Bianca's hand, which was tightly gripping the handle of the greatsword, trembled. It was her first time breaking human bones. It took more strength than she had thought, and the feel of her grip was more unpleasant than she had expected.
“...Are you okay?”
Bianca looked at her subordinate expressionlessly. The subordinate, who received the gaze of his master, lowered his head. He sat upright and waited for Bianca to finish tidying up.
She slowly withdrew the sword. Blood and flesh and bone were pushed out of the scabbard, leaving only the clean, smooth steel hanging at her waist.
“...Let’s go.”
“Just a moment, Your Highness.”
The tall man who had been escorting Duchess Bianca, Viscount Gennarosso, stepped forward. He was grinning.
“You have to be frugal to live well.”
The Count prepared a backpack full of salt at the same time as the warrant for Ippolito of San Carlo was issued. The habit of taking care of the household of the Taranto estate for a long time came out. If you cut off his head and hand it over to the officials of San Carlo, you can receive the reward. Bianca touched her forehead.
“You take care of that yourself.”
With the Duke’s permission, Viscount Gennarosso raised his short sword. Ippolito’s body, already dead, trembled belatedly. The Viscount skillfully separated the head from the torso with his short sword. He placed Ippolito’s head, still with his eyes open, into a salt bag.
It looked exactly like the dead Maletta's head, buried in salt and placed in a box in a fishmonger's shop.
“Yes, shall we go?”
While Viscount Gennarosso was happily sawing, Bianca kept her mouth shut and looked at the distant mountains.
Bianca was the blood of Alfonso the Celestial. She needed time to gather her thoughts. She waited patiently for Viscount Gennarosso to gather his things, and then she mounted her horse.
So when an unexpected intruder showed up, she felt more uncomfortable than someone who was more reactive.
“Hello, Princess Taranto.”
As soon as they left the small forest where Ippolito's fate had taken place and entered the narrow path, a man in his fifties riding a reddish-brown horse blocked the group's path.
“Who are you? Tell me your name!”
Viscount Gennarosso shouted harshly. It was quite threatening. Viscount Gennarosso, who had been a pure desk-bound man, was stubborn about finishing things off with his own hands, but he had lost his temper after crossing the Prinoyak Mountains with a young master who had no real combat experience.
The man on the red horse raised both hands to show that he had no weapons, then jumped down from his horse.
“Wow, I have come as a gesture of friendship. My name is Lorenzo de Variati.”
None of Bianca's companions dismounted, but he approached them leisurely.
“I am commonly called by the lavish name of the Ironclad Variati.”
The Marquis of Variati smiled. For a mercenary captain who had been on the battlefield, his face was clean-cut. There were no broken parts or major scars. But his face looked so much like Ippolito that Bianca had to suppress the nausea that was rising.
“I have heard that Your Highness has come to my domain, and I have come to see you, Your Highness.”
From his horse, Viscount Gennaroso growled fiercely.
“Be polite to the Duke of Taranto!”
Marquis Variati did not understand what was being said at first. Etiquette? Isn't it all there? Marquis Variati was wondering if he should kiss the back of the Princess's hand when Viscount Gennarosso shouted once more.
“This person is the proud owner of his own territory!”
Viscount Gennarosso shouted at Marquis Variati, who was just blinking.
“Title!”
The Marquis finally realized that he had been calling Bianca of Taranto 'Princess' and not 'Duke'.
'Don't get worked up over nothing.'
He let out something between a laugh and a mockery, but soon bowed politely.
“Please excuse my rudeness, Your Highness.”
However, there was still a smile on his lips, and his posture looked like he was escorting a lady to a ball.
“...”
Bianca looked down at the Marquis of Variati in silence. She was a tall and fine horse, and she looked twice as tall as the Marquis of Variati.
“Is that all you need to know?”
“Oh no.”
Despite the size difference, Marquis Variati took a step closer, smiling sadly.
“Before you make a big deal, if you don’t know the other party well, you can end up making a bad choice. It may be a good deal on paper, but you don’t know if the other party is trustworthy or not when you make your first deal.”
It was a strangely old man's tone of voice, as if he were scolding a young man. Viscount Gennarosso, who was enraged by the tone, could not bring himself to speak again and glanced at Bianca. The young Duke was maintaining a perfect expressionless expression, not moving an inch.
“I have traveled to many places in the Central Continent, but Taranto is truly a great territory. It is definitely worth fighting against foreign powers and defending it.”
The need to defend was enough to give others an incentive to attack. Bianca glared at the Marquis of Variati, her face showing minimal emotion, but the arrogant mercenary captain didn't notice.
“...Are you okay?”
Bianca looked at her subordinate expressionlessly. The subordinate, who received the gaze of his master, lowered his head. He sat upright and waited for Bianca to finish tidying up.
She slowly withdrew the sword. Blood and flesh and bone were pushed out of the scabbard, leaving only the clean, smooth steel hanging at her waist.
“...Let’s go.”
“Just a moment, Your Highness.”
The tall man who had been escorting Duchess Bianca, Viscount Gennarosso, stepped forward. He was grinning.
