Ch.161Report on the Downfall of Charity (3)

# The City of Venelucia

Venelucia, though practically the capital of the United Kingdom, doesn’t look much different from an ordinary port city.

Seagulls flap their wings, spreading the stench of rotting fish and salt throughout the city. They pay no attention to the laborers carrying sacks on their backs, who curse at them. Above these workers, more curses and the sound of cracking whips can be heard from carriage drivers.

Though they can push the laborers to the side of the road, it’s difficult to move wheels half-sunken in the muddy streets. That’s why people joke, “In Venelucia, sleds run instead of carriages.”

The city claims to maintain the roads, but no matter how thick the stones they lay, too many goods and people trample them day and night, and salty water seeps into the cracks. Even the sturdiest stone pavement returns to a handful of dirt after a month.

Venelucia’s soldiers understand this situation well. That’s why even the strictest drill instructors or disciplinary officers don’t make a big deal about the cleanliness of boots.

Not that there aren’t complaints. Junior officers who want to impress their lovers feel this way. After all, it doesn’t look good when your newly issued boots are covered in mud despite being dressed smartly.

Mid-level and senior officers find these complaints rather cute, firstly because they’ve been through the same phase, and secondly because they know the day will come when these junior officers will be grateful for Venelucia’s roads.

Life on a warship is rough and difficult. But it’s not because of battles with pirates or rescuing ships stranded on reefs. Such incidents are more like entertaining diversions.

What’s truly difficult is simply walking on the narrow, creaking deck. While lower-ranking sailors and common soldiers snore and grind their teeth in their bunks below deck, officers must patrol the deck or stand watch in the crow’s nest, as befits their rank.

Whether it rains or snows, whether storm winds and sea spray lick at their knees and ankles, they must keep walking without being able to sit or lean anywhere.

The sea shows these officers no shortage of hospitality. It gladly drenches them with seawater, then dries them with winds so cold they seem drawn from the deep sea, only to soak them again.

Once-sprightly officers gradually suffer from arthritis and pneumonia, groaning in pain, and even when walking straight, they stagger and wobble like drunkards.

The reason young officers love land while older officers love the ship’s edge is perhaps because there, everyone staggers just like them.

For such men, Venelucia’s squishy roads are nothing short of a blessing. At least their knees don’t ache with every step.

By that point, newly arrived officers typically present their predecessors with a fine walking stick. If the predecessor was well-regarded, they might receive one made of elephant ivory or whale horn; if they were terrible, they might get a stick made from rotten wood.

This makes it easy to spot well-respected officers in Venelucia. You can tell at a glance by the walking stick they carry. That’s why people joke, “In the Venelucian Navy, rank comes not from epaulets but from walking sticks.”

This is also what led to the development of Eastern stick fighting, known as “the gentlemen’s martial art.” Even an old sea lion past his prime still carries one sharp fang.

Given this situation, walking stick makers receive considerable respect. Just as tailors who know how to handle fine fabrics are valued, so too are walking stick makers who can refine and repair various materials.

Though not numerous enough to form a guild, their prestige and legitimacy are no less than those of other guilds, such as stonemasons or shipbuilders.

The pay is high, and the work is far more elegant and dignified than carving stone, building ships, or smelting metal. Many young people aspire to the position, but since openings are rare and exceptional dexterity is required for selection, only a very small number can become walking stick makers.

In other words, they are the ones who meet the most diverse social classes in this squishy city. As a bonus, they interact with the upper class and their servants, commoners who refine materials, junior officials, and can guess the reputations of senior officers through their orders.

They are the most reliable sources of news, informants, and more knowledgeable about public opinion than anyone else in the city. That’s why no one treats them carelessly, and they in turn treat no one carelessly.

So when Francesco Visconti, the walking stick maker on 33rd Street, drove out all his customers in shock upon seeing a shabby visitor, the incident was gossiped about for a long time.

* * * * *

Though his excitement was understandable, Francesco didn’t throw anything. He didn’t throw the narwhal tusk on the table, or even the carving knife that he could easily afford to replace given his credit and wealth.

First, he calmly sent away his apprentice who was whimpering. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, she had good dexterity but was somewhat timid, often hiding behind him when rough soldiers came in.

“I-I’ll call someone!”

The apprentice ran out through the back door. As soon as she left, Francesco grabbed a sample walking stick hanging on the wall. Made from special steel from the northern pagan lands, it was popular for being both light and sturdy.

“How dare you come here! What nerve!”

But despite his aggressive tone, he couldn’t swing it recklessly. This was his workshop. The materials hanging on the walls were all precious items, and the surrounding tables were filled with “statues dedicated to the young artist” sent by noble ladies.

