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feliciter's homecoming, I have finally gotten around to finishing the next translation. XD;
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 2/4
Generally, the feudal lords of the Kingdom of Leinwand build castles within the best residential districts of their respective domains, and there reside.
Rather than a home for a lord, castles have from the beginning been buildings that strongly suggest siege fortresses. Flame-resistant stone walls and high ramparts, moats, watchtowers, drawbridges, and so on . . . A castle's many structural peculiarities can only be meant to halt an attacking force, or to repel them entirely.
Yet in a backwater town like Manurhin--which was unlikely to be dragged into any wars, and which had from its establishment boasted city walls to rival those of any citadel--it made no sense at all to construct such a castle.
And so . . . while other people may not have known whether it was for that reason or not, Lord Manurhin, Count Luigis Franchi, had no castle. Well . . . there was a castle that had actually been in use as recently as the previous Count Franchi's rule, but it had fallen into severe disrepair.
If you are wondering why he would allow that, it is because he had built a mansion on a hill, a mansion that was far too modest and austere for a man of his peerage and holdings--though it was still on a scale easily ten times that of an ordinary residence--and there he lived.
Castles also have an aspect in which they serve as the administrative center for their respective territories . . . but in the case of Manurhin (whose parliament had been entrusted by the Count with limited sovereignty and therefore acted as his agent in certain matters of government), a building separate from the feudal manor had been built for just that purpose. As a result, Count Franchi's mansion held no other meaning than as his residence.
To the Count--who though past his marriageable age had never taken a wife, instead enjoying an insouciant life with ten-odd servants--the house may have seemed rather too large.
And in that Count Franchi's drawing room.
Facing the courtyard, the room was cut through by the winter sunlight that streamed in from the windows. The interior of the room--which was decorated almost entirely in light brown shades that embraced the natural warmth of wood--may have been too humble for a nobleman's drawing room. However, it likely did a far better job of allowing guests to relax than did those rooms with florid and tasteless furnishings placed everywhere.
". . . rather sober, isn't it?"
However, of those two guests who had come to visit, one of them uttered this while his boorish gaze crept around the room.
"It would suit a withered old man, I suppose. At the very least, I can't possibly think of this as the home of Count Franchi, mighty former general of the Royal Western Intercept Corps's Third Division, Road Blockers."
The man . . . As though he had said something funny, he gave a low laugh that shook his corpulent body. Twisting up the corner of his mouth, he licked his lips with the tip of his tongue and smiled nastily. It did not suit him, but more than that, it lacked all sense of refinement.
" . . . your point?"
Needless to say, the man facing him across the drawing room desk was Count Franchi. As usual, his female attendant stood behind him, motionless as a graven image.
"You called yourself Big Noise, is that right? . . . I wonder, have you forced your way into my home without an appointment only to criticize it?"
"Now now, no reason to raise your hackles so. Please forgive my rudeness. I'm a Wildey1 man, you see. I had no time to study proper etiquette and the like."
This middle-aged man who had identified himself as the "luminary," Big Noise, drew his shoulders up into a pretentious shrug. Presumably, he believed that this gesture became him, but it was hopelessly inelegant and uncouth. Perhaps this was because his self-consciousness was out of balance with reality.
"I have something I'd like to ask you. I've been looking into this through different means but . . . a corpse turned up around six days ago, isn't that right?"
Big Noise looked up, as though to send his upward glance on an exploratory mission, but both Count Franchi and the woman were silent. Not even their expressions wavered.
"He went by the name Yuuma Casull. He was a sordid old man of around fifty or so. You knew him, didn't you?"
". . . he was an acquaintance."
"Oh, and just who was he?"
Without answering Big Noise's question, Count Franchi narrowed his eyes and said, ". . . as I suspected, it was you bastards. There were several knife wounds on his body. While the official record states that his was an accidental death . . . it was clearly murder."
"Such insight. We were the ones to carry that out." Big Noise declared his murderous deed calmly. His tone had a ring of pride in it. "I had, as it happens, gathered a company of battle-scarred veterans. He stood against them alone, killing seven in the blink of an eye. No matter how you look at it, that is not the skill of a mere arms dealer."
" . . . and?"
"That's why I'm asking you. Just who was he?"
"What meaning is there in exposing a dead man's past?"
"Why wouldn't I want to know whom I killed? It's a tribute to the memory of the deceased, isn't it?"
