Eyes (3)
The next morning, Rike murmured in a daze, unable to hide the bewilderment in her voice.
"What on earth is this."
8:40 a.m.
That was the exact time she arrived near the Immigration Office — a full twenty minutes ahead of the scheduled inspection.
"There are this many people?"
Eight eyes darted ceaselessly over her surroundings through the gaps in the hair she had deliberately let fall forward over her face.
Perhaps because she had lived the life of a bureaucrat, busy without a single day's rest, she had never once set foot outside the Crossline Kingdom.
She had known in her head, of course. Borders were places where people came and went by nature, and given the kingdom's geography, it was easy enough to imagine all manner of characters gathering here.
But this went far, far beyond anything she had pictured.
Humans, dragonewts, elves, harpies, ratkins, spirits, golems, insects... and even a tree-like species whose name she couldn't begin to guess.
It was a completely different atmosphere from the Finance Ministry, staffed by humans alone, or the Royal Castle, where other races were few and far between.
For a moment, Rike forgot why she had even come here.
"...Is today some kind of holiday?"
Before her very eyes unfolded the scene of a grand festival of species — as if some celebration were underway.
Just yesterday, walking the streets of the count's domain, she had received the same familiar, pricking stares she always did, for no other reason than being an arachne.
But here at the border, no one threw hateful glances her way. Not a single contemptuous word reached her ears.
"Pardon me."
"Excuse me."
They merely gave the woman standing blankly in the middle of the road a single glance, then lost interest and went on their way.
She was barely managing to overcome this unprecedented sensation of benign indifference, pushing through the crowd toward the main gate of the Immigration Office, when —
"You there, spider woman! Stop!"
A sharp voice pierced her ear from somewhere behind her.
At the same time, gazes came raining down on her.
Ah.
Why did the wariness in that voice, at long last, put her at ease instead?
Right. No matter where you go, there has to be at least one troublemaker looking for a fight.
A short sneer flickered across her lips.
In the end, there was always someone who hated spiders. The border was no different.
Rike turned around and recited the words she had spoken hundreds of times before.
"I am not a monster or a dangerous species — I am an arachne, half human and half spider. If my movements seemed threatening, I apologize."
The explanation flowed out of her naturally.
But something was off.
The person standing before her was not some surly species-bigot, nor one of those young men who hurled subtler contempt her way.
...A girl?
A small girl was looking straight up at her.
"Yes, yes, we know you're an arachne, so please get in line!"
"...I beg your pardon?"
"The line! Everyone here is waiting to get into the office too. Go around back."
She knew full well Rike was an arachne, yet showed not the slightest trace of alarm.
On the girl's chest hung a small name tag.
[ Taste Officer ]
Taste... Officer?
What kind of title was that supposed to be?
A name modeled after the human sensory organs. And the girl wore a uniform that seemed far too official for her age.
Only then did Rike realize that this little girl was a civil servant — an Immigration Officer, the only one at this border.
"Ah, I'm not a visitor. I'm here on an internal audit from the Finance Ministry—"
"There are no exceptions at the border! If you have business with the Immigration Office, please get in line!"
The Taste Officer cut her off firmly and barked the words with cheerful vigor.
At that, Rike faltered for a moment.
- Rike, you're an exception. You can't exactly be called human, can you? Don't misunderstand — it's simply that your species is different. Ho ho ho.
It was nothing like what she had always heard at the Finance Ministry.
[ There are no exceptions. ]
Those words sounded strangely wondrous to her.
She calmly sorted through her thoughts. It most likely meant: whatever your reason, follow the order.
Perhaps this is simply the culture of the Immigration Office.
In a place where so many peoples, species, and races came and went, granting exceptions might mean bending the rules endlessly for one sob story after another.
That must be why they make everyone, no matter who they are, follow the rules to the letter.
Even an auditor. Even, for that matter, some overwhelming great power.
Ah. So that's why they turned away the pilgrimage.
Understanding came quickly. Those people had been refused because they broke the rules.
If the Immigration Office was a place manned by zealots of principle to that degree, then it made sense that they could never tolerate a mere auditor like her skipping the line.
"Please get in line, arachne lady!"
"...Very well."
Then she, too, had no choice but to follow the rules.
She went and stood at the very back of the queue.
"Hm. Hmm."
For some reason, it didn't feel bad at all.
A strange sense of nostalgia stirred in her, and her spider lower half trembled faintly.
But there was one thing Rike didn't know.
The line she was standing in right now was not simply a queue to enter the Immigration Office.
It was the waiting line for Immigration Officer interviews.
The stamp comes down.
- THUD.
And in the same instant, red letters are imprinted on the applicant's documents.
[ REJECTED ]
"Thank you for your honest words. But I'm afraid you cannot join us."
"Tch. Shame. Well, take care."
The man was gone before I even finished.
As I cleared away the rejected paperwork, Melanie clicked her tongue beside me.
"A pity he speaks nothing but the common tongue. Still, he would have been fine otherwise."
This was the interview hall, converted from a meeting room.
The interviews had begun just one day after her arrival.
