Chapter 152: Egg Of War
From an egg called chivalry, the World War hatches.
-Guy de Maupassant -
The Queen ceased her long campaign of demolishing the office only after Newton and Maxwell returned to their places, escorting the court lady charged with managing the match record.
“Sword Queen, what in heaven’s name is this…….”
“Do not trouble yourselves. I merely caught an insect.”
“An insect that requires a master of the Unrestrained Realm to strike at it several times, you say.”
“It must be a spirit-thing that crawled out of some Forbidden Area.”
The two venerable masters of the Royal Combat Society spoke as though the matter were absurd, yet Sword Queen Victoria nodded with a grave face.
“Just so. It was this large.”
Naturally, Newton and Maxwell did not believe her for an instant. Yet having witnessed the unspeakable moves Little Heavenly Demon Sherlock Holmes employed at the board, they didn’t blame the Queen. Indeed, they privately sympathised with the Sword Queen’s plight, thinking that had they played Sword Debate Chess with the Little Heavenly Demon themselves, they might have reacted in much the same fashion.
“You have all laboured greatly.”
Having finished venting her temper and grown noticeably calmer, Queen Victoria issued an order of dismissal and sent the old masters away.
It was true that her anger, piled up from facing the Little Heavenly Demon, had been relieved, if only a little, and that her chest felt lighter for it. Yet the moment she recalled that the secret of her consort Albert had been exposed, a headache came upon her.
At least, the Queen thought, it was fortunate that the Little Heavenly Demon bore no grievance against the Royal House of Great Britain.
If the many enemies of the Royal Palace possessed insight like his, it would have been difficult to keep the throne.
She had never imagined that with only a handful of minor clues, someone could pierce one of her deepest secrets.
Just as Red Dragon Phileas Fogg, an opponent Victoria had never managed to break, had been, so too was the Little Heavenly Demon, someone who must never be made an enemy.
The Queen nodded, replaying the seven games in her mind.
By rights, it was nonsense that she, ruler of Great Britain and a Kung-Fuist of the Unrestrained Realm, should fear a mere twenty-eight-year-old super junior who had only reached the peak.
Yet the Little Heavenly Demon’s strength was not confined to outstanding combat talent and its attainment alone.
His true power was housed in the Niwan Palace.
Though he was no sect Kung-Fuist, he stored internal energy in the Upper Elixir Field. Then, as if drawing cards from a conjurer’s sleeve, produced one uncanny secret stratagem after another, each thought possible only by the Upper Elixir Field’s peculiar function. To watch it was enough to force admiration.
The meticulous and base machinations he displayed in Sword Debate Chess.
The calculating mind that toyed with even a bald-pated priest of the Zion Clan as though upon his palm.
And as for the secret of the indulgence talisman. She could not even guess how he had unearthed it.
To the Queen’s eye, the Little Heavenly Demon’s information network and stratagems were worthy of comparison to the Sole Director of the British Intelligence Butler Agency, Mycroft Holmes (indolent).
And that was not all.
He had even fought against the foremost Transcendent duelist, Nobel, over the Blue-Eyed White Snake, and extracted what he wanted in the end.
A talent who possessed, in addition to intellect, sufficient force to translate scheming into action.
Even when facing a Zion Clan inquisitor, or the ruler of Great Britain herself, he showed no sign of fear. Indeed, his audacity and nerve, enough to shame them or even behead the Prince Consort upon the board, were weapons in their own right.
Such a gift, seizing what he desired by confronting stronger opponents without regard for means or method, was not easily found.
She had seen countless people who possessed this virtue or that.
But one who held all of them together was rare even among the masters of the Royal Combat Society and the League of Gentlemen.
If one must name that kind of talent, ‘the talent for victory’ suited it best.
If only his temperament were not even more dreadful than his master’s, he would have been far easier to handle.
Yet for all her thoughts, the Queen could not bring herself to hate the Little Heavenly Demon, eccentric character notwithstanding.
