Chapter 57: The Social Skills of a Rock

Strong and his posse of sycophants watched George and Gima disappear up the staircase, their mouths still hanging open.

“So… did they swim here?” one of the youths finally asked.

“Unlikely,” Strong pronounced, stroking his chin like a seasoned philosopher. “Based on my extensive experience, it’s clear they ran across the surface of the water.”

“What?”

“Are you sure you’re not just bullshitting again?”

“Hmph.” Strong gave them a look of withering disdain. “Are you blind? Did you not see that their feet were wet? It’s common knowledge that the ancient monks of the East could walk on water. And are there not mages in Deepwater City who can command the very waves?”

His friends exchanged dubious glances, but a seed of doubt had been planted.

“He’s right, their feet were wet.”

“But he’s supposed to be a knight from Barto. Why would he have a power like that?”

“Simple. It’s either a magical artifact, or a spell,” Strong declared, warming to his subject. “And besides, who’s to say he’s really a knight from Barto at all?”

A collective, enlightened “Ooooh” went through the group.

Pleased, Strong puffed out his chest. “You see? You’re all still so green. You need to be more like me—get out there and experience the wide, wondrous world.”

“You’re amazing, Strong.”

“Truly, a man of worldly wisdom.”

As the mutual adulation reached its peak, one of them had a bright idea. “Why don’t we just… ask someone who actually saw it?”

Strong froze. In his frantic effort to sound like a genius, that painfully obvious solution had completely eluded him. He recovered instantly. “I was teaching you the art of ‘Adventurer’s Insight,’” he said smoothly. “It is a high-level technique, a delicate synthesis of experience, perception, and logical analysis. You can’t just rush it.”

“Wow, Strong, you’re the best,” his friend said, clapping him on the back.

Their masterclass in bullshitting concluded, they politely approached a noblewoman sipping orange juice nearby. She was nearing middle age, with deep smile lines that stood out against her powdered face.

She took a slow, deliberate sip, then gestured with her glass toward the pathetic skiff still bobbing in the water. “He jumped,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “He picked up the girl and jumped right on board.”

“Jumped?” Strong repeated, his voice cracking.

“Yes.”

“But… it’s a hundred meters.”

“If you don’t believe me, feel free to ask someone else,” she said with a dismissive wave.

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”

“Honestly, the youth of today.” She shook her head. “So sheltered.” With that, she turned and glided away.

“Stroooong~” one of his friends drawled, his voice thick with mockery.

“King of Bullshit,” another crowed.

“I’ll say this, a year away has done wonders for your bullshitting skills.”

“Such high-level Adventurer’s Insight!” Someone else added in a singsong, mocking tone.

Strong’s thick neck flushed a violent shade of crimson. “How dare you! This isn’t bullshitting! When an adventurer speculates, it’s called analysis! It’s called deduction! It’s insight!”

“Ooh, listen to him! The grand adventurer with a whole year and a half under his belt!”

A vein throbbed in Strong’s temple as he launched into a furious debate with his friends on the nuanced definition of bullshitting.

A short distance away, the noblewoman with the smile lines placed her empty glass on a maid’s tray.

A younger noblewoman next to her sighed wistfully. “My dear, that juice must be divine, from Lady Brancy’s personal orange grove. I had a glass once and I’ve been craving it ever since, but the yield is so small. I’m so envious of how close you are with her.”

“In an hour, you won’t be envious anymore,” the older woman said, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile that deepened the lines around them.

Before the younger woman could ask why, she turned to a maid in black stockings. “Did your mistress approve my request for more juice?” she asked, using a formal tone.

The maid, confused by the respectful address, stammered, “She… invites you to her garden, my lady.”

“Perfect. I’m not fond of noisy parties.” The noblewoman glanced at Strong’s bickering group. “Such a nuisance. Lead the way.”

“Yes, my lady.”

As the maid led her toward the ship’s garden, they passed the loud group of young nobles. The older woman’s hand dipped into her pocket and emerged with a single gold coin. With an impossibly nimble flick of her thumb, the coin soared into the air, spinning, before dropping perfectly back into her waiting palm.

Strong saw it out of the corner of his eye. It looked… familiar. But he quickly pushed the thought aside, returning to the far more pressing matter at hand.

…

Brilliant sunlight poured from a cloudless sky, making the white deck almost painful to look at.

A black-clad manservant led Gima and George to a canopied area at the stern. Long tables were being laden with food by a small army of servants. The manservant stopped at a round table near the entrance, bowed, and gestured. “If you please.”

They followed his gesture and saw a guestbook on the table. As a sign of respect, guests were to sign their own distinguished names, rather than have a servant do it for them.

George bent over, took the quill, and with a steady hand, signed his true name: “George Hammer.”

