Jorgen climbed the spiral staircase, ascending upward. His footsteps were light, but still produced clear echoes in the corridors. Even the most skilled assassins could not climb these stairs without leaving any traces, all for the safety of the MI7 leaders at the top of the stairs.
In the middle of the night, the old man summoned him to headquarters. Before stepping onto the stairs, there was a black-clad guard on the steps with his back to him, motionless. After Jorgen took a step, the black-clad guard also started walking, always at the same rate in front of Jorgen. After climbing four or five steps, another black-clad guard walked out of the shadows and followed Jorgen behind. Their pace, height, and even breathing were completely the same. They all wore masks covering their entire faces, like two lifeless black puppets manipulated by the same hand, forcing Jorgen to move upwards.
They were called "undertakers". No name, no identity, no showing of their true faces, legend has it that they are not fixed two people either. When the old man was ready to severely punish his subordinates or meet dangerous people, he would send them up to ensure that the "guests" would not escape and ensure their own safety.
Upon reaching the top floor, the undertakers opened the door for Jorgen and then stayed outside.
Jorgen entered the spacious room. The old man sat behind the long table at the end of the living room. Behind him, a map of Azeroth drawn on black dragon skin hung on the wall, and the dragon's head specimen hung above the map. The old man said, "Come here, Jorgen."
Jorgen stopped about two meters in front of the table.
"Lord Shawl, what can I do for you?"
The old man looked up at Jorgen silently for a few seconds before speaking.
"Are you nervous, Jorgen?"
"A little bit."
"You should be nervous. I called you over in the middle of the night and had the undertakers lead you to me. Many people can't take a step after seeing them. There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I don't feel ashamed, Lord Shawl."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Admitting one's fear is justified. Why do you think I called you here?"
"I don't know, Lord Shawl."
"Any answer that comes to your mind. Since you have admitted your fear, there must be a reason for that fear. Say it."
Again this feeling. The trap of words. If the old man directly asked "Did you make a deal with the Archbishop?", Jorgen would just firmly deny it. As an interrogator who has received anti-torture training, even the old man could not see from Jorgen's facial changes whether he was lying or not. Many interrogators of the MI7 have such abilities. Therefore, the old man would seduce the other party into making mistakes from the words themselves. Jorgen did not know what the old man had grasped, maybe everything, maybe zero. But precisely because of this, this question was so difficult to deal with.
"I guess it might be because of Young Master Mardias."
"Oh, Mardias. Go on."
"I had a little conflict with the young master's bodyguard."
"What kind of conflict?"
"He thought my teaching method violated your will. We had some physical conflicts."
"Good," Shawl said, "go on."
This cunning old gambler. Jorgen just wanted to throw out the fight with the bodyguard in the parlour to test the waters, but found that he had taken a wrong step. The old man knew about this. He was seducing Jorgen to give up more territory.
"What are you waiting for? I said, go on."
If I said "that's all" now, the old man would surely know that he deliberately concealed some things. Jorgen could only boldly take the next step.
"There is also the matter of Lady Dalia getting one more visitation day each month."
"That was the result of the Archbishop's persuasion. What does this have to do with you, Jorgen?"
The old man was gradually linking him to Benedictus. This was a step that could not be lost in any case. The way to exonerate himself may be somewhat despicable, but Jorgen had to do so.
"No, I'm just happy for Lady Dalia and Young Master Mardias."
"It's a good thing for a mother and son to meet more each month. It's also a good thing for you to be happy for them. Why would that frighten you?"
"Because I feel this violates your educational policy towards the young master."
Jorgen tried to steer the conversation back to the old man. Even if the attitude was offensive, he was willing to do so.
"Do you think I'm too harsh?"
"Yes, but Young Master Mardias is your heir."
"The heir - well said. Before Mardias, I had another heir. Do you know who he is?"
"I know, Lord Shawl."
"If you know, say it out."
"Dean Shawl."
"What do you think happened to him?"
"As rumored, I believe he disappeared."
"You take good care of his wife, Dalia."
"The job you entrusted to me is to educate Young Master Mardias well. To this end, I must understand him better, so cultivating a good relationship with his mother is also necessary."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes."
"You are not her husband. Mind your own business."
"I will, Lord Shawl."
"When you put it that way, I think Dalia needs a husband."
Jorgen was a little confused.
"I'm not quite sure why you're telling me this..."
"It was you who reminded me. One more day of mother and son visits does violate my education policy. I want to solve this problem. So letting a trusted person become Dalia's husband may prevent her from instilling some inappropriate ideas into Mardias. Don't you think so?"
"I don't know, Lord Shawl."
Jorgen felt that he had finally entered the old man's trap. The old man shattered the dialogue center he had built up and left him at a loss. Now he couldn't figure out what the old man was trying to probe out.
"What do you think of Travis?"
Jorgen was a little shaken. He remembered the scene halfway through the picnic. When Travis was about to cut off the tongue of the vagrant, that frenzied and self-satisfied look in his eyes. Dalia actually said she was unwilling to easily suspect such a person.
"You don't seem very comfortable, Jorgen."
Stay calm, don't lose your temper, Jorgen thought. He found that his hand trembled just now. His heartbeat accelerated a little. The old man would not miss these signs.
"My understanding of him is not enough for me to make a judgment. But since you said you trust him, I have no opinions to add."
"I didn't say I trust him, I just said a trusted person may be arranged to be Dalia's husband. But he is a viable option."
"After all, he is a member of the MI7, while Lady Dalia is an aristocrat..."
