NOVEL NEXT Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Illiterate
"Ian, you must concentrate."
Ian turned his head at the tutor's words. Sunlight streamed through the open windows of the guest room in the west wing, a stark contrast to his previous cramped quarters. Sighing at his student's apathy, the tutor scratched his pen against the parchment.
"Let's try again. Suppose 100 villagers paid five sacks of wheat as tax. Half is sent to the capital, and half of the remainder is distributed to the mansion staff. How many sacks are left?"
Ian stifled a yawn, his gaze drifting towards the window. These afternoon study sessions, two hours each, were excruciatingly dull.
"I don't know."
He'd initially feigned effort, even counting on his fingers, to avoid suspicion. But the charade had grown tiresome. He'd decided to embrace the role of the dim-witted bastard son.
"At least attempt the calculation."
"Hmm... 100 sacks?"
His feigned ignorance had unexpected benefits. The tutor and the steward often exchanged written notes regarding his progress, or lack thereof. Mostly trivial, but occasionally, they'd inadvertently reveal valuable information about the Count's affairs.
"...Let's move on from mathematics. Next is literature. We read Fate of Fate last time, correct?"
The tutor was a man of little passion, content to deliver his lessons by rote, regardless of Ian's comprehension. This suited Ian perfectly. The tutor's easy acceptance of his ignorance spared him the effort of pretending to learn.
A knock echoed through the room.
"Enter."
"Excuse me."
The steward entered, bearing a tray of refreshments. His presence, rather than a servant's, was a clear indication of their desire to observe Ian's academic engagement.
"How far have you progressed?"
"We're concluding with literature."
"I see. You seem to be finishing early today."
"Young Master Ian is exceptionally cooperative."
Oh, the irony. Ian thought, crunching a biscuit while glancing at the heavily illustrated book. The steward discreetly turned his palm towards the tutor, scribbling a message Ian couldn't see.
"Then, please continue your good work."
"Yes, Steward."
The tutor droned through the few lines of text, copied them onto the parchment, and instructed Ian to do the same. Thus concluded another tedious afternoon. As the wall clock chimed, the tutor gathered his belongings.
"I'll see you out, teacher."
"No, that's fine. I'm rather busy today. Young Master Ian, please continue practicing your penmanship."
Usually, Ian would escort the tutor, practicing his gait, greetings, and social etiquette. But a refusal like this meant the tutor had a clandestine meeting within the mansion.
"Yes, I'll see you next time."
Ian simply nodded, offering no further response. The tutor, coat in hand, smiled and left the room.
Is he meeting with the steward? He occasionally glimpsed the Count or Countess, but the increased servant presence around the west wing made it difficult to follow anyone discreetly.
Dismissing the thought, Ian shoved the parchment aside and stretched. The larger room allowed him to train his body even indoors.
Physical strength is magical strength. Magical power cultivated physical strength, and that strength, in turn, housed more magical power. This was the secret to the enduring vitality of the ancient archmages.
"Young Master Ian."
A knock.
That evening, after dinner, the steward summoned him.
"The Count requests your presence in his study."
Finally.
The Count's study occupied the entire top floor of the mansion. Ian had never ventured to that part of the house. He followed the steward, a flicker of curiosity beneath his composed demeanor.
"Count, Young Master Ian has arrived."
The steward knocked several times on the heavy oak door. A gruff voice granted them entry.
"Enter."
Unlike Ian's former room, illuminated by a single glowstone, the study was ablaze with light from numerous magic lanterns. Yet, a somber atmosphere clung to the room, undoubtedly emanating from Count Derga himself.
"You summoned me?" Ian inquired respectfully.
Derga remained silent, his attention fixed on the documents before him. Compared to the toiling peasants, his work environment seemed idyllic, yet the Count appeared preoccupied.
"...You're aware of the luncheon the day after tomorrow, I presume?"
"Yes, of course."
Still engrossed in his paperwork, Derga muttered, "This time, other advisors from the central authority will be attending."
The first luncheon must have left an impression. A bastard child from the backwater province discussing Fhyrn's philosophy had piqued their interest.
"You'll need to be even more attentive this time."
"I understand."
Was this the sole reason for the summons? Derga hadn't uttered a word when Ian's room was changed. He patiently awaited the Count's true purpose. The scratching of the quill against parchment continued, then Derga spoke again.
"The Cheonryeok Clan has requested a letter written in your hand."
Ian knew Derga had offered his second son as a condition for peace. A potion, reactive only to blood relatives, had been sent as proof of lineage. Of course, they were unaware of Ian's commoner origins.
"A letter from me?"
They clearly desired additional assurance. Perhaps they suspected Derga might swap his son at the last minute, driven by paternal affection. The Cheonryeok Clan, valuing familial bonds, would likely harbor such concerns.
"Those barbarians create unnecessary complications. Tsk. They'll use the kinship potion at the signing ceremony anyway."
