Chapter 28 — A New Visitor

Edmund Morn left wearing a smile, and it seemed this negotiation had gone quite satisfactorily for him—save that the prince had politely declined Gao Yang's invitation to stay for dinner, saying he must return to Silverhold as quickly as possible, where the old king was still waiting for his good news.

Only after Edmund had gone did Rebecca speak her appraisal: "He seemed a very amiable sort. I'd thought a crown prince would be terribly hard to get along with, all court etiquette and whatnot..."

"That's because what he faced was an elder seven hundred years his senior, not some down-at-heel frontier viscount," Gao Yang shot her a glance. "You think what he showed here is how he acts day to day? Quite the opposite—it's precisely because his behavior just now almost perfectly matched my own habits of exchange that I'm certain he came thoroughly prepared."

Rebecca: "Huh?"

Gao Yang thought for a moment, then explained: "The so-called art of negotiation—when you boil down all the theories, it amounts to nothing more than speaking the right words to the right person. He came at first as a prince paying a call on a 'noble patriarch' of exceedingly high seniority, displaying just the right measure of courtesy and mature composure. Then he noticed my manner of speech and my attitude, and at once he became relaxed and humorous himself—which made me all the more willing to talk with him at length. That is a formidable skill."

Rebecca scratched at her hair: "...Eh?"

Gao Yang sighed. "...Just go study the four ways of shaping a fireball."

However single-tracked Rebecca's mind might be, even she could feel Gao Yang's profound exasperation now, and she grew a little nervous: "Patriarch, am I... a bit too stupid at this sort of thing?"

"Everyone has their strengths; your talent simply doesn't lie here, so don't force it," Gao Yang patted her on the head (being tall meant he could do as he pleased). "And honestly, I'm not fond of these scheming tricks either. I prefer the old style—a band of people with life and death cast to the winds, heads down, carving a path through the wilderness by sheer brute force..."

Rebecca nodded, half comprehending, then asked curiously: "Oh, right, Patriarch—was everything you said just now true?"

Gao Yang: "What are you referring to?"

Rebecca asked very seriously: "Did you really give a single red wine more than thirty names, and give each name its own sonnet?"

Gao Yang sighed. "Of course it's true."

"That sounds amazing!"

"But the truth is it was because we were poor—because back then the expedition hadn't even reached the Holy Spirit Plains, and before we found a grain-producing region, just filling our bellies was a struggle. We gave one wine more than thirty names because at the time we had only one wine, and it was the last barrel. We gave it sonnets because beyond that there was simply no other entertainment. So you should understand: the elaborate etiquette and rules of the nobility are either the idleness of the overfed or the pent-up frustration of the starving. At bottom, they're all utterly tedious stuff."

Rebecca's eyes sparkled. She felt she had gained a great deal of extraordinary knowledge—things Aunt Hedy would never have taught her!

Just then the room's window was suddenly pushed open, and Amber leaped in from outside. She flung herself into a chair, swinging her legs as she teased Gao Yang: "You're quite the interesting old fellow, aren't you! Just for what you said a moment ago, my opinion of you now surpasses that of every noble I know!"

"Stop calling me old fellow, I'm in the prime of life!" Gao Yang glared at Amber. "And weren't you told to patrol outside? Slipping in—is this you slacking off?"

Amber rocked back and forth in the chair as though she could not keep still for a moment: "I did patrol, and I found nothing, so I came in for a drink of water. You can't begrudge me a rest, can you? And besides—how are you so sure someone will come sneaking to your door? Look at the prince, he came in through the front gate..."

"If a prince were to climb over the wall, Charlie would probably leap out of his coffin just like me," Gao Yang's mouth twitched. "But not everyone who wants to learn something from me will come through the front gate. My being here today is precisely to wait for those people."

"Fine, fine, you're the boss now," Amber waved a hand, poured herself a cup of tea, gulped it down, then rose and headed for the window—but before leaping out she turned back, snatching two muffins from the tea snacks Gao Yang had prepared. "It's cold outside; I'll eat a little something to tide me over."

The Pioneer's Sword was not in his hand, and Gao Yang regretted this deeply.

Then he looked at his n1-times-great-granddaughter: "Go back to your room and rest. Tomorrow you meet the king—you must face him in your best condition."

Rebecca nodded, then asked: "And you, Patriarch?"

"I'm used to sleeping late, and I intend to visit the study," Gao Yang said. "A bit of a return to old haunts, after all—I need to see just how much this place has changed."

Rebecca obediently bade Gao Yang goodnight and left the room, while Gao Yang stood there a while before heading for the study on the second floor.

Gao Yang Cecil was renowned for his martial prowess, but he was no mere brute who knew only how to swing a blade. In fact, he could fairly be called half a polymath and half an herbalist, and in his leisure he was rather fond of reading. Thus in this residence at Number Four Crown Street, besides a trophy room where the master stored weapons, armor, and spoils of war, there was also a sizable study.

Seated at the desk restored by later generations, Gao Cen pondered as his fingers lightly tapped the desktop, his gaze drifting between the antique bookshelves and the paintings on the walls before finally settling back on the desk.

The memories in his mind that were not his own surged up once more, lending him an inexplicable familiarity with the things before him. He sighed in admiration at the diligence of later generations—they had not only restored the furniture here, but even placed the magic-ink quill and the paper on the desk in the exact positions most familiar to Gao Yang Cecil in life. This almost obsessive restoration stirred in him a faint, hidden fear.

As though someone had known long ago that he would return, and had prepared this place especially for him.

Yet clear as the memories were, they were ultimately not his own, and could not stir any emotional resonance. Gao Yang soon withdrew his gaze, left the chair, and crouched on the floor, groping about beneath the desk.

A hidden compartment sprang open, and he felt his fingers touch a cold piece of metal. After finding a ring on its surface, he lifted it out of the compartment.

It was an exquisite little box, giving off a cool silver gleam, still as new after seven hundred years.

At the sight of the little box, Gao Yang breathed a sigh of relief.

Still here.

Perhaps the greater part of what stood in this residence was no longer original, but some things could endure for more than seven hundred years—such as a small safe wrought of mithril.

The box was engraved with intricate magical patterns, and beyond these patterns, a crest of sword and shield had been cast upon it in pure gold and star-iron. Beside the crest were delicate characters, and the joint seal of Charles I and Gao Yang Cecil.

These marks and characters, together with the secret edict passed down through the generations within the Morn family (the royal house of Ansel), ensured that even if someone rebuilt the main structure of the house and found this little box, they would seal it back in its original place.