Second Luncheon
"Rumors. That's what we'll use."
"Rumors?"
Ian glanced briefly at Molin, as if to say: I'm about to give you the answer you wanted, so listen carefully.
"To be precise—rumors that grant people's desires. Like—'eating it makes your skin smooth, your hair glossy and thick.' Or that it 'helps with weight loss or stamina.' If not that, then perhaps that 'it increases fertility.' Spread that around, and both men and women alike will be desperate to eat it."
Indeed—regardless of gender.
It was, in fact, a method often used by the Central Bureau. A basic yet effective tactic: shaping public opinion to correct market balance.
"How intriguing. But the citizens of the Imperial Capital are quick-witted and shrewd. Won't such a rumor be exposed as nonsense in no time? What then?"
Mac moistened his lips with sherry as he asked. Yet even that wasn't much of a problem.
"We station guards, of course."
Ian placed his index and middle finger on the table, mimicking a pair of legs. He walked them slowly in circles beside the cutlery.
"Post guards conspicuously—but leave a few holes in the net. Human nature is to covet what's guarded. Even if it were dog dung they were protecting, greed would drive people to steal it, just to see what's so precious. They'll wonder, 'What could be so valuable that nobles are guarding it day and night?' By then, it'll spread naturally. You couldn't stop it even if you tried. But."
"But?"
"These are secondary concerns. The real issue is—will an alternative food source actually emerge? That's the true question."
Molin, Mac, and Dgorr all felt a jolt of static in their heads. The Central Bureau—where the Empire's brightest minds gathered. Dozens, even hundreds, of such people had seen similar issues before.
It was a satisfying answer for scholars or bureaucrats—yet hearing such clarity from a child barely past adolescence was another matter. And wasn't this the same child who'd only recently been wandering the red-light district?
Only now did the three men realize what question they should have asked first.
"Can the Second Prince really cross the border in place of the First?"
They had overlooked it—no, dismissed it. They had assumed that a bastard son from the slums must, naturally, be inferior.
Whether Ian knew that or not, he only smiled pleasantly as he lifted a bite of steak to his mouth.
"It truly tastes wonderful."
"Y-Yes, indeed. The fine weather must be making it taste even better."
What had begun as a casual luncheon now felt entirely different. Ian could sense all eyes fixed on him.
That's enough about Gula for now, he thought.
The real discussion was about to begin. Ian wanted to uncover why Derga had resorted to scheming by letter—and whether there were opportunities to move beyond the estate's walls.
"Lord Ian, do you enjoy writing?"
Conversation resumed. Mac asked the question, though his gaze naturally shifted toward his wife and Chel. Even if they had come to meet Ian, focusing entirely on one guest would have been impolite.
"I heard your wife has quite a gift for literature. I imagine your children must be exceptional as well."
"Oh my, you flatter me. I only dabble in short prose. You, Sir Mac, have written two books, haven't you? I should be embarrassed to receive praise from such a man."
Her playful modesty made Dgorr chuckle and interject.
"Madam, there's no need for that. I'd say Mac is far more talented at writing letters than books. Anyone who's ever received one from him ends up crying and professing love on the spot!"
"Dgorr! That's too much!"
"Ahaha! Lord Ian, if you ever need to write a letter, ask Mac for help. You'll find it most useful."
He even winked mischievously, earning laughter from the lady of the house. But Derga's expression darkened; the conversation clearly unsettled him.
"The Celnyer tribe demanded a handwritten letter from you."
The timing was uncanny—too perfect. As if Dgorr already knew Ian had a reason to write one. Did he know? And if so, how?
Derga took a sip of wine and spoke first.
"As it happens, a message arrived from the Celnyer tribe."
"Oh? Truly?"
"They've requested that we send Lord Ian's handwritten letters at regular intervals."
He chose his next words carefully.
"Of course, they'll use a potion for identity verification, so I can't imagine what they're so worried about. Barbarians—they're beasts in human form, impossible to comprehend."
Mac smiled and chimed in.
"Beasts always live by suspicion, my friend. Their world runs purely on strength. It's common enough for a chieftain you meet in spring to be replaced by autumn."
Indeed, for them, power alone determined hierarchy. A chieftain had to accept any challenge—and only death ever brought peace.
"Had they not been such savages, Bariel would've had far more trouble."
A grim sort of relief, that savages kept their own numbers in check. Ian tilted his head slightly.
"Then… the current Celnyer chieftain—is she a rival to the tribal leader? Or one of her subordinates?"
The Celnyer tribe's influence had waned since their defeat before Ian's ascension. Occasionally, desert travelers vanished, and people assumed it was either sandstorms—or the Celnyer's doing.
So the information he had was fragmentary at best.
Mac shook his head.
"No, neither. The chieftain is an old woman named Winchen—so old no one knows her true age. The leadership changes constantly, but she's held her seat for ages."
