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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Cyno
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By afternoon, I made my way to the circular conference chamber inside Kara’s main palace. Perhaps because the meeting was about to begin, the entrance was crowded with Kara’s local notables and clan leaders. Among them, I spotted an elderly man. He had a lean frame and sharp eyes, but contrary to his appearance, he greeted the local dignitaries and clansmen with great warmth.
When he saw me, he bent his waist respectfully and offered a greeting.
“Welcome, Master. It is an honor to meet you here.”
“And who are you, that you know me?”
“I am Udin Ibrahim, the Chief Retainer.”
The Chief Retainer was the highest-ranking vassal among Kara’s scribes. By the standards of the Procia continent, his position was recognized as no more than that of a low noble, but here in Kara he was one of the highest-ranking officials after the Satrap, holding power in policymaking second only to him.
“Udin?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
I took a closer look at Udin Ibrahim.
Udin had once been the mentor of the current Satrap of Kara, and he would soon gain a certain notoriety through the coming war between the Kingdom of Robros and Kara. He would be branded a sycophant and traitor beyond compare.
But I never placed much faith in that historical account. After all, it was written by the victors of Robros, and there were several oddities in the records concerning Ibrahim’s life and end.
First, it was said that Udin drove Kara into ruin with reckless policies, yet from my own time living in Kara, I knew the people were prosperous and peaceful. Second, he was accused of beguiling the desert tribes with a deceitful tongue to turn them against Robros, but in times of war between two nations, that was only natural. Third, the claim that he often clashed with the loyal Commander-in-Chief Razzal in order to reform the military to his liking—well, I would have done the same, so that could hardly be faulted.
But there was one thing he had done that was truly damning: at the very end, he pressured the Satrap into committing suicide by fire. Suicide is condemned by every faith as an unforgivable sin, beyond salvation.
“Alright.”
In any case, his greeting was from a man who would die soon. And not just die—die a miserable death. I pushed it from my mind and stepped into the conference chamber.
Inside, the chamber’s seats were divided into two sections, left and right, with the central dais as the axis. The right side was bustling with people, while the left side was empty. It seemed the Robros delegation had not yet arrived.
I made my way to the empty left side and sat down. My mission for this commission was to closely shadow Marquis Fabius. It was best to stay as close to him as possible.
“The Satrap enters!”
At a soldier’s booming voice, a palanquin draped in white silk curtains was carried into the chamber—the Satrap of Kara’s palanquin.
The palanquin passed before the local dignitaries and clansmen, who stood in respect, before being set down at the head seat of the right faction. I waved discreetly to Sister Armida, who stood by the palanquin as part of the Satrap’s close guard.
‘Why are they so late?’
Even after a long while, the delegation still hadn’t arrived.
It was a grave diplomatic discourtesy, but between a great power and a small state, such things were common. The Robros delegation clearly intended to make the Satrap of Kara wait, to flaunt their superiority as a great nation.
I glanced carefully at Sister Armida. She was leaning on one leg, her face twisted with irritation.
‘My sister never was very patient.’
Soon the corridor outside the chamber grew noisy. The synchronized sound of marching footsteps echoed menacingly. Then the doors opened and the delegation entered in perfect formation, standing by their seats as if awaiting someone.
Presently, Marquis Fabius strode in, flanked by high-ranking nobles.
My eyes immediately fixed on a young blond noble standing behind him. Count Boris. Having lost his parents early, he inherited his title young, and in time he would become infamous across the world as the diplomat who fanned the flames of war.
‘That bastard… such an insufferable brat.’
Though Boris was of little merit otherwise, he possessed one peculiar talent: the ability to provoke. His arrogant and insolent speech, his haughty manner of belittling others—he was perfectly suited to serve as a messenger of war.
“White Mask. Come this way.”
Marquis Fabius tapped my shoulder and led me to the seats of the delegation’s upper echelon.
I rose and took the seat he offered—directly beside the Marquis.
“Old man, that was a pretty risky move you pulled just now.”
At my casual remark, the Marquis reacted.
“What was?”
“I mean, you ought to arrive earlier next time.”
Not understanding, the Marquis merely tilted his head.
Once the opening formalities ended, the conference began in earnest. The first to take the floor was Count Boris. He ascended the central dais and immediately unfurled the scroll he carried.
“Hear the words of His Majesty, the mighty and noble King of Robros! For the earth goddess Terra watches over us with her blessings…”
The beginning of the declaration was nothing but praise for Terra, the state religion of Robros. Nearly all fluff—one could half ignore it.
At length, Boris reached the main point.
“Though the vast desert is filled with the goddess Terra’s grace, vile bands of brigands defile the sacred land with blood and wring cries of anguish from the people. Grieved beyond words, our King, by divine oracle of the goddess, shall mete out Terra’s punishment upon these savage brigands and upon the wicked who aid them. Yet our King is also merciful. Those who sincerely repent their past sins and bow in humility shall receive the goddess’s grace. And those noble desert folk who fight beside our King’s army shall be granted the path to eternal glory. People of the desert! Do not take lightly our King’s wrath. His wrath reaches the heavens and stands with the goddess Terra herself. Fear, and obey! For our King’s righteous army shall soon be upon you.”
Though lengthy, in essence it was a declaration of war.
The sudden stench of war caused the assembled local dignitaries and clansmen to buzz with unease. To them, this meeting had seemed like little more than another yearly ritual of Robros venting its anger.
“War?”
“Impossible. For them to attack Kara, they’d have to cross the Cursed Trade Route—how could they manage that?”
