A Daytime Date (5)
The sun sank, and evening settled over Camelot.
Yet darkness never came.
The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the streetlamps lit one after another. Magic-stone lanterns hung outside every shop glittered to life, and light spilling from doorways painted the thoroughfares in a riot of color. The Imperial Avenue at night was a different creature entirely from its daytime self.
Along that avenue Najin walked toward the meeting place.
The capital of the Empire really is something else.
He glanced around, tongue clicking in quiet admiration. The architecture was unlike anything he had seen in the underground city, in the City of Opportunity Cambria, or even in any noble domain he had visited. At least several decades ahead in technique, he thought.
—There are magic towers here, you know.
Huh?
—Wherever mages settle, progress races ahead. And this place has seven of the things.
Najin nodded, and Merlin’s voice grew oddly emphatic.
—I’m not just saying this because I’m a mage, but no profession drives technological advancement quite like ours. Which means…
She launched straight into a lecture on the correlation between mages and technological progress. Najin’s interest evaporated almost instantly.
Half a year living with Merlin had taught him well: not every word that left her mouth was worth hanging on. He let her chatter wash in one ear and out the other.
She’s genuinely incredible, sure.
A great mage who had lived more than a thousand years. A Great Constellation bearing eleven stars. Countless mages prayed to the heavens just to hear her voice once—but spend half a year glued to her side and that reverence started to fray.
—To tell this properly I can’t leave out the first time I built a magic tower…
Merlin was, at her core, a chatterbox. She boasted constantly. Mid-topic she would leap to another, then another, and nearly every thread eventually circled back to her own exploits.
What do people call that kind of conversation again?
The “Back in my day…” style. Najin tried to recall the unflattering nickname for folks who talked that way, then shook his head. She had helped him far too much. Thinking of a benefactor that way was simply too much…
—Back in my day…
Or maybe it wasn’t.
Wow, really?
He offered the occasional noncommittal murmur and kept walking. The well-kept road carried him to his destination before he quite noticed. A clothing shop with garments on display. Dieta sat perched out front and waved when she spotted him.
“Am I a little late?”
“Not at all. Right on time.”
She caught his wrist and tugged.
“Come on in.”
“I’ve reserved a restaurant, but it has a dress code. So let’s get you a proper outfit first.”
“Clothes?”
“Yes. You don’t own anything else, do you? Take the chance and have a suit made. You’ll be attending formal occasions often enough from now on.”
Often from now on?
Najin tilted his head while Dieta called over a clerk who was circulating the shop. A brief exchange and a few platinum coins later, the clerk vanished at a run.
Moments after that, Najin was ushered into a private VIP room and began changing into the mountain of clothes the clerk brought. The ensemble was similar to what he had worn to the ball, yet differed in a dozen subtle details.
This goes over the shoulders, I guess?
With the clerk’s help he somehow finished dressing and stepped out of the changing room. Dieta, waiting outside, parted her lips slightly at the sight of him. After a beat of silence she spoke.
“Be honest. You’re some noble house’s bastard, aren’t you?”
“I already told you I’m not.”
“I’m joking. Still, your proportions are unfair. You look good in just about anything.”
She stepped close and straightened his necktie and collar. Normally the clerk’s job, but Dieta had quietly ordered, “Leave that to me.”
Looking down would have meant staring at the top of her head, so Najin fixed his gaze straight ahead. When she finished she pointed to a chair.
“Would you sit over there?”
“Sure.”
He sat. Dieta untied the frayed cord holding his hair and re-bound it with a ring stamped with the crest of Dieta Trading Company.
“There. Perfect.”
She gave his shoulder a satisfied pat, asked him to wait a moment, and disappeared into the changing room herself. When she emerged a short while later her entire impression had shifted.
Her previously loose hair was now gathered neatly into a single tail, and her merchant’s uniform had been replaced by a dress.
Hair bound the same way as his, a shawl of the same design that covered his shoulders. She spun once in place as if inviting him to notice, then smiled at him.
“Does it suit me?”
“It suits you perfectly.”
She looked pleased. Dieta held out her hand; Najin, by now practiced, offered his arm to escort her.
“You’re getting a little too good at that.”
“It just sort of happened.”
“You do realize that’s the escort for a lord, not a partner?”
A partner goes like this.
She slipped her arm through his instead. Pressed close against his side, she dipped her head a fraction. Through the fall of light-brown hair her ear was flushed a vivid red.
“Let’s go.”
Date. Couple outfits. Linked arms.
The words circling her mind sent heat surging into Dieta’s face. She dumped cold water on her hammering heart and drew a deep breath. At this rate they would never get anywhere.
She stole a glance upward.
