After listening to Vito's "little horror story," Tiberius didn't turn pale or look horrified. He simply nodded, completely calm.
"The foundation of honor is making sure anyone who breaks their word pays a price they can't afford. If my uncle couldn't do that, he wouldn't be captain of the White Company."
"Looks like Lord Lysandro's clerks only clipped a few edges instead of paying us in half-cast garbage. They probably still remember what happened to that other family. It's one of those… unspoken rules. They take their little cut, but they don't cross the line. Otherwise Lysandro would throw them into the sea himself—no need for us to lift a finger."
"As for House Haen… to them a second daughter isn't worth as much as Lysandro's favorite, Seraphys. I bet my uncle just turned a blind eye to the half-cast coins and tiny pieces. They still gave us a dye workshop—small, but it lays golden eggs. Long-term it's probably worth more than the shortfall in coin. Plus a few thousand bolts of cotton and a thousand silver rings." Tiberius paused, making a face that said this is painful. "Though those rings… the craftsmanship and purity are… let's just say they feel like warehouse clearance. Probably apprentice work."
Vito stared at him, then broke into a wide, approving grin. "Kid! You really were born for this sellsword life. Head clearer than a mirror, heart harder than stone. You Mord men really are cut from the same ruthless cloth!"
Tiberius's cheek twitched for half a second like he wanted to argue, but he just pressed his lips together and let the comment slide.
"But!" Tiberius raised his voice, clearly annoyed. "Giving us coin of this quality? House Haen has some nerve. They're one of the biggest names in Lys and they still play so cheap!"
---
"…Yes, after Lord Lysandro drained the last cup of wine, something suddenly clicked in his mind—like divine inspiration had struck! Everything became clear in an instant!"
Inside a large tent pitched at the edge of the White Company camp, the atmosphere was lively and loud.
Seven or eight storytellers, bards, and dockside rumor-mongers that Vito had rounded up sat crammed together. Their clothes ranged from decent (one successful-looking bard even had a silk cloak and a little gilded chain) to downright shabby, reeking of cheap perfume, sweat, and cheap wine. They were packed shoulder-to-shoulder like pickled vegetables in a barrel.
"These bandits only targeted certain victims! For example, his beloved daughter Seraphys had that classic silver-gold hair—and so did most of the girls who had vanished before!"
"So, 'Lightning' Tiberius… my lord." The bard clearly had trouble calling a twelve-year-old "my lord," but he forced it out.
"What happened next? How does the story end?"
Jules watched the eager faces of the storytellers and felt a fresh wave of admiration for his nephew.
Tiberius's expression was one of deep respect and emotion, his eyes even turning slightly red. "Lord Lysandro took my hand, tears in his eyes, and said, 'Little Tiberius, my daughter Seraphys is missing—perhaps already dead. If I send someone else's daughter as bait and something goes wrong… whose daughter isn't someone's daughter?'…"
The moment the bards and storytellers heard that, Lord Lysandro's usual shrewd, calculating face in their minds suddenly gained a golden halo of sainthood.
This kid… is a natural-born storyteller, Vito thought.
In Tiberius's version, every time Lysandro made progress, a new, nobler "moral dilemma" or "harsh reality" appeared, painting him as a tortured saint torn between love and duty, private grief and public justice—never as the cold, calculating politician he actually was.
And the best part…
"Cough. That's the end of the third segment." Tiberius took a sip of orange-peel water, his throat raw after talking for nearly three hours straight. "From now on, no matter how the audience begs, you stop right there. Put down your instruments, step off the stage, ask for a cup of beer, and before you leave, use your most teasing voice and say: 'If you want to know how Lord Lysandro solved this impossible dilemma and caught the villains, stay tuned for the next chapter!'"
Vito was dying to hear what came next. The kid was a genius at leaving people hanging.
"Alright, everyone. For the next parts—how to make the stories more addictive, more street-level—I'll leave that to Uncle Vito." Tiberius handed each man a few silver coins.
The second the silver touched their palms, every eye in the tent lit up with sudden "loyalty."
"Writing fees," Tiberius said, patting their shoulders. "You've all worked hard. Lord Lysandro won't let you suffer."
"Oh, and remember—meet here again in one week. I'll have the next part ready, and I want to hear how the audiences reacted."
