Soot-Steeped Knight (LN)
Volume II
“Bliss Upon a Palm”
Written By
Yoshihiko Mihama
Translated By
Vagrant
───────── ♰ ─────────
Norden air chimed with birdsong as I strolled beneath the green shade. The avenues were swept and clean, but bustled alive just the same. Quite the breath of fresh air from the manicured courts of Central, from which I’d gleefully departed but a while ago.
The province laid a ways off the homebound road, of course, but I was hardly here on business. No, suffering the summons from Central was dreary business enough. Rather, I merely thought to have a reprieve ere mine earnest way home.
Speaking of homes, ‘twas in this very province that the 5th was based. Rumours were abound: ‘twas not too long ago that one within its ranks was made an exile—the same rumours that piqued mine interest, enough that I’d a mind to delve more deeply. And where better to task mine eyes and ears than the gossiping streets themselves? After all, there are myriad things to be privy to beyond the stifling halls of an Order.
“Mademoiselle, ‘tis clear even to my own well-worn eyes that you mean to stick your nose into the affairs of the 5th—from the very start, I should say! You speak of touring the town for a mite of merriment, but no, I know that tongue of yours to be too honest to tell a good lie.”
Francis’ words, aired with a sigh here and there as he walked in tow.
But I brushed them off lightly, for the burden upon my shoulders was aught but light: weighing them down, amongst many other things, was the high charge of Londosius itself. Alas, I could not attend only to mine own Order; I must needs ever set watch upon the goings-on within the realm.
Indeed. I most certainly was not here on a whim of the heart.
♰
The talk of the town was all but warmly aglow for the Dame Mareschal of the 5th. Be they errand-running maids, craft-honing artisans, mischief-making urchins, wheeling-dealing peddlers, or day-wasting gentles, the townsfolk were all enamoured of their new hero-dame. Nevermind that hers was a house of a different province entirely.
To be sure, it had come to light that the Lady Emilie was no longer of House Mernesse, but by the grace of Central, she was given both land and a fresh slate for her new start. “Valenius” was her surname now, the title of baroness withal.
Emilie Valenius. The very portrait of the 5th. Ask of that Order, and hers is sure to be the likeness first upon the mind, for that certainly was the case with all the local folk I’d approached. Curious then, that the Aureola of the 5th herself desired none of this fame. Such an appetite the fates have for irony, if naught else.
‘Twas then…
“…Hm?”
A window. That of a shop I happened by in the course of my thought-filled stroll. Through the linty pane did I spy… it.
And so, like a petal drawn in by a lusty gust, I entered the shop. Miscellanies and curios were on full display, but what hooked mine eyes laid further within.
There. Lounging upon a counter.
“My, what have we here…?”
A cat.
Always had I a love for adorable things. Fitting, wouldn’t you say? I am a girl, after all. Oh, but for darling critters, what fondness! The cat in question—how it strummed my heartstrings so!
A closer look revealed the feline’s wizened character. From its body came nary a budge; only when its glower of a gaze met mine did it turn its whiskers away. And most asudden, at that.
Ah… What boldness. What pomp. In port and appearance both. Irresistible, I tell you!
And so, resist I did not. Mine unsteady hand reached forth, all for a chance to pet the feline’s fuzzy pate.
“Hhyehh!”
“Aah—!”
My hopes, dashed by a lash of its paw.
“Be not so glum, mademoiselle. Come rain or shine, the felines never fail to find yours a foul company. ‘Tis certain!” prodded Francis.
My shoulders sank. “Haa…”
Oh, why…?
‘Twas my wish but to caress the precious thing…
“This one please, guv’nor.”
From beside my pitiable self: the bright voice of a young boy. In his palm was a vial of rust-red pomade, presented forth to the storekeeper.
“Right, what we’ve got ‘ere, ey?” Then, after a quick but puzzled look, “Why, that’s some pomade, lil’ master! Not fer a wee lad like ye t’buy, no no!”
