9. Black and Gold (21)
9. Black and Gold (21)
Until a mere century ago, ninety-nine percent of all sugar on the market came from a single process—distilling the pressed juice of sugarcane.
Sugarcane only grew in humid tropical climates. For an empire where over half its territory fell under subarctic conditions, sugar shortages were a chronic affliction.
The Industrial Revolution sent sugar production soaring, but that didn't solve the problem. The Empire's transportation network had developed at a crawl, leaving its distribution chains unreliable.
On top of that, the civil war that erupted at precisely the wrong moment sent sugar demand into the stratosphere. The nobility had to supply their soldiers with high-calorie rations to maintain both fighting strength and morale.
The civil war killed many nobles—and created many more.
Stories of outrageous social climbing flew in every direction back then, but even in that climate, a baron's bastard son marrying a duke's daughter still made headlines.
The previous emperor had scattered dozens of ducal titles to his relatives to prop up imperial prestige, but most were hollow honors that came with nothing but a maintenance stipend. Then the emperor died without an heir, and those ducal titles suddenly became votes in the election of the next emperor.
While some dukes were treated as walking ballots, others seized real power and wielded it themselves.
The duke who took Wilhelm Slagbort as his son-in-law was one of those ambitious men.
At the time, Wilhelm was a renowned pastry artisan in Yeterinpurk. He conjured up all manner of wondrous confections using methods no other craftsman had ever imagined.
The most astonishing of his secret techniques was his approach to sugar production. He had developed a method for extracting sugar from sugar beets—a crop that, until then, had been fit only for livestock feed.
It was certainly novel, but it didn't attract much attention. Any competent alchemist could boast a secret formula or two. What decided an extraction method's true worth was its commercial viability and the purity of the final product.
Hundreds of ways to produce sugar already existed. But for industrial-scale use, sugarcane was the only game in town—it offered the best balance of profitability and purity.
So the alchemists dismissed Wilhelm's method out of hand.
What does a mere pastry cook know?
It's just a gimmick to make his sweets seem mysterious.
Chemically speaking, wherever you extract it from, sugar is sugar. The public's easy to fool, after all.
The duke who would later become his father-in-law found him by accident. Exhausted by the endless civil war and at a dead end, he had come to Yeterinpurk seeking some rest. He happened to buy pastries from Slagbort Confectionery, and they were sweeter and more delicious than any he had ever tasted.
And cheap, too.
That was when he heard the rumors about Wilhelm's sugar-production secret.
The duke saw clearly: vodka and sugar would decide the civil war's outcome. And sugar beets could be grown anywhere in the Empire. He recognized the true value of Wilhelm's extraction method in an instant.
As for whether the duke—a man of his rank—was charmed by Wilhelm's audacity in demanding, with no money or title to his name, the hand of his famously beautiful youngest daughter...
To hell with that. He drew his sword and raged, fully intending to behead the insolent thief who dared covet his daughter. Then his youngest threw herself between them, and the truth came crashing down on him: during that brief stay in Yeterinpurk, the two of them had fallen for each other and had been meeting in secret all along. His daughter dragging him to that confectionery a few days earlier, claiming a sudden craving for sweets—that had been no coincidence.
The daughter who had always smiled and showered him with affection was now weeping for another man and screaming at him in fury. The shock left him reeling. A month later, he finally gave them his blessing to marry.
Half a year after that, a vast sugar-refining industrial complex rose in Yeterinpurk.
Seven years later, the war ended, and the imperial heir the duke had backed became emperor.
Fifteen years later, Wilhelm, who had become the new emperor's close friend, triumphed in the ducal family's internal power struggle and was formally recognized as a duke.
More than fifty years had passed since Wilhelm became a duke, yet he still preferred to be called Candyman rather than Duke Slagbort.
Most people assumed the nickname stemmed from his glory days as a pastry artisan. The truth was a little different.
Back when lovers had been in the habit of giving each other sugary pet names, there was one person who called him Candyman—and he, in turn, had called her Raspberry.
Seated in his office chair, he flared his nostrils as the factory manager delivered the latest business report. His subordinate possessed not only managerial skill but also a sharp sense for his superior's mood.
