Kyou Kara Maou – The Disaster Up North

Summary: Greta's marriage ball brings another round of Maou Wedding Curse, only worse. The family is torn apart by the worst disaster in Shin Makoku history. Will Greta marry after all? This chapter: Greta's… brother?

AN: Thanks to DemiDaemon and methos21 for the reviews!

Sorry, kind of a half-chapter again, but the Candidate Conrad half isn't quite gelling yet.

Chapter 10 – Shibbel

still May 26th

Just like his hair and skin color, Greta could see that the boy's tattoo also matched hers, because the teen was practically in rags. Feet bare, loose much-patched pants cropped at the shin without hemming, belted with rope, topped with a cap-sleeved suede jerkin. He'd taken the opportunity to bathe at the refugee camp, but nothing would remove the clothing stains. His curls were cropped much the way Greta wore hers as a child. He had an oversized water skin and sandals slung across his chest. A bucknife, spork, slingshot, and small pans dangled from his rope belt. All he has left.

"Where ya from, boy?" Adelbert demanded.

"Uh, Wincott," the teen said. The D'uh at the end of the sentence was only implied.

Adelbert grinned crookedly. Surly adolescent boys were the stuff his armies were made of. "Yah, I got that part. Could you be more specific?"

With monosyllabic responses, half the refugee column passed by as Adelbert strove to pry information out of Shibbel, as he named himself. The goatherd's winter home was closer to Holy Oak than Big Tam's. Home wasn't a named town, but rather a remote log cabin at lower elevation. The disaster caught him with his goats up in summer pasture. With his usual route blocked and ash fouling the forage, Shibbel made for the Gratz cattle-drive trail instead.

Adelbert didn't get very far with him. But Greta was glad of the expert assist in questioning him. For instance, young Shibbel's explanation of how he came by his own herd of silk-goats, sounded like theft to Greta. But Adelbert found nothing untoward in Shibbel's account of himself. He was an orphan, fostered by an old childless faun. She died when he was 11. He'd been on his own since then, at first herding the angora rabbits she left him, then shifting to the more flexible and lucrative goats. The foster faun 'found' him near Suberia as a baby. Yeah, he'd always had the tattoo.

By then, Gorham and Guya were growing insistent that Adelbert get back to camp and resume that command thing he was supposed to be doing. "Yah, yah, just a minute," he waved them off again. But he bade Shibbel rejoin the march, and drew Greta aside.

Shibbel couldn't exactly merge back into the throng as though nothing had happened. The other refugees stole glances back and forth between the boy and the look-alike princess, and gave him the cold shoulder. But Shibbel was used to solitude. He kept his head down and trudged.

"You can get more out of him along the way," Adelbert said. "He'll tell you when he trusts you. But, Greta…" Adelbert put hands on her shoulders and held her eye searchingly, in his most paternal way. "If it turns out… Hell, maybe he is your long-lost little brother. I just want you to remember… That doesn't change who you are, you know? My father, when he found out he was adopted – 'really Trond' –" Adelbert shook his head in disgust. "He wasn't 'really Trond'. He was really Adeldan Lord Gratz. And he really screwed up his life and ours by forgetting it! Don't fall for that 'really' crap, OK? Maybe you've got questions. Maybe he's got answers. But you're really still our Greta, same as yesterday. Remember that for me, OK?"

Greta nodded up at him gratefully. At my Chichibert. What a strange way to end this. When we came here, he told me he wanted to marry me, because he loved me. But – I'm glad to have my Chichibert, now. They parted with a hug and a nod of understanding. I'm Princess Shibuya Greta. Even if Shibbel is my brother, and my brother is a… goatherd.

Neither of us started out that way. Who were we?

-oOo-

When Greta was 13 or so, Conrad and Adelbert had tried to determine where she'd come from, who her natural parents were. She hadn't been very cooperative. She insisted it didn't matter who misplaced her, Yuuri was really her father now. And her memory of her childhood was especially poor. Because she didn't like to remember her life back in Suberia, with her 'grandparents'.

