Baccano! - Volume 15 - Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

“I’M NOT A FOOL.”

1709, winter Lotto Valentino

The peace was an uneasy one.

The War of the Spanish Succession had swept across Europe, mercilessly ravaging the land and engulfing the Italian Peninsula as well. It had been nearly two years since the Kingdom of Naples had been occupied by Austria.

Had there been any changes to the town of Lotto Valentino? One was forced to admit there had not.

The viceroy, Esperanza Boroñal, was alive and well, and the townspeople still spent their days as if they were a Spanish territory, their lives unchanged from what they had been a few years earlier.

There may have been movement of some sort near the top, but those dark clouds didn’t extend to the streets.

Even so, this city, which was not so very distant from Naples, was still largely spared from the great war that threatened to reach every corner of Europe. It was unnatural by any stretch.

In the future, history books that covered the subject in detail would call it a mysterious, neutral zone. However, while the townspeople recognized the uncanny peace, they went on with their lives no differently.

After all, they’d noticed a certain fact years earlier—that the town of Lotto Valentino was gently isolated from the surrounding cities.

They knew one more thing as well—that they themselves had created the drug that had caused that isolation.

It had been nearly four years since the Mask Maker killed several people here, and yet the air was as stagnant as ever.

Still, there were many people who weren’t deceived by the atmosphere.

People like the leader of the Rotten Eggs, who had been trying to dispel it all along.

Those who knew nothing of the incident from four years ago, such as very young children and traders who had come from other towns.

And—

“Oh, Huey! Did you hear?! They’ll be performing Jean-Pierre Accardo’s new play at the town theater starting next month!”

Lotto Valentino’s market street stood facing the port. As one would expect of a merchant city visited by ships from every region, its market offered merchandise from all over; it was the busiest place in town.

All sorts of people visited the market: Romans, Celts, Greeks, Arabs, Germans, Phoenicians, and many other races. This was true of most regions in Italy, not just this particular city, but the fact that it was a port town meant it was especially diverse.

Of course, although this city was peaceful for some reason, the War of Spanish Succession was raging elsewhere, and the ships and passengers visiting the port brought with them a peculiar tension.

But the energy with which people got to work buying and selling tended to set it at ease.

The young woman was speaking with an innocent flush on her pale cheeks, as if she was determined not to be outdone by the market’s energy.

“A-and so— Huey, are you listening? I know someone who can get us in to the theater for almost nothing… Would you go see it with me?”

The girl’s blond hair streamed in the wind, and although she had the figure of a woman, there was still some youth about her face.

She looked around eighteen, but her gestures and manner of speech would have suggested she was slightly younger.

Her companion, to whom she was speaking so affectionately, was a rather dour young man with black hair and gold eyes.

“…Not interested.”

The young man, Huey Laforet, gave a response that was as surly as his expression, but the girl was undeterred.

“Just because you’re not interested doesn’t mean you can’t see it, you know?”

“It also doesn’t mean I have to. I’m not interested in theater, period. If you’re curious, you could go by yourself, Monica.” Huey’s response was frigid.

Monica looked down sadly. “There’s no point if you’re not with me, Huey,” she sulked.

“If being with me is the point, then there’s no need to see a play. We could just take a walk somewhere, couldn’t we?”

Monica’s face lit up at the reply. “I-in that case, I’d be happy with that!”

“No. I’m headed home for today.”

“Huh? Wha—? Huh? …What?”

“All right. See you tomorrow,” Huey murmured impassively as he watched her expression, then strode away from the market.

If anyone who didn’t know them had watched the little scene play out, they would have assumed objectively that she had no chance with him.

However, after heaving a disappointed sigh, Monica blushed faintly.

Oh, good. Huey did it again today. He looked me in the eye and said, See you tomorrow.

It was a small thing, but to her, it was enough.

After all, she knew Huey Laforet hated almost everything in the world.

As far as she was aware, there were only two people anywhere whom he would look in the eye and greet with an expression of his true feelings instead of his usual false smile.

