Chapter 80: The Spy's Web

Victor’s convoy began its return journey, now joined by thirty wagons fully loaded with goods—supplies temporarily loaned to him by the York family. When they returned to Blackfort, he would be expected to repay them with thirty wagonloads of purple cane wine.

Barrol sat uneasily in the spacious carriage, his thoughts restless. The lord had summoned him into the carriage an hour ago, yet had not spoken a word, merely sat with his eyes closed, resting. The maid at the lord’s side toyed with a short sword, eyeing him with a mixture of wariness, curiosity, and a hint of malice.

With the lord remaining silent, Barrol dared not speak either. Still, his professional instincts could not be suppressed; he quietly observed a few details. The floor was covered with a woolen carpet, not new but well-kept—costly, yet nothing extravagant. For a noble, such a rug was almost miserly; a family of true standing would cover the floor with a whole bearskin.

The carriage itself was peculiar: sturdy oak, but the exterior was neither sheathed in copper nor adorned with elaborate carvings. The undercarriage was of a design Barrol had never seen before—the wheels smaller in front, larger in back, wrapped in what looked like lizard hide. He had been riding for an hour with barely a jolt or bump.

Outside, a dozen or so cavalrymen rode alongside. They were competent, but their bearing was more mercenary than knightly—their weapons and shields always at hand, most of them around forty years old. Barrol was certain these were mercenaries turned guards.

Most telling of all: there were no knights in the convoy. Few lords would travel without them—not only for safety, but for appearance’s sake.

A plain carriage, mercenary guards, no knights—by Barrol’s experience, the master of this convoy seemed more merchant than noble. But he knew this was an illusion. The young lord before him was both of noble blood and deep heritage: he was, after all, a baron of House Wimbledon.

As a spy, Barrol knew that the Wimbledon name could be traced back thousands of years. Though the family had long since fractured, its legacy was beyond question—otherwise, how could the young baron have a deathsworn retainer? That same deathsworn now drove the carriage.

Two days earlier, when the driver had unflinchingly prepared to kill a paladin, Barrol had realized his opportunity had come. Only a deathsworn would disregard a paladin’s station. This revealed three things: first, he was of value to this lord; second, the lord was short-handed, or he would not deploy a deathsworn to deal with a minor figure like Barrol; third, the lord’s heritage ran deep—only great houses could cultivate such inhuman creatures, and Barrol had never before heard of a deathsworn with the might of an apprentice knight, yet here he was.

Barrol resolved to demonstrate his worth. He believed the baron was testing his patience by making him wait in silence for an hour, so he sat perfectly still, knowing patience was a vital quality for any family’s covert agent.

Those who aspire to rise are always guessing at the intentions of their superiors, but these are only guesses. Victor ignored Barrol because his mind was still sifting through the gains and losses of their trip to Blackfort.

Victor’s objectives had been largely met: he had forged a mutually profitable alliance with the York family, maintained his domain’s autonomy, and had all this witnessed and sealed before the gods.

The exclusive agreement stated that Victor’s domain would sell purple cane wine to the Yorks at eighteen copper sols per liter—nine copper per glass—for thirty years, price fixed. In return, the Yorks would supply grain openly to Victor’s lands, but only at market price.

Victor had protested, asking for a fixed price of three copper sols per pound of barley for thirty years, but Sylvia had flatly refused. Her reasons were twofold: Victor’s population would surely grow, and his wife was manipulating grain prices in Gambis. Victor could buy cheap grain from Sophia.

Victor had nothing to say; it was clear Sylvia preferred he buy grain from other lords—after all, she already controlled the purple cane wine. Her willingness to sell grain at all was already generous.

Then came the swiftbirds: Victor’s lands would provide the Yorks with two pairs of chicks each year for eight years. In exchange, the Yorks would buy purple cane leaves at one copper sol for three pounds, for thirty years, to feed the birds.

Victor was vexed—not by the Yorks’ greed, but by how deeply they had penetrated his affairs.