Most likely, these statues came with certificates of quality and extremely lewd letters, accompanied by perfume, handkerchiefs, and if the sender was particularly bold, underwear.

“Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?”

Kain answered with a forced smile, but quickly ducked his head. The walking stick barely grazed his head.

“Wh-what?!”

As expected, Francesco’s legs got tangled. If left alone, he would have crashed headfirst into the cabinet, and if slightly unlucky, the fine plaster statue on top would have fallen on him. So Kain grabbed the statue instead of Francesco. A sharp groan came from below.

“It’s been a while.”

Instead of an answer, a walking stick came flying. With a thud, Kain’s leg bent sharply, but he endured it with a bitter smile. It was a blow filled not with strength but with pure resentment. Eventually, Francesco threw down the walking stick.

“You traitor… why the hell did you crawl back now that everything’s over? Why? Did you come to spit on the rose garden?!”

“No.”

“Then why?!”

“I need your help.”

Dumbfounded, Francesco clutched at his chest. But Kain remained calm.

“I saved your life more than three times. You haven’t forgotten that, have you? Each time, you promised me. On the honor of a walking stick maker, you’d grant me one favor. Now is that time.”

“Back then, I didn’t know you were such a despicable bastard.” Francesco spat at Kain’s feet. “You let Beatrice die!”

Kain remained silent. Francesco grabbed Kain’s leg.

“How much more miserable do you need to bury us before you’re satisfied? The Dandolo family was exterminated. Not just the rose garden, but the entire mansion was completely destroyed! Not even a single foundation stone remains! Beatrice, our poor Beatrice doesn’t even have a grave! She was burned and scattered in the sea! Do you know what that means?”

Kain knew. It was the punishment for traitors. A judgment that wouldn’t allow even a span of land. A declaration that wouldn’t even give the bottom of the sea.

“Do you know what you did? Do you know what happened to Beatrice? Those fat pigs placed her body on the pyre, poured oil, and set it on fire! The officials died screaming as they burned on top!

Enrico, Paolo, Bianca! Some are still rowing in the bottom of galleys with their eyes gouged out. Some died stabbed in the streets, and others are waiting to die on the ship of fools! At least if she had lived, if she had remained well…”

“…You wouldn’t have had to bear the disgrace.”

Kain answered in a numb voice.

After six months of leave, when Kain returned to the Imperial Security Bureau, the first thing he did was assess the changes in the East. Sometimes secretly entering the archives, sometimes making dangerously close contact with the East, Kain was able to learn various circumstances.

The Dandolo family had fallen miserably, but the powers of Venelucia were not satisfied with that. They had no intention of leaving either the father’s faction or the daughter’s faction. And the most effective method, now as before, was to plot division.

They couldn’t punish all of Beatrice’s supporters. Every young person in Venelucia loved her. So the powers burned the important figures, sent those of slightly lower rank to the ship of fools, and left Francesco behind to provide consolation to the vast majority of people.

On paper, it was recorded that “the respected young walking stick maker was swept up in impulse, so there is great room for rehabilitation,” but the true intention was different.

If a walking stick maker who meets more diverse classes than anyone else in Venelucia and is the first to hear news, and who openly proclaimed support for Beatrice, was released while others were being burned at the stake, wouldn’t he look like a traitor to anyone?

“You ruined my life. You ruined Venelucia. Why did you come? Why the hell did you come here?”

Francesco groaned, covering his face with his hands. Kain hung his head. If he could have, he would have chosen any other option. But there was no other way.

Even as an Imperial Security Bureau agent, crossing borders at will is overstepping authority. It could harm other agents operating there.

Not just the Security Bureau but even the Royal Guard Bureau would take issue with this. Even the excuse of carrying out an imperial order wouldn’t work. Even the imperial family is extremely cautious when sending someone abroad.

Therefore, Kain couldn’t use Security Bureau resources or Royal Guard resources. In this completely hostile territory, he had no good way to approach Leonardo.

In the end, all he could use were his old comrades.

Eventually, the workshop door opened. Several men with rough expressions crowded in. Behind them, Francesco’s apprentice peeked her head out.

“Hey. Who are you?”

It was as Kain expected. Francesco couldn’t bring himself to identify Kain as a “Beatrice party member.” Already being criticized for surviving by betraying his comrades, he couldn’t openly say those words himself. Living with such humiliation was worse than being a concubine to powerful, wealthy, and lonely women.

When neither Kain nor Francesco said anything, the men looked at the apprentice.

“What’s going on?”

The apprentice was flustered. She had called them because her respected master and future lover was excited, but when both the stranger and her master remained silent, she didn’t know what to say.

“He’s a thief!”

Finally, she shouted whatever came to mind. The men, now convinced he was a bad guy, poured in. Kain grabbed Francesco’s walking stick.