But they coaxed her enough and jogged her intentionally abandoned memories, to glean a little. She remembered a blonde girl who she thought was her mother. But the 'grandparents' bossed her around and were mean to her. So the blonde ran way, and left Greta behind. Greta might have been 5 or 6 then. It was hard to tell. There were no birthday parties to remember the passage of time by. There were no adults to remind her of benchmarks in time. Nobody there was kind to her, save Gegen Huber in his cell.

Hube knew where he'd been held. Upon investigation, the 'grandparents' were found to have fled not long after Greta and Hube were discovered. Suberian Syndicate, of course. Extracting information from the neighbors wasn't easy. The crime syndicate was more powerful than the legitimate authorities, in Suberia. As best Conrad could determine, the household had arrived with a small brown-skinned girl about a year before a fair-skinned blonde left. If anyone knew where the 'grandparents' went, their lives depended on not telling. Nobody mentioned a brown-skinned baby. But then, people weren't exactly forthcoming, either. And Conrad and Adelbert hadn't known to ask.

They were left with next to nothing to go on. Except the tattoo. Fair-skinned blondes were hardly rare. But for one to have a brown-skinned daughter, there must have been a very dark-skinned father. The tattoo did look like a Shin Makoku Aristocrat's heir seal, to a foreign eye. But there were a very small set of those seals, well known to the Aristocrats. Greta's elegant device wasn't one of them. It certainly wasn't Suberian – their preschool art style was distinctive. Given time and diligence, they might have gotten somewhere with these leads.

But Greta was upset every time the subject came up. So Yuuri told them to let it rest.

-oOo-

Greta had hoped Shibbel would come join her at the front of the column, to talk more. I should have known better, she reflected. Most of her experience with adolescent boys came from the effervescent Efram. He would have bounced up and down the line all day. Shibbel's not like that… He's not even used to people. Some princesses might find that hard to imagine. Not Greta. She'd never been to a party, before she tried to assassinate a demon king. Who bizarrely turned out to be a very nice guy, and adopted her for it. Her life had been wonderful ever since. But she remembered, much as she wanted to forget. She remembered being so alone and unwanted, that a prisoner in a dark dungeon was the light of her life.

When they halted to rest in mid-afternoon, she sought him out again. "Shibbel… I wanted to ask, do you know anything more, about how you came to Wincott?"

"Mn," replied Shibbel.

She tried another tack. "I came here from Suberia. When I was nine."

This earned his grudging attention, if no comment.

"The people I lived with – criminals – I was supposed to call my grandparents. But I don't think they were, really. They sent me here to assassinate Yuuri Maou –"

Now that was interesting. "How were you gonna kill him?"

Boys… "Um, a knife," Greta replied, disconcerted. "I'm good with knives. Anyway. I have this tattoo." She bared her right shoulder to show him. Nearby Wincotts muttered and moved away. "Like yours. And, well, you look like me. That's why Lord Adelbert and I were quizzing you, earlier. Nobody else… looks like us."

Shibbel hadn't wondered – that was obvious. He studied her tattoo with interest, though.

"Did your foster faun – what did you call her? Fafa?"

"Mm." Shibbel's neck was craned sideways to peer at his own shoulder.

"Did Fafa tell you any more? Like, how she got you in Suberia?"

Shibbel seemed to decide that she'd earned something back in trade. "There was a whore," he said. "Lara. They told her to kill the baby – me. But she said she was a whore, not a murderer. So she ran away. Toward Wincott. But she twisted her ankle. Fafa found her – us. Lara said I needed to stay hidden, or they'd find out, and come kill me."

Greta's mind was reeling. Now that he mentioned it, she did remember calling the blonde Lara, not Mama. A whore? "Did Lara say why? Why they wanted you dead?"

"No."

"Where did Lara go? Is she still in Wincott?"

"Come fall, when we come down from summer pasture, Lara left with the cattle drive. Fafa got nervous about what she said. She moved us farther inside Wincott, so Lara couldn't find us again if she wanted to."

"Do you remember anything more about Lara?"

"I was a baby. I don't remember anything. Just what Fafa told me."

Indeed. What more could there be to ask, then? "Anything about the tattoo?" No. "Where Lara was from?" No. "Did Fafa name you Shibbel?"

