The holy standard had fallen into Guiscard’s hands. However, that very night, Archbishop Bodin, accompanied by the Templars, managed to escape from the royal capital. He was headed for the Templars’ castle near the Maryamian border.
This was contrary to Guiscard’s expectations. He had anticipated that there would come an opportunity to assassinate Bodin, and had expressly summoned Silvermask for such purposes, but now there was no use for the man. That being the case, Hirmiz found it all the more absurd of a fool’s errand.
King Innocentius, unable to read Guiscard’s mind, seemed to be innocently rejoicing in the fact that the nagging Bodin had somehow disappeared from his view.
Did your head become riddled with cavities from drinking too much sugar water? Guiscard was tempted to ask. To begin with, absolutely none of King Innocentius’s problems had been resolved.
Could he even obtain the church’s approval regarding his marriage to Tahmineh? Would he accept Tahmineh’s request to kill Andragoras III? Was it possible to convert Tahmineh to the Ialdabaothan faith? There were difficult questions all over the place. It was Guiscard, in his older brother’s stead, who had gone so far as to vex himself over future predicaments.
Even so, Bodin’s disappearance was nonetheless a pleasant turn of events. Vanished along with him was his talk of executing ten thousand Parsians. Now Guiscard could take his time cooking up a plan to deal with the bastard. Or so he thought.
However, things didn’t end at that.
Even as they left the capital, the Templars had destroyed the irrigation canals at the northern end of the city.
Vast areas of farmland had been flooded. Furthermore, even when the waters receded, it seemed that no crops would be able to grow there anymore.
Guiscard, upon rushing over the moment he received the report, gazed across the swamped fields, unable to make a sound.
“I reckon they’ll take about ten years to rebuild. In the meantime, this area can’t be used as farmland. And not just that, when spring ends and summer comes, the capital might undergo a water shortage.”
After hearing what the army engineers had to say, Guiscard, now returned to the capital, smashed three of the luminous wine glasses that had been placed on his red sandalwood table. Every single shard shattered against the ceiling and the walls and the bed.
“Damn you, Bodin! You crazed monkey! Can’t you tell the difference between good and evil?”
He was seized with a dizzying rage.
“Compared to Prince Arslan, Bodin and the Templars are the more calamitous by far. If left to their own devices, all of Pars shall end up a barren wasteland.”
Guiscard came to a decision. I’ll formally mobilize the troops here in Pars and have Bodin and all his Templar followers killed, dealing with them both in one blow.
“… No, it’s not that easy.”
Guiscard wanted to line up Archbishop Bodin and the leadership of the Templars and behead them all at once. Yet they had slyly barricaded themselves in their own stronghold, along with a force of more than twenty thousand. To attack them would require a large force of his own, and above all, any among the generals and soldiers who would balk at fighting against the church’s might must also be weeded out. Worst would be if the Lusitanian army, divided thus into the royal faction and the archbishop faction, became embroiled in mutual conflict, a situation that only Prince Arslan and the Parsian loyalists would celebrate.
Were things really to play out that way, then everything they had labored for until now, starting with the campaign undertaken from Lusitania all the way to their just barely successful conquest of Pars, would all become naught but froth. It would all slip carelessly out of their hands.
“You fucking mad ape, Bodin. It was because you’d reasoned it out this far that you had the guts to make a mess of things. Even for a religious fanatic, you truly are a detestable fellow…”
All of a sudden, a single consideration flashed through Guiscard’s mind.
“From now on, I’ll be able to manipulate my brother however I wish. Those in my way currently number two: that damned Bodin, and the crown prince Arslan. Under that assumption, can these two not be induced to conflict against each other…?”
If Bodin and Arslan came into strife, both sides would take losses. It occurred to him that this would be a good idea. Were that the case, then if Arslan did not possess enough military power, it would instead create more problems than it was worth. He certainly would not complain if Arslan were to show up leading a force of several thousand. If they helped settle the issue of Bodin, then he could offer thanks by dealing with them in turn.
The only thing was, the problem lay in how to get the two to clash.
“That’s right, Queen Tahmineh. She’s the mother of the crown prince Arslan. I can have him kill Bodin in exchange for returning his mother safely to him. I wonder if a deal like that would succeed?”
But in this there were difficulties as well. If he did anything like release Tahmineh, Guiscard’s older brother Innocentius VII would surely not approve.
If all the fervor that had been previously dedicated to Ialdabaoth were now to be directed at a single woman, what would result? Until now, he had been suspended between God and woman, but the moment the scale in his heart tipped over to the woman, there would be no return.
