PDCOO Chapter 28

"What's all this? Since when am I an important customer?"

"Come now, don't be like that. How about fried onions for lunch today?"

Anna quietly steered the village chief toward the back of the restaurant.

But Franz rose from his seat and stepped into their path. He managed a degree of courtesy in the presence of an older man.

"Good day. I am Franz Gerhardt, a knight from the capital. I have some questions for you, sir, if you'll allow."

"Well, what brings a knight to our modest little village."

"I'm looking for someone. Name: Bertram. A large dark-haired man in a black fur cloak. Twenty-five years old. Do you know him?"

"Goodness, sounds frightening just to hear it. Is he an escaped criminal? I could lend you a trap."

"Absolutely not!"

Having confirmed it wasn't a criminal matter, the village chief made a discreet OK sign to Anna behind his back and answered Franz.

"Large men—there are one or two of those everywhere you look. We have plenty of them in this village too. Plenty of soldiers settled here after the war who couldn't go home."

"I see. Please let me know if you encounter any strangers."

"And what do I get if I bring you information?"

Franz's features tightened. The village chief pretended not to notice, smiling with complete ease. You're the one in a hurry. Not me.

The sharpness smoothed itself back to its original beautiful form. Franz had not yet begun to doubt that he held the advantage here.

"Let me say it again: I am a knight who has traveled a long way on orders from the state. As a citizen of this nation, you are required to cooperate with—"

"Ha! Cooperate! As a citizen!" The village chief slapped his knee and laughed heartily. "That's a phrase I heard until I was good and sick of it during the war!"

"...A difficult thing to laugh at, sir. Is this the official position of the village? If so, I would like to speak with the village chief."

"I am the village chief."

That was when Anna arrived with the village chief's lunch—plate produced with some urgency. She'd grabbed what was left from the soldiers' portions and plated it quickly, but it was the only thing that might interrupt the current atmosphere.

The village chief sulked at the menu he hadn't chosen. Franz scowled at the obvious interference. But more customers had begun filtering in one by one, and that at least helped.

Each time a customer entered, Franz intercepted them: 'Do you know a man named Bertram.' Each time, Anna intercepted the customer from the other side with a menu in hand.

In between, the village chief slipped outside and made the rounds person by person, quietly alerting the village to be careful of the knight.

Most customers grasped the situation quickly.

Bertram had helped the village more than once since he'd arrived.

He wasn't a criminal—confirmed by the pursuers themselves.

And the golden-haired nobleman was, quite simply, extremely irritating.

That was reason enough to protect Bertram.

Someone ran to the communal farm to tip Bertram off about the nobleman who'd come looking for him. In the meantime, Anna kept carrying food to the soldiers' table without stopping. All five men were eventually breathing heavily with full stomachs, and only then did the meal end.

Franz rose and said something he didn't mean.

"The meal was appreciated. We'll be off, then."

"Thank you! That comes to 3 Golders 40 Silvers."

"What? You're charging?"

"Of course—this is a restaurant. The mess hall days ended three years ago."

"You brought out an unlimited supply of food we never ordered, and now the price is outrageous on top of it?"

"Oh? But you did say to bring whatever was edible. As for my part, I truly gave my very best effort to satisfy honored guests... S-surely you don't mean you won't pay..."

Anna's eyes began to look somewhat wet. At precisely that moment, the customers seated in the restaurant began to rise from their chairs. Each shorter than the soldiers, but uniformly solid with muscle.

Franz made a quick decision.

"I'll pay."

"Thank you so much!"

"But, miss—don't think this sort of trick will work again. Remember that."

"I only made food."

"...And one more thing. Since I am being honest."

Franz bent his head toward her. An extraordinary fall of golden hair curtained her field of vision. Like a waterfall of light. Even Anna had to swallow at the sight of it.

But what fell into her ear was—

"The food was not good. You failed to remove the gamey smell, in particular."

"...There are reasons for that!"

"Whatever the reasons—if you tried to run a restaurant in the city with skill at this level, you'd be well positioned to starve."

The men left without giving Anna a chance to say another word. When Franz's back had retreated far enough, Anna pointed at it and called out after him:

"Of all the nerve! Come back sometime—I'll make you grovel and say, 'Miss Anna's food was the most delicious I have ever eaten'!"