"Oh. No. There was that. Lara said my name was Shibbel. Fauns believe it's very, very bad to ever go by a false name. So I told Fafa, who's to say Lara didn't lie? She sure didn't want me to be found. But Fafa said Lara was with her a couple months. Fafa insisted she'd'a known, if it was a false name." Shibbel shrugged. "So Fafa thought my true name, was Shibbel. Hers was Tollerie, by the way. 'Fafa' was like 'Mama'."

"What did you do, after Fafa died?"

"Buried her." Shibbel stood abruptly. That interview was over.

-oOo-

Greta saw red again when they passed through a town around supper-time. The mayor came out and asked the troop escort how many Mazoku they had. When the troopers replied they were humans in this group, the mayor waved them on. Gorham already told them not to stop there for the night, but rather continue to the banks of the Pemunder River a few miles on. He didn't mention why, at least not in front of her.

"Look sharp, men!" the commander exhorted his troops as they left town. "People! Bunch up, stick close together! Don't wander off!" Several of the troopers jogged down the column, dressing the lines and compacting the refugees, who naturally tended to spread out.

"Why, commander?" Greta asked in concern.

He shook his head. "Didn't care for that mayor's attitude, Ma'am. Not a good section of Gratz. Big Tam keeps his neighborhood clean. That's why folk do business there, money and taxes changing hands and all. But we're out of Big Tam's say-so now. And another 15 miles til the Pemunder's navigable."

"Surely no one would attack a group of 800 refugees!"

"Good reason to stick together," he commented. "Hey! Hey, you there! Trooper, go see what they're up to."

A couple of local women in shawls – fellow humans, they said – had offered hospitality to a particularly weary Wincott refugee family. When the lines compacted, it was clear the exhausted Wincotts were following them away from the group, just about to disappear behind the crest of a rise. The trooper headed toward them at a trot. Then a scream of outrage echoed back from the hill. The newly-dressed lines of the refugee column broke apart apart, more troopers and fellow refugees heading for the rise, some refugees running away from the ruckus, a lot in the middle undecided.

"Hells!"swore the commander. "STICK TOGETHER, PEOPLE! WINCOTTS! ALL BACK TO THE ROAD, DAMMIT!"

But already, mounted bandits were swooping down on some of the refugees who'd run away. The commander himself was on horseback, for mobility and visibility. With none of his troopers close enough, he himself wheeled off to take after a bandit. The rogue had caught a refugee under the arms and was dragging him along.

Greta found it maddening. But her job was to lead, and she was, after all, on the exposed front of the line. She encouraged everyone near her to bunch up, stay in line, the bandits couldn't get at them so long as they stuck together! She didn't know that it was true. The commander only had about 20 troopers for escort duty, and most of them were minding the pack train. The bandits seemed to have the troopers outnumbered, and they were on horseback.

Behind her came a THUNK! She spun to find a buckknife stuck in the grass not a foot away from her, still quivering. "Prove it, Princess!" yelled Shibbel. The youth already had a stone swinging in his sling and a handful more to keep feeding in. He fired three stones in rapid succession, and a bandit peeled off in retreat, clutching a bleeding eye.

Alright. I think I will! thought Greta. She took careful aim, threw, and a bandit fell off his horse, the buckknife sticking out of his throat. More knives clattered at her feet, courtesy of grinning women. More herders' slingshots started humming. Skilled herd-dogs ran and nipped at refugees who tried to break ranks. Another knife from Greta, and an unknown number of stones, took down another bandit closing on a Wincott teenage couple, as they tried to run back to the lines.

Within minutes, it was over. About half the bandits escaped. The rest were rounded up, tied up, and dragged along as prisoners.

Greta didn't complain about their itinerary again. The refugees stuck together and marched to the bank of the Pemunder, where Gorham had ordered them to spend the night. They set camp with the whitewater river guarding one flank, at the top of a nice friendly steep bluff that guarded another side. There, the twenty troops could keep the whole 800 guarded fairly well.

Greta sought out Shibbel at his dinner campfire, and gave him back his retrieved buckknife.