“Is it the face…….”
In the Queen’s mind arose the features of men whose beauty, by her standards, was worthy of passing marks. Her consort Prince Albert foremost among them.
The exiled Round Table knight, Blood-Flower Ghost Brush.
Red Dragon Phileas Fogg, who bore a face remarkably similar to his.
Her in-law Alexander II, recently killed in an attack by rioters.
And several members of the Battenberg branch of Hesse, famed for their looks, and so on.
The Little Heavenly Demon’s face did not lose to theirs even in comparison.
A handsome man who made one content merely by watching him.
“With age, my foolishness only grows…….”
The Sword Queen, finding herself pathetic for having always grown endlessly indulgent toward handsome men, let out a long sigh.
That she kept softening despite the need to treat the Little Heavenly Demon coolly was surely an old chronic ailment.
And for such softness to show was a sign that mental fatigue had accumulated.
The Queen resolved to deliver the promised stakes to the Little Heavenly Demon and not meet him again for a month, and she set out for the East Wing, where her quarters lay.
“Come to think of it, had they said ‘that man’ crossed over to this side.”
From the faces of handsome men, including the Little Heavenly Demon, her thoughts reached even her deceased in-law.
His throne had recently been inherited by his second son.
According to the Secret Intelligence Service’s report, Alexander III, who succeeded the murdered Alexander II, had quietly crossed into London not long ago with only a small retinue.
Frankly, it was unexpected.
She had not imagined that the new Tsar would visit a foreign land before his predecessor’s funeral had even ended.
“Is he moving early to stabilize his realm? No. If that were so, he would first set his close men in motion within Russia.”
What, then, did he intend by coming abroad in such a turbulent time?
Alexander III was a far colder and more ruthless man than his predecessor.
He would not have come to London without purpose.
Above all, had not Great Britain and Russia long contended for supremacy across Eurasia.
The Secret Intelligence Service reported that Alexander III’s London visit was to obtain new court martial-robes to match the suddenly scheduled coronation proceedings, yet she could not afford complacency.
Though the Romanovs and the British Royal House were linked by marriage, the union of Victoria’s second son and Alexander II’s second daughter had been forced through by the parties themselves, against both families’ objections.
Moreover, Victoria had never been fond of her second daughter-in-law.
In Victoria’s view, there was no need for indulgence.
If the new Tsar came to the Forbidden Palace, the Queen thought she would dispense with empty pleasantries and demand his purpose for coming to London.
For now, it would be best to have the British Intelligence Butler Agency1 watch him.
With that thought, she opened the secret passage hidden in the East Hall drawing-room—
Upon the mirror that concealed the secret door, pitch-black ink spread and formed letters.
It was a message delivered by the Sole Director of the British Intelligence Butler Agency, Mycroft Holmes’s distinct Kung-Fu.
“What time is it?”
The Queen answered as she used Poltergeist to fling the door fully open.
<It is three o’clock in the afternoon.>
“So late already. To come at tea time means he is not someone wholly ignorant of me. Then, who has set foot in the Forbidden Palace without so much as a word?”
The ink followed the Queen as she strode down the passage, and wrote a familiar name upon the wall.
“Hah.”
A staggering coincidence. The Queen quickened her pace toward the royal living quarters.
- Bang!
“Grandmother!!”
“We missed you!!!”
Misha and Ducky, six and five this year, ran to her with arms spread wide and clung tightly to the Queen’s legs.
However much the Sword Queen loathed her second daughter-in-law, grandchildren were another matter.
“There, there, my darlings. You have suffered much, coming by ship.”
Queen Victoria embraced the two granddaughters warmly, then lightly patted their backs.
But only for a moment.
When she raised her head, she saw the figure of a hulking man approaching at a slow, deliberate pace from afar.
“Marie. Melita.”
At the man’s voice, calling their names with a chill, the little sisters’ faces went stiff.