Should that transpire, and he replaced God with woman alone, there was not a single benefit in it for Guiscard. To do something so ridiculous? No thanks.
At that point, another consideration surfaced in Guiscard’s mind.
If Prince Arslan were to be converted to the faith of Ialdabaoth, would it not be fine to cede the Parsian throne to him while controlling him behind the scenes for Lusitania?
Who knew how wise Arslan was, but he was no more than a child of fourteen. If he could be dragged into an alliance, could it not be worked out some way or other afterward?
…. One after one, good ideas for Guiscard rose to the fore.
But on the other hand, it could be said that none of this, ultimately, was for Guiscard to decide. The path to his final goal, as was all too clear to him, would be neither wide nor smooth.
Why did he have to be born second? If only he had been born the eldest. It would have been better that way for Lusitania as well.
“At the end of the day, were it not for me, there would be no kingdom of Lusitania. It is I who am the true king of Lusitania. If appearance should ever catch up to reality, how could I be expected to hold back?”
Though Guiscard thought this way, if he killed his brother the king by his own hand, not only would his reputation suffer, it wouldn’t be easy on his conscience either. If he could, he’d prefer to get someone to volunteer for the part, then assume the throne fair and square in the name of avenging his brother. If he didn’t, even if he were able to take the throne, it would be difficult to keep it.
At any rate, who could possibly be the culprit behind Count Pedraos’s murder several days ago, and the murder of Hildiger just the other night?
Guiscard hadn’t even the slightest idea. The killer had not acted in the open either time. Pedraos had been skewered in the lower abdomen by a sword from the ground. Hildiger, along with a woman, had been torn in half in the privacy of a locked room. It was undeniable: all throughout Pars some sort of outrageous devilry was afoot.
“… Your Grace, a guest has arrived.”
On hearing the servant’s nervous voice, Guiscard came to his senses. With a wry smile, he ordered, “Let him in.” No matter what, it was probably better not to overindulge in daydreams.
The one who entered was a Parsian with a burly figure and an incongruously effeminate face. He was one of the officials charged by Hirmiz with the interrogation of Andragoras.
“Does King Andragoras still live?”
Guiscard questioned him in Parsian. It was quite peculiar for a conqueror to use the language of the conquered, but as the other party was completely unable to speak Lusitanian, there was no helping it. At some point they would force the Parsians to start using only Lusitanian, but for the time being he had no choice but to converse in Parsian.
“… ‘You must not kill him.’ As that was Lord Silvermask’s command…” was the torturer’s impotent reply.
That was fine. The feeble muttering of the torturer only made him creepier. What Guiscard wanted to know was what manner of deep, dark chain of fate lay lurking between the man of the silver mask and King Andragoras. It was because he wished to know this that he had gone to the effort of summoning the likes of this Parsian torturer.
“With all due respect, I am afraid I cannot say.”
“I’ll reward you for the trouble.”
He tossed several Parsian dinars to the ground for him to see, but the interrogator obstinately refused to even look.
“What, are you that afraid of that damned silver mask?”
“This humble one’s older brother had his tongue ripped out for speaking needlessly to Lord Silvermask.”
“Hm…”
Guiscard shivered. The man was certainly capable of it, he thought.
“No matter how long the silver mask’s arms may be, he already left for the eastern border a while back. There’s no way he can reach out all the way here to rip out your tongue.”
He tried a joke in order to ease the other man’s mind, but the interrogator, as ever, only shook his head gloomily.
“Compared to the silver mask, I’m the one closer to you right now. If you like, I can rip your tongue out for you.”
Even this attempt at threatening him produced no result.
In the end, Guiscard had no choice but to let the torturer go, of course without removing his tongue. On the contrary, out of necessity he even ended up allowing the man to take the dinars he’d thrown on the ground as hush money. Truly an absurd turn of events.
“Silver masked bastard…”
Guiscard was not his brother. He filled his silver cup with actual Parsian wine, drained it in a single gulp, then gasped for breath.
“He’s been of use until now, and there’s no denying the man will continue to be useful henceforth. But when using a drug more poisonous than medicinal, there’s got to be a limit after all…”
Guiscard, who had a head for both politics and military affairs, completely eclipsed his older brother King Innocentius VII. He was probably the most talented man in all of Lusitania. Not only was he a man in whom accomplishment, confidence, and ambition all joined in one, he was constantly contemplating how to make use of others, while by no means allowing himself to be used by others.
After downing two cups of wine, Guiscard left his room. He had to raise the morale of the troops in Pars after the various misfortunes that had rocked them. When it came down to it, the only one who could manage that was Guiscard.
