Chapter 165

With only a few hours left before the Resurrection Festival, Tropur was draped in a riot of colors.

Across the Empire ruled by the Timaeos Church, it was customary to decorate with red blossoms on holy days. Tropur’s custom, however, differed a little. Though they were likewise Timaeos faithful, the culture of the Redeng people from Verlaine had mingled in, so many houses displayed blue flowers.

In truth, neither red nor blue meant much. God would not cast someone into hell because they dyed the color of the festal flowers differently.

Yet the people of Tropur these days seemed resolved to hate anyone who adorned their doors with a different color.

“Those Redeng curs!”

Bistor folk who hung red flowers spat and cursed when they saw houses with blue.

“Bad luck, the lot of them.”

Descendants of the Redeng who hung blue flowers muttered under their breath when they saw red.

By whether one could shout insults aloud or had to whisper them, it was plain which side held the upper hand. Still, the Bistorans claimed every time they gathered that they feared the Redeng.

“They’re madmen. You heard what the priest said, didn’t you? Blue flowers are heretical. The Redeng don’t keep the creed; that’s why they kill each other. Did you know their traditional food has hallucinogens?”

“Never leave the children alone. Who knows when the Redeng will turn and snatch them? My friend’s friend’s next-door neighbor Karl—his boy was taken because they couldn’t pay the interest, they say.”

“I’m scared to death something will happen to my family next.”

Whether their traditional food truly contained hallucinogens, whether Karl’s son had truly been taken—no one knew. But every tavern carried such tales.

The streets of Tropur lay sparse with people under a fierce cold, yet the few giddy souls awaiting the festival chattered among themselves about things none of them could answer for. None of them noticed that among them, someone wore a secret smile, as if in the know.

❖ ❖ ❖

Meanwhile, at the Tropur branch of the Moriér Merchant Group.

“Brr, cold.”

A man shuddered as he slipped in through the shop door.

The shop’s busy hours had been last evening and today through midday. So families could be together on the holy day, shops across Bistor gave their workers leave—save a few trades like physicians and inns.

Though the Moriér Merchant Group had recently pushed aggressively into Tropur, its lamps were likewise dark.

Yet inside, despite the quiet facade, many people had gathered. Heavy curtains hung on every window, and even so they had left only the barest light, lest any glow leak out.

The luxury goods they usually displayed for sale were nowhere in sight. Shields, cudgels, ropes, blankets lay here and there, making the place look like a civilian shelter in wartime.

At the center sat a young woman, her face grave. The man who had just come in approached and reported.

“It was as you said, Miss Moriér. The same fellow was stirring people up at the Marco Tavern and at Lux Beer. After the rabble-rousing, I saw him slip in through the back door of Thornbush Manor. Inside the manor, several men with torches kept carrying what looked like weapons.”

The woman, Joan Moriér, let out a sigh. Thornbush Manor belonged to the venerable Wells family.

“Just as the Young Lady said. Understood. Good work, Aron.”

Per Lady Nerys’s orders, Joan was supposed to direct affairs from outside Tropur instead of entering herself—a measure to spare her any physical harm, should the worst occur.

But the matter indicated by Nerys’s letter was too grave to permit the slightest delay, so Joan had come.

‘Truly, how did she think of this in advance?’

On Nerys’s instruction, Joan had already established a Tropur branch some time ago and prepared the branch to respond on its own to any show of force.

If someone truly meant to act, a day like today—when most shops shut early and people gathered with close friends and got merrily drunk—would be ideal.

Saying as much, Nerys had added, ‘Perhaps some will suddenly take up knives and storm their neighbors’ houses.’

Since Nerys had changed her life, Joan had never doubted her words.

Still, the remarkable Young Lady was several days’ ride away even by hard travel, and she had no ties here. That such a person had precisely read this preposterous situation was, once confirmed, astonishing.

Joan addressed a man who sat quietly among the others.

“Mr. Lafure, it’s time.”

Lafure rose slowly with Aron’s support. His face was gaunt and his body weak. The short but harrowing time in prison had not yet let his health return.

But his eyes shone with firm resolve—the same light that had not dimmed when he’d been dragged to prison on the ludicrous charge of murdering Madam Moriah’s maid, nor when he’d suffered cruel torture to force a confession.

“Yes, understood. Thank you for your help, Miss Moriér.”

“Are you well enough?”

Released from the imperial prison and arriving in Tropur this morning, he was to play a central role tonight in protecting the Redeng: to point out the homes of neighbors most zealous in framing him—and to serve as bait.

The first task was already done. The names Lafure had given matched those who had lately been seen frequently at Thornbush Manor.

