Is the Company of Companions Ever Smooth?
A gaunt old man set a candle-shaped mold inside an iron cylinder and packed it full of earth.
Then he pressed and tamped the soil down firmly, so it would neither crumble nor shift, and once the lower mold was complete, he set a second iron cylinder atop it, shoveling in more earth and compacting that as well.
After carefully removing the lower mold, and then the pattern itself, the upper mold was finished.
Its hollow center had clearly taken the shape of a candlestick.
Because the design was so intricate, carving one out by hand would eat up considerable time, which was why — or so he'd said — the old man had taken to casting them this way instead.
Next, he scorched both halves of the mold over flame, layering soot upon soot until they were black through, then fitted the two pieces back together as one.
"Bring it here! Pour, and be quick about it!"
At the old man's bark of an order, a burly young man came sprinting over.
In each hand he gripped a pair of long iron tongs, and clamped between them was a cup-sized crucible of molten metal.
He tipped it carefully into the pouring hole of the mold, and the scarlet liquid ran down into the narrow channels within.
Wicking into the gap between the upper and lower molds, the molten iron at last began to harden into the shape they had wanted.
White smoke swelled until it filled the little workshop to the rafters.
When the old man peeled away the upper mold and lifted the contents out with his tongs, the packed earth crumbled away in a rush, and from it emerged a candlestick stretching upward like a long, slender branch.
"Hm."
Without so much as blinking against the fierce heat, the old man turned it over with the tongs, examining every inch of it.
"Gold and silver, fine — those you can work by hand, one piece at a time. But iron? From now on, this is how you stamp it out. Am I wrong?"
"You truly are a master, Grandfather."
"Do I have to look after your futures for you too? Learn it on your own, even if you can't master it yourselves!"
The old man clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"Hey. You there, the little one. What do you think?"
"Are you speaking to me?"
A black-haired boy — no, a young man, Cariel corrected himself — one dressed in clothes so unremarkable they could not have been darker in color, and yet whose eyes, by contrast, shone as if flecks of gold had been set into them.
Cariel had been watching the work in silence, and now tilted his head.
"What's got you so interested in lumps of metal? Don't tell me it doesn't bore you."
"I thought that by watching, I might come to understand the nature of metals — of the earth, of stone."
"You're no alchemist. What business do you have poking your nose into such useless corners of things."
Young, and already fixated on something so strange.
The old man let fly a stream of words that might have been lecture or sermon, but even that soon blurred and faded.
"With enough molten iron, I could turn out ten of these a day, easy."
At that, his grandson — the burly young man — objected with a troubled look on his face.
"Even if you cast that many, who's going to buy them? And where are we supposed to get all that iron?"
"That's your problem, not mine. The more we sell, the closer you get to that wretched fortune — or is it wealth? — whatever it is you're always moaning about. Am I wrong?!"
"Ah. Well… when you put it that way."
"You said you didn't want to end up an old man like me, hands stained with iron? Then use your head! Use it!"
In short, the old man had been steadily developing techniques that would let even someone who was no true artisan create things of real worth.
And apparently, this was merely his pastime.
Once, it was said, he had been a famous craftsman. But after the Demon King's invasion ended and peace settled over the land, he had contented himself with forging farm tools, household implements, and now and then the odd piece of jewelry.
"You're a strange one, you know that?"
the old man grumbled, looking at Cariel.
"Why do you say so?"
"I figured you'd come here clamoring for a masterwork sword, the way the rest of them do. But you seem to have no interest in that at all."
"A sword is a consumable, isn't it? What difference does a famed blade make? If anything, wouldn't the greater fault be clinging to something because it's precious — and then finding yourself unable to cast it aside or let it go when the moment demands it?"
"Any knight worth his spurs would bellow you down on the spot for saying that… but no. You're right."
It was a terribly rude thing to say to the man who made such blades — and yet, better that than a man dying because of what he refused to let go of.
The old man added with a note of complaint in his voice,
"But you're leaving soon, they tell me?"
"Yes. Some matters have come up, and the boat we're to board has been delayed a little. Our guide as well."
"…You're sure you don't want a sword?"
"I'm sure. Didn't I promise you? That I would only watch. I said I wanted to understand the nature of the earth, of stone and iron."
Along the way, he had also come to grasp the importance of heat treatment, of temperature itself.
He had never imagined that simply watching metal being worked would teach him something so comprehensive.
Life, it seemed, was like that — never quite unfolding according to expectation or plan, just as it always had been.
"A peculiar creature, aren't you."
To pay money merely for the privilege of watching — of all the strange sorts, there was none stranger.
If he had been angling to steal the craft itself, the old man would never have allowed it.
