Who Screens the Screener (3)

Silence. A stillness so dense it threatened to choke the very air pressed down upon the Saintess and me.

"Please answer, Central Officer."

The warm, convivial atmosphere of moments ago had vanished without a trace; she was staring me down with eyes gone frost-cold. The golden halo that had blazed like the sun was darkening by the second, wavering unsteadily.

"..."

But I said nothing. No — I couldn't. I had just heard something rather earth-shattering, and my thoughts were in turmoil.

— Stand down, Mohaim. This is an order.

The voice of the holy knight who stood just behind Erzena, his face a picture of anguished conflict.

Mohaim Espirentse.

I turned my gaze toward the elderly knight with the great scar marring one of his eyes. Only then did it dawn on me who he was: Commander of the Holy Church's 1st Holy Knight Order. Even I, a man with no interest whatsoever in religion, knew that name at least by rumor.

Why on earth is the monster they say only appears when the Church goes to war standing here?

The 1st Holy Knight Order bore the nickname "The Tip of the Most Resolute Blade." They were famous for never setting foot in public over anything short of a matter of grave import to the Church — nothing less than the purging of heretics, internal cleansings, or outright holy war. It was a fact known far and wide that scarcely a decade or so ago, at the Southern Grand Cathedral, they had delivered results that amounted to little short of a one-sided massacre.

And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the commander of that order is traveling with a pilgrimage?

The feeling that something was deeply wrong kept growing. The Church never paraded these men before the world without cause, precisely because of the symbolic weight their name carried. To dispatch the 1st Holy Knight Order was, in effect, to announce that the Church had passed a sentence of death. And yet here, before my very eyes, behind Mohaim, stood a column of knights that looked to be nearly the entire order — the very men once called living strategic weapons — arrayed for the protection of pilgrims bound for the northern holy sites. A wildly contradictory tableau. More precisely: a sight utterly unworthy of their dreadful renown.

I turned my gaze back to the Saintess. But... no, it isn't entirely impossible. Mohaim was one of the strongest knights in all the Church. Pairing a powerful guardian with a figure as monumental as the Saintess was hardly strange. To bring "The Tip of the Most Resolute Blade" along was, in effect, a declaration that this pilgrimage represented the Church itself. An iron-willed commitment to absolute protection. That had to be it. I'm borrowing trouble. I set the suspicion aside. The Church had simply taken every conceivable precaution for her safety. The world was such a turbulent place these days that they had attached this many retainers. Thinking so, I shook my head.

At that moment, the Saintess, evidently unable to bear it any longer, rapped her knuckles on the desk.

"Central Officer."

"Ah — yes."

"I do believe I have given you ample time to think."

Ah, right. I still hadn't answered. Realizing I had been lost in thought long enough to qualify as outright rude, I hurriedly straightened my posture.

"My apologies. The question hardly seemed one to be answered lightly, that's all."

Then, after holding the Saintess's gaze for a moment, I opened my mouth slowly. "...Might I first ask what meaning that question is meant to carry?"

"I simply wish to hear your answer. As the chief officer of the border, you must have seen a great deal in your time."

A lie. I could tell as much from her expression alone. Undisguised hostility. I had no idea what could have made her hate me so suddenly, but something was unmistakably there. Wait — why all of a sudden? Cold sweat trickled down my back. What on earth had I done to deserve this? Strange didn't begin to cover it. The moment she'd learned I was the Central Officer, her eyes had rolled back, she'd let out a peculiar moan, and she'd treated me like a treasured guest — where had that woman gone? And now, a few questions later, she had abruptly transformed into glaring at me like a blood-sworn mortal enemy. I answered perfectly well! What's the problem!? If someone looks you in the eye and asks, "Are you competent?", common sense dictates the reply, "Oh dear, not at all." Answering "Hehe, I'm kind of a big deal" makes you a lunatic. Nobody talks that way. All the more so on official business. As for subduing a fire spirit bare-handed... granted, it had taken a stone-inn gift voucher and an offer of complimentary premium charcoal to manage, but it was still, technically, bare hands — so nothing I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had said was a lie.

I told no lies. In other words, there was nothing to pin on me. At least, not as far as I could tell. Then why on earth—? Even so, I could not for the life of me understand where the Saintess's third question had come from.