Monica was delighted to be one of those people, and she savored that feeling practically every day. Even after years of that joy, she hadn’t grown tired of it. If anyone had known what she was like on the inside, they would almost certainly have decided she was an odd one.

Monica was aware of this, though.

She was odd. She just didn’t care.

Ducking from the market street into an alley where no one would disturb her, she put a hand to her chest.

Remembering Huey’s cold expression from a few moments earlier, Monica looked down, the hint of a smile on her lips.

However—her moment of supreme bliss was shattered by a deep voice from behind her.

“Hey, sweetheart. Better luck next time.”

Erasing the blush and the emotion from her face, Monica slowly looked up.

Several men she didn’t recognize were standing there, blocking the mouth of the alley. She could tell they were ruffians, and from their clothes, they appeared to be sailors from a merchant vessel. Since they were speaking Italian, it was probably a trading ship from nearby—but from the look of them, they didn’t appear to be meddling sailors come to console a poor jilted girl.

“Don’t you worry about that weedy bloke.”

“In fact, we’d like you to come show us around town.”

They were probably from a ship that was leaving port today or the following day. Even if they ended up creating trouble for themselves down the road, they’d be able to run immediately. They may have casually decided to take advantage of the situation and pick up a heartbroken girl.

But whether they were planning to seduce her with sweet talk or take her around with them by force, the sailors had chosen the wrong girl.

For one thing, Monica didn’t feel the slightest bit rejected, and the men’s words were more of an affront than anything.

For another—

“…”

The childish innocence disappeared from her downturned face and was replaced by something sharp and cold.

She showed no emotion, almost as if she were wearing a mask. And yet behind that mask, her eyes held a clear hostility, or even something deadlier.

…Not that the careless sailors noticed.

“No need to worry. Unlike him, we’ll treat you right. Day or night.”

Muttering his vulgar suggestion, one of the men reached for Monica’s chest—

—and a vicious pain ran through the tip of his elbow.

“Ghk! Adwaaah?! Bloody hell?!”

Leaping away from the woman, the sailor looked at his elbow. There was blood dripping from it.

“Wha…wh-wh…what?!”

The man gripped his elbow in a panic, unsure what had happened to him.

As he groaned, confused, Monica spoke over him before he could have a moment to think.

“Oh no…! You’re hurt!”

“Dammit! What the hell is going on?! What stabbed me?!”

When the man flipped his arm over, he saw a dark-red liquid spreading over his tanned skin. This wasn’t a scratch; the wound was a deep puncture from something sharp.

“You must have caught it on something and torn it open! You should have a doctor look at that right away!”

“Huh? Uh, yeah.”

The man’s face was twisted with pain and fear. Monica looked over to the mouth of the alley, her expression grave.

“If you turn right and go on a little ways, you’ll see a doctor’s shingle! Tetanus is rampant around here, so you’d better get it treated as soon as possible, or else…”

“T-tetanus?!”

“Oy. Forget this; let’s get over to that doctor right now.”

“Dammit! How the hell did his arm…?”

The men were completely confounded by the blood and this sudden turn of events. They should be used to seeing injuries, out on the ocean or in fights, but they hadn’t been expecting this one at all, and the eeriness of bloodshed with no discernible cause seemed to have panicked them.

With no time to waste on Monica, the men set off for the doctor at a run, taking the wounded man with them.

Monica watched them go, her eyes cold. Then, as if nothing had happened, she turned on her heel and walked the other way into the alley.

That was when a young man appeared in front of her, atop a stack of barrels by the wall with the blue sky behind him. There was no telling how long he’d been standing there.

“Hi there. Your sheep’s clothing never ceases to amaze me, Moni-Moni.”

“…Elmer. You were watching?”

In an instant, Monica’s blank expression dissolved, as she pouted slightly in a youthful way.

“Aw, don’t scowl like that. You’ll scare the rest of the herd.”

There was irony in his words, but no malice in his voice. He was grinning and surrounded by a unique sense of blitheness.

