Home/I confined you, but I have no ill will/ch4

4.

Ibelin stood with her arms crossed, pondering for a long while, but she could not figure it out.

"Never mind."

That wasn't what mattered, anyway. She could investigate her grandfather's true nature slowly over time. Saving Archduke Gracias was the priority.

The first method that came to Ibelin's mind was a letter.

In this era, there was such a thing as anonymous mail—you simply affixed a stamp to the envelope and dropped it in, and it would be delivered. You could write a name if you wished, but that felt somehow disquieting. The Archduke's notoriety was simply too great.

A letter from a complete stranger warning of danger—even she, if she were him, would immediately try to find the sender and verify the truth.

She had heard that her grandfather had ties to him, but she had nothing to prove it. If she made a mistake, she might get caught and end up with some part of her broken, like all the other victims.

Besides, I don't even know which unit Grandfather served in.

She had asked out of curiosity once, but her grandfather had been reluctant to share the details.

Perhaps the war he had experienced was so terrible that he wanted to forget it. That was why she hadn't pressed further. So she had no way to confirm the truth. She couldn't very well say she had seen the future in a dream, either. Believing or not believing—both were dangerous.

Still, I don't have any other choice.

Wasn't it all about how you sent an anonymous letter? Ibelin wrote the letter in handwriting different from her usual, and dropped it into a postbox on the outskirts, far from her house. She even wore light makeup, just in case someone's eyes might fall on her.

She sent the letter, but days passed and nothing changed.

"Why?"

The Emperor's birthday was drawing nearer, but the dream of the Archduke being attacked remained unchanged. Had the letter even reached him? Perhaps it had been lost along the way.

She had heard that in the capital, with such a volume of mail, that sort of thing happened often. Just in case, she sent a few more letters—but still, nothing changed.

Around then, Ibelin realized.

I don't have enough information.

Information that Ibelin, fresh from the provinces, did not know. She needed someone who possessed that information. If she kept on like this, she would only end up sending useless letters until it was all over.

Fortunately, I do know an information broker.

To be precise, it was someone her grandfather had known. She didn't know if he was still working, but she had nothing to lose. Deciding to go and check if he was still in business, she set out from the house with bold resolve.

It was a pity she couldn't enjoy the situation, but at last, an opportunity had come to experience firsthand the information broker she had always been curious about!

Thus, Ibelin left the house and headed into the back alleys of the capital.

The back alleys often appeared in novels and in the stories her grandfather used to tell. So Ibelin knew: the back alleys were where countless histories bloomed and perished. And in those histories, there was always a certain type of figure who appeared.

Thugs. Groups that swaggered about, extorting property from people who looked easy prey. Sometimes they drove others to despair; sometimes they fell into despair themselves. And in doing so, they sometimes served as the stepping stones for great historical figures.

"Hey there, miss. You look like you've got some money."

So when a thug appeared, Ibelin was not surprised. Here, it was only natural they would show up. Nodding to herself, Ibelin calmly reached into the bag slung at her side and pulled out a gun.

Though the era still favored cold weapons, weapons were bound to evolve. The gun was the result of such development. Of course, it was not easy to use. The bulky, crude-looking firearm came with a host of conditions.

You could not load more than six bullets at a time, and firing required a delay. That alone was troublesome enough, but there was one decisive condition.

The user had to be able to wield magic. From operating the gun itself to shortening the time between shots—one had to constantly channel magical power to attack. Since the gun's developers had been alchemists and mages, this had become a requirement.

For that reason, it was a rather inefficient weapon—but the thug seemed to think otherwise. Well, to deflect bullets, one would need to have trained in weapon skills to a certain degree.

"What the hell—is that a real gun?"

The thug stared at Ibelin with a tense expression. Since most magic users in the world were nobles, his reaction was only natural.

"Yes, it is."

Ibelin nodded and fired a single shot into the air. That was enough to chase the thug away.

"Aaah!"

She did not pursue the fleeing thug. Now she had to get out of this spot quickly, too. Some would run at the sound of gunfire—but others would come toward it.

Ibelin ran through the winding alleys, recalling the stories her grandfather had once told her. And she found the dilapidated tavern she was looking for.

At the entrance, a signboard painted with a grotesque monster swayed in the wind. Ibelin grabbed the half-broken doorknob and pushed—the door creaked open.

The outside was worn, and the inside was no better. Some of the chairs, apparently repaired after breaking, stood crookedly, and dust had accumulated on the wall decorations. Still, it seemed business was being done—a middle-aged man stood behind the bar.

Ibelin's eyes sparkled at the sight of him. He looked exactly as her grandfather had described! Those narrow eyes and that bulbous nose—she had come to the right place. She approached him shyly and whispered.

"One Dead Dragon, please."

The man's already narrow eyes became like slits.

"Not Red Dragon?"

Red Dragon was a fairly famous strong liquor, but it wasn't what Ibelin wanted. She shyly raised three fingers and spoke again. The instructions had been clear: first say one glass, and when met with a counter-question, raise three fingers and say—

"Yes, Dead Dragon. Two glasses."

The man still looked suspicious, but he did not dismiss her. He opened a door behind the bar and gestured.

"This way."

Ibelin followed the man through a long corridor inside. At the end was a small room, clean in a way that belied the building's shabby exterior. She tried hard to appear composed, but her heart kept pounding.

Just as expected of an information broker! A hidden space. And now Ibelin was inside it. One way or another, she had inherited some of her grandfather's adventurous spirit, so she enjoyed the new experience.

First to sit in the chair inside the room was the man. He looked at Ibelin with a grave expression.

"Sit down."

She did as told and sat across from him. His eyes, which had been so narrow throughout, suddenly opened wide.

"So, what brings you here?"

To the man's question, Ibelin answered calmly.

"I need information."

"Heh heh—then you've come to the right place."

The man—the information broker—smiled and rubbed his hands together like a fly. The solemn demeanor he had seemed to possess was long discarded.

"What kind of information do you want? If you wish, I can even find out a noble lady's underwear preferences!"

If he could even find out about someone's undergarments, then surely uncovering information about the Archduke would be easy. At his words, Ibelin's face brightened.

"I need information on Archduke Gracias."

At Ibelin's shyly delivered words, the broker, still smiling, asked back.

"Who?"

"Archduke Gracias."

"Who?"

"Gracias—"

Before she could finish, the broker slapped his hands to his cheeks and screamed.

"Aaaah! Agh! Agh! I didn't hear that! I heard nothing!"

Then he sprang up and paced around the room like a dying insect. He checked to make sure the door they had entered through was properly locked, then pressed his ear to the wall, as if listening for sounds from outside.

What an odd person.

While Ibelin was thinking that, the broker did not stop. This time he stepped onto a chair, peered up at the ceiling, and trembled all over. Still not understanding the situation, she could only blink—when the broker took a deep, ragged breath.

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