The Yorks asked for chicks because adult swiftbirds were temperamental, prone to attack their handlers at the slightest displeasure—a fatal risk for ordinary cavalry. Only those raised from chicks could be truly tamed, something only a handful of people, like Busso, knew. The Yorks were clearly aware. Victor could well imagine that in eight years, the York family would have their own flock.

Lastly, Sylvia assured him the Yorks would not interfere in the coffee business, and Victor accepted this unequal arrangement.

Victor found it puzzling that the Yorks had relinquished the coffee trade and even asked Sylvia directly. The alluring countess had only smiled, her large, limpid eyes drawing him into her bed without a word.

All told, the agreement was an unfair one—the Yorks had not even promised to protect Victor’s fragile domain.

Yet Victor understood: the imbalance reflected their respective strengths. As long as the Yorks had no purple cane of their own, they would have to safeguard his lands. If a power stronger than the Yorks coveted his cane, no contractual promise of protection would be worth anything.

Victor did not mind. What he truly relied on was the sugar. In a way, the agreement favored him. Just as he had not foreseen the strategic value of purple cane wine, Sylvia had not anticipated his possession of cane sugar. Now, with the wine’s value eclipsing the sugar, he had given up the former and secured the latter.

“No one can anticipate all outcomes,” Victor mused.

“My lord, what does that mean?” Lilia asked, delighted to hear Victor finally speak.

“Nothing, just musing aloud,” Victor replied with a smile, unwilling to explain further. Lilia, though sharp and quick to learn, was not yet ready to be his confidante. With that thought, Victor turned his gaze to Barrol.

“So, you’re the hyena chief who tried to set me up?”

“My lord, I had no choice. I could not disobey the sheriff’s orders. Please, my lord, spare my life,” Barrol pleaded, wiping at the sweat on his brow.

“Drop the act. You’re not sweating at all. When you got in, you closely examined the undercarriage and wheels, your pupils contracted. Once inside, you looked anxious, but your heartbeat was steady. You discreetly surveyed the carriage. Am I wrong?” Victor smiled coldly. Within two meters, no gesture of Barrol’s escaped him.

Barrol’s face went pale. “The steward of the Villepan family claims you lack the knight’s gift, my lord, but I see now you are a knight.”

“Tell me your real identity,” Victor said, feigning indifference while inwardly pleased.

Barrol wiped his brow again—this time, the sweat was genuine. “My lord, I was raised as a spy by the Gris family, once served the Duke of Gris. When he was executed, I fled to Blackfort and became a hyena chief.”

“Why did you willingly return with my men?” Not only had Barrol neutralized a major threat, he had also cooperated with Sharke—something Victor found intriguing.

Barrol glanced at Victor, then lowered his head. “I thought you might have need of me, and I wanted a way to earn my bread under your banner.”

Since Victor had not mentioned the paladin or the deathsworn, Barrol did not bring them up.

Victor smiled faintly. “When I was a child, I found a mole’s burrow and wondered what the creature was like. I had a servant pour water down the hole, and when the mole came out, I had the servant stomp it to death. Lilia, do you think the mole believed I needed it?”

Lilia blinked, uncertain of Victor’s meaning, and answered honestly, “My lord, I’d usually have Old Ham roast it.”

Victor could only shake his head.

Barrol, however, was quick to catch on. “My lord, that’s because you saw the mole had no use.”

“Useful? That’s how you train your monkeys, isn’t it? You teach them to accept their fate, but the irony is you yourself are always running from it.”

Barrol laughed weakly. “My lord, it’s just a way to manage one’s subordinates. All men fear death, spies included. Under torture, most will surrender; only with no hope at all will they kill themselves, seeking to avoid further suffering.”

“Fair enough,” Victor nodded.

Barrol was subtly telling Victor that he held no suicidal loyalty to House Gris, and merely wished to serve under him. Had he made grand claims of unwavering faithfulness, it would only have raised suspicion.

Victor’s greatest threat now was the assassin lurking in the shadows. He knew neither their identity nor their motive. Yet anyone who could employ a wizard as a killer must possess formidable resources.

