Chapter One Hundred: The Victory Banquet

"Hahaha!"
The Dunkirk City Hall was ablaze with light, and along the outer corridor stood an exceptionally long row of carriages—at least two or three hundred luxurious vehicles drawn by purebred horses. The coachmen, huddled atop their seats, puffed on their pipes and cursed the damned weather through chattering teeth.

But there was nothing to be done about it. The facilities and buildings of Dunkirk City Hall were badly aged, and Baron Milor, ever “upright” in his official conduct, would never spend even a copper coin repairing the annexes. The small parking area was already filled with the carriages belonging to the city's most prominent figures; their coachmen had also commandeered the cramped rest room, leaving those from lesser families to brave the open air, drinking in the northern wind.

The guards, whose status was far above that of the coachmen, rested in the side halls flanking the banquet hall. They enjoyed hot tea, wine, and exquisite pastries, and even had the luxury of flirting with the dainty serving maids—far better off than the miserable coachmen outside.

As for the banquet hall itself, though the years and lack of repairs had caused much of the ceiling’s frescoes to peel away, under the brilliant lights the hall still radiated a dazzling splendor. It was as if a woman just past forty, after applying a liberal layer of powder and rouge, could still muster a hint of color.

Several hundred of Dunkirk’s leading figures gathered in the hall, forming small circles in lively conversation, laughter ringing out—especially from the shareholders of the Trident Whaling Company, who could barely contain their mirth. White, yellow, or black broad teeth flashed differently under the lights.

Even Old Pompey had dressed in a suit he was rarely willing to wear—so old-fashioned it was said to be handed down from his grandfather. He mingled gravely among the crowd, cheerfully praising the exploits of the young Lin Qi and Enzo to the smaller shareholders of the Trident Whaling Company.

A narwhal king—what a marvel! They had received their profits two years ahead of schedule, and the returns were beyond imagination. Spirits soared; everyone was in high cheer, faces aglow with delight.

This was a celebration in honor of Lin Qi and Enzo, hosted by the frugal Baron Milor at the city’s expense. Naturally, given Baron Milor’s legendary thrift and self-discipline, the quality of food and drink was predictable—likely not even up to the standards of a middling Dunkirk household, let alone a gathering of the city’s elite!

Yet Baron Milor did as he pleased, and not a soul uttered a word of complaint—everyone was long accustomed to it.

Holding a glass of wine whose taste was more akin to vinegar—indeed, the sort of vinegar made by mistake—Lin Qi stood surrounded by dignitaries, smiling as he recounted how he and Enzo had hunted the narwhal king. He had held the glass for a quarter of an hour, not intending to drink even a sip of this lethal vintage.

“Yes, its movements were extremely swift—swifter than any sea beast you've ever seen.”

Shrugging easily, Lin Qi continued, “Enzo, was it seven or eight harpoons we fired? Not one hit the mark!”

Enzo stood beside Lin Qi, solemn and unaffected by the vile wine—he had already downed a dozen sour glasses with no complaint. Hearing Lin Qi, Enzo nodded gravely, “Indeed, astonishingly agile. And its strength—when it churned the sea, it nearly capsized the windmill ship!”

“Oh!” The surrounding dignitaries exclaimed in unison, these tall, middle-aged and elderly men clutching their chests like delicate young ladies, as if they might faint at any moment. Nearby, the true young ladies rolled their eyes; had Enzo said anything more shocking, they would surely have swooned.

At a western banquet, if fewer than a dozen young ladies fainted, the event could hardly be called a success—such a lack of spectacle would be lamentable. Otherwise, the evening would always end with maidens gracefully collapsing to the floor.

Lin Qi cast a deep glance at Enzo and nodded, “Yes, it was a monstrous beast!”

Enzo took another sip, a flush coloring his fair cheeks. “A truly enormous monster,” he intoned.

Lin Qi shrugged again, his tone low and powerful, “And it was then, wielding the harpoon myself, I struck the beast as it leapt to crush the windmill ship. Was it the belly I hit? My memory’s hazy—I can hardly recall!”

Enzo raised his thumb in admiration, “Yes, right in the belly—a slash that gutted the beast.”

Another chorus of astonishment rose from the crowd. Lin Qi laughed, “But Enzo was even braver—he seized a harpoon and leapt onto the wounded monster’s head, striking it a mighty blow!”

“Heavens!” the dignitaries cried, jumping onto the wounded narwhal king’s head? What courage that must have taken! Unbelievable—sheer madness!

“Oh!” Five young ladies, their whale-bone corsets tied too tightly, rolled their eyes and fainted dead away, thus fulfilling their final duty of the evening. Several tall, strapping young gentlemen hurried over, unfastening corsets and fanning them back to consciousness.

Lin Qi arched an eyebrow and smiled, his voice deep, “It was Enzo—undaunted by danger, he finished the beast! A narwhal king—just think, when it’s auctioned, the taxes alone will bring Dunkirk over a million gold coins! All thanks to Enzo!”

Everyone exchanged glances, then broke into applause for Enzo. Lin Qi had spoken nothing but the truth. Why else would Baron Milor have so willingly paid for the banquet, if not for the enormous tax windfall this narwhal king would bring to Dunkirk?

Enzo smiled modestly and remarked, “Gentlemen, you flatter me, but the risks we faced were far from over.”