Wherever Franz went, the villagers' responses were identical.

Ask if Bertram was a criminal. Receive "no." Receive: don't know anyone by that name.

All of them coordinating, apparently.

One soldier ventured this aloud.

"Do you think the villagers are hiding His Highness together?"

"His Highness doesn't have the cleverness for that."

"...That's rather blunt, sir."

"I'm being honest. What sort of person has he ever been, to earn anyone's goodwill?"

Saying "no" to that question would, of course, earn you a very abbreviated future.

The only person in this country—aside from the king—permitted to speak so plainly about Bertram Hertz Wächter was one Franz Gerhardt.

"If I find him, I want to drag him back tied to a horse's tail."

The only person who could say it. And mean it. And actually do it.

After the war, Bertram had announced he was "repaying his debts" and left the palace. Both Franz and the king had assumed a month at most. The disappearance stretched to three years.

Eventually, fearing the story that his uncle had driven the prince out because he feared his claim to the throne, the king sent Franz under orders with one possible interpretation: find him, by any means necessary.

His Majesty said to make it happen. So here he was, making it happen. In a village at the end of the world with four soldiers who were, collectively, achieving nothing.

"Listen up," Franz said. "If any of you find His Highness, sit on all four of his limbs immediately. I'll take responsibility. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"That includes you, Knight Erich."

"...Sir?"

"Knight Erich?"

"I'M SO SORRY, PLEASE STOP!"

Erich—face bright enough to navigate by—snapped to attention.

He'd been absorbing relentless mockery ever since his claimed knighthood was exposed. As punishment, he'd also been given custody of Monat, the remarkable horse extracted from a city stable. Monat, held at arm's length by Erich's white-knuckled grip, appeared profoundly dissatisfied with this slow and purposeless search. He kept kicking the ground.

"Sir, I'm not sure we can conduct an effective investigation while managing Monat. Could we tie him somewhere temporarily?"

"Tie him up and he'll be stolen. Extracting him from that bookshop was already difficult enough—they claimed he was their property."

"...Do you think Bertram might actually have given him to them?"

"What does it matter. We're here for His Highness and the national treasures he took from the palace. If he's already parted with the horse, the Cloak of Fenrir could be anywhere. Everyone—if someone's wearing something that doesn't belong to them, I want to know about it."

The Cloak of Fenrir.

Strong enough to turn arrows. Light against its volume. Designed to protect its wearer from cold and heat alike. A treasure kept in the royal vaults, brought out for Bertram alone, to carry him through the war.

Bertram standing on the battlefield in that black fur cloak had been a symbol of death to the enemy. To his own soldiers, something else—a strange and small hope in the dark: even if I die, he will avenge me. If the war had ended in victory, that image would surely have covered an entire wall of the palace hall in fresco.

The soldiers turned that image over quietly, each arriving at the same private resolution: wherever the cloak was, they would find it. They would drape it back over his shoulders themselves.

None of them could have imagined it currently hanging on a laundry line, still damp, after Bertram had used it to wipe down every surface in the dormitory.

Meanwhile, at the communal workers' quarters.

Karlah had left orders: rest, don't aggravate the wound. Bertram honored them for approximately one hour. After that he could not remain still. He cleaned the dormitory. Then the courtyard.

Around midday, several farm workers stuck their heads in and looked around with expressions of frank appreciation.

"You're good at this, Bertram. Ever think about running an inn?"

"You're too kind. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Just eating."

The workers moved with practiced economy—fire lit, pot hung, fresh vegetables from the farm rinsed and added. Bertram watched.

"Are you cooking for yourselves? Doesn't Anna usually bring meals up?"

"She's strangely late today. Can't wait any longer—we're starving. Eating with us?"

"No, thank you. Is there any chance something has happened in the village below?"

"There'd have been an alarm bell. Why—something bothering you?"

Bertram told them what he'd told Karlah. The wolves had been wounded. Driven here by trained soldiers. Pushed from somewhere else.

The workers, who had been nodding with vague interest, went flat the moment he mentioned someone prominent arriving.

"Is someone actually coming? Good things have never once come from important visitors."

"You mentioned the whole village was conscripted once. Is that why you dislike nobility—that memory?"