From what he could tell, Marchioness Sophia was the most likely suspect, but even so, her involvement seemed improbable. Victor had probed Sylvia, asking indirectly if Sophia had entrusted her with his care. Sylvia had dodged the question, merely warning Victor not to harbor illusions about Sophia. Clearly, the countess wished for Victor to abandon Sophia and join the Yorks, but she was clearly unaware of the assassination attempt; otherwise, she would have used it to bind Victor to her will.

In some ways, Victor suspected Sophia was actually trying to protect the young baron, having spent a fortune to get him to the Centaur Hills as a refuge.

If this was true, it was the worst possible outcome.

Victor had no clear sense of the extent of Sophia’s power, but he knew it to be vast—she was immensely wealthy. In his memory, there were four knights he knew at her manor, all in permanent residence. She owned four trading companies, conducting business across the kingdoms, each with its own team of knights. If even Sophia could not protect the young baron, then how mighty must his enemy be?

Still, Sophia’s dispatching the young baron to the Centaur Hills implied she believed his safety lay in leaving her side. Sending him away without knights had the air of exile—a gesture likely intended for the assassin’s eyes. At the same time, she had secretly asked Sylvia to look after her young lover, without revealing the truth, which meant the enemy she feared was no trifling matter.

Victor was deeply unsettled. He combed through all his memories with the X-3, but could not discover whom the young baron had offended, or what secret he might have stumbled upon. All he knew for certain was that Sophia knew everything, and that returning to her side would surely spell his doom.

Whoever you are, when I find out, you will die for this, Victor vowed silently.

Barrol, meanwhile, was terrified by Victor’s icy, penetrating gaze, uncertain if he had said something wrong. His cold sweat was now real and copious.

“Barrol, tell me: how are family agents cultivated?” Victor asked, regaining his composure.

“My lord, agents are not cultivated—they are invested in. They might be rogues, cleaners, merchants; most don’t even know they are agents. We invest, foster relationships, observe their actions, and gather intelligence. For instance, by watching a coachman’s routine, we can learn a noble’s movements,” Barrol explained carefully.

“You mean they’re not raised from childhood?” Victor was surprised; he had thought agents were trained professionals.

“My lord, spies are raised from childhood. A spy is like a spider, constantly weaving webs. The agents are the web; information is the prey.”

“Every spy has a specialty. A merchant spy’s web will mostly be merchants and peddlers—he analyzes intelligence through their transactions. I was raised among rogues, so I mix with hyenas. Those thugs, streetwalkers, petty bosses—all may become my agents without even knowing it.”

“And do you still have a network?” Victor asked, curious.

“My lord, a spy’s identity is ever-shifting. Once an identity is exposed, the web is lost. That’s why spies master disguise and finding stand-ins. I faked my death this time by finding a freedman of similar build and age during the migration. I observed his habits and features, mimicked his voice, altered my appearance bit by bit until I resembled him. In the end, I led my pursuers to his dwelling—he became my scapegoat.”

“You’re despicable!” Lilia exclaimed.

Barrol did not protest, merely smiled bitterly; this was the way he had been trained.

“It is despicable,” Victor agreed, patting the girl’s shoulder to show he was on her side—though he knew he would need to cultivate such spies himself.

“Barrol, I’ll give you a chance to prove your worth,” Victor continued. “Among my people there are surely other families’ agents or spies. I want you to root them out. Can you do it?”

Barrol replied softly, “My lord, if you want soldiers to fight, you give them weapons. If you want farmers to till, you give them tools.”

“What do you need?” Victor asked impatiently.

“I need time,” Barrol said, gritting his teeth. He wanted manpower, but dared not ask; first he must prove his value.

“How much?” Victor would not let him equivocate.

“My lord, I don’t yet know the specifics, but rest assured, I can do it. Spies do not expose themselves gathering intelligence; only when passing it on do they make mistakes. I know all the ways intelligence is transmitted,” Barrol promised.

“I look forward to your results. Report to me in secret. You may go now.”

When Barrol had left the carriage, Lilia asked Victor, “Can we trust him?”

“We cannot—but I intend to wring every trick he knows out of him.”