The young man clapped his hands together. “Well, you escaped safely, they didn’t figure out you were the one who hurt him, and those fellows will get the wound taken care of at the doctor’s, so all’s well that ends well! Now smile, c’mon and smile!”

“It’s all right, Elmer.”

Monica heaved a deep sigh at his odd view of the situation, then let her frown slip away. She smiled wryly.

From within her sleeve, the tip of a stiletto briefly appeared, wet with blood.

“I’m not a fool, at least not enough for men like them to figure me out.”

The innocence she’d shown Huey, the dispassionate mask she’d worn while she dealt with the men, the slightly grown-up smile she was giving Elmer now—each one of those expressions could have come from completely different people.

But every one of them was the true nature of Monica Campanella.

She was one of the pupils who studied alchemy at the Third Library.

She had simply been the girl who’d fallen in love with Huey Laforet, a boy who didn’t fit in with the rest. At least, that was what the people around her had believed until a certain incident four years ago.

Even afterward, only a handful of people knew about her multifaceted nature.

It wasn’t as if she had multiple personalities. She simply had several different faces that she deliberately used in different situations.

Elmer was one of the few people in the know, but her character didn’t appear to bother him one bit.

“Well, I heard there was a strange ship coming into port, so I came to see in case there was something interesting, and then I saw some men bothering you, Moni-Moni. I was shocked.”

“It’s not very persuasive if you smile when you say it.” Monica sighed again, and Elmer grinned at her, using both his hands to pull his face out of shape.

“Aw, don’t look so annoyed. Smile, smile more.”

“I could fake a smile for you.”

“Aww. Fake smiles are no good.”

Laughing, Elmer jumped down from the mountain of barrels and thumped Monica lightly on the shoulder. “Where’s Huey? Did he head home already?”

“Uh-huh. I asked him to the theater, but he told me he wasn’t interested.”

“Hasn’t changed a bit, huh? Should I check around for a comedy that would get a smile out of him?”

“Don’t bother. You don’t have to force him.” Monica shook her head gently, then leaned against the alley wall and looked up at the blue sky. “I like Huey just the way he is. I love everything about him, absolutely everything. Right down to his surly temper.”

If she’d said the words in front of the object of her affections, her voice would have started shaking from awkwardness and nerves.

However, this young man, Elmer C. Albatross, was a mutual friend of Monica and Huey, and with him, she was able to say these things with startling honesty.

Any ordinary person would have been embarrassed hearing it, but Elmer just nodded. “Yeah, suppose that’s true,” he commented, then kept on listening without so much as a blush.

“…You’re lucky, Elmer. You can go up to Huey and talk to him any time you like.”

“Huh? Are you jealous of me? I know I’ve said this before, but I’m not that type of guy.”

“I can be jealous of your friendship, too, you know…” Monica stepped away from the wall, brushing the dust from her clothes, and changed the subject. “It’s already been four years since then…”

“What brought that on all of a sudden?”

“When those men were harassing me, it brought back a few memories.”

She was remembering the time when she’d first met Elmer and had grown closer to Huey.

Back then, when those Rotten Eggs tried to come after me, Huey put himself in danger to save me.

It was actually Huey whom they’d been after, and he’d only sidestepped the trouble that was being sent his way—but Monica had reinterpreted it into something more favorable and cherished the memory anyway.

“All sorts of things happened less than ten days after I first told Huey I liked him. Your arrival was one of them, Elmer.” She lowered her eyes slightly, smiling as she reminisced. “You exposed my secret, Elmer; you broke some of the walls around Huey’s heart and tried to save the town’s children… So much happened back then, didn’t it? So much has happened since then, too.”

“Yeah. I wonder how many smile-worthy memories there are in there.”

“But…even after four years together, we hardly know anything about one another.”

“You think?” Elmer cocked his head, perplexed, and Monica continued in a more detached tone.

