucas craved recognition and harbored fanciful dreams, but he hadn't entirely lost touch with reality. He indulged in rather more luxury than his unassuming father, yet he had an eye for beauty and a philosophy of his own when it came to running the company.

There was one problem, though. To Valeri's eyes, Lucas had a tendency to skirt the line to a dangerous degree.

“Listen, Lucas.”

“Hm?”

“Stick to what you're good at. What you're good at. Don't overreach.”

“... You think I've overreached?”

“Take a good look at where you're standing and where you're headed. Once you clearly understand that, you can steel yourself and keep walking if you like. But as I see it, right now you have neither that understanding nor the resolve.”

Valeri wasn't normally one to offer advice. He had made this uncharacteristic remark because Lucas still seemed immature—an uncut gem, so to speak.

Of course, everyone here was immature in some way, Valeri included. But Lucas was putting himself in danger. In his desire to possess what others could not, he kept flirting with things like the privileges of the nobility and the sanctity of the royal house.

Whether to accept advice, understand it, and change was up to the listener, of course. For now, Lucas didn't quite understand what Valeri meant.

“By the way, Master Lucas, does this mean you're not a suitor anymore?” Ivy asked, sucking the grease from her fingers. Now that the holy remains were no longer his, he had no gift to offer the Valkyrie.

“I don't know anymore. I don't even know why I was so obsessed. Chasing after a woman whose face I've never seen isn't my style.”

“You've been here for two years and you've never even seen her face?” Knut asked.

“For one thing, I've never been formally introduced to her, nor have I seen her at a banquet or an official function. Rumor has it she's taller and bigger than most men, but in any case, I've never actually seen her.”

“Could she be locked up?”

“They say she arrived with an Einheri, so I doubt it.”

“Perhaps she's looking for something other than a husband?” Yorik suggested.

“Something else? Like what?”

“Well, I wouldn't know.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I think she might have come here to escape something. If she isn't really looking for a husband, that is. She's using a convenient excuse to stay here,” Ivy said.

Yorik immediately dismissed her.

“You silly girl. What would a Valkyrie have to be afraid of?”

“It could be the king, or another Valkyrie...”

“That makes sense,” Knut agreed.

But however many possibilities they considered, only the woman herself could know. Unless they asked her directly, they would never find out.

The next day, Valeri looked around the city to buy equipment for the tournament. Once again, Lucas helped him. His connections in the city were so extensive that he suffered no inconvenience even without attendants.

As someone who had passed the trial—a distinction that currently carried considerable weight in Nearcaster—he walked with his shoulders back and his nose in the air. He liked showing off.

The only unsettling part was that his clothes, hairstyle, and everything else were almost identical to Valeri's.

“Is this your new champion?” the equipment dealer asked Lucas.

“I've already passed the trial of valor. Why would I need a champion? He's simply someone I'm sponsoring. Just see that he's fitted out with good equipment.”

The dealer seemed willing to take that at face value. Yet with the two dressed so similarly, Lucas looked more like an attendant.

It wasn't that Lucas was ugly, and he did have a refined air, but neither could compare with Valeri's looks and singular presence. Where had Lucas found someone like him?

That left the dealer somewhat confused. Valeri didn't look like someone about to enter a brutal contest in which a mistake could cost him his life.

“Did you have any particular decorations in mind?” the dealer asked Valeri.

“Decorations?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I decorate myself?”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind decorations. Show me some serviceable armor and helmets.”

“Ah... yes.”

Valeri and the dealer failed to understand each other, but it wasn't a serious problem.

By decorations, the dealer had meant helmet ornaments and other adornments for the contestant. Being flashy and conspicuous won popularity with the crowd, which in turn built a name for oneself. Since that was what everyone was risking their lives for, they took their appearance seriously. Valeri, of course, had little interest.

In truth, there was nothing particularly special about tournament equipment itself. It amounted to armor heavier than ordinary mail, reinforced with iron plates over the chest and belly, and helmets that jutted out in front. They were designed to maximize the wearer's chances of surviving a lance strike.

As it happened, those projecting helmets came in two main types: the houndskull and the frog-mouth. Valeri chose the frog-mouth helm not because of his nickname, but purely because he thought it would suit him.

Tournament lances, naturally, had no blades. Their ends were blunt and wrapped in cloth. Most deaths during a match therefore resulted not from lance wounds, but from injuries sustained in a fall from the horse.

“It's been a while, Deputy Head.”

As Valeri was being measured, someone approached and greeted Lucas.

He was a middle-aged man with curly black hair and a beard covering his entire lower face. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked every inch the typical warrior—or knight.

“Oh, Sir Walter. It has been a while.”

“I haven't seen you in the city lately. You haven't given up your suit, have you?”

“Of course not. I was merely away for a while on business.”

“Would that be the matter of the Earl of Westlanding? Concerning the right to collect taxes?”

“Haha, I can't discuss the company's internal business in detail.”

“That hurts. I did once fight as your champion, after all.”

He had little reason to feel hurt. Walter had fought as a champion more than once or twice. In other words, Lucas was far from the only person who had hired him.

“You already know all about it without my telling you.”

“True enough. But about that earl—it seems he's been swindled. They say the treasure he sold his tax-collection rights and all sorts of other things to buy was a fake. Apparently, he's a broken man now.”

“Oh dear. What a shame.”

“Why not try coaxing him a little? He looks ready to sell his lands and title, too.”

“Well, I'll consider it in due course.”

“At any rate, who is that handsome fellow?”

“Ah, someone I'm sponsoring. He's entering the joust.”

“Sponsoring? Hahaha...”

Walter laughed dismissively. Nobles sometimes had unusual hobbies—or tastes—and he had taken it to be that sort of arrangement.

“If he's the one getting ambitious, I suggest you dissuade him. Earnings have been poor lately, and the lads are getting rather vicious.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know as well as I do that the results are effectively decided in advance. It's been going on so long that our reputations have suffered, and we aren't hired nearly as often as we used to be. So everyone is hoping for some prey.”

The surest way to build a reputation was to defeat an enemy in spectacular fashion. But that made accidents more likely. In a rigged match, by contrast, there was almost no risk of injury.

Walter was warning them that entering the tournament now could be dangerous.

“Incidentally, I'll be competing this time as well. You know what I'm like, don't you?”

Walter was infamous for his excessive cruelty to those he defeated. Even after a match was decided, he would deliberately ride over his fallen opponent. If they couldn't pay their ransom, he would cut off an arm or sever a heel so they could never fight again.

“If you're fond of him, do be sure to set aside a generous ransom. Or he could withdraw before it's too late. I'm only telling you this because it's you, Deputy Head.”

With that, he left. He glanced back at Valeri with a broad grin, but Valeri merely watched him coldly.

Once Walter was gone, Lucas turned to Valeri.

“Don't worry, Valeri. I'll make arrangements. Even if you lose...”

“No. Don't you dare.”

“... There is always the slightest chance.”

“That's the difference between a noble and a merchant. Sometimes you refuse to back down from a fight even without any safeguards. You fight prepared to lose everything—your reputation, your standing, your wealth, your fame, even your life. If you're going to imitate me, learn that instead of copying my clothes and hairstyle. If you can't, just stick to business.”

“... Valeri, you're a noble?”

He wasn't a noble but a royal. Valeri, however, said nothing more.