Whack-a-Mole (3)
“Who the hell wrote this?! I heard yelling from upstairs first thing this morning!”
“Mr. Stefan, did this go through review?”
The Imperial Audit Department was peaceful as ever today.
One clerk dashed down the hallway clutching documents, while another, realizing he was the responsible party they'd just been hunting for, quietly slipped out the door.
This had been the general state of the Audit Department since the Normalization Decree.
The Empire was normalizing.
The auditors were normalizing—straight to death.
Sera Klein sat amid the commotion, reading a single report.
Ready for final approval stamp.
Lamal Bandit Gang subdued.
Prisoners secured, seized goods documented, internal collaborators apprehended.
No signs of non-compliance from the Kaindel Count family.
[Origin and Backer of Some Seized Goods Unknown.]
Sera's hand hovered over the stamp, then paused.
One stamp and it was done.
But the Audit Department never skimped on stamps—and that's how trouble brewed. The same file could come back three times thicker, with just the names changed.
“Sera Klein.”
Stefan looked up from the desk beside her. The man looked like he was dying of exhaustion.
“You still reading that? Isn't the Kaindel case closed?”
“It can be closed.”
Stefan's face twisted at those words alone.
In the Audit Department, “It can be closed” usually meant it wouldn't be. Similar phrases included “Review possible,” which generally meant no going home today.
“Because of the Lamal thing?”
Sera didn't answer Stefan's question right away.
The report cover read “Lamal.” Bandit gang, unofficial policing, heir's private militia. Barely enough pretext for an imperial auditor to head to a rural county.
But in these times? Plenty.
Stefan eyed her wearily, then added one more line.
“Or is it because of Young Master Kaindel?”
Sera's gaze fell on the name atop the report.
Cian Kaindel.
He'd seemed a touch stranger in person than on paper. Provided all required records, dodged unfavorable terms. Acted like he was hiding something without erasing traces.
Too tidy for a criminal, too cautious to call innocent.
And above all, intriguing.
An auditor's intrigue wasn't fondness. More like... hard to ignore.
“At first.”
Stefan's face crumpled further at her words.
“At first it was Young Master Kaindel?”
“...”
“So what now?”
Sera flipped the report open again. Her fingertip stopped at the same spot.
[Origin and Backer of Some Seized Goods Unknown.]
Lamal made a fine pretext.
But seeing it firsthand? The case was dirtier than that.
“Who knows.”
Stefan shut his eyes briefly.
The face of a man who'd just heard the most exhausting reply.
“We don't have the manpower.”
“I know.”
“And you're still going yourself.”
Sera folded the report.
Manpower shortage was real. Reports piled up, empty chairs too. His Majesty's normalization zeal showed no signs of waning.
“That's why I'm going personally.”
Stefan said no more. Instead, he pulled a travel permit from his drawer.
“Heading down the southern highway?”
Sera nodded, and Stefan stamped it.
“Better reach the inn by tonight. Not your taste, Auditor, but safest spot on the route.”
Safety.
Sera Klein put little stock in the word.
Longtime auditors learned: danger rarely came sword-first. It arrived meek as a puppy.
“Thank you.”
Sera took the permit and left the office.
Behind her, someone yelled again.
“Mr. Stefan! Did this match with External Support Recovery?”
External support.
The term snagged briefly, but Sera didn't stop.
The White Stag Inn where I arrived lived up to its name.
White walls, spotless windows.
Spacious stables.
Carriages lined up out front.
Less inn, more noble villa plunked on the road to the capital.
“This a real inn?”
“Frequented by merchant guilds and nobles heading to the capital.”
Roman's answer was simple. Translation: expensive.
Aaron clutched a small box as he dismounted. Inside: the infamous sealing cord. The one from the Lamal bandit haul.
In my past life, I'd have cut it off a delivery package without a thought. Here? One cord sparked a bandit takedown, an auditor visit, and a trip to the capital.
