The Drunkard (1)
Night had settled thick over the city. Two figures walked side by side through a back alley of the Free City of Kroghall.
"Not a thing has changed since I was last here, ten years ago."
The small shadow buried in a deep hood turned her head this way and that as she murmured, her restless curiosity plain in the way her gaze flitted over the market stalls and shops lining the street.
The hulking man guarding her side, by contrast, wore an expression of quiet worry as he spoke up.
"I'm not sure this was something the Headmistress... Lady Talisa needed to come see to personally..."
He hastily corrected his form of address, but the small shadow only brushed it off with a casual flick of her hand.
"And why would I be unable to come myself?"
"...You've been terribly busy lately. Guarding the barrier is one thing, but with the new semester right around the corner, and now, of all times, something like this has to happen..."
A palpable air of unrest hung over Elysion Academy in the days before the term was to begin. Sir Tyrell, who had taught there for decades and basked in the reverence of the entire Swordsmanship Department, had died suddenly in a tragic accident. The academy had scrambled to find a replacement, but with the predecessor being none other than the Rose Knight, Tyrell—whose fame rang across the whole continent—the search had been anything but smooth.
"Sitting cooped up in one place never solved anything."
Despite the man's worried protest, she only quickened her pace.
"These things have a way of turning up when you least expect them, if you make an outing of it. Besides, this is just an avatar, not my true body."
"That may be, but... your vital energy is already wearing thin..."
The man glanced down at her furtively. Having strayed too far from Elysion, where her true body resided, Talisa's feet had already begun to lose their color, fading into translucence. The Talisa of old, who had strolled across the far side of the continent as if it were her own backyard, would never have imagined such a thing.
"So now you treat me like some granny shut up in the back room. Enough. Drop it."
Talisa snapped in exasperation and pushed even further ahead.
"You told me this was the man who blocked your strike. Of course I have to see him with my own eyes."
Her delicate voice carried an interest that deepened by the moment.
"How many people in the Empire could manage such a feat? Short of your own master, I can hardly think of—"
"That's high praise indeed..."
"I never praise anyone beyond what they deserve."
She shook her head firmly at the man's sheepish protest.
"I appointed you, Fabian, Captain of the Caliburn Guard precisely because you were qualified for it. Excessive humility can come across as arrogance at times. Mind yourself."
"Yes, ma'am..."
The burly man, Fabian, could only shake his head in helpless defeat.
"Whoever he is, he's caught the eye of someone with a vicious obsession. It's no small thing, truly. That Silvie child ended up at our Elysion by sheer luck."
Talisa continued speaking without breaking stride.
"I only wish he'd open up a little and tell us what actually happened. Is Silvie still frightened of you?"
"Well... yes. With a face like mine, it can't be helped..."
"Tsk tsk. And him the very man who saved her life. What a way to treat one's savior. Someday that girl will come to appreciate your devotion."
"Haha..."
Fabian simply gave a wry laugh.
"What's the chance that the man who stopped your attack is in league with the corrupted being she was hunting?"
"...I don't believe so."
Fabian paused a moment before answering.
"It all happened in an instant, before anyone could plan anything... And the air about him is simply different..."
"Hmm. If it's the intuition of a Faithful, I'll trust it."
She nodded—then, quite suddenly, muttered something under her breath as though the thought displeased her.
"Corrupted beings running wild on every front now, and that boy Noel, what's-his-name, shut up in the Imperial Capital doing who knows what..."
"Well, even the Sword's Successor needs rest now and then."
"Spare me such nonsense. In a world like this, do you truly think it makes sense for the Sword's Successor to play dead for over a year?"
Thick irritation had crept into Talisa's voice as she clicked her tongue.
It had already been quite some time since the Sword's Successor's party—the Empire's sole beacon of hope—had abruptly ceased all activity. Signs of turmoil were once again smoldering at the edges of a world that had briefly tasted peace, yet Noel did nothing but invent one excuse after another to postpone his departure, day after day.
"I can guess well enough—he's buried in the Saintess's skirts. A man should mind the times even when he's whoring around..."
Her voice was thick with contempt for his conduct. The world knew him merely as a handsome, well-bred young lord, but the truth was closer to a tyrant—insufferably arrogant and insatiably greedy for female company. That every member of his party besides himself was a woman was no coincidence, a fact already common knowledge among those of any real standing.
"Well, thanks to all that, relations between the imperial family and House Aramis have grown rather cold..."
"An insolent whelp who doesn't understand what actually matters struts about calling himself the Sword of the Empire, and look how badly things have soured. Is he truly intending to break off the engagement..."
Talisa scoffed at Fabian's remark as he recalled the rumors of late.
Five years had passed since the Saintess's appearance, and because the two had appeared together at every official occasion since, their union had long been treated as a settled matter. Meanwhile, word that the Empire's First Princess had been spectacularly dumped by her official fiancé, Noel, was the juiciest gossip circulating through the capital's high society. A man who stuffed his own party full of women while pushing away his fiancée—it made no sense at all.
