I Want to Talk (4)
I disembarked late on purpose, hoping to dodge every ceremony they had planned.
Truth be told, I hadn't meant to come ashore quite this late—it just worked out that way. Everything the Archmage had said about how famous I was in Zakrati turned out to be not a single lie.
No exaggeration: the one time I tried getting off midway, nearly a hundred people had gathered within five minutes. Having physical features no one could possibly mistake for someone else's only made it worse. They charged in with absolute certainty, leaving me no room to deny a thing.
"You're Zakrati's hero now."
Even Baramson, who'd grown distant because of all this, had spared me a moment of pity. I felt wronged. From what I'd overheard, Baramson himself was treated like half a hero—so why was it only me?!
"Honestly. This is the first time I've ever been glad to have a common face."
I sank into bitter lament while Baramson—who'd succeeded in strolling out simply by changing clothes, and who'd even returned from that outing with seven million gal to press into my hands—looked on. If I'd known it would come to this, I never would have given myself two-tone hair...!
"The way's clear."
Still, under the escort of people the lord had sent, and moving under cover of night, the crowds finally stopped. That part was a genuine relief.
"You've come."
...A relief, yes—but I had never once wished for the lord herself to be waiting right outside the castle gates!
I counted the guards arrayed behind her, then met her eyes. Even if this was the front yard of her own home, I couldn't fathom why she'd come out with only ten people. There had to be some purpose to it.
"Ah—the others are resting in the rooms prepared for them. There's one ready for you as well, so don't trouble yourself over it."
Apparently she'd taken my glance past her as me looking for my companions. Her answer at least settled where they were. I hadn't particularly needed to know, but hearing it wasn't a bad thing.
"More importantly—welcome to Zakrati."
"A needless gesture."
"Is that so. Still, bear with me. I simply came because I regretted that Zakrati's savior never received a proper welcome."
I fell in behind her as she turned, gesturing for me to follow. The guards who'd originally escorted her merged with the ones who'd brought me here, forming a proper formation. Baramson and his crew had peeled off near the castle, so the escort was thorough to a fault.
"I've heard the story. That you were struck by a curse and unwell. Are you better now?"
A curse...? Well, it wasn't exactly wrong. They clearly hadn't been given the full picture on this end.
"The sword."
I touched on the fact just enough to change the subject. Unless someone was deliberately trying to dig up a weakness, dodging this blatantly usually shut down further questions.
"Don't worry. The sword is finished."
See? No more questions.
"However... the craftsman insisted he wanted to see you. Would that be all right? If I've offended you in any way—"
Separately—why did the craftsman want to see me? Not that I had any reason to refuse a walk, but what was the motive? I need to know who's going to wield my masterpiece! Something like that, probably.
"It doesn't matter."
If the sword had been well made, keeping him company that much was no trouble. And he was a craftsman, after all—not just anyone.
"Very well. I'll summon him tomorrow morning."
"I'll go myself."
Ah—I still had things to buy. Absolutely going to the forge in person.
"...Understood. Then I'll assign you a guide tomorrow."
"Someone who won't be a nuisance."
"He won't be."
The lord answered my rude replies with unwavering gentleness. Even the guards standing nearby only shifted their weight now and then; none of them showed the sharp hostility of before.
"Your reward has been prepared in your room. For convenience, I divided it into platinum, gold, and silver coins—I hope it suits you."
And just like that, she handed over the promised bounty as well. That surprised me. From what I'd heard on the ship, she was scraping her storehouses bare to relieve the people. I'd braced myself to be asked for a delayed payment—but it seemed that preparation had never been necessary.
"If there's anything else you desire, speak of it. Given the circumstances, I can't grant everything... but that doesn't mean nothing is possible."
Even so. Did she really have the leeway?
I let the talk of additional rewards wash past my ears and idly looked around. We'd entered the castle proper, and the stone walls and floors were the first things to catch my eye. Somehow, it looked desolate.
"Is there truly nothing you want?"
...Had it always felt like this? Last time, it hadn't struck me as quite so bleak.
The sense of wrongness made me study the castle more carefully. It didn't take long to find the truth. Carpets, curtains, ornaments—everything that had once decorated the place was gone. When people said she was "scraping the storehouses bare," they had meant it literally.
