Inheritance Tax and Ghost Stories (3)
Honestly. A wet-behind-the-ears brat putting on airs just because he happens to be a noble.
Barton left the Ministry of Finance clicking his tongue and shaking his head in pure disdain.
At first he had been thoroughly on edge. A Special Tax Collector—a first-grade management officer reporting directly to the Minister—had summoned him, after all. They had even sent the city guard to haul him in. That was enough to make anyone sweat.
But the moment he laid eyes on the man, all that tension evaporated. Just some green kid who still had milk on his breath. Clearly some pampered scion of a well-connected house who had snagged a post on the strength of his family name alone, and now, conscious of how he looked to everyone else, was trying to pad his record by going after Barton.
The reason was obvious enough. Barton was a commoner.
But the boy had picked the wrong target.
Stupid fool. Noble or commoner, everyone is equal before money.
A greasy smile crept across Barton's lips.
The mansion that Special Tax Collector was so keen on was no ordinary estate. It was a warehouse—a vault where his clients stashed their slush funds. Nobles, criminal syndicates, even priests from the temples. Black money from every corner of society was stored inside those walls.
Naturally, the ghost stories had been pure fabrication on Barton's part. The tax bureau clerks who had frothed at the mouth and fainted had simply run into illusion magic circles installed by a famous black-market mage he had hired. The priest who had sworn up and down that spirits haunted the place was one of Barton's own clients who used the mansion. Even the judge who had ruled in his favor was the same.
With that many people tied to the place, what could a nobody like him possibly do?
Back at his merchant company, Barton settled behind his desk and gave his shoulders a self-satisfied roll. Of course, he could have simply paid the tax cleanly. But why on earth would he hand over money he didn't have to? And it wasn't some pocket change—a full thousand gold. What had the Empire ever done for him that it felt entitled to squeeze him for inheritance tax?
I'll stall as long as I can. If things start going sideways, I'll pay up then. Not that it will come to that.
Even if that Special Tax Collector kept hounding him, it wouldn't matter. Barton wouldn't have to lift a finger. The clients who used the mansion would take care of the man for him.
I would have preferred to keep things civil. But he didn't look like the type to take a bribe, and more than that—he stared at me the whole time like I was some kind of insect. He can deal with the consequences himself.
All Barton had to do was circulate a few letters among his clients and stir them up. That would be the end of it.
Insolent brat. Even if you come crying and begging for your life later, it won't do you any good. I'll make you pay dearly for daring to look down on Barton just because he's a commoner.
With that pleasant fantasy of the arrogant Special Tax Collector crawling to him on his knees, Barton began drafting letters to his clients.
His good mood did not last long.
"P-President! It's a disaster! A disaster!"
The next morning, while Barton was already at work in his office, his secretary burst through the door without knocking, completely beside himself.
"Barging in first thing without even knocking—what kind of—"
"This is no time for that!! The mansion! The mansion!"
"The mansion? What about it all of a sudden?"
"The Imperial Army has it completely surrounded!!"
"What did you just say?!"
For a moment Barton doubted his own ears. Not the city guard—the Imperial Army? For what possible reason? His mind went blank under the sheer impossibility of it. Then he snapped back to himself, threw on his coat, and barked orders.
"Have a carriage ready at once! I'm going there myself to see what's going on!"
Barton scrambled to the mansion—and the sight that greeted him left him speechless. Just as his secretary had said, Imperial troops had the entire perimeter locked down.
And these were no ordinary soldiers. Every last one of them carried a musket. They were the Imperial Army's elite—the musketeer corps. Behind them, massive cannons of the sort you only ever saw on a battlefield were trained on the mansion.
"Artillery too? W-what in the world is—!"
Barton stood there stammering in pure horror. Then—
Clop. Clop.
A familiar figure rode out between the ranks of musketeers on a military horse and came straight toward him. It was Rohan, the Special Tax Collector from yesterday.
"Perfect timing."
"T-Tax Collector, sir? What exactly do you think you're doing right now?!"
Barton bit down hard on his lip and raised his voice at the man looking down at him with the same empty, emotionless eyes as the day before. Rohan merely snorted and shrugged, as if he couldn't imagine what the fuss was about.
"Didn't I tell you yesterday? I said I'd take care of the ghosts clinging to that mansion."
"Excuse me?!"
"Do you know what ghosts fear most?"
"W-what are you even talking about all of a sudden…"
"Steel and gunpowder."
What kind of absolute nonsense was that? Barton was still drawing a stunned breath when Rohan crooked one corner of his mouth into a smirk and gave the order, looking straight at him.
"Fire."
"Fire!!"
BOOOOM!!
The cannons roared the instant the word left his mouth, and the mansion's roof simply ceased to exist.
"AAAAAAGH!!"
Barton dropped to his knees and screamed. Only then did he understand that this Special Tax Collector was no ordinary madman—but the roof was already in pieces, scattering through the air.
"T-Tax Collector, sir, is this really all right?"
Through the thick, acrid haze of gunpowder smoke, Rhea coughed her way over to me and asked the question.
"Are you talking about that," I said, glancing between the roofless mansion and Barton still kneeling on the ground in a daze, "or that?"
"B-both…"
"Is that even a question right now? Asking something that ridiculous in the middle of a legitimate official operation."
"Firing cannons in the middle of the capital is a legitimate official operation?"
"Are you questioning my decision?"
"Ah! No, sir! I'm sorry!"
Watching her snap to attention while cold sweat poured down her face, I sighed and spoke again.
"4th Grade Senior Secretariat Rhea."
"Yes, sir! 4th Grade Senior Secretariat Rhea!"
"The temple officially confirmed that ghosts inhabit this mansion, did they not?"
