The Ban Is Lifted

Elisha von Crane had stayed up all night.

Three candles stood on the desk, their wax layered in thick drips. Before them lay a report that would surely turn the Kingdom Magic Spire upside down.

She had tried to erase that final sentence several times, yet in the end she left it as it was. It was not the language of an auditor. But she could write no sentence more precise.

Elisha melted sealing wax, let it drip onto the envelope flap, then unpinned the seal brooch from her left breast and pressed it firmly down. The Audit Department crest sank into the red wax.

Audit Regulation Article 14. A sealed report may be dispatched only via the regular courier.

And today was that regular courier day—the day the communication hawk from the Bran relay station arrived. Mana storms in the Gray Wasteland shredded every long-range communication formula, so even now the kingdom’s official documents still flew bound to a bird’s leg across this land.

Elisha stood at the window with the sealed report in hand.

In the eastern sky, a tiny speck approached with the morning sun at its back. The straight, trained glide unique to a communication hawk. Precisely on schedule. As expected of a hawk from the Kingdom Magic Spire—

The speck wavered.

Elisha’s eyes narrowed. The hawk had just entered the tower’s upper airspace. The massive silhouette crouched on the roof did not even lift its head. There was no need. The territory of an A-rank predator was carved into the sky by its mere existence.

The hawk’s two wings stiffened midair.

They folded.

And it dropped like a stone.

"—!"

The color drained from Elisha’s face.

That hawk’s leg carried the kingdom’s official documents. And if that hawk never returned, the report in her hand would never leave the wasteland either.

Clutching the report, she raced down the stairs at a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠speed that violated every regulation.

I was out in the courtyard purely by chance. I’d only stepped out to sweep the delivery spot in front of the main gate.

Something fell from the sky.

Something small, feathered, and limp.

My body moved first. I never expected the reflexes that had once caught a flowerpot falling from the third floor to come in handy here.

Thump. A heavy weight landed solidly in both my palms.

"······A hawk?"

It was an unconscious communication hawk. Eyes rolled back, beak half-open, yet still breathing. A small wax-sealed cylinder was bound to its leg.

I looked up at the roof. The Storm Wyvern remained coiled, utterly motionless. The picture of innocence. Well, it really hadn’t done anything.

You didn’t have to perform your border-guard duties quite this thoroughly, tenant.

Clatter-clatter.

At the sound of footsteps I turned to see Auditor Elisha bursting out of the stairwell. Dark circles under her eyes said she had pulled an all-nighter, and one hand clutched a sealed document envelope.

"That hawk is the regular courier of the Kingdom Magic Spire’s Audit Department. Confirm the recipient of the official document on its leg—"

I untied the cylinder and checked the seal. Kingdom Magic Spire crest. Recipient: Administrator of the unauthorized magic tower located in the Gray Wasteland.

"That’s me."

I cracked the wax and unfolded the document.

I stopped breathing.

The proviso clauses never even registered.

"Lifted······ It’s lifted!"

I thrust the document high overhead.

"The front gate! We can widen the front gate! Auditor, look at this—it’s lifted!"

In my head the construction was already underway. Double the gate width, reinforce the lintel, and queue ticket number five. That Troll tenant who had waited with his neck craned for so long. I could still see that simple, honest face of his, shoulders jammed in the doorframe as he grunted and squirmed. A troll would mean a hefty deposit, and the high-ceilinged fifth floor would be perfect—

"All thanks to you, Auditor! Look—your confirmation certificate and the first inspection report are listed in the reasons! Aigoo, this is exactly why I welcome long-term stays by civil servants!"

No answer came.

When I turned, the auditor stood rigid as stone.

Her gaze was locked on the document in my hand, yet the fingertips holding her report envelope trembled ever so slightly.

"Auditor? You don’t look well."

"······It’s nothing."

Her voice wavered. That was not the voice of someone for whom it was nothing.

I had no way of knowing what she was thinking. She simply looked down at her own envelope, down at the unconscious hawk, up at the Storm Wyvern on the roof—then very slowly pushed the envelope deep into her bag, as if it were something that must never be carelessly released into the world.

