Chapter 56. A Crayon Drawing Slid Between the Bars

Chapter 56: 56. A Crayon Drawing Slid Between the Bars

Eveline made it through the next hour without incident, which I’d have called a... miracle if I hadn’t seen what happened after.

We’d gone back to the dormitory to pack, and I was sitting on my bed trying to work out whether a man with cracked ribs could realistically fit a bedroll into a saddlebag when I heard a scuffle in the corridor outside, followed by a noise like somebody being strangled by a rope.

I was out of my chair so fast that I forgot I had ribs. ’Fucking hell... what now?!’

By the time I reached the door, the pain had already flattened me against the frame.

In the hall, Eveline was lying on her back, wheezing, with both hands clawing at her throat. A length of thin cord had wound itself around her neck in three tight loops, and the other end ran down to her waist, where it was tied to a small leather notebook.

"WHAT THE FUCK...?!"

She’d apparently looped the cord around her middle to keep the book from getting lost, and then, when she’d bent over to pick up a pair of socks she’d dropped, the cord had caught on her shoulder and slid up and pulled itself tight.

"EVELINE! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" I started toward her.

But... I’d barely taken a step when a shadow went past me.

Laura crossed the hall in three strides, drew a short knife from her belt, and sliced the cord with one clean stroke.

The loops fell away. And then Eveline sat bolt upright, gasping, with a red mark across her throat and a look of deep, personal betrayal.

"Gaagghhh...! Ahagghh... cough...! Thank... you," she croaked. "You really are my idol..."

"Don’t tie a notebook to your waist," said Laura, in a perfectly level voice.

"I thought it would be safer that way."

"It’s a rope... and can’t you see that rope tries to kill you?"

"I just wanted to avoid losing it again."

"You’ll avoid losing it by not dying."

"That seems fair."

Alicia had arrived, sensing the commotion the way she always did, and she was holding a canvas shoulder bag with a double buckle.

She knelt next to Eveline, clipped the notebook inside, fastened both clasps with two sharp clicks, and hung the strap over Eveline’s shoulder as if she were putting a collar on a puppy.

"There now," she said. "Two buckles... Nothing can fall out, and nothing can strangle you again."

"Whoa... This is wonderful," said Eveline, patting the bag. "Thank you, Lady Ainzfield!"

"Alicia. Please, no formalities around me."

"Thank you, Alicia!"

I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath, and thought about how many things in this world could kill a person and how this girl seemed determined to meet them all by hand.

What’s even worse is that... I thought she’s trying to commit! YES! FUCKING COMMIT!

But thank god it was just a misunderstanding from me, but my two girlfriends managed to handle this situation well enough. It’s different from me, who instantly thinks it’s the wrong way.

But still... is she somehow cursed with bad luck...? To the point that something could’ve killed her like that?!

Somewhere in the Royal Knight Order there had to be a rule book, and in that rule book, there ought to be one line, in very large letters, that said, ’Do Not Tie Your Notebook To Your Neck.’

But then Eveline opened the notebook again to check that the pages hadn’t been bent, and I got a glimpse of what was inside.

It wasn’t what I’d expected. I’d thought it would be a mess of doodles and spilled ink and half-finished sentences.

Instead, every page was packed with tiny, perfectly aligned handwriting, set out in neat columns.

There were lists of times, with the minutes marked.

There were sketches of wagons, with each wheel drawn separately and the colors of the cords labeled in the margin.

She’d counted the guards at the Greywater checkpoint and written down how many were on foot and how many were mounted.

In one corner, she’d even noted the direction the wind had been blowing.

"Eveline..." I said. "Can I see that?"

She went pink and held it out.

I turned a few pages just to read it carefully.

Six wagons, covered in gray canvas, tied with blue cord.

Eleven riders. Four of them with crossbows.

A rider at the front who wore a dark cloak with the hood up and who carried no weapon that she could see.

The crates had been stacked three high, with a red seal on the side, and there were twenty-two of them in all.

"This is incredible," I said.

"It’s just notes."

"It’s the most complete witness report I’ve ever seen... You wrote down the number of crates." I looked at her. "Who does that?"

"I count things when I’m nervous," she said, very quietly. "And I was very nervous..."

"You noticed all of it... and you didn’t know any of it was important."

"I’m still very sorry that I forgot to report it..."

"Hey." I closed the notebook gently and handed it back. "You’ve got a better head for details than anyone I’ve ever met."

"You’re not clumsy because you’re careless... You’re clumsy because you carry things badly." I tried to comfort her with everything I can. "And you should know that’s a very different problem."

Her ears flopped over her face. "Please stop... I’m going to cry."

"W-what?! Wait a minute...! That’s not my intent!"

"You’re being too nice to me, Roland."

"I like it being accurate."

"That’s worse!"

Laura, who had been watching with her arms crossed, let a faint smile slip, and I realized that she’d noticed the same thing I had.

Eveline couldn’t take a compliment any better than I could, and in some small, ridiculous way, that felt like a kind of kinship.

...

I went to see Garrick the next morning, and I took the long way... because I wanted time to think.

The garrison’s cells were in the lower level of the east tower, down a spiral staircase that smelled of damp stone and old iron.

A guard unlocked the heavy door for me without a word, and I stepped into a narrow corridor lined with empty cages.

At the far end... a lantern hung from a hook, and under it... sitting on a narrow bench with his back against the wall, was Garrick Voss.

He looked smaller. That was the first thing I noticed.

In the plaza he’d seemed enormous, a scarred, gray giant with a red crystal glowing in his chest and a sword that shook the street.

But now... he sat in a plain gray shirt with his wrists bound in heavy iron cuffs, the kind with runes carved into the metal to dampen Aether, and his shoulders were hunched under the weight of them.

Below the open collar, I could see the pale, puckered circle where the crystal had been torn out, and the skin around it was still raw.

He looked up when I came in. His eyes were flat and tired.

"Well, well, well... who would’ve thought of all the knights here... you are the one who wanted to meet me in this shit fucking hole," he said. "And what’s even your purpose anyway...? Come to gloat?"

"No."

"Come to interrogate me, then, huh? I’ve told the others, and... I have fucking nothing to say."

"Two times wrong. I’m not here to interrogate you either."

I didn’t know exactly why I’d come.

I’d been awake half the night turning it over, and in the end the only thing I’d been sure of was that I couldn’t walk past that cell and leave without trying.

I had a small folded piece of paper in my pocket. Hallis had given it to me that morning, along with a very strange look.

I sat down on the stone floor, outside the bars, with my back against the opposite wall and my legs stretched out in front of me.

It hurt my ribs, but... I did it anyway.

"What the hell are you doing...?" Garrick asked.

"Why’d you think that? Sitting, of course, and not shitting?" I sighed. "It’s been a long week."

"You’re a... very odd man."

"Heh. I get that a lot." I took the paper out and unfolded it carefully. "A woman came to the garrison gate yesterday."

"She had a little girl with her, about six years old... The girl wouldn’t leave until someone promised to deliver this."

I held it up between the bars, so he could see.

It was a crayon drawing, done on the back of a grocery list.

A big red figure stood in the middle, with huge shoulders and a lopsided star scribbled on his chest.

His arms were raised over his head, and he was holding up a thick brown beam that stretched across the top of the page.

Underneath the beam, there was a very small stick figure with yellow hair and a round, smiling face. It was crouched with its arms over its head.

At the top of the paper, in huge, uneven letters that had clearly been written by someone who was very proud of the effort, were the words:

’THANK YOU, MR. RED.’