The chamber was rife with agitation. At last, Udin the Chief Retainer rose to raise a question.
“Count Boris. For Kara, this declaration—”
“Silence! How dare a mere clansman wag his tongue before me! Your arrogance is beyond the skies!”
Boris unleashed his trademark move: weaponizing rank to crush others. For this reason, conversation with him below a certain level was all but impossible.
He turned his gaze toward the curtained seat of the Satrap.
“Satrap of Kara. You shall speak directly.”
The chamber fell silent.
Though Kara was but a city-state, it held sway over countless smaller states and tribes across the desert. For even a great nation’s count to address the Satrap so rudely was unthinkable.
Kara’s guards flushed with anger, their killing intent palpable, until Marquis Fabius stamped his foot hard.
Crack! The marble floor split beneath his heel. The guards, recognizing his presence, calmed and resumed their posture.
I scolded the Marquis.
“You’re scaring the kids too much.”
“I have to earn my keep somehow.”
“Shameless. You think smashing marble pays for your meals?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have plenty more to do soon.”
The Marquis bared thick white teeth in a grin, sending a murderous aura toward the Satrap—a silent demand to speak directly.
Ah, I’d forgotten for a moment because of his kindly demeanor. But on the battlefield, this old man turns into a mad dog.
Finally, the Satrap of Kara spoke.
“What is it that the King of Robros seeks of us?”
Her voice was gentle yet restrained.
I rolled my eyes. Strange. I felt as though I had heard that voice somewhere before. But I dismissed the thought. The Satrap of Kara would commit suicide in the coming war. There was no way I could be connected to her.
Boris replied arrogantly.
“Ruin, or submission.”
“And why does the Kingdom of Robros demand ruin and submission of us?”
“Because you of Kara have wickedly supported the desert brigands with both goods and coin.”
The Satrap faltered. Though not to the full extent, it was true Kara had been friendly toward the desert brigands.
Without the brigands of the Cursed Trade Route, Kara would lose its prosperity and sink to being a mere waypoint along the desert trade. In other words, Kara and the brigands existed in an inescapable symbiosis.
“But without Kara, who would control the desert brigands?”
“Worry not. All desert brigands shall be exterminated by the Robros army.”
“And you deem that possible?”
“Do you not know the strength of the Kingdom of Robros? We are mighty, and we are great.”
I chuckled.
No matter how strong Robros was, they could never fully wipe out the desert brigands. The profits from raiding the trade route were immense, while the desert was far too vast to police effectively.
In fact, the brigands would only grow more ferocious. Under the banner of independence, countless Shika warriors would join their ranks, turning them into terror groups that butchered Robros merchants without hesitation.
Perhaps, after much effort, they might one day eradicate them—but certainly not within the next eight years.
And in the process, Robros’s national strength would wither. Trade along the desert route would plummet, and the costs of deploying troops would drain the treasury.
“Who goes there!”
My laugh had been loud enough to draw Boris’s glare. But seeing me seated shoulder to shoulder with Marquis Fabius, he turned his head back.
The Marquis whispered to me.
“White Mask, Count Boris is a narrow-minded man.”
“It’s fine. Before the strong, he shows the broadest tolerance.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Boris barked at the Satrap.
“Satrap of Kara! Choose quickly! Ruin, or submission?”
The Satrap took a moment of thought, then answered.
“State your conditions for peace.”
By reducing “submission” to “peace,” the Satrap had shown defiance. Boris frowned but soon pulled out the terms of negotiation.
“First: Kara shall pay reparations of eight million gold leaf to the Kingdom of Robros.”
An astronomical demand. Eight million leaf was thirty tons of gold. If the Satrap of Kara ever gave me that sum, I’d gladly play househusband for life.
“Very well. State the next condition.”
I gaped at the curtained seat of the Satrap. Suddenly, I felt love bloom in my chest. I had always known Kara was wealthy, but never to this degree.
“Second: a governorship shall be established in Kara’s capital, and all policies must be ratified by the governor dispatched from Robros.”
The chamber erupted. This was essentially a demand for sovereignty. Even the Satrap fell silent, unable to answer.
“….”
“Third: the Satrap of Kara shall enter as the seventy-eighth concubine of His Majesty the King of Robros. These three terms are to be accepted or rejected as a whole. There is no room for negotiation. That is all!”
Groans filled the hall.
The third condition was tantamount to extinguishing Kara’s royal line. The current Satrap had no siblings, while the King of Robros was a decrepit old man on his deathbed.
I let out an involuntary exclamation.
“Jealous…”
“Of whom?”
“Of the King of Robros. That means he already has seventy-seven concubines.”
Marquis Fabius chuckled.
“I myself keep over twenty concubines.”
My eyes widened.
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
“Jealous…”
“White Mask. I do have several granddaughters of marriageable age. Would you care to take one as your wife?”
I glanced up and down at the Marquis’s burly, rugged frame, then curtly turned away.
“No thanks.”
Just then, Kara’s Commander-in-Chief Razzal leapt forward, unable to contain his fury, and prostrated himself before the Satrap.
“Your Highness! Their insolence has reached its peak. Grant me but your leave, and I shall lead our entire army and strike down these insolent curs in one blow, raising your glory and Kara’s name across the desert!”
My eyes narrowed at Razzal. The man looked for all the world as if he had been born into this world solely to burn with comic bravado.
Kara’s forces numbered no more than four thousand.
To think he could crush the vast Robros expeditionary force with that? Utterly absurd.
Still, if I had one wish for the man, it was this: may he at least spare us his antics on the battlefield. For there is no tragedy greater than a comedy played out in war.
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