Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 623

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 75.
The Actors of the Mystery Theater (2)
As Lorang’s gaze turned toward the entrance, judging it was nearly ten minutes past, Vivienne—who possessed an equally precise sense of time befitting Etoile—spoke.
“Your waiting period has just concluded. A meeting with the leadership is scheduled for five o’clock regarding your colonel’s commission. Afterward, you need only attend the banquet. You’ll require some preparation before the meeting, so let us return to your quarters.”
Certainly, the leadership wouldn’t desire that peculiar orange sauce with its distinctive fragrance at the banquet either. As Lorang entertained this thought, a question suddenly occurred to him.
“Still, the Waiting Room isn’t particularly conducive to passing time. Was there a specific reason you waited for my return here?”
“Yes.”
For some reason, she offered no further explanation, so Lorang attempted to press further.
“So the reason is….”
“You’ll understand once we reach your quarters.”
“Has another incident occurred during my absence from the Keep?”
“Nothing requiring your particular concern.”
“So something has happened.”
Vivienne gave a slight nod without expression and spoke.
“An irritating person, but comparable to the existence of this Waiting Room itself.”
“I confess I’ve wanted to meet whoever designed this Waiting Room and ask why they created something so dreadful.”
“I’m told it resembles the disciplinary chamber of the Royal Magic Academy precisely.”
Vivienne opened the door and stepped outside. Lorang followed, biting his lip to suppress laughter. The Orlanne mages possessed such peculiar obstinacy in the strangest matters that even someone like Vivienne couldn’t refrain from mockery.
For instance, they possessed ample knowledge to create convenient things like transfer gates, yet they regarded enduring inconvenience as a virtue, and whenever circumstances forced them to create something, they made earnest efforts to provide it in the most inconvenient manner possible.
I recalled the stormy night when Ecker, the Grand Duke’s magical advisor, appeared in a ridiculous raincoat and mud-caked boots instead of using magic.
The moment he began by asking if I knew why he’d come in such a state rather than using magic, Princess Charlotte immediately retorted, “Deliberate formalism?” which left the advisor speechless, while the Etoile members standing behind erupted in laughter, and poor Marie Louis merely stammered in the middle….
It was clearly a conversation from this very year, yet it felt strangely distant.
Perhaps because it was such a distant place. Wasn’t this essentially the opposite side of the Continent? I found myself slightly doubting whether I was truly Laurent Castille, whom I’d known for twenty-six years, or whether I’d lost a few threads of my fate passing through the transfer gate, or picked up someone else’s threads instead.
Destiny had undoubtedly shifted at some point, so perhaps it had been happening gradually. Perhaps during those four years passing through the transfer gate.
I wasn’t one to indulge in complex thoughts ordinarily, but the overwhelmingly surreal landscape spread before my eyes possessed a power that could drive any human toward contemplation.
Above the yellowish horizon stretched a sky unmarred by a single white speck, deepening into the navy blue of five o’clock evening, and beneath it lay a fortress extending left and right, its hue so delicate and pink it resembled a puppet theater stage.
Translucent like salt crystals, irregular, rough, and pink. Rather like peach-colored. As if someone had accidentally built a castle for puppet princesses and princes far too large.
I was neither a mage nor an explorer, neither a mercenary nor a treasure hunter, yet here I stood doing nothing but quarreling with disobedient nobles. The more deeply I attempted to contemplate, the more absurd it became, so I forced myself to cease thinking.
This was all happening because the Grand Duke trusted neither the nobility, nor their loyalty, nor even Etoile. Through this reorganization, the Grand Duke likely intended to weaken Etoile’s unity while naturally absorbing their organizational structure and discipline into the Grand Duchy’s military. If all went well, Etoile would become easier to control, the nobility’s privileges would be diminished, and both would find themselves watching the Grand Duke’s every expression.
In other words, this was neither for Etoile nor for the nobility. It was merely a plan for the Grand Duchy’s military and its master, the Grand Duke.
Yet wouldn’t the reorganized military eventually be inherited by Princess Charlotte?
Therefore, for now I need only fulfill my assigned duties faithfully. That “scarf-wearing lizard” who’d been relentlessly obstructing me had conveniently disappeared. Perhaps I too would benefit from adopting Vivienne’s perspective. The reorganization would proceed smoothly, after all.
“Let us depart.”
Vivienne displayed an uncharacteristic impatience. What on earth was the matter? With only one eyebrow furrowed, I withdrew my gaze from the fortress and followed Vivienne toward the Villa du Désert, used as officers’ quarters.
Observing the color and appearance of this building, which resembled hardened oatmeal spread upon a surface, I was certain it was the work of Orlanne mages. As I wiped my boot soles on the mat prepared at the entrance, the lingering odor seemed to fade only slightly.
“What exactly… is the source of this nauseating stench? Doesn’t a person of noble standing deserve a properly respectable entrance?”
Not long after Lorang entered his quarters, another party underwent the same process and set foot in the Keep.
