These Reincarnators Are Sus! Sleuthing in Another World

The Blanc palace was in such ruins, it was hard to believe the family had only fallen seven years ago. What time alone couldn't ravage, pillaging gave a helping hand, and disgruntled servants and commoners had inflicted no small amount of destruction for its own sake.

If there were a chief culprit in the palace's rapid deterioration, however, it would be the forest itself. Vines decorated the walls like tapestry, and small trees had sprouted from the ground unnaturally fast.

Nature had woven its way back into all of Amière, reclaiming the city as if the Blancs were but momentary regents, their designs the passing fancy of lords who overestimated their place.

Sir Voltus carried Bea through the greening corridors, telling her stories of things which had never happened. Perhaps he hoped to arrest her with tales so gripping, she'd ignore the decay around her.

"Yes, you see, this was the favorite hideout for your father and I, back when we were children," Voltus said. "An old king named Derelict the Third used to rule these lands—long before your father and I were knights, mind you—and we were the only children brave enough to enter his haunted palace."

"How brave was papa…?" Bea asked, indulging his yarns.

"...So brave, I imagine, that none have ever seen his eyes filled with fear," Voltus said, his words slowing from their usual frolicking pace.

The terrifyingly jovial man went silent, and all the way to the throne room he remained so.

The throne room was nearly empty of the furnishings you'd expect. In fact, it had been cleared of all shrubbery, which only served to make it feel more desolate, while huge holes in the ceiling brought in the open air.

It was almost like a huge patio.

Milling about were a motley crew of knights, mercenaries and bandits—to Bea, a bunch of dangerous people with swords, wearing faces that somehow looked happy and angry at the same time. She didn't yet understand that narrowed eyes and lop-sided smiles were the look of cruelty.

"Sir Voltus, if you came any later, you'd miss the show—" a female mercenary grinned, approaching like she was meant to slap him on the back.

Her hand froze in mid-air. All the grins and bluster bled out of the throne room as, one by one, all its dangerous occupants realized that Voltus was holding a child.

Confused mutters, some quite irritated, started up.

"What the hell is Voltus doing…?"

"That his kid? Thought he mentioned one once…"

"That was drunken bullshit, you moron. He said he had a son!"

In the center of the room, a tall and muscular young man sat on a stump, brooding over the dark jar he held in his right hand. His other hand gripped the hilt of his unsheathed sword, its blade stabbed into the earth. Even with what little she knew, Bea could tell he didn't take very good care of it.

"...Voltus," the man said darkly, and his gaze lifted at a disdainful pace. "You were told to make haste." Then, seeing Bea in Voltus's arms, his eyes glinted dangerously. "Why would you bring a child?"

"The little tyke all but landed in my arms, Gerhardt," Voltus said with an easy smile. "Wouldn't you say a real hostage is better than a fake one?"

Gerhardt stood up. "What the hell are you talking—"

"She's Sigurd's daughter, Gerhardt," Voltus said.

"...Is this a jest?" Gerhardt raised his voice threateningly. "Another one of your stupid tales?"

The muttering in the room which had been like a rustling breeze picked up its pace, sarcastic comments more mean-spirited than amused pelting her like hail.

"That bastard had a kid?! No way."

"We oughta test her divine blessing, don't you think?"

"A daughter? Always figured that prick for a eunuch, " The female mercenary sneered, right in Bea's face. "Why shouldn't I believe she's a street rat, like the rest of us?"

"Yes, Bea has quite noble blood in her," Voltus said, raising his volume so everyone in the throne room could hear. "For she is not only the daughter of the eum-Creids…" He paused dramatically. "But also the Blancs."

The density of guards thickened as Sigurd approached the east wing of the city. Until this point, their patrols had been loose—easy enough to sneak by so long as he was patient and watched for the glow of their lanterns.

Now, the paths were more lit than shadowed.

Crouched behind a building, Sigurd watched one guard's retreating back, waiting until he was far enough before climbing.

The wind howled, loud enough to cover the clink of his armor. Cracks in the stone façade gave his fingers solid purchase. Once on the roof, he crawled prone to the far edge.

