Demotion

Everyone has a place they were made for. My job was finding the right person for every vacant seat — the ones good with figures went to the Treasury, the ones with building experience went to the Bureau of Public Works, and so on down the list.

That's how it ought to be done, isn't it?

But the Empire matched its people by a slightly different standard.

"Send Viscount Tom to the Treasury as a disbursement officer."

"Um... may I ask what this gentleman did before?"

"He's the second son of a Count's house."

"I'm sorry?"

Was this a normal conversation? I had asked about his career, and the section manager had answered with his pedigree. Is that how it's supposed to work?

"Being a Count's second son is hardly a career, sir."

"Deaf as well as dense, I see."

The section manager's brow furrowed, but I had no intention of backing down. Fine — his father was a Count, and I'd read that his wife's family was a Marquis house as well. But nowhere in his file did it say what the man himself had ever actually done, so frustration was inevitable.

"He's a Count's second son, isn't he? He can manage simple arithmetic, surely."

"Oh, come on. How could anyone guarantee that? Besides, doing sums and reading ledgers are two entirely different trades."

Treasury disbursement officer. An official who audited the grounds and amounts of every payment leaving the national coffers — reviewing disbursements, verifying supporting documents, approving or withholding funds, all the way through to final settlement. A post of real consequence, one that could not be handled carelessly. And they wanted to drop a man into it for no better reason than that he was a Count's second son?

Damn this class-obsessed system.

Twenty-five years into this reincarnated life, I still hadn't adapted. Maybe that was mostly because I'd been born a commoner — though to be fair, I was also one of the commoners who had made good. Personnel Section Chief of the Personnel Bureau, Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Empire. Sparring with the section manager over appointments like this was my daily bread, but a man of the Personnel Office keeps a few tricks up his sleeve. The real problem was that weeding out nobles who arrived with three full pages of family praise in place of experience or talent was far more exhausting than it sounded.

"Word has it he helped with the family's affairs as well."

"What sort of affairs?"

"Must I know that too?"

...

I was the one doing the actual work, so I summoned the man himself and asked.

"I've heard a great deal about you, Section Chief Rael. I am Viscount Tom."

The viscount looked precisely like the standard-issue noble brat — the sort you'd call arrogant, the sort who believed no one else was worth looking at.

"When do I present myself at the Treasury? You've notified the staff who will be assisting me in advance, I assume?"

"Before that — would you permit me to ask what you've been doing up to now?"

"Me? Hunting, of course. In spring, in autumn, and in winter too whenever the weather held. A proper man rides out and hunts beasts — that's simply what a man does. If this matter is handled to my satisfaction, I'll extend an invitation to my domain... I trust you'll rather enjoy it."

In the Empire, even a jobless layabout spoke down to commoners without a second thought, so long as there was a noble name to hide behind. He was keeping up appearances only because I was a section chief — otherwise I couldn't have gotten him into the same room at all.

"I've heard you clearly, sir. I'll put in a good word upstairs."

"You may look forward to it."

I went straight back to the section and recommended Viscount Tom to the bureau director — for a management post at the Imperial Hunting Grounds. And the next day, the section manager summoned me.

"Are you making sport of me?"

"He said he loved hunting, so I found him the post that suited."

"He wanted the Treasury."

"I'd like to visit the Imperial Vault myself, actually. Will you send me there too?"

They did say it was the sweetest posting in the building, after all. Well? Will you?

"Go. I should like to be alone."

The manager shut his eyes, pulled on an expression of profound fatigue, and waved me toward the door. I left without protest — I'd said my piece by now, and the rest was the director's to settle.

Back then, I still had affection for the Empire.

I hadn't entered the Personnel Bureau planning to wrestle with nobles from day one. In my previous life I'd been quite fond of games — talent-management simulators above all, and I'd lived half-submerged in them. Something about the mechanism of slotting the right person into the right role and watching efficiency climb flooded my brain with dopamine. When I landed a fine commander, I chewed over where best to deploy him; when the funds ran dry, I went hunting for administrators who knew domestic affairs inside out.

Thanks to all that, arranging people felt perfectly natural even after I was reborn. No stat windows floated up over anyone's head, of course — but there were service records and letters of recommendation, and reading those gave me a fair feel for a candidate. Where my own knowledge ran out, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠asked someone who'd done the work; and if judgment was still difficult, summoning the candidate for a conversation usually settled it.

The truly hard part came after the choosing was done.

"That post already has someone lined up for it."

I had found the ideal candidate, only to be told the seat had an owner. When I looked into the pre-selected man's record, his name ran longer than my candidate's. Middle name, family name — which is to say, a noble.

At first I wondered whether I had simply misread something and was mishandling the work.

A man who can't so much as swing a sword, as a commander? Is that genuinely hard to judge?

After a few more rounds of the same, it finally sank in that this was the Empire. A country with an Emperor, with nobles, with commoners and slaves. With a different spoon in their mouths from the day they were born, the well-born simply assumed the good posts were their birthright. And here I was, trying to hand those posts to other people — to the low-ranking, no less ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— so their displeasure was understandable. I understood that much.

Still, you couldn't hand bridge construction to a man who had never once laid a pier. Rivers did not politely swerve around a bridge because a noble had touched it. Funnier still was how those same men slipped away from responsibility like ghosts.

Commoners in this country weren't even treated as people. Mind you, I didn't look at every noble through jaundiced eyes either. I simply believed there was a line that had to be held. No experience? Then go and build some. Nobles were educated early as a rule, and they learned fast. But there were always those who knew nothing at all and still insisted on shoving aside the competent man to take his seat.

