Fabricated Debt (2)
"Goddamn it. This is all that lunatic tax collector's fault!"
Barton clutched his head and spat curses as he checked the ledgers.
The fatal blow had come only a short while ago, when the inheritance-tax affair had shaken him down to his very soul. Ever since that incident, his business had piled up losses and was sliding steadily toward ruin.
And why wouldn't it? That mad tax collector had blown up a mansion—right in front of everyone—where the high and mighty had been stashing their money. Who in their right mind would trust Barton with their coin after that?
Even his existing clients were peeling away one by one.
And that wasn't the only problem. His reputation had tanked right along with everything else, and the merchant company's ordinary sales were plummeting just as hard.
At this rate I'm actually going bankrupt. Bankrupt!
Barton tore at his hair and ground his teeth. But there was nothing he could do. To make matters worse, that Special Tax Collector bastard had wiped out every last one of the hated tax-farming contractors, and now half the capital treated the man like a hero. One wrong move and an enraged mob would come pouring in to burn everything Barton owned to the ground.
Haa. Fine. Just endure it. I have to endure. If I wait long enough, an opportunity will come.
After fuming alone for a long while, Barton steeled himself and straightened in his seat. He had to stay calm. There was nothing he could do for the moment, so the only option was to keep his head down and wait for the storm to pass.
Everything that falls has wings, and no flower stays red for ten days. If he could just weather this miserable stretch, someone—anyone—would eventually drag that Special Tax Collector down. The man deserved far worse than a simple thrashing.
First I have to secure funds somehow and build a new warehouse somewhere safe. Only then can I even think about attracting new clients.
To make money, he needed money. Barton closed the ledger and pulled a directory from his desk drawer—a list of names of people he was on friendly terms with.
But among the dense thicket of names packed onto those pages, there wasn't a single person he could actually trust.
Every last one of them is exactly like me.
They were all men who made their living the same way he did—playing with other people's money. On the surface they looked loyal and kind. In truth they were anything but. Every one of them was colder and more calculating than the next, especially when money was involved. One misstep and Barton could find himself strung up by the nose, treated worse than a dog, and watching his entire company change hands.
But right now, they were the only options he had.
I'm in no position to be picky about cold bread or hot…
Barton bit down hard on his lip and leafed endlessly through the directory. Time slipped by. Beyond the window, the sky began to burn with sunset.
He had sat at that desk all day without food or water, wrestling with an endless chain of worries until he was worn down to the bone. And still he could not make a decision.
"Ah… I really need to rest a little…"
At last Barton staggered up from his chair and headed for the bedroom prepared in the back. He dragged his heavy feet along until he finally reached the door—and the moment he reached for the handle—
"It's been a while."
That voice came from right behind him.
Special Tax Collector Rohan Blackwood.
Yes. As if he could ever forget. It was definitely him.
Y-you shred-worthy bastard! How dare you waltz in here like you own the place…!
Noble or not, Barton wanted nothing more than to hurl every curse he knew and charge the man on the spot. Yet his entire body had locked up as if turned to stone. He could barely even twitch his lips.
Why?
In that split second, Barton understood. His body had reacted faster than his head. Move so much as a finger, and the one who died would be him.
Cold sweat slid down his temple, gathered at his chin, and dripped to the floor.
"Looks like you've been having a rough time. If you'd just done as you were told when I asked nicely, none of this unpleasantness would have happened. Shame."
Unpleasantness? Shame? Who the hell was the one who blew up the mansion with a cannon in the first place? You absolute maniac!
Rohan needled him with that silky mockery, and Barton squeezed his eyes shut. Then a new question struck him. There had been mercenaries guarding the company, and no small number of employees out front. How had this man gotten all the way in here?
The moment the thought landed, a chill raced down his spine.
"I may have mentioned this before, but I don't have a great deal of patience."
Whether Barton answered or not, the man dropped into what had been Barton's own seat of honor and twisted his face into a scowl.
Vicious bastard! Worse than a demon! Worse than a merchant!
He couldn't just sit here and take it. He had to call the mercenaries and have the man thrown out.
"Don't make me say it twice—before I blow this company building sky-high with a cannon too."
At those words, Barton dropped straight to his knees on the floor and bowed his head.
"Shall I… bring you some tea…?"
