Backlund. The City of Hope.
This was the capital of the Loen Kingdom, the greatest metropolis of the Northern Continent. The pale yellow mist that once coated the streets had thinned greatly after the government enacted the Air Pollution Penalty Act. At least during the early mornings, the lamps no longer needed to burn themselves out just to make the sidewalks visible.
Of course, this change had little to do with good governance. The truth was that the bombing of airships in the recent religious war had scared many wealthy industrialists into moving their factories elsewhere. For the moment, the air was clearer not because anyone cared about the citizens, but simply because fewer smokestacks remained to choke them.
Inside his townhouse, Baron Sindras sat comfortably at his dining table, flipping through the Backlund Morning Paper while his personal valet waited respectfully behind him.
As one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom, he had purchased his noble title the previous year with a donation of eight hundred thousand pounds. This ensured he never needed to wake up early or work late like the struggling commoners did. His only serious plan today was to take his mistress to the Backlund Grand Theater to enjoy the newest opera.
Thinking of this plan, he flipped through the paper one more time, confirmed there was nothing new worth reading, and turned his attention to the breakfast that the maid had just served.
The valet quietly stepped forward to take the newspaper without being instructed, then returned to his position with perfect timing, as if he understood his master's habits better than anyone.
Baron Sindras gave him a pleased glance. Although the valet was newly hired, Altair was clearly far more competent than the other fresh servants.
During the air raids, and because his household did not have the deep roots of older aristocratic families, Sindras's storerooms had not been stocked as heavily as he liked. When he realized the war might last longer than expected, he dismissed many servants to conserve expenses. Later, when he attempted to hire them back, many had already died because they no longer had noble protection or steady wages. Some maids had even been forced into the streets to survive.
Hiring them again would have been improper for a man of status, so Sindras had no choice but to recruit a completely new group.
Naturally, these new servants were not nearly as capable as the ones they replaced. Just two days ago, the laundry maid made a mistake with the detergent, ruining his favorite gown and leaving him furious. If Altair had not taken the initiative to reprimand her on his behalf, it would have been undignified for a nobleman to be seen quarreling with a servant. Such people, he thought, were always crawling up from the East Borough and bringing their incompetence with them.
His frustration made his mouth dry. He picked up a napkin to wipe his lips. Altair immediately stepped to the wine rack, retrieved a bottle of the Baron's preferred after-dinner red wine, and poured half a glass with graceful precision.
"Moderate drinking will help you present your best charm before Miss Kingfisher. I believe this wine from Celenzo Estate, which you favor, will allow her to appreciate your taste."
Altair spoke with a gentle and flawless smile.
Baron Sindras stroked his upturned mustache with satisfaction. This was what made a personal valet excellent. He remembered everything without being told. Not like the parlor maid, who stared at his leftovers with a hunger she never bothered to hide.
These people from the East Borough simply lacked refinement. Thinking about this irritated him again, yet he still reached for the wine and drank two more glasses.
After breakfast, he boarded his four-wheeled carriage with Altair following closely behind.
Altair instructed the coachman on their route, boarded, and opened a hidden compartment to reveal a brass phonograph. Without the Baron saying anything, he played his favorite piano piece.
Sindras relaxed and closed his eyes in contentment. He did not need to explain anything to Altair. The man remembered every preference after seeing it once. If he continued like this, Sindras might even promote him to assistant butler soon.
The wine was beginning to go to his head. It was the same kind he enjoyed before becoming a noble. The alcohol content was modest, yet its kick was always strong. Combined with the fatigue he felt from the "overwork" of the past few days, a wave of drowsiness soon washed over him.
"Sir, would you like to rest for a while? The show begins in one hour. I can tell the coachman to drive slowly so you may sleep comfortably."
Altair always asked questions at exactly the right moment. Sindras hummed in agreement and leaned back.
Altair changed the phonograph to soft, calming music. He slid open the viewing window and instructed the coachman to take the flat road beside the Tassok River. This was not a matter of preference. Most main roads had been bombed during the conflict, and only empty riversides like this remained undisturbed.
...
Yet Baron Sindras slept far longer than he intended.
By the time a Punisher reported the incident to Radar Valentin, the Deep Blue Bishop overseeing the region, a soaked four-wheeled carriage had already been pulled from the riverbed and placed on the shore.
Nearby lay a body covered with a white sheet. The round belly beneath the fabric clearly revealed that it belonged to the Baron, whose lack of exercise was no secret.
"What happened?" Radar Valentin asked with a tense frown.
A Punisher specializing in divination stepped forward. "Through divination, we determined that when Baron Sindras's carriage passed the riverside, it collided with a group of refugees. The horses panicked, lost control, and fell into the Tassok River. The coachman served as both driver and bodyguard, but he was not extraordinary in any way. Most importantly, he could not swim. As for the valet, he managed to pry open the window, but being only an ordinary man, he could not pull the Baron to safety and was pulled under by the currents."
"Is the reading accurate?" Radar Valentin asked.
"Three of our members attempted divination and psychometry. The reconstruction through the Baron's residual spiritual impressions matches the same outcome. Additionally, Sindras had long lost influence in the political sphere. He no longer had the protection of any extraordinary factions."
"What of the coachman and the valet?" Radar continued.
"The coachman slit his wrists when we found him. He left a suicide note. He believed that after such an incident, he would never work again, and he could not support his children. Fortunately, our people arrived before he died and got him to a hospital. As for the valet, his body seems to have been carried into the East Borough."
The Punisher sighed. A body in expensive clothes drifting into that district was as good as gone. Eventually the corpse would be stripped and left for the street dogs or carrion birds, while the clothing would be sold for a handful of coins or traded for cheap beer to numb another hopeless night.
"This is the East Borough. This is Backlund," one of the deacons murmured.
Radar Valentin did not scold him. He simply ordered the body to be taken away. With a sweeping turn of his cloak, he walked off, the deep blue fabric snapping in the wind.
"Pass down an order," his voice drifted back. "Take that coachman into Church employment. Send his children to the Church school."
He placed a hand on the shoulder of the lamenting team member.
"Fortunately, there are still things we can do for this city."
While they mourned, further downstream, a soaking wet hand suddenly gripped the muddy riverbank. Moments later, a man hauled himself out of the cold water.
He shook off the droplets clinging to his body, rubbed his hair dry with his fingers, and stretched his stiff limbs.
Though drenched, though unrecognizable at first glance, the gentle smile that soon appeared on his lips confirmed his identity.
It was Altair. The valet who had supposedly drowned. But he was no longer Altair the Valet.
He was Altair the Assassin.
"It is finally done. A big contract worth two thousand pounds."
He crouched low, sprinted across the rocks, and slid into the shadow under the breakwater. From the hiding place he had prepared earlier, he retrieved a bundle of clothes. He changed swiftly, then wrapped his servant attire together with a stone and tossed it back into the river.
"This time I used the influence of my words to make him drink more wine. Then I nudged the coachman and horse with misdirection. Since I never used my ability on the Baron, the Church's divination will detect nothing unusual. Even if they use psychometry, the scene from Sindras's perspective shows nothing wrong. Their clue trail ends with me supposedly being dragged away by the currents."
Remembering every detail of his plan, Altair nodded with full satisfaction.
Now dressed as a simple East Borough worker, he placed his cheap soft cap on his head, turned toward the river's upstream direction, and gave a slight bow in mock respect to the late Baron's resting place.
"I hope Miss Kingfisher can forgive your absence."
With nimble grace, he climbed onto the breakwater. His steps were feather-light.
He gave one final sardonic smile.
"But now, for you, whether she forgives you or not does not matter anymore."