Renaud de Guiscard
A black sedan pulled into the front of the Golden Plaza Sako Hotel. Nobody paid much attention to it: the four star hotel was one of the most expensive in the region, and as small as Sako was, it had a regular influx of wealthy businessmen and government officials who were not shy in their ostentatiousness. Of course, that the young man that stepped out was a foreigner solicited some curious glances, but even Sako had its international business. And dressed as he was in a black suit and sunglasses, he mixed right in with the crowd in the lobby. He was followed by an older man and woman, equally well dressed. The former pushed a trolley with suitcases and bags; the later carried only a slender black briefcase.
The receptionist, it can be imagined, was a bit perplexed to find himself having to deal with a trio of westerners.
Just my luck, he thought, annoyed. He occasionally had to deal with foreign visitors, of course, but they usually had interpreters with them. There was nothing to do about it: he would have to rely on what little he remembered of his high school english classes. As he started stammering, though, the young man leaned onto the desk. He took off his glasses, and just looked at the receptionist with bored green eyes. And spoke in perfect Japanese, albeit with a strange accent.
"You're going to want to get your manager."
* * * * * *
"Sir, you don't understand. There's just no room."
In a large and meticulously ordered office, an old man sighed and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. He'd worked his entire life for the company, and managed to become the manager of the Sako hotel branch through fanatical adherence to company policy and a deep well of patience. But even that well was running dry right now. He was already up to his eyeballs in dealing with the conference visitors, he didn't need to deal with a foreign rich kid who didn't understand how a reservation worked. "There's... there's absolutely no room. Zero. Nothing. We're completely booked with the International Apiculture Development Conference, there are no rooms that I could offer you
even if I wanted to."
The kid in front of him was just leaning back, fingers steepled, completely expressionless, looking at him as if he were an infant having a tantrum. "So make room," he said quietly.
"Make-" The manager blinked in disbelief at the spoiled brat's arrogance. "Look, there's a Golden Plaza in Oga that's more sizable, you might have better luck there. Or you can find another hotel in Sako. I'm sorry, sir, but there's nothing more I can do for you, I'm very busy and have other business to get to. Maybe try reserving in advance next time."
"I apologize, I must not have made clear who I am. I'm Renaud de Gusicard, heir of the Maison de Guiscard."
"I don't know who that is, and frankly I don't care."
"You should, you fool," Renaud snapped icily. "You see this watch? It's a Verriac, artisan crafted, one of a kind. It's worth ten times the car I rode here. I own it because my family is the oldest and wealthiest house west of the Rhine." He glanced back. "Louise! Sortez-le, l'ignorant mérite un lesson d'histoire."
One of the two figures behind him, a dark-skinned woman in her fourties, stepped forward, snapping open the briefcase as she did. The manager's objection was cut off with a gasp as he took in the sight of a beautiful golden scepter crowned with a double headed eagle spreading its wings. It seemed to glow. Or was everything else darkening in its presence?
Renaud leaned back and pulled it out of its case, and held it over the desk with both hands. "This is the Scepter of Chartres. Forged by an ancestor of mine, Lucbald de Chartres. Priceless, beyond what you can even comprehend. It's been passed down, uninterrupted, in my family for a thousand years. It was carried by the Guiscards who advised Capetians, Valois, Bourbon, and, occasionally, Plantagenets. If I were mad enough to sell it, I could buy your entire pathetic chain and tear this hotel down. I own it - or rather, my family owns it - because we are the among most distinguished and prestigious lines of Europe."
He gripped the scepter, feeling his mana feed into the mystic code as he stared, unblinking, in the old man's eyes. "So, when I tell you to make room, it's because it's an incredible honour for you to have me staying in this... fine establishment. Unless the prestige of having accommodate someone of my caliber does not interest you, or your superiors?"
The manager simply stared, mouth agape, unable to form a coherent reply for several long moments, his eyes unfocused. Suddenly, he shook himself off. "Yes, of course, I apologize. I wasn't in my right mind." His voice was faltering, almost dazed. "I'll find something. We can maybe... maybe get one of the guests a room in another local hotel, and pay for it as compensation."
"See that you do," Renaud said simply as he got up from the chair, putting his glasses back on. He took a moment to admire the scepter again, a faint smile coming to his lips, before placing it gently back in its case. Louise clamped the case shut.
