Reconnaissance (6)

The Duke of Marchez wiped the lenses of his glasses, buying himself time to organize his thoughts. 

In the meantime, with a light snap of his fingers, he gestured for Lopez to leave. Lopez bolted out of the room without hesitation. Though the fake duke fixed his gaze on Lopez' retreating figure, he made no move to pursue him. 

I shrugged my shoulders and was the first to speak. 

"It's unfortunate that I had to invite Your Grace to such a shabby place. I simply couldn't think of a proper method of invitation." 

The fake duke stepped forward, inserting himself as an obstacle between the Duke of Marchez and me. 

"If this was all a ploy to meet me, you'd better state your purpose clearly—" 

"Oh, not you." 

With a bored tone, I made it clear I had little interest in the fake duke. I had no intention of dragging out a conversation pointlessly. If he still believed he could keep his identity concealed, it was nothing short of disappointing. 

Fortunately, the Duke of Marchez didn't hide behind anyone. He told his double to step aside. The fake duke's once-authoritative tone crumbled in response. 

"But, Your Grace…" 

The Duke of Marchez silenced his attendant with a calm expression and turned his steady gaze toward me. Even with his true identity revealed, he did not attempt to project any particular air of authority. Instead, like a scholar contemplating a complex problem, he posed his questions one by one in a measured tone. 

"You still haven't answered my question. Who are you?" 

"It feels a bit forward to exchange names when we've just met, don't you think? I'm a bit shy, you see." 

I responded playfully, deflecting his inquiry. The duke didn't press further. 

"Was it you who's been following us these past four days?" 

"The way you put it makes me sound like some shameless stalker. If I may clarify, I believe I was ahead of you. As far as I recall, I was always one step ahead… even left some gifts along the way." 

With my face hidden, it wasn't easy to make an impression through expressions alone. Instead, I theatrically placed a hand on one cheek and spoke in a mock-reprimanding tone. The Duke of Marchez didn't look away, his gaze sharp and unwavering. 

"Are you saying you were the one who took down all those monsters?" 

"I hope they were to your liking. I heard the young duke is fond of such things, so I made an effort to handle them cleanly." 

Of course, that wasn't me—it was Leonardo. 

Perched comfortably on a safe tree branch, all I had done was issue remote commands to him. That was the extent of my contribution. 

In contrast to my nonchalant demeanour, Duke Marchez' expression grew increasingly rigid. 

"…I was taught that every gift comes with a price." 

"Well, that's true. Your predecessor certainly raised an excellent heir." 

Even in the dim forest illuminated only by faint moonlight, I caught the subtle tremor in his lips—a fleeting disturbance in his otherwise composed facade. I studied his face intently. 

The human face is a canvas of over forty muscles, capable of producing thousands of subtle variations in expression. 

There was a time when I made it a daily habit to stand before a mirror, attempting to suppress those changes until I no longer felt like myself. On other days, I treated it as an exercise to observe and analyze the reflections of others instead of my own. 

One thing I learned from that practice was this: even on the opposite side of the world, if lips curve upward, cheeks rise, and eyes soften, it still signifies joy. 

If the corners of the mouth droop, eyebrows arc downward, and a faint shimmer gathers at the edges of the eyes, it still signifies sorrow. 

While languages shift as you cross oceans or traverse mountains, expressions remain universally honest. Unlike words, they cannot name a person, object, or place, nor can they promise a specific moment in time. But when it comes to emotions, there is no more powerful language. 

Perhaps the single language that existed before human speech branched into tens and hundreds of variations was none other than the language of expression. Even in a completely foreign world, this truth remains unchanged. 

It was how I instantly recognized the emotion of mourning in the faint tremor that paled the Duke of Marchez' cheek, the subtly drooping orbicularis muscles around his eyes, the firm, straight line of his lips, and the tightly clenched jaw—like the tip of a bird's wing tilting downward in flight. 

I had seen it in the Count of Ertinez, found it in Ferdinand, witnessed it surface in Celestina, and noticed how the original Leonardo tried to suppress it. A universal expression. 

Yes, the late Duke of Marchez had endured the same tragedy as the Countess of Ertinez. 

'As I thought.'

The prolonged silence on my part prompted the duke to speak again. 

"Do you have something you want? I find it hard to believe you approached me without a reason." 

"Well, watching from a distance, I couldn't help but grow curious. A duke who sets up a fake puppet to stand in for him while on his way to meet the king—it's fascinating, really. What could frighten and concern you so much that you hide your identity and impersonate someone else, like a defeated sovereign in exile?" 

"Is that what you're curious about?"

"Valuable information is worth more than gold. There's no need to be so stiff—relax. Who knows? This could be the start of a friendship, don't you think?"

I spoke in a cheerful tone, and the duke's eyebrows twitched, forming a small arch. 

"It's not all that strange, is it? Nobles always have political enemies, and while using a double is rare, it's not entirely incomprehensible." 