Big Noise grinned broadly.
Of course, these words were not spoken seriously, wouldn't you agree? This man's subservient appearance and manner of speaking were diametrically opposed to the arrogance that lay hidden within. Such people never pay respect to anyone other than themselves; it does not matter whether those people are living or dead.
"Right from the beginning, there have been numerous oddities about this job. Three million cetme2 for nothing more than killing one brat, and what's more, the terms of this arrangement prohibited any investigation into the client's identity or background. Nothing could be more suspicious than that." Big Noise quirked his mouth into a thin smile. "Well, those who have ties to the royal court have peculiarities in their word choices and phraseologies, you see. Even if they try to hide, I recognize them immediately. And what's more, now, is that when we went to give it a try, we found this unthinkably strong older man, acting as her guard under the pretense of being her 'old man.' Even though I had two combat mages with me, he killed everyone faster than you could believe, and he and I were the only ones to survive."
So saying, Big Noise indicated the man who sat beside him.
He was Big Noise's antithesis: a tall, rawboned, emaciated man. He was probably a little older than Big Noise . . . perhaps in his late thirties. His disheveled hair, which was the shade of night and seemed completely uncared for, and his blue eyes, which seemed in some ways vacant--these gave the impression of a patient who suffered both mentally and physically from some serious illness. He wore a dark red cloak that brought dried blood to mind, and he did not remove it even though he was indoors.
In many ways, he was a man who seemed to have been created as a contrast to Big Noise. Unlike the loquacious Big Noise, he had not spoken a single word since entering the manor.
"Isn't it only natural to think that there must be something to it?"
"I have no idea. Even if I knew something, I have no obligation to tell the likes of you."
"Once again, such intractable words. Well, I thought you might say that, though. So then, what do you think of this?" Big Noise said, leaning slightly forward. "If you tell us, we shall leave this town after strangling only the brat we're targeting."
". . . and if I don't?"
"Starting now, corpses will start to turn up among this town's residents, one for each and every day that passes."
Quickly and quietly . . . without changing her expression, the woman stepped forward. Quicker than the eye could follow, her right hand had slid to her breast. What she grasped beneath her tunic was surely not a handkerchief.
At the same time . . .
The man sitting beside Big Noise stood instinctively, and, moving in the manner of a sleepwalker, he reached both hands behind his hips.
"Stop it, Finebel," Count Franchi said in a raised voice.
For a moment, his attendant--Finebel--seemed to hesitate, but she obediently followed her master's command.
"You should stop as well, Convict."
Obeying Big Noise's voice, the man called Convict returned to his seat on the couch. However, theirs did not seem to be a master-servant relationship.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. As expected, it seems that getting into a quarrel with that young lady would be disastrous. I take back what I said before. To tell you the truth, we've already made substantial progress toward our objective. Though he may not look it, Convict here is amazingly skilled at investigative work."
Big Noise pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket. Both the Count and Finebel noticed that the edge was spattered with dark red stains. One could easily imagine what sort of investigative methods had been used.
"Yuuma Casull's youngest daughter . . . she wouldn't happen to be the Scrapped Princess, now would she?"
Count Franchi remained silent.
Finebel answered on his behalf.
"The Scrapped Princess is merely a rumor. And even if by any chance that rumor were true, the Scrapped Princess would most certainly have been killed fourteen years ago."
"Thank you for that exemplary answer, young lady." A thin smile appeared on Big Noise's face. Without waiting for a response from Finebel, and without changing his expression, he continued, ". . . but I didn't ask you, bitch. I was asking your master. Don't open your goddamn mouth without being called on."
". . . I will have you refrain from abusing my servants."
Finebel had reached involuntarily into her tunic--and one could catch a glimpse of something that looked like the handle of a blade--but the Count stopped her by seizing her left hand.
It seemed that this woman called Finebel was not quite as cool-headed as she appeared.
"I apologize for my rudeness," Big Noise said, shrugging.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Meaning that you don't deny it?"
"Would you believe me if I did deny it?"
"I suppose I wouldn't."
"Then this is a waste of time. I would ask you to leave."
". . . yes, yes, I understand."
Big Noise shook his head dramatically and stood. Convict stood as well, with the weightless movements of a phantom.
"Shall we clear out of here? That frightening young lady is glaring at us, after all. It would be nice if no complications sprang up between us."