Twenty minutes. That was how long it took Sigurd to memorize the guards' patrol routes. Dropping down from the roof, he timed his movement through the winding roads, slipping between the sweeps of passing lanterns.

He ascended a spiraling stairwell, reaching a landing which split into three paths: two staircases and a ramp.

A flicker of lantern light vanished beneath the arch ahead, a guard's shadow thinning as he climbed the stairs.

The patrols never passed through the staircase on the right. That one was a certain dead end. The ramp on the left was long and curving—as well as patrolled from both ends. If he ran down that route, he'd be boxed in before he made it through.

The center staircase was the surest path. Guards passed through regularly, but their routes never converged.

Sigurd counted to twenty, then climbed the center staircase at a precise and measured pace which kept him in the seams of their patrols.

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Step by step, Sigurd traversed the eastern ascent, until he'd reached Amière's most notorious quarter.

…The Blancs' Playground.

The Blancs' Playground was an uncanny little world of its own: a series of arcades and courtyards climbing the mountainside, filled with unnerving sculptures.

Torches sputtered in their sconces. Sigurd passed under an archway, into a colonnade lined with bright yellow columns.

Much like the Blancs themselves, the colors of their 'Playground' were more lurid than rich.

The family had made a point of patronizing the arts. Believing that the greatest artists living close together would lead to the greatest art, they invited painters, musicians, architects, artificers, and more to realize this garden of inspiration.

The premise was flawed. The execution mangled. And the fruits of the garden were notoriously sour—paintings of questionable pigments, music filled with screeching, ballets whose dances were as disturbing as they were risque.

Before Amière had fallen, the Blancs' playground had been something of a joke among the empire's nobility.

But now nature had begun to reclaim the space, ironically lending it a kind of dignity. The gaudy colors had dulled without fresh coats of paint. The vines which crept over the columns and the trees which sprouted through the cracks almost made it seem like a temple from a lost era.

Just as Sigurd cautiously passed a sculpture shaped like a cracked egg—yolk and all—he felt a chill run down his spine.

He ducked behind the egg-shaped structure, and a volley of arrows pierced its stone shell.

While Sigurd ascended the mountainside with ease, Ailn and Camille were already running into trouble.

Sneaking around with two people, it turned out, was a lot harder than going solo.

The mountain shoulder had been empty, and west Amière sparse. They'd slipped past guards by relying on instinct. But as the pair crossed over into the east wing of the city, where the guards increased, their lack of coordination started to show.

Amière's verticality made bottlenecks inevitable. There were only so many ways to go up. And the two of them had just reached the very same junction which Sigurd had cut through simply by being observant.

The moment the guard turned an archway to check on the next level up, Ailn and Camille broke into a sprint. They flew up the staircase, one after the other, but the instant they reached the top, they split.

Camille had started toward the narrow staircase on the right, which angled sharply out of view. Ailn veered left for the opposite fork, where the path opened into a wide, gently curving ramp.

Noticing Ailn breaking off, Camille spun on her heels.

"Where are you going?!" Camille whispered harshly—at least, as loudly as she could without attracting the guards' attention. "This way is clearly faster!"

Stifling a sigh Ailn came pacing back.

"You're headed toward a dead end," Ailn said.

"...And how exactly have you determined that?" Camille glanced behind at the staircase she was about to take, before regarding him skeptically. "Did you memorize all the city's streets when you looked down from the mountain shoulder?"

"Can't you feel the wind?" Ailn asked, taking off his hat, letting the air flutter through it. "It's howling, but barely going that direction. The space is closed off."

"Why would that staircase lead to a dead end?" Camille asked skeptically.

"What? I don't know—they were fitting some houses in where they could, maybe?" Ailn responded, sounding a little baffled. "It's not like I'm an expert on mountain architecture."

"And yet you're an expert on the movement of the wind—"

As the two bickered, the archway ahead lit up once more—the guard's shadow stretching into view.

Already split, with the guard about to cut into the space between them, the two cousins broke off, each ducking into their separate paths.

