"What?!" In a hidden basement, a gloomy-looking young man sprang to his feet, his eyes wide as saucers as he cried out, "Say that again!"
Standing before him was a middle-aged man in a gray belted robe, his face just as gloomy. Expressionless, he replied in a perfectly flat tone, "Count Good Horse claims that he found items from the capital on the assassins he killed. Based on that, he believes the assassins were sent by one of the marquises, and demands that the marquises explain themselves."
The young man stared dumbfoundedly. Only after quite a while did he ask in confusion, "Did you carry anything bearing the marks of the Gold Coin Federation's capital?"
"Of course not. Nothing we carried could possibly reveal its origin."
"Then... why would he say that?"
"I don't know."
Only then did the young man remember that this subordinate of his was exceedingly reliable in a fight—but if he needed to use his brain... that was another matter.
Perhaps he was actually clever, but as an assassin, he rigorously adhered to his duty: do the job, do not think.
Assassins were blades. Blades should not have thoughts of their own.
Ordinarily, that was naturally an excellent thing. But when even the hand wielding the sword was at a loss, things became rather troublesome.
The young man was the leader of an assassin organization. He had only recently taken over from his father, who had suddenly died of an acute illness. Strictly speaking, he was still a greenhorn; the fact that he had accepted such a fundamentally flawed assignment proved as much. But greenhorn or not, he still knew right from wrong—his mission was to stir up a civil war within the Gold Coin Federation, not a civil war within the Noble Faction!
In truth,