Raspberry pie and lemon cheese cake.
The two confections on his office desk had been the favorites of his wife and daughter, both long departed.
He was too old now, his eyesight long gone, but whenever he caught that scent, he could still picture their smiling faces as they savored the sweets he made for them. Their voices, too.
—Hmph. You think this means I've forgiven you? You're insufferable.
—Hehe, pastries hand-made by the Duke himself? How could they not be delicious?
Wilhelm let out a loud cough. The factory manager flinched and looked at him, his expression flickering with alarm—worried, perhaps, that he had just spotted a flaw in the business report.
The duke waved a hand to reassure him. He'd only been covering a sudden rush of tears with a dry cough as old memories surfaced.
Ever since losing his eyesight, he had made a habit of staying constantly aware of how his appearance might strike an onlooker.
"Good. What's today's schedule?"
"Yes, Your Grace. First, an inspection of the confectionery production facilities, followed by lunch with the acrobats of the Golden Carnival, and then..."
Candyman felt the sunlight brushing his cheek through the window. His eyes were useless, but he could still catch the scents drifting on the air.
Somehow, he had a feeling that a very welcome guest would be arriving today.
***
The Slagbort Confectionery Factory welcomed visitors every single day. Anyone under the age of majority was eligible. There was no admission fee—all you needed was a single accompanying adult.
A child could visit only once in a lifetime, but that one visit promised an unforgettable memory and both arms full of confectionery gifts to take home.
And if you were clever, it didn't have to end at once in a lifetime. Ten or twenty years later, plenty of people came back through the doors with children of their own.
Ella's carriage rolled past the crowd massed in front of the factory. She and the others were guests personally invited by the factory's owner. Unlike those people, they didn't have to wait.
The Golden Carnival acrobat seated beside her gazed out the window at the line and began swapping old stories with his comrades. He, too, had visited this place with his mother long ago. As though he'd slipped back into childhood, he chattered on about the confectionery-making scenes he'd witnessed that day and the lingering sweetness on his tongue and nose.
Ella drew a quiet breath without thinking.
Childhood memories with a parent, huh.
—Ella, you don't like sweets, do you? Want to check out a confectionery factory together?
Three weeks ago, Wonderstein had invited her to come here with him. She'd dismissed it back then as a pointless waste of time—but now...
She looked out the window at the excited children and their parents, laughing as they held onto them.
If it was this kind of thing, you should've told me ahead of time, you idiot.
Now she understood why he—who had seemed completely uninterested in anything outside the Circus Grand Prix—had suddenly proposed an outing. He'd probably wanted to give her—an orphan—a memory to hold onto. Stepping in as a parent figure himself.
The thoughtfulness behind it warmed her. She decided that when they got back, she'd ask him again to come here together. He'd be looking forward to surprising her, so she'd have to pretend she'd never set foot in this place...
It was the factory manager who greeted them as they stepped out of the carriage. His ample build and the fullness of his jawline quietly testified that he was a confectionery artisan of the first rank.
"Welcome, the finest acrobats in the world."
Lord Fantastic stepped forward as their representative and shook his hand.
"Our craftsmen's skills may not quite match the talents of our honored guests, but I promise they'll give your eyes a delightful time nonetheless."
As Ella and the Golden Carnival members followed him into the factory, four figures emerged from the crowd.
"Troupe Leader, you seem to be in a very good mood?"
At Yurakne's words, Wonderstein looked up at the factory with a fond smile.
"Do I look it?"
"Yes. You were humming the whole way here."
Wonderstein let out an awkward laugh. That had been the confectionery factory map BGM.
"Have you been here before, Troupe Leader?"
He considered the question briefly, then nodded.
"A long time ago."
Just then, the reception counter called two numbers—Yurakne's and Maya's. The pair darted ahead. Reina happened to have stepped into the restroom, leaving Wonderstein alone as he turned and surveyed the people waiting in line.
Adults and children stood paired one to one. Clowns hired by the factory circulated among the waiting guests, handing out sweets and putting on small-scale acrobatics to keep them entertained.
