If there was anything in Gulltown that could leave Gwayne slightly less disappointed, somewhere he might catch a glimpse of the classical, elegant charm of another world, it was the wealthy district in the town's north-central area. Several roads and a wall separated it from the slums outside, and all the respectable, well-to-do folk lived in this relatively clean and tidy enclave.
Here stood handsome two-story houses, each built from pale gray stone and cedar wood. On the second-floor balconies, dried fish and cured meat hung from the railings, symbols of affluence.
Though Gulltown was, on the whole, merely a town and far from city scale, its wealthy-district residents all referred to themselves as proud and honorable citizens.
They were people of free status who could afford all manner of taxes and held respectable positions in town, which was to say, farm owners and mine foremen.
And today, these respectable folk stood on their balconies, backdropped by their drying fish and cured meat, discussing recent events with their neighbors, as they always did. Anything remotely interesting was worth discussing at length, and the most noteworthy topic of late was, without question, the catastrophe that had befallen Seawright territory.
Gulltown and its surrounding area was Viscount Andrew's domain. Seawright territory and Viscount Andrew's lands were neighbors. Though vast stretches of wilderness separated their respective settled areas, there was still a main road between them, so even in this age of poor communication, news of what had happened in Seawright territory had spread throughout Gulltown early on.
First came a group of people who looked like refugees, led by a single knight and a dozen soldiers, fleeing to this place. Then came the spreading news that Seawright territory had been completely overwhelmed and destroyed by hordes of monsters and an elemental tide.
This sensational calamity sounded like something a traveling bard had fabricated. The citizens, having lived in peacetime for many years, initially refused to believe it. But those refugees and their battered soldiers had very much entered the town, and shortly after, Viscount Andrew issued orders, not only implementing stricter curfews but also increasing patrols around the town's perimeter. And so the absurd horror story became fact.
The citizens promoted the Seawright territory disaster from casual mealtime gossip to... very serious mealtime gossip.
At first they'd only chatted about it occasionally when running into each other at the tavern. Now, they needed to stand on their balconies, with dried fish and cured meat as their backdrop, to discuss the matter properly.
And while these respectable folk debated how the declining House Seawright had finally and thoroughly met its end, House Seawright's leadership had already passed through the wealthy district and the church quarter, entering Viscount Andrew's castle.
No matter how wretched the lives of Gulltown's poor might be, Viscount Andrew's home was splendid. In fact, thanks to his territory's prosperity and his family's talent for accumulating wealth, the castle this viscount had built was far grander than the little fortress Rebecca had grown up in.
After their identities were announced to the castle, Viscount Andrew's steward ushered Gwayne's group inside. They were led to a spacious, well-lit reception hall and seated behind a mahogany long table to await the viscount's audience.
Sitting in the wide, comfortable velvet chair, looking at the exquisite silver tea set before him, Gwayne kept thinking about the half-clothed, gaunt commoners outside, and those hovel-like houses.
He had to admit, he felt somewhat... disillusioned with this fantasy world of swords and sorcery.
"Great Ancestor," Rebecca, sitting next to Gwayne, quietly poked her ancestor's elbow. "How are we going to introduce you?"
"Just as we discussed, say it directly," Gwayne said without betraying any expression. "In this situation, going big is the right move."
"Great Ancestor," Hestia also spoke up, jerking her chin toward Amber's direction. "Are you really sure... she should be here?"
Amber was sitting across from Gwayne. The half-elf was currently conducting a thorough study of the silver tea set in front of her. Her primary research methodology involved pouring out the tea, then stuffing the cup into her shirt. In the time it took Gwayne to look up, she'd also slipped a soup spoon in there.
Gwayne glared across the table.
"Amber!"
"Eek!"
The thief let out a slightly exaggerated yelp, then sheepishly pulled everything out from inside her clothes and set it on the table.
Two teacups, three soup spoons, one silver platter, one pocket watch, a handful of nuts, two wine goblets, and the monocle that had been hanging from the steward's chest.
Gwayne: "...?!"
What the... How in the name of... Amber, how the hell did you even manage that?!
In that moment, Gwayne couldn't help reaching over to touch the Pioneer's Sword at his side, sincerely grateful for this master thief's grace in not stealing anything during her earlier grave-robbing expedition...
"...She's a key witness to my resurrection," Gwayne said, fighting to control the twitching in his face, maintaining a perfectly straight expression. "And don't you think leaving her somewhere we can't keep an eye on her would actually cause more trouble?"
Hestia immediately nodded in deep agreement.
Just then, Viscount Andrew finally entered the reception hall.
The oak doors were pushed open by attendants, and a thin, tall man walked in. He wore a fitted black frock coat, his dark brown hair slicked close to his scalp with pomade. Two meticulously groomed strips of mustache extended from beneath his nose, and his complexion was pale with an unhealthy flush, this somewhat sickly appearance was actually quite common among nobles, especially those who lacked talent in magic or martial arts.