Then a flashing clue streaked through my mind. Wait... she's trying to proselytize me, isn't she? From where the Saintess stood, our Crossline Kingdom was a cauldron in which every race under heaven was stirred together. A country where hundreds of cultures and religions tangled and interwove — for the Holy Church, the perfect mission field. The fact that, unlike the continent's south, the Church's influence ran thin here surely played its part as well. Since I didn't look much like a believer, she means to convert me first! It made immediate, perfect sense. In her eyes, I must have looked like a lost little lamb. Which meant that razor-sharp glare was a shepherd's gaze, fixed hungrily upon a sheep with no master. I was an Immigration Officer, the keeper of a nation's border. Convert a man like that, and it went without saying that every future missionary venture would proceed that much more smoothly. So that expression was not hostility at all — it was the look of a hunter seizing an opening. So the seat of Saintess was not something she simply gobbled up for free, after all. I couldn't help but be impressed. Exhausted from a long pilgrimage, in the middle of a formal immigration inspection — and the instant she glimpsed her angle, she went straight for it. She had even skipped the direct question, first lulling my vigilance with talk of petty rumors before driving the real point home like a stiletto between the ribs. Rather than strange... I ought to call it cunning. A flawless fusion of fervent piety and conniving craft. A scheme this covert — one that only someone like me, seasoned by every manner of incident, could barely detect. A terrifying woman.

"Central Officer. Silence is not an answer."

When I kept my mouth shut a while longer, the Saintess pressed again.

"You asked me whether I believe in a god."

Asking twice like this made her resolve to convert me abundantly clear. If I said "I don't believe" here, she would doubtless cling to me until the words "I shall believe in the Lord God" left my lips. Look at those eyes. She glared with the air of jaws that never release their grip once they close. There would be no escaping with a lukewarm answer. I had to commit to a definitive one. And I happened to possess the single finest answer for exactly this occasion.

"To be perfectly honest with you — yes. I do believe."

I affirmed her question. Her golden eyes flooded with certainty.

"Then you—"

But my words were not yet finished.

"However, not the god of the Holy Church."

"What did you say?"

The most perfect method of refusing indiscriminate proselytizing. An invincible line capable of repelling even the old women who latch onto you at the market stalls. I already have a religion. Proselytizing to a person who already held a faith was forbidden at the denominational level — otherwise the religions would be at one another's throats, stealing each other's followers. Every faith had ratified that accord.

At my answer, the Saintess's eyes narrowed to slits.

"Is that so... Might I ask which god it is you believe in?"

I arranged my face into the most apologetic expression I could muster.

"I'm terribly sorry, but on that question, I must remain silent."

The Crossline Kingdom maintained a duty of strict confidentiality. An Immigration Officer must uphold neutrality at all times — politically, religiously, culturally, without exception. It was a duty instituted precisely so that no traveler crossing the border would ever be discriminated against, whatever creed or conviction they carried. And should I carelessly voice my personal convictions here, there was every chance they would be construed as the official stance of the Crossline Kingdom itself. One way or another, I remained an Immigration Officer — the man who shaped our nation's first impression. What I could disclose was whether I believed in a god. Anything beyond that, I do not say.

"Even when I, the Saintess of the Holy Church, am the one asking?"

If it's you doing the asking, all the more reason not to. This was the full extent of what I could offer.

"My apologies."

Nope. Not telling.

"It would run contrary to the oath of an Immigration Officer, and so this officer cannot answer that question."

If you have grievances, by all means take them up with the legal code of the Crossline Kingdom.

At my unwavering voice, she scowled in naked displeasure.

"I see... You believe in a god, yet you will not reveal who..."

To be perfectly frank, there was, in fact, one being I believed in absolutely. Its name was Zero-Accident Record. That one alone is ever true and faithful, and ever rewards my labors. It even bestows money and paid leave. If that is not a god, then what on earth is? Ooh, O great Zero-Accident Record of 297 days! O being whose very name is beautiful beyond all measure! Look down upon our Immigration Office with performance bonuses and paid vacation, we humbly pray!

Watching my expression turn devout in real time, she gave a hollow laugh and spoke.

"How boldly you bare yourself, Central Officer. I had expected you to wriggle free until the very end."

"How could I possibly lie before you, Saintess — the very voice of the Lord God?" I capped off the answer with a dash of well-measured flattery.

