The Brooch
"What is this request of yours?"
"It's been a week since our arrival," Molin began smoothly, "yet apart from coming and going from the manor, we've not had the chance to step outside."
And so? Derga's face answered before his mouth could. Still, everyone at the table already anticipated what would come next. Ian bit down softly on his lower lip, concealing the satisfaction curling in his chest.
"So, with your permission, I'd like to ask young Lord Ian to introduce us to the territory. I know the Count and the Countess are busy with their affairs, so I dare not impose upon you."
Mac and Dgorr chimed in right on cue—their timing flawless.
"A splendid idea! We could even share a luncheon afterward. Good food and fine discourse—what better pairing, eh, Dgorr?"
"Well…"
The Countess considered interrupting but thought better of it. Escorting three unfamiliar men herself felt far too burdensome. Dgorr, pretending not to notice her hesitation, responded lightly.
"Of course. And since Lord Ian lived outside until recently, I'm sure he knows things we'd never find in any report."
By "we," Dgorr meant both the outsiders and the Count's household. What do any of you know of common streets and alleyways? Only Ian could guide them there—so best not to interfere.
"Ahem."
Derga was visibly flustered. He couldn't even swallow his wine, his eyes darting as he scrambled for a reason to refuse.
But really, what excuse was there to deny a grown boy a simple outing? Especially when it came framed as an academic excursion, a polite exchange of knowledge.
"It wouldn't be proper for us to intrude upon your estate too often," Molin added with a genial smile. "If you'll allow it, we can host Lord Ian at our quarters. Our hired coachman is exceptionally courteous."
That sealed it. Molin had just struck the final blow.
Ian, watching in silence, decided to push the scene forward himself.
"Sir Molin, where are you staying?"
"In the third district of Portroga, near the park."
"Ah. Portroga, you say?"
"You know the area?"
"I was born and raised here, after all."
A vague answer—open to any interpretation. The bastard son might have grown up there, but Emperor Ian certainly hadn't the faintest clue. Only Molin's mention of the park had saved him, allowing him to bluff without a hitch.
"Then it's all the better," Molin said brightly. "A stroll through the park while we discuss ideas sounds delightful. The sunlight's been so pleasant lately, don't you think? There's even a small lake with pleasure boats. Alas, I'm too old to ride one alone—but perhaps with Lord Ian's help, I might find the courage."
He winked playfully.
So—they've got an agenda of their own, Ian thought.
He glanced toward Derga. The Count's smile was stiff, brittle, his jaw set awkwardly. The more excuses he searched for, the more the situation cornered him.
"Count?"
"Ian," Derga said softly, "your opinion matters most."
His mouth smiled kindly, but his eyes were cold as stone. A silent warning: Know your place, and act accordingly.
Amusing, Ian thought.
A borderland count and a Central Bureau official, locked in a battle of wits over a single boy—scenes like this weren't rare in the imperial palace, but it felt fresh from below rather than above.
"Well…" Ian spoke slowly, letting the tension hum like a tightened string. Leaving the estate was clearly in his best interest, but it might be just as useful to shake things up before giving them their win.
"I'm afraid I might be poor company. My guidance could hinder more than help, seeing as I'm still young and inexperienced. I wouldn't want to disappoint the knights."
The unexpected humility froze Molin and his companions for a heartbeat. Derga, half-hidden behind his wine glass, nodded approvingly.
"Still, it isn't often we get the chance to learn from guests of the capital," he said smoothly. "If it's not a tour but a luncheon for the sake of learning…"
Ian glanced at the Count. His jaw worked as though chewing wine instead of swallowing. Dgorr interjected with practiced grace.
"Count, if we've spoken out of turn, then please forgive us for our presumption."
A deft move—polished diplomacy. They raised the Count's dignity while steering him toward a positive answer.
And indeed, Derga's reply was already decided.
"…Perish the thought. Not at all."
"Splendid. Then—when might it suit you?"
"That is for Ian to decide. Ian?"
Once again, all attention returned to him. This time, Molin spoke with refined authority.
"Since the Count has granted permission, it would be best for him to set the day. After all, everything in Bratz proceeds by the Count's will."
A masterful stroke—one that would have impressed even Emperor Ian himself. Quick, elegant, perfectly phrased. A provincial noble like Derga could never match such verbal finesse.
What's their real aim?
At first, Ian thought Molin was simply probing him—seeking to observe and report on the bastard son. The more they interacted, the easier it would be to find flaws.
But the coordinated rhythm between the three men—their subtle handoffs and timing—spoke of a deeper purpose. Whatever they wanted, it wasn't small. And Derga seemed to have realized it too.
He's caught on, Ian noted.
The way the Count stroked his beard, the way his eyes rolled, all gave it away. He had no grounds to refuse anyway. Cooperation was the only path left—he'd want to learn what they were really after.
