Side Story 3) Gold coins. Transactions. Successful.
“Is that all?”
Baron Valois glanced into the pouch and spoke. At the openly dismissive remark, Count Chase’s expression stiffened, bristling.
“And just how impressive is it that you prepared, Baron?”
At Count Chase’s question, Baron Valois rubbed his rat-tail mustache between his fingers and gave a proud ahem, clearing his throat. Then he slipped a hand into his sleeve and drew out a pouch.
When Count Chase peered into the slowly opened pouch, he coughed once before saying,
“You went a bit… overboard.”
He spoke in a voice that all but shrank back. At the Count’s clear sign of defeat, Baron Valois merely shrugged his shoulders as if it were nothing worth mentioning.
It was nearly time for the morning meeting.
The nobles, worried they might be faulted for even the smallest misstep, always gathered in the conference hall at least thirty minutes early. While waiting for the Crown Prince, they usually passed the time exchanging pleasantries with those they were close to. Of course, those “pleasantries” were nothing but political talk through and through.
But these days, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Every noble seated in the chamber pulled out a pouch, busily showing it to others and boasting. They compared who had brought something better, flaunting their own while probing the contents of their counterparts.
The contents of the pouches were mostly similar. Bright yellow gold coins, gemstones, small pieces of jewelry—those made up the bulk of them. There were slight differences in proportion and value, but in the end, they were all the same in that they consisted of gold and jewels.
“Who do you think it’ll be today?”
Count Chase asked in a lowered voice. Yet despite speaking quietly, the attention of everyone in the room snapped toward him at once.
Complex signals flew back and forth. The glances exchanged between subtly competing factions were nothing short of a silent war. It was in the middle of that tense, wordless standoff—
Ahem.
From one side came a deliberately exaggerated clearing of the throat.
The nobles shot irritated looks in that direction, only to flinch in surprise when they recognized the face and instantly pretended they hadn’t noticed a thing. Duke Licht, surveying the way everyone carefully averted their gazes, let out another loud ahem, khe-hem, making his displeasure abundantly clear.
“He must’ve brought the biggest pouch again today.”
Count Chase whispered. Baron Valois gave a small nod, casting an openly sour look toward Duke Licht.
So, who would be chosen?
During every morning meeting, that question kept everyone on edge.
To be honest, no one was truly happy about being chosen. It was the same for all of them. When the black cat cherished by the Crown Prince came down to brush against their calves with a soft tap, tap, from that very moment, such terrifying killing intent and icy pressure poured down that their entire bodies would tremble uncontrollably. They would be forced to empty everything they had as quickly as possible and offer it up to the cat, desperate to escape the Crown Prince’s gaze even a second sooner. Delay for too long, and it felt as if they might suffer a heart attack on the spot.
And yet, strangely enough, despite that fear, they still wanted to see it—the cat sitting at their feet and staring up with wide, unblinking eyes; the front paw lightly tapping their calf; the way it accepted what was offered with its small snout and bit down. On top of that, there was no denying the ulterior motive of trying to curry favor with the Crown Prince by slipping a bribe to the cat he adored so dearly.
In any case, what had begun one day without warning had now become so routine that it escalated into a full-blown battle of wits. Everyone wracked their brains, wondering how they might be the one to give their offering.
What the cat wanted was clear.
It always wanted gold coins and jewels. There had been times when people brought toys that a cat might like and offered them instead. The cat would glance at them once, then dramatically swat them away with its front paw. After that, such attempts disappeared entirely.
If what it accepted was limited, then the key was to choose the best possible item within those limits. Based on experience so far, the cat preferred finely crafted pieces over jewels that were simply large. In particular, if the workmanship, color, and size of a gem suited its taste perfectly, one might even see it hanging around the cat’s neck within a few days.
If it liked something enough to wear it, that meant it had undoubtedly pleased the Crown Prince as well. When that happened, the one who had given it would sit through the entire morning meeting with their shoulders thrown back, preening and posturing toward the other nobles.
“His Highness the Crown Prince arrives.”
A servant entered and announced loudly.
Everyone rose from their seats to watch the Crown Prince enter. And beside him, head held high, padding in with light, elegant steps, was the cat.
When the Crown Prince took his seat, the cat sprang up onto his lap. It then poked its black head over the table and slowly swept its gaze across the nobles, its eyes sharp and piercing. Of course, the nobles found even that piercing stare rather adorable.
The meeting began.
The nobles busied their mouths, exchanging agenda items and engaging in subtle power struggles. Yet they all shared one thing in common: one hand remained beneath the table, fingers fidgeting with a pouch. And when the cat’s face, which had been peeking over the table, finally disappeared, those movements grew even more frantic.
Above the table, the meeting proceeded in earnest, but below it, hands moved in restless agitation. The Crown Prince’s notoriously picky cat openly disliked people thrusting their pouches toward it. It always preferred to approach first and demand a pouch itself. And so the nobles kneaded the pouches in their hands, waiting and waiting for the moment it would tap their calves.
Who would it be? Just who?
The nobles scanned those seated around the table, carefully reading the room.
Then, after a long while of mutual observation, one noble suddenly flinched. The others noticed at once, and their gazes converged on him.
The Crown Prince began to glare murderously at the noble chosen by the cat. The noble, his face drained of color, forced an awkward smile. The way he glanced beneath the table made it clear he had just put the pouch into the cat’s mouth.
A faint sound of something being dragged echoed through the room.
A pouch filled with gold coins and jewelry scraping across the marble floor was bound to make noise. Each time it stopped and started again, the sounds—clatter, screeech—scrape—rang out vividly.
The amusing thing was that even though everyone knew exactly what was happening, not a single person let on that they had noticed. Instinctively, they all understood this one truth: the Crown Prince’s cat, which rifled through noble pouches day after day, must never be allowed to realize that anyone was aware of it.
The dragging sound stopped when it reached the Crown Prince.
As if nothing had happened, the Crown Prince’s oppressive aura softened, and relief mixed with disappointment surfaced on the nobles’ faces. Having achieved its goal for the day, the cat leapt back onto the Crown Prince’s lap, then once again peeked its head over the table.
The nobles tucked the pouches they had been clutching back into their clothes and, with lingering regret, resolved to try again next time.
