The Rumored Black Dragon (5)
Gordon tried not to let it show, but he could not stop the faintest bead of sweat from tracing down his brow.
Bluntly put, cutting down every soul in the room while keeping his own hide intact would have been no great difficulty.
But so long as the target of those death-defying blades was his mistress, he could not be certain of eliminating them all and still keeping her safe.
If—even by the slightest chance—she came to harm because of me, I will atone with my life.
It was just as Gordon steeled himself with that vow and began to tighten his grip on the dagger he had drawn in an instant that she spoke.
"Then I'll go up alone."
"My lady!!"
"The only reason I was able to come this far is Gordon—my loyal butler. Without him, I hardly seem like a threat at all, do I?"
She slipped between the man barring her path and Gordon, mediating with those words, and Gordon let out a rough shout the likes of which he had never once directed at her.
"You must not! I cannot say how those men will act if I am not there—and I will not be able to stop them!"
"Or you could simply search me, if you prefer. What will it be?"
"............"
This noblewoman… so many murderous gazes are stabbing at her, choking the air itself, and yet not a single breath of hers falters.
He had not yet seen her face, but from her voice and bearing alone he could tell she was nothing like an ordinary aristocrat. The realization left him speechless, drowning in deliberation.
And then—
"Pass."
"…What?"
The man withdrew the hand that had blocked her way and answered in a low voice.
"Forgive the discourtesy."
"I forgive you. Well then—excuse me. Gordon, come along."
When she even accepted his apology so readily, she gave a natural little nod and at once began clicking her way up the stairs.
"Ah—yes… understood."
Watching a man who had been brandishing a razor-sharp edge moments before dull his blade and apologize at a few words from her, Gordon wore an uncharacteristically blank look for a beat before hastily hurrying after his mistress.
"This is the boss's room."
"Is it all right if I don't knock?"
"…We have no need of such empty formalities. Go in."
"Oh my. Pardon the intrusion."
On the way up to the second floor she sensed a brief stir from below that quickly settled, and guided toward the room that held the purpose of her visit, she opened the door and stepped straight inside.
The chamber she entered was so spare it was hard to believe a crime syndicate's boss lived there.
There was little more than a table and chair set in the center of the room, and a couple of glowstones casting a soft light.
Beyond the table, a proper desk for official work came into view.
For all that a count family's study and a crime boss's quarters ought to have been worlds apart, the documents and carrier-bird letters stacked on that desk stirred a faint sense of kinship in her.
"Hah… well. Sorry the hospitality was a bit rough on the way in."
A husky voice drifted out with a puff of acrid cigarette smoke.
Was it because they were criminals that they could address a noble so rudely—or because they were criminals that they dared? At the very least, that voice carried a brazen confidence that would not yield an inch even to aristocracy.
The first thing that struck the eye was hair of a vivid, burning red.
She had twisted that flame-bright hair back and tied it in a rough knot, leaving bird's-nest tangles everywhere.
Below it, a face marked by a stark, rough scar cut across the eye and cheek—menacing at a glance, yet still unmistakably the face of a handsome woman.
And yet beast ears twitched atop her head as if she had simply plopped on a pair of animal-ear headbands from some theme-park gift shop, and Freyja had to remind herself she was still wearing her hood for comfort.
A beastkin.
I still can't believe those ears are real.
According to her son—who had once been her daughter, and who knew this genre inside and out—this world was home not only to humans but to any number of races that might have stepped out of a film, all living in some kind of harmony.
At the time she had simply thought, I see. Seeing one in the flesh, though, the woman did not look so different from someone who had just come back from an amusement park in high spirits.
Cigarette in one hand, quill in the other, she scratched away at her papers—and her clothes were cut daringly enough at the midriff to bare dark, sun-kissed skin that was strikingly alluring.
"We only did it because we wondered if you might have soldiers stashed somewhere, ready to wipe out the obstacles in your way. So I'd appreciate it if you'd forgive my subordinate's rudeness."
"How thorough of you."
"When you sit at the head of an organization, my creed is to always leave yourself a way to survive."
Tap—
The pen that had been racing across the documents stopped cold and rolled to the side of the desk.
"Right. I'm Fenril—boss of the Red Fang."
She clamped a rather thick cigarette between her teeth and flashed a grin, and those fangs of hers made it plain that no matter how human she looked on the surface, she carried a savagery no different from a beast's.