“You have to be frugal to live well.”
The Count prepared a backpack full of salt at the same time as the warrant for Ippolito of San Carlo was issued. The habit of taking care of the household of the Taranto estate for a long time came out. If you cut off his head and hand it over to the officials of San Carlo, you can receive the reward. Bianca touched her forehead.
“You take care of that yourself.”
With the Duke’s permission, Viscount Gennarosso raised his short sword. Ippolito’s body, already dead, trembled belatedly. The Viscount skillfully separated the head from the torso with his short sword. He placed Ippolito’s head, still with his eyes open, into a salt bag.
It looked exactly like the dead Maletta's head, buried in salt and placed in a box in a fishmonger's shop.
“Yes, shall we go?”
While Viscount Gennarosso was happily sawing, Bianca kept her mouth shut and looked at the distant mountains.
Bianca was the blood of Alfonso the Celestial. She needed time to gather her thoughts. She waited patiently for Viscount Gennarosso to gather his things, and then she mounted her horse.
So when an unexpected intruder showed up, she felt more uncomfortable than someone who was more reactive.
“Hello, Princess Taranto.”
As soon as they left the small forest where Ippolito's fate had taken place and entered the narrow path, a man in his fifties riding a reddish-brown horse blocked the group's path.
“Who are you? Tell me your name!”
Viscount Gennarosso shouted harshly. It was quite threatening. Viscount Gennarosso, who had been a pure desk-bound man, was stubborn about finishing things off with his own hands, but he had lost his temper after crossing the Prinoyak Mountains with a young master who had no real combat experience.
The man on the red horse raised both hands to show that he had no weapons, then jumped down from his horse.
“Wow, I have come as a gesture of friendship. My name is Lorenzo de Variati.”
None of Bianca's companions dismounted, but he approached them leisurely.
“I am commonly called by the lavish name of the Ironclad Variati.”
The Marquis of Variati smiled. For a mercenary captain who had been on the battlefield, his face was clean-cut. There were no broken parts or major scars. But his face looked so much like Ippolito that Bianca had to suppress the nausea that was rising.
“I have heard that Your Highness has come to my domain, and I have come to see you, Your Highness.”
From his horse, Viscount Gennaroso growled fiercely.
“Be polite to the Duke of Taranto!”
Marquis Variati did not understand what was being said at first. Etiquette? Isn't it all there? Marquis Variati was wondering if he should kiss the back of the Princess's hand when Viscount Gennarosso shouted once more.
“This person is the proud owner of his own territory!”
Viscount Gennarosso shouted at Marquis Variati, who was just blinking.
“Title!”
The Marquis finally realized that he had been calling Bianca of Taranto 'Princess' and not 'Duke'.
'Don't get worked up over nothing.'
He let out something between a laugh and a mockery, but soon bowed politely.
“Please excuse my rudeness, Your Highness.”
However, there was still a smile on his lips, and his posture looked like he was escorting a lady to a ball.
“...”
Bianca looked down at the Marquis of Variati in silence. She was a tall and fine horse, and she looked twice as tall as the Marquis of Variati.
“Is that all you need to know?”
“Oh no.”
Despite the size difference, Marquis Variati took a step closer, smiling sadly.
“Before you make a big deal, if you don’t know the other party well, you can end up making a bad choice. It may be a good deal on paper, but you don’t know if the other party is trustworthy or not when you make your first deal.”
It was a strangely old man's tone of voice, as if he were scolding a young man. Viscount Gennarosso, who was enraged by the tone, could not bring himself to speak again and glanced at Bianca. The young Duke was maintaining a perfect expressionless expression, not moving an inch.
“I have traveled to many places in the Central Continent, but Taranto is truly a great territory. It is definitely worth fighting against foreign powers and defending it.”
The need to defend was enough to give others an incentive to attack. Bianca glared at the Marquis of Variati, her face showing minimal emotion, but the arrogant mercenary captain didn't notice.
“If you need a condottieri, call me anytime. Whenever you want, Princess... No, Your Highness, you can use me however you want.”
Bianca thought. Does this man, who is now swaying his tail vaguely, know that I just killed his own son?
She had already heard from Countess Ariadne de Mare that Ippolito de Mare was the biological son of the Marquis of Variati. Bianca glanced into the woods, right near where Ippolito's body was supposed to be.
But it was not Bianca's nature to ask such questions directly. She simply kept her mouth shut and waited for the mysterious middle-aged man known as the Marquis of Variati to leave quickly. The Marquis of Variati did not know this and just rubbed his hands together like the front legs of a fly.
“I’m here to help you anytime.”
As Bianca stared at the Marquis of Bariati's smugness, half-dazed, she suddenly realized something. It was an 'ah' moment, if you will.
The Marquis of Variati was courting her in a way, even pretending not to know about his son's death. But is there any reason why she should accept this courtship?
The Marquis of Variati, apart from his appearance, was a very old man and did not please her at all. He said that he would help the Taranto estate as a condottieri, but that was when the Duchy of Taranto was without a master, and a poor girl was trembling as an orphan. Now, there is a new, young, and strong Duke in the Duchy of Taranto.