"Just a tiny taste, now."
"If you fill up too much now, you won't be able to eat the even better things inside."
The parents were all careful not to let their children stuff themselves on the free samples.
At that moment, a clown suddenly thrust a basket in front of Wonderstein. He was about to wave it off when the clown rubbed at his eyes and stared at him.
"Wha—? Isn't that Troupe Leader Wonderstein?"
It was a man in white face paint with a bulbous strawberry-nose prosthetic. Wonderstein hadn't recognized him at first, but then gave a small exclamation of realization.
"Allen?"
Another clown in similar makeup sidled up beside him.
"What's going on... oh! Is that you?"
It was Joe.
A brief reunion unfolded between them. During the supplementary member recruitment period, Allen and Joe had applied everywhere but had been turned down by every troupe. So now they were scraping by with cheap clown gigs like this.
"We'll have to try for the next opportunity."
"The road of art is long and rough."
"Next recruitment, please..."
"Please remember us both."
The two of them bowed to him. That was a mistake. The baskets they were holding tipped forward, and sweets went clattering onto the ground.
In the distance, a factory supervisor overseeing the temp workers threw a fit.
"What the hell is wrong with you two! Earlier you stepped on a pudding and slipped at the exact same time!"
Ten minutes later, both of them had been fired. Their clown makeup wiped off, they trudged out of the factory with sagging faces.
Wonderstein shook his head ruefully as he watched them go. The two men had carved out a legendary reputation as mercenaries—how on earth had they ended up trying to be comedians...
Reina approached his side. She clutched tightly at his sleeve and glanced around.
Maybe because there were so many people watching, she slipped into her usual haughty-princess act, but her voice was trembling.
"L-looking around, I... I think our ages might be a bit, um, too old for this..."
She wasn't wrong. Most of the children in line were in their early to mid-teens. That was the perfect age to enjoy something like a factory tour while still holding a parent's hand.
But the girls Wonderstein and Yurakne had brought—Reina and Maya—were both seventeen. With adulthood only two years away, holding a parent's hand to visit a place like this was indeed pushing it.
Still, Maya's small build and doll-like delicacy let her blend right in.
Reina, on the other hand, was taller than many grown men and had a figure every bit as mature as Yurakne's. Her face was enough to mark her as a teenager, but there was no denying that her stature drew considerable attention.
Maya suddenly inserted herself between them. Her registration must have been finished.
"If you don't want to be here, go home."
Her voice was cold and flat. Reina flinched at the hostility radiating from it.
Maya turned away from Reina and looked at Wonderstein.
"Troupe Leader."
She grabbed his hand and pulled.
"Help me change."
Reina nearly screamed.
What did that girl just say?
H-Help her change her clothes?
Reina's face blazed bright red, but the two of them continued their conversation as if nothing was strange.
"They said sweaters and cardigans can shed lint inside the factory, so we have to leave them outside. But I don't want to wear the factory work clothes."
"Ah, all right. Shall we go inside, then?"
Huh?
Huuuh?
There was no chance to stop them. Unable to follow the thread of their exchange, Reina stood there dumbfounded, watching them walk into the restroom together.
The same stall?
In this era, a restroom wasn't only a place to relieve oneself—it doubled as a powder room for fixing makeup and adjusting one's attire.
Even so, a man and woman walking in together like that meant, essentially, "We're about to do something a little naughty." Of course, they weren't actually going to do anything like that in broad daylight in an outdoor public restroom with open ceiling vents...
But still, why was the Troupe Leader helping her change?
A girl that age... why...?
And why was the Troupe Leader accepting it so naturally...?
What exactly were the two of them to each other...?
Reina's head spun in confusion. Before she knew it, her feet were carrying her toward them.
Right then, an enormous cat materialized in front of the restroom stall. As Reina approached, it whipped up a telekinetic gale and bared its fangs.
—Mraaowrr!
It was the illusionary cat Maya was known to command.
Reina stepped back. She took in the creature's expression, and her face went rigid.
—Pffft.
Being an illusion, it made no sound, but Reina could tell. The cat was laughing at her.