At some point, the Princess had ceased appearing in public entirely, and gossip-mongers only raised their voices further, spinning one wild theory after another about her whereabouts. As of now, only a handful of people in the entire Empire—including Talisa herself—knew where she was.
"About now, the Imperial Consort must be dancing for joy. If things had gone differently, she would have had to watch, through bitter tears, as the First Princess rose to the throne with House Aramis at her back."
The Emperor, struck down by the Early Winter Plague, had yet to regain consciousness even after all these years. Even the Saintess's overwhelming divine power proved a useless remedy for him—for the source of the plague still spewed its curse from the far eastern edge of the continent. Until someone crossed the towering Talaran Mountains and the vast Eastern Plague Zone to destroy it at its source, the Emperor's recovery remained a distant hope.
The only ones in all the world capable of such a deed were the Sword's Successor's party—and they, far from mounting any campaign, had long since shut themselves away in some corner of the capital. For the Imperial Consort, whose eyes burned with the desire to place her own young sons on the throne in place of the rightful heiress, nothing could possibly have suited her better.
"...And who would dare say a word to the Wielder of Prominence?"
Fabian shook his head and let out a small sigh.
"He is the Empire's only hope, after all. Five years ago, if he hadn't driven off Gamalot, the entire north would have been reduced to ruins..."
Fabian frowned at the memory and shuddered.
"No ordinary knight can even drive a blade into that monster's flesh—"
"Enough. Kindly refrain from praising that useless boy in my presence."
Talisa, who had finally come to a stop before something, cut him off with evident distaste.
"More to the point—is this the place?"
Glowing red mana stones studded the dilapidated wooden door on either side, lined up in an unbroken row. The surrounding alley teemed with women in thin, revealing clothing, coaxing passersby with honeyed voices. And directly in front of Talisa hung a gaudy signboard depicting two horses entwined in an obscene embrace. She soon read the lettering beneath it.
"A brothel..."
Only now realizing where she stood, Talisa burst into a soft snort of laughter.
"This stays between us and your wife, then. If she found out her husband frequented the red-light district, she'd take your head off."
"It's my job, what can I say... It's not as if I came for... that purpose..."
Fabian gave an awkward laugh, then nodded.
"...This is the place. I saw the man who crossed blades with your avatar come back through this door. He came and went as comfortably as if it were his own home—no mere customer behaves that way..."
"Hmm. Shall we simply call him out? Hallo there—"
"I—I'll check first!"
Fabian had just stepped forward to hold her back from bellowing down the alley when—
the brothel door burst open, and both their heads snapped toward it in an instant.
From within emerged a powerfully built man reeking unmistakably of drink.
"Huh? Who the...?"
The man, hiccupping between words, belatedly noticed the two of them and arched an eyebrow in puzzlement. In his trembling hand hung an empty bottle; at his opposite hip dangled a battered, worthless excuse for a sword. Cloudy eyes, an unruly mess of hair and stubble—the very portrait of a drunk scraping along the bottom of the barrel. The only thing about him with any grace at all was the rather elegant cross necklace around his throat, and even that, given his current sorry state, only made him look more ridiculous.
"..."
A brief silence fell between them.
Talisa, hood drawn deep, stood rooted to the spot, staring wordlessly at the drunkard who had appeared before her. And just as Fabian, recognizing the man, hurriedly opened his mouth—
"Th-that's him! That's the man from yesterday—"
"Hmmm... new girl, is it?"
It took the man's bleary eyes a moment to register Talisa, and in the next instant he had shoved her back against the wall. Too deep in his cups to see straight, he didn't spare even a glance for Fabian standing right beside him.
"About time you... showed up, huh. The old hag sent you out... early this time... hic."
"H-hey! Wait just a... huh?"
A flash of sheer disbelief crossed Fabian's face as he lunged desperately forward—only to freeze mid-reach. Even under the drunkard's crude, groping hands, Talisa simply let him do as he pleased, utterly unbothered. The Talisa Fabian knew could have punched a hole through the man's heart without breaking stride.
"Alright, let's... check the face first, shall we..."
"..."
Her hood slipped away, and a cascade of deep violet hair tumbled down. Bathed in the moonlight stood a beauty beyond compare—feline in her features, breathtaking at a glance. Compared to the archaic speech she always carried, her face betrayed an almost startling youthfulness. The drunkard, confronted with the woman before him, nodded with satisfaction and slurred out his approval.
"Decent-looking... goods, aren't you... All that fuss about hiding you... figured you'd be some hag past her prime... hic."
"..."
Even at this brazen appraisal, as though he were sizing up livestock, Talisa remained silent. She only stared at him, russet eyes wide and lips slightly parted, watching him with unblinking intensity.
"Well, the chest's... plenty generous... These are so big they barely fit in a hand... and the shape's just... plump and ripe as a peach..."
Oblivious to the burning gaze fixed upon him, the drunkard carried on with his evaluation, entirely absorbed. Then, running his hands carelessly over the rest of her, he squinted and muttered,
"But the hips... are a bit... lacking. Not really what the customers are after these days... If it were... both generous, or both... flat, I could let it slide... but... hic... this balance is... kind of a shame..."
