Chapter 72: The Rooster’s Egg
Ravian woke the next day to faint threads of sunlight slipping through the gaps between the wooden boards covering the window and falling directly across his eyes.
He sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes as he yawned.
’It’s been a long time since I slept that deeply... I really needed it.’
He rose from the bed and headed for the basin, washing his face with water that wasn’t particularly clean but served its purpose for now.
Once he had finished getting ready, he wrapped the dark piece of cloth around his hair and neck, opened the door, and headed down to the ground floor to leave the inn.
He passed the same heavyset, gray-haired woman who had been there when he arrived the night before.
"You certainly slept in," the woman said, letting her gaze linger on his crimson eyes.
"Do you have a limit on sleeping hours here?"
"Tsk, tsk. Young people these days... I was only joking with you."
"And who said I wasn’t joking too?" Ravian asked with a smile.
"Such heavy humor. I’m truly impressed." The woman rolled her eyes.
"For you, of all people, to call anything heavy—now that’s what impresses me."
The woman looked down at her body before slowly raising her eyes to him again.
"You! You shameless brat!"
"Oops!"
Ravian dashed out of the inn as the woman started around the desk toward him, the small knife she had been using to peel an apple still clutched in her hand.
’Phew. Women really can’t take a joke.’
Ravian slipped into one of the alleys, then leaped onto the rooftops again, just as he had the night before, without anyone seeing him.
He ran across the buildings, drawing closer to the district inhabited by the nobles and the obscenely wealthy—specifically Maurice Street, the one Shmichael had mentioned before.
But wasn’t that dangerous, given that Robert knew he was headed there?
So what?
’I can hand him my every movement if he likes. In the end, he’ll only ever know what I want him to know.’
Ravian didn’t stop until he noticed that the gaps between the buildings were growing wider and wider. The jumps became far more difficult than they had been in the middle-class and upper-middle-class districts because the nobles’ mansions were surrounded by sprawling gardens and walls that separated them from one another.
Thus, he finally decided to descend to the street.
He waited until a horse-drawn passenger carriage passed by, then signaled for the driver to stop.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"Maurice Street."
"That’s a long street. Which building?" the driver asked, looking mildly surprised.
"Number one hundred and thirty-eight. Earl Patrick Viola’s mansion."
The driver’s eyes widened as he looked Ravian up and down, his gaze lingering on the cloth concealing his hair and the clothes that weren’t exactly suited for visiting an earl’s mansion.
Before he could ask a single question, however, Ravian placed a silver coin in his hand.
The driver’s expression changed at once.
"Get in."
’Damn, I don’t have many coins left,’ Ravian thought, shaking the leather pouch in his hand and hearing only a faint rattle.
Ravian settled into the carriage, and it set off toward the nobles’ quarter.
The capital had fully regained its bustle. The streets filled with carriages, laborers, and merchants; shops and cafés opened their doors, while city guard patrols spread across the main intersections.
Ravian observed it all through the carriage window.
He spotted no one following him, but he didn’t assume Robert had given up on watching him simply because his two men had failed the night before.
On the contrary, it was all but certain that someone was already waiting near the Viola mansion.
’I hope things go smoothly—at least until I officially reach the Ninth Rank.’
After nearly half an hour and several turns, the carriage entered Maurice Street.
The residences here were true mansions, separated by vast gardens and high stone walls. Even the road itself was cleaner and wider than the surrounding streets, while the trees lining either side had been trimmed with almost identical precision.
The carriage stopped before a large mansion surrounded by a sprawling garden and a stone wall, with a black iron gate set at its center.
"One hundred and thirty-eight," the driver said.
Ravian stepped down, then unwrapped the cloth from around his head and neck before advancing toward the enormous gate.
’This goes far beyond ordinary wealth... What in the Creator’s name does that earl do for a living?’
Ravian frowned as he studied the mansion, which was larger than any he had ever seen.
