TMC Vol 1 Act 1.5

If I were to describe the royal palace in a single word, I would call it a colossal fish tank.

 

There’s His Majesty, the white shark with a feeble, weakening figure but still imposing in size. Beneath him, the smaller noble sharks swim with dignity, yet are quick to converge the instant they sense blood in the water. And then there are the small fish, mercilessly torn apart by these predators.

 

Now, if you think I belong among these small fish simply because of my lowly status, you would be mistaken. I am more akin to a parasite, one that clings to some part of the shark’s body, feeding off its sustenance. An insignificant creature that will never fatten the predator’s belly, and thus one without the need to worry about becoming a target.

 

The sharks here differ from those in the sea—they live in groups. Since they are defying the laws of nature, they cannot truly coexist and often turn on each other, tearing each other apart. Those who fall behind in the group are mysteriously transformed into mere small fish, relegated to the very bottom of the food chain.

 

Here, connections are lifelines. Surviving alone among the nobles, who are entangled in a network of bonds as complex as a cluster of spores, is nearly impossible. Unless one is a venomous fish bearing a deadly poison.

 

As I stroll through the garden humming to myself, a sight catches my eye: a hunting scene involving a group of young sharks. Upon closer inspection, they are sturgeons, armored with metallic scales and clad in gleaming shoulder armor—they’re apprentice knights.

 

At this age, their hunting skills are still quite crude. They are like young fry, merely mimicking what they’ve observed from their parents. They haven’t yet plotted intrigues or planned purges, but in their act of trampling the weak, they are already showing a resemblance.

 

To put it simply, several broad-shouldered boys are threatening a smaller boy.

 

“No more. Return the book to me now.”

 

The voice belongs to a small, frail-looking boy in a black scholar’s robe. With glasses perched precariously on his nose, he seems like the type who’s spent all his time studying in a secluded room. I wonder how he ended up in such an unfortunate situation.

 

One of the apprentice knights scoffs at him.

 

“Anything we find on you, it’s a crown per hit.”

 

Give noble sons a sword each, and here they are, extorting a small boy’s pocket money in some back corner. No doubt, they’re planning to waste an afternoon of debauchery in a tavern. Tsk, the future of Winsland is certainly promising.

 

“This is all I have. Please, return it to me.”

 

“Oh? But I hear something jingling in your sleeve.”

 

“T-That’s my portable astrolabe¹.”

 

“Is it worth much?”

 

“It’s a priceless scientific instrument. Its value is probably higher than all of your body combined.”

 

This bespectacled boy certainly has some nerve. Yet it’s the kind of courage that is more concerning than reassuring. Won’t it hurt if he gets hit? Or is he simply oblivious?

 

“Hand it over.”

 

“Do not touch it! If you continue, I shall report this to the Knight Commander!”

 

Goodness, even a tattletale. His chances of survival seem slim. My condolences.

 

A boy is sitting perched on a wolf-head statue, quietly observing the scene. Compared to the others, he is noticeably handsome and well-dressed. With a mere flick of his finger, he directs the surrounding boys—leaders, it seems, never sully their own hands.

 

With sharp eyes and a striking jawline, he looks familiar. After some thought, I recall he’s the boy who has greeted His Majesty a few times. His name is Fenton, if I’m not mistaken. It’s said he is a sword prodigy, already aiming for the position of head knight despite his young age.

 

Why, dear God, are all the talented ones such scoundrels? It pains me that our virtuous Princess Verona is such a rare treasure.

 

“Hey, unhand me!”

 

By now, the bespectacled boy thin body is firmly held by the apprentice knights. It looks like someone might get hurt if this continues. I suppose it’s time to intervene. These kids have previously beaten a stable boy so badly he ended up crippled.

 

Even if the one being robbed looks like a boring scholar, he’s clearly a child. And children deserve the right to a simpler, more innocent world, away from cruel realities. That’s an unassailable right, which no one should take away.

 

Principles can be stubborn things; they make one forget even the simple resolve to live quietly. That’s the only explanation for why I am now, foolishly, approaching these apprentice knights.

 

“Good day, gentlemen. Fine weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

 

As I bow politely and step forward, all eyes turn to me, faces twisted as if they’ve bitten into something sour. The freckled boy clutching the bespectacled boy’s collar sneers.

 

“Get lost, you fool.”

 

“Pardon me? Who caused this commotion that made it impossible for me to pass? What were you all doing here? Oh, could it be…”

 

“You deaf or something? Get lost.”

 

“…that you were practicing a dance?”

 

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

 

“A striking scene, men holding each other close like that. Keep up the good work—what a delightful display.”

 

The boy hastily releases his grip on the scholar’s collar.

 

“Does this wretch have a death wish?”

 

I must have hit a nerve, as he reaches for his sword. Masculinity can be so fragile, easily bruised. Best I watch myself too, lest I get pricked in a vulnerable spot. Quite literally.

