Глава 12

So this time it's Iberia.

Patience, Banshee. These were the most unforgettable days for me.

I thought you wouldn't like it there.

I certainly didn't like Iberia before that disaster. All that self-aggrandizing, all so self-obsessed. I was through with it.

They didn't understand fear.

Whereupon that disaster satisfied you?

I'm not some twisted psychopath like Old Red-Eye is. The disaster itself was nothing unordinary. When has the land ever been short of disaster?

But those creatures fascinated me.

I've only heard rumors. If I'll be honest, those things duly disturb me.

They are too removed from us.

Then how removed do you consider me from you, Banshee?

You should know, no matter what aspect I take, none of it is the real me.

Originium leaves an irrefutable brand upon all. It has you walk in the forms you do upon this terra firma.

But the one thing it forgot was the Damazti.

Only we still preserve our firstborn form.

Are you proud of your purity?

No, no. With this world in the state it is, what does purity even mean anymore?

I can only chase after the changes it brings. I can only chase after you. Chase all you create.

Every manner of means possible I used. I found in Iberia a wasted town. I moved in there.

We moved in there.

We made that town run anew. Work, communication, trade, traffic...

Two hundred mes made up one small town.

I can't say whether you're lucky or unlucky not to have fallen into insanity yet.

Hah. Who knows.

In any case, the time I spent there left a deep impression on me. With so much to manage, I was drowning every day in it.

It gave me the false sense... that we lived meaningfully.

But weariness came in the end, as it always does. Giving my undivided attention to the trivial was very amusing, but even summed all together, it still could not give me the answer I was seeking.

Until I found them. I heard some call the things 'Seaborn.'

I observed them for a very long time.

They reminded you of yourself.

No. In terms of unity, we far surpass the Seaborn and their many.

No matter how many appearances we divide into, we are in the end a whole, while the Seaborn have only the choice of joining with the many.

But, you know what? I envy them.

They need nothing more than to heed their instincts.

Find food, find nutrients, multiply, evolve.

Perhaps that word you slung just now, 'purity,' should be falling on them.

While I... I remain where I was, watching it all, watching those variegated little beings assimilate a swathe of seagrass with them.

They think nothing. They do what they're meant to do.

And what of us? What are our instincts? And what are we meant to do?

Banshee, can you give us any suggestions?

Are you laughing?

Apologies, Damazti. I am not mocking you, by far.

They who could proclaim themselves the oldest King of the Royal Court, Their Majesties the Damazti, are simply looking for the meaning of their life.

It's a very important thing, of course it is. I just never would've thought, that standing before me... was a wayward philosopher.

Would you ever guess the years I've spent a professor of philosophy at Victoria's universities?

To you, seeking meaning is easy. Excluding the least minority of existences, life can always be considered brief.

You find a goal for yourself, to stuff the days full with so that it isn't so tough.

But we cannot do that.

From your suggestions to Theresis's future, none of it holds our interest.

To us, it is no more than passing the time.

Why do we hold affection for these things that pass in the blink of an eye?

We've exhausted practically every possibility, and practically every delight too.

I'm beginning to pity you, Damazti.

You've found out we're just some old decrepit nothing gets to anymore, no matter how loud you shout it.

Not many know this secret.

A few friends of mine taught me this silly game...

No, never mind.

Go on, Banshee. We're more interested than you suppose.

But—you may have to wait a moment. Some bothersome work has come a-knocking.

Not here, that is, but I'm afraid we'll need to divert a little attention.

What do you mean... not there?

I mean it's not there, for god's sakes!

The comms post isn't there! There's nothing there! Someone's made off with it!

Was it the Dublinn forces?

Afraid it was long before that. Judging from how thick the dust was, someone must've been eyeing it when Norport was just setting course away from Londinium.

The Redsteel Guard captain would never genuinely be fooled by us. He'd be very quick to realize the projected message was never sent.

But at the very least, we're back at the same starting line. We have a renewed opportunity to go for the gold.

First there was you for the Duke of Caster, now there's Dublinn's spectre force...

You've all secretly infiltrated to get onto this plate, which means, you want to keep up Norport's surface appearances.

Without any way to force the dukes' main armies into mobilizing, our plan's dead in the water.

Never try that excuse again, Delphine.

As long as your duke mother learns you're still here, she'll find some way to save you, won't she.

I can't guarantee...

Admitting you get along with your mother is nothing to be ashamed of.

Do you have an idea, Ines?

What a pain in the ass.

Looks like you can do it.

...I really hate that part of you.

But alright. I can try.

I need high elevation. Don't get your hopes up.

Miss Ines, how much time will your idea need?

Until sunup.

Tell Siege and her city friends to get ready.

May I wish you all godspeed, and I look forward to you choosing the Sunset Street Hotel again.

I've spent some wonderful times here, and gotten to know some very fine people.

Norport is a lovely, thriving place. Don't let it be reduced to memories and rubble like this.

We promise, sir.

There'll come an end to the conspiracy and dispute.

There's... a person I truly, truly miss, who once told me...

That perhaps, one day... everyone on this vast land can fall into peaceful slumber.

*sigh* There's a back-breaker. This hotel's even messier than it was before.

People who don't do their own cleaning never know how difficult it is to maintain a bit of order.

Percival! Percival!

Where's she run off to now...

Fine, go and leave this old codger by himself for a bit.

The age-riddled hotel owner finds an equally age-riddled armchair, and opts to find a comfortable position before sitting down.

So that... Cautus girl, she's the King of Sarkaz?

It's getting harder and harder to keep up with all this change. Even I'm a little shocked by it.

Change... change. Maybe I've been slacking on that sort of change myself.

Change isn't progress, after all.