An Offer You Can't Refuse (1)
The morning of Monday, that most cursed of days.
"Miserable morning, fellow examiners."
The Olfactory Officer, who had slunk through the door with barely a second to spare before the work bell, growled like a man begging for death. For a nocturnal werewolf, precious little in this world hurt more than waking up in the morning — and if that morning happened to be a Monday, so much the worse.
"Hwaaahm. So, Gustatory Officer. Good weekend? Getting used to examiner work yet?"
At the languid, yawning question, the Gustatory Officer — who had been sitting slumped in a corner with glazed-over eyes — shot to her feet and bellowed:
"Ah! Werewolves are famous for subsisting on raw meat and favoring expressions related to the moon! Particularly on nights of the full moon, the whole pack gathers to feast, then climbs to a high place and howls together!"
"Um... Gustatory Officer?"
"Not only that, their sense of smell is so extraordinarily developed that they can track even the faintest of scents without ever losing it, and—"
The Olfactory Officer turned her head and looked at me, watching the whole spectacle with deep satisfaction.
"Central Officer, sir. What exactly did she eat?"
"Oh, nothing much. I just gave her a bit of retraining over the weekend."
"I beg your pardon?"
The man was covered in fur from head to toe, meaning he had probably never once known what cold felt like in his life — yet in this moment, and this moment only, he shuddered as if he were standing naked in the January north wind.
"Wh-what in the world did you do to her? She's been here less than a month and she's already been retrained...?"
"She sprayed water on fire spirits."
"She had it coming."
The Olfactory Officer accepted it without a flicker of hesitation. Well, it was about time I brought the Gustatory Officer back to her senses anyway. Let this go on, and she'd be doing it on the job too.
"Gustatory Officer. That will be quite enough. Your retraining is complete."
"Humans boast the largest population of any race on the continent, distinguished by exceptional adaptability and sociability! Furthermore, their reproductive compatibility is superb, and countless half-bloods have been born mixing blood with any number of other races, such as—"
"That's enough."
"'Gustatory Officer' is one of the official titles of the Southern Border immigration examiners, a post modeled after the five senses and charged with the sense of taste, which—"
No good. I overworked her. She's broken.
"Sita. Stop!"
"Hyagyaaak!"
Only when I called her by name instead of her title did she finally jolt back to herself. The light had returned, at last, to those glazed eyes.
"C-Central Officer, sir? Is it time for the test already? But I haven't finished reading—"
"Your retraining is over. You may stop."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Th-then I don't have to take the retest? I don't have to read the complete compendium of continental races again?"
Faint hope and thick mistrust, mingling in equal measure in that one question. Well, of course. I'd repeated finish all of this and I'll let you go a good few dozen times over two days. She wasn't about to believe me easily anymore.
Fine. One last little quiz, then.
"Hmm. What race is described on page 24 of volume 3 of the compendium?"
"Quarter Kraken! The traits of a half-human, half-kraken hybrid!"
"Pass. Return to your post."
At the word pass, the Gustatory Officer hopped up and down on the spot.
"Hooray! I'm free! Hooraaaay! Sita is free! I can go home now!"
"You are not free. It is work time."
"Ehhh? Why?"
"Because today is Monday."
"Ehhh..."
The light died in her eyes all over again. Watching her shamble zombie-like back to her post, the Olfactory Officer laughed out loud.
"Congratulations. You've set a new record. I got my retraining in my first year on the job, but one month in? Impressive."
Right — the Gustatory Officer now held the title of fastest retraining completion in bureau history. Not exactly cause for laughter, though. Especially not from you, you werewolf.
"Olfactory Officer. And you — have a seat with this officer for a moment, won't you."
"I... what? No — pardon, sir?"
Those deep, black wolf eyes went perfectly round. Just like the Gustatory Officer's had.
"Wh-why? I mean — why, sir?"
'Why, sir' is what you save for your friends, you mangy mutt.