"What are you looking at so intently? Ah—is the change inside the castle unsettling you? I hear this sort of thing is fashionable these days, so I tidied up a little."
Vintage only goes so far. And in a world like this, "vintage" being in fashion was weird enough on its own.
I looked away from her excuse of an explanation. Sometimes you learn the truth and still have to close your eyes and move on.
"This way."
After a long walk, an annex came into view. Several presences confirmed that my companions were indeed staying here.
"A moment—before you go in, would you take this one thing?"
Just as I was about to step inside, the lord stopped me.
"Originally, this was meant to be presented at a triumphal ceremony... but things turned out as they did."
She accepted something from a guard, and white radiance spilled from her hands—not magic, but pure light. Like moonlight held in a gem and shattered into a fine scatter of brilliance.
"Praise to the savior of Zakrati."
"And the honor that is his due."
A medal settled onto my palm. My second decoration.
"No matter what anyone says, you are this land's benefactor—the hero who lifted the dark clouds and brought hope. Even centuries from now, that truth will not fade; generation after generation will remember it here."
"So you, too, must never forget—no matter the moment. Some may see you as darkness, but on this soil you shone brighter than anyone."
...Looking at it now, it wasn't as if the message had failed to get through after all.
"If you have money to waste on something like this, spend it on the people outside."
"Haha. Are you worrying about them? Don't. This isn't something I commissioned—the citizens made it of their own will and brought it to me."
"...!"
"So please accept it. No—take it. The gratitude of those you saved."
In the end, I'd acquired another piece of dead stock. The feeling wasn't entirely bad.
Piuon watched the one who left without further argument, only chewing her lip a couple of times. Every time they'd met, that face had looked so fierce she'd never noticed—but looking now, he was terribly young.
"A strange thing."
"My lady?"
"That what I thought I could never forgive, I came to accept—and that what I would once have loathed, I now feel nothing but gratitude toward."
And that was infinitely sad. Yes—it ached. The burdens placed on those young shoulders were far too many.
"...And all of it by the hands of ones so young."
She lowered her gaze. When she thought of the young, the one who came after the Demon Knight was a child whose bright red hair had been so lovely.
"Yes, I know. That there are still many in this land who despise the Church. But I never expected to win everything from the start."
As bold as that provocative hair color. She'd never met anyone who answered "there are still many who hate you" quite like that.
"Atonement is always our part to bear. Remembering the past, and remaining vigilant so it never repeats—that is our part as well. And last of all, striving until they want to accept our help—that, too, is our work."
...And a confession that plain was also a first.
"So it's all right. The gods love those who strive earnestly. We will keep knocking with all our strength until you open the door."
Everything about her was new—new enough that Piuon had ended up believing her.
"...The Demon Knight does not look particularly young, though."
"Pfft. Do you truly think so?"
The red-haired priestess had thoroughly won her heart. And that young knight had become the people's hope through his own strength. Both of them so young—so terribly young.
"I find him every bit as young as that red-haired priestess."
...Or was it precisely because they were young that they could do this? Because this was the world they would live in—because they wanted to make the world they would inhabit a better place—that they could strive so hard?
"...When the young are working this hard, an old woman can hardly stand idle."
She didn't know. It probably didn't matter much. What truly mattered was...
"Come. Let us go back. There's still a great deal left to do."
...That she must not waste the chance those young people had fought so hard to give her. The battle against the demons was over—but the struggle for Zakrati's future had only just begun.
The next day, I headed for the forge at first light. A precaution against crowds. The fact that we were due to sail soon, and I needed to get this done beforehand, also played a part.
"That's the place."
Fortunately the forge wasn't far from the castle, and the guide had a knack for picking routes empty of people. I reached it safely.
"Smaller than I expected?"
Dev chattered as the forge came into view. He'd tagged along claiming he had things to buy himself—and what he'd said wasn't wrong. Even from a distance, the forge looked cramped.
"His skill is excellent, though."
The guide hurried to defend the place against Dev's comment. No evidence, but I believed it. The lord would have to be out of her mind to commission an incompetent.