The holy standard had fallen into Guiscard’s hands. However, that very night, Archbishop Bodin, accompanied by the Templars, managed to escape from the royal capital. He was headed for the Templars’ castle near the Maryamian border.
This was contrary to Guiscard’s expectations. He had anticipated that there would come an opportunity to assassinate Bodin, and had expressly summoned Silvermask for such purposes, but now there was no use for the man. That being the case, Hirmiz found it all the more absurd of a fool’s errand.
King Innocentius, unable to read Guiscard’s mind, seemed to be innocently rejoicing in the fact that the nagging Bodin had somehow disappeared from his view.
Did your head become riddled with cavities from drinking too much sugar water? Guiscard was tempted to ask. To begin with, absolutely none of King Innocentius’s problems had been resolved.
Could he even obtain the church’s approval regarding his marriage to Tahmineh? Would he accept Tahmineh’s request to kill Andragoras III? Was it possible to convert Tahmineh to the Ialdabaothan faith? There were difficult questions all over the place. It was Guiscard, in his older brother’s stead, who had gone so far as to vex himself over future predicaments.
Even so, Bodin’s disappearance was nonetheless a pleasant turn of events. Vanished along with him was his talk of executing ten thousand Parsians. Now Guiscard could take his time cooking up a plan to deal with the bastard. Or so he thought.
However, things didn’t end at that.
Even as they left the capital, the Templars had destroyed the irrigation canals at the northern end of the city.
Vast areas of farmland had been flooded. Furthermore, even when the waters receded, it seemed that no crops would be able to grow there anymore.
Guiscard, upon rushing over the moment he received the report, gazed across the swamped fields, unable to make a sound.
“I reckon they’ll take about ten years to rebuild. In the meantime, this area can’t be used as farmland. And not just that, when spring ends and summer comes, the capital might undergo a water shortage.”
After hearing what the army engineers had to say, Guiscard, now returned to the capital, smashed three of the luminous wine glasses that had been placed on his red sandalwood table. Every single shard shattered against the ceiling and the walls and the bed.
“Damn you, Bodin! You crazed monkey! Can’t you tell the difference between good and evil?”
He was seized with a dizzying rage.
“Compared to Prince Arslan, Bodin and the Templars are the more calamitous by far. If left to their own devices, all of Pars shall end up a barren wasteland.”
Guiscard came to a decision. I’ll formally mobilize the troops here in Pars and have Bodin and all his Templar followers killed, dealing with them both in one blow.
“… No, it’s not that easy.”
Guiscard wanted to line up Archbishop Bodin and the leadership of the Templars and behead them all at once. Yet they had slyly barricaded themselves in their own stronghold, along with a force of more than twenty thousand. To attack them would require a large force of his own, and above all, any among the generals and soldiers who would balk at fighting against the church’s might must also be weeded out. Worst would be if the Lusitanian army, divided thus into the royal faction and the archbishop faction, became embroiled in mutual conflict, a situation that only Prince Arslan and the Parsian loyalists would celebrate.
Were things really to play out that way, then everything they had labored for until now, starting with the campaign undertaken from Lusitania all the way to their just barely successful conquest of Pars, would all become naught but froth. It would all slip carelessly out of their hands.
“You fucking mad ape, Bodin. It was because you’d reasoned it out this far that you had the guts to make a mess of things. Even for a religious fanatic, you truly are a detestable fellow…”
All of a sudden, a single consideration flashed through Guiscard’s mind.
“From now on, I’ll be able to manipulate my brother however I wish. Those in my way currently number two: that damned Bodin, and the crown prince Arslan. Under that assumption, can these two not be induced to conflict against each other…?”
If Bodin and Arslan came into strife, both sides would take losses. It occurred to him that this would be a good idea. Were that the case, then if Arslan did not possess enough military power, it would instead create more problems than it was worth. He certainly would not complain if Arslan were to show up leading a force of several thousand. If they helped settle the issue of Bodin, then he could offer thanks by dealing with them in turn.
The only thing was, the problem lay in how to get the two to clash.
“That’s right, Queen Tahmineh. She’s the mother of the crown prince Arslan. I can have him kill Bodin in exchange for returning his mother safely to him. I wonder if a deal like that would succeed?”
But in this there were difficulties as well. If he did anything like release Tahmineh, Guiscard’s older brother Innocentius VII would surely not approve.
If all the fervor that had been previously dedicated to Ialdabaoth were now to be directed at a single woman, what would result? Until now, he had been suspended between God and woman, but the moment the scale in his heart tipped over to the woman, there would be no return.
