These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

The remnants of Amière's mining operations could still be seen in the western crags and the mountain shoulder. Shanties cluttered the area, thrown up wherever there was room. The stench of cheap, rotting pine filled the air.

The Blancs' desperation to find ever more veins had scarred the mountainside.

Tucked away into the Singing Mountains like a spoiled child too large for its cradle, Amière was its own little world, already half-dead from terminal short-sightedness long before the Azure Knights ever reached it.

Varant's retribution had merely forced out its final gasp.

"The city nears…" Sigurd muttered. Only a short climb remained to the mountain ridge, and beyond it upper west Amière.

Gerhardt was likely waiting for him in the Blancs' palace—perhaps in the very hall where Sigurd had executed the family elders. Among them… Gerhardt's father.

Unfortunately, the ridgeline itself wasn't a viable path to the palace. It was too narrow, its surface too jagged. Instead, he'd need to descend into the city, reach its eastern half and ascend from there.

By the time he reached the edge of the city proper, it was night. The city's rim was marked by a natural cliff, five to ten feet high. Some buildings had been built right against it, their second stories rising above the drop to offer an upper-floor entrance.

Sigurd pressed himself beside a doorway, listening for signs of life before slipping into what had once been a home. He let a faint trace of holy aura manifest as he descended the stairs.

Furniture still stood—stone tables, wooden benches, a tattered mattress. In the pantry, most goods were gone. Only dried fruit husks remained on the shelves.

He crossed the parlor and found the exit. But just as he stepped outside, something snapped underfoot.

It was a child's wooden toy—a small fairy. He'd crushed its arm, splintered both of its wings. And the dim light of his holy aura only made it look more pitiful, as if it were a real fairy, smashed by a giant as it tried to escape the dark.

Sigurd let out a shaky breath, ignoring the dread which twisted his stomach and the prickling fear which crept through the hand which held the broken toy.

Bea wasn't alone. But she felt lonely. Because the knight currently taking her to Amière couldn't be called a friend.

"Are you comfortable, young lady?" Voltus asked genially, as if he were merely escorting a young girl to see her father.

Not wanting to look at him, Bea gave a tiny nod.

She knew with her precognition that he wouldn't hurt her. But she also understood that he wasn't a good person.

"Your father shall be thrilled," Voltus went on, his merry tone unchanging. "The two of us are old brothers-in-arms, you know. Why, I saved his life once or twice—though I could hardly pretend a debt. To his swordarm, I owe a dozen of my lives!"

Sir Voltus was a huge liar. And a very friendly one, who Bea would have liked very much if she didn't know better.

But right now, she was a liar too. She'd lied to her mother. And she'd even lied to Voltus, by pretending she believed his pretending.

It was confusing and scary. Bea very much wished she had Aristurtle to help her think things through.

"Soon enough, we'll come up on the old fortress your father and I used to guard together," Voltus reminisced. "'Tis a colossal slab of stone which looks—and feels—as comfortable as a prison, flanked on both sides by mountains. Now, I won't be taking you inside, much as your father's comrades would be pleased to meet you, as I think the sight of you would distract them too much from work. I shall be taking you to a big palace instead. Would you like that, Bea?"

Once again, Bea just gave a trembling nod. She didn't like how easily Voltus wove truth with lies.

"Your father's coming from a very long way to meet you, Bea," Voltus said. "It may take him a while. So, while you wait for him, you'll have the company of one of his dearest friends: Mister Gerhardt."

Ciel's breath was still shallow as she waited to enter Ashton's office.

A commoner meeting the duke's son without any prior notice was almost unheard of. And Ciel knew Ashton respected the ties of blood least of all.

The fact that they were cousins would mean nothing to him. But one whispered word to his retainers had been enough for him to agree to meet.

Amière.

A ruined city now occupied by the honorless dogs who used to fill its kennels: the Argent Guard. Displaced and bannerless for nearly a decade, Ciel could only imagine how the years had corroded their souls.

What would they do to this little girl if they figured out her lineage? The blood of two houses that should never have touched—eum-Creid and Blanc, joined in a single heartbeat.