"Did you think this officer wouldn't notice you slipping out early on Friday? A full hour early, no less, and without so much as a report? We should have a little chat about that."
"...But how did you—"
"Into the meeting room. Now."
Had yourself a fine full-moon weekend with the family, did you? I didn't get a minute of rest.
The two remaining examiners watched the Olfactory Officer trail his tail along the floor as he slunk powerlessly into the Room of Truth, grinning like they were enjoying the best show of the season.
"That's not a wolf, that's a dog. A dog."
"That's speciesist, Hearing Officer. Even if it is entirely accurate. Hohoho."
You two aren't exempt either, you bitches.
"Hearing Officer. And Touch Officer. You're next."
"Whaaat?!"
"How many times did this officer tell you not to drink while in uniform? And yet there you were on Friday night, drinking yourselves stupid in the market district. The both of you."
"Gahk!"
The two women flinched as though struck dead center.
"And you, Hearing Officer — you had a man on either arm and were blowing the bottle horn for all you were worth, weren't you?"
Five hundred years old and you still haven't grown up, you long-eared elf.
And Touch Officer — your hair is made of tentacles, not your brain. And you tagged along anyway?
The two examiners put on the very same expression the Olfactory Officer had worn.
"...But how did you—"
An elf and a tentacled woman in immigration officer uniforms — how many of those could there be? The whole story had spread far and wide.
"Everyone except the Gustatory Officer, into the meeting room. Now!"
Might as well grind all three of you down at once.
"Eeheehee... eehehehehe... retraining... is fun..."
Only the Gustatory Officer cackled darkly as she took in the whole scene.
The results of the retraining were spectacular.
"You can't stop there! Keep moving!"
"This, and this. Where did these come from? Hm? It doesn't match what you just told me!"
"Five minutes — no, two. Talk fast! Who are you, exactly?!"
"Under Article 2, Section 28 of the Immigration Regulations, third-grade artifacts may only be brought in bearing the certification seal of the National Alchemy Association...!"
About an hour later, I nodded in deep satisfaction as I watched the four examiners inspect the inbound cargo faster and sharper than they ever had before.
"I should do this more often."
Look at that — the Olfactory Officer had already cleared an entire shipping crate. The Hearing Officer, an elf no less, wasn't lounging about in the slightest; she was grinding her own attendant into the dirt.
To see the kind of passion we usually glimpsed only in the days right before a departmental inspection — on a Monday morning, of all things. This was nothing short of a miracle.
"At this rate, we might even break the record for most travelers processed in a single day."
That was how fast the work was moving — not a single mouse of paperwork was scurrying over to my side of the hall. The Touch Officer had simply taken five travelers on at once.
I was admiring this rare sight of my subordinates actually working when my attendant came over, holding the crystal orb.
"Central Officer, sir. It's nearly time for the regular report."
"Ah, right. Today's Monday, isn't it."
That was a close one. I nearly forgot.
Every Monday was the day we reported the border situation to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Royal Castle had to know what went on at the border — it was one duty that absolutely could not be skipped.
I wonder what the Minister will have to say today.
ZERO ACCIDENTS
— 97 DAYS —
I deliberately took up a position where the signboard would be clearly visible, angled squarely toward the orb. "Well? Can you see the zero-accident board clearly?"
"Perfectly, sir."
Ninety-seven days. Did he have any idea how much blood, sweat, and misery I had poured into keeping that streak alive? The Minister had to see this. Three more days without an incident and the performance bonus was mine — and that much, I would protect no matter what.
We'd handled Friday's mess cleanly, so there was no need to bring it up. Which meant the streak wouldn't break. Good. Just keep it exactly like this.
"Connecting now, sir."
The attendant breathed mana into the crystal orb. Light flared forth, and the image of a gaunt, skeletal man buried beneath a mountain of paperwork swam into view.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. Scribble, scribble.