To experience supernatural sensations beyond their natural gifts and indulge in more extravagant pleasures, they would overuse expensive magical potions to "enhance perception." The side effects of these potions showed plainly on the face.
They even took pride in this, considering their pallor a mark of nobility.
In this regard, the Seawright descendants, who still dutifully followed ancestral precepts, honing their skills through honest personal effort in martial arts or magic, were considered oddities in noble circles. But there was no helping it.
House Seawright had fallen so far that, forget the often priceless magical potions, Rebecca couldn't even afford to patch the holes in the family castle. Of course, she didn't need to worry about those holes anymore.
"Ah, the lovely Lady Hestia, and the equally lovely Lady Rebecca, I do apologize for my tardiness," Viscount Andrew declared loudly upon entering, his voice rising and falling dramatically, his face arranged in what appeared to be genuine contrition. "But I've been terribly busy. The dreadful news from Seawright territory has spread throughout my domain. The people are anxious and fearful, and I've had to spend most of each day arranging the territory's defenses and hearing patrol reports."
Gwayne immediately broke out in goosebumps and muttered under his breath. "Do you have to use this operatic delivery when talking to nobles these days?"
Rebecca whispered. "Great Ancestor, wasn't it like this with nobles in your day?"
"Back in our day, we'd usually hole up in a tavern, get drunk on hard liquor while trading compliments, and business would get done along the way."
"...Then customs really have changed since then. Though I should say, Viscount Andrew's way of speaking is a bit... more distinctive than most."
"We understand. You must indeed be very busy right now," Hestia said. She'd noticed that Rebecca, the legitimate Seawright heir, was busy chatting with the ancestor instead of standing to respond, apparently oblivious to the social obligation.
Hestia shot her an exasperated, iron-will-not-becoming-steel glare, then rose to her feet. "However, I must remind you, you should address Rebecca as Viscountess, not Lady. She inherited the family title over a year ago. In a setting like this, you should call her Viscountess Rebecca, or Viscountess Seawright."
The rules around titles in casual noble address seemed relatively relaxed in this world, a title could be preceded by either a given name or surname.
Rebecca, having caught Hestia's glare, belatedly stood and performed the bow appropriate between nobles of equal rank. It was more or less correct in form. "Viscount Andrew, thank you for your hospitality."
"Of course, Viscountess Seawright," Andrew said. Hestia's gentle-but-firm reminder had jogged his memory of this lady's reputation in noble circles, so he reined himself in.
He'd deliberately chosen to precede Rebecca's title with her surname rather than her first name, a more formal mode of address.
"I am deeply sorry for what has happened in Seawright territory. It was a true catastrophe. But it gladdens me to see you safe and well. It seems the Seawright line will not be extinguished after all."
What followed was an exchange of nearly substanceless pleasantries and congratulations. One side expressed concern with meticulous propriety; the other was supposed to demonstrate gratitude and emotional warmth at the kindness received.
The possibly-door-pinched Lady Rebecca was clearly not adept at this sort of socializing, so she rather stiffly steered the conversation back on track. "Before the castle fell, Ser Philip led a force to cover the civilian evacuation. They should have retreated here. Under the laws established by Charles Martell, they should currently be under your protection. How are they?"
"Of course. The laws established by the founding king are sacred. My domain may be small, but it's more than enough to aid a neighbor in distress," Andrew nodded. "That brave knight was gravely wounded at the time and still hasn't fully recovered. I've arranged for him to rest at the Holy Light Church, they can provide the best treatment there. The loyal soldiers and the poor civilians have all been settled in the east and south districts. Not a single one has died of cold or hunger."
That not a single Seawright refugee had died of cold or hunger was genuinely commendable stewardship. Of course, Viscount Andrew had his own reasons for sheltering those refugees, every Seawright subject he took in would be tallied as a debt pressed onto Rebecca. If she ever wanted to restore her family, she would have to pay Andrew a per-head "reimbursement fee."
Just as "one should help a neighbor in distress according to one's means, and a noble should shelter the subjects of a neighboring noble struck by calamity" was written into Andraste's laws, so too was "the recipient of aid shall pay the provider due compensation" spelled out plainly in the legal code. Gwayne was well aware of this.
After all, both of those laws had been drafted by Gwayne Seawright and Charles Martell sitting down together...
Rebecca might not yet be a fully mature noblewoman, but she understood this rule. Hearing Viscount Andrew's words, her expression couldn't help but sour, because she seriously doubted whether she had the means to settle this sudden debt.
She couldn't help glancing at Gwayne, as some bold and rather slap-worthy ideas surfaced in her mind.
The ancestor's entire outfit is basically antique, right... What if we talked the old man into selling those clothes?