Chapter 46

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Translator: Harry Potta
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: A Fishing Trip
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#46

“Right. It could be, or it could not be. The odds are fifty-fifty.”

Though she couldn't be certain, Lucy's tone was endlessly cheerful. She reached over the sofa, grabbed a blanket that was draped over it, and tossed it to Walter.

“We might come back empty-handed. If we're unlucky, we might even give Duke Witten an excuse to turn the tables on us.”

“Your Majesty…”

“But this time, trust my gut. I may not know what good people are thinking, but I'm an expert on the minds of the wicked.”

Ignoring Walter's displeased expression, Lucy changed the subject with a smile.

“Besides, there's a more important issue at hand. Duke Witten is a sharp fellow, so he's probably realized he's being watched. We need to catch him the moment he makes contact with the Empire, but the problem is how to capture him.”

“Can't we just deploy the navy and seize him? If not, we could use the Raphi squad like last time.”

“That won't work.”

Lucy reached for the map spread on the table and tapped the Portmeier Strait.

“This is the extent of Parnas's waters. Beyond this point is the Empire's territory. They'll likely meet somewhere near this border, or within the Empire's waters.”

Walter, realizing the point she was getting at, stared at the map with a pained expression.

“We can't violate their waters, so mobilizing the army is out of the question.”

“Exactly. If we're dealing with the actual Empire, one wrong move could spark a diplomatic incident. Our goal is to brand Witten as an Imperial spy, but we can't cause friction with the Empire in the process. We have to be extremely careful and capture him under the guise of coincidence.”

“Then how do you plan to catch him?”

Lucy fell silent, tapping her crossed legs. After a moment, a mischievous smile played on her lips as she uttered an unexpected question.

“Grand General. Do you like to fish?”

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Screech. The cry of a gull circling overhead faded into the sound of the crashing waves.

In the middle of the pier, where wooden planks creaked incessantly, Count Bubehol held his fishing rod aloft, his eyes fixed on the blue sea.

Despite being over eighty, his gaze on the fishing rod was as sharp as ever. As the eldest member, Count Bubehol was respected in the Council, but his age was not the sole reason for their reverence.

He tended to his domain with all his might, always learning and introducing new things.

He was fluent in the continental common tongue, the language of the southern nomads, an ancient language, and two others, for a total of five languages, and was well-versed in old texts. Moreover, he abstained from alcohol and tobacco, spending his days off fishing in various places and often leading his grandchildren on mountain hikes—he lived a vigorous life.

Mountains and fishing.

Healthy and ideal hobbies, they were indispensable elements of Count Bubehol's life. Paradoxically, it was hiking and fishing that gave him the vitality to live so energetically.

Bubehol turned his head to look at the mountain aficionado he had converted.

“I thought we might catch something big when you suggested a fishing trip, Sir Hyverge. But you haven't had a single bite.”

Walter, who was sitting beside him with his own line cast, raised a slight eyebrow and gave his fishing line a few tugs.

His stoic face held an uncharacteristic languor.

“It doesn't matter if I catch anything. I came to enjoy some leisure time with you today, Count.”

“Haha. Still, it would be a shame to go home empty-handed, wouldn't it? If I catch something decent, I'll give it to you.”

“That's quite all right. Even if I took it, there's no one to eat it.”

“Nonsense! With all those subordinates of yours, how can you say there's no one to eat it? Don't be shy, take it.”

“I believe we'd have to fish all day to catch enough for everyone at headquarters…”

As their idle chatter continued, the bright sun warmed their cheeks. Though the biting wind chilled their fingertips, the warmth of the sun made it pleasant enough to sit.

It had been Walter who first suggested the fishing trip.

Walter had shown up unexpectedly at Count Bubehol's estate, claiming he'd gotten a long-overdue vacation and proposing they go fishing the very next day. Count Bubehol had agreed instantly without a second thought, excited about a fishing trip after so long.

And so the next day arrived.

The count, who had naturally assumed they would go somewhere near the capital, had cast a suspicious glance when told they had to travel all the way to the distant Portmeier Harbor. But Walter had dispelled his doubts with a single sentence.

“They say they're catching a lot of large red groupers near Portmeier these days.”

Red groupers. He couldn't resist red groupers.

And so, the two men arrived at Portmeier in the early dawn, leaving their attendants and adjutants behind.

But now it was nearly noon, and they hadn't caught a single common sea bass, let alone a red grouper. It was common enough for a fisherman to come up empty, but he felt it would be a shame to catch nothing when the Grand General himself had invited him out.

Count Bubehol lifted his rod and checked again to see if the bait was properly attached.

A gentle, salty sea breeze drifted in under the bright sun. Dressed in evening wear similar to a riding habit and a light tailored coat, Walter looked for all the world like a nobleman out for a day of leisure—nothing more, nothing less.

After carefully gathering the hem of his coat as it fluttered in the wind, Walter turned his gaze from the sea to look at Count Bubehol.