Gima blinked. Well, two can play at that game. Not to be outdone, and to provide a bit of cover, she wrote beneath his name: “Gima Stu.”

Now it was George’s turn to give her a strange look.

“Ahem,” the manservant coughed, his professional smile strained to its breaking point. “If the esteemed guests would be so kind as to take this seriously.”

“What? That’s my family name,” Gima declared, shooting a look at George from the corner of her eye.

George knew she was lying. What he didn’t know was that, in a way, she was also telling the truth.

“But that is the surname of the Demon Lord Gima,” the servant protested. “And sir, you needn’t have written the true name of the hero George.”

“It is my name,” George stated.

“What’s it to you? You know our names better than we do?” Gima huffed, planting her hands on her hips.

The manservant could only interpret their antics as a protest against this banquet. “Very well,” he said with a tight smile. “Allow me to show you to your seats.”

The seating was divided into upper and lower tables. The upper tables were inside the ship’s grand salon, where one could dine face-to-face with the Good Master himself. Those seats were for those truly important.

The lower tables were outside, under the awning. The farther one was from the door to that salon, the lower one’s rank. Naturally, the food and service were on different tiers as well.

Gima and George’s seats, of course, were at the absolute worst table, at the farthest edge of the awning, where the sun beat down without mercy.

Gima, however, didn’t complain. She planted her elbows on the table and waited for the food. This party was George’s problem. He was the one who needed to “network,” to find the man named Nudelhi. She, on the other hand, was bored. She watched the nobles mingle, their faces plastered with fake smiles, their conversations a meaningless drone.

Ugh, social gatherings. All of the posturing, none of the fun.

She propped her chin in her hands and began to daydream about her glorious return to power.

First, Salem City. I’ll trap the Good Master and his entire family on a boat, then play a fun little game where he has to guess how he wronged me. Once he gets it right, I’ll light the boat on fire. I’ll make him watch his daughter burn first. That’ll teach people not to steal my money. He’s a tough old bastard, he won’t break easily. I’ll have to start with a swift kick to the balls, and then…

A tap on her shoulder yanked her from her pleasant reverie.

“Huh?” She jumped, surprised to see George still sitting there. “My lord, shouldn’t you be off discussing crop yields with the fine, upstanding citizens of this fair city?”

“Gima, let’s switch seats.”

She looked down and noticed the wrist peeking out from her sleeve was slick with sweat from the sun.

“Oh.”

After they switched, the shade was a welcome relief.

George sat as straight as a statue, his eyes scanning the crowd. He looked just as bored as she felt.

“My lord,” she whispered, “why did you write your real name?”

“Writing is an extension of speech.”

So, he can only write the truth, too? Figures.

“You were quick-witted back there,” George continued. “Thank you.”

He means how I tricked the servant into thinking we were just goofing around. Honestly, I just thought you were trying to make a statement, and I couldn’t let you show me up.

Gima gave a magnanimous nod. “Mm. You’re welcome.”

“I have something to ask you.”

“What? Are my ears deceiving me?”

“Your inherited memories… you must have some about succubi blending in with humans, right?” he asked, his voice low. “In a situation like this, how do I find Nudelhi without arousing suspicion?”

Gima blinked. “Wait. You’ve never actually been to a real party, have you?”

“I have. At the Holy Sanctuary.”

A party thrown by a convent of socially inept monks. Right. Attending too many of those would give anyone the social skills of a rock.

“I’m still a child,” Gima said, which was technically true. “I haven’t inherited the ‘schmoozing’ memories yet.”

George hesitated. “What if… I just go from person to person and ask if they know him?”

“You do that, and every spy in a ten-mile radius will be on you before you can say ‘stupid plan,’” she hissed.

George grew visibly agitated. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Then… then…”

His social skills weren’t on par with a rock. They were sub-rock. She, a person with actual social anxiety, was a social butterfly by comparison.

“What was your original plan?” she asked, a grim fascination dawning on her.

“The books said that clothing denotes status, and people will naturally gravitate toward those of high status. The plan was for someone to approach me, at which point I would naturally steer the conversation toward the local mages’ guild representative, integrate myself into their circle, and then…” He sighed, a sound of pure defeat. “But no one has come to talk to me.”

Gima’s eyes fell on his outfit—the gaudy, gold-embroidered silk, the tacky gems flashing in the sun. He looked less like a noble and more like a lottery winner on a shopping spree. It couldn’t have suited his simple, unpretentious nature less.

So that’s it. He had spent her hard-earned blood money on this ridiculous costume, and was enduring this mortifyingly awkward party, all to find the one person who could break her slave contract.

He was a complete social dunce. But he was really, truly trying.

A tiny, unfamiliar warmth flickered in the pit of her stomach. Her brain, for once, went quiet.

“Don’t worry,” she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Leave it to me.”