"In that case," Derga said at last, "how about tomorrow at noon?"
He addressed Molin, though his gaze rested firmly on Ian. The decision made, he looked suddenly at ease—his earlier tension melted away.
"Oh, splendid. Thank you, Count."
"In return," Derga said evenly, "I have a small favor to ask as well."
Then he turned toward Chel. All eyes followed. The boy froze mid-bite, his fork hovering in the air.
"As Ian has said, you men of the capital must be fine teachers. I'd like my son Chel to join you as well—to share in your wisdom."
A troublesome request, perhaps, but not an unreasonable one.
Mac, Dgorr, and Molin exchanged quick glances. The signal passed silently, through the faintest meeting of eyes—so subtle that no one else at the table noticed.
"But Father, I have school—"
"Splendid. Young Master Chel is just as bright as they say. I look forward to a stimulating luncheon debate."
"Thank you for saying so."
Before Chel could even respond, the adults had already decided everything among themselves. Chel glanced at Ian with a look of distaste. Things were already awkward enough, and now he had to spend the whole day with him? Outside the count's estate, no less?
"Shall we bring out dessert now?"
"Yes. It was an excellent meal."
Ian nodded in agreement, a satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. A meal where he had gained everything he came for — even without eating, he would have felt full.
"It was an honor to dine with you today, Count Derga."
"I'll be seeing you again next week."
"Ian, I'll send a carriage for you tomorrow at noon."
The conversation that followed was utterly meaningless. Even the polite laughter that had punctuated the meal earlier was gone. Everyone had lost interest, and the atmosphere stagnated. Molin and his companions stood up, leaving half their dessert untouched.
"Yes, travel safely."
"Madam, until next time."
The three guests left after giving Mary a courteous kiss on the back of her hand, disappearing into their carriage. Once the dining room was cleared and Ian was about to return to the mansion, Derga called out to his two sons.
"Chel. Ian."
"Yes, Father."
"You are to report every word they say to me. Not a single syllable is to be missed. Keep your wits about you."
A perfectly natural order. Both Chel and Ian nodded at once, and Derga fixed his cold gaze on Ian.
"And you—come to my office."
Mary and Chel looked back, puzzled, but said nothing. They went their separate ways down the hall, while Ian followed behind Derga up to the office.
Creak.
The office looked much the same as before—perhaps with more papers piled up, though Ian wasn't sure. Without telling him to sit, Derga rummaged through a drawer, searching for something.
Clatter.
"Hmm."
He pulled out a small brooch set with a red gem, engraved with the image of a tiger and a laurel wreath—the crest of House Bratz.
"Wear this when you go tomorrow."
Unlike when he had tossed the purse to Ian's mother, this time Derga personally stepped forward and pinned the brooch to Ian's chest. Ian immediately recognized it.
'A mana stone capable of recording and tracking.'
In the era Ian had lived through, such things were commonplace. But a century ago, on a distant frontier, it would have been exceedingly rare. No doubt it was a secret heirloom of the house, used only when one's safety was at risk.
Derga brushed the boy's chest lightly and warned,
"Do not lose it. Keep it spotless. It's worth dozens of times more than your pitiful little body."
"…Yes, Father."
There were limits to what two children could report. Especially when the three men from the Central Administration were seasoned veterans — they would easily outmaneuver simple-minded Chel and turn their attention to Ian instead.
"I'll have someone follow you as well. Don't do anything foolish. When you return, come straight to my office."
Was Ian truly on Derga's side? The man who held his mother's life in his hands and planned to sell him off beyond the border? No — this was only a means to keep him under control.
"Yes, Father."
But as Ian looked down at the mana stone brooch on his chest, he clicked his tongue. Derga assumed he couldn't communicate without speaking — attaching a useless trinket and feeling secure about it. It was almost funny.
Creak.
Ian bowed politely and left the office. Back in his room, he examined the brooch closely. When he infused it with mana, the flow stopped almost immediately — a sign that it had low capacity.
Buzz… buzz…
'A low-grade piece, through and through.'
Something Ian could easily manipulate if he wished.
'The location tracking's done through a paired stone, so that's no issue.'
Derga was likely sitting in his office right now, peering at a compass-like device made of the same kind of mana stone, tracing Ian's position through the glow's direction and intensity.
'All that's left is the audio recording.'
Ian focused again and let mana flow into the gem. It flared with an even deeper crimson light, and his golden eyes curved softly.
"Oh, right."
He suddenly remembered — one of the reasons he wanted to go outside tomorrow was to see his birth mother. Ian rang the bell cord to summon a servant.
Ding!
"You called, young master?"
"Bring me a snack."
A snack? Right after lunch?
The servant bowed, trying to hide his surprise. But Ian hummed cheerfully, gazing out the window. He wasn't waiting for the snack itself — he was waiting for the person who would bring it.