“I-it’s for me mum! She’s off to work ev’ryday, she is. Till long past sundown…” the boy explained with increasing gloom. “This pomade’s the proper present, innit? For a workin’ woman like me mum?”
Indeed, it very well was. Distilled from the fragrant ixora flower, the pomade was a trendy pick for women of business. Albeit one scarce worth a pretty coin. Though for his age, the boy surely must’ve pinched many a penny to afford it. And as if to confirm my measure, gripped in his other hand was a smattering of coppers, also presented forth.
“Here we are! I founds it!” came a shout from behind. ‘Twas a wide-girthed, coarse-throated man who, with not an inkling of reserve, snatched the vial from the boy’s palm. “This—what’s it worth then, eh guv?”
“That be the last o’ its stock, ser,” answered the storekeeper. “Might I int’rest ye in a diff’rent one? This lad ‘ere was right ‘bout t’buy it, see.”
“Come now, good guv! You knows me office well ‘nough: I purchases from the marquis’ purse, I does!”
Ah. An errand runner. For who else but the Marquis Norden himself.
Not against the very master of this land and his underlings could this unassuming shop do aught but fold. And so was the storekeeper gripped with silence, the up-looking boy with sorrow, and the scoundrel of a runner with self-importance. Indeed, he seemed the exact sort to derive glee from playing the lord himself, what with those lips of his simpering crookedly.
“Let the lad have his way, won’t you?” I cut in. “Hand that back this instant.”
“…Eh? What’s this, now?” the overgrown errand-boy hissed, leaning close. “Wax stuff’d your ears overmuch, love? I’m a man of the marquis, I says again! The lord Marquis Norden! Me vaunted master!”
“And I say again: hand the poor princeling his pomade—and some coin, while you’re at it, for the shopkeep’s trouble,” I returned, till mine eyes narrowed, inspired anew. “…Nay. Empty your pockets, lint and all, and wend off on your merry way, why don’t you?”
“My good Lady, you sound quite the brutish brigand, if any less I knew of you,” Francis remarked, whilst firmly resting his hands upon the boy’s shoulders and turning the young eyes away. A consideration for what was to come.
Violence.
“Hah! Your crowing’s crazed, woman!” the runner snorted, ere his brows arched up as he gave my features a harder look. “Ah…? Well I’ll be! Aren’t you a flowery face? I’d say you’d make quite the mistress for the marqu—ack!?”
Never had I the charity for fruitless argument. My fist was what settled this one, whipped straight into the man’s slimy face. Up spewed an arch of blood from his nose; down to the ground he crumbled.
“Ooufh…!” And from his gnashing teeth, an uproar. “V-vile vixen, you…! Raised a hand ‘gainst the good name of the marquis, you have!”
A hand in resistance to unjust authority, that is. Nothing more. Of course, no good would come from striking a man so, on account of farcical conduct. Only, his was farcical overmuch for my tastes.
“Oi!” he yapped on. “You best looks at me as I’m talking, woman!”
“What’s all this hubbub about?” came a new voice, this one from the shop entrance. “Why upon Her watch must so simple an errand become so…”
Now at the doorway was another man, freshly arrived, as if leashed in by the commotion. His broad shoulders implied a built physique, whilst his raiments betrayed his noble station. And from his words, ‘twould seem he was the runner’s lord, all this time waiting yonder for the errand to be done.
An aristocrat—of such a status that ill-suffers the humble confines of a trinket shop.
High hubris, then. Fitting for the master of this land.
“M-Marquis! M’liege! This woman—”
“This woman… is the hero-dame herself,” spoke the vaunted marquis as he slid his bleak glance to me. “Dame Mareschal of the 1st Chivalric Order—Your Mightiness, Lady Estelle Tiselius. Quite the pleasant surprise, I must say.”
Up at me was the runner’s gaze now wide.
