The Sharpest Sword
Caleb Theon.
A companion of Leoneld's from the original The 13th Prince Has Returned.
Yes. I'm certain of it.
Cesare bit anxiously at the inside of his lip. How many times had he read this novel? Probably more often than the author had. There was no forgetting that name, try as he might.
And above all...
If it was Caleb Theon, even more so.
Caleb Theon. The companion who had been rescued from the slave market by Leoneld and sworn his loyalty to him. Gifted with innate talent, he had become Leoneld's sharpest 'sword' and distinguished himself time and again.
But in the original, his end was cruel beyond bearing.
He dies in the end. Betrayed, no less.
In the story's latter half, at the moment when Leoneld had to choose between completing his grand revenge and the life of his most loyal companion—
Die.
—the protagonist Leoneld, without a moment's hesitation, had sacrificed Caleb like a chess piece.
...Right. I cursed the protagonist so much reading that part.
Cesare clicked his tongue inwardly. This was a man he could never forget, no matter how he tried. Thoroughly used and discarded by his own master, Caleb had met his death in silence, never once letting a flicker of resentment show. Truly a pitiable, foolish man.
...Anyway, that's not what matters right now.
Cesare pulled out of the reverie, his gaze hardening to a chill.
What matters is why Caleb—who was meant to become Leoneld's sword—is in Lysian's hands right now.
By the story's original course, he had been fated to be rescued from the slave market and become Leoneld's first companion. With that question burning, Cesare turned his gaze to Lysian.
"Fourth Prince."
"Yes, Duke?"
"Might I ask... how Sir Theon came to be knight commander of this villa?"
To the carefully probing question, Lysian answered lightly.
"Ah. I picked him up."
The reply was so offhand, as if he'd scooped up a stray cat off the roadside, that Cesare was briefly dumbfounded—but he buried the reaction and pressed on.
"I'd like to hear the details, if I may."
"Hmm."
Lysian stroked his chin as though rifling through his memory, then answered with an amused smile.
"About a year ago, I believe. After the Duke vanished, I wandered high and low looking for you." Their eyes met, and Lysian's smile curved at the corners. "That was how I happened to set foot in a border slave market and found him there. He looked useful enough that I paid his price and brought him home, and he has proven a finer sword than I ever expected."
Lysian added, a playful note threaded through his voice.
"You might even call this your doing, Duke. Had the Duke of Valois not disappeared without a trace, I would never have had reason to enter a slave market at all."
"...I see."
Cesare nodded. His mind was spinning fast.
A butterfly effect, from me twisting the story's flow and running.
His own disappearance had bent Lysian's path, and the result was that Lysian had snatched up Caleb Theon—the stroke of fortune that should have belonged to Leoneld. In effect, he had unwittingly plucked one of the protagonist's strongest cards from his hand, and a strangely uneasy feeling hung over him.
But Cesare soon brushed the thought away. After all, hadn't this life's Leoneld clawed his way to the throne anyway, even without Caleb?
I wonder if he managed to gather his other companions.
There was no telling how far the story had warped under his interference. But there was at least one thing Cesare hoped had changed.
In the original, every one of Leoneld's companions died a miserable death—by that bastard's hand, or for his sake.
At least this once, he hoped, the man wouldn't lose his companions that way.
While Cesare was sunk in tangled thoughts, Lysian rose from his seat and clapped Caleb on the shoulder.
"In any case, the Duke's security looked thin to me, and it sat poorly."
Lysian tipped his chin toward Caleb.
"From today, Sir Theon will be solely responsible for guarding the Duke and the child."
At those words, Caleb Theon bowed deep toward Cesare once more and sank to one knee.
"By my lord's command, I shall defend His Grace the Duke's safety with my life."
"......"
It felt strange, but there was no need for doubt. Caleb Theon was a man whose loyalty ran so deep that he hadn't resented Leoneld even in the moment of his death.
As long as his contract with Lysian holds, he won't be a threat to my safety.
Caleb was exactly the man he'd read in the original.
"...Um, Sir Theon?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"...Never mind."
"Yes, Your Grace."
A taciturn, cold temperament, as though nothing in the world concerned him but his lord. He was so frigid that the open plains of Siberia would have felt warm by comparison.
Still, one thing was a mercy.
"Gwahaha!"
"...? Your Grace."
The child, at least, was utterly taken with him. And Caleb, for his part, showed no particular dislike of the child either.
Huh... why, though?
What part of that terrifying face the baby found so delightful, giggling away like that, was beyond him. And yet a strange reflection occurred to him all the same: concealed as it was, the child was Leoneld's. In one worldline, this was a man who should have died miserably at Leoneld's hands—yet here he was, clumsily lowering his guard at the sight of Leoneld's child.
"...Cute..."
"...Sir?"
"Nothing, Your Grace."