"Ah. Then…" Ian murmured, surprised.
"She must be the tribe's spiritual pillar."
Correct. Mac's eyes sparkled with approval. Sharp boy.
"So I've heard. The tribe reveres her as one who 'touches the sky.' She has a very special gift, you see."
"A gift? But I thought they despised magic."
"It's… not quite magic. More akin to gypsy arts. She's blind—but they say she can distinguish truth from lies by voice alone."
"Ah." Ian's brows curved softly.
A blind matriarch who sees the truth, huh.
Now Derga's motive made perfect sense.
Gurut leaves—strictly forbidden goods. Impossible to import legally. If Ian managed to smuggle them properly, the profits would be immense. After all, the Celnyer warriors always carried that plant into battle.
If Baratz gained access, its military power would rise—or the Celnyer's would fall. Either way, the scales would tilt toward Baratz.
But if they were caught in the process…?
Ian Would Be Interrogated by the Chieftain
He would confess that it had all been out of pure concern for his mother. If the Celnyer tribe lodged a protest, Bratz could simply beg forgiveness by offering Ian's and his mother's deaths. The matter had nothing to do with the Count himself—so a few words of condolence and a token gift would settle it nicely.
"Would the Celnyer tribe take this as an excuse to declare war?"
For now, the chances were slim. For now.
Bratz's annihilation would come in the next generation. There must have been a reason it happened then, not now. It was clear that an all-out war at present was unlikely.
"Count, you must've heard some talk of the chieftain before, yes? Count Derga?"
"Ah, well. Truth be told, I've never seen the chieftain myself."
Derga cleared his throat a few times and darted glances at the boy.
And how, exactly, does he know all this?
The tutor's reports had insisted Ian was dull-witted. Yet the sharp glimmers of intelligence he occasionally displayed were too suspicious to ignore. What on earth went on in that small head?
"The more I hear, the more fascinating this tribe seems."
Catching his gaze, Ian smiled all the brighter—so innocently that not a trace of suspicion could be found. As Ian calmly resumed cutting his meat, Derga eventually looked away.
But what could he do now?
Ian already knew Derga's intentions. If Ian were ever to stand before the chieftain, everything would be exposed.
Not that I ever intend to go that far.
After that, the conversation dissolved into meaningless chatter, scattering like windblown leaves. Laughter erupted again, mostly around Mac, Dgorr, and the Countess.
"So, His Highness the Second Prince Gale said, 'That insolent brat—throw him in the pigsty at once!'"
"Oh my! Truly? Did he actually say that?"
"Yes indeed. His temper is rather… martial, you see."
"Ohoho! How dreadful!"
Then Ian suddenly turned his head, puzzled.
Molin, Mac, and Dgorr were all officials dispatched from the Central Bureau. Every public servant was bound to serve the Emperor and the official heir. Yet here they were, spending months away from the capital. That alone carried meaning.
Either their mission was so important it bore the Emperor's trust—
or they'd been sent far from their former posts.
Derga, unfamiliar with the capital's inner workings, couldn't know which. But Ian felt a twinge of intuition.
Why do they keep mentioning the Second Prince?
The official successor was the First Prince. By all logic, their allegiance should lie with him.
Of course, other princes had their followers too—but most of those were far removed from the core of power.
Yet these three men kept speaking only of Prince Gale, the Second Prince.
"Lord Ian, what weighs on your mind?"
"Oh, nothing. I was simply enjoying your stories—so I kept listening."
"Ah, I see. My mistake. You looked so solemn for a moment, I thought I'd offended you. Haha."
Molin lightly redirected Ian's attention. Though his face wore a polite smile, his eyes studied the boy intently—sharp, persistent.
That first luncheon… had he truly imagined those golden eyes? It was said that those who could channel mana possessed sharper intellect than ordinary people. Could it be that this child…?
"Count Derga."
Molin dabbed his lips with a napkin as he spoke. As if on cue, Mac and Dgorr fell silent.
"I felt it before, but today I'm certain—Lord Ian's learning is remarkable. I find myself astonished time and again. Surely, that must be thanks to your and the Countess's fine education."
"…You flatter us."
"I do have one small request, however."
At that, Derga took an uneasy gulp of wine.
The sly old fox. How many times had Molin made "a small request" only to put him in a bind afterward?
A brief silence filled the room while Derga searched for a response. And Ian—seized the moment.
"Would you like to see my room?" he asked playfully.
It wasn't a phrase befitting a noble, but it was the sort of polite mischief expected from a child. To scold him for it would have been poor manners. The Countess's lips twitched; she was clearly itching to reprimand him.
"That would be delightful, but I had something else in mind."
Every member of House Derga turned their eyes toward Molin's mouth. Only Mac and Dgorr remained calm—as though they'd already known what was coming.