Fief Tax (1)
The moment he stepped down from the carriage, a biting wind howled in, sharp enough to cut through skin.
The North, true to its reputation.
"Ugh. It was early autumn in the capital…."
Rhea's eyes were red and swollen as she clutched the thick coat she had prepared and shivered violently.
The Saintess and Phai-ton, by contrast, looked fairly at ease—clearly not their first visit to the North.
"T-Tax Collector, sir? A-aren't you cold?"
Perhaps because of the lessons in the carriage, Rhea had the presence of mind to hold out a spare coat toward him.
Rohan took it—and draped it over Rhea's own shoulders instead.
He had practically lived in the North once. Cold like this was nothing new.
"Thank you…."
Caught off guard by the casual gesture, Rhea fumbled for a moment, then bowed her head deeply. Her face had flushed tomato-red; she must have been freezing.
But only for a moment. When she finally took in the frost-choked, desolate landscape around them, she sucked in a sharp breath and could not find her words.
"Th-this is the North…."
Scattered, weathered huts dotted the frozen, rock-hard ground. Beyond them rose a wooden palisade and a modest lord's keep. The scene could not have been more different from the capital, and the shock of it showed plainly on her face.
"U-um, Tax Collector, sir? Is this really a count's domain?"
"Why? Is there a problem?"
"For a count's territory, it's a little…."
Once she had collected herself, Rhea asked carefully, watching his face. Rohan let out a sigh and shook his head.
The North was mountains, almost nothing else. People survived by hunting and foraging. Farming was nearly impossible—the winters dragged on forever, and the soil itself was poor. In short, nobody had any money.
Stone walls cost a fortune.
The terrain was not flat to begin with, so building a wall large enough to shelter every resident of a fief was already difficult. And even if you poured the money into stone fortifications, the surrounding mountains did the job of walls well enough on their own. So most places settled for wooden palisades instead.
Fiefs near the front lines had no choice but to raise stone walls. Richmond, however, sat in the rear—there was no need. Add the North's particular end-of-the-world atmosphere on top of that, and it was only natural that first-time visitors found themselves at a loss.
"Ahem. Still—why stop the carriage outside the fief?"
While Rohan stood gazing at the Richmond domain, lost in thought, the holy knight Phai-ton approached and cleared his throat with clear displeasure.
"Do you really think I stopped here for the scenery?"
"Ahem-hem. There's a thorn in that tongue of yours. From the look of it, you mean to walk the rest of the way into the fief. The roads in the North are rough."
The way Phai-ton kept glancing toward the Saintess as he voiced his complaint made his real meaning plain enough: Who do you think you are, making someone so precious walk?
Ugh. Fanatics.
"In case of the unexpected. So we can move carefully and survey the surroundings as we go."
"We didn't come here to fight a war. Is all that really necessary?"
"Doesn't it strike you as strange?"
"What exactly are you trying to say?"
"As I explained in the carriage, I am here to collect the Fief Tax Count Richmond has failed to pay. And the Saintess is here to collect donations."
"Watch your tongue. The Saintess is here solely to treat Count Richmond's daughter—"
"It's just us. What does it matter?"
Honestly. So particular. They had been the ones going on about collecting donations, and now they bristled at the mere mention of it.
"I simply do not believe any of this is pure coincidence."
"There is no such thing as coincidence to begin with. All of it is Lady Eris's will and design."
"Whatever the case, there is no harm in being careful."
"Even if, as you fear, some unknown danger lurks in the Richmond domain, it will avail nothing against us—united as we are in steadfast faith."
"Do holy knights not die when you stick a sword in them?"
"What did you say?! Are you looking down on us?!"
Irritation finally got the better of him, and Rohan hit him with a plain fact. Phai-ton's eyes bulged as his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Aigoo. This was exactly why he tried not to talk to temple types whenever he could help it. Did they think their bodies were made of steel? Get stabbed and you die—same as anyone else. Where did all that swagger come from?
"Phai-ton, stop this at once!"
"Tax Collector, sir! Please calm down. Please!"
Just as Rohan and Phai-ton locked eyes, seconds from coming to blows, the Saintess and Rhea rushed in and hauled them apart.
"We agreed to cooperate with the temple. You know as well as I do that starting like this will only make things difficult. Please, calm yourself."
"A holy knight who serves the goddess, drawing his blade so readily? Phai-ton, this is not right! Kneel at once and confess your sin before the Goddess!"
It was a dizzying, full-scale disaster. If he had built his dream team out of temple people instead of non-humans, he would have managed to resign ages ago.
