Hawthorne sat in front of his mercenary commissioner, the nobleman was having a doubtful expression on his face, the expression that said, I cannot trust you but I do not understand why. He had a gut feeling that Hawthorne was hiding something, but he could not tell what... Yet.
He wanted to lash at him for not telling it, The nobleman's brow went down deeper. He wanted to demand answers, to shout, "Tell me what you're hiding, knave!" But unfortunately for him, Hawthorne had done his part.
He had brought the diary, as promised, and without so much as a smudge on it. So, the nobleman was left sitting in silence, chewing on his suspicions like a particularly tough piece of meat, maybe it's a piece of chewing gum, you never know.
The room they sat in did little to lift the mood. It was, in a word, depressing. The kind of room that would make even a moth feel out of place. The walls were as bare as a winter forest, and the only source of light was a sad little kerosene lamp sitting in the corner.
That kerosene lamp was, in this room, the only decoration to speak of, and those were used only by the poor. Even a middle-class family always used ether lamps, as it was better in every aspect expect cost. It was more efficient, brighter, and infinitely less... bleak. But no, here they were, bathed in the gloomy glow of poverty's favorite light source.
The nobleman, still eyeing Hawthorne like he was a puzzle missing several key pieces, finally broke the silence. "Is this everything? No separate papers? No hidden codes or secret principles scrawled on the back of any paper?"
"This is all," Hawthorne said, as calm as if he were discussing the weather. He picked up the diary and flipped to the last page, tapping his finger on a rather messy lines here and there, along with a crude writing.
"I think this here is the principle you're looking for. Though, I must confess, it's written in a language I don't recognize. Might be something ancient or... just really bad handwriting."
The nobleman took the diary, suspicion practically leaking out of his ears at this point. His gut was now demanding he throw Hawthorne in the stocks for a good old-fashioned interrogation, but alas, noble decorum held him back.
He knew better than to lose his temper, even when every fiber of his being screamed that something was off. Control was, after all, the cornerstone of noble life. That, and pretending to like pheasant meat at feasts.
Nevertheless, the nobleman wasn't going to give Hawthorne a free pass. With his elbows resting on the table and his fingers interlocked, he assumed the stance of a man who was about to disclose universal insights.
His tone was composed and calm, but with a hint of terrible things to come if the next response was not sufficient. "Mister Hawthorne, I do not doubt your credibility—"
Oh, but he does, Hawthorne thought, leaning forward slightly, he knew where this was going.
"—But just for the sake of clarity, allow me to ask you this one thing." The nobleman's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a highly secret, undercover whisper, despite the fact that no one else was in the room. "Can you swear on Lord Veritas, the god of truth? You know... to really seal the deal."
I knew it! Hawthorne suppressed a groan. Of course, he had to bring Veritas into this. The god of light and truth wasn't exactly known for his flexibility when it came to bending the facts. But still, Hawthorne wasn't about to let this nobleman think him untrustworthy. That would be bad for business.
Raising his right hand with all the grace of a man who'd done this far too many times, Hawthorne declared, "On the name of Lord Veritas, the god of light and truth, I swear that this is the truth. I have brought the diary exactly as I found it.
I have not taken a single paper containing a principle or anything that my commissioner has paid for." His palm was open, it signifies the speaker's truthful promise and intentions.
The nobleman stared at him for a long, unbearable moment, the gears in his head turning like a rusty clockwork. Not realizing the awkward silence he was creating.
Finally, he leaned back, his suspicion shrinking just a tad. Well, no one would lie under the oath of Veritas, unless they fancied being set ablaze on the spot, and as far as he could tell, Hawthorne wasn't smoking.
"I believe you, then," the nobleman finally said, clapping his hands. A butler materialized from the shadows, which was impressive, given that the only shadow in the room was the one cast by the sad little kerosene lamp. The butler was the picture of elegance in a room that could've used a good dusting two years ago, carrying with him a cheque.
The nobleman scribbled his name with an air of someone far too accustomed to signing things without reading them first, then tore off a cheque for 200 sten. "Here is your commission." He slid it across the table like it was no big deal.
Hawthorne took the cheque without missing a beat, though inside, he couldn't help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. Two hundred sten! That was a small fortune. Families of four could live off four or five sten a month. And here he was, holding a piece of paper that could feed a village for a year— small village he meant.
"Thank you, my lord," Hawthorne said, keeping his tone neutral. Inside, however, his mind was already doing the math. That's enough to buy a small island. Or at least several barrels of the finest wine... Decisions, decisions.
The nobleman gave a frank nod, clearly still pondering over his own suspicions. Hawthorne could tell the man wasn't entirely convinced, but for now, he had no reason to complain. And that was just how Hawthorne liked it.
The nobleman left, the room was in stark contrast to his black carriage. It was adorned with all kind of luxurious decor. Hawthorne silently pocketed his cheque and headed for the bank.