klisemfg Chapter 59: Such Promise at a Young Age
Chapter 59: Such Promise at a Young Age
When Sherlock entered the room, his brows arched almost imperceptibly.The table was far too bare. Too much food had already been eaten.
Avalon was not Stannum. Here, founded by knights, parsimony was no virtue. Banquets were meant to display honor. If the food and wine were nearly gone while the evening was still young, it reflected poorly on the host. Guests, sensing this, usually slowed their eating to spare embarrassment.
Thus, this could not be the first round of dishes. It must be the second.
And setting out a second course carried its own unspoken weight:
“…Good evening, Mr. Sherlock,” said Princess Isabel, her voice bright. “I’m glad to see you.”
Sherlock thought, puzzled, though his manners never slipped.
“By the Silver-Crowned Dragon,” he intoned, dropping to one knee, hand to chest, eyes lowered. “Your Highness, may you be well.”
“Please rise, Mr. Sherlock.”
Her crisp voice permitted him to stand. He greeted Master Yanis with a bow, then Aiwass in his wheelchair. Yanis returned the gesture with a smile, while Lily dipped in a quiet curtsey for her master.
Sherlock’s hawk-like gaze flicked across Isabel’s faintly flushed cheeks.
He was startled. Normally, a princess would drink only sparingly at a banquet—a symbolic sip or two. To drink more was a signal of deep familiarity, of deliberate favor.
And on the table… two empty bottles. Three people had drained them.
The servants of the Silver-and-Tin Palace would not fail to notice this. Some of them were informants. Sherlock knew—he had, more than once, purchased scraps of gossip from them himself.
By tomorrow morning at the latest, word would reach the ministers: Princess Isabel held Aiwass Moriarty in very high esteem.
Sherlock found himself thinking wryly. Then another thought struck him:
“Tell me, Mr. Sherlock,” Isabel asked warmly, “I heard you and Inspector Edward went on a case tonight. Have you eaten? Why not join us?”
“…I wouldn’t dare trouble you.”
He declined with careful courtesy, though he accepted a token piece of bread to acknowledge her offer.
He knew well it was her bedtime; he would not impose by making her sit through another meal. His father would thrash him if he did.
But the princess’ little smile told him she was teasing.
He couldn’t even complain. He had been the one to expose himself, after all.
Yet now he faced a difficulty.
If only the princess and Yanis were present, he could have spoken freely—even warned them about the shadowy figure called “Fox.”
But Aiwass was here.
Sherlock liked the boy, but he would not risk blurting royal secrets before him. Such a breach would cast doubt on his loyalty itself.
Still, how was he to explain why he had gone after the “Sweater Brotherhood”?
He considered, then chose a phrasing only Isabel would truly understand:
“I heard, from a rather… unreliable gentleman, of a gathering place for the Stranglers in the Lower District,” Sherlock said gravely. “They may be linked to the Pelican Tavern’s master. I judged it unwise to go alone, so I asked my friend Edward Moriarty to accompany me.”
“And the result?” Aiwass asked, eyes gleaming with interest.
“Smooth. It was indeed the Stranglers’ hideout. We even uncovered a cache of alchemic bombs.”
“Then it seems,” Aiwass said with a faint smile, “your ‘unreliable gentleman’ proved quite reliable after all.”
Sherlock gave no answer, but added: “After questioning, it was clear they had no idea what they were guarding. They’d simply been paid to watch the goods.
“I suspect someone in Customs is involved. This shipment bore all the proper stamps and signatures.”
He straightened, confidence burning in his dark eyes. “This is a key lead. With it, we already know the other batches and delivery dates. From there, it’s just a matter of tracing which inspectors were on duty.
“Your Highness, I dare say the case is solved. The rest is mere drudgery.”
He did not hide this from Aiwass; why would he? Edward Moriarty was involved, and Edward would surely tell his brother anyway.
“…And, Your Highness,” Sherlock went on, “the identity of ‘Bone Carver’ is nearly confirmed. As for ‘Fox,’ no investigation has yet begun. Shall we pursue the one or the other?”
He knew the Queen would eventually defer to Isabel’s wishes; better to ask her now, while he could still shape the course.
“Seek the Bone Carver,” Isabel decided after a pause, stealing a quick glance at Aiwass. “Any threat to Avalon’s peace must be rooted out. I’ll support your work—bring me any papers that need signing.
“As for Mr. Fox… let him wait.”
Aiwass blinked, surprised. Isabel was starting to suspect.
Sherlock, however, was quietly delighted. He had nudged her toward Bone Carver deliberately, expecting her attachment to Fox to override.
If so, all the better. Sherlock respected the young man—smart, steady, courteous, respectful of his teachers. It was thanks to Professor Moriarty’s tutoring that Sherlock had survived mathematics, and through Edward that he had come to know the man.
That respect, in turn, colored his judgment of Aiwass.
“Take care on your way home,” Yanis interjected. “Do you carry a short-sword, Sherlock?”
“I do,” he replied. “Edward left one with me.”
For the Law path, the short-sword was more than weapon—it was badge, staff, conduit of justice.
“Good.” Yanis nodded, then turned to Aiwass. “As for the painting—I’ll have it delivered. Don’t carry it yourselves. Too dangerous. Sherlock could never protect it.”
“…What painting?” Sherlock frowned. “I think I can manage.”
“It’s .”
Aiwass answered softly, his voice calm, almost tender. “Master Yanis and I had such a pleasant talk, she chose to gift it to me.”
Sherlock froze.
His face betrayed open astonishment, his mind momentarily blank.
That masterpiece—given away, just like that? For “pleasant conversation”?
It was all Sherlock could think to repeat.