"You are good with knives," he allowed.

"You're good with that sling!" She plopped down next to him with her stew tureen. Its brand-new angled-tin handle was shiny but awkward, and cut into her hand. Shibbel's was battered and rounded and fit his hand like a glove. She shook her head. "What kind of people would attack refugees?"

"Stupid people," opined Shibbel, "to attack herders. Only ones as broke from the group were townies, and they ain't got nothing. Us herders cashed out. But shit, a bandit ain't got nothing on a mountain lion! Who'd they think they were screwin' with?"

Another herder at the campfire – inspired to atypical chattiness by the day's excitement – joined in. Soon the group of herders were topping each others' tall tales of the worst attacks on their flocks. Shibbel was quieter than most, but they included him. It was the most social Greta had seen him yet.

When Shibbel didn't seem too interested in a speaker's story, Greta asked him, "What did you mean by, 'us herders cashed out'?"

"Before we come in to Big Tam's, up the road, any as still had their herds, like us, we cashed out. Couldn't bring the stock into camp. Gratz bought 'em, same price as last year minus the tax. Ain't never sold my whole herd before. Never seen so much money!" Greta hadn't realized before that shabby Shibbel and his supper club were the relative rich of the refugee column.

"Price shoulda been higher, supply and demand," opined a grimey girl who looked about Greta's age. A few minutes ago, she'd claimed to take down a mammoth single-handedly to protect her alpacas. Greta suspected she might be sweet on Shibbel. "Food's gonna be scarce. Meat shoulda been dearer."

This unleashed a whole new torrent of economic opinion. Shibbel didn't seem to care, so Greta asked, "Is it much? The money you got for your goats?"

"They were good goats!" he burst out, offended.

Greta spent several minutes backpedaling, to assure him that no, of course she hadn't meant to disparage his goats. And yes of course, goat milk, cheese, meat, and silk were valuable and important commodities. And yes, his goats sounded like wonderful companions, and she regretted that she hadn't made their acquaintance. Eventually, he relented and told her how much money he got for the 300 goats that remained by the time he reached Gratz.

It was slightly more than the price of her gown for the marriage ball.

In her silence, she noticed after a few moments that the rest of the campfire gang had fallen silent, too. She looked up. They stared at her, faces hard and impassive as Wincott granite. They'd overheard her conversation with Shibbel. And suddenly, she was a Princess again to them.

"Is it much?" queried the grimey economist of the alpacas. "They say it's expensive, in town." Our herds, everything we had, converted to more money than we've ever seen. Is it worthless? Is it nothing, in Lutenberg?

Greta had no idea. She'd never had to support herself, buy her own food. She'd only gone shopping for fun, and then only for trinkets. Serious money like her ballgown went on 'the books'. Gwendal was in charge of 'the books'. Maybe. What her dressmakers earned or spent to live in Blood Pledge town, she hadn't a clue. "I… think so."

The troop commander – who had not been pleased to hear Shibbel chucked a knife at the Princess – had positioned a trooper at the next campfire, to keep an eye and ear on her. At this ugly change of vibe, the trooper came over and inserted himself next to Greta. "How much again? Oh, hell, yeah, that's good money! Before I joined up, I worked the cattle drive and the slaughterhouses. That woulda been two years' wages. And you won't need it, much. Weller's gonna provide food and housing until you get jobs. Food might be short. Housing'll be cramped," he allowed. "But they'll do their best."

"They will," Greta confirmed. "Uncle Conrad'll do his best to take care of you. I'm sure of it." She wasn't really aware that this contradicted what she was thinking earlier, when she was so mad. Nor that she was calling her would-be suitor 'Uncle' again. She simply fell back into her Princess role by habit. The gracious yes-girl.

The trooper noticed Shibbel shrinking away from her. He asked companionably, "Whaddaya think y'all might do, in town?"

The herders slumped.

"Eh, don't worry," he continued. "Just keep your eyes open, and think about it. And be real glad you got the money from selling your herds, huh? Not many Wincotts so lucky. Don't spend it quick. Might have to last, hey? So… Your Highness. Commander asked me to see you safe to your tent before I turn in. Would that be convenient now?"

