Chapter 825 — Dyeing

The streets of Cecil were as bustling and vibrant as ever, and everywhere he looked were city sights he had long grown used to—yet for Byron, walking those streets today felt different altogether.

Pea was at his side, talking without pause.

She chattered on with great enthusiasm, about her experiences at the academy, about the new friends she had made, about every single thing she had seen, about the weather, her moods, the books she had read, and a new shadow-puppet play still in production. This girl who could at last speak aloud again was like someone seeing the world for the first time, nearly babbling, as if she meant to describe afresh every thing she had ever seen and every thing she had ever lived through.

Even the little shops along the street she passed every day—she would go skipping in with a grin, greet the owner, and collect a gasp of astonishment, and then a round of congratulations.

Byron wore a smile the whole time, keeping close by Pea's side.

What should have been a short walk home took them the better part of half a day.

When father and daughter finally drew near Knight Street, Byron spotted a figure lingering at the corner of the road—none other than Philip, who had returned to Cecil a couple of days earlier.

Smiling, Byron stepped forward. Not far off, Philip sensed the approaching presence and turned to meet them—but before either old comrade could speak, Pea spoke first. She ran to Philip in delight, and from the neural thorn's voice device came a joyful sound: "Uncle Philip!!"

Philip was about to speak, but the unfamiliar, synthesized female voice stopped him dead. A full two seconds passed before he looked at Pea with startled uncertainty: "Pea... you're talking?"

"It's me!!" Pea laughed happily, spinning half a turn in place to show Philip the metal device at the back of her neck. "Look! Grandpa Pi Yun made it for me! It's called the neural thorn—it can speak for me!!"

"We've just come from the research institute," Byron cut in quickly before Pea could rattle on, "and according to Pi Yun, it's a small artificial neural cord, but with more complex functions than the usual kind—helping Pea speak is only one of them. Of course you know me—anything too technical and I stop paying attention..."

"I've heard of this project..." Philip's eyes went wide, and he looked at Pea with joy and amazement. "But I never imagined it would be so soon... This is wonderful, Pea—today absolutely calls for a celebration!"

"A celebration is fine, but no drinking with my father!" Pea said at once, eyes glaring. "I know you've got strong self-control, Uncle, but my father can't restrain himself at all! The moment anyone pulls him into a drinking session he has to drink himself senseless, and every time he ends up reeking of liquor, asleep in the parlor till the next day, and then I have to help clean up after him... You have no idea, Uncle—even if you talked him out of it on the spot, once he got home he'd sneak a drink anyway, saying he has to see things through, saying it's out of respect for the distillery... And also, also, last time the two of you—"

The girl's mind raced; a magic device driven by brainwave signals needed neither breath nor rest, and a torrent of words poured over Philip's head. The young knight (not so young anymore, in truth) was smiling at first, but his face quickly turned to bewilderment, and he stared blankly at Byron—only once Pea finally fell quiet did he find a chance to speak: "Byron... this... what's happened to this child..."

"Didn't expect that, did you?" Byron wore an expression that said plain as day, *so you know how it feels*. Even though the lecturing had been aimed at him this time, it was Philip who had borne the "storm," and that put him in a strangely fine mood. "Neither of us imagined our usual Pea had this much stored up inside her..."

Pea's eyes went wide at once, fixed on Byron with a look that said, *say one more word and I'll start talking again*, and the latter hurriedly waved his hands: "Of course, the fact that she can finally say what's in her heart—that does make me rather happy..."

Then, before Pea could open her mouth, Byron promptly steered the conversation elsewhere, turning to Philip: "Speaking of which... what are you doing here?"

"I heard you're bound for the north soon, so I came to say goodbye," Philip said earnestly. "Things have been busy lately, and I was afraid I'd miss the chance to see you off."

"...The way you put it, I feel all out of sorts," Byron said, rubbing his arms. "As if I'm about to die out there somewhere."

Philip thought it over, then analyzed with perfect seriousness: "In theory that won't happen. There's no fighting in the Northern Region, and your assignment won't bring you into conflict with the locals or with the Violets across the strait. In theory, barring jumping into the sea while drunk or picking a duel out of sheer boredom, you should come back alive..."

Byron: "...Honestly, are you being sarcastic on purpose?"

Philip's earnest expression did not change in the slightest: "Sarcasm is not knightly conduct."

Byron thought again, his expression growing stranger still: "I still say you're mocking me, you wretch—Philip, you've grown!"

Pea stood nearby, looked at Byron, then at Philip, and slowly, happily, began to smile.

……

Count Duller reclined comfortably on a soft sofa, beside him a broad floor-to-ceiling window that looked directly out onto the garden and the bustling district beyond. The pleasant afternoon sunlight streamed through the clear, pristine crystal glass into the room, warm and bright.

From the magic device in the corner came gentle, flowing music, and the exotic melodies relaxed the nobleman from Typhon all the more.

In his hands was a finely printed book whose cover bore the title *A Brief Record of Northern Folk Myths and Legends*. The paper was not costly, but within were exquisite illustrations and neat, handsome typography. He turned to a fresh page, his eyes running over the opening lines, and could not help but look somewhat moved. He raised his head to the man seated across from him: "Master Habiya, I must admit, the Cecil printing techniques are far superior to ours. This book is so exquisitely printed that it almost makes me want to open a printing house of my own."

The man across from him was no longer young, with the refined air of a scholar and a balding crown. This bookish old gentleman was none other than Typhon's celebrated scholar and master of letters, Habiya Reston, likewise a member of this Typhon diplomatic mission, and at the moment he too was reading Cecil-printed material—though not some weighty tome, but a thin popular pamphlet with a color cover and short articles.

At Count Duller's words, the old gentleman looked up: "Truly astonishing printing, especially that they can print color images so accurately and in such quantity—that aspect of the technology quite stirs one's curiosity."

"I'm told this technology only appeared in Cecil a few months ago," Count Duller said offhandedly, his gaze falling on the pamphlet in Habiya's hands. "You're still reading that booklet?"

"It's called a 'magazine,'" Habiya said, giving the pamphlet a shake. On its cover, a handsome, upright cover figure gleamed with the sheen of ink in the sunlight. "The contents are popular in nature, but unexpectedly interesting. The grammar it employs and the structure of the whole magazine have given me considerable inspiration."

"But forgive me for saying so—to my eye some of what's in there is frankly too popular," Count Duller said with a laugh. "I'd have thought a great scholar like you would turn up his nose at such things—they don't even have the depth of this myth collection in my hands."