 

“Wait. Just wait a moment. I understand what you want. I’ll pay you handsomely if you let this boy go. Look at him, he’s clearly a penniless scholar-in-training. He’s so malnourished his face is sunken in.”

 

“No, I was simply born this way…”

 

“Dear knights, would you not show some mercy?”

 

Just then, the boy named Fenton rises and approaches. Though a few years younger, he stands a finger’s length taller. He stares down at me with cold, piercing eyes, striding forward with a silent threat that suggests he may have killed someone before.

 

Feeling a sense of betrayal, I recall he appeared quite different when he greeted His Majesty.

 

Before I know it, Fenton’s sword is gleaming at my throat.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“…Just a humble jester, with no name, no lineage.”

 

“Then what sort of treasure could someone like you possibly have?”

 

“Perhaps a look would answer that?”

 

I pull out a colorful pouch I use as a wallet, jingling it slightly. Inside are five 20-crown coins—a gift from a maid who gives me candy as allowance. I had been saving it to buy acrobatics equipment, but desperate times call for desperate measures. With this, five or six sturdy boys could enjoy pickled ham and ale at the tavern to their hearts’ content.

 

Now, the crucial moment.

 

I hold the five coins on my palm, visible to all. As Fenton reaches to take them, I flick my wrist and hide them up my sleeve.

 

“What is this trickery?”

 

“Apologies. They tend to flee from strangers. I think they may have escaped to the inner pocket.”

 

I point to the edge of my tunic, where a strip of fabric, resembling the pouch’s material, sticks out. The handsome helper Fenton yanks on it, and presto! Out comes a long, colorful chain of handkerchiefs!

 

Fenton’s gaze grows even colder.

 

“…”

 

“My apologies, truly. This time, I’ll hand it over. It was hidden under my hat, actually.”

 

“Another lie, and you’ll pay with your life.”

 

“I swear, it’s true. This is the last time.”

 

Fenton tightens his grip on the sword hilt and signals one of his followers. The moment the boy reaches for my hat, a live pigeon flutters out, sending the gathered boys stumbling back in shock.

 

Seizing the opportunity, I grab the bespectacled boy’s arm and take off running. Ah, the state of this palace—reduced to such chaos that even a jester becomes a hero. I swear by the heavens, my goal remains to live a quiet and unobtrusive life, but this place simply won’t allow it.

 

Shouts and footsteps echo behind us. Sorry, but with your cumbersome armor and excessive gear, you’ll never catch me. Be satisfied with the expensive show I’ve given you, one only His Majesty typically witnesses.

 

Farewell, dear pigeon. I’ll miss you. Should you possess the talents of a messenger pigeon, do return. I’ll have sunflower seeds waiting.

 

***

 

Running with all my might, at some point, I felt his steps growing heavier. Glancing back, I saw the boy with glasses had practically surrendered his body, being dragged along like a deadweight. His feet barely lifted off the ground. Ah, intellectual types are easily exhausted.

 

I allowed the young man to catch his breath, stopping at a quiet corner. Collapsing onto the ground like someone whose joints had dissolved, the scholarly lad sank down.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine… Haa… Just give me a moment…”

 

“Take your time.”

 

Once he regained his composure, the boy stood up, dusted off his clothes, adjusted his glasses, and extended his hand in gratitude.

 

“Thank you.”

 

Hmm, a handshake. I’d seen others do it often but had never tried it myself. How firm should my grip be? Perhaps… like this?

 

He didn’t say anything, so I must’ve done it right.

 

“Avoid the training grounds in the future. Those louts have simple routes, so it’s easy to steer clear of them.”

 

“It’s unfortunate to lose my book, though.”

 

“Books can be bought anytime, but life is precious.”

 

From behind his ear, I pulled out five silver coins and handed them to him. A glimmer of wonder appeared behind his glasses. Even the most rigid bookworm, it seems, is still just a child.

 

“How did you do that?”

 

“Naturally, it’s magic. Take it, and use it to buy a new book.”

 

“No, I couldn’t possibly! Please, put it away.”

 

“If you don’t accept it, I’ll make the coins appear from somewhere other than your ear next. And each time you refuse, the number of coins will increase.”

 

Almost forcing it upon him, he finally dropped the coins into his pocket.

 

“Thank you. I promise to repay you.”

 

“Yes, yes. Do as you please.”

 

“My name is Lennox. I’m fairly new to the castle and don’t know my way around. Could you perhaps point me to the observatory?”

 

Ah, so this boy must be one of the scholars brought in by Her Highness, Princess Verona’s educational initiative.

 

“Follow me. I’ll guide you there.”

 

I know the feeling myself—the castle seems like a maze to newcomers. Don’t worry, innocent Lennox. Before long, you’ll lose your innocence and become just another part of the royal palace’s depravity.

 

For that’s what growing up in the palace means.

 

***

 

We walk side by side beneath towering stone ceilings.