So saying, the two hired killers left the room. Neither Count Franchi nor Finebel moved. The other servants would keep an eye on the men and see them off the premises.
". . . what will you do?" Finebel asked in a quiet voice. It seemed that the flames of her wrath were swiftly extinguished by the departure of their object.
"There's nothing to do. We have seen nothing, and we know nothing. That's all."
"But . . ."
"I pity Yuuma's children, but to be honest, I'm not as optimistic as Yuuma and Carol were about the Oracle of St. Grendel. It is a shame to kill a child, but the loss of one life can't compare to what will happen if the oracle's predictions come to pass."
Hearing this from Count Franchi, Finebel was at a loss for words.
He was first and foremost a government official. In return for the privileges of his class, he had a duty to protect his people . . . even if that meant that, at times, he had to set his personal feelings aside.
If he could save two of his people by killing one, then he would surely take that shame and guilt upon his shoulders without hesitation. He was that kind of man. Capable of deductions that required a cold heart. But it was Count Franchi's strength of will, which kept his emotions from welling over, that Finebel worshiped above all.
For just that reason, Finebel was unable to speak against him any further.
At that time.
There was a tapping at the door. The moment Count Franchi gave his permission, the door opened, and the aging steward poked his head in.
His face--smartly arrayed with a mustache that was just now beginning to be tinged with white--could be summed up in a single word: benign. He had an air of warmth about him that suggested he would think nothing of treating even the most savage reprobate with utmost deference.
"My Lord . . . we have intruders."
"Intruders?" Count Franchi murmured, knitting his brows.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) The Wildey is a gas operated, double action/single action, selective fire pistol designed by Wildey J. Moore. It was designed to fire several high pressure proprietary cartridges including the .45 Wildey Magnum and the .475 Wildey Magnum. Back
2) CETME is an acronym for Centro de Estudios Técnicos de Materiales Especiales (Center for Technical Studies of Special Materials), a Spanish government design and development establishment best known for the CETME rifle. Back
feliciter's homecoming, I have finally gotten around to finishing the next translation. XD;[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 2/4
Generally, the feudal lords of the Kingdom of Leinwand build castles within the best residential districts of their respective domains, and there reside.
Rather than a home for a lord, castles have from the beginning been buildings that strongly suggest siege fortresses. Flame-resistant stone walls and high ramparts, moats, watchtowers, drawbridges, and so on . . . A castle's many structural peculiarities can only be meant to halt an attacking force, or to repel them entirely.
Yet in a backwater town like Manurhin--which was unlikely to be dragged into any wars, and which had from its establishment boasted city walls to rival those of any citadel--it made no sense at all to construct such a castle.
And so . . . while other people may not have known whether it was for that reason or not, Lord Manurhin, Count Luigis Franchi, had no castle. Well . . . there was a castle that had actually been in use as recently as the previous Count Franchi's rule, but it had fallen into severe disrepair.
If you are wondering why he would allow that, it is because he had built a mansion on a hill, a mansion that was far too modest and austere for a man of his peerage and holdings--though it was still on a scale easily ten times that of an ordinary residence--and there he lived.
Castles also have an aspect in which they serve as the administrative center for their respective territories . . . but in the case of Manurhin (whose parliament had been entrusted by the Count with limited sovereignty and therefore acted as his agent in certain matters of government), a building separate from the feudal manor had been built for just that purpose. As a result, Count Franchi's mansion held no other meaning than as his residence.
To the Count--who though past his marriageable age had never taken a wife, instead enjoying an insouciant life with ten-odd servants--the house may have seemed rather too large.
And in that Count Franchi's drawing room.
Facing the courtyard, the room was cut through by the winter sunlight that streamed in from the windows. The interior of the room--which was decorated almost entirely in light brown shades that embraced the natural warmth of wood--may have been too humble for a nobleman's drawing room. However, it likely did a far better job of allowing guests to relax than did those rooms with florid and tasteless furnishings placed everywhere.
". . . rather sober, isn't it?"
However, of those two guests who had come to visit, one of them uttered this while his boorish gaze crept around the room.
"It would suit a withered old man, I suppose. At the very least, I can't possibly think of this as the home of Count Franchi, mighty former general of the Royal Western Intercept Corps's Third Division, Road Blockers."
The man . . . As though he had said something funny, he gave a low laugh that shook his corpulent body. Twisting up the corner of his mouth, he licked his lips with the tip of his tongue and smiled nastily. It did not suit him, but more than that, it lacked all sense of refinement.
