MPNS Ch 100

Chapter 100

The reason Raphael envied Nikiel’s sacred power was, in a way, obvious. It was the force that could move the lords. At the same time, it was why those lords—who knew all too well his dank hunger for power—kept their guard up against the crown prince.

As soon as they left the tower, Raymond said to Nikiel,

“Beware of His Highness the Crown Prince, Your Highness.”

Only a few days had passed since the ball, and now two different people had told him the same thing; it left a strange feeling. Nikiel answered the serious gaze looking down at him.

“And why tell me to beware my lord brother?”

He wanted at least to hear a reason. The same man who had jabbed and needled him for so long was now advising caution against another—it was almost funny.

When Nikiel first fell into this world and resolved to live as Nikiel, the world had not been an enemy on all sides. Only people everywhere had decided that Nikiel was their enemy. He had done nothing, upon arriving here, to warrant being treated as something to be guarded against. Among those who had looked down on him, none had pressed harder or with more rudeness than Raymond Boltwik.

Now he chose to think of the man as a business partner, but the past being what it was, the advice to beware the crown prince—was it truly concern for Nikiel’s safety, or a move toward his own ends? Not knowing Nikiel’s thoughts, Raymond’s throat bobbed when the prince’s blue eyes grew narrow and cool.

“When you half close your eyes, the blue behind the lashes looks dark as a lakeshore in rain…”

He lost himself in the thought, and only then realized he was late to answer. He spoke, hurriedly.

“His Highness can exert considerable influence upon you. But it cannot be counted only as a good. You know as much, after what was proved by the matter of Count Gaspar.”

He meant: you saw how Raphael behaved over Gaspar. Nikiel nodded.

“Very well. The advice is taken. That said, I have business next; shall we part ways here?”

Raymond looked up, eyes widening.

“Business, Your Highness…?”

But Nikiel did not hear the murmur, nor see his face.

“Ah—there comes the carriage.”

Because he and Raymond had walked all the way to the tower, the coachman had spent a long while searching; at last he came panting up. The lane was ill-suited to carriage waiting; to spare the man, Nikiel meant to go out to the main road.

“What sort of business have you?”

Had Raymond not moved subtly to block his way, the reunion with the coachman would have gone faster. He did not quite bar the path—Nikiel could have ignored him—but Nikiel paused, surprised by the suddenness, and looked up at him. The tension in his eyes was puzzling.

“Well now. And must that be said to you? It’s personal.”

Using an easy tone, Nikiel stepped around and added,

“In any case, thank you for today. Another time, a drink—no, perhaps not. Things are… ambiguous between us; accept my thanks in words. Go on back.”

He finished on a swift cadence, then strode for the carriage. Raymond stopped where he stood.

“…”

He watched as the coachman, seeing no footman, moved to open the door—only to have Nikiel wave him off. Nikiel flung the door wide himself, stepped in with a calm air, and shut it with a firm thud. Without even a glance back at Raymond, he faced forward, pulled the cord that rang the bell, and at the jingle, the coachman clicked and set the horses off. Raymond stood there, staring after the shrinking carriage for a long time.

—

The carriage rolled toward House Balt’s townhouse.

It struck him this was his first time coming out from the palace. Until now, he had not thought to leave—always busy.

“Of course. When one wakes up here, doctorate in hand—there is no leisure.”

Adaptation took priority; sightseeing the capital was out of the question.

“It felt like traveling with a professor for a symposium in Switzerland… even if one wished to die eating, there was no time.”

Since he was out, he let his eyes wander out the window. It was novel to see Rasiris, capital of Ossinis, laid out in a glance.

Rasiris was fair to look upon. The city seemed well planned; even by carriage, the roads were smooth enough. Had Yullan’s townhouse not been set on the outskirts, he might have seen more—that was a pity.

Nikiel glanced at the jerky he had brought from the prince’s kitchens for a gift.

“No decent thing to give… flowers are too much… practicality led to jerky. For a hospital visit, perhaps odd?”

Flowers were too cloying—and would stir tongues. Sweet biscuits would not suit that face at all.

“At least jerky…”

The book had said the Itaren cooks did not follow Yullan on campaign—or so he recalled; memory of reading had grown faint after so long here.

Of course, the big events and the outlines of the plot he had noted—lest they fade—but whether Yullan took his household cooks along or not, what had that to do with Nikiel? Still, now, details failed him.

“If nothing else, the knights will take it. Better than going empty-handed.”

He clicked his tongue and straightened the basket of neatly laid jerky. Chef Bendy’s special blend of spices made it excellent.

For strength training, sodium was bad for Nikiel; he usually asked for low-salt jerky. But for Yullan—marching beneath a fierce sun even in autumn—he had asked for a proper salt level and good flavor. Under the sun, sodium mattered as much as water. Though it took time to make, the smoked preparation of Bendy’s jerky, married to the spices, made it a splendid food.

Thinking the gift-sense a little shabby—but eager to boast of Bendy’s craft—Nikiel resolved to bring it along to the Balt townhouse.

Then the carriage halted—before the Balt townhouse used in the capital each hunting season.

Before they even entered the grounds, a gatekeeper stopped the carriage.

“From here is the private estate of His Grace of Balt. State your business.”

Even in a carriage marked with the prince’s seal, he had not expected the question. Nikiel lifted the curtain and introduced himself.

“Unannounced, yes—but I come to inquire after His Grace’s health. Go and tell them Nikiel Ossinis is here, and take your master’s command.”

Wincing at the thought of being told to go away, he fixed his face to a coolness and kept his eyes lowered.

At the name Ossinis, the man jolted, stumbling over apologies and honor, then dashed within—no doubt to inform a superior.

Relieved, Nikiel sat to wait.

“Shouldn’t… have come? Still—he drank from my cup and turned wolf. It’s only right to call… but who needs rites in a land without Confucian courtesy? Yullan scowls whenever he sees me.”

Though training together had eased the atmosphere, Nikiel judged Yullan still held a store of spite for him.

“Else he wouldn’t be so curt.”

His nature might be naturally taciturn, but his manner with Nikiel went beyond convention. Be that as it may, he had saved Nikiel—so a courtesy seemed due. From the distance, the gatekeeper came running back.

“Hah—Your Highness—the garden; proceed straight through.”

“Good work.”

Nikiel nodded through the window, tugged the signal cord, and at the bell, the coachman set off again.

In Seoul, even the rich could not have grounds without end; he had thought the same here. Yet as the carriage rolled on and on, he gaped.

“How far does this garden go? What is this—Yeouido?”

Startled into sticking his head forward like a turtle, he straightened—no, that would not do. After a while, at last, the carriage came to a stop.

“How vast a holding—Yullan, you utter magnate…”

The words slipped out. As he prepared to alight, a knock—then, after the proper pause, the door opened.