The most precious blood flows first. Those words, drilled into him down to his bone marrow as an Imperial noble, made Agamemnon decide.
"Ryustem, summon the navigator and chief sailor. Have them attend, in accordance with regulations," Agamemnon ordered.
"Is it really all right, Captain?" Ryustem asked hesitantly. His brow slightly furrowed, the first mate gauged his master's expression. Although he was a citizen, Ryustem wasn't an Imperial citizen; he was Agamemnon's private citizen. Unlike an Imperial citizen, who was actually an Imperial government worker, a private citizen could choose to contract with an individual nobleman. His master's fate was his own fate.
Ryustem stared intently at Agamemnon. "Count of Memphis requisitioned the Nereiades on the authority of an Imperial decree. His orders have the same effect as Her Majesty's words, limited to the time of his execution of the Imperial decree. If you mishandle his luggage without permission, won't you be tried for treason, Dow?" Ryustem asked.
"The current time is fifteen hundred hours. If the Count is a normal Methuselah, it should be time for him to retire soon. To get permission for that, Count of Memphis and his citizen ... Let's see, what was he called?" Agamemnon struggled to remember.
"It's Nightroad. Abel Nightroad," Ryustem responded.
"Yes, hasn't that Nightroad holed himself up in his room and not shown himself since coming aboard? I'll think of a good excuse. Don't worry," Agamemnon insisted.
As he removed the key to the storeroom out of the safe, Agamemnon broke into a dauntless smile. No matter what anybody said, the Nereiades was his ship, and he was her captain.
"By the way, Ryustem, how much longer until we reach the Imperial capital?" asked Agamemnon.
"We spotted the Lapis Lazuli Wall a little while ago, so maybe in another hour," Ryustem replied.
Regardless of the estimated time of arrival, it seemed as though time was short. If Count of Memphis's baggage ended up being dangerous, Agamemnon couldn't let it into the beautiful capital.
"I'm going down to the storeroom," Agamemnon announced. "Ryustem, summon Ibrahim and Socorul as soon as possible."
"The navigator and chief sailor should already be waiting in front of the storeroom," Ryustem said confidently.
"Well done," Agamemnon replied. Grinning, he raised the glass containing the remaining Aqua Vitae. After gulping it down, inhaling its faint scent of iron, he left the captain's room behind with a swagger, calling back, "Good, then come with me, first mate!"
The atmosphere in the storeroom was gloomy, its air stagnant. The light from the lanterns the crew held aloft shone like will-o'-the-wisps against the low ceiling.
"There doesn't seem to be anything amiss, Captain," Ibrahim declared apprehensively. Thin as a scarecrow, the navigator — not the bravest of the crew — cast his fear-filled eyes to and fro amid the deep-rooted darkness.
"The baggage locks haven't been opened. They look the same as when we left port," Socorul said as he returned abruptly from inside. With a set of pincers as big as a log in one hand, the large-framed chief sailor announced in a deep voice, "There's nothing like footprints. Do you want me to look more closely?"
"After all, the bunch who disappeared didn't come in here, did they, Captain?" Ryustem asked. He heaved a sigh of both relief and despair pondering the chief sailor's report. "I thought it must be a stowaway, but when I really think about it, a person couldn't possibly get into this baggage."
With his eyes, the first mate pointed out the forty-plus wooden boxes neatly aligned. It would've been impossible to peek inside any of the strictly guarded three-foot cubes without opening its lid. The thick boards were reinforced with iron bindings, so they couldn't be opened easily.
"Captain, it seems to have been a wrong guess. Let's beat it at once. If we leave now, we can finish without being noticed by the Imperial envoy's people," Ibrahim suggested.
Agamemnon didn't answer Ibrahim's plea, which made the navigator want to cry.
Agamemnon's eyes, shining blue-white in the darkness, fell to one corner of the floor. More accurately, the Methuselah glared as if his eyes were boring into the faint shrimp-tan stain left on the wooden planks.
"What's wrong, Captain?" Ryustem inquired.
"It's a bloodstain," Agamemnon answered, gasping softly.
What caught Agamemnon's sense of smell was something that rivaled that of a great white shark — the stale stench of settled sediment and the scent of salt, mixed with the smell of rust. It wasn't merely any rusty smell, either. It was the most familiar smell to a Methuselah, and the most detestable stench. It was the smell of blood.
"C-captain, what?" Ryustem shouted, completely flustered.
Before Ryustem could utter anything else, Agamemnon put his hand to the floor. He exhibited an uncanny ease of strength as he inserted his talons, extended like a cat's, into the seam in the floor. The floorboards were firmly nailed down, but they were as flimsy as paper after the Methuselah was finished with them. With a puny creak, they flipped up with ease.
The three Terrans gasped in unison, but it wasn't witnessing their superior officer's superhuman power that awed them. The things that appeared beneath the light of the lanterns... They were six corpses. All of them had completely mummified and resembled misshapen specimens with dried skin stuck on.
"Orhan, Nedim, Guzino, Hairedin, Sarkis, Hussein . . . How . . . how awful!" Ryustem exclaimed.
"Ryustem, summon all hands to an emergency meeting," Agamemnon instructed. Addressing the sailors, who were all covering their faces in horror, Agamemnon continued, "Ibrahim, open this baggage and inspect its contents. After that, Socorul, you arm five or six people and come with me."
"Wh- where are we going, Captain?" Ryustem muttered as his superior officer turned his back on the first mate.
Slaves obeyed citizens, and citizens were subjects of the nobility. Thus, nobles protected citizens, and citizens protected slaves. That was the law of the great Empire, the nobility's pride. Having witnessed citizens cruelly transformed, Agamemnon's face turned pale with anger and humiliation.
"I'll see Count of Memphis. I'll make him explain what this means! "Agamemnon shouted.
"But we don't know if there's any connection between these corpses and Count of Memphis," Ryustem replied.
"Look at this!" Agamemnon roared, pointing at the freshest corpse. Two open holes, like moles, were visible in its neck. But they weren't moles. They were —
"The mark of the vampire?" Ryustem cried.
"Except for me, Count of Memphis is the only Methuselah on this ship," Agamemnon growled. Abandoning his usual calm demeanor, the angry Methuselah howled, sharp fangs protruding from his lips. "I'll see that man at once! I'll see him and get him to explain what this means!"
"What will you get him to explain, Captain?" asked a man in a calm voice, almost a whisper. "What's the matter? You look so different. Are you in a hurry about something?"