"Vacate the river management post. Send the current director to the library — that should do it."

"I beg your pardon? The river director has run that place for twelve years. He has never once caused a problem — if anything, he's the one who deserves commendation."

"Which is exactly why it's time he tried something else."

"...How about sending the new arrival to the library instead?"

At that, they would generally pull the face that said I couldn't take a hint. I wasn't deaf, and I understood their meaning perfectly well. I simply refused, because I didn't like it. As a result, the personnel proposals I'd rejected kept circling back to my desk — endorsers multiplied, and the same name would resurface padded with kin from the mother's side, the father's side, and every connection clear out to the in-laws' in-laws. Once, a name looked so familiar that I dug through my old files and found it belonged to the elder brother of a man I had returned the previous month. The brothers of that house wished to serve the Empire side by side, and by remarkable coincidence, both wanted posts collecting taxes.

Dealing with this sort of thing, sending people back wore me down more than choosing them did. It was not, however, impossible. After all, the appointments I had rejected to the very end generally failed to pass.

"Must be nice. The director processed the appointments just as you advised again."

Whenever the manager set a file down, I checked the last page first.

When that short sentence bore the Personnel Bureau Director's signature beneath it, even matters that had dragged on for days at a stretch came to an end. Whoever the candidate's family was, whoever had written the recommendation — the result was the same. The director never summoned me to offer praise, never once told me to keep it up. He simply read the opinions I submitted and signed off on them. So I kept submitting them. If experience was lacking, I wrote that it was lacking; if there was no reason to replace the incumbent, I wrote that too.

When someone was genuinely right for the post, I approved them even if they were a high noble's relative — assuming a man unfit for work purely because of his relatives was its own kind of absurdity. I strove to exercise the power of appointment as reasonably as I could.

People, however, read my reasons the other way around. Conversations kept dying when I passed down the corridor, and a staffer from another section I ran into at break time looked me up and down for no reason I could see. While I was still wondering what was going on, a colleague asked me carefully:

"Rael — you don't happen to meet the director privately, do you?"

"Not outside of reporting in. And really — with my modest standing, could I even manage a private meeting?"

"That's what I said. It makes no sense at all."

He nodded, looking relieved, which only made me more curious. When I pressed him on what exactly made no sense, he hemmed and hawed for a long while before lowering his voice.

"There's a rumor going around that you and the Director are... involved."

I dropped the bread I was holding. Since the appointments I opposed kept collapsing, they had apparently decided there had to be a reason — I just hadn't imagined the chain of logic would run all the way there.

Damn this medieval worldview. Did no one consider the possibility that my objections might simply have been sound?

"Who is spreading this?"

"Ahem. Jealousy, most likely — you being in the director's favor. Pay it no mind."

Paying it no mind was easier said than done. This involved the imperial family, no less. I spent three days agonizing over how on earth I was supposed to refute the rumor. But whether by luck or by misfortune, no refutation was ever needed — the official spreading it was arrested for insulting the imperial family.

For the record, the one who'd spread it was the very colleague who'd been patting my shoulder and telling me to ignore the whole thing. So it was true — there isn't a soul in this world worth trusting.

Still, from the next day onward, no one mentioned the director in front of me, and I didn't press them either. Everyone had gone quiet; there was no need for me to stir things further. Instead, I proofread my next report one extra time. I had no wish to tarnish the dignity of the Imperial Princess who had placed her trust in me.

With the director's full support behind me, I unrolled my dream across the world. Disputes that, no matter how soundly you argued them from below, ended the instant someone above buried them — at least mine were read when I submitted them, and if the reasoning held, they were accepted. So that was how I worked. Seven years in the Personnel Bureau now, and I'd gotten a decent command of the craft. I knew whom to see to verify a fact, and I'd learned which requests needed refusing up front to avoid blowback. This was the season when I thought that with a little more time, I might even reach section manager myself.

Then the Emperor died, sudden and unexpected. A new Emperor ascended the throne, and before long the Personnel Bureau Director was replaced as well. The successor was Marquis Vernang, a close confidant of the new Emperor. From his very first day in office, visitors packed his room to bursting, and in that week alone, twelve personnel transfers came down.

As I always had, I submitted my objections. They were not accepted. All twelve transfers passed. At first I wondered whether my explanations had been thin, so I attached more grounds — compared the candidates' careers against the incumbents' actual work, noted which posts would build real experience and which would squander it. Then the section manager called me out to the garden.

"You seem not to have grasped how the wind has changed."

"In what way have I fallen short?"

"Heh. Falling short was never the problem, you dense fool."

I had crossed pens with the section manager every single day, but he was not a bad man. Merely an authoritative aristocrat of the Empire with perfectly ordinary aristocratic values — a superior who would at least toss a word of advice to a subordinate walking toward the cliff.

"The former director is gone now."

I knew that. Perhaps this stubbornness of mine was, at bottom, resentment ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the changed throne. The Empire had always been this kind of country; it was the former director who had been the exception. Compromise would have made life easier. I couldn't bring myself to do it. And more than anything —

"So this is where it ends?"

If it meant becoming a yes-man who affirmed every command handed down from above, then my career ended here. Because I was already branded as the former director's man, and when a regime changes hands, erasing every trace of one's predecessor is simply how power is seized.

The last thing to change was my own seat. After seven years in the Personnel Bureau, my orders told me to report to the stables starting tomorrow. I had never once handled a horse in my life, and no one asked about my career or my wishes. How very like the Empire.