“There’s still plenty I don’t know about Huey, and I don’t know about your past. Neither of you know anything about my past. Well, except for just a few things, maybe.” Gazing at the people who were passing through the alley, Monica let her memories overlap with the crowd. “I can’t even begin to imagine your past, Elmer.”

“I’ll tell you about it, if you ask me.”

“No, you mustn’t. It isn’t fair somehow. When we decide to share our secrets, let’s all do it together, all right?”

“I see. That’s an exciting prospect—it might make us smile.”

Monica stepped out of the alley then, and Elmer followed her.

She was walking far more naturally than when she’d been with Huey, but Monica’s eyes didn’t hold any of the same emotion for Elmer.

“I like you as a friend, Elmer,” she commented, as if to confirm that for both of them. “And of course I’m in love with Huey.”

“Glad to hear it. I hope Huey’s even happier about it.”

Glancing at her indifferent friend’s face, Monica giggled. The smile on her face wasn’t cynical or dark, but genuine and delighted.

Turning to face the port, her glossy hair fanning out in the sea wind, Monica began to elaborate.

“Sometimes, I think— Well, really, I shouldn’t be wishing for this at all, but…”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I wish we could stay just like this forev—”

But she abruptly broke off.

“?”

When Elmer looked her way, Monica had completely frozen, except for her hair whipping wildly in the wind.

Oddly enough, it seemed to be an accurate depiction of what was in her heart.

“Moni-Moni?”

Perplexed, Elmer circled around in front of Monica to get a better look at her face.

She was petrified, her eyes wide with shock, and her gaze was riveted on a spot in the port.

“?”

Elmer followed her line of sight and saw a ship, lying at anchor.

There were many ships in the harbor, but Elmer knew immediately which one Monica was looking at. After all, it was impossible to ignore.

Unlike the others, its entire hull was black, and it flew a strange crest with an hourglass design painted on it.

Multiple circles were arranged around the golden hourglass in a manner reminiscent of the Medici crest, which was a golden shield spangled with red balls.

“That…ship…”

“Oh yeah, that’s the one. The big ship people were saying was in port. Quite a vessel, huh? I wonder where it’s from.”

“…”

“That hourglass crest makes it look kinda like a pirate ship.”

In this era, the ubiquitous skull-and-crossbones flag hadn’t yet become mainstream among pirates. Each ship flew a standard of its own design, and one frequent motif was the hourglass, a threat that meant “you are out of time.”

A little later on, the pirate known as Blackbeard would allegedly fly an hourglass standard, which would rapidly raise its visibility.

Because Blackbeard’s flag also featured a skull, the hourglass and skull would become widely recognized as pirate symbols. However, in this era, when Blackbeard’s piratical career hadn’t yet begun, this was no more than minor trivia known only to curious people like Elmer.

“Wh…why…?”

It wasn’t clear whether she’d even heard Elmer’s well-informed comments. The way Monica was staring and murmuring at that hourglass crest, one might think she was about to become a victim of pirates herself, believing the symbol was a warning meant for her.

Her face was pale.

Her lips trembled slightly, and her eyes were wide-open, unblinking.

Elmer knew about Monica’s various “true natures,” but this was an expression even he had never seen before.

“What’s the matter, Moni-Moni?”

Elmer’s smile vanished. Worried, he shook Monica’s shoulder, but she still didn’t answer him.

Sinking weakly to her knees, she murmured, “Why…here…?”

…And that was all.

Elmer knew the word for the emotion on her face.

It was despair.

Meanwhile The port

“How do you even describe it? Just looking up at that behemoth makes you lose all hope, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed. Although, to those on board, I imagine it’s the safest fortress imaginable.”

Looking at the enormous ship, which seemed very much like a battleship, the townspeople were whispering to one another in fright. Had the ravages of war finally reached their town?

Listening to the tumult behind him, Jean-Pierre spoke to Lebreau, who was by his side.

“I came because you said there was something you wanted to show me. What’s the point of bringing me here to frighten me? Are you telling me to write a play about a war next? Or am I supposed to create a poem protesting war and extolling the virtues of peace?”

