On the small balcony off the master bedroom, Klein — in the form of Dawn Dantès — stood behind the railing and quietly watched Baron Cyndras's luxurious carriage slowly recede.
The man's words still echoed in his mind, and he felt that the Coím Company share-acquisition affair had carried a conspiracy from the very start:
For Baron Cyndras, the Coím Company had real potential and a bright future, but its present value was confined to Backlund and constrained by various conditions; it was hardly the sort of thing a great banker should care about so fiercely, taking such an uncompromising stance on never giving up control. Even if he had failed, the difference would have been making more money or less, not actually losing anything.
For the seller, Caron, it was perfectly normal to sell shares for cash under outside pressure, and equally normal to be unwilling to sell to the Conservative Party's 'money bag,' Baron Cyndras. The problem was that, as a businessman facing a not-especially-important deal, with prices close to one another, he could indeed factor in political leanings — but there was no good reason to refuse an extremely high premium. Yet he had deliberately rushed in, ahead of the baron's final offer, and hurried to close the deal with Dawn Dantès — as though he held a grudge against pounds sterling, or hated the Conservatives with violent extremity. That doesn't square with the current political climate; the Kingdom of Loen has not yet split that deeply.
It looks as if someone is pressuring Baron Cyndras into this affair, while someone else is using the situation to lay a trap — using Caron's 3% as bait, with me as cover, drawing the baron in to achieve some hidden goal… Klein gazed at the rows of gas lamps lining the street under the night and sighed inwardly.
By his guess, if he hadn't spotted the problem tonight and hadn't sent someone directly to Baron Cyndras, he would surely have ended up entangled in prison by a string of seemingly conclusive clues. And once the military or the Church of the Evernight Goddess stepped in, the evidence would, beyond any doubt, invert — pointing instead at Baron Cyndras.
In that process, any misjudgement on the baron's part — treating Dawn Dantès as an accomplice of the schemers and resorting to forceful means — would nail the last iron stake into his own coffin.
As to who was behind it and what their real aim was, Klein could not guess. He was only sure of one thing: Mrs. Mary likely didn't know the truth either. She had merely been exploited through her desperate need to retain control of the Coím Company. She did not yet have the standing to be a deep participant in a conspiracy at this level.
Environmental protection… the New Party… the Conservatives… bankers… acquisitions… framing… The names sprang up one after another in Klein's mind, and he felt as if through the present calm of Backlund he could see vortex after vortex of hidden danger beneath the water.
They had always been there; the Great Smog had not stilled them — indeed, some were extensions of that very incident.
All of this, tangled together with an ever-tighter international situation, brought a single word welling up in Klein's mind:
"Upheaval!"
In that instant, Klein seemed to smell a coming storm.
Add the End-of-Days prophecy on top, and who knew how much chaos and madness was brewing in the dark… My main focus right now is to work through the military and dig out the truth of the Backlund Great Smog. If I get drawn into this vortex, there will probably be needless trouble — perhaps even exposing my Sequence strength, after which I'd no longer be able to play Dawn Dantès… Klein withdrew his gaze, decision already made:
Get out of it, and quickly!
As for Baron Cyndras's safety, he wasn't worried. First, the man had the Conservatives behind him and his own forces; once he was on alert, it would be very hard to frame him again. Second, Klein had no real relationship with him — slipping in a single warning was already a noble gesture.
And as for the truth of Caron's death, Klein had no standing to investigate it. He could only choose to trust the Nighthawks — experienced, well-equipped, with every chance of finding the real clues.
How was he to disentangle himself from this? As long as the 3% sat in his hands, he would be at center stage… Have Mrs. Mary buy it back early? Hard — she likely lacked the cash… Sell to Baron Cyndras? That would break his promise and contract… Thoughts whirled, and gradually an idea took shape.
His facial muscles twisted inexplicably for a moment, then relaxed — because what he was about to do was something he had wanted to do before but had lacked the means for, and it would, equally, help him build his image and step further into high society.
…………
In the neighbouring room with the large balcony, Hugh and Forsi stood — one watching the street and the garden, the other gazing at the red moon half-veiled by cloud layers — and for a long while neither spoke.
Only after the lights went out on Dawn Dantès's side did Forsi turn to her friend, intrigued and quite evidently impressed, and remark:
"Being a rich man isn't easy either…"
"If it were you, you'd probably go bankrupt in three days and end up in prison."
Hugh shot her a glance and said:
"I'd hire a capable butler, a professional lawyer, and a competent commercial secretary to help."
Forsi didn't press the point further, and instead said with a smile:
"If it were me, I'd convert it all into bank deposits, government bonds, and houses and shops, and rely on the annual income they bring to maintain a dignified enough life."
She had just finished speaking when she saw Hugh's brow knit slightly; he turned his gaze toward the ground floor of this house.
"What is it?" Forsi's spirit tightened in an instant.
Hugh concentrated and felt it out for a few seconds, then said:
"My inspiration tells me there are objects or matters related to black magic."
One major trait of the 'Marshal' was that, when close enough, he could sense unshielded things associated with evil, chaos, and madness.
"Black magic?" As a fairly seasoned Beyonder herself, Forsi was no stranger to the term.
Strictly speaking, anything not going through the Seven Orthodox Gods counted as black magic, including ritual magic that prayed to hidden existences.
In the more common sense, however, black magic specifically referred to strange spells worked through flesh, blood, hair, and various unusual substances — some involving evil gods, some drawn from one's own extraordinary abilities, some relying on the spirituality of the materials themselves and on the correct symbolic markings and magical sigils.
Hugh nodded gravely and said:
"Yes, right on the ground floor. I'm going down to take a look. You stay here and protect Mr. Dantès."
Forsi was silent for two seconds and then, without a word wasted, nodded: