The Southern Border Is Fine (3)
The answer came without a beat of hesitation.
"Crain McKenzie. Everyone back there works for me—we're escort detail for the Halas Trading Company. What's in there is salted fish. Twelve barrels total, headed for the active volcanic zone in the western continent. That enough for you?"
Halas Trading Company.
I rifled through my memories quickly.
Not one of our kingdom's companies.
But I had heard of it. The Halas Trading Company was famous as one of the merchant houses that ruled the southern coastlands.
I flicked my eyes over the tarp covering the wagon and caught sight of a large anchor-shaped crest.
The attendant gave a nod. "Crest matches. They mostly operate in the south, but they do export regional specialties from time to time."
"I see."
Crain let out a contemptuous snort at our little exchange. "Quite the suspicious lot, aren't you. You think we might be lying or something?"
"As Immigration Officers, we're required to doubt everything. If that offended you, I do apologize."
But there was still something he hadn't answered—where he hailed from. I extended my hand toward him.
"By the way, are you affiliated with any mercenary company? Coming from the south, I'd have guessed the Philippa Company, but I don't see their mark on you."
"..."
Crain stared down at my outstretched hand for a moment, then scrunched up his face and gave a curt reply. "Never joined one."
My eyes narrowed at that. "...A free mercenary, then."
Free mercenaries. At the border, there were exactly two groups you had to regard with suspicion above all others: merchants and mercenaries.
Merchants were creatures driven utterly by money. Which was why, every so often—very every so often—prohibited goods would 'accidentally' find their way mixed into a trading company's wagon as it crossed the border.
Still, they at least cooperate with entry regulations, so their danger level isn't especially high.
Some of them did try to slip you a bribe and ask you to look the other way, but those sorts could simply be thrown in a cell and be done with.
But there were those who were greedier still, who treated rules and discipline like a dog's dinner.
Free mercenaries were exactly that kind.
Those belonging to an actual company are at least under management.
A company's reputation tied directly to its contracts, so mercenary companies were famously ruthless about keeping their members in line. Free mercenaries were another breed entirely. They were the sort who considered morality and regulation secondary concerns, so long as they had their own strength to rely on.
They came pre-installed with the mentality of 'as long as I don't get caught.'
I'd caught dozens—hundreds—of them by now. So a prejudice built on fact was simply unavoidable.
Not all of them are like that, but they're always in the risk pool.
Reckless suspicion was to be avoided, but letting my guard down was not an option.
"Is it a problem, me being a free mercenary?"
Crain spoke up, sounding displeased—apparently he'd sensed something in my gaze.
"Not at all. We don't restrict entry based on identity."
I smoothed the conversation along. All that remained to verify now was the cargo.
I withdrew my still-outstretched hand and turned my gaze toward the wagon.
"Of all things, fish."
Hauling fish all the way to an active volcano where not a single drop of water fell. Quite the unusual destination.
Even with the salt packed over them, the freshness has to be shot.
The west was said to be barren in a different sense than the north. Where the north was a dangerous environment dominated by monsters, the west was one of extremes—desert and active volcanoes. Delivering fish there was something I'd never once heard of in all my time as an Immigration Officer.
"Does fish actually sell in the west? There are probably people there who don't even know what a fish is."
"Hell if I know. I'm just the guy hauling the goods."
A brusque answer—but a fair one. That would be something only the one who ordered the delivery and the one who caught the fish would know.
Calmly, I organized the information I'd been given.
A trading company from the coastlands. A stomach-churning fish stench. A free mercenary serving as escort detail.
If he was an escort rather than a merchant, his rough appearance posed no problem—he was simply doing the job he'd been hired for. And if the goal was transporting goods, an intimidating face was actually an asset. Fewer people picking pointless fights with you, and bandits with murder in their eyes wouldn't dare touch a hired blade anyway.
Identity confirmed, company name matches, cargo is legal.
Which left exactly one procedure remaining: inspecting the wagon and its cargo.
"Very well. I'll now inspect the wagon."