 

The eastern tower houses scholars, doctors, and certain officials. This is where all cerebral work takes place. It’s not a place people like me often come to unless explicitly summoned.

 

Rooms steeped in the scent of old paper. Hallways so quiet, you can hear the faint scratching of quill tips. Pale fingers stained blue with ink.

 

Though I never had much chance to study, I like the calm, scholarly atmosphere of this place. Had I gone to school, I think I might have done well in my studies; after all, I’m confident in my wits.

 

Suddenly, Lennox speaks up.

 

“What’s on your mind that troubles you so?”

 

“Nothing at all.”

 

Honestly, it’s a pointless thought. A jester attending school—what a laughable notion.

 

But this boy has an oddly mature manner of speech and choice of words. He’s quite an eccentric, no doubt about it.

 

“Do you always speak this way?”

 

“This way? What ever do you mean?”

 

“Like that.”

 

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, but…”

 

“Just like that. Exactly like that.”

 

The boy lowered his gaze as if facing an awkward question.

 

“Does it sound that strange?”

 

“No, it’s just… unique.”

 

“I’ve lived alone with my uncle, an astronomer, since I was young, so I’ve rarely had a chance to observe others my age. Thus…”

 

“Really? You’ve never had any friends your own age?!”

 

“…Did you have to say that so loudly?”

 

This is serious. Unheard of, even. This is a scandal! A crime!

 

“At your age, you should be mingling with others, playing openly with them. Besides, you say ‘since I was young,’ but you hardly seem that old. How old are you now?”

 

“Twelve.”

 

Ah, the ink on his record is barely dry.

 

“So you’ve never really played, have you?”

 

“My uncle gave me a sugar cube whenever I recited celestial formulas well.”

 

“I mean real play, like tag or ball games.”

 

“No.”

 

“Not once?”

 

“They won’t let me join in.”

 

“In those cases, you have to shamelessly push your way in.”

 

“H-How could I? I can’t.”

 

Ah, what a rigid fellow. It seems I must teach him a thing or two. The highest and most sacred duty of a jester is to preserve the innocence of children.

 

Now that I think of it, there’s a place from my childhood, a place that showed me what pure wonder truly was. The day I first snuck in there felt like a rebirth.

 

“Have you ever seen a circus?”

 

“A circus?”

 

“Every summer, a roaming circus troupe visits the square. They arrive so suddenly, it’s like they drop from the sky. Overnight, huge tents spring up in the middle of the square as if they’d been slumbering underground, only to awaken when the time is right. Admission is five crowns, and worth every penny.”

 

“What do they do there?”

 

“You can do anything—eat treats, watch shows. They’ve got a fire-eater, a man whose skin is so tough it deflects arrows, and a legendary acrobat who balances on one blade.”

 

The previously reserved and introspective Lennox’s face now sparkles with genuine excitement.

 

“What else do they have?”

 

“Such delicious food. Have you ever tasted apples roasted with a hint of cinnamon? Or potatoes fried in lard?”

 

As we talk, we eventually reach the passage leading to the observatory. I remove my hat and give him a slight bow.

 

“It seems we must part here. Continue down the path and up the stairs, and you’ll find the observatory.”

 

“Could you accompany me just a bit further?”

 

“This isn’t exactly a place I’m supposed to be.”

 

“That’s fine. Just to the stairs.”

 

“Hmm…”

 

This could be troublesome. Many scholars already dislike me. They claim my mere presence spreads ignorance among the people. Being more observation than accusation, it’s impossible to argue back.

 

“Please, I beg you.”

 

…But how can I ignore such earnest eyes filled with good intentions?

 

“Alright. But only to the stairs.”

 

Ah, this popularity of mine is like a curse.

 

Lennox bombards me with questions about the circus. I try to answer as thoroughly as I can, but it’s impossible to keep up with the endless curiosity of a growing boy. Seeing how much he enjoys it, a warmth settles in my heart.

 

Halfway up the stairs, a court astronomer with a neatly braided gray beard descends from the upper floor.

 

“Lennox, you’re late. Come along now.”

 

The gentleman glances at me, his gaze filled with disdain.

 

“How dare you wander in here? Begone this instant!”

 

I knew this would happen. Poor Lennox, frozen in place, clueless about the deep-seated contempt for jesters. Before he makes the mistake of trying to defend me, I act quickly.

 

“Ah, my apologies. This isn’t the path to the henhouse, is it? I’ll take my leave now. Go on, Lennox, enjoy your studies.”

 

“But, Uncle! I was just…”

 

“He said this isn’t the way to the henhouse, right? So it’s my mistake.”

 

“…”

 

“Someday, let’s go together.”

 

“The circ—”

 

“Shh. The henhouse, alright? Promise me.”

 

Though still crestfallen, Lennox musters a faint smile, nods, and hurries up the stairs, his robe billowing behind him.

 

***