Of the former, its proudest son and their greatest enemy.

Of the latter, the broken daughter hated even by the woman who bore her.

"The duke will see you now," the retainer murmured, ushering her in.

When Ciel entered, Ashton was staring at his orchids, one hand cradling a glass of citron juice over the pot as if he were considering pouring it in.

"A little sugar couldn't do too much harm, could it?" Ashton murmured. "No. Orchids are delicate—beautiful because they're fickle. But how then shall we explain my father, who's just as nitpicky as you, yet uglier by the day?"

He sighed and drank the citron juice all at once.

"Ashton," Ciel interrupted him.

"What are you here for, Ciel?" Ashton asked, not even turning around to look at her. "And why," he added coldly, "would you remind me of such a revolting place?"

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Bea's been abducted, Ashton," Ciel said, her voice trembling. "Both hers and Sigurd's lives are in danger. They're both headed for Amière—or perhaps they've already arrived. The Argent Guard is plotting against Sigurd and they've massed in force, but Bea believes she can save him. I've come to ask you to deploy the White Knights. If we leave now, we might still reach them in time—both of them can be saved—

"Slow down," Ashton cut in. "Why would anyone return to that godforsaken city? No, before that, your daughter is four, is she not? How could she reach Amière?"

He turned around, slowly and deliberately, making no effort to hide the bewilderment or the deep skepticism in his gaze.

"She—she left a note, Ashton!" Ciel stomped up to him and shoved said note into his hands. "Bea is a special child and I have no time to explain it."

"Every parent imagines their child is special," Ashton said. His face crinkled at the note. "You believe your daughter's found her way to a city whose name she can't spell?"

Ciel's fist trembled with rage.

"Your daughter is likely just wandering the estate," Ashton said. "At worst, she's slipped into the streets of Calum, in which case we should be speaking to the night guards—"

"Maids saw her departing with one of your knights, Sir Voltus!" Ciel cried. "We don't have time to debate this, Ashton, please!"

He froze.

"...Even if I believed you," Ashton said flatly, "I lack the power." He looked away bitterly. "As of this moment, the White Knights have been commandeered by Princess Isolde for the purpose of hunting down Duke eum-Creid."

"The duke's son can't deploy his house's knights?!" Ciel snapped.

"Based on hearsay? Of course not," Ashton said. "Naturally, the White Knights would need to confirm your words through reconnaissance first. And if the broken remnants of the Argent Guard have truly gathered in the corpse of a mountain-fenced city to form a last stand, what folly would drive us to meet them on their terms?"

"Just—just a few knights then! I am not asking for an army—" Ciel pleaded.

"Do you not see how that would be worse?" Ashton sighed. "Suppose your words prove true. Then I'd be sending a handful of knights to a helpless death against dozens of bandits."

"...Then is it better," Ciel whispered, staring at him in stricken disbelief, "that Bea dies helplessly instead?"

"That's not…" Ashton's words faltered, caught by the pain in Ciel's eyes.

He returned to his desk, sinking into his chair.

"Then… what of your debt to Sigurd?" Ciel asked. "That means nothing to you?"

Ashton considered this for a long, silent moment. "Would Sigurd rush headlong into scores of men who want him dead?" he asked quietly. "Why would he?"

"I don't know," Ciel said. "I… truly don't understand why he would. But I know he is not a fool. He is not a man who would throw his life away for no reason."

Her gaze turned determined. "If not for ties of blood, then why not for the sake of your politics? Trust that your ally has a reason for his actions, and send him your support."

"...That nearly sounds convincing," Ashton said.

But he said nothing more.

For a moment, disgust flickered across Ciel's face—then vanished into a blank expression.

"Then if you can't help me, I shall take my leave," Ciel said, emotionlessly. She turned without another word and began to walk away.

And before she reached the door, Ashton called after her.

"You know, Ciel. I was hoping to poach Sir Kylian today," Ashton said idly. "I even retrieved the key to his cell from the strongbox."

Ciel's head turned slowly—just in time for her to notice and catch the small metallic object tossed her way.

"But it seems I misplaced it," Ashton said lightly, "while tending to my orchids."