“I would never try to influence the direction of your work, Maestro. Besides, this is not a battleship.”

“Huh? Isn’t it?”

Jean briefly thought he might have erroneously assumed the daunting, enormous, black-painted hull belonged to a warship, but—there were several dozen gun ports in the ship’s side… He drew his eyebrows together in a frown.

“It’s quite obviously a man-of-war.”

“Physically, yes, but it isn’t actually being used in combat. This ship is in the service of a certain Spanish aristocrat. The gun ports are merely for use on escort missions.”

“And if this ship were propelled by oars, would you call it a canoe?”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

Lebreau laughed, and Jean asked another question that was on his mind.

“What’s a ship like this doing here? We’re in the middle of a war. Wouldn’t the state have commandeered it from its owners by now and put it to work in the navy?”

“I hear the House of Dormentaire has already ‘donated’ several battleships. While their name is not famous, they are one of the most powerful wealthy families in Europe, along with England’s Mars Clan. It’s said their power rivals that of the Medici Family of ages past.”

“And it all comes down to money. I have so many choice words, I hardly know where to start.”

“If it inspires your creative urges, Maestro, nothing could be better.”

Lebreau’s blend of respect and casual friendliness put Jean in a fine mood.

It had been more than two years since they had first met, and their friendship had only grown since then. Jean still didn’t know much about alchemy, and he had no desire to learn. They only met about once a month, and Maiza, who was studying under Dalton, may have had more opportunities to come into contact with Lebreau.

However, Lebreau managed to light a fire under him every time they met, and his influence had definitely widened the focus of Jean’s works.

“Come to think of it, I hear your lot is going to be moving to this town.”

“You’ve heard right. The war has gradually begun to affect our own town, you see… Besides, now that our master is dead, the libraries here are more convenient for research, in many ways.”

“Is everyone coming here, then? Even the servants?”

“Yes. After all, a few of the young ones are originally from here. That said, some of them don’t have very pleasant memories of it…” His tone suggested there was more to the story than that, but Jean decided not to press him.

At present, to Jean, Lebreau was a fan who respected him, a friend, and a partner who gave him ideas.

At first, he had felt as though he was handing off most of the responsibility for his works to someone else, but the acclaim from the people around him cleared that misgiving from his mind.

Now, Lebreau Fermet Viralesque was a solid part of poet Jean-Pierre Accardo’s daily life.

“But tell me, Lebreau. What is an eminent nobleman’s ship doing in a town full of libraries? It doesn’t seem as though it’s stopped in to replenish its water and food stores.”

In response to this completely natural question, Lebreau nodded lightly.

“I do think their choice of vessel was somewhat excellent, but…

“…I hear they’re looking for someone.”

Meanwhile The northeast area of town

As one moved into Lotto Valentino from the sea, the altitude increased sharply.

The district in which the aristocrats lived was a little higher than the rest of the town, so that their fine residences could overlook those of the common people. At the highest point was an enormous mansion. Anyone who hadn’t seen how great aristocrats lived in other cities might mistake the building for a royal palace.

Under Spanish rule, this region certainly wasn’t wealthy—but the structure’s majestic facade was enough to make one temporarily forget the economic situation.

The white mansion was surrounded by a landscaped garden that harmonized with the vista of the town, creating a view that twice overwhelmed its visitors; the ivory fortress rose out of a garden that was a riot of flowers and grandeur.

Inside that residence, many servants worked diligently, and even their subtly precise etiquette became part of the decor adding to the mansion’s magnificence.

If there was just one thing that was worthy of special mention, it was that, of the mansion’s many servants…

…over 90 percent were women.

“Your Excellency, your guests have arrived,” declared the butler, one of the few male servants here.

In response, a man who had been leaning back in the chair in his office lazily said, “The Dormentaire hounds, I suppose. I’d really prefer to run them off… Could we come up with a suitable ploy, do you think?”

The man looked peculiar. The clothes he wore did seem “aristocratic” enough for a master of this mansion, but only in the sense that they were tailored from appropriately luxurious fabrics.