"Mister! Can I eat this?"
"You can, but take them in order! The other kids need to eat too—don't get greedy!"
"Sir, the refugees sent food to thank you for your help..."
"They should put it in their own mouths—what do they mean, sending it over! Give it back!"
"Sir, we did buy cornmeal with the payment... but Gridana drove the price of the swords so low that the amount is less than expected..."
"What? Those bastards! Using other people's misery to make money?"
"I'm sorry..."
"Damn it. Just make porridge with what we've got! The kids will be here soon!"
...Probably.
"...This is the forge?"
Dev truly excelled at saying the things I couldn't. I, too, wanted to ask the guide if this was really the place.
"Yes, it is."
"Looks more like a free soup kitchen."
"The master is simply that kind of man."
As our trust began to erode, the guide hurried to speak. What followed was a catalog of how good the forge's master was and how many kind deeds he did: the orphanage's greatest patron; taking in talented children and teaching them for free; the moment this crisis broke, distributing weapons that had been merchandise free of charge so people could defend themselves; and now, using the money from those weapons to buy food and keep the neighborhood fed.
"Sounds like a good man."
"Indeed."
Like lord, like people—listening to the description alone, he sounded like a saint painted into existence.
"Truly a fine person. He crafts so well that even folk from the mainland stop by to buy."
Of course, in plenty of games this type of saint often has a rotten underside... but I had no intention of digging that far. And the evidence of his good deeds was too clear for a rotten underside. The apprentices and the people receiving help were all smiling.
"I'll wait outside, then."
"Yep."
I left the guide and stepped into the forge's yard. Eyes locked onto my two-tone hair—distinguishable from three hundred meters away—all at once. The bustling yard fell silent in an instant.
"Th-that's..."
"The knight? Is that the knight?"
Why did this city have my name and appearance so thoroughly sold? I projected a grim atmosphere so people wouldn't approach easily. Feeling a little sorry for the frightened kids, but I had no desire to be swarmed here.
"I've come for a sword."
From the center of the yard, I stated my purpose quietly. Someone straightened from a bent posture and came toward me—a man of burly build and a stubborn face.
"You? The one who asked the lord to have a sword made?"
"The rest of you, carry on! Follow me. The finished piece is inside."
"Uh, can I come too?"
"...Do what you want!"
"Yes, sir."
The craftsman led Dev and me deeper into the yard, into the building. I'd half expected some kind of test after that talk of wanting to see my face, but mercifully there seemed to be none.
"No merchandise, huh?"
"Looking for something?"
"I was hoping to buy a dagger..."
"Sold out of everything."
"Is that so."
The building's interior was divided between display shelves and a workshop further in. The shelves were truly empty—everything sold. Dev, who'd apparently come to replace his broken kukri, let his ears and tail droop.
"If you ask, I'll make you one."
"I don't have time to wait. It's fine."
"Tch."
Meanwhile the craftsman went into the workshop and rummaged through a box. Soon he drew out something wrapped in cloth.
"This is the finished piece. Check it."
He set the sword on a display table so we could see it, then pulled the cloth away.
In that instant, a gasp was crushed between my teeth.
"The blade was forged from something like scale fragments melted down. The hilt and scabbard were carved from the bones you provided. Gold and jade for minor decoration, kept from interfering with the function. Well—do you like it?"
I reached toward the half-revealed sword. My fingers found the pommel set with jade first, then passed over the ivory hilt wrapped in black leather cord, and arrived at the dark blue-green blade.
"Pretty..."
Ignoring Dev's murmur, I slowly ran a finger along the edge. A murky dark blue that didn't gleam—and because of that, the blade carried an even more elegant and dangerous allure. It was thoroughly cold. The appearance, at least, was satisfying.
Shrrk.
"...?"
"Huh?"
The appearance had been satisfying. Had been...
"...The blade is short."
Sweeping the remaining cloth from the sword as I ran my fingers along the edge revealed a truly wretched truth. The blade was far too short. Judging by the edge alone, somewhere between thirty and forty centimeters; even with the hilt, maybe seventy at most. That should give you the idea. This was practically a dagger.