She went to her tent. But after a day like that, her head spun too much for sleep. She looked at familiar things like her modest tent and cot, and they stared back with new meaning. How much did it cost? What did they think of her, out there, when she, the Princess, got this comfortable bed, while they lay down on the grass without bedrolls? How many goats' taxes amounted to the price of her ballgown? If it had been her rather than Shibbel, left with a faun rabbit herder, would she have fared as well? As her… brother? Is he my brother? If so… Chichibert's words came back to her often, when her thoughts spun that way. Even so, I'm still Princess Greta…

And who wanted to kill him? And why?Where did we come from, if Lara wasn't our mother? For herself, no, she hadn't wanted to know. Because she was so grateful for what she had, with Yuuri and Wolfram and her Shin Makoku family. She'd had it bad in Suberia. Now she had it good, and she was devoted to her 'real' family, the ones she was with. But somehow, this maybe-brother altered the equation. That past she'd felt well shut of, was the past that tied them together. Frieda and Bertram and Efram and Ekaterin are my 'real' brothers and sisters. But that didn't work, at an emotional level. The more she believed Shibbel was her brother, the more she wanted that tie. Because he's more like me than they are. That can't be. Is it?

The kissing moons were well up before she finally slept.

-oOo-

May 27th - the next day

"Goatherd, huh? Great cover," Yozak drawled in professional evaluation. "Prefer sheep myself of course. So woolly." He wriggled his shoulders in faux titillation in his strapless evening gown. It was before noon, not evening, and his combat boots were perched on Conrad's desk in Lutenberg. "Inherently anonymous. No family, no neighbors, no colleagues. Didn't even have the goats anymore."

Conrad nodded thoughtfully. "But who? Why? Not all that easy a cover, either. Brown skin, red hair, matching tattoo. Adelbert would've spotted fake skin color or a fresh tattoo, but he bought it. Pretty elaborate lie, really." That was key in undercover work – keep it simple, stupid.

Yozak shrugged. "Tell me who, I'll tell you why. Tell me why, I'll tell you who. Dai Cimarron to scotch an alliance with Adreschulde? That's worth something, but the timeframes don't seem to mesh. Syndicate, hmm, fishing for fire healers? Valuable, if hard to handle. Or, trying to cover up whatever they thought they were doing with Greta, the first go round. Hm. That one might be more interesting backwards. The goat-boy is legit, and the Syndicate needed him hidden to cover… something. But now he's accidentally not hidden?"

Conrad considered. "Lot of coincidences piling around Greta looking for a husband."

Yozak shot him a sharp glance. "Yes, well, you know what Manfred says, accidents tend to pile up around Yuuri. And marriage seems especially loaded around him."

"Coincidences are a sign of Shinou at work," Conrad suggested.

"Shinou's breaking crayons and yanking on pigtails. Can't say I miss him. I prefer his successor's attitude. Garena doesn't interfere unless invited." Conrad frowned at the sacrilege. Yozak buffed his fingernails unrepentant. "But I take your point. The coinkydinks point to something big. Hell if I know what, though. Or what any of it has to do with Princess Vapid."

Conrad scowled at him. "Didn't I send you to Dai Cimarron to keep an eye on King Edvar?"

"Instead of here, interfering with your proposal to Greta? I delegated. Didn't think I'd leave you alone with her virgin feminine wiles, did you? If you're going to fall into monogamous bliss with her, you're going to have to fuck with me first, honey." Conrad declined to rise to the bait. They'd had all this out before. "Edvar's not going to cross Robichaud."

"Agreed," said Conrad. "But that story has holes in it big as the Arrhian Sea. Came here for a marriage ball? His great-grandfather promised Bielenfeld aid, so lucky he's here to deliver? Who'd do that?"

"Or then again, maybe you're just jealous, honey. Afraid of the competition for Greta's trusting little hand?"

They glared at each other. Yozak gave in first. "Alright. You're right, that story doesn't make sense. But still, my plants are good and reporting regularly. Robichaud appears to be doing what he said he'd do. Edvar appears to be properly cheesed at him. No loose threads to yank on, yet."