“I must speak with the Queen. Leave us.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Even with his nieces, he used no affectionate name. There was not a trace of warmth in his cold manner.
It was as though spring itself vanished without a trace merely by his presence.
“It has been some time, honoured in-law.”
With a voice that held not the smallest hint of pleasure, Alexander III offered his greeting.
“Have I not told you to at least send word when you come.”
“Wherever I go, I assume you are watching regardless. Besides, I had no leisure to inform you of every step.”
No leisure.
Only a few words, yet they carried a peculiar weight.
As though all he had endured, the death of his father, the executions of the ringleaders, and everything besides, had been compressed into them.
“……I regret what befell your predecessor.”
“As the chief mourner, I thank you.”
It was a brief exchange, yet seeing the Tsar’s rigid expression, the Sword Queen could guess his purpose in London was not merely to be fitted for new martial robes.
“I would know what business brought you to me.”
“I wished to give gifts to my nieces, and there is a matter I wish to confirm.”
“Confirm what?”
At once, an utterly unexpected question flew at her.
“Do you know a woman called Irene Adler?”
“……You mean Lady Norton, Mistress of Green Willows.”
“Just so.”
At the mention of a name wholly out of place here, the Sword Queen’s expression turned doubtful.
She knew that the Mistress of Green Willows had won fame across Europe and America for beauty and song, and that her sonic arts were said to be without peer.
But even so, in royal eyes she was merely one singer among the many who performed upon the stage.
When they lacked time even for heated debate and negotiation over Afghanistan’s dominion, why had the Tsar crossed all the way to Great Britain to ask her about an opera singer.
Unable to guess his intent at all, the Queen listened in silence.
“When Irene Adler was prima donna at the Imperial Theatre in Warsaw, a prototype, an initial piece of a treasure secretly commissioned from the finest craftsmen was stolen. For years I pursued its whereabouts, yet learned only that she was connected to the affair.”
“……A treasure. Why are you speaking to me of something so utterly lacking in substance? I do not wish to waste further time.”
She expressed her displeasure plainly, yet the Tsar continued without so much as moving an eyebrow.
“Within three days, recover the treasure Irene Adler stole.”
“I am not your mother—still less your servant. Continue this insolence, and I will cut you down.”
“You are labouring under a misunderstanding.”
Cold Essence burst from the Tsar, and frost began to creep over the floor beneath his feet.
“This is not a request. If three days pass without the item being recovered, I will return to Russia and order the march into Afghanistan.”
“……You would threaten my India!!! How dare you!!”
“Just so. My treasure cannot be exchanged for any fortune. If it is to be lost, then I will perish together with Britain.”
As the Sword Queen drew up her own energy to hold back the chill storming the room, a single doubt pierced her mind.
What manner of treasure was it, that the Tsar would invoke war to reclaim?
“I did not expect your cooperation from the start. I have never trusted the English. In any case, it is something I can find myself. But know this. Whether I fail or succeed, I will send troops into Afghanistan.”
Having delivered his unreasonable notice, the Tsar walked out with steps proud and unshaken.
“……At least tell me what the blasted thing looks like.”
A sigh escaped the Sword Queen as she turned his absurd demand over in her head.
“Hm.”
It was then.
Queen Victoria noticed an oval design left upon the floor.
A meticulous image made by freezing the moisture in the air with ice arts.
It took the form of an egg, as though adorned with jewels.
It was unmistakably a clue the Tsar had left behind for reference.
“…….”
Fortunately, Queen Victoria knew a man of exceptional skill in solving crimes.
“Poppins.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Before the design melts, copy it onto paper, then send an express courier.”
“To whom shall it be sent, Your Majesty.”
Keeping her eyes fixed upon the design, the Queen spoke a single man’s name.
“To Little Heavenly Demon, Sherlock Holmes.”
- TL/N: British Intelligence Butler Agency and Secret Intelligence Service is one and the same ️