Marquis Auguste de Campeshe, a man in his early forties wearing a crimson velvet coat, made a nauseated expression as he removed his boots smeared with orange paste and hurled them far away, then changed into fresh ones offered by his attendant.
Those accompanying the Marquis likewise held their noses, yet they possessed no fresh shoes to change into. Had the Marquis been concerned about the odor on their far more numerous boots, he might have provided them with replacements, but instead he solved the problem by distancing himself from them.
“Ugh, blegh! Once you enter this place, you shouldn’t even think about leaving again. I thought transfer gates were supposed to be convenient—why has everything rotted away? Is this negligent maintenance? And that City Wall color is certainly peculiar. Is that the Keep?”
As a voice like scraping broken pottery grew louder, passersby flinched and turned to look. The Mage standing with his entourage answered from a short distance away.
“Yes, Counselor.”
“What on earth is it made of to have such a color?”
“No one knows the composition. It’s a ruin from Ganapoli.”
“Why don’t you know? Can’t you just cut a piece off and destroy it, or soak it in chemicals or something? Are the Mages incapable of figuring out even that much?”
“I apologize, but we cannot cut into it. As you can see from the fact that it has persisted in this exact state for over a thousand years in this Wasteland Desert….”
“A thousand years? It looks like it would dissolve if it got rained on. It’s probably still here only because it doesn’t rain in this place, right? So does that mean the rooms inside and everything else are also exactly as they were a thousand years ago? Can people actually live in such a place?”
“…You will understand once you enter.”
The Mage, who had come to greet the Grand Duke’s Counselor and had been forced to answer reckless questions like these the entire time, was barely suppressing his rising irritation.
Fortunately, the distance was great enough that his expression went unnoticed. Besides, the other party wasn’t paying attention anyway. Marquis Auguste de Campeshe simply threw out whatever he wanted to say without much interest in the other’s reaction. As the Marquis glanced around again searching for something to criticize, a savior appeared.
“Welcome, Marquis Auguste de Campeshe!”
Count Baran, the commander of the Count Kerne Regiment, strode over with two officers in tow. The Marquis spread both arms wide, and the two exchanged a light embrace. Count Baran spoke.
“You must have had a difficult journey. How is beautiful Orlanne? The Grand Duke surely remains that bright light that illuminates Orlanne, does he not?”
“Of course. That’s precisely why he appoints an outstanding Counselor like myself, wouldn’t you say? Hahahaha!”
Despite the embarrassing self-praise, Count Baran laughed heartily without yielding and responded.
“Hahahaha, surely that goes without saying! Seeing you arrive, the Grand Duke will certainly come to understand the situation at the Keep precisely, and naturally he will issue improvement orders, will he not?”
“Well said. First, I’ll have that nauseating stench coming from the portal improved. To subject nobility to such a smell—that’s no small discourtesy.”
“We would be most grateful if you would do so, but once you enter, you will discover there are far more problems.”
“I anticipated as much. To assign fresh young recruits to officers suffering in this remote and desolate place, only to have them prattle on endlessly—that’s simply not acceptable.”
Count Baran immediately understood what Marquis Auguste de Campeshe was saying, but he feigned ignorance and changed the subject.
“By the way, are there any interesting news from the Capital? Being here, I’m curious about everything. Come, let us go inside. There is time before the banquet, so please rest a while and refresh yourself.”
Count Baran was quite clever, so he had the Marquis shown to a private chamber and then disappeared somewhere under the pretense of an errand. He knew well that prolonged conversation with Marquis Auguste de Campeshe would yield nothing good, only grievances and fault-finding.
What distinguished Marquis Auguste de Campeshe, a connoisseur renowned even among the notorious busybodies of Orly Court, was that his talkativeness was not his only remarkable quality.
His three consecutive victories in courtly jousting tournaments beginning at seventeen years old were but a small part of his renown, and his record of seven duels in which he had killed all his opponents was known to nearly everyone.
All seven duels had been initiated by his opponents, and those who knew him would shake their heads, wondering what desperation must have driven them to it. He possessed an exceptional talent for irritating people with his words.
He even mockingly mentioned the seven dead men as though they were his trophies, and there had been more than one or two occasions when an eighth duel nearly occurred. But everyone valued their lives.
Marquis Auguste de Campeshe enjoyed watching his opponent restrain their anger as though it were sport. Even now, he was likely amusing himself by deliberately prolonging remarks that would make the other’s answers difficult. Could the one who appointed such a man as Counselor to observe the Keep’s situation and report back truly be the Grand Duke?
However, the House of Campeshe was among the most distinguished families in Orlanne, so he carried authority wherever he went. Moreover, he had many enemies and few friends, making it unlikely that he would conspire with anyone to conceal the truth of matters.
Few were unaware that befriending Marquis Auguste de Campeshe tonight would amount to nothing more than becoming the subject of his gossip by early evening tomorrow. Since the Marquis himself took pride in this reputation, the Grand Duke would receive information about the garrison battalion at the Keep that was relatively close to the truth, despite being somewhat embellished by the Marquis’s own prejudices.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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