" . . . your point?"
Needless to say, the man facing him across the drawing room desk was Count Franchi. As usual, his female attendant stood behind him, motionless as a graven image.
"You called yourself Big Noise, is that right? . . . I wonder, have you forced your way into my home without an appointment only to criticize it?"
"Now now, no reason to raise your hackles so. Please forgive my rudeness. I'm a Wildey1 man, you see. I had no time to study proper etiquette and the like."
This middle-aged man who had identified himself as the "luminary," Big Noise, drew his shoulders up into a pretentious shrug. Presumably, he believed that this gesture became him, but it was hopelessly inelegant and uncouth. Perhaps this was because his self-consciousness was out of balance with reality.
"I have something I'd like to ask you. I've been looking into this through different means but . . . a corpse turned up around six days ago, isn't that right?"
Big Noise looked up, as though to send his upward glance on an exploratory mission, but both Count Franchi and the woman were silent. Not even their expressions wavered.
"He went by the name Yuuma Casull. He was a sordid old man of around fifty or so. You knew him, didn't you?"
". . . he was an acquaintance."
"Oh, and just who was he?"
Without answering Big Noise's question, Count Franchi narrowed his eyes and said, ". . . as I suspected, it was you bastards. There were several knife wounds on his body. While the official record states that his was an accidental death . . . it was clearly murder."
"Such insight. We were the ones to carry that out." Big Noise declared his murderous deed calmly. His tone had a ring of pride in it. "I had, as it happens, gathered a company of battle-scarred veterans. He stood against them alone, killing seven in the blink of an eye. No matter how you look at it, that is not the skill of a mere arms dealer."
" . . . and?"
"That's why I'm asking you. Just who was he?"
"What meaning is there in exposing a dead man's past?"
"Why wouldn't I want to know whom I killed? It's a tribute to the memory of the deceased, isn't it?"
Big Noise grinned broadly.
Of course, these words were not spoken seriously, wouldn't you agree? This man's subservient appearance and manner of speaking were diametrically opposed to the arrogance that lay hidden within. Such people never pay respect to anyone other than themselves; it does not matter whether those people are living or dead.
"Right from the beginning, there have been numerous oddities about this job. Three million cetme2 for nothing more than killing one brat, and what's more, the terms of this arrangement prohibited any investigation into the client's identity or background. Nothing could be more suspicious than that." Big Noise quirked his mouth into a thin smile. "Well, those who have ties to the royal court have peculiarities in their word choices and phraseologies, you see. Even if they try to hide, I recognize them immediately. And what's more, now, is that when we went to give it a try, we found this unthinkably strong older man, acting as her guard under the pretense of being her 'old man.' Even though I had two combat mages with me, he killed everyone faster than you could believe, and he and I were the only ones to survive."
So saying, Big Noise indicated the man who sat beside him.
He was Big Noise's antithesis: a tall, rawboned, emaciated man. He was probably a little older than Big Noise . . . perhaps in his late thirties. His disheveled hair, which was the shade of night and seemed completely uncared for, and his blue eyes, which seemed in some ways vacant--these gave the impression of a patient who suffered both mentally and physically from some serious illness. He wore a dark red cloak that brought dried blood to mind, and he did not remove it even though he was indoors.
In many ways, he was a man who seemed to have been created as a contrast to Big Noise. Unlike the loquacious Big Noise, he had not spoken a single word since entering the manor.
"Isn't it only natural to think that there must be something to it?"
"I have no idea. Even if I knew something, I have no obligation to tell the likes of you."
"Once again, such intractable words. Well, I thought you might say that, though. So then, what do you think of this?" Big Noise said, leaning slightly forward. "If you tell us, we shall leave this town after strangling only the brat we're targeting."
". . . and if I don't?"
"Starting now, corpses will start to turn up among this town's residents, one for each and every day that passes."
Quickly and quietly . . . without changing her expression, the woman stepped forward. Quicker than the eye could follow, her right hand had slid to her breast. What she grasped beneath her tunic was surely not a handkerchief.
At the same time . . .
The man sitting beside Big Noise stood instinctively, and, moving in the manner of a sleepwalker, he reached both hands behind his hips.
"Stop it, Finebel," Count Franchi said in a raised voice.
For a moment, his attendant--Finebel--seemed to hesitate, but she obediently followed her master's command.