In terms of age, he was probably not yet thirty. He wore a habit à la française —formal wear modeled after the French style—made from thin cloth. The coat was accented with tasteful jeweled ornaments, while its back was embroidered with a single large symbol from a foreign script, as a crest.

If someone who knew had seen it, they would have recognized it as the Chinese character meaning “fire,” but a viewer who didn’t know would assume it was probably just a design and leave it at that.

Unusually for an aristocrat, the man wasn’t wearing a peruke—a noble’s wig—nor had he applied the cloth moles known as mouches that were fashionable among the European nobility. Instead, he wore a particularly dramatic tricorn hat pulled down low on his head, and below each of his wide, owlish eyes, he’d drawn small stars with cosmetic ink in lieu of beauty spots.

There were dark circles under his wide eyes, and it wasn’t clear whether he wasn’t getting enough sleep or had drawn them there on purpose.

On the stage of a theater, he would have been taken for an avant-garde sort of clown, but he was the aristocrat who lived in the highest spot in town and simultaneously held the highest rank.

Esperanza Boroñal.

He was a noble who held the title of count in the Spanish dynasty that controlled Naples, and he ruled this small city as his territory. His unique appearance had made him a laughingstock in the home country, where they called him the Clown Count.

As a rule, the town of Lotto Valentino should have fallen under the jurisdiction of the viceroy of Naples, but due to a unique situation, an exception had been made, and this town belonged to the count.

Even after Austria occupied Naples, this hadn’t changed. The base of supervision had only shifted from Naples to a different city in Spain, and this man managed his domain as a special, self-governing territory.

Rumor had it that the House of Boroñal had been considered a nuisance back home, and the count had been sent here to get rid of him. Given his eccentricities, that explanation was enough for the townspeople.

“Tell them I have been afflicted by an incurable illness that affects only men and that if I meet a man, I shall explode and die. Then whoever is showered with my blood and flesh will catch the plague and die as well.”

The Clown Count’s proposal was insane, but the butler didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

“No, Your Excellency. Such an excuse would do nothing.”

“You can’t say that unless we try it. No, wait a moment… Yes, we’ll have to try it before we know for sure. How can you declare it meaningless with such certainty? What is life? A series of challenges, nothing more; without challenge, life is stagnant and no better than death. You must believe! Trust that the other is fool enough to take our noble lie seriously and run right back home!”

The count’s second reply was even worse, but the butler didn’t lecture him on it. Instead, he gave a more rational reason.

“First, if you do indeed suffer from such an affliction, one might wonder why I am unaffected when I deliver the message. More importantly—

“—the envoy from the House of Dormentaire is a woman.”

In the next instant, Esperanza bolted from his chair, leaping to his feet like a spring-loaded doll.

“Why didn’t you say that first?! Good lord, I’ve kept her waiting nearly two minutes already!”

Even as he spoke, he was taking advantage of a nearby mirror to briskly straighten his clothes and hair before he greeted his guest in person.

Esperanza was a peerless lover of women, which was why Maiza and some of the aristocrats called him a lecher and libertine. Of course, the town was teeming with womanizing aristocrats, but Esperanza was on a different scale.

Not only were the vast majority of the servants at his mansion women, but it was fair to say he loved all those women equally. That said, he wasn’t spending every night in debauchery. He had a propensity that was very hard for those around him to understand: Simply watching women made him happy.

When other aristocrats came to the mansion, he was so far gone that he’d tell them, I want you to think of the words of every woman in this mansion as my own. This had made him the subject of ridicule not only in his home country, but by the town’s nobles as well.

However—there were also rumors that he’d dueled several other aristocrats over matters involving women back in his home country, and no one was willing to disparage a woman in front of him.

“It’s my sincere pleasure to meet you, honorable Lord Boroñal. I am called Carla Alvarez Santoña, and I have been sent by the House of Dormentaire.”

The woman who introduced herself in the entrance hall seemed to be in her early twenties.