The Redeng living near those houses had already gathered their elderly and weak to a distant place and were bracing for the worst.

At first, they had not been cooperative—“a risk of raids” sounded absurd. But a few sharp Redeng who sensed the mood turning, along with Joan’s earnest conduct, finally opened people’s hearts.

“I’m all right.”

Knowing all the effort people had already made, Lafure nodded without hesitation.

“I’m more worried about those here. For me and my kin to live, this is only natural. I have relatives in the area who’ll help when the time comes, even if they’re quiet now. But for the Moriér merchants—you’re outsiders, and though you’re Bistorans you’ve helped us, so you’ll be struck all the more ruthlessly.”

Bleak as that was, Aron—and everyone gathered—only smiled.

If they’d come to a dangerous region and, on top of that, been warned to prepare for a show of force, Joan would hardly have come alone.

They were comrades who had laughed and wept with Joan through the Moriér Merchant Group’s madcap growth over the last few years. So much had happened that little surprised them now.

Aron answered stoutly.

“No worries. We’re the sort who specialize in crisis response. And we’re enemies with that lot anyway. Our betters are so ambitious they’re swallowing up every last distribution line, even inventing gaps where none exist.”

“And when you put it like that, what does that make me?”

Joan gave a wry smile. Then she met Lafure’s eyes, her tone turning earnest.

“Let me say it again. Since you were suddenly released by the Archduchess’s order, they’ll assume reports of suspicious movement in this region have reached above. They’ll want to seize you and wring out the details—or at least kill you to silence you. So—you know what to do.”

“I must draw as many of the enemy as possible onto this one body. I know.”

“No. You must live. If fewer foes converge than expected, we have other deployments to use as the situation dictates. If you feel danger, return here no matter what. Your mere existence limits the enemy’s moves, so think only of surviving tonight.”

Concern filled Joan’s sincere gaze. Lafure looked at her a moment, then smiled.

“Once we survive tonight and the masks at Thornbush Manor come off, will you consider partnering with our people?”

The Redeng, long persecuted, were known for refusing to trade with anyone but their own. Joan blinked, then answered with a confident smile.

“Best find a lawyer. Our contracts do run a bit long.”

Fire flared in the distance.

❖ ❖ ❖

A young thug watched the thickets beyond with cold sweat on his brow. Torches rose here and there, making everything visible though it was night.

Which meant he could plainly see even this: his friends, who had stormed neighbors’ houses with swords, being driven back by fierce resistance.

‘What’s going on?’

He had lived here all his life and thought the highest person in the world was the direct lord, Sir Tropur. Even so, he knew the Legend of the Three Heroes.

The master of the most splendid mansion in the region—Thornbush Manor—was very rich and from a great noble house. Astoundingly, they said he was kin to the Three Heroes. In truth it was his distant descendant’s wife’s family, but the man didn’t know such details; he only revered the manor folk all the more.

Those manor people had commissioned him recently. Help them drive out from the region the fearful heretics, the Redeng, who killed one another.

If they succeeded, they would confiscate however foully-earned the heretics’ money must be and distribute it justly.

The plan was simple. They’d hand out weapons; on the night before the festival, when the Redeng were deep in drink and sleeping together, they would burst in and frighten them a little. No need to hurt anyone. They had spoken with Sir Tropur to avoid repercussions—so there’d be no problem.

In fact, the patrons expected that once a few plants whipped the mood, the armed thugs would, on their own, get excited and draw blood. For certain key figures who had to die, they would send their own men to stage their deaths as casualties of the unrest.

But the man knew nothing of that. Half-bewitched by the gold he’d glimpsed going to and from Thornbush Manor, he and his friends had joined the “plan.”

And yet—

‘Why is everything prepared?’

Far from being drunk, there were already young men behind blue-marked doors, waiting with sturdy cover and shields—and cudgels.

For the thugs, who had drunk themselves senseless to forget they were charging innocent neighbors’ homes with weapons in hand, it was like a lightning strike.

‘I—I’ll head to the Moriér shop.’

Someone must have lost his nerve and leaked the secret. Though they distinguished between Redeng descendants and Bistorans, most people here were kin, after all.

The manor folk had promised a special reward for anyone who set the Moriér branch building ablaze. The man decided to move that way.

It was a shop; surely it would be empty at night. Then there would be no one waiting with cudgels.

Just as he twisted in the brush, something cold touched his neck.

“Look what rat we’ve got here.”

It was an employee of the Moriér Merchant Group. Recognizing the face, the man despaired once—then again at the icy expression.

Fights broke out across the city.

Some were one-sided; others were evenly matched.

But all the turmoil settled quietly before dawn.