"Tiberius, what the hell is going on 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!"