For an instant, Crain's eyes shifted to wariness—then quickly hardened into irritation.
"Make it quick. We're short on time. If the fish spoils, you're taking responsibility for it."
"It shouldn't take that long. Shouldn't, that is..."
The problem was that stench—so vicious it had numbed my nose. I was standing several paces away from the wagon and I was still fighting down nausea.
If it was this bad out here, what on earth would it be like inside?
What it would be like? Hell, presumably.
"Hmm... do we really have to check this?"
When I muttered this, making absolutely no effort to hide how badly I didn't want to go in, the attendant answered with firm resolve. "You must, Central Officer. It's a mandatory inspection item."
Funny how you're breathing through your mouth right now too, aren't you?
"Would you care to go in my place? You may become an Officer yourself someday, and I think it would be good for you to experience this sort of thing in advance."
"This duty belongs to the Central Officer. A mere attendant such as myself could never presume to stand in. You must proceed by principle."
Then he added, in a quiet voice: "There are no exceptions."
You pick THIS moment to invoke principle, do you?
"The truth is, I have a phobia of fish."
"I faint at the sight of one."
Not a single word of sympathy.
"Didn't you say you were going to eat eel with your wife?"
"...Did I? When?"
I still remembered it perfectly. This man, going on about how his wife had already prepared eel and wine so they could make a second child.
'And now you faint at the sight of fish?'
Lies only work when they're at least a little convincing, you know.
The attendant studiously avoided my murderous glare. "Ah—hurry and go in, Officer, or the inspection will fall behind schedule."
"..."
There was nothing for it. I couldn't exactly dig my heels in and refuse an inspection in front of the very person being inspected.
I turned my head and called a name. "...Elaine."
— Jolt.
Elaine, who'd been standing far behind me valiantly enduring the fish stench, jumped out of her skin.
"Would you care to come inside with me?"
For her, this would be a valuable experience too.
Living as a princess, when would she ever get the chance to handle fish?
A rare experience that only the border could offer. A wonderful opportunity to broaden Elaine's horizons.
It was absolutely, positively not because I didn't want to die alone in there.
Anyway. No.
"If you come in with me, I'll show you the full cargo inspection procedure."
Full course, soup to nuts. Come along, shall we?
— Shake shake shake shake shake.
She whipped her head side to side so violently it nearly kicked up a wind. Through the gap in her hood, her expression was vividly, unmistakably screaming absolutely, absolutely not.
Had she ever shown this much aversion toward me before?
"What's the holdup? You inspecting or not?"
Now even the mercenary was rushing me.
I heaved a long sigh. As an Officer, I could only afford to make a spectacle of myself up to a point.
"Haa. Let's go in."
— Clunk, clunk. Flutter.
I stepped up onto the footboard and walked straight into the hell of fish stench. The moment I peeled back the tarp, twelve wooden barrels emerged from the darkness within.
The wagon had clearly seen years of use—a sizable crack ran across the middle of the floor.
— Creak.
An ominous sound the moment I stepped on it.
"Hm."
I frowned down at that crack for a long while. "Bold of them to attempt a continent-crossing with this thing."
But that wasn't the real problem.
"Ugh. Dammit."
Even breathing through my mouth, the smell bored straight down into my lungs.
"Hurk! Hey, shut the window!"
From far off, somewhere inside the administrative office, came the sound of the olfactory officer retching, drifting over the windowsill. For a werewolf with senses that sharp, it must have felt like the smell was right under his nose. For his sake as much as anything, I needed to check this over and send it on its way fast.
Just then, Crain barked at me. "Don't leave it open so long! The fish'll spoil!"
"Ah—yes. Understood!"
What exactly could be so urgent that he fussed like that? I wondered.
Perhaps my patience with the mercenary's rudeness had finally run its course, because the attendant murmured quietly, "I have no desire to let that man through."
"The world isn't made entirely of courteous people. His kind exists too."
Presumably exposure to sunlight and open air degraded the merchandise, or some such thing.
— Clunk.