Before he could take another step—
Two guards blocked his path. Both wore medium-weight metal armor that offered a reasonable range of movement, though at the cost of some agility.
"Halt. State your name and the reason for your visit."
"Rayan Veyr. I have an appointment with the earl, following an invitation from Shmichael."
The two guards exchanged a quick glance.
"Is he expecting you?"
"Supposedly." Ravian paused before adding, "And the password is ’the rooster’s egg.’"
One guard’s expression changed strangely, while the other coughed in an attempt to hide his smile.
"Wait here," said the one who had coughed before heading toward the mansion.
Only a few minutes passed before he returned with Shmichael.
The elderly servant wore dark formal clothes and walked with a calm, upright bearing that didn’t match his age.
His eyes settled on Ravian, then moved toward the piece of cloth in his hand.
"You’ve come at last, Mr. Rayan," Shmichael said with a refined smile.
"Am I late?" Ravian returned the smile.
"We were expecting you a little earlier."
"I was busy trying not to get arrested," Ravian said abruptly, the look in his eyes remaining unchanged.
Shmichael fell silent, his eyes widening ever so slightly.
"What did you do?"
"Come on, man—is that really the first question that comes to mind? Couldn’t I simply be innocent?"
’Do I look like a born criminal or something?’
Shmichael stared at him for a few seconds.
"You said you were trying not to get arrested."
"A small misunderstanding. Nothing worth discussing at the gate." Ravian glanced toward the guards before looking back at him. "Or has our appointment been canceled?"
The answer didn’t appear to put Shmichael at ease, but he signaled for the guards to open the gate.
"Please come in. Earl Patrick is waiting for you," Shmichael said, motioning for Ravian to walk beside him.
Ravian entered with him, and the two followed a long stone path that cut through the garden and led toward the mansion.
"Did you tell him about the project?" Ravian asked.
"You didn’t tell me much to begin with. I gave him only the general outline. He wanted to hear the details from you personally before making his final decision."
"And the heart?" Ravian asked, turning toward Shmichael.
"We’ve obtained it," Shmichael replied without the slightest hesitation.
"Faster than I expected," Ravian said, careful not to let the delight he felt show on his face.
"When Earl Patrick gives a direct order, a great many things move quickly."
’Why do I get the feeling this earl wields more influence than my master, even though my master is a Marquis—a rank above an Earl?’
It seemed aristocratic rank wasn’t the only measure of influence after all.
The two finally entered the mansion.
The interior was every bit as spacious as Ravian had expected. Grand chandeliers glowed overhead, their light reflecting faintly off the polished marble mosaic floor.
Directly ahead stood a red-carpeted staircase leading to the upper floor, flanked by marble statues of knights astride their steeds.
Larette was waiting for them in the entrance hall. The moment she saw Ravian, she approached him with quick steps.
"You actually came!" Larette said, smiling warmly.
"Of course. You have something I need, after all—don’t you?" Ravian replied.
"Is that the only reason you came?" Larette asked, staring at him.
"Of course," Ravian answered simply.
Larette narrowed her eyes in mild annoyance.
"You’re far too blunt," she said, tapping her heel against the mansion’s tiled floor.
"I consider that a good trait," Ravian replied.
"Not always," Larette answered without hesitation.
"Mr. Rayan, it would be best not to keep the earl waiting any longer," Shmichael interjected before another argument could begin between them.
The two led him through several corridors until they reached a spacious room that served as a private study. Larette kept stealing glances at Ravian along the way, though his gaze remained fixed ahead as he organized his thoughts for the presentation he was about to make before the earl.
Behind the desk sat a man in late middle age, dressed in elegant noble attire without excessive ornamentation. His blond hair was streaked with gray, while his dark-blue eyes—the same shade as Larette’s—held a steady, penetrating gaze. His back remained straight, and his composed bearing made Ravian understand at once why he was considered one of the most influential politicians in the capital.
This was Earl Patrick Viola.
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