* * * * * *
"What now, sir?" Maxime asked.
Renaud glanced at the two from the other end of the large suite they had been granted. It wasn't up to his usual standards, but he had to admit, for a small city it wasn't terrible. Three bedrooms, a lounge, a small kitchen, and all in western style. It could certainly have been worse.
"Well, now I do my part," he said casually. "We were fortuitous with the number of rooms, I'd say: One for you two, one for me, and another for... well, for my business. You can see the sights - what sights there are in a place like this, anyway - or go get something to eat, or whatever suits your fancy. I'm not planning on going anywhere. The rest of my day will be a bit tiring, and after all that travelling the last thing I want is another drive anyway."
Louise smiled. "That sounds perfect, sir. Maxime and I are going to check out a restaurant we heard about here, apparently it-"
"I really don't need to know the details," Renaud interrupted. He waved dismissively from the couch. "Go, have fun. While we still can."
It didn't do to be too close to servants, he reflected when he was left alone. That goes for aristocrats, and doubly so for magi. He knew the couple's names, their duties - to, as needed, cook, clean, and drive him as he pursued his war unimpeded by mundane matters - and that's about all he needed to know. They were paid, of course: while some mages used magic to control the minds of their subordinates, the Guiscards had long found that to be a crude and unreliable art. The human brain, faced with magical control, tends to resist, which always seems to cause incidents at the worse possible times. The Scepter was symbolic of his family's wisdom and mastery: instead of dominating the mind, true power came from suggestions, subtle and reasonable. Give the mind an idea, empower it with magic, trick it into thinking it had come up with it... that was true control.
Not that they were controlled that way either. As his mother was fond of saying: frankly, money ensures the loyalty of the common rabble far more reliably than any magic could.
Still, while after long service they were trusted to be blind and mute, Renaud found their presence inconvenient. The less involved they were with the Holy Grail War, the better. This was his war, and he wasn't so heartless as to want to see them caught up in it any more than necessary. A true mage of his caliber fights their battles alone. La noblesse oblige, after all.
He got up with a heavy sigh. No point in delaying. It was time.
* * * * * *
He had, in the end, needed to make some alterations to the third room. The bed, to his incredible annoyance, took up far too much of the room, and he had to spend half an hour dragging it out of the room's too-small door, cursing himself for telling Louise and Maxime to leave as he did so. But he eventually managed to get it into the lobby, his first victory in this holy grail war.
The floor space freed, he was able to begin drawing the summoning circle, using materials he had brought in all that luggage. This was not as difficult as he had feared, no doubt in part because he had practised this very ritual for two decades now. He did catch his hand shaking as he started:
What's wrong with me?, he wondered.
I'm... excited. Yes, excited. His entire life had been endless, brutal, agonizing training for this war. This was the culmination of his existence, his entire
raison d'être. He couldn't be blamed for being a bit excited for that.
"Foolish boy," he could imagine his mother snear in his head. "Of course you can be blamed for that. Your incompetent hand will ruin the ritual. Control yourself. Your duty to your name is more important than your sentimentality."
"Careful now," he muttered to himself as he drew the lines. He did not make any errors, to his relief. His hand might be shaky, but years of drills guided him.
I think that's it. It's done. Everything was ready. All he needed now was...
He pulled a small box out of a coat pocket, and opened it. He pulled out its content: A small scrap of paper, ancient, lined with faded kanji characters. This was it, the catalyst that he'd been given. With this, he could summon...
"This servant is ideal for our cause," his grandfather, his voice frail from disease, had told him. "Summoned to her native land, her abilities will be all the more considerable. Of those masters we know in this war, none have a native catalyst such as this: in this way, with luck, we will be in an advantaged position."
"And also," his mother had interjected, "What we know of her legend indicates that she is, among servants, most likely to be attuned to our own desires. A servant who understands the importance of honour, of duty, of
family... unity in purpose will lead you to victory more surely than pure power ever could."
Yes. That was all true. But in spite of all that - or perhaps because of it? - he felt nervous looking at this scrap of paper. He was about to summon a being on a level of existence far, almost incomprehensibly, beyond his own. One who was nearly the embodiment of his family's ideals. In a sense, his lifetime of effort and training was about to be put judgment. He silently prayed his power and strength of will would not be found wanting.
For the Maison de Guiscard.
He knelt to the circle. "Fill, fill fill...."