She had regular features, but her sharp eyes and dignified bearing made her seem two or three years older than she actually was.

Her overly polite tone wasn’t the only thing about her that was unusual for a woman of the times. The way she dressed was odd as well.

Her tan skin was covered by what appeared to be a man’s military uniform. Thanks to that and her rather short hair, when seen from a distance—particularly from the back—she was extremely easy to mistake for a man. However, this did not apply to individuals like Esperanza, who immediately identified her as a woman from her hips.

That said, it was true that she dressed in such a way that she seemed to be half hoping to be mistaken for a man. The sword at her hip gave her an imposing air, and if she’d bound her slightly rounded chest to flatten it, she would probably have been given the full title of “a beauty in male costume.”

For the time, she was quite a rare woman, the sort you’d never see outside a theater. Even so, the clownish Esperanza didn’t seem at all taken aback. He spoke to her as he would have to any other female guest.

“It’s a pleasure, Carla. I am Esperanza Boroñal. I pray your visit will end in a way that brings you happiness.”

“…”

For just a moment, uncertainty entered Carla’s sharp eyes, and Esperanza asked her, “Is something the matter?”

“No, it’s nothing,” she replied tersely.

Nervous, Esperanza pressed her further.

“If I’ve said something discourteous, I do apologize.”

Esperanza’s attitude was not that of a town lord, and perhaps that was why Carla told him what was on her mind honestly.

“No, I’ve been discourteous to you. When people first see me, I expect to get strange looks or curious glances. You did nothing of the sort, Lord Boroñal, and so I was startled. That’s all.”

“You give me too much credit. I often direct strange looks at the women of this world…along with astonished incredulity over how a being so lovely could have been born here.”

“Stop, please. Your words are too kind for someone as lowborn as I am.”

“There’s no need to disparage yourself. In any case, what other reason could anyone have to look at you strangely?”

At Esperanza’s words, Carla narrowed her keen eyes, searching his face. But she could find no hint of intended sarcasm.

She exhaled slightly.

It’s astonishing. He really is as eccentric as the rumors say.

Carla belonged to a family that had been in the service of the House of Dormentaire for many long years.

In particular, the family had produced many guards for the Dormentaires. While she was a woman, her character—which, from childhood, had been manlier than that of many men—and a variety of other circumstances had earned her a position as a guard. Of course, back then, very few men would have gladly obeyed a female commander. As a result, she did not have her own team of guards, and her job was primarily to protect the ladies of the family in places where only women were allowed.

During this mission, she had been chosen as the envoy precisely because the people of the House of Dormentaire were familiar with Esperanza’s personality.

No matter how many stories she heard, she’d written him off as nothing more than a lecherous, womanizing noble, but upon actually meeting him, she realized she’d been treating the clown-like Esperanza with contempt. When she understood he was dealing with her with no judgment whatsoever, she felt ashamed.

“I am dressed as a man, after all, and that tends to draw attention.”

She had her own reasons for presenting the way she did, but she’d never dreamed she’d end up having to say this sort of thing herself. She wasn’t sure how to feel.

So, attempting to center herself in her devotion to her job, she returned to the facts.

“I’ll be honest with you. If I am successful in the mission I have been assigned by the House of Dormentaire, the results may not be to your liking, Lord Boroñal.”

“What do you mean?”

Esperanza looked perplexed, and Carla spoke with utter calm.

“I have been tasked with locating a certain criminal. It will mean opening your old wounds and proving the villain has been hiding comfortably here, in your town.”

At that, Esperanza exhaled slightly and murmured, half to himself.

“I see. I did think that might be the case…”

Whether or not she’d heard, Carla spoke with dignity and named the target of her search.

“The murderer who killed your parents, as well as the oldest son of Lord Dormentaire…and your younger sister, Maribel Boroñal. One who must be held accountable for crimes against both our houses.”

The Memoirs of Jean-Pierre Accardo

At the time, the House of Dormentaire was merely an anomaly in the town.