Tsk tsk. For a man who calls himself a merchant, he's transparent as glass.
I clicked my tongue as I looked down at Barton kneeling in front of me, wringing his hands. The gaunt face, the heavy dark circles, the chaos of papers strewn across the desk—he'd clearly been through hell.
"Seems you've been having a hard time lately. Well. Everyone is, these days."
"Khh—khhk!"
"Hm? What was that you just said?"
"N-nothing, sir. Just a headache that's been acting up lately…"
"How curious. I've been getting headaches myself more often than I'd like."
I leaned back in the chair, chin tilted up in deliberate arrogance, and needled him a little more. It wasn't that I particularly enjoyed treating him this way. Men like him were textbook bullies of the weak and bootlickers of the strong. You had to burn the hierarchy into them early if you wanted them easy to handle.
"Anyway. Nothing else going on?"
"Ah. Yes. That's right, sir. But if I may ask—what brings you here so suddenly, without so much as a word…?"
"I decided to come on my own two feet. Do I need your permission for that? There's a barb in that question."
"N-no, sir! Heavens. Who am I to go flapping my mouth carelessly?"
"Good. Choose every word carefully—before I reduce this company building to rubble with a cannon."
"……"
I wore a thin, unpleasant smile and leafed through the open ledger on the desk, then aimed another question at him.
"The mansion still standing?"
"Y-yes. Yes, sir. No problems at all, sir."
"Hmm. I distinctly told you to choose every word carefully."
"W-what do you mean by that…?"
"Dumber than you look, aren't you."
Cold sweat beaded and rolled down Barton's face. I hardened my expression and fixed him with a frigid stare.
"You think this is a joke."
"Oh dear. I truly have no idea why you're doing this, I swear I don't—"
"You honestly believe I fired that cannon without knowing what the mansion was for?"
"……!!"
"Inheritance tax first, then a full tax audit on top of it. Barton Merchant Company wouldn't last the day. Ought to be quite the show."
"S-spare meee! Please!!"
The situation finally seemed to click. Barton slammed his forehead into the floor and started weeping.
Hmm. Things are even worse for him than I thought. Perfect. That makes this conversation easy.
I watched him for a moment, then let a smile settle onto my face as if none of the coldness had ever been there, and spoke again in a much softer voice.
"From the looks of it, you need a great deal of money. Am I right?"
"Yes. That's right, sir. Truth is, I'm on the brink of bankruptcy!"
"Merchants like you have no loyalty when money's on the table. Tell me I'm wrong."
"Exactly right, sir! We do business for the money—of course we do!"
"Good. Then work with me on something."
"Sir?!"
At my sudden proposal of a partnership, Barton—who had been blubbering snot and tears a second earlier—went wide-eyed and let his mouth fall open. A reaction I'd fully expected.
"Don't get any clever ideas. Do exactly as you're told, and I'll make sure you're paid properly."
"M-might I ask what sort of work it is…?"
"Just sitting still and making money. Easy, simple work, you could say."
Merchant instincts died hard. The moment the words left my mouth, his eyes flicked toward the directory still lying on the desk.
"Don't tell me the work you want me to do is…"
"That's right. Men like you. More precisely—information on the names on this list."
"Eek! If I do that, they'll kill me, sir!"
"The greater the risk, the greater the reward, isn't that how it goes? I'll price your life generously."
"E-even so…"
Barton stammered, too shocked to form a proper sentence. It was quietly irritating. I was standing right in front of him, and somehow those other men scared him more?
But throwing a tantrum at this stage wouldn't help. This was the moment to coax and soothe.
"As long as you and I keep our mouths shut, that's the end of it. No one even knows I came here today."
"S-Special Tax Collector, sir—the people on that list you just showed me are famous even in this business. Extremely dangerous men. And not only them—every big name who matters in the Empire is…"
"I know. That's exactly why I came to you in secret."
Barton's eyes darted left and right as he fidgeted. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head. It didn't last long.
"Every time you help me find the money those men have hidden, I'll pay you a hundred gold."
At that offer, the light in Barton's eyes changed completely. A moment later he shot to his feet and snapped me a salute.
"Just give the order, sir! I'll offer you my heart!"
Apparently the sum had been far too large to refuse. Yesterday's enemy becomes today's ally. In the end, nothing stood in the way of money.