"Ah, we’ll take care of this hawk. It was injured in the line of official duty, so until it recovers, lodging will be—"

"Do not accept payment."

"······I’ll do it free of charge."

"That would constitute entertainment—"

"It’s disaster relief in the course ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of official duties. I’m fairly certain no regulation requires charging a fee to an unconscious hawk."

The auditor closed her mouth with the face of someone who had searched for a rebuttal clause and failed.

I laid the hawk in an empty box behind the lobby counter, lining it with straw. At that moment a translucent window appeared before my eyes.

Twenty-eight.

Two. Just two left now.

And one week later.

Tomba’s caravan arrived around noon. Exactly on the contracted delivery day.

The problem was that the donkey stopped before the wagon did.

About fifty paces from the front gate, the old lead donkey planted all four legs in the dirt and froze solid. The two additional cargo wagons driven by the porters behind it halted in a chain reaction. Tomba shook the reins, then followed the donkey’s gaze and looked up.

Of all moments, the Storm Wyvern on the roof chose that instant to spread both wings wide, basking in the sun.

A shadow covering half the tower fell across the courtyard.

"Uwaaaagh!"

Tomba nearly tumbled off the wagon. The sack of potatoes he had been holding hit the ground first and rolled away. The porters turned ashen and froze solid.

"T-T-Tower Master! On the roof! That thing on the roof—!"

"Ah, yes. That’s the new tenant who moved into the rooftop penthouse recently."

I answered while picking up the rolling potato sack.

"T-Tenant?! What kind of tenant is that! That’s—that’s the, the calamity of the skies, a bolt from the blue, that—"

"It’s the Storm Wyvern. A formally contracted tenant. Deposit paid in full. No need to greet it. It dislikes having its nap disturbed."

"Deposit······ paid in full······."

Tomba’s mouth worked soundlessly. I used the opening to soothe the dazed porters and check the cargo. Five sacks of grain, ninety geun of fresh meat, two crates of salted fish, ten sacks of potatoes, split across three wagons. Quantities exact.

"Goods are all in order. This week’s payment of sixty-five silver coins will be deducted from the advance."

I pulled the receipt book from my document holder and wrote it out on the spot. Items, quantities, advance deduction details, date, signature.

"Here’s your receipt. As always, thank you, Tomba."

Tomba took the receipt yet still could not tear his eyes from the roof for a long while. The Storm Wyvern, finished sunning itself, folded its wings and yawned long and deep; the crackle of lightning inside that maw was visible even from here.

"Tower Master······ Used to be a haunted house, and now······ now what am I supposed to call this place?"

"A high-value property nearly at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠full occupancy."

"Uwaaa."

Tomba made a strange noise instead of answering and scrambled back onto the lead wagon. For all his terror, the way he tucked the receipt into the deepest pocket of his coat told me he would be back next week. Margins conquer fear. That’s a merchant for you.

"S-See you next week!"

The donkey took off at a speed it had probably never achieved in its life. The porters driving the rear wagons raced after it, determined not to be left behind. The clatter of odds and ends hanging from the three wagons faded into the far side of the wasteland.

I watched the dust cloud with my hands clasped behind my back.

Two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠days for that mouth to reach Bran Village. Three days for the rumor to swell threefold and spread. ‘The master of the Gray Spire keeps a wyvern on the roof,’ they would say. No—in Tomba’s style it would be more like ‘The master of the Gray Spire collects rent from a calamity of the skies.’

······Which was, technically, true.

Ding.

The moment I checked the numbers, windows lit up one after another.

"······Done."

I clenched my fist tight.

Rank 3. Expanded core output ceiling, facility slots, new unlocks. The front-gate expansion permit was already in hand, and the Troll with queue ticket number five would come the moment I called. Fill just one more vacancy on the fifth floor and full occupancy was right around the corner.

From the roof the Storm Wyvern let out a long cry. For the first day of the contract, it was a rather satisfied sound. Carrying that cry on my back, I headed for the lobby and gave my document holder a couple of light taps.

"Well then."

I had no idea what the promotion procedure would demand.

But first things first—collect the rent, then think.