How had things moved this fast, you ask?
I turned my gaze toward the building right next to the Immigration Office, visible through the window. Hanging there was a small sign that positively reeked of a rush job.
[ Southern Continental Emergency Response Temporary Headquarters ]
That was the reason.
With Erzena having returned to the Holy Order to oppose the Pope, the Intelligence Department had been forced to scrap the southern response plan it had spent half a year preparing.
And to enable even faster responses and on-site command going forward, she had come to the South herself on a temporary assignment.
- Issuing orders through a crystal orb won't do. In times as unpredictable as these, it's better to see the situation firsthand from the front lines.
Thankfully, she stopped short of declaring she would stay at our house.
- You want me to live squeezed in between the princess and the dragon? I'll just book a room at an inn and be done with it.
But thanks to Melanie coming in person, we had managed to set up the interview hall at breakneck speed and gather applicants within a single day.
The result: the Taste Officer handling applicants outside, while the rest of the Five Senses Officers handled incoming travelers.
The interviews were slated to run for three days.
And today was that momentous first day.
Despite it being only morning, we had already seen several dozen applicants.
And we'd been peppered with countless questions.
"What would my annual salary be?"
"Is quitting time guaranteed?"
"Working here means I'd get to meet gorgeous ladies of other species, right?"
...Setting aside that last question, all perfectly reasonable things to be curious about.
The truth is, an Immigration Officer's salary isn't particularly low. It runs about half again what other government civil servants receive.
The reason was obvious.
Unlike other government agencies working safely in buildings adjacent to the Royal Castle, the Immigration Office endures every manner of hardship at the very edge of the realm — the border itself.
On top of that, the responsibility of preventing smuggling and illegal entry, and the punishments for failing to do so, are harsh — hence the commensurate compensation.
Overtime and extra-duty pay flow in steadily as well, so even amid the brutal working conditions, fewer people quit than you might expect.
The only problem is... the ones who endure purely for payday.
At any rate, these conditions apparently proved attractive enough that the number of people responding to the interview invitations Melanie sent out far exceeded our expectations.
Which, of course, meant an equally astonishing assortment of eccentrics came flooding in.
For example...
"Next!"
- Creeeeak... creeeeak...
An applicant entering very, very slowly, at a pace to rival a snail.
A treeherd — one of the slowest species in the world — came into view.
"I... aam... aa..."
Even its speech stretched out looooooong and slow.
"Oh, dear."
The sigh escaped me before I could stop it.
"Please state your name, your place of origin, and your reason for wishing to become an Immigration Officer. I will give you five minutes."
But I already knew.
There was absolutely no way this would end in five minutes.
Only after flipping the hourglass some eight times did the treeherd's interview finally conclude.
He had met every condition.
A kingdom citizen, no criminal record, and fluent in the languages of all five species.
But...
- THUD.
[ REJECTED. ]
Too slow. Rejected.
"I regret to inform you that a maximum of five minutes is allotted per inspection. We hold your talents in high regard, but the temporal circumstances do not align."
"I...ee...seeee..."
"Wefullyregrethisaswellthankyouforthedoorisonyourrighthaveaniceday!"
I thought I was going to lose my mind.
Only after the treeherd spent some two minutes making his way out the door did Melanie and I collapse onto the desk in unison.
"Haaah... lunch is almost here already... How many did we manage to land?"
I glanced down at the documents stamped [PASSED].
"About eight, I'd say. Every one of them honest, with a clean record — and above all, candid about their own desires."
Why do you want to be an Immigration Officer?
The answer itself hardly matters. Money, fame, interest, curiosity — any of it will do.
What we need to weigh is the sincerity the applicant shows when answering.
Because it's precisely when people speak of their desires that their true nature comes out.
Merchant's Secret Technique: Make the other party speak what they desperately want. That much, no one can hide.
I never expected it to serve me so well in interviews, but the effect was better than I'd thought.
"Someone who knows exactly what they want, and what they need, is that much less likely to be swayed by temptation."
Corruption usually springs from material or emotional want, and from greed that oversteps its bounds.
People who know their own desires clearly tend to grasp their own limits rather better, which makes them less likely to commit large-scale misconduct.
"A decent method. If we can't eliminate the risk entirely, then we simply minimize it as much as possible."
Melanie nodded.
"Still, you won't be able to put the successful candidates straight onto the border, will you?"
"Correct. Normally they undergo intensive training at the Immigration Office headquarters for two to three months, followed by a probationary period — barring the rare exceptional case, that is."
"An exceptional case. Like the Taste Officer, you mean."
At her words, I glanced out the window.
- Pweep! Pwee-wee-wee!
There she was — whistle already in her mouth, gesturing wildly as she managed the applicant queue.
"...Honestly, it is quite exceptionally irregular. But she's giving it her all, so I have no intention of making an issue of it."
As Melanie said, the Taste Officer was certainly an exceptional circumstance.
Commissioning a minor with only the briefest training period directly as an officer had been a bold choice.
But there had been good reason for it.
The reason Sita became the Taste Officer was tied closely to the Foreign Ministry's ongoing negotiations with the nomad tribes.