Walking arm-in-arm, Najin looked perfectly calm—unlike her. That fact rankled a little. She had expected at least a flicker of fluster when she pressed this close.
Still…
The soft, unguarded expression on his face—the one he never showed anyone else—made her smile faintly. Progress wasn’t entirely absent.
She had learned how clumsy he was with people, heard about his background, and reached the point of calling each other friends with open hearts.
For now he seemed uninterested in romantic relationships between men and women… yet humans were creatures of desire who always craved more once something became familiar. Once friendship felt natural, wouldn’t he begin to want the next step?
Build it slowly.
There were no rivals, and even if one appeared later, the title of first friend already belonged to her. She had no intention of surrendering that advantage.
Monopoly.
The eyes of a serpent that swallowed gold coins glittered with hunger. Slowly, carefully, yet without fail. She was just beginning to organize the plan in her head when—
“Dieta.”
“Hic!”
Najin’s whisper right against her ear bleached her mind pure white. She tried to jerk away by reflex, but the linked arms refused to let her.
“Dieta?”
“Y-yes? What is it?”
“You weren’t answering when I called.”
He pointed at the building ahead. They had already arrived in front of the restaurant. Dieta fussed with her burning ear and nodded.
She really needed to steel herself.
Her opponent was a high-level swordsman who struck without warning, without even realizing he was attacking. And because they had advanced to “friends,” those attacks had grown even sharper. Sudden smiles, relaxed expressions, that soft “Dieta” breathed against her ear…
Wait, isn’t this already pretty good?
She sucked in a startled breath.
She had almost settled for it. Dieta slapped her own cheek and yanked her focus back. Her goal sat higher than this. She was not a woman so lacking in desire that mere friendship would satisfy her.
Stay sharp.
She would parry the soft attacks and slip in counterstrikes sharp enough to shake Najin’s heart. With that resolve—and the mindset of walking onto a battlefield—Dieta stepped into the restaurant.
“…Huh.”
When she next came to herself the meal was already finished. Dessert and teacups sat on the table. Dieta blinked blankly.
She distinctly remembered entering the restaurant with her resolve locked tight, yet from the middle onward all she recalled was enjoying herself. She had chattered on, excited by Najin’s easy responses… and after that?
This wasn’t what she had planned at all…?
While she sat mired in confusion, Najin sipped his tea and spoke.
“Thanks to you, today was a real pleasure.”
“Pardon?”
“I got to try new things, taste food like this… I feel like the fatigue actually lifted a bit.”
He meant every word. Because of Dieta he had lowered his guard and rested, just for one day. Even the fog that had clouded his head felt clearer.
“Thank you, Dieta.”
“…Mm. Mmm.”
She chewed her lip, then let out a long breath and smiled wryly.
“This isn’t quite what I had in mind…”
“Is that so?”
“Still, I can’t deny I enjoyed it too.”
She had forgotten every plan and simply talked, laughing at the stories he told. The food they shared had been excellent, of course.
Just conversing had been fun.
Sharing a meal had felt satisfying.
For all that she acted as if she had mastered human relationships, Dieta herself had never truly possessed a friend. She quietly accepted that the simple act of speaking freely with one delivered a surprisingly deep sense of fulfillment.
“Being friends… it’s nice.”
“I agree.”
They smiled at each other across the table.
“Now that we’ve rested properly…”
Dieta set down her teacup.
“Shall we move on to business? Specifically, how we prepare for the attackers.”
High Priest Orlang examined the list.
Four Sword Seekers.
One fifth-circle mage.
Fifteen Sword Experts.
Hounds he could move under his personal authority without borrowing the Church’s name. An excessive force for any single private individual. Calling on the Church would have let him field far more, yet…
That would defeat the point.
He could never be certain of absolute control over Church forces; too many variables. The names on this list, by contrast, would crawl through mud and lick filthy water at a single gesture from him. He held their weaknesses that tightly.
Orlang sent the signal to every last one of them.
The man operating in the adventurer city under the name “Ivan” was confirmed as the usurper of Excalibur who had slipped through their fingers that day. The Kaufman incident had cemented the certainty. There was nothing left to weigh.
No need to conserve manpower either.
Throw every available hound at once and finish it cleanly. Overkill for capturing a single swordsman who had not even reached Sword Seeker—but better too much than too little.
Drive him into a corner.
Orlang drummed his fingers on the table.
If he draws Excalibur…
Then everything ends.
Excalibur. The Sword of the Stars.
The light a boy must never possess—the moment he reveals it to the outside world, the boy is destroyed. The net for that purpose was already cast. Reviewing the several measures he had prepared, Orlang smiled.
He could now ease the Goddess’s concerns.
For that, Orlang was grateful.