These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

Despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ailn pressed the dial.

'So. You reveal your true colors at last.'

It was the second princess, Isolde. Her cadence was breathless, her voice vibrated with glee.

'All of us were mistaken, it seems. You are neither a buffoon, nor a tactician—you are a simple lunatic.

'Waste no breath making excuses. This parley has endured an excess of your voice already. And I do hope it pleases you to know—we've already detained your knights. And they WILL suffer for your grandiose delusions.

As for you… When a man threatens the imperial family with violence we do not respond in kind. We repay him—tenfold, a hundredfold.'

"She… must have the wrong number," Ailn said lamely, as Camille grew paler by the moment.

'Wait for me, Ailn eum-Creid. I do enjoy a good hunt.'

"You!" Camille grabbed Ailn's collar and began shaking him violently. "You sent something absurd!"

"When, Camille?!" Ailn snapped back, clutching his deerstalker to keep it from flying off. "When would I have done that?"

"When I went to fetch water!" Camille gritted out. She slapped Ailn's hat off his head—likely to keep herself from smacking him across the face. "Just what have you done?!"

"Camille, I did not threaten to attack the imperial family," Ailn said calmly—though he growled as he knelt to pick up his hat. "You think I was just standing there, holding Bea and singing lullabies about regicide? Someone's framing me."

"Who?!"

"I don't know—maybe the princess herself is just looking for an excuse," Ailn said, with a frustrated sigh. "I don't even know anything about the message I supposedly sent. Who's to say it even exists?"

Camille's glare faltered, and anxiety crept into her furrowed brow. Whether she believed Ailn or not, their situation remained miserably damning. She took a deep breath. "Then… what shall we do?"

Ailn paused to think.

What, indeed? Should they stay and try to fight the allegations? But according to Bea's precognition, Sigurd's death was a ticking clock. Time wasn't on their side.

Why was he even being accused? Was the princess simply asserting power arbitrarily? If so, then they were just screwed. Ailn thought back to the message.

'We know precisely what you sound like.'

It sounded like she'd really heard 'him' make a threat. Was someone imitating his voice? An actor, maybe—using the echo stone's sound quality to their advantage?

Or… was there something deeper at play?

A memory cropped into Ailn's mind—a strange thing that had happened to Renea during their small adventure in Varant's catacombs.

Someone had imitated his voice. Though, at the time, they'd apparently imitated the original Ailn's style of speaking.

Ceric heard his grandfather in the catacombs, too. Was there someone with the power to imitate voices—or some sort of creature? Multiple maybe?

"Ailn!" Camille's voice, filled with urgency, snapped him out of his thoughts. She'd dropped all pretenses of vassalage. "Come to a decision!"

"...We'll do what we already planned to," Ailn groaned, running his hand through his hair as he put his hat back on. "We save Sigurd, and face the consequences later."

The Azure Knights were already in custody. That threw a wrench into Ailn's plan to respond with force. Which meant this just turned into a sneaking mission.

"Rather, you're free to do as you like—" Ailn started.

"I'm going," Camille interrupted him firmly. She met his gaze with a look of determination—which after a moment, wilted into grief and shame. "I… don't wish to turn my back on my kin ever again."

"Alright," Ailn said. "Let's head to the stables—actually, no. I'll meet you there. Sprint into the barracks and see if you can grab Dame Alera before anyone knows any better."

Camille scowled. Her resolve was already being tested.

As Kylian was led with the other members of the Azure Knights to Calum's dungeons, his mind moved at the same plodding pace.

The negotiations had drained him, and he had little energy to spare. Thus, the strange message which had just echoed through the Great Hall of House ark-Chelon registered only as an idle and distant curiosity. The situation demanded urgency. But what could he even do about it?

A thought had occurred to the knight shortly after hearing the message.

'I have a little surprise for all the princes and princesses in Calum.'

The speaker had mistaken the number of princesses in the room: which is to say, there weren't multiple 'princesses' at all. There was only one. Would Ailn really have made that kind of mistake?

No—the first question was whether Ailn would've threatened the emperor. And the answer was clear. For all his eccentricities, he just… wouldn't. The message was too absurd, too reckless, and too empty to be real.

Someone was impersonating him. Through what means, Kylian had no idea. And the knight was left wondering whether the "important duty" which Ailn had to take care of somehow involved this enigmatic impersonator.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Kylian had long suspected that Ailn had goals beyond leading the duchy. In truth, he'd shown little desire for it early on—his duel with Sigurd had been fought, more than anything, for Renea's sake.

Everywhere Ailn went, he drew in unusual company. More than once, he went to quiet lengths to speak with them alone—sometimes with barely a pretense at all. And somehow, they'd always ended up becoming an ally.

Perhaps, now he had a hidden enemy. One wielding strange powers. And an echo stone.

After a long descent, Kylian was yanked out of his thoughts by the clang of his cell door swinging open.

"Plenty of time to think it over," Kylian muttered.

They really did have to move quickly. Soon enough, word would spread through the estate that Ailn was "dangerous," and even retrieving their horses would be out of the question. Funny how fast he went from esteemed duke to fugitive.

"Your horse waits in the second stall from the end, Duke eum-Creid," a male clerk said. "A stable boy is retrieving the horse and bridle to tack up your horse. Before your ride, would you like its coat groomed and its hooves cleaned?"

"I'm sort of in a hurry," Ailn said, glancing toward the stable's entrance. "They're already preparing Dame Camille's horse, right? And a third—any mount will do."

All Ailn could do was hope Camille could somehow get Alera to come. They might just manage with someone who knew Amière well. Without her… things would be pretty dire.