"What happened?"
I pressed the one who would know, urgently. The craftsman, who'd been watching from a step away, shrugged.
"I hope you won't blame me for a shortage of materials."
"The materials... were insufficient."
"That's right."
No—wait—they were insufficient? Sure, using only that might not have been enough... but don't people normally mix in other metals to make up the volume?
"If it was insufficient, couldn't you fill it out with other metals?"
"Ha—if that had been possible, I'd have done it long ago!"
...It hadn't worked?
"Iron, copper, zinc... I brought every metal I've ever worked and tried mixing them in. Not a single one bonded. They separated like water and oil. And on top of that, I couldn't even reach the client! What was I supposed to do in that situation?"
It really hadn't worked...
"So I had no choice but to make it with as little material loss as possible. If you provide additional materials and want it remelted, I'll do that—but if not, you'll have to be satisfied with this."
I did have additional materials. The Archmage had said he'd secured more of the carcass for my share. But those were on the mainland. Hauling them all the way back here to remake the sword didn't seem practical either.
I was left with a hollow feeling. It wasn't the craftsman's fault, and calling it my own was a stretch—which only made the tightness in my chest worse.
"Uh, so what do we do?"
"What do you mean, what? Take it, or commission a remake. Those are the only two options."
Even so, the sword was obscenely beautiful. Dazed, I lifted the blade—a little longer than a dagger, absurdly shorter than a one-handed sword. Even accounting for its dagger-class size, it was remarkably light.
"...It's light."
"Yes. Light. Compared to an iron sword of the same length, it'd be half the weight. As for sharpness and durability..."
As he spoke, the craftsman held something out—an iron rod about four centimeters in diameter.
"Strike it with all your strength."
As if entranced, I swung. There was a slight resistance, but the iron rod sheared cleanly through. I hadn't even wrapped the blade in mana, and the metal had been cut in a single chunk.
"...When I swung it, it only lodged in the iron. Ahem. Anyway—harder and sharper than an iron sword. Ordinary things won't chip or dull this edge."
I hurriedly checked the options. Pointless. Every option was plastered with ???. Damn system.
"I'd appreciate it if you knew how many hammers I ruined making this."
"...Yeah, it's definitely a sword worth that. Cuts iron like a radish."
Even without the options displaying, I could tell this was a well-made sword. The problem was that the blade was far too short!
Resisting the urge to smack my forehead repeatedly, I examined the sword again and again. Truly, truly, it was exquisitely made and the design was gorgeous—and that damned material shortage and resulting blade length were the only obstacles. If the edge had just exceeded fifty centimeters, it would have been usable.
"Hey, Hanta. You in?"
"...?"
While I was drowning in grief, a familiar voice dropped into my ear.
"Lord Baramson?"
"Hm? What—why are you lot here... Ah, so the lord entrusted this to Hanta."
"What do you want."
"Yeah, yeah."
"What brings you sticking your head in here? Shouldn't you be off earning money by now?"
"Gotta ferry those people to shore today, so I'm not going. And... yeah, I dropped by to say I don't have any money I can give from my end. Looks like I won't be able to help for at least a few days."
"What?"
"Sorry."
"Tch. Fine. If you can't help, you've got your reasons."
Why did Baramson and the craftsman's conversation carry so clearly even now? Barely suppressing the urge to cry, I sheathed the sword in its dedicated scabbard. Against the dark blue-green of the blade, the scabbard had a grayish-white ivory texture trimmed with gold, and it radiated a different kind of charm entirely. That only made me want to cry more. Why had this trial fallen on me of all people?
"...I'll take it as is."
In the end, there was only one choice available. No matter how I calculated it, the length wasn't something I could use... but just because I couldn't use it didn't mean it was useless.
The craftsman's gaze returned to me.
"Then get out."
A thoroughly cool dismissal.
"Yep. Let's go, my lord."
No—wait. I still had business.
Clink.
A hand that had briefly gone into a bag came out and dropped something onto the table. A clear, lovely sound that anyone would recognize as metal rang out.
"...?"
"A tip for your trouble."
The blade length wasn't to my liking—but the sword itself was well made. A tip was the least I could leave.