“Wha… Ti-Tiselius!? Good heavens!”
Chapter 83: Volume 2 - CH extra 1.1
“Bliss Upon a Palm”
Written By
Yoshihiko Mihama
Translated By
Vagrant
───────── ♰ ─────────
Norden air chimed with birdsong as I strolled beneath the green shade. The avenues were swept and clean, but bustled alive just the same. Quite the breath of fresh air from the manicured courts of Central, from which I’d gleefully departed but a while ago.
The province laid a ways off the homebound road, of course, but I was hardly here on business. No, suffering the summons from Central was dreary business enough. Rather, I merely thought to have a reprieve ere mine earnest way home.
Speaking of homes, ‘twas in this very province that the 5th was based. Rumours were abound: ‘twas not too long ago that one within its ranks was made an exile—the same rumours that piqued mine interest, enough that I’d a mind to delve more deeply. And where better to task mine eyes and ears than the gossiping streets themselves? After all, there are myriad things to be privy to beyond the stifling halls of an Order.
“Mademoiselle, ‘tis clear even to my own well-worn eyes that you mean to stick your nose into the affairs of the 5th—from the very start, I should say! You speak of touring the town for a mite of merriment, but no, I know that tongue of yours to be too honest to tell a good lie.”
Francis’ words, aired with a sigh here and there as he walked in tow.
But I brushed them off lightly, for the burden upon my shoulders was aught but light: weighing them down, amongst many other things, was the high charge of Londosius itself. Alas, I could not attend only to mine own Order; I must needs ever set watch upon the goings-on within the realm.
Indeed. I most certainly was not here on a whim of the heart.
♰
The talk of the town was all but warmly aglow for the Dame Mareschal of the 5th. Be they errand-running maids, craft-honing artisans, mischief-making urchins, wheeling-dealing peddlers, or day-wasting gentles, the townsfolk were all enamoured of their new hero-dame. Nevermind that hers was a house of a different province entirely.
To be sure, it had come to light that the Lady Emilie was no longer of House Mernesse, but by the grace of Central, she was given both land and a fresh slate for her new start. “Valenius” was her surname now, the title of baroness withal.
Emilie Valenius. The very portrait of the 5th. Ask of that Order, and hers is sure to be the likeness first upon the mind, for that certainly was the case with all the local folk I’d approached. Curious then, that the Aureola of the 5th herself desired none of this fame. Such an appetite the fates have for irony, if naught else.
‘Twas then…
“…Hm?”
And so, like a petal drawn in by a lusty gust, I entered the shop. Miscellanies and curios were on full display, but what hooked mine eyes laid further within.
There. Lounging upon a counter.
“My, what have we here…?”
A cat.
Always had I a love for adorable things. Fitting, wouldn’t you say? I am a girl, after all. Oh, but for darling critters, what fondness! The cat in question—how it strummed my heartstrings so!
A closer look revealed the feline’s wizened character. From its body came nary a budge; only when its glower of a gaze met mine did it turn its whiskers away. And most asudden, at that.
Ah… What boldness. What pomp. In port and appearance both. Irresistible, I tell you!
And so, resist I did not. Mine unsteady hand reached forth, all for a chance to pet the feline’s fuzzy pate.
“Hhyehh!”
“Aah—!”
My hopes, dashed by a lash of its paw.
“Be not so glum, mademoiselle. Come rain or shine, the felines never fail to find yours a foul company. ‘Tis certain!” prodded Francis.
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Words that bit with much truth. ‘Twas ever my fate to fawn for critters and be not requited in kind. Just as cats would punch were I to pet them, so would pups flee upon meeting mine eyes. The winged ones, too, ill-took to me, billowing their feathers affrightedly whensoever I drew near.My shoulders sank. “Haa…”
Oh, why…?
‘Twas my wish but to caress the precious thing…
“This one please, guv’nor.”