In any case, Caleb's guarding proved excellent—better than expected—and daily life at the villa was peaceful to an uncanny degree.
Before long, several days had passed since he'd arrived at the villa.
That day, too, Cesare wandered the villa here and there with the baby in his arms. The place was so vast that however far he roamed, new corners kept coming into view, and the exploring paid for itself.
"...Oh, there was a study here too?"
Having discovered an unfamiliar study tucked into a corner of the villa, Cesare moved to step inside with curious eyes. His heart gave a strange little flutter.
...Well, it happens, doesn't it.
In novels, a study like this was always an off-limits zone, with some secret space hidden behind it.
Right at that moment—
"The Fourth Prince has ordered that the study is off-limits."
Caleb planted himself firmly in the doorway.
"...?"
Oh...? So it really is off-limits?
A quiet thrill of interest ran through him as he looked up at Caleb.
"And the reason?"
"That I do not know. I have only carried out the Fourth Prince's order to bar entry."
A bone-dry answer. Exactly Caleb's way.
But cracking this is easy.
Cesare smirked and lobbed his next question with practiced ease.
"I see. Then what did he instruct you to do if someone entered anyway?"
"...I was told to forbid it. As for what measures follow after that..."
For the first time, Caleb's voice—that voice always cold and clipped to a point—wavered with hesitation.
"Then all you have to do is stand back and watch."
Grinning, Cesare stepped clean over the line and walked into the study.
"He only said to forbid it. You never heard him say to cut me down or drag me out if the order was disobeyed, did you?"
Having read more novels than he could count, Cesare knew precisely what kind of man Caleb was: a stickler for principle so rigid it bordered on the obtuse. Exploit that trait well, and tricks like this worked like a charm.
"...? That... is correct."
Caleb stood rooted for a moment, stunned—then, apparently having accepted the miraculous logic, followed Cesare without another word.
"...And of course it's a place like this that hides a secret room..."
Cesare murmured under his breath as he surveyed the sprawling study. Ordering it off-limits was suspicious in the extreme. Lysian had laid a circle and sworn on it, so at least he meant no harm to him or the child, but still.
Right then, an untitled book wedged into a corner of the bookshelf caught his eye.
Right. When you pull exactly this kind of book, a secret space tends to appear.
Half as an experiment, Cesare gripped the book and drew it forward.
That was the moment.
Grrrrrk—!
With a heavy grinding groan, the bookshelf along one wall slid aside. Beyond it, a secret passage leading down into a pitch-black basement revealed itself, plain as day.
"...!"
Even having predicted it, Cesare was a little startled.
"...It's really here."
A dazed laugh spilled out of him. Expecting a thing and meeting it face-to-face were two different matters altogether.
"...Your Grace?"
Caleb's voice, a step behind him, wavered slightly. Astonishment was plain on his face, as though he were dying to ask how on earth anyone could know such things.
"We're going in."
Without answering him, Cesare simply set his foot toward the darkened stairs. Either way, now that he'd found it, he had to see it through.
No grand reason... I'm just curious. Lysian would hardly harm him while he stayed at this villa—but then, the man was suspicious to his very core.
It couldn't hurt to hold a weakness of his in reserve.
The two of them descended the basement stairs, where the dark lay thick. After a long while, a massive iron door, shut fast, emerged at the bottom—a door locked tight without so much as a crack.
Cesare propped his chin in his hand and mulled it over for a moment, then slyly turned his head to look at Caleb.
"...Sir Theon."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Break it."
"...Your Grace."
Caleb hesitated, a rare look of trouble on his face. He had gone along until now, but it seemed he felt that lending a direct hand crossed a line.
But Cesare's shamelessness surpassed Caleb's imagination.
"Has the Fourth Prince ever ordered you not to break this door?"
"...No...?"
"Then it's fine."
Cesare indicated the iron door with a perfectly bold jerk of his chin.
"You may break it."
"...? ...! Understood."
Caleb blinked twice—then, this time as well, accepted the miraculous logic without reservation. At length he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. Shing—the blade slid free on a smooth rasp, a reddish sword aura rippling along its length.
KRA-KOOM—!
The single stroke that split the air sheared the firmly locked iron door away like a sheet of paper, and it collapsed in a sorry heap. Wading through the thickly rising dust, Cesare finally stepped into the hidden chamber.
Now then... what would be inside?
He felt for all the world like a novel's protagonist unearthing a villain's buried secrets, and his heart quickened in spite of itself. Would there be gold and treasure? A forbidden grimoire? Or perhaps—
But the moment he came face-to-face with the scene his expectations had uncovered, Cesare couldn't help but be let down.
"Mmph! Mmmph! Mmph!"
A man bound fast to a chair, gagged, thrashing with his whole body.
...What the hell is this.
This was a scene straight out of some third-rate noir flick. Cesare stared at the sight, his interest cooling in an instant.