"...!!"
And Fabian, who might as well have been invisible, let out a soundless scream.
Blissfully unaware, the man kept glancing at Talisa, who stood frozen like a doll, and continued to hold forth on his impressions.
"You'd be... awfully high-maintenance... hic. Looks like this kind might do better working somewhere... other than a brothel..."
"..."
"Or, wait—could it be you're still a virgin—"
"GOOD HEAVENS!! Lady Talisa!!"
Fabian, on the very edge of losing his mind over the whole spectacle, finally screamed out too late.
He was beside himself, face ashen, darting frantic glances in every direction. Oddly enough, his distress seemed less born of outrage at his mistress being insulted, and more of sheer terror for the man who had spat such filth—a detail that was, in its way, rather baffling.
"Eh...?"
Only now noticing his presence, the drunkard tilted his head, puzzled for a moment.
"Hold on... aren't you the one from yesterday... hic..."
"Hey! Let go of her right now and get down on your knees and beg forgiveness! Quickly!"
Just as the man seemed to grasp something at last and opened his mouth, Fabian was screaming at him, pleading with every fiber of his being.
"Do you have any idea who she is?! She's not someone... you can speak to like that...!"
"Hic... what're you on about... ahh."
As the drunkard blinked in brief confusion, something distinctly mischievous began to seep across his face.
"If you understand, then—h-hey! Wait!"
"Oh, so you weren't the new girl—you're a customer."
Paying Fabian's tearful pleas no mind whatsoever, the man wrapped his arm all the more firmly around Talisa's waist and pressed her tighter against the wall.
"And here I thought you were... some country girl with no sense of danger... selling herself... hic."
Gripping her chin and tilting it up slightly, the man glared down at her in a low, threatening growl.
"Some noble lord's daughter, are we? Out for a little... secret midnight stroll, were you? Craving a bit of... fun with fire all of a sudden... eh?"
"..."
Even faced with the drunkard snarling like a wolf, Talisa remained utterly unmoved, simply gazing up at him. Her eyes were calm as a still lake at a glance, yet sharp enough to seem on the verge of piercing straight through to his soul. And within them, a strange wave of longing was surging ever higher. Her lips, parting and closing again and again, were on the very cusp of uttering some conclusion. To the man drowning in liquor, of course, she looked like nothing more than a naive young noblewoman frozen stiff with nerves.
"Sorry, but... we don't do male courtesans here... hic! Ah, but if you're really that desperate... I could take care of you myself..."
"M-my lord...!"
At the drunkard's continuing nonsense, Fabian was clutching the back of his neck, one breath away from collapsing. The man finally let out a strangled groan and hurled himself at the drunkard, seizing him by the collar, shrieking in a voice thick with reproach.
"You little bastard!! Some of us are bending over backwards trying to save your sorry life right now—!"
"Hic! What's gotten into you all of a sudden...!"
Just as the two of them settled into a long bout of struggling—
"...Pfft."
At the strange sound from somewhere beside them, Fabian's head turned involuntarily. What met his eyes at last was the sight of Talisa, smiling with unrestrained delight.
"Pfft—pff, ah, ahahaha!!"
Talisa could no longer contain herself, the corners of her mouth curling irrepressibly upward. As the laughter burst out of her, her cheeks flushed a deep, dewy pink, for all the world like a girl in the throes of adolescence.
"Pfft, ah, ahahah...!!"
"Lady Talisa...?"
"Ahaha, ahahaha...!"
Before long she was doubled over, clutching her belly, shoulders shaking. Fabian, who had released the man's collar without even realizing it, murmured with an expression of complete, vacant bewilderment. In nearly ten years of serving at Talisa's side, he had never once seen her like this.
"Haah..."
Only after a long while did her laughter finally, barely subside. Wiping the large tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, Talisa's gaze fell once more upon the drunkard. And with a contented nod, she spoke in a voice grown impossibly warm.
"He passes."
"He... passes? La-Lady Talisa? Wait—!!"
Talisa swept right past the stricken Fabian and walked up to the drunkard. Still too far gone to stand straight, the man wobbled in place, entirely unaware of his surroundings. She approached, then craned her neck all the way up at the man a full head taller than her and asked,
"What is your name?"
"Hic, huh? My... name...?"
The man's glazed eyes stared off somewhere far away, as though gazing at a distant landscape. His lips parted helplessly, and he murmured, as if talking to himself,
"...Kallen."
"Kallen. Kallen, is it. A name with a rather fine ring to it."
Talisa nodded in satisfaction. Then, rising onto her toes to meet his eyes, she asked once more.
"And what is it you do for a living?"
"What I do...?"
The man snorted, then silently pointed a finger behind him.
"Can't you... tell?"
The sign of two entwined horses and the gaudy lettering of The Cheeky Mare still glowed crimson in the night. And then came his voice, slurred to the very last degree.
"Kept man."