Chapter 220: Make a Move?

Finnian stared at Keith before asking, “Would you mind having a cup of coffee with me, alone?”

Keith looked at the confused crowd and said loudly, “Alright, lead the way!” Finnian exited first. Two elegantly dressed individuals then stepped forward, urging Keith with a forceful, “Please!” He followed without hesitation.

Finnian awaited him in a carriage. Keith entered, teasing, “I thought you were a poor scholar. I didn’t expect such a luxurious carriage.” Finnian seemed preoccupied, merely instructing the driver to start and ignoring Keith.

Throughout the journey, Finnian remained silent, deep in worried thought. Keith, too, was quiet, observing the route. The carriage eventually stopped before a green brick house—Finnian’s home.

Finnian alighted and said, “I still don’t know your name.”

“I’m Keith,” Keith replied, exiting the carriage. Finnian led him inside. The house was elegantly designed, small yet perfectly appointed. A maid and an older woman, Halcyon Charlie, who appeared to be Finnian’s wife, were present. Upon seeing Finnian, Halcyon greeted him warmly.

“Dear, this is my friend. Prepare some food and wine. I’ll drink with him,” Finnian instructed.

Halcyon smiled, replying, “Okay. Take a seat first,” then directed the maid, “Bring a bottle of wine. I’ll go cook.” The maid responded, “Yes!”

Finnian invited Keith to sit. Before the meal arrived, Halcyon served coffee, which Keith declined. He looked at Finnian and asked, “Do you have any questions?”

Finnian slowly unfolded his hand fan and gave it a gentle wave, despite the autumn chill. His anxious expression was evident.

“Where are you from?” Finnian asked.

Keith replied, “Argentum.”

“What do you do?”

“I used to be a guard. Later, I went into business and traveled extensively!”

Finnian observed him keenly. Having seen countless people, he could assess backgrounds from subtle cues. He believed Keith was truthful; a resolute dignity lingered between his brows, a common trait among bodyguards. His claim of being a merchant also seemed plausible; his words, though bold, were carefully measured, suggesting tactful maneuvering.

Finnian went straight to the point, asking, “You said the Royal Court never makes things difficult with Zloimond?”

“Difficult?” Keith sneered. “Not only is it not difficult, it’s preferential treatment.” He explained the Royal Court's governance measures concerning Zloimond and other territories. He concluded coldly, “Everyone says Kamari is plotting rebellion, but the King refuses to believe it. I do business in Argentum and have friends in the court. Many officials have submitted memorials accusing Kamari of treason, yet the King has personally suppressed them all, preventing the matter from reaching the Queen Mother.”

“Really?” Finnian’s tone became serious.

Keith affirmed, “It’s absolutely true. If not for your once-honorable reputation, I wouldn’t even bother saying this—I have no desire to invite trouble. But you know as well as I do that the King’s trust in Kamari might not last forever. Ultimately, whether he chooses to suppress or pardon him depends on the King’s mood. But no matter what happens, it’s always the common people who suffer most.”

Finnian pondered this silently. Keith stood, saying, “I’ve said too much. I hope you won’t spread this.” He then bid farewell and departed. Finnian called out, but Keith walked straight out, unheeding.

Once sure he wasn’t followed, Keith turned a corner, using a back alley to reach Finnian’s backyard. He climbed onto the tile roof, moving silently to avoid detection.

About two hours later, a maid led a woman in red into the room. Keith observed her—dignified and striking features, bright expressive eyes. Dressed in crimson, her fair skin glowed like snow under the sun, unmistakably noble. He recognized her as Ashley, whom Isolde had mentioned.

After Ashley dismissed the maid, she bowed to Finnian, addressing him as “Grandpa!”

Finnian’s demeanor shifted from gentle to dignified. “Sit down. I have something to ask you.”

Ashley sat with perfect posture and a composed smile, concealing her thoughts.

“You work for the King. Do you know how much tax Zloimond has paid the Royal Court over the years?” Finnian demanded.

Ashley smiled, “The same as other states and counties.”

Finnian’s expression darkened with anger. “Nonsense! The people of Zloimond have never paid taxes directly to the Royal Court—they only pay levies to Kamari. Yet year after year, the burden of taxes and labor weighs so heavily on them that they cry out in suffering. Meanwhile, Kamari publicly claims these policies come from the Royal Court itself.”

Ashley remained composed. “Grandfather, who has been feeding you such lies? Since when does the Royal Court not collect taxes from Zloimond?”

Finnian retorted, his anger barely controlled, “In all fiefdoms, the appointed governor collects local taxes. This has been the way of the Empire for generations. Even under the late Prince, taxation was light—wasn’t that evident to all? But because of his great virtue, no one questioned his successor, Kamari.”

Ashley shook her head gently. “Grandfather, don’t listen to others. Mr. Conway is wise.”

Finnian snapped, “Return now, pack your things, and come back here. You are not to stay by Kamari’s side any longer! I’ve long suspected his deceitful nature—I never misjudge a man.”

“Grandfather, who came today? What did that person tell you?” Ashley asked.

Finnian continued sternly, “You don’t have to ask so many questions. People with ulterior motives can’t hide from others. If you don’t leave him, you’ll suffer with him.”

Ashley looked thoughtful. “Grandfather, I understand. Is the Royal Court going to attack Mr. Conway?”