"They did, sir!"
"And yesterday Barton signed a consent form regarding that matter, did he not?"
"Ah. Y-yes, he did!"
"Is a request for Imperial Army cooperation from the Ministry of Finance a violation of Imperial law?"
"Not legally, sir!"
"Then what exactly is the problem?"
Rhea rolled her eyes this way and that, hesitating. I couldn't entirely blame her. Under normal circumstances you called in the city guard. But what was I supposed to do? When it came to catching ghosts, nothing beat a cannon—and the city guard didn't have any. Calling the Imperial Army was the only option.
Absolutely perfect.
Besides, bringing in the Imperial Army made for a much grander spectacle. That was the whole point. People would lose their minds over it. Legally airtight, but dripping with controversy. Exactly the situation I wanted. Criticism would pour in from every direction, the Minister would get a splitting headache, and eventually she would have no choice but to accept my resignation.
BOOM!! CRASH-BOOM!! BOOM!!
Three or four more salvos followed. Looking at the mansion now riddled with satisfying holes, I decided it was time to begin the real enforcement.
"Rhea, raise the Ministry of Finance banner. We begin the operation now."
"What?! Ah! Yes, sir! Understood!"
The moment the order left my mouth, Rhea grunted and heaved up the Ministry banner she had prepared. A cool breeze caught it at just the right moment, and the flag snapped and billowed. Now everyone would know exactly which department was responsible for this insanity.
"Imperial Army commander—send the musketeers in."
"Yes, sir! Major Powell! Carrying out the Tax Collector's orders! Musketeers! Forward march!"
As soon as I gave the field commander his instructions, he led the musketeer corps into the courtyard as if he had been waiting for the word.
"Form three ranks! Prepare to fire! First rank—open fire!"
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK! CRACK! BANG!!
Under Major Powell's command, the musketeers formed up without a second's hesitation and poured indiscriminate fire into the mansion.
Sizzle! Crack!
In the process I spotted traces of magic. As the building collapsed, the magic circles installed throughout the mansion were damaged, and the tangled mana threw off little sparks.
Figures. Ghosts, my ass.
Illusion circles tailored to the ghost stories Barton had invented, no doubt. No need for a separate inspection.
I turned my head toward Barton, still on his knees. He was trembling from head to toe, completely at a loss. His clothes had long since soaked through with sweat.
And he's still holding out?
Even so, he was grinding his teeth and hanging on. Hmm. I hadn't particularly wanted to escalate things further, but if he was going to dig in like this, I had no choice. We would have to search the mansion top to bottom, seize every last coin he had stashed, and put it all under investigation.
"Major Powell! Pull the troops back! We've done enough—the ghosts have surely moved on to a better place by now!"
I called out deliberately loud enough for Barton to hear.
"I will now enter the mansion myself, per procedure, to conduct the appraisal and search!"
"Understood! Cease fire! Cease fire!"
The musketeers lowered their weapons and withdrew as one. I made a show of dismounting and started walking toward the mansion. That was when Barton—who had been frozen in place like a stone guardian, unable to move either way—finally scrambled over and clung to my pant leg.
"T-the inheritance tax of one thousand gold! I will pay it in full by the end of today, I swear!"
"By the end of today?"
"N-no! Right this instant…!"
"Are you joking with me? Do you have any idea how much budget went into this operation, coming to me with that kind of talk now?"
"Eleven hundred gold!"
"That won't even cover the labor costs."
"Thirteen hundred gold!"
"The gunpowder alone…"
"Fifteen hundred gold! I truly cannot go any higher than that, sir!"
Barton slammed his forehead into the dirt and begged for mercy. I had even managed to shake him down for extras. With that, my plan had been executed to perfection. Extremely satisfying.
Chaos: complete success.
All that remained was to throw my resignation letter in the Minister's face.
Having gotten exactly what I wanted, I remounted and rode over to Major Powell. These men would normally have been resting comfortably in their barracks; they had answered my request for cooperation and put in a hard day's work, so the least I could do was toss them a few scraps.
"Major Powell, I only need a thousand gold. The remaining five hundred is yours."
"What?! Ah—no, five hundred is far too—"
"Put some toward unit operating expenses, and distribute the rest among the soldiers who worked today."
"Th-thank you, sir! Brigadier General Cromwell will be delighted!"
At the news that five hundred gold was being handed over, Major Powell's face bloomed into a full smile.
"Tell Brigadier General Cromwell I'll pay him a visit myself later."
"I-if it wouldn't be too forward… what is your relationship with Brigadier General Cromwell…?"
At that, his expression turned serious. He glanced carefully around, then edged closer and murmured in a low voice.
"We did some hard time together on the Northern Front."
Major Powell's eyes went wide and he sucked in a sharp breath. I just shrugged as if it were nothing and turned my horse back toward the Ministry of Finance.
"Tax Collector, sir! Wait for me! And you have to return the military horse!"
Rhea, still clutching the Ministry banner in a death grip, trotted after me shouting something or other. I paid her no mind. Humming quietly to myself, I rode on alone, already picturing the blissful retirement life waiting ahead.
On that green, green grass of home~ I'll build a house just like a painting~
And then…
"Absolutely incredible! Bringing you in as Special Tax Collector was the best decision of my entire life!!"
What on earth was going on? The Minister—who should have been spitting curses at me through tears of blood—came flying out barefoot to welcome me?
"This is medal-worthy! A thousand gold! A thousand gold! What is everyone standing around for?! Applaud!"
She even went a step further and forced the other employees who had trailed out behind her to start clapping.
Huh? Have these people lost their minds?
I had cooked the porridge and fed it to a dog. At this rate, the whole plan was dead.