Unlike the Variel Empire, the Cheonryeok Clan lacked mages. They were more akin to beasts, their very blood defying the laws of nature.
"Well, I have no reason to refuse."
They intended to verify Ian's identity by comparing the letter's handwriting. Confirmation that he was indeed Derga's son, the chosen one.
"Write regular letters to them. I'll instruct the tutor. You simply need to dictate. Surely, you're not so foolish as to be incapable of that."
"I'll perform the task flawlessly."
Just then, the door to a smaller adjoining room creaked open. A pale-faced clerk addressed Derga, his voice strained.
"Count, the accounts simply won't balance."
He clutched a precarious stack of documents, threatening to topple at any moment. Derga waved him away dismissively.
"Leave it. I'll handle it."
He glanced at Ian, a silent instruction to wait. The documents remained spread across the desk, but Derga seemed unconcerned. Ian was practically illiterate, capable of little more than stringing together syllables.
"Wait here."
Derga entered the clerk's office. Ian's obedient smile vanished the moment the door closed.
Let's see what keeps you so busy.
It was early spring. Diligent lords tended to their lands even during frost, but Derga clearly wasn't one of them. He'd been indulging in his back-alley excursions even on the day they'd met Maureen.
Ian swiftly scanned the documents, his nimble fingers ensuring the pages remained in order.
Oh? He frowned, as if expecting this all along.
As suspected, Derga maintained a private army far exceeding what the Baratz province could sustain. A force of 300 would be the reasonable limit, yet the grain expenditure suggested a number closer to 2,000 or even 3,000.
It's a wonder this place hasn't collapsed.
Furthermore, the taxes levied on the villagers were more than double the capital's recommended rate. Perhaps the Cheonryeok Clan's destruction of Baratz was inevitable. The province was teetering on the brink of collapse. Ian stared at the small office in disbelief.
What was going through Derga's mind to manage the province so recklessly? This wasn't some newly established family, but one that had endured for generations.
Is there another source of income? However long this mismanagement had persisted, the taxes alone couldn't possibly cover the expenses.
There's nothing of value in Baratz. The province bordered the Cheonryeok Clan's territory, the land wasn't particularly fertile, and it lacked access to the sea. There were no significant resources that he could recall.
If there were, the previous emperor wouldn't have divided the land among the nobles. The late emperor had rewarded those who fought against the Cheonryeok Clan with portions of the conquered territory. If valuable resources existed, the imperial palace would have retained control.
The door opened abruptly.
Ian, leaning against Derga's desk, instinctively held his breath and channeled his magic.
A low hum filled the air.
"Hmm?"
Every lantern in the room flickered and died. The same occurred in the clerk's office. With the moon hidden behind clouds, the mansion plunged into darkness.
"Count? Are you alright?"
"The magic lanterns were recently replaced..."
"Just a moment, I'll light a candle... Aagh!"
A thud echoed as the clerk stumbled and fell.
Before the moon emerged, Ian stealthily moved to the center of the room, concealing his presence. Derga fumbled in the darkness, searching for his desk.
"Ian. Answer me."
"Yes, Father."
Ian's voice rang clear in the darkness. Judging by the sound, he was standing near the sofa.
"Is there no one out there?!"
The clerk, still searching for a candle, groaned in pain. The darkness persisted, and Derga's frustration boiled over.
The lanterns flickered back to life. Ian, having regained his composure, released his hold on the magic.
Derga's eyes met Ian's, the young man standing calmly amidst the restored light. His absinthe-colored eyes gleamed.
"Are you alright?"
"..."
The Count glanced at his hand resting on the desk. The documents were slightly disarrayed, but easily attributable to his own fumbling in the dark. He opened a drawer without suspicion.
"Enough. Come here and take this."
"What is it?"
It was a small, embroidered pouch. Derga tossed it casually, landing precisely at Ian's feet.
"It's from your mother."
Ian slowly picked up the worn pouch.
"Keep it with you as a constant reminder of your position and conduct yourself accordingly."
When news of Ian ceased reaching his mother through Hannah, she'd attempted suicide, vowing to reunite with him in death if not in life. Faced with this drastic act, Derga had reluctantly agreed to allow letters and gifts. Her death would effectively remove Ian's only leverage.
Hannah had relayed all this through the coachman, leaving no detail omitted. Given Ian's generous tips, there was little chance of fabrication.
"You may leave." Derga dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Ian left the study, clutching the pouch. Leaning against the dark corridor wall, he loosened the drawstring, spilling its contents onto the floor.
Five gold coins. Dried flowers. A tiny note.
A single gold coin was equivalent to a commoner's monthly earnings. Ian examined the note, its neat script suggesting it had been written by someone else.
Could he be certain it contained only his mother's true words?
'No. Derga could have easily tampered with it, perhaps even swapped the letter entirely...'
Ian fingered the gold coins, then unfolded the note and began to read.