Dressed similarly, Count Bubehol wore a round hunting cap, which made him look much younger than usual.

In the Council, he was a lofty lord who always pierced his opponents' weaknesses with sharp remarks, but here in this private setting, he simply seemed like an easygoing, good-natured old man.

He must have come along looking forward to the fishing.

Walter sighed inwardly, recalling Lucy's words.

“Take Count Bubehol with you. He will be the witness to this whole affair.”

While explaining the plan, Lucy had insisted that they must involve Count Bubehol.

He had expected the count to be mentioned, as he was the most influential figure after Rutherford and Witten and a key person in rallying the elders. Still, his conscience pricked him at the thought of dragging an innocent, unsuspecting old man into the operation.

But he had a rough idea of the picture Lucy was painting, so he had no choice but to silently obey her command. Walter rubbed his furrowed brow and turned his eyes back to the sea.

Time passed as quietly as flowing water.

Walter, who had been staring near the horizon, blankly lifted his head to look at the sky. Another hour passed, and finally, three black dots—migratory birds or something else, it was unclear—passed overhead in a triangular formation.

They were Raphi scouts.

The moment he saw the signal that Duke Witten was on the move, Walter quickly rose to his feet and grabbed Count Bubehol's arm.

“Count. I don't think this is the right spot. We should move.”

“Hmm? Well… if you say so.”

No sooner had the count gathered himself to stand than Walter grabbed the fishing rods and bait and began striding off somewhere.

Watching his back recede in an instant, Bubehol hurriedly quickened his pace.

“Walter, you don't mean to go out to sea?”

“Yes.”

“But… if we were going out to sea, we should have left early in the morning. It's already past noon, how will we find a boat now?”

“I've already prepared a boat.”

Walter said, pointing toward the harbor.

Following his gesture, they saw a large galley ship suddenly cutting through the waves, heading their way.

“But… a boat… why, a boat…?”

Leaving for the sea so suddenly like this?

Before he could even wonder, Count Bubehol was led aboard the ship by Walter. As if launching a surprise attack, the boat that had taken the two men on board unfurled its sails and began to glide out toward the sea.

⚜ ⚜ ⚜

Bon Witten had been in a foul mood since morning.

There were three reasons. First, the toy he'd locked in his bedroom had been completely broken, forcing him to cast it out. Second, he'd had to wake at the crack of dawn to board a ship. And third, he had to ride a cheap merchant vessel instead of his family's luxurious ship.

“Ugh…!”

The boat, which swayed with every small wave, had already made him throw up three times. The ride was awful, but the foul stench—a mix of fish and rotting wood—gave him a persistent headache.

Witten wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and went up on deck.

“When in the world are we going to arrive!”

He spoke to the helmsman, who grunted something in an unintelligible language with a gruff voice.

When Witten turned around with an irritated expression, the attendant following him quickly repeated the question to the helmsman in the continental common tongue. After getting an answer, the attendant glanced cautiously back at Witten.

“We've just departed from Portmeier, so it'll be another twenty minutes before we enter their waters, he says.”

“Tell him to move as fast as possible.”

“He says the sea is calm, so this is the maximum speed. Pushing it any faster will only make your seasickness worse, so please be patient.”

Before the attendant could finish, Witten lost his temper and kicked the mast. The sailors' faces instantly turned cold, and the attendant, pale as a ghost, grabbed hold of Witten.

“The crew will riot if you mistreat the ship. Please, Your Excellency, calm down.”

“Dammit. Why did I have to take this filthy ship when there was a perfectly fine one available? I'm going through all this because of that wench.”

Muttering a curse, he covered his mouth with his handkerchief again.

Standing with dignity was only possible for a moment. Witten gripped the railing and retched his guts out.

The harbor grew more distant, and the ships lined up in a row disappeared from view. The mountain range that rose like a landmark soon shrank to the size of a thumbnail, and only when it too vanished from sight did the ship begin to slow down.

“He says we're approaching the meeting point.”

The attendant relayed the helmsman's words and offered a clean white handkerchief. Witten wiped his mouth with it and then tossed it unceremoniously into the sea. The white cloth bobbed on the waves before slowly sinking out of sight.

About ten minutes later, the ship they were waiting for appeared.

It was a galleon, much larger than Witten's ship, and though it bore no Imperial markings, its distinctive style made it instantly recognizable as a vessel built by the Empire.

“Honestly, do they have any sense at all?”

What was the point of going to all this trouble to disguise myself for a secret meeting if they're going to be this obvious?

Witten grumbled to himself, feeling like he was the only one who had suffered.

After a flurry of hand signals between the crews, the long-awaited ladder was lowered from the galleon.

“Hurry and come aboard! The Crown Prince is waiting!”

Damn, it's a real pain in the ass just to see that bastard Crown Prince's face.

Muttering inwardly, Witten smoothed his scowl into an elegant expression and placed a hand on the ladder.

Just as he was about to step onto the ladder, a navigator who had been scanning the surroundings shouted something in an unintelligible language.