Dashing up the stairwell which Ailn had so confidently declared as a dead end, Camille found herself increasingly certain that it would lead to the next tier of the city. Flanked on each side by tightly packed residences built shoulder to shoulder, she ascended the stairs until she reached…

A sheer mountain face.

Camille stared at the mountain wall for one long, silent breath. Then, with a sigh, she descended the staircase swiftly yet quietly, returning to the junction. Peering around a wall, there was no sign of the guard from earlier.

That was surprising. It was mildly concerning, in fact.

The throne room fell silent.

"She's… what?" Gerhardt's voice sounded hoarse. His sword clattered to the floor unceremoniously. "Who? It couldn't be…"

"She is not so different from myself," Voltus sighed dramatically. "I am actually the lost son of a duke and duchess. Nay, a grand duke and an archduchess—"

"Tell me what your mommy and daddy's names are," Emily growled.

"Mama's name is Ciel…" Bea couldn't stop her shivering. "Papa's name is… Sigherd…" she rasped out.

"That so?" Emily said quietly, reaching out to caress Bea's face with mocking tenderness. "Your papa borrowed something important from me. I ought to get it back from him, don't you think?"

Her hand, missing two fingers, brushed Bea's cheek. "And your mother's sullied the good Blanc lineage, crawling into the first warm bed—"

Swiftly, Voltus pulled her away. "Miss Bea, I'm sorry you had to learn so early in your life that not all knights are gallant," he said, the ease never quite leaving his tone. "Emily here is not nearly so pretty in face or character as her name."

To Bea's surprise, Emily backed off, saying nothing even as she retained her steely glare. In whatever loose hierarchy they had, Voltus must have been important.

"Bring her here," Gerhardt said, his words clipped.

"...She's Ciel's child, Gerhardt. She serves us best, unharmed." Voltus spoke cautiously.

But Gerhardt said nothing as he took Bea from Voltus's hands. He raised her up high like a benediction, arms stiff, hands tense. It was clear the man wasn't used to holding children.

For the longest time he held her there, examining her.

"It… it hurts…" Bea said, eyes watering. She'd been dangling for too long. Camille's gauntlets had felt rough at times, but she'd always tried her best not to hurt Bea. Gerhardt's gauntlets, meanwhile, dug into Bea's skin.

Gerhardt didn't respond. He simply sat her down on the stump he'd previously been brooding on.

Then, without so much as a warning, he struck Voltus across the face.

"Ugh!" Voltus gasped. He staggered back, a welt already swelling red on his cheek.

"Is that what you think of the Blanc name, Voltus?" Gerhardt said. His voice slowly got louder. "That we're nothing but common knaves?!"

When Gerhardt raised his fist to once again strike the knight, Bea whimpered—and he stopped. Taking one glance at the small girl covering her face and trembling, he grit his teeth, striding over to the wall behind the throne.

There stood the plaster remains of the once orichalcum-gilded mural, the man and woman who represented the family's esteemed ancestry.

A small flash of white filled the room, and there was a sound like the clanging of rattling chains, growing louder and louder as if a prisoner were trying desperately to break free of their shackles.

A blast rang out as Gerhardt punched the plaster. Over and over, he struck the mural as if the man and woman had done something to offend him.

"This is the legacy I inherit!" Gerhardt shouted. "Our own knights think us scum who'd use children as shields—and who can deny it?! Our family made the bed, and now the few scions left rot in it!"

His breathing strained, and his holy aura dimmed. The sounds of his fist striking the wall softened, until finally it seemed he'd worn himself out.

He walked back over slowly to Bea.

Tears in her eyes, and biting her lip, she flinched at his approach. But Gerhardt merely picked her up and roughly dropped her on the floor.

Then he sat on the stump himself, looking as if he were completely exhausted. Blood dripped from his knuckles.

"So, you're…the mutt of… the eum-Creids and the Blancs, eh?" Gerhardt said through ragged breaths. He regarded her with a cold look, before covering his face with his bloody hands. "...Disgusting."

Somehow, Bea felt as if his heart wasn't in it.