Fuck, what kind of cord is this?
“Young master, let's head to the room first.”
“Yeah.”
“...Really?”
I ignored Roman's anxiety—clearly expecting work—and scanned around.
Before rooms, the front courtyard carriages caught my eye. Rosette Guild, Ferdin Merchant Guild, a few mid-sized unknowns. Some familiar names.
Then Roman's voice dropped.
“Young master. Bit of a commotion down there.”
Inn's left side, between stables and warehouse. Crowd gathered. Not fresh—guild master's voice hoarse, onlookers bored.
“This isn't our cargo!”
A man's voice.
Weary, indignant, cracking at the edges. Looked genuine. If acting, he'd already clinched Best Supporting Actor this year.
“Not on the manifest, but found in your carriage.”
Another voice. Likely the troublemaker. Polite. The kind used to bury people.
Those who kill don't yell. They stay courteous. Makes the victim look crazy.
I turned toward it.
One small guild carriage. Pale-faced guild master. Two clueless porters.
What a sight.
And an inspector with guild insignia.
Wooden crate beside the inspector. Sealed at the lid.
Aaron froze.
“Young master, that...”
Cord on the crate. Not identical to Lamal's. But similar.
Coincidence. Handy word.
But too many shitty coincidences lately to shrug off.
The inspector recited procedure to the protesting man.
'Unmanifested goods seized before capital entry. Violations reported to guild and checkpoints. Prove ownership if you claim otherwise.'
Clean words like that? Tread carefully. Often used to shovel graves.
The small guild master kept denying ownership, but the inspector's response stayed fixed.
“Found in your carriage.”
End of story for him.
Onlookers from other guilds watched from afar. Big guilds especially quiet.
Not indifferent. Interested. Just not eager to tangle.
Not my business—but maybe mine. Keeping distance.
Nobles or merchants, same. All pros at drawing lines. Survival skill in this barren world.
I'm no different.
Except this might actually be my business.
I stepped forward. The inspector's gaze shifted my way.
“Excuse me, who might you be?”
“...Just passing by.”
“Then please step back. This is guild business.”
Guild business.
Crate bottom caught my eye first.
'Black, damp soil...'
But the small guild carriage wheels? Only pale dust. The yellowish kind from the southern highway. Rear stables: wet black dirt. Front courtyard: dry.
The crate was lying.
More precisely, whoever moved it half-assed the job.
“That carriage been in the front courtyard the whole time?”
One porter nodded before the guild master.
“Yes. Front courtyard only.”
Inspector glared at the porter, then floated transport contamination.
Expected. These guys come prepared. Problem is, they only have that one answer.
“Then wheels, cargo bed, nearby loads should have the same soil. But only the crate does.”
Inspector's mouth stopped.
Good silence. When the chatty clam up, things get fun.
Small guild master's eyes widened. An onlooker coughed lightly.
I flicked the crate with a finger.
“Let's open it.”
“Can't do that.”
Inspector whipped out procedure. No opening authority pre-seizure.
Procedure.
Procedure's a shovel for burials, a shield for shady crates.
“You just said it was this guild's crate.”
Inspector's gaze wavered.
“Yes, but...”
“Then we can open for ownership check. If not, ownership's unconfirmed.”
Inspector's face hardened.
I hate word fights. They drag, make me yawn.
“Don't know who you are, but interfering with guild business is problematic.”
“Fair point.”
Solid logic. Nod-worthy.
And logic like that has antidotes.
“Roman.”
Roman stepped forward. Mood shifted subtly.
Butlers are convenient. A good one just standing there IDs you.
“This is Cian Kaindel, heir to the Kaindel Count family.”
Inspector paled.
The face of a man who just realized procedure meant nothing when it fell on his own head.
Not bad.
Inspector bowed late.
“Didn't realize you were a young master.”
“Now you do.”
I pointed at the crate.
“Open it. This.”