While Epitaph Palazzo had suffered an embarrassing defeat at Yuri Ho’s hands, followed by a grueling journey back to safety, Alfred had enjoyed the greatest success imaginable as he’d claimed the royal capital Reforme. He’d achieved this magnificent victory without having to face Yuri Ho at all. If he’d actually seen the devilish strategies that Yuri Ho could employ, he might have shared Ange’s concerns.
“I’m merely saying that we should be careful.”
Ange could’ve tried harder to make Alfred understand her reasoning, but she wasn’t obligated to do so. As Alfred said, this idea of Yuri Ho assuming power was nothing more than wild speculation. Whatever talent or genius he might have, he wasn’t all-powerful. He could die as easily as anyone. The circumstances of her father’s death had taught Ange that fact of life all too well.
Indeed, if Epitaph Palazzo had orchestrated a conspiracy within Shiyalta, his hatred for Yuri Ho would have made him a primary target for elimination. He might even be dead already.
“How old is this exceptional man you’re talking about?”
“He’s twenty at most.”
“Hah. What can a mere youngster do? Sadly for him, he was born too late.”
Ange felt that Alfred’s remark was also a jab at her. It was because of her late birth and young age that she’d been excluded from the battle for the imperial throne. Now, with just ten years between them, there was no hope of Alfred growing senile while she was still capable of seizing the throne for herself.
“You may be right. As your retainer, I felt obliged to share my concern with you, but you need pay me no mind.”
“Keep your concerns to yourself next time. No one asked for your opinion.”
Ange remembered Alfred’s exact words: “Angelica, I sense you have something to say.” It was hard to interpret that as anything other than an invitation for her to share her opinion, but she knew better than to argue.
“Please pardon my rudeness.” Ange lowered her head in a display of humility.
“I received a request for your hand in marriage from the Euphos Federation. Again. Get married already.”
That was the price she paid to gain intelligence. Ange was attractive, even in her own estimation. She often received proposals from young men who’d mistaken the intent of her interest in their words.
“I decline.”
“Tsk... Then get lost somewhere. You’re an eyesore.”
“As you wish.” Ange bowed her head briefly before turning around.
“Wait,” he called to her from behind.
When Ange turned to face Alfred once more, he threw an envelope at her from the opposite side of his desk. It fluttered in the air for a second, then dropped futilely to the ground.
“Write the refusal letter yourself. I’m tired of doing it.”
“As you wish.”
Ange had to crouch down to pick up the piece of parchment. Then, as she rose, she felt something touch her—the cold weight of a sword resting flat on her shoulder.
The weapon was in Alfred’s hand.
“Dear brother, you jest.” Ange continued to rise, even with the blade against her shoulder.
The two stood there silent for a time. Alfred merely had to slide the sharp blade sideways and it would slice open Ange’s neck, leaving him with one less problem. But Ange knew he wouldn’t do it.
Alfred’s disgraceful conduct during the contest for the throne had gained him too much notoriety. The assassination of their eldest brother was somewhat understandable—the two had been rival contenders, after all. The murder of their other brother, however, had been less forgivable. At the tender age of twelve—he’d been five years younger than Ange—the boy had been too young to have any real ambitions. Nothing had suggested he’d coveted the throne. Alfred was, therefore, the heartless emperor who’d murdered his own little brother out of pure cowardice. It was a reputation he still couldn’t erase.
As for Ange, she prided herself on being popular among the people, and she knew she’d proved herself a capable regional ruler who maintained a strong government. At the same time, she kept her claws well hidden so that no one would accept the idea that she was aiming to claim the throne for herself. At the very least, Alfred couldn’t kill her in his office.
In the end, Alfred pulled his sword away. “Hmph...”
“Now, if I may be excused.” Ange turned around and left the room.
She closed the door, passed the knights standing guard outside, and walked down the corridor. Once she was some distance away, she stopped and waited until her trusted subordinate, Gustave, came to her side.
“Lady Ange, you’re unharmed?” he asked with some concern. To him, this place was practically an enemy’s lair.
“I’m fine. He only threatened me.”
Ange had just caught a glimpse of Alfred’s mental distress. It was an aliment unique to those who murdered their own family members to gain the throne.
Put simply, Alfred constantly worried that Ange would someday kill him. Having assassinated his siblings himself, he found it easy to imagine that Ange was plotting the same. Ange had never sent an assassin after Alfred. Nonetheless, in his mind, he and his sister were constantly trying to kill or outmaneuver each other.
She didn’t know the finer details of her brother’s mental state, but she knew he had an irrational fear of his food being poisoned. For a long time, he’d refused to eat anything but cold meals. He’d been emperor for three years, and not once had any of his food tasters died from poisoning, but that wasn’t enough to stop him from worrying about the next meal.
“Would you like to return home now?” Gustave asked.
“We’ll visit the city, then leave. This place gives me the creeps.”
She wanted to get far away as quickly as possible, but a trip into the city wouldn’t take long.
The region was known for its wines, so they began by visiting a wine seller to purchase a few highly rated bottles. They loaded those into their carriage.
It was occasionally necessary to visit tailors here, since Altima lacked anyone capable of making formal wear fit for imperial family members, but Ange wasn’t in need of clothing at that moment.
The final task was to visit her favorite bookshop. She was greeted by a wrinkled old shopkeeper in spectacles the moment she entered.
“Oh, Miss Angelica. It’s been a while.”
Ange relaxed the moment she heard the old man’s hoarse voice. It wasn’t clear whether he knew of Ange’s high birth, but he treated her like any other customer. That had always put her mind at ease.
“Sorry that I haven’t visited in so long. Got anything good for me?”
“Yes, some Shanish books. I kept them to one side for you.”
The shopkeeper disappeared into a back room for a while, then reappeared with two bundles.
“These and these,” he said, placing the stacks down.
The two piles were composed of five books each and bound by string. Judging by the titles written on the spines, they were interesting collections.
“Is one gold coin enough?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed.”
Ange placed the coin down on the counter.
Ten books written in Terolish would’ve fetched far more than a single gold coin, but it was still a high price compared to what others paid for Shanish books bought in bulk.
Shanish books were usually sold to specialist dealers who’d destroy their contents. Since parchment could be reused once the old text was scraped off, enterprising individuals would hire nimble-fingered paupers to clean the sheets. The old text would remain faintly visible, making the pages unsuitable for holy texts, but it was good enough for use in merchants’ ledgers.
“Thanks. If you get any more, please keep them for me.” When Ange raised her hand as a signal, a knight who’d been waiting outside the store entered to carry the books away. “Anything else interesting?”
“Hmmm. Do you have a copy of the holy book at home, Miss Angelica?”
“Of course I do.”