Just then, Melanie glanced at the clock.
"Ah. Now that you mention it, today's the day of the internal audit."
"That's right."
"But they're a bit late. They said nine o'clock, didn't they? It's already half past eleven."
Strange.
The Finance Ministry was, after all, a crowd fanatical about both money and time.
Why hadn't they come yet?
"Then let's see one more applicant and wrap up the morning session. I'll need to contact the Finance Ministry as well."
"Fine. Let's take a short break first, then carry on."
"Next!"
The door opened at once.
- Click, clack. Click, clack.
An unfamiliar footstep followed.
Melanie and I let out a small sound of admiration at the same time.
"Oho."
"Hmm."
An arachne.
Well now, a species we haven't seen yet.
The large, plump spider's lower body seized the eye at once.
Her upper half was impeccable.
A dust-free black suit, hair pulled back in a tight knot.
And though it was small and hard to see, she had even pinned a gleaming golden badge on, perfectly straight.
Save for the bangs hanging down as though deliberately veiling her eyes, her appearance was entirely formal and proper.
Attitude and readiness: passing marks.
I liked her.
One of the essential conditions for an Immigration Officer: wear the uniform immaculately. That is what sets you apart from everyone else.
This woman was the first applicant who had observed that rule thoroughly from the interview chair itself.
"Please introduce yourself."
As Melanie opened calmly, the woman answered.
"Hello. I am Rike Nirweber, of the Interior Minis—"
That was the moment.
- PWEEEEEEE!
Outside, the Taste Officer — having witnessed someone try to cut in line and a scuffle breaking out — blasted her whistle with everything she had.
Whatever came after was drowned out entirely.
But it hardly seemed important, so I simply nodded.
"A pleasure, Ms. Rike Nirweber. If you're an arachne, you won't be needing a chair, I take it. Standing there is fine."
Ordinarily, courtesy dictates offering a visitor a comfortable seat.
But for lamias, arachnes, centaurs — anyone whose lower body is that of a large animal — doing so is considered the height of rudeness.
It would amount to saying, 'If you can't sit in this chair, you don't belong here.'
Besides, given the structure of her lower half, a chair would be far more uncomfortable anyway.
I looked at her and spoke briefly.
"May your guide-thread spin ever true."
The arachne greeting that says, 'Nothing here threatens you.'
Thankfully, she still remembers it.
Rike stared at me blankly for a moment, as if startled.
"...Yes. Thank you."
Her voice sounded as though she had just received her people's greeting from another species for the very first time.
Receiving that gaze, I ran my eye down the list of invited applicants.
"Let's see... Rike. Rike Nirweber..."
But even after reading the list to the very end, her name appeared nowhere on it.
"...Melanie. Ms. Rike isn't on the invitation list."
"What? Let me see that. ...You're right. That can't be."
Melanie, too, scanned the list with a slightly flustered expression.
Had the Intelligence Department made a mistake?
"Excuse me... did you by any chance not receive an invitation from the Intelligence Department?"
"An invitation? No."
Came the crisp reply.
"Ah. A walk-in applicant. Not a bad thing, that."
"Pardon? You're saying we'll just interview someone who isn't on the list?"
"Think about it. If someone shows up in person without even an invitation, that's proof of how badly she wants the job."
she whispered, looking intrigued.
"The element of surprise can be a better hand to play than you'd think."
The element of surprise...
She had a point, to a degree.
Whether she was lying could be verified the moment the Intelligence Department looked into her background, so there'd be no issue of authenticity either.
"Very well. Let's proceed as we are, then."
A situation like this could stand to happen once or twice.
"Ahem! Hm hm!"
Clearing my throat, I asked with a grave expression.
"Ms. Rike Nirweber. What brings you to this institution?"
Now. Speak your desire to me.
What do you want, that you would become an Immigration Officer?
"I am here to conduct the internal audit overseen by the Finance Ministry."
"I see. You wished to perform an audit, and so you came here to— I'm sorry, what?"
Huh.
Hold on.
What did she just say?
"An internal... audit?"
"Yes."
"You didn't come to interview?"
"No."
A calm voice.
She answered, pointing to the gold-coin-shaped badge on her chest.
"I am Rike Nirweber, Chief Auditor of the Finance Ministry under the Interior Ministry. I have been ordered to conduct today's audit of the Southern Border."
A clean, spare, businesslike report.
Not a single word of it was a lie.
Only after a long pause was I finally able to open my mouth.
"...Then why on earth are you only arriving now?"
I'm confused.
You were supposed to come at nine.
It's half past eleven.
Why are you here now?
"I was waiting in the line outside. I was told I couldn't come in otherwise."
"The line? But why would a Finance Ministry official ever need to—"
Just then, a familiar sound reached us.
- Pweep! Pwee-wee! No cutting in line, please!
The Taste Officer's whistle, ringing out with all the enthusiasm she could muster as she dutifully performed the task assigned to her.
About five seconds of silence.
And then...
"I'm so sorry, Auditor!!!!!
I cried out, finally grasping the whole situation.