"Thank you for honoring my faith. May grace and glory alone attend the Holy Church — so this officer, too, prays."

Ah, even by my own reckoning, that was a flawless answer. I could make a living as a diplomat.

"You... are truly shameless beyond all words..."

So why, then, was the Saintess's face contorting?

"If not for my promise to Mohaim, you would—"

Erzena began, spitting the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠words as though biting down on them — and just then, the lifeline that would finally rescue me made its appearance.

"Forgive me, Officer. I'm late. Here is the stamp."

"Ah, timed to perfection. Good. Hand it over at once."

It was my attendant, off doing who knew what all this while. I snatched the stamp from his hand and declared in my very brightest voice:

"Thank you for your long patience, Saintess. It appears we have come to the end of our interview."

"...Do not think this is the end, Central Officer."

I genuinely could not fathom what this woman's problem was. Time to stamp [Entry Approved] and send her on her way. My skin was crawling. Displeasing the high and mighty would only ever cost me.

But the stamp was not the only thing my attendant had brought.

"Central Officer, please look over this as well, if you would."

He handed me a thick bundle of documents.

"And this would be?"

"The cargo manifests."

"Why on earth give these to me...?" I was the man in charge of traveler inspections. This sort of thing belonged to the Touch Officer or the Taste Officer — it ought to go to them.

The attendant answered. "The Touch Officer was reviewing these until just now. He asked me to deliver them to you, Central Officer."

"Hmm. Is that so? Still — let us finish the Saintess's inspection first."

Distinguished guests came first, after all. This sort of thing could be resolved at any time afterward. I pushed the bundle to one side and turned my head forward once more. Facing the Saintess as she glared at me with a scowl of ferocity without equal, I spoke.

"Saintess. Welcome to the Crossline Kingdom."

I brought the stamp down. No —

the very instant I tried —

— Whooooosh. Flap, flap.

Wind gusted through the gap of the open gate and flipped several pages of the document stack. Perhaps because of that, my gaze drifted naturally toward the papers. Dense, tightly written lists of hundreds — thousands — of items leapt into view.

"Good grief. Horrifying."

Just looking at it made my head swim. I moved to shut the file at once — and then something seized my attention. "Hm?"

Red pen circles had been drawn all across the list. I swept through them at speed. Hold on. These circles... every last one is arms and weaponry. Every ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠manner of weapon and implement of war, along with medical supplies. The problem was that they were inked in red, again and again, on nearly every page. And in the corner of the final document, writing scrawled in a frantic hand revealed itself:

With underline after underline slashed beneath the words, there was no mistaking it — the Touch Officer's handwriting.

Wh-why are there so many? And what's this about sealed wagons? I swiftly retraced the situation in my head. The pilgrimage numbered 3,374 souls. Of those, roughly 400 were holy knights. The remainder were all civilians, merchants, and sightseers, plain and simple. Yet the count of arms and armaments topped ten thousand. Impossible. Too many — far too many. A volume of weaponry nearly three times the headcount. In that instant, everything that had nagged at me all this while flashed past my mind's eye. The Saintess's unprecedented pilgrimage. The escort of the 1st Knight Order. A hoard of supplies and weapons past all reason.

Take each item on its own, and there was no problem at all. The Saintess's pilgrimage might spring from altruism, or perhaps adventurous spirit. The knight order rode along to protect her. The abundance of goods would be for the brothers of the north, who dwelt in comparatively barren and hostile lands. Immaculate motives, without a single flaw. But pile them all together...

The Church's mightiest knight order is heading north alongside the Saintess, hauling an enormous quantity of war materiel.

The meaning changed entirely.

I closed the documents without a sound. And then, in a voice gone low and heavy, I spoke.

"This is no pilgrimage."

Both of their faces froze. Slowly, I set the stamp down.

"Before your entry is granted, this officer must ask one final question of his own, Saintess."

Erzena gave no answer. "..." She merely glared at me, her fists clenched so tightly they had gone white. I took that gaze head-on, and reached — not for the stamp, but for the hourglass sitting beside it.

"A very simple question."

Five minutes' time. An inspection that could have been brought safely to its close. A procedure that could have passed without a single hitch — I wind it back.

"What is your true purpose in going north?"

Once more, the sand began to fall.