…But he had long since shown that he was no such rogue.
Several more days passed.
If yesterday had been the casting of a candlestick from iron — some process or other, whatever it was called —
then the next day was devoted to a silver candlestick, and then a silver teapot, each made entirely by hand, which meant Cariel was obliged to look on wide-eyed as the old man fiddled with them for a full three days.
It was a different manner altogether from the way he handled iron.
Silver behaved differently from iron, the old man said, as though it were only natural.
"This, I'll sell dear. That's why the effort."
One must weigh the client's requirements carefully, design accordingly, and build to match.
To put it a touch more precisely: first he would carve a simple wooden model to show them, and only once that was approved would the crafting begin — and for all the labor that entailed, the price climbed higher still.
Even a simple cup was not merely a solid shape; carve patterns and flourishes into it, and the cost rose all the same.
And if a client came with the crest of a noble house, a guild, or some particular organization already drawn or on display, then even coloring the piece — that, too, was not entirely out of the question.
…Such was the old man's explanation.
A true artisan, in every sense of the word.
More than that — it would be no stretch at all to call him a master of his craft.
For all his shabby appearance, from those rough, clumsy-looking hands of his, given time and materials, anything could be made.
A hermit known to the world precisely by being unknown to it.
A master whom only those in the know would ever know.
"Boy. What exactly are you learning, watching me work like this?"
"The unnaturalness? The deliberate artistry of form?"
"Madman. Mad as a hatter, and then some."
The old man burst out laughing and heaped on the abuse without a shred of restraint.
"……."
Cariel could only smile wryly in reply.
Taking the good-natured jab in stride, he told the old man that today would be his last.
"Someday, when the chance arises, I'd like to come back and commission a few things of my own."
"Go get yourself married first. And don't go wasting away somewhere and dying an untimely death. You've got a perfectly healthy face — what's with acting like the whole world's dying on you?"
And so, with that parting words, Cariel left the village's only workshop.
"So you've come."
It had been a full week since he first arrived in this place.
A small village nestled near the valley.
Though it technically belonged to the Empire's territory, it was small enough that one wondered whether it even appeared on the maps.
Its one distinguishing feature, if it had to be named, was a modest dock — just large enough to moor a boat.
Not a true harbor, no.
But some distance downstream from this village lay a city within sight of the open sea, one that also connected to the Osmilan Valley, whose waters reached toward the very center of the continent.
Amalang — an episcopal city under the Count of Bahamila's dominion — sat there, and so the great majority of travelers sailing up from the sea, or descending the river toward it, moored their vessels there and saw to nearly all their business in that one place.
Had Filbar not been with them, the original plan would have carried them over the Brute Mountains first, then onto a small ferry wherever the current ran gentle — or, failing that, wading across the river with nothing but their own two legs.
But.
If they simply boarded a boat here and followed the river all the way up, they could pass straight through Dabas Kingdom and arrive directly at the borders of Metran Kingdom.
After some deliberation, they had decided to follow Filbar's counsel.
On reflection, this route was unquestionably the more efficient of the two.
There were trading posts along the way, so inspections were a given — but that was easily solved by simply not disembarking.
And even if some situation did arise, Filbar had already arranged separate identities for them, so it was unlikely to become a real problem.
"She should be arriving about now… unless she's lost her way, which I doubt."
In any case.
Cariel had been chatting with Filbar about this and that, and the question of whether some disguise might be needed had come up between them.
For the moment, Cariel judged it unnecessary.
More precisely — by the time he set foot out of the Empire, whether his whereabouts were known or not would hardly matter.
Filbar had advised him, at length, to avoid exposing his identity wherever possible: if word spread that he was a knight of Radiance — worse still, the son of the Hero — all manner of complications would follow.
…That was advice worth precisely nothing.
And besides,
it's not as though my face is all that famous.
He wasn't being naive about it, but even supposing he were a man of renown, whether anyone could actually pick him out of a crowd was, honestly…
"Ah, and there she is now."
Right on cue.
Filbar had insisted, before departing, that he would personally introduce their guide — which was precisely why Cariel had found himself stranded in this village for the better part of a week.
All the while, Filbar had apparently had plenty of work to occupy him, never once letting his pen or brush leave his hand.
The enormous four-horse carriage parked beside the village inn was impossible to miss, naturally.
But just as the saying goes — quick to spot, quick to avert one's eyes — getting entangled with the highborn or the noble meant nothing but trouble for everyone, and so most villagers simply watched from afar, or passed by on the other side of the road.
Which meant:
If someone came marching straight toward them with evident purpose, it could only mean that person had some definite connection to the two of them.