I eased open the innermost of the sealed barrels, and along with a thick, briny waft, a cluster of fish heads matted in salt came into view.
"Uuuugh, I really, really don't want to do this..."
It was common knowledge that anyone hiding something tucked it into the very place they least wanted to touch. And an Officer's duty was to dig into exactly those places.
What did that mean, you ask?
"Hooo. Going in."
It meant I had to look at the bottom of that barrel with my own two hands.
I rolled up my sleeve, parted the fish and salt, and plunged my arm into the barrel.
— Squelch. Squelch.
"Uaaaaagh..."
"Uuuurk..."
Slimy. Damp. Gooey and clingy and sticky, all at once. A shiver crawled up my arm and lodged itself in my spine.
Even the attendant, who'd tagged along behind me, was grimacing like he'd rather die. If that's how you feel, imagine how I'm doing.
A short while later, only after my fingers had reached the very bottom of the barrel did I pull my arm out and nod. "Nothing unusual to report. Clean."
"Yes, sir."
Then I turned my body toward the eleven wooden barrels still awaiting my touch with bated breath.
Eleven to go.
"We're doing... all of them, right?"
"It's principle. Cargo inspections are thorough."
Dammit all.
"Barrel twelve, confirmed."
My right arm was now composed entirely of salt and fish, or thereabouts.
I emerged from the wagon, my expression frozen solid, and said, "Towel."
"Here you are, sir."
The attendant, who'd been waiting with a clean cloth at the ready, hurried over. "You've worked hard, Central Officer."
The moment our eyes met, I gave a small flick of my gaze upward. Toward the top of the fortress wall.
"I believe we'll be needing a statue."
"...!"
The upward glance. The word statue. The attendant grasped my meaning at once, hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "I'll prepare it immediately."
And with that, he stepped past me and set off toward the wall.
Crain watched him go. "What's that about? Where's your friend off to? And what in the blazes is a 'statue'?"
"Nothing at all. Just that one towel won't be nearly enough."
I flicked the horrible liquid clinging to my arm and answered as if it were nothing.
— Swipe. Swipe.
No matter how many times I scrubbed, the smell wouldn't come out.
'Dammit, it's going to soak into my uniform too.'
And sure enough—Elaine, who'd been hovering about ten paces from me, had somehow drifted a full twenty paces away and stood rooted to the spot, not moving a muscle.
"Elaine?"
"..."
No answer came back.
— Step.
I took a single step toward her.
— Sliide.
She retreated exactly one step. Like she'd hit an invisible wall, she yielded not a single inch of distance.
The barrier of stench was simply too thick, too formidable.
"...Please just stay right there. Don't come any closer."
— Nod nod nod.
Visibly relieved.
What was this melancholy feeling in my chest?
Just then, Crain clicked his tongue in irritation. "So are we done here or not? That took forever. Don't know why you have to be so damn rigid about everything."
"We're nearly finished."
The inspection had borne fruit, at least. It really was nothing but fish.
"Fine. The goods check out, your destination's clear, so I'd say you're in the clear."
Regardless of his attitude, there was nothing under the regulations to take issue with. Crain had provided nearly everything we'd asked of him, and the cargo was simple foodstuffs—not even subject to restriction.
Some people were naturally this unpleasant, and I'd seen my share of them. No real reason to take offense.
I gave a small smile. "You may now proceed inside the administrative office to receive your entry permit."
"About bloody time. Now we're finally speaking the same language."
At last, Crain's face relaxed into something almost relieved, as though he could see the finish line.
I let my gaze on him drift slowly upward. Somewhere along the way, the attendant had climbed atop the distant fortress wall, and he was waving a hand at me.
Beside him stood a massive three-meter statue, sword raised, utterly motionless.
The signal: all was ready.
I called out to Crain just as he was about to enter the Immigration Office. "Ah—one last thing, if I may."
"You're a stubborn one, aren't you. What now?"
I held his gaze for a moment—then pointed at the cracked floor of the wagon.
"What is it you've got hidden down there?"
The mercenary's face went stiff.