Feigning disappointment, I abruptly changed my tone and responded indifferently. 

"Oh, my. I didn't expect you to be someone who'd throw away an opportunity like this. How boring." 

When I first decided to play the role of the mastermind, I set a few principles: 

Pretend to be amicable, but maintain tension in the conversation, keeping myself poised between an ally and a threat. Behave unpredictably rather than as a predictable opponent. Yet, make my motives clear enough to maintain a reasonable level of suspicion. 

As expected, the Duke of Marchez reacted immediately to my sudden shift in attitude. 

"…An opportunity, you say?" 

"I believe I made it clear—I deal in information. And isn't that exactly what you need right now? About the Vernis Mountains, the attendees of the Leap Year Grand Hunt, or perhaps…" 

When I mentioned the "talking monsters," the duke tilted his head slightly, visibly unsettled. His reaction became even more pronounced as I continued. 

"Or perhaps His Majesty's grand plan." 

In truth, the word unsettled might not have been entirely accurate. The duke didn't flinch or show any visible reaction; instead, his expression remained deliberately neutral at this point. 

But the stronger the effort to conceal something, the more intense the desire behind it becomes—and in that regard, the duke was easy to read. His temperament leaned far more toward that of a scholar than a politician. 

When I laughed aloud, my tone laced with amusement, the duke's expression stiffened, as if he realized that I had seen through him entirely. 

"So, you're saying you approached us out of mere goodwill?" 

"I suppose I have something of a charitable streak. Sigh, living this way is such a loss, isn't it?" 

The duke didn't respond. How cold. Pouting briefly to myself, I added a line of vague, ominous commentary for good measure.

"I don't know why, but I have a soft spot for people who seem desperate. Makes me want to cheer them on." 

"…"

He remained silent, but I could sense the tension in the air. 

"Well, you're clearly the cautious type, so I'll generously overlook the absurd lie you just told me. Let's start building a beautiful relationship of trust, shall we? Perhaps with a small deal. Let's see… What kind of information would intrigue you the most?" 

I drew out my words, pretending to deliberate, and the Duke of Marchez, as expected, took the bait.

"So, would you be willing to sell me information related to the death of the late Duke of Marchez?" 

It was a question within the expected range. While I had already hinted at my awareness of the real Duke of Marchez, that alone wouldn't be enough for them to understand my intentions or the depth of my information. 

Naturally, the next step would be to ask about something only that person—or perhaps a very small number of people—could know. This would test if I truly had access to the knowledge I claimed. 

And now, it was confirmed. The extreme caution toward the king, the information about the Duke of Marchez himself as described in the script, and the question about the late duke's death. 

Given the situation, it wouldn't be surprising if Godric had subjugated everyone in the capital, nobles and all. Having even one more ally would be beneficial—especially if that ally were a duke… 

Smiling, I took a step closer to Duke Marchez in response to his question. He didn't back away but allowed me to approach. 

"Well, perhaps I might be able to arrange an interesting meeting after all." 

"…"

"Fine. Since this is our first transaction, I won't charge you for this one. I can't give you an answer right now, though… Hmm, let's see… Tomorrow, at dawn." 

With that, I stepped back.

"Then, look forward to it. I'm confident that you'll gain a good ally." 

I waved my hand casually, as if greeting a friend, leaving without a hint of concern about being attacked. Behind me, I faintly heard the fake duke ask, "Should we chase him?" to the real duke, but the duke simply responded with silence, a clear refusal.

And when I had gotten far enough away… 

A dark shadow suddenly fell from above. Hidden within it, like a guard dog, was Leonardo, who had been watching over me. Leaning comfortably against the metaphorical "human taxi" that had come to greet me, I whispered. 

"Do you think you can pull it off tomorrow?" 

"I'll try my best." 

"Hmm… Well, there's nothing in this world that can't be done with effort, right? Let's have an acting lesson tonight." 

***

The following dawn… 

The second reckless son of the Ertinez family stormed into the Duke of Marchez' camp, demanding a face-to-face meeting. In one hand, he clutched a note, and his expression was unnervingly stiff, like someone who had been trapped beneath a winter lake and had just emerged—strangely frozen in place.

The fake duke raised an eyebrow, and behind the reckless young nobleman, a black-haired attendant, seemingly trying to stop him, awkwardly bowed.

The young nobleman then placed a note, bearing the duke family's seal, on the table. The message was simple:

The string used to tie the rolled-up letter was pitch-black. It was the colour of the duke family's heraldic background, and also the colour of the strange and suspicious man's cape who had appeared the previous night, draped entirely in it.

At that moment, realization flashed in the Duke of Marchez' eyes. The answer that the mysterious masked man had prepared the previous night had now arrived at his camp.

Then, the reckless son of the Ertinez family pressed on in a cold, level tone. 

"I hope you clearly explain the reason for sending this letter, Duke."

There was something unnervingly stiff about his speech—likely the anger from having his mother's death mentioned in such an inappropriate manner.