"……."
His first impression was, how to put it —
small.
Everything below the face was hidden beneath what felt like a heavy indigo robe.
The fabric carried real weight to it; even when the wind picked up, it barely stirred.
Tap, tap, tap.
Her footsteps sounded rough and heavy — her shoes, too, were probably nothing ordinary.
Boots with soles shod in iron, perhaps. Though even solid, one-piece iron boots wouldn't make quite that sound.
Her hair was a pale violet, cut short — as though a single strand had been pulled free from the intensity of lavender itself.
Her eyes held a silver sheen so pale it verged on white, and her features, while young, were otherwise fairly ordinary.
The kind of face that might even look cute, depending on the expression it wore.
As for whether she was boy or girl — one glance at her face was enough to leave no doubt it was the latter.
And yet she seemed even more detached and blunt than Cariel himself, so that his first impression of her was, frankly, quite cold.
"Second Prince Filbar Asubna, of the Edenlevan Coalition's Blood Sharing Family Well-being Association. Am I correct?"
"That's right! And if it's me you've come looking for, then you've found exactly the right man — because that's precisely who I am!"
Second Prince.
By human standards, such a title would speak of lofty status indeed — but among their kind, a prince meant something rather different from what it did among humans and the other races.
It denoted, in essence, one who was properly suited by blood — a legitimate heir of the lineage itself.
And for a people who could live not quite eternally, but nearly so, the greatest value of all lay in the preservation and protection of that fundamental bloodline.
Along with the first value and purpose bestowed upon those of the blood.
How well one carried out that duty — how one led, and how one protected — was the root of their worth. And so,
the king or head of each bloodline was, in effect, the leader of an organization, a group, charged with seeing that duty done.
Which meant that a Second Prince, in their terms, was a title and rank conferred upon one who had carried out the values of that bloodline admirably well.
"I would like to confirm the terms of the commission?"
"By the client's request: the distinguished guest is to be transported safely to the designated destination. Protection of the guest's person and provision for their comfort shall be provided accordingly. Should circumstances make this unavoidable, a full account of the reasons and the route taken shall be furnished to both the guest and the client at the same time."
"Mm. Excellent."
Filbar clapped his hands together, then at last turned to look at Cariel.
"With this young lady at your side, you should be able to reach your destination quietly, and without incident."
"……."
Cariel regarded the girl for a moment — she stood a full head shorter than he did — and spoke.
"I look forward to working with you."
"I'm the younger of the two of us, so feel free to drop the formalities."
the girl said flatly.
"I have no patience for conversation that runs longer than a single word."
"Hahaha… she's a bit lacking in social graces, I'll grant you, but please understand — she is every bit as capable as she is terse. On that point, I give you my word."
Cariel nodded.
"I don't doubt it."
Only —
"……."
Those two eyes, cold as frost on a winter pane, struck him as just the slightest bit pitiable.
But to pity her would be an insult in its own right, wouldn't it.
"She's already seen to your boat, so you need only follow her lead. She may make demands of you here and there as needed, but all of them fall within the bounds of her duties — so unless something truly troubles you, I'd ask that you indulge her."
"……."
Cariel bowed his head without protest.
"Well then! I'm off! May all of you have a journey that is joyful, and above all, safe!"
The four-horse carriage kicked up a plume of dust as it drew away from the village.
And the two of them, watching it go for a moment,
"So. What now?"
Cariel asked.
The girl answered.
"Fill our stomachs first."
Huh?
"I have not eaten in two days. When arriving in a place like this, one fills one's stomach first. Important matter."
"…Right."
Cariel nodded along, agreeable as ever.
Well, he thought, we'll exchange proper introductions little by little, no hurry.
He had taken it lightly.
But then he stood there, half-hypnotized, watching her eat without pause for a full two hours,
and somewhere along the way, found himself laughing out loud.
Only after eating her fill for a good long while did the girl finally deign to introduce herself, seizing the moment when the dishes lay emptied before her.
"Luirin. No family name. What should I call you?"
"……."
Cariel answered briefly.
"El."
"That will be difficult to call out. In an emergency, it is short, but the sound is poor — rapid delivery of instructions will suffer. Predictable. Eh~e―El! Look. See how the tongue rises to the roof of the mouth? And then the voice is pulled back down into the throat of its own accord. Do you not feel it?"
"……."
She was opening her mouth wide — tongue and all — as she made her case, and for an instant, Cariel found himself entirely at a loss for words.
Well, if that's how it is,
"Call me Riel, then."
"Are you a girl?"
"……."
"…My apologies."
Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he had the distinct feeling that this journey was not going to be smooth sailing after all.