"You should stop as well, Convict."
Obeying Big Noise's voice, the man called Convict returned to his seat on the couch. However, theirs did not seem to be a master-servant relationship.
"Well, I suppose it can't be helped. As expected, it seems that getting into a quarrel with that young lady would be disastrous. I take back what I said before. To tell you the truth, we've already made substantial progress toward our objective. Though he may not look it, Convict here is amazingly skilled at investigative work."
Big Noise pulled a slip of paper from his breast pocket. Both the Count and Finebel noticed that the edge was spattered with dark red stains. One could easily imagine what sort of investigative methods had been used.
"Yuuma Casull's youngest daughter . . . she wouldn't happen to be the Scrapped Princess, now would she?"
Count Franchi remained silent.
Finebel answered on his behalf.
"The Scrapped Princess is merely a rumor. And even if by any chance that rumor were true, the Scrapped Princess would most certainly have been killed fourteen years ago."
"Thank you for that exemplary answer, young lady." A thin smile appeared on Big Noise's face. Without waiting for a response from Finebel, and without changing his expression, he continued, ". . . but I didn't ask you, bitch. I was asking your master. Don't open your goddamn mouth without being called on."
". . . I will have you refrain from abusing my servants."
Finebel had reached involuntarily into her tunic--and one could catch a glimpse of something that looked like the handle of a blade--but the Count stopped her by seizing her left hand.
It seemed that this woman called Finebel was not quite as cool-headed as she appeared.
"I apologize for my rudeness," Big Noise said, shrugging.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Meaning that you don't deny it?"
"Would you believe me if I did deny it?"
"I suppose I wouldn't."
"Then this is a waste of time. I would ask you to leave."
". . . yes, yes, I understand."
Big Noise shook his head dramatically and stood. Convict stood as well, with the weightless movements of a phantom.
"Shall we clear out of here? That frightening young lady is glaring at us, after all. It would be nice if no complications sprang up between us."
So saying, the two hired killers left the room. Neither Count Franchi nor Finebel moved. The other servants would keep an eye on the men and see them off the premises.
". . . what will you do?" Finebel asked in a quiet voice. It seemed that the flames of her wrath were swiftly extinguished by the departure of their object.
"There's nothing to do. We have seen nothing, and we know nothing. That's all."
"But . . ."
"I pity Yuuma's children, but to be honest, I'm not as optimistic as Yuuma and Carol were about the Oracle of St. Grendel. It is a shame to kill a child, but the loss of one life can't compare to what will happen if the oracle's predictions come to pass."
Hearing this from Count Franchi, Finebel was at a loss for words.
He was first and foremost a government official. In return for the privileges of his class, he had a duty to protect his people . . . even if that meant that, at times, he had to set his personal feelings aside.
If he could save two of his people by killing one, then he would surely take that shame and guilt upon his shoulders without hesitation. He was that kind of man. Capable of deductions that required a cold heart. But it was Count Franchi's strength of will, which kept his emotions from welling over, that Finebel worshiped above all.
For just that reason, Finebel was unable to speak against him any further.
At that time.
There was a tapping at the door. The moment Count Franchi gave his permission, the door opened, and the aging steward poked his head in.
His face--smartly arrayed with a mustache that was just now beginning to be tinged with white--could be summed up in a single word: benign. He had an air of warmth about him that suggested he would think nothing of treating even the most savage reprobate with utmost deference.
"My Lord . . . we have intruders."
"Intruders?" Count Franchi murmured, knitting his brows.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) The Wildey is a gas operated, double action/single action, selective fire pistol designed by Wildey J. Moore. It was designed to fire several high pressure proprietary cartridges including the .45 Wildey Magnum and the .475 Wildey Magnum. Back
2) CETME is an acronym for Centro de Estudios Técnicos de Materiales Especiales (Center for Technical Studies of Special Materials), a Spanish government design and development establishment best known for the CETME rifle. Back
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-09-18 04:34 pm (UTC)Perfect! I was thinking a synonym of held (close), but just couldn't capture (no pun intended) the sense in a word that sounded right for inanimate objects
fic writing and memory are linked
Alas, it is a one-way relationship...
no subject
Date: 2009-09-21 07:09 am (UTC)Sorry to hear it, in several senses. :< Well, perhaps living non-boringly will help on its own. At the very least, Hetalia should liven things up.
Helpful Hint: Ask