"Don't forget that I am not an aristocrat either. Travis is the most frequent member of the MI7 in front of the aristocracy. Do you have any personal grievances with him?"
"Yes. I think he is too cruel. He will cause unnecessary trouble outside of performing tasks."
"Very useful opinion. I will consider it. One more question, Jorgen."
"What?"
"You said he was too cruel. Then when he endangers Dalia and Mardias, will you eliminate him for me?"
"I will, Lord Shawl."
"Without hesitation?"
"Yes," Jorgen said.
"Okay, you can go now." The old man said. "Also, Mardias' intelligence lecture course can end now."
"Do you mean..."
"He will enter the actual training stage. I have more suitable candidates, you don't have to teach him anymore, Jorgen."
"Understood, Lord Shawl."
After leaving the room, Jorgen breathed a sigh of relief. The old man's original purpose may have been to probe his relationship with the Archbishop, but in the end the focus shifted to Travis. There is no doubt that he suspects Travis's loyalty. Although the sudden removal of Jorgen's lecturer position is noteworthy, it also gave him more free time. The old man had already become alert, he must step up the investigation of Neil's case immediately.
Bossia wrapped her whole body tightly in a long deep brown robe and curled up tightly to make the edges of the armor not too prominent on the surface of the robe. Even so, the objects on her body kept making bumping sounds as the carriage moved. Beside her, a woman uncovered the diaper of the baby in her arms, and Bossia could not resist the stench and had to cover her nose and breathe with her mouth open.
"You look so pretty." A man sitting opposite her said. He worked as a clown in the circus, and his face was slippery and unbearable from years of repeated brushing with thick greasepaint. The man licked his upper lip with his tongue, and Bossia felt nauseous.
This carriage carrying folk artists was gradually approaching the gates of Stormwind. They were going to rush to Goldshire to join the temporary employment of the Darkmoon Faire circus. Bossia exchanged five gold coins for the qualification to get on the carriage. She didn't know that this was already enough for these artists to take a month's vacation.
Bossia didn't want to stay in Stormwind any longer. She asked the Archbishop in various ways whether she had been used, but he always evaded the question. Everyone around her was pointing at her and being colder than ever. She didn't want to be kept in the dark like this. Although she knew that leaving Stormwind violated the control order as a suspect, she was still willing to take a gamble in order to know more.
Bossia put on a large dark robe to conceal the Paladin's outfit. Even if she wanted to flee, she was still unwilling to abandon this outfit, because she didn't know how to protect herself as an ordinary person. She boarded the folk artists' carriage and bribed them to take her away. For Bossia, this seemed to be a perfect plan already.
The carriage stopped at the city gate, ready to undergo inspection. The real important checkpoint to guard Stormwind was distributed around Elwynn Forest, and the guards at the city gate were not so strict. Bossia placed her hope on this point. She heard the guards chatting with the coachman, and then slowly walked over to this side of the rear tarpaulin.
She turned her head slightly and saw the guard's face, then immediately looked away.
The guard looked at the scene in the carriage.
"It's very dark inside. How many people?"
"Six, sir." The clown said.
The guard nodded.
"You all seem like honest people, you can see at a glance."
"Yes, yes, you guys all say that."
"But you didn't find anything suspicious, did you, sir? Or do you intend to come in and take a look?"
"I have no intention of doing that. The smell in there would ruin my good mood for the day."
"Then it's best for you to let us go smoothly, isn't it? Otherwise the smell will stay here."
"Don't talk to me about conditions."
The guard still hadn't left. Bossia closed her eyes tightly.
"What's that? A weapon? Answer me!"
A few seconds later, Bossia realized that the guard was pointing at herself. She found that the end of her long sword protruded from under her long robe.
"It's a prop sword, sir." The clown said.
"Is it the kind that looks like it's stabbing into the throat but actually retracts into the hilt?"
"That's a trade secret, sir."
"Don't come with that. I understand all your tricks. That's why I never go to the circus to waste money and time."
"But we still have to eat, sir. Can we go?"
"Why are you wearing a long robe in such hot weather?"
Bossia opened her mouth but couldn't say anything.
"She's a mute, sir." The clown said.
"Is she a woman?"
"She was born unable to speak. She's been with us for many years."
"Take off your robe and let me see."
At that moment, Bossia was almost ready to give up.
"You'd better not look, she... she has some problems."
"You seem to be protecting her a lot. Is she your wife?"
"No, sir. And I'm afraid this girl will never become anyone's wife for the rest of her life."
"Why?"
"Well, if you really insist on letting her take off her robe to take a look, then you'll know...you understand what I mean, don't you? Or do you have to see no matter what?"
The guard considered it.
"Forget it. You guys just rely on tricks and disgusting things to make money. Get out of here, go! I don't want to have nightmares for a month out of curiosity."
The carriage left Stormwind and entered Elwynn Forest, slowing down. Bossia breathed a sigh of relief.
"Aren't you going to thank me?" The clown stared at her and said.
"...Thank you."
"That's not enough. I saved you."
"I gave you five gold coins."
"We don't just help people for money, girl. Don't think of us as so vulgar. Others say we are unpresentable actors, but I have always felt that I am an artist! Don't you plan to repay me in a more thoughtful way?"
"Go to hell." Bossia got up and jumped off the carriage. "I'll just stay in Goldshire, wait until you change your mind," the clown's voice gradually faded away. Sunlight shone through the leaves, and the bitter scent of lush grass penetrated Bossia's nose. It was not until this moment that she recalled how unpleasant the stench in the carriage and the oily face of the clown were. She leaned against the tree trunk and bent over, beginning to retch.