From beside my pitiable self: the bright voice of a young boy. In his palm was a vial of rust-red pomade, presented forth to the storekeeper.
“Right, what we’ve got ‘ere, ey?” Then, after a quick but puzzled look, “Why, that’s some pomade, lil’ master! Not fer a wee lad like ye t’buy, no no!”
Indeed, it very well was. Distilled from the fragrant ixora flower, the pomade was a trendy pick for women of business. Albeit one scarce worth a pretty coin. Though for his age, the boy surely must’ve pinched many a penny to afford it. And as if to confirm my measure, gripped in his other hand was a smattering of coppers, also presented forth.
“Here we are! I founds it!” came a shout from behind. ‘Twas a wide-girthed, coarse-throated man who, with not an inkling of reserve, snatched the vial from the boy’s palm. “This—what’s it worth then, eh guv?”
“That be the last o’ its stock, ser,” answered the storekeeper. “Might I int’rest ye in a diff’rent one? This lad ‘ere was right ‘bout t’buy it, see.”
“Come now, good guv! You knows me office well ‘nough: I purchases from the marquis’ purse, I does!”
Ah. An errand runner. For who else but the Marquis Norden himself.
Not against the very master of this land and his underlings could this unassuming shop do aught but fold. And so was the storekeeper gripped with silence, the up-looking boy with sorrow, and the scoundrel of a runner with self-importance. Indeed, he seemed the exact sort to derive glee from playing the lord himself, what with those lips of his simpering crookedly.
“Let the lad have his way, won’t you?” I cut in. “Hand that back this instant.”
“…Eh? What’s this, now?” the overgrown errand-boy hissed, leaning close. “Wax stuff’d your ears overmuch, love? I’m a man of the marquis, I says again! The lord Marquis Norden! Me vaunted master!”
“And I say again: hand the poor princeling his pomade—and some coin, while you’re at it, for the shopkeep’s trouble,” I returned, till mine eyes narrowed, inspired anew. “…Nay. Empty your pockets, lint and all, and wend off on your merry way, why don’t you?”
“My good Lady, you sound quite the brutish brigand, if any less I knew of you,” Francis remarked, whilst firmly resting his hands upon the boy’s shoulders and turning the young eyes away. A consideration for what was to come.
Violence.
“Hah! Your crowing’s crazed, woman!” the runner snorted, ere his brows arched up as he gave my features a harder look. “Ah…? Well I’ll be! Aren’t you a flowery face? I’d say you’d make quite the mistress for the marqu—ack!?”
Never had I the charity for fruitless argument. My fist was what settled this one, whipped straight into the man’s slimy face. Up spewed an arch of blood from his nose; down to the ground he crumbled.
“Ooufh…!” And from his gnashing teeth, an uproar. “V-vile vixen, you…! Raised a hand ‘gainst the good name of the marquis, you have!”
A hand in resistance to unjust authority, that is. Nothing more. Of course, no good would come from striking a man so, on account of farcical conduct. Only, his was farcical overmuch for my tastes.
“Oi!” he yapped on. “You best looks at me as I’m talking, woman!”
“What’s all this hubbub about?” came a new voice, this one from the shop entrance. “Why upon Her watch must so simple an errand become so…”
Now at the doorway was another man, freshly arrived, as if leashed in by the commotion. His broad shoulders implied a built physique, whilst his raiments betrayed his noble station. And from his words, ‘twould seem he was the runner’s lord, all this time waiting yonder for the errand to be done.
An aristocrat—of such a status that ill-suffers the humble confines of a trinket shop.
“M-Marquis! M’liege! This woman—”
“This woman… is the hero-dame herself,” spoke the vaunted marquis as he slid his bleak glance to me. “Dame Mareschal of the 1st Chivalric Order—Your Mightiness, Lady Estelle Tiselius. Quite the pleasant surprise, I must say.”
Up at me was the runner’s gaze now wide.
“Wha… Ti-Tiselius!? Good heavens!”
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