Throughout the whole meeting Lysaro Rogare had looked visibly uncomfortable. Every few minutes he wrinkled his nose at someone's body odor or leaned away when a storyteller got too excited and sprayed spit.
After all, these were commoners. Expecting them to bathe daily, brush their teeth, and speak elegantly was asking for the moon.
Yet he stayed until the end, enduring it all.
To him, these raw, bloody, real-feeling stories were far more exciting than the flowery poetry and polite gossip he usually heard at banquets.
And this was a story about his father. He had to hear it through to the end.
---
Chapter 31: The Cultural Offensive (2)
"Tiberius, what the hell is inside that head of yours?" Lysaro sprayed a little perfume on his robe, then looked at Tiberius with open admiration. "Can you at least give me a spoiler? Please! I really want to know what happens next."
"You want the next part?" Tiberius smiled at him. "Easy. Just… recommend the story. I mean—Lysaro."
"Tiberius, this story…" Lysaro searched for the right words, face twisted. "To be honest… it doesn't really match the father I've known since I was a kid, or the version he told me about what happened."
He remembered his father's usual calculating eyes, the impatience and coldness that sometimes flashed when someone got in his way.
It was hard to square that with the saintly figure in Tiberius's tale, glowing with moral struggle and human warmth.
Tiberius didn't look embarrassed at all. He just blinked his big, "innocent" eyes like Lysaro had said something trivial.
"Cough." He leaned in, voice light as if discussing the weather. "Lysaro, whether the story is true doesn't matter. What matters is whether the story is useful to us!"
"And," Tiberius leaned even closer, voice almost a whisper, sly and utterly confident, "the person who will stand on stage and tell this 'wonderful story' to more people will be you, not me. In fact, when it comes to the outside world, the person who 'created' these stories will also be you, not me."
Lysaro's eyes flew wide. His mouth opened and closed. His face screamed are you joking?
"Wait, Tiberius. I can write poetry and essays pretty well, but something this dramatic and twisty? I can't… Besides, this is your creation…"
Tiberius sighed, put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him straight in the eye with calm certainty far beyond his twelve years.
"Let me ask you, Lysaro—can I read and write?"
"No," Lysaro admitted. "You can barely sign your own name."
"Right. So do you think a half-illiterate sellsword kid would write a story this… dramatic? In other words, if I claimed I wrote it, would anyone believe me? Wouldn't the people who envy your father or hate us use it to attack the story as fake and question the White Company's achievements? I'd have to waste time arguing with scholars, poets, and novelists. I'm a mercenary. I have to go fight Volantis with real steel. I don't have time for word wars."
"Plus," Tiberius said firmly, "letting you be the author is good for you and House Rogare—only good, no downside. Think about it. Once these stories spread, the citizens will love your father even more. The fence-sitters in the council will fear him more. It's a huge boost to his reputation!"
"And it's good for me too. My relationship with Lord Gastor Ferrero isn't exactly friendly. If he finds out I started these stories… heh, he won't be polite. He might try to suppress me. Better if it comes from you. He can't openly attack House Rogare, can he?"
Lysaro thought for a moment, then sighed. "Alright, you make sense… I'll go home and start writing. I'll even write a version for my noble friends so they can hear it too!"
He looked at Tiberius with genuine respect. "But you really know a lot, and you've got guts. I could never deal with people like this." He glanced again at the storytellers outside counting their coins, nose twitching. "They smell awful. Don't they ever bathe?"
Tiberius almost reminded him that most of these men didn't have baths or hot water and soap on demand, but decided not to bother. A young master like Lysaro would never understand the lives of the poor.
"Well… I'll head back now. The air in here is… not great." Lysaro gave one last uncomfortable look at the tent and left.
Vito watched him go, then walked over to Tiberius and muttered, "Tch, spoiled little rich boy. Carries perfume like a woman. Still, at least he didn't put on airs…"
Tiberius smiled.
"He was willing to come and 'watch.' That's enough."
Vito raised an eyebrow at Tiberius's "pure and innocent" expression.
"Tch. Kid, you've got another scheme brewing, don't you?"
"Of course not, Vito. Am I a bad kid?"
"I don't know if you're bad, but I do know that girl Zera now does whatever you say—east if you say east, west if you say west… When it comes to breaking people, you're scarier than anyone."
"Get lost. I won her over with my personal charm!"
---