Eyes bleary with exhaustion raced down documents at a frightening speed, and the only sound drifting out of the orb was the ceaseless scratching of the quill in his hand.
So our Minister gave up his weekend again and is pulling an all-nighter, is he.
"Ahem! Good morning, Minister."
Only after I coughed loudly and on purpose did his gaze finally lift from the page.
"— Huh? What the— why is this thing on?"
That's not the reaction I was expecting. I could see his secretary scrambling over in a panic, fumbling for the orb.
"Minister! It's time for the regular report. Please don't turn it off!"
"— Regular report? Today's Monday?"
The secretary gave an embarrassed smile as she set the twenty-fourth teacup down on the Minister's desk.
"— Ah, damn it all. The doctor told me to stop staying up nights."
"It seems you've had quite a lot on your plate lately, Minister. Thank you for your service to the kingdom."
"— Don't thank me. It's the country's fault for parking the continent's biggest crossroads on my desk."
Our Minister must really be worn thin. He was saying things that would get anyone else hounded straight out of office.
"Then I'll keep it brief and give my report, Minister. Last Friday—"
"— Oh, right. Already reviewed it. Moving on."
"..."
Report concluded. Three seconds flat. I haven't even opened my mouth.
"Er... are you quite certain, sir?"
"— The fire spirits nearly torching your entire workplace because of the Gustatory Officer, and the Hearing and Touch Officers getting hauled off by the guard patrol on a public disturbance charge after drinking with men? I know all of it."
This time, it was my turn to wear the expression my subordinates always made.
"...But how did you—"
"— Margrave Reyes, the lord of the territory you're stationed in, contacted me directly. Asked whether something had happened to the immigration office lately. So I looked into it."
Ah, damn it all.
This is exactly why I keep telling them not to do things that land us in trouble. Of all the ears in the world, it had to reach the Margrave's.
He squeezed his eyes shut, gave me a look that said pathetic, then shifted his gaze to the signboard behind me.
"— My, my. Central Officer. Ninety-seven days without an accident? Only three days left until your bonus? Impressive stuff."
"Ah, yes, sir. Indeed. Thanks to my diligent subordinates and to you, Minister, we've been enjoying days of peace and plenty."
"— Is that so? Thanks to you, you say?"
The instant the words left my mouth, his eyes gleamed, and a wicked chuckle came crackling through the orb.
"— Erase it."
A death sentence.
"N-n-n-n-n—Minister! I handled that! I mean, this officer resolved the matter perfectly! There wasn't the slightest problem, I swear it!"
"— If there hadn't been a problem, it wouldn't have reached my ears, would it? I'm drowning as it is, and now the one person I trusted pulls this on me? Stop wasting my time."
"Ugh, but—!"
"— But? Are you defying a direct order?"
"No, sir! I mean yes— I mean no, sir!"
"— Erase it. Or else take responsibility, march yourself up here, and write your formal letter of apology at the Royal Castle in person."
I gritted my teeth at those diabolical options.
There was nothing I wanted more than to keep the zero-accident record intact. But trudging to the Royal Castle to submit a formal apology in my fourth year as an immigration examiner? That was even worse.
We border-post misfits already got sneered at as country bumpkins by the Ministry folk living soft in the Royal Castle — imagine the laughter if word got out that I'd made the trip just to be scolded.
No way around it, then. There was exactly one thing I could do.
Swallowing a sob, I walked to the signboard and picked up the eraser.
"...You'll accept it if I erase it, sir?"
"— Spotless. Not a trace left behind."
Ah, my hard-earned days. Scattered to the wind, just like that.
The moment I raised my hand to wipe away the '97' I had so lovingly chalked up, the Minister spoke again.
"— Or, tell you what. Do one job for me, and I'll pretend Friday's little incident never happened."
The answer came instantly.
"I'll do it."
"— I haven't even told you what it is yet."
"Doesn't matter. As long as the zero-accident record survives, this officer will do anything."