"I-I am sorry! O Lady Eris! Please forgive this servant his sin! Lady Eris! Lady Eriiiis!"
And then Phai-ton dropped straight to his knees on the frozen ground and launched into a full repentance session exactly as the Saintess ordered. Watching him, Rohan felt a headache bloom behind his eyes.
Was this really going to be all right? More to the point—what kind of repentance was that supposed to be?
Creaking from the very start. The feeling was not good.
They made their way into the fief, scanning the surroundings as they went—and hostile stares prickled at them from every direction. And yet, for some reason, not so much as an ant stirred on the streets.
Was it his imagination? Or was someone watching them from hiding?
"Just as you said, Tax Collector—something is definitely wrong here."
Walking beside him, the Saintess seemed to share the same unease. She swallowed hard, tension plain on her face.
"People live here, and yet it feels as though no one does. There's no vitality at all. Like a ruin, almost."
Rohan nodded slowly.
Smoke curled from the chimneys here and there, so people were clearly present. And yet no one came out to look, even with outsiders walking through. The streets were empty, and it was not even night yet.
Had Count Richmond imposed a curfew?
"Saintess, we will check."
Phai-ton and the holy knights must have felt the strangeness as well; they approached the nearest hut. And then, with impeccable timing—just as they raised their hands to knock—guards armed with spears and shields came walking from the opposite direction.
"Who goes there."
"This is the Richmond Fief. Identify yourselves at once."
Pale-skinned, mechanical in speech, they leveled their spears as they closed in. Rohan narrowed his eyes at the lifeless quality of them—and in that same instant Phai-ton and the holy knights surged forward, swords drawn.
"You lot! Lower those spears this instant!"
Phai-ton's roar still hung in the air when soldiers appeared along the rooftops of the surrounding huts, bows drawn and trained on them.
Aigoo. He was going to lose his mind.
A hair-trigger standoff. With no other choice, Rohan pulled an official document from his coat and unfurled it.
"I am Rohan Blackwood, First-Grade Management Officer of the Treasury! I come by imperial command to see the lord of this place, Count Richmond. Open the way!"
You thick-skulled temple idiots. Watch and learn. What did they think would happen if they just yanked out their swords first thing?
Sure enough, at his shout the guards lowered their weapons and bowed with careful formality.
"Our apologies. Forgive the discourtesy."
"We will escort you to the keep."
Their answers were brief, precise, and utterly without fluster. The unease in Rohan's gut only grew. The Saintess seemed to feel it too; she kept glancing around as she carefully followed the guards. Even then, the soldiers on the rooftops never took their eyes off the party, vigilance unbroken.
"Saintess—have you learned anything?"
On the way to the lord's keep, Rohan asked her quietly. If anyone might have sensed something, it would be her.
"I'm sorry, but no. I feel that something is wrong, yet nothing I can put a name to…."
"Hmm. I see."
"Did you ask because you thought they might be cursed creatures?"
"Northerners are wary and blunt, yes—but not to this degree."
Cursed creatures—the temple's term for the undead. The way these people moved, the atmosphere of the place itself, was not so different from the undead. That was why he had asked her outright. When it came to putting down the undead, no one outdid the temple. Absolute specialists.
"Haa. I won't deny that something feels slightly off. But if they were cursed creatures, I would have known at once."
The Saintess shook her head firmly, her certainty undimmed by his suspicion.
"That's right. They are not cursed creatures."
"What exactly do you take our holy knights and priests for? Had they been cursed creatures, I would already have begun the purification."
Phai-ton and the other knights and priests chimed in at once, as if they had been waiting for the cue.
The way they act, the air they give off—they're undead through and through….
How could anyone look at that and call it normal? But if the temple's own undead-spotters said otherwise, what was he supposed to do?
Ah. There's something here. There has to be. What the hell is it?
The wrongness had become irritating enough to set his teeth on edge. If they had simply been undead, he could have flipped the whole place upside down and raised proper hell.
Question after question stacked on top of one another as they walked. How long had it been?
"Welcome. I am Count Richmond. So—you've come from the Treasury, have you?"
At last, inside the lord's keep, Rohan came face to face with Count Richmond.
The man was little more than skin stretched over bone—and unlike the others, vitality clung to him.
"Ohh! The Saintess herself has come! Thank you! Thank you!"
The moment he spotted the Saintess and the holy knights, tears sprang to his eyes and he came stumbling out toward them. Emotion, too—he clearly still had that.
Wait. That man—don't tell me….
Looking at Count Richmond, Rohan felt a single, half-formed hypothesis take shape at last.