"A pleasure. I am Freyja Evergarden. I don't imagine I need much further introduction after that, do I?"
The moment Fenril gave her name, Freyja Evergarden—who had not once removed her hood on the way here—pushed it back and offered her own.
"And I trust you already know why I've come this far."
"You should've seen my face when I heard. The lord of a territory, reaching out a hand to the criminals eating away at it."
"Doesn't everyone hope for someone who can solve their troublesome problems? You do. So do I."
"Ha. I like that nerve. It's a different flavor from the arrogance of all those dime-a-dozen upstart nobles."
"Getting to know each other through conversation is a delightful thing, but I'm rather busy, you see. May we get to the point?"
"The point, right. So you want us to buy up all those overflowing valuables from the count's house?"
"Yes. According to Gordon, you've established your main branch—well, it's a little awkward, but I'll call it the main branch for now—here in the Evergarden Territory, while also running branch operations in other territories."
"That's right. Which is why I can sit right here and sort through news from territories that would take days to reach on foot."
Indeed.
That was precisely why Gordon had chosen the Red Fang out of all the criminal outfits nested in the Evergarden Territory.
They had their own exclusive routes running through multiple territories—routes through which valuables acquired in Evergarden could be sold in lands where the transaction costs were lower and the profits higher.
"Of course, we can hardly force goods on you. I've heard you've been harassed by hostile organizations lately… that must be difficult. We'll take care of that problem for you."
"Well now. Plenty of outfits ride a noble's coattails, but for the lord of the territory herself to back us this generously—I'm so honored I hardly know where to put myself."
Freyja's proposal was, for the Red Fang, nothing short of revolutionary.
A territory with poor public order and easy room to operate was also a territory that drew criminals from every corner.
Even the Red Fang, which had set up its main branch here and grown strong enough to claim a whole district, had spilled more blood than anyone could count to get there.
And still, after all that blood, rivals kept coming for them—organizations even banding together to launch raids—so the damage on the Red Fang's side was far from trivial.
And now, rather than demanding tribute, someone was offering a trade that would swell their profits even further and solve the headache that had been plaguing them. From the Red Fang's perspective, it was a proposal so attractive it was hard to find a reason to refuse.
"Well… since it's come to this, growing our size with a noble's backing behind us doesn't sound half bad. Sure, it means putting a collar around my own neck in the process… but a master is only as good as the master. With a countess like you, even if people mock me for being a pet dog, I'd still eat my fill and sleep warm."
"Heh. Loyalty is repaid in kind. That is my creed."
Of course, "hard to find a reason" did not mean there was none.
Accepting this proposal meant binding herself tightly to the countess, until the countess's influence could touch every move she made.
In plain terms, it was putting a collar on herself—and the other end of that leash would be held by the countess.
But a collar was only a word. By that logic, entering a noble's knight order was no different, and Fenril was well aware that the returns would be just as certain.
And so, the longer the conversation went on, the more Freyja believed without a doubt that a favorable outcome was taking shape.
However—
"But I refuse."
"…May I ask why?"
Fenril, who had been responding so positively until now, rejected her outright.
The prideful type, perhaps? In that case she might want us on equal footing rather than under my protection. But then can I be sure she won't overstep? If so…
Even in the face of that knife-edged refusal, Freyja did not let the smile leave her lips as she asked for the reason.
An answer like this had already been within her expectations.
These were people who had abandoned the laws of the world to commit crimes in the first place. She had never imagined it would be easy to put a collar on their boss—and so she had prepared any number of alternative proposals and dozens of approaches for just such a moment.
…And if all else failed, using the Red Fang as bait to make the same offer to another organization was also among her plans.
"More precisely, it's not that I don't want to. It's that I can't."
"You can't? That's a rather ambiguous answer."
"It's just… I'm not even sure this is real, but… hah…"
Freyja waited for the reply, already turning over her next judgment—but Fenril, who until now had stated her opinions without the slightest hesitation, crumpled her expression and hemmed and hawed as if she could hardly bring herself to say it.
"It's… a dragon. Haa… what even is this… tch. Look. A dragon's shown up, they say. Ha! Honestly, I can't even—"
"…Pardon?"
After a brief stretch of hesitation, Fenril finally gave her reason for refusing and took a deep, seething drag of the cigarette in her hand.
And at an answer that soared far beyond any number of proposals and dozens of approaches, Freyja found herself echoing the question before she could stop it.