Should that transpire, and he replaced God with woman alone, there was not a single benefit in it for Guiscard. To do something so ridiculous? No thanks.
At that point, another consideration surfaced in Guiscard’s mind.
If Prince Arslan were to be converted to the faith of Ialdabaoth, would it not be fine to cede the Parsian throne to him while controlling him behind the scenes for Lusitania?
Who knew how wise Arslan was, but he was no more than a child of fourteen. If he could be dragged into an alliance, could it not be worked out some way or other afterward?
…. One after one, good ideas for Guiscard rose to the fore.
But on the other hand, it could be said that none of this, ultimately, was for Guiscard to decide. The path to his final goal, as was all too clear to him, would be neither wide nor smooth.
Why did he have to be born second? If only he had been born the eldest. It would have been better that way for Lusitania as well.
“At the end of the day, were it not for me, there would be no kingdom of Lusitania. It is I who am the true king of Lusitania. If appearance should ever catch up to reality, how could I be expected to hold back?”
Though Guiscard thought this way, if he killed his brother the king by his own hand, not only would his reputation suffer, it wouldn’t be easy on his conscience either. If he could, he’d prefer to get someone to volunteer for the part, then assume the throne fair and square in the name of avenging his brother. If he didn’t, even if he were able to take the throne, it would be difficult to keep it.
At any rate, who could possibly be the culprit behind Count Pedraos’s murder several days ago, and the murder of Hildiger just the other night?
Guiscard hadn’t even the slightest idea. The killer had not acted in the open either time. Pedraos had been skewered in the lower abdomen by a sword from the ground. Hildiger, along with a woman, had been torn in half in the privacy of a locked room. It was undeniable: all throughout Pars some sort of outrageous devilry was afoot.
“… Your Grace, a guest has arrived.”
On hearing the servant’s nervous voice, Guiscard came to his senses. With a wry smile, he ordered, “Let him in.” No matter what, it was probably better not to overindulge in daydreams.
The one who entered was a Parsian with a burly figure and an incongruously effeminate face. He was one of the officials charged by Hirmiz with the interrogation of Andragoras.
“Does King Andragoras still live?”
Guiscard questioned him in Parsian. It was quite peculiar for a conqueror to use the language of the conquered, but as the other party was completely unable to speak Lusitanian, there was no helping it. At some point they would force the Parsians to start using only Lusitanian, but for the time being he had no choice but to converse in Parsian.
“… ‘You must not kill him.’ As that was Lord Silvermask’s command…” was the torturer’s impotent reply.
That was fine. The feeble muttering of the torturer only made him creepier. What Guiscard wanted to know was what manner of deep, dark chain of fate lay lurking between the man of the silver mask and King Andragoras. It was because he wished to know this that he had gone to the effort of summoning the likes of this Parsian torturer.
“With all due respect, I am afraid I cannot say.”
“I’ll reward you for the trouble.”
He tossed several Parsian dinars to the ground for him to see, but the interrogator obstinately refused to even look.
“What, are you that afraid of that damned silver mask?”
“This humble one’s older brother had his tongue ripped out for speaking needlessly to Lord Silvermask.”
“Hm…”
Guiscard shivered. The man was certainly capable of it, he thought.
“No matter how long the silver mask’s arms may be, he already left for the eastern border a while back. There’s no way he can reach out all the way here to rip out your tongue.”
He tried a joke in order to ease the other man’s mind, but the interrogator, as ever, only shook his head gloomily.
“Compared to the silver mask, I’m the one closer to you right now. If you like, I can rip your tongue out for you.”
Even this attempt at threatening him produced no result.
In the end, Guiscard had no choice but to let the torturer go, of course without removing his tongue. On the contrary, out of necessity he even ended up allowing the man to take the dinars he’d thrown on the ground as hush money. Truly an absurd turn of events.
“Silver masked bastard…”
Guiscard was not his brother. He filled his silver cup with actual Parsian wine, drained it in a single gulp, then gasped for breath.
“He’s been of use until now, and there’s no denying the man will continue to be useful henceforth. But when using a drug more poisonous than medicinal, there’s got to be a limit after all…”
Guiscard, who had a head for both politics and military affairs, completely eclipsed his older brother King Innocentius VII. He was probably the most talented man in all of Lusitania. Not only was he a man in whom accomplishment, confidence, and ambition all joined in one, he was constantly contemplating how to make use of others, while by no means allowing himself to be used by others.
After downing two cups of wine, Guiscard left his room. He had to raise the morale of the troops in Pars after the various misfortunes that had rocked them. When it came down to it, the only one who could manage that was Guiscard.