"Except perhaps a goatherd. We'll check it out."

-oOo-

Castle Bielenfeld was a mad-house, and Yuuri always put people ahead of paperwork. The people problems were compelling. Wolfram was hectically busy. But Manfred for once seemed grateful for Yuuri's company, in his office, calming work delegations, hanging with the kids, coloring with Aldrich… Yuuri'd been there most of the day before he finally read his note from Adelbert, though his mail arrived much quicker than Conrad's.

His habitual reaction was to seek out Wolfram. Wolfram's better with the kids. But perhaps that wasn't always true. Greta's my daughter, not his. Oh, Wolfram intended to adopt her, too, after their marriage. But that required Aldrich's signature, and Aldrich didn't want to approve it. Aldrich was diabolically difficult to argue with. What's wrong with being her stepfather? he inquired sweetly, Wolfram's… stepfather.

Besides, thought Yuuri, considering how the 'marriage ball' thing had gone thus far, Wolfram's not always the better parent. Some things… I'm better at. Wolfram would see this birth-family thing as an issue of honor and loyalty. He'd bristle like a porcupine, and sparks would fly if the 'real' word came up. No. This isn't about loyalty. It's about identity. Adopted kids wonder about their birth families. Most are a terrible let-down. Wolfram might make it worse. Besides, he's needed here.

Yuuri quietly made plans to pick up Greta in Lutenberg, on his way back to Blood Pledge.

-oOo-

"Excuse me, Princess," said the commander. She was on the Pemunder River quay, helping people onto the launches. The troop escort was headed back to Big Tam's to escort the next batch, not downriver with the refugees. "I understand you're a Marshall's Assistant. What would you like done with the bandits?"

"Ah… I hadn't thought about it. Isn't it… your decision, Commander?"

"Not under Marshall Law, Ma'am. Or rather, summary execution, or hand over to a Marshall, but… You're here. You want 'em 'summarily executed'?"

Greta was taken aback. Me? Order eleven men and women put to death? I'm not sure even Yuuri's ever done that! Well, Yuuri had killed people directly, but not ordered them put to death. "Could we… hand them over to the authorities in town…" Her voice trailed off, considering that town.

"I think they're leading citizens in that town, Ma'am," the commander echoed her thoughts.

Greta sighed, and did what she actually suspected Yuuri would do. She asked, "What do you recommend, Commander?"

"Bring 'em back to town and hang 'em in the public square. I think it'll save trouble on the rest of my trips back and forth to the Pemunder. Ma'am."

Yuuri would find another way. But her eye caught Shibbel, trying to ignore the alpaca girl, who was spinning Plans about how two ex-herders with money could team up and… Shibbel clearly didn't like the girl much. Those bandits would have happily killed Shibbel, to steal everything he'd earned, all he had left. No. Yuuri'd 'go Maou' on these cruel, petty monsters.

"Do it," she ordered the Commander. "As Assistant Marshall of the Center, I authorize you to execute these criminals. Please also send word to Brendan Lord Gratz, that this town needs some cleanup, when he gets the chance."

"Yes, Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am." The commander turned to go.

"Wait, Commander?" Greta swallowed. "I've… forgotten your name. And I wish to commend your work to General Lord Teodor and your domain Lord. And to you – I'd like to commend the trooper you had watch me last night. He was wonderful. Your whole troop has been outstanding. Thank you."

The commander slowly smiled, in surprised gratitude. "I'm Commander Parzefal, Weller domain. Trooper Tostig is from Gratz." He bowed deeply, and left her, head up and standing tall.

You may be wrong, Chichibert. I'm not sure I am the same Greta who left home four days ago. I've blood on my hands now. I've flown a dragon to talk to people in hopeless situations. I've trudged 40 miles through ash and dust with common herders. And but for the grace of Yuuri, I'm no different from them. I think my own true brother is one of them.

I've learned what a ball gown is worth.

I think I've just learned how young I still am, how little I really know. And I thought I was ready to be Queen of Adreschulde?

Of course, she was way ahead of Yuuri when he became Maou of Shin Makoku. But she didn't think of that.

-oOo-

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