She was taking longer than he felt comfortable with, though. He may have miscalculated. Had Camille been caught? Maybe he should've told her to lose the emblem-bearing cape and pauldron. Whatever the case, he needed to be ready to leave whether she came or not.

Striding over to the second stall from the end, Ailn swung the door open and saw a familiar face by his horse.

"Can't hold a steady job, can you?" Ailn asked the teen god, who was currently working as a stable boy.

"You know, after this, I've gotta muck out all the stalls…" the teen god said, grimacing. With defter hands than Ailn expected, he calmly put on the horse's halter and secured it.

"They're about to throw me in jail, you know," Ailn said. "Or—judging from the princess's tone—I might even get executed. That's gonna affect my productivity."

"Yeah, it's a real problem," the teen god sighed.

"If there were ever a time to stage a divine intervention…" Ailn prodded.

"I can't throw lightning or hypnotize anyone," the teen god said. "But I can give you a little more information than usual." After he smoothed out the saddle blanket on the horse's back, he added, "You'll need to know this actually."

He let out a long and weary sigh, as if he were sharing something which could shake the foundations of the world. "Someone's imitating your voice."

The teen god flinched, perhaps seeing violence in Ailn's eyes. "Wait! Wait, I can tell you more! A big reveal, okay? The voice conjuror's the same place you're headed—Amière! You can clear your name!"

Ailn lowered his hands. Camille had been a bad influence on him.

"Is there more than one voice changer?" Ailn asked.

"No," the teen god said. For once he was being helpful. "There isn't." He met Ailn's gaze with a troubled look. "Things are getting really messy, right now. The voice conjuror is…" He paused, thinking over his words.

Finally, the teen god removed the horse's halter, slipping the reins over its neck, and eased the bit of the bridle into its mouth. "You could say they're your natural enemy."

Loose rocks littered the lower reaches of the northwestern pass. A mounted ascent was clearly untenable. Sigurd had hoped to reach the mountain's shoulder, where the incline would ease before the ridgeline. But up ahead stretched a series of switchback paths, filled with guards intent on his death.

Sigurd had little choice but to continue on foot.

He found a natural ledge behind which he could hide his horse, then tethered it to the rotting remains of a stunted tree. The tree's trunk was thin, and its roots barely clung to the scree and shale it grew from.

His horse easily had the strength to break free. For the time being, the horse would remain here obediently. Should he not return, however…

Sigurd shook off the thought. He'd done right by his companion, and needed to focus solely on his ascent.

It was nearly sunset. Approaching from the northwest, the sun would be at his back—his ally, instead of his enemy. The shadows weren't to his favor—currently they cast longest toward the east—but the terrain offered ample cover.

At each crook in the trail, where the path bent back in on itself in its ascent, Sigurd paused to scan the level above for movement.

Proceeding in this manner was slow going. But his caution proved warranted when, after nearly an hour of ascent, he reached a curve, looked round, and caught sight of a heavily armored knight standing at the next rise.

Engaging him in simple swordplay would lead to a prolonged fight. If Sigurd wished to crack the armor outright, he'd need to gather a considerable amount of holy aura—and doing so would leave him winded.

Worse, it would be loud.

Any approach would make noise. But holy aura of that strength would sound like a catapult. And Sigurd doubted the man was alone.

The total strength gathered at Amière was still unknown. No matter how thinly spread their forces, however, guards were likely stationed at least in pairs.

He'd have to climb up one way or another. Sigurd came to a decision.

Slowly, he sidled back in the direction he came—descending about halfway down to the previous crook in the switchbacks.

The elevation difference was nearly ten feet. In a straight-line he'd be forty feet away. Cutting across at this angle, the slope would be about twenty degrees—steep, but manageable even without hands.

Sigurd broke into a sprint.

At about ten feet's distance, the knight reacted to him—likely hearing Sigurd's approaching steps before he ever saw him.

"He's h—agh!"

The knight, mind caught between drawing his sword and alerting the others, watched Sigurd's hip for a blade that never came.

He slashed at Sigurd, off-stance and panicked, but the blow merely glanced off Sigurd's adamantine mail. His weapon recoiling painfully, the knight never stood a chance in the resulting contest of leverage.

One of Sigurd's hands grabbed the back seam of the knight's neckguard, and the other the back rim of his helmet. A single yank jolted the knight's head, disorienting him, and making throwing him to the ground a facile task.

Sigurd wrapped his cloak around the knight's helmet, smothering it. His knee slammed down into the knight's torso, his full weight pinning the armor against the man's ribs, preventing any expansion of the chest.

Ten seconds, and the knight stilled.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sigurd dragged the body near the switchback's edge, then took position. Sliding down its edge while facing forward, bracing his hand against the slope to maintain control, he waited in ambush.

Another knight came, just as heavily armored. His gaze swept around frantically. But he couldn't simply leave his fallen comrade. And the moment both of the knights' hands were occupied, checking for a pulse, Sigurd leapt up, and heaved the second man off the ledge.

The first knight was simply unconscious. The second knight was likely dead.

A flicker of pity passed through Sigurd, but he ignored it. These men had conspired against him—endangered Ciel, and likely his daughter Béatrice.

His breath caught. The worst possibilities flickered through his mind. When he'd heard Ciel's terrified voice through the echo stone, it had nearly paralyzed him.

But just as painful was the absence of Béatrice's voice. Whoever had lured him here knew exactly how much that silence would shake him.

He clenched his fist, forcing down the fear and sorrow which would only slow him.

Carefully, Sigurd resumed his ascent—his heart only held together with hope.

That the two of them were safe.

That he could hear Ciel, once more, free from pain and grief.

And that he could save his daughter Béatrice… and hear her voice for the very first time.