Ironically, contrary to social convention, it was the Marquis of Variati, the father of the deceased, who should be burying Ippolito's death here and now, not the Duke of Bianca, the murderer. This was a strange moral subversion brought about by power. The advice she had heard before to remember what 'behavior appropriate to one's position' was to avoid being ignored finally made sense.
She turned the horse's rider.
"Let's go."
The Marquis of Variati was quite taken aback by the sight of the Duke Bianca turning away without answering. The entire party of the Duke of Taranto followed their lord.
Bianca's deep voice flew towards Variatti, who was left standing alone on the ground.
“Your son’s body is in the bushes over there. Bury what’s left.”
The Marquis of Variati felt an earthquake when he learned that Bianca knew that Ippolito was his son. This was followed by the rebuke that Viscount Gennarosso had been waiting for.
“You are the father of a criminal son, so you should be ashamed! If you wish to avenge your son, do so to His Majesty Leo III, who issued the wanted notice!”
***
Even between masters and servants, interests do not always coincide. A conflict of interest with her master also occurred today with Countess Clemente de Bartolini, the chief maid of the Duchess Rubina.
Duchess Rubina looked like she had a big nose today, trying to take care of the de Mare girls, but Clemente was just being a hoot.
Countess Ariadne de Mare, no, Princess Ariadne, entered the ball safely, and the Prince stamped his seal in front of the prospective fiancée, claiming that she was his wife, but Countess Isabella Contarini was forcibly repatriated home, crying. She didn't see the crying with her own eyes, but she could tell that she was forcibly repatriated. That was enough.
'Ariadne de Mare wasn't the one who insisted that I do it...'
Clemente had originally suggested that only Isabella, who was Ippolito de Mare's full sister, be excluded from the party. The one who insisted on including Ariadne de Mare was Duchess Rubina.
'...If you blame me, then it's really the Duchess who is bad...'
She could have blamed Clemente for being a bad person, but whatever. Clemente decided to think about it tomorrow. Her husband was also not feeling well and would be home. Today was her day. Good things should be enjoyed. 'Living in the present' was what Clemente was best at.
She walked around the ballroom, looking for the face she wanted to see, half-consciously. But no matter how much she searched the ballroom, she couldn't find a single face that should have been there. Count Andrea DiPascal was nowhere to be found.
'No way...'
An ominous feeling came over Clemente.
'...No way. Last time, DiPascal already said that Isabella wasn't answering his call... It must have already ended... That can't be....'
But there was one face in the ballroom that shouldn't have been there.
“Is it you who did it? Hey, at least give me a heads up.”
“...You didn’t go home?”
Ottavio, whom she thought would naturally go home with Isabella, was wandering around the ballroom with the empty seat next to him. Ottavio was even worse than his own sister had expected.
“Who would want to go home for fun? Your sister and brother aren’t here either. Should I escort you?”
After being kicked out of the King's inner circle, losing his home, and being ashamed to be seen by others, Ottavio, who had been living in seclusion, came out today for the first time in a long while and seemed to be able to do quite a bit of outside activities.
“Oh, Count Pinatelli is here too! Count Morosini is here too!”
Count Pinatelli was a middle-aged man who would have been rude to his wife, but Ottavio, who was slightly drunk, looked very cheerful.
“When I go out! Oh, I’m so welcome! Who would want me to stay home and curl up?”
“Lower your voice...”
Clemente did not have high expectations for his younger brother Ottavio, but he did not expect that he would enter the palace alone while his wife was being expelled. This meant that there was no one to watch over Isabella.
She began to feel increasingly uneasy. Then Clemente saw Countess DiPascal in her eyes. Her pupils shook.
'...Why is that woman alone again... She's so bad at taking care of her husband...'
Even though she had earned the title of 'The Maddest Woman in San Carlo' in the dark world, Clemente couldn't have a smiling face with the wife of the person she was having an affair with.
Ottavio, who thought his sister was curious about the well-being of the Countess DiPascal, who was completely unaware of the relationship between her husband and his female family, grunted and informed her.
“Oh, Countess DiPascal? I heard her husband went home earlier because he had a stomachache. We were having a nice chat as partners...”
When DiPascal was not in the ballroom, several events flashed through Clemente’s head like lightning. Warning lights flashed. She couldn’t even hear what her brother was talking about. Amidst the sporadic conversation, a few keywords struck her ears.
“...I’ve been wandering around for a while, as if I were looking for someone....”
A few absent-minded gestures from Ottavio passed through her sight.
“...Relatively early... Before His Majesty the King even entered...”
Clemente, who had heard this, stormed out of the ballroom. If His Majesty the King had just entered, there was a good chance that he would have witnessed Isabella's misfortune and followed her! The voice of his dumbfounded younger brother was heard from behind.
“...They say that from the moment you got in the carriage to enter the palace, you were restless like a puppy that needed to poop, and then of all time, you had a stomachache... Sister? Sister? Where are you going?!”
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