Many Lotto Valentinians already treated even the crews of regular merchant ships as outsiders, and great nobles from Spain were nothing more than an annoying disruption to our lives.

So I thought the same as well.

However, as I write this letter, I have come to a different conclusion.

The anomaly was the town of Lotto Valentino itself.

On the Italian Peninsula, on this continent of the world—

—Lotto Valentino was no more than an oddity that had resigned itself to a gentle isolation.

Thus, while I idolized the outside world, I may have loathed my own land.

Back then, I never even had an inkling of the hatred in my heart, but when I look back over the poems I had written, my disdain for the world pours from the page!

…But I digress.

The reality of the House of Dormentaire’s abrupt arrival in our town smeared it with illusions and lies.

The people of Lotto Valentino were frightened.

Due to the 1705 incident, many people had been jailed, and the townspeople had only recently awakened to a great fear of aristocrats and the military. That fear may seem incredibly lukewarm in comparison to the terror experienced in the war-torn regions—but as I said previously, this town was rather exceptional, and its people had once been regarded as heroes.

It had still only been a few years since that common sense—or rather, uncommon sense—had been overturned. When that enormous man-of-war appeared in port, how their unsteady hearts must have shuddered…

However…the moment Lebreau led me to set eyes on that ship—I could feel the winds of hope blowing.

As I gazed at its eighty gun ports, anticipation stirred in my heart of hearts.

Just as Maiza sought enough power to change this world in an immortal body…

Just as a fledgling alchemist had accumulated a fortune in order to destroy the world…

Just as a young woman had tried to rend the thin film keeping her from her beloved…

Just as the deviant who sought smiles from everyone tried to gain happiness for himself by creating it in others…

Just as the guard dog who had sworn loyalty to her master took immense pride in her fangs and her chain…

Just as the aristocrat reviled as a clown genuinely wished for the happiness of the opposite sex…

…I spied a definite hope in the “change” that battleship brought. I saw a foothold that would help me start toward those wishes and hopes.

People live with some sort of hope in mind, and as they live, they bite into the rope that leads down the path they desire.

Many panic, bite in, and sever the rope themselves, despite this being a driving force behind creation.

Even those who have realized there is no hope expect that their hopeless days will continue uninterrupted by worse fortunes. Or if not, they look forward to being released from those dull days by their deaths.

Whatever the case may be, what I felt then was hope.

I hoped the ship would stir up a new wind in the town, that surprise and joy like the sort I’d experienced upon first seeing an immortal in 1707 might breathe new life into my community.

Naturally, I did not intend to place the whole of my hopes in others. I wanted that enthusiasm to spread across the world, but the wind can only spread a fire if fire already exists. Generating its first spark was the mission I had been given.

I was so conceited. I thought I had power that could change the world, just because I’d been given a little praise.

Although…I suppose a script I wrote did change the world in its own way.

It shattered the lives of a bare handful of people.

The results were completely unlike anything I had wished for.

That is why I decided to leave these memoirs behind.

Yes, as you may already have realized, they are not a collection of strange stories about immortals and other mysteries I have seen.

Had they been so, I would hardly think to hide them after I finished writing them. As I write now, I have had no change of heart, and after I have finished setting everything down on paper, I doubt my resolution will be reversed.

This is the confession of a sinner, and of a criminal.

There is an ancient myth of a barber who screamed the secret of the king’s donkey ears into an old well. I am both that barber, and the king himself.

Should this secret get out, no doubt I will execute myself.

Yours is the role of the old well. You are here to listen to my secret.

I care not what you do with these memoirs. You may spread them across the world or keep them locked inside your heart.

That said, I do not believe my heart is as generous as that of the donkey-eared king, or that I am capable of forgiving myself.

That is why I will hide this letter.

I do not know whether the fable of the donkey-eared king still exists in the era in which you have found this. I cannot guarantee the metaphor will have made sense to you. However…

…I committed a crime, make no mistake.

The grave crime, for which I can never fully atone, of exposing a hidden truth to the world.