Chapter 21 Without a clue
Blows came fast. At his sides, from the front, from behind. He aimed for the ankle, the hip, the stomach, and the shin. The pace was exhausting.
Oscar had been granted the chance to train with Sir Rossi; he was starting to regret it. And while the young lord already knew Sir Rossi to be a monster of speed, he had the distinct impression that the commander was being far stricter with him with each passing training session than he had been during their previous one. Perhaps he still bore some resentment from their very first duel. Or perhaps Oscar was becoming weaker with each passing dance lesson.
Bam.
Oscar’s daydreaming cost him dearly, and he found himself flat on the ground, his sword skidding away into the dust of the training yard. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn the commander of Mulberry’s troops had just smoothed his moustache as he approached, sword lowered.
“You were distracted today, my lord. You know that could cost you your life one day,” he scolded, holding out a hand.
Oscar took it and hauled himself upright, sore. He would probably have a few bruises, but they would fade quickly enough.
“I know, Sir Rossi. Günther reminds me whenever he gets the chance,” he sighed. And it was true—his mentor would have mocked him mercilessly if he had witnessed today’s poor performance.
“He is right. When you fight, you must be one with your weapon. Any thought not tied to the confrontation itself is secondary.”
He paused, instinctively about to sheath his sword, before remembering it was made of wood.
Really, all soldiers did that.
“But even if you still have a few bad habits clinging to you, you are improving day by day. Which is impressive, given your current level.”
“Is that your way of telling me I am now allowed to wander into the eastern forest?” The young man ventured, a spark of interest lighting his eyes.
The commander shook his head, carefully avoiding Oscar’s gaze—he had clearly understood that there was little he could do against the young man’s stubbornness.
“We will discuss it again,” he said, neatly sidestepping the question.
Oscar sighed but let the matter drop for today. He had better things to do—Abélie had asked to speak with him.
After a quick wash and a few stretches to ease his aching muscles, he met the young woman in his office. These few days spent under Brennan’s wing had transformed the former servant. She had abandoned her braids in favour of a more sophisticated ponytail and exchanged her simple dresses for trousers and a vest. All she lacked was a monocle.
Granted, the outfit was still a little large on her, and the pant legs fluttered around her ankles, but she nonetheless carried herself with remarkable presence—and Oscar did not fail to point it out.
She spun on herself, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“Thank you, sir! I wasn’t convinced by Brennan’s tastes at first, but beneath his stern and distant exterior, he has an undeniable flair for haute couture—and elegance.”
“Brennan?” Oscar repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“That very same!” she confirmed, clearly amused by his reaction.
“But I did not come to speak about him. I came to talk to you about the disappearances.”
“You found something new?”
A guilty look crossed her face. What was she about to spring on him now?
“Let’s say I have not found anything more—for now. You see, the servants did not particularly associate with Randolf, and—”
“Randolf? Who is Randolf?”
“Ruth’s brother. Randolf Gale.”
“Ah. Yes. Of course,” he replied dryly.
“I wasn’t going to keep calling him Ruth’s brother—it was becoming counterproductive. So…”
She pulled out her notebook and flipped to the most recent pages.
“Very few people truly associated with Randolf. He quickly fell into banditry, as I told you. Nothing too serious ever happened—no injuries—but he ended up serving a few short prison sentences here and there and some community labour. Then he would readjust to city life… and relapse. He was unstable. Aggressive. Violent. He drank heavily, and only his sister Ruth truly took care of him.”
“So, nothing new so far,” Oscar observed.
“You underestimate the power of gossip. He drew attention. He was thrown out of every tavern in town at least once for starting fights.”
“So—an unsavoury man.”
“Exactly. He visited his sister from time to time, but not too often. She lives a very orderly life, and I imagine it increased his chances of being caught by the guards…”
She shrugged.
“Though the soldiers told me he wasn’t difficult to find. Aggressive, yes—but also rather foolish. Not truly malicious. If we exclude the stools and bottles he smashed.”
“A stool, perhaps, but—wait. The soldiers? You questioned the soldiers about this? That’s not exactly discreet,” the young lord remarked, crossing his arms.
She raised a finger, wagging it from side to side with a satisfied smile.
“I ask questions without raising suspicion. It’s an art, my Lord.”
“Are you absolutely sure? If this backfires, I have no desire to fish you out of the castle dungeons because someone accused you of being a spy—or worse. Overly curious servants rarely live peacefully.”
“But I am your personal majordomo. You wouldn’t let anyone imprison me, would you?”
The wide, doe-like eyes she was now making at him had very little effect. Oscar remained unmoved—worse, he was sceptical.
“I might even add a few weeks to your sentence.”
“Argh! After all I’ve done for you! You’re a monster.” She pretended to swoon.
Faced with her theatrical display, he sighed, arms crossed. Where did she find all that energy?