While Ciel and Ashton were discussing the reoccupation of Amière, Alera was testing her luck behind enemy lines. Ponying along three horses was a rather tedious task. But the monotony of the task distracted Alera from the gutsiness of it.

The southwest pass, a series of terraces and ramps winding up to the fortress's rear, had been built for wagons and beasts of burden. It was the main supply route—and likely held more members of the Argent Guard than anywhere but the Blanc palace itself.

Alera held her lantern high as she rode, hoping to disabuse any guards of the notion that she was attempting to sneak in.

Both her hands felt clammy—one on her own horse's reins, the other clutching the rope which led the three behind her. Could the telltale signs of a nervous liar be spotted from a distance? It certainly felt like it. Alera wondered if she might be felled by an arrow before she even opened her mouth.

The fortress's gate came into view. "Halt!" one of the guards called out.

There was a pause.

"Approach!" the same voice called, sounding a bit friendlier. Then, once Alera had come within a few paces, the guard came ambling up. He eyed her up and down. "...That you, Alera?"

The guard took off his helmet.

"The very same," Alera nodded. Then she gave her best cocksure grin. "I take it the life of a mercenary grew tiresome, Tarn?"

"The mercenary life led me to my current dispensation," Tarn replied, giving her a bright and affable smile. "Quite a hefty sum was paid, before allegiances were ever considered, you know?"

A bit of suspicion edged into his voice. "Though I'd… be curious how it compares to the pay of a White Knight."

"The salary is good, and my reputation is sterling," Alera shrugged. "Yet I get paid to waste away and duel. I've come seeking fulfillment, consequences be damned." She tugged at the rope leading the three horses, curling her lip with a dash of conceit. "All the better for you, I've come bearing gifts."

Before Alera had left Ailn and Camille, they'd unbarded the horses.

"From where, exactly?" Tarn asked, with a curious look.

"...Taken from travellers," Alera said. "To make sure it's known—a few years haven't been enough to dull my blade."

Tarn shook his head, but admiringly, as if he were admitting defeat. "Swift and terrible as the old days… I wouldn't have faulted you for losing a step," he laughed. "You made certain to leave no survivors?"

Her blood froze with how casually he suggested it. Nonetheless, she smiled wickedly. "Of course."

Reading Tarn's expression, she didn't see an ounce of guilt on his face. But Alera had never remembered him as cruel. As far back as she could remember, the man was normal, pleasant to talk to, unfailingly courteous.

What disturbed Alera the most wasn't that he'd changed—just the opposite. He was the same as ever, with an easy demeanor that even suggested he'd navigated the strife-filled life of a mercenary with grace.

He was just a normal man who didn't give murder a second thought. And Alera had once been the same.

The unpleasant reality of who she used to be rose like bile in her throat. But at the same time, some small part of her couldn't believe she'd become so squeamish in a mere seven years.

"Then let's get a move on," Tarn said. "It's a relief to have you here, I say. The more skilled blades we have the better." He gave her an apologetic look. "Though… some of the others may be slow to accept you. Some feel resentment towards those who managed to emerge from Amière pristine."

"Envy befits rogues," Alera shrugged. "Anyone who protests can duel me if they like. Then we can see whose blade and whose neck remains 'pristine.'"

"Try not to provoke them," Tarn sighed. With his command, the portcullis rose and they both entered.

Then he lightly chuckled, meeting Alera's gaze with the warmth of an old friend. "Nostalgic though, isn't it? It's as if we're all truly knights again."

On the other side of the city, a certain man waited in the throne room of its forgotten palace.

It was a place that had once been all marble and opulence. The floral moldings along the floor and ceiling used to swirl with gold, while serpents and dragons coiled in silver around the chamber's columns.

The throne room used to have a throne.

Now it had a stump. The throne had been stolen, the gold and silver stripped. The marble had been ransacked, and the beautiful mural of a man and woman with silvery hair, rendered in orichalcum leaf, had been scraped clean. Only their plaster ghosts remained.

Gerhardt Blanc sat on the stump, waiting for Sigurd eum-Creid's arrival, a single obsidian jar in hand.