"— Have you gone mad for bonuses?"
"Coming from a merchant's son, sir, that's a compliment."
Three more days of holding out, and three months' salary would land in my lap as a bonus. What couldn't I endure for that?
While the Ministry folk whiled away their days in comfort at the Royal Castle, we were the ones breaking our backs out on the frontier. I'd earned at least this much.
"— Good."
Seeing both my eyes blazing with zeal and resolve, the Minister finally shoved aside the papers he'd been grinding through, laced his fingers together, and rested his chin on them.
"— Roughly six days ago, a pilgrimage of the Holy Church was organized in the Mahalan Kingdom, down in the southern continent. A long route, I hear — all the way to the continent's north."
The Mahalan Kingdom. I remembered it. It was the homeland of that farmer — the very last person this officer had screened on Friday. He'd mentioned it was a place where faith in the Lord God ran deep.
"A pilgrimage, sir. It's been quite a while, hasn't it? The last one I recall was summer of last year."
Pilgrims came rarely, but steadily. People who wandered the world to behold holy sites and relics, or who simply went wherever their faith led them. They were almost uniformly docile and cooperative, strongly inclined toward dialogue and understanding rather than violence — which was why we examiners rather liked them as a group.
Besides, their numbers were always small, so the screening never took long. The finest of guests, you might call them.
"How many, sir? Twenty? Thirty?"
The largest pilgrim group we'd ever processed in one go had numbered about fifty. A band that size, we could handle standing on our heads.
"— It's a big one. Seven hundred, give or take."
...I must have misheard.
"...What is this — has a war broken out somewhere? Are those refugees, sir?"
"— Precisely seven hundred and twenty-six are on the manifest the Intelligence Department sent over, and if you count the people expected to join along the way, you're looking at nearly a thousand. Perhaps more."
Twenty times the usual estimate.
The sheer weight of that number made my head swim for a moment. That was peak-season foot traffic — the kind you only saw at year's end or during the great holy days. I was already straining to process two hundred travelers a day by myself, and a thousand were going to descend on us at once? Even dividing the work among myself and the Five Senses Officers, that meant an extra two hundred and fifty souls per person?
"You've overshot the joke, Minister. I don't recall us being that close."
"— Care to have a look at the manifest the Intelligence Department sent over? There's a whole mountain of it here."
He gestured, and there indeed the documents lay stacked in a small mountain. So that was what he'd been processing without pause all this time.
I took a slow, deep breath. Think of the zero-accident record. Yes. Zero accidents.
"Hoo... hoooo... All right. Fine. Fine! We can manage that much. We'll simply pull an all-nighter, that's all. No — even two days of overtime would—"
"— That's not the problem, Central Officer."
But the Minister still wasn't finished.
With a suddenly grave face, he picked up a single sheet of paper.
"— Will you recognize this woman?"
There was more to this devilish offer?
I turned my eyes to the page — and there, sketched in fine detail, was the portrait of a woman with sky-blue hair. A beautiful woman with brilliant golden eyes, wearing a necklace set with the sigil of the Church.
I knew exactly who she was.
"Saint Erzena... isn't she the single most important figure in the entire Holy Church, sir?"
"— Correct. Good. You know her."
Saint. There was no one alive who didn't know the word.
The Saint was the voice of God — an agent chosen by the divine directly, venerated within the Church as the person closest to God, one of the few whose absolute rank, status, and standing were acknowledged by all. Even a man as indifferent to religion as I am knew her name. She was that famous.
So why was the Minister bringing her up now, of all moments?
Wait.
He wouldn't.
"Minister."
"— That's right."
"Oh, come on. Enough joking, sir. Please."
Even a joke stops being funny once it rolls past the second and third verse. What on earth is wrong with him today?
Despite my desperate plea, the Minister finally spat out the words I dreaded most.
"— The Saint has joined the pilgrimage."
The scream echoed through the meeting room.