Business Launch (3)
Across from the Karl Mercenary Group outpost in the city of Parolas stood an old shop called Cokes' Armory.
A massive crowd had gathered in front of it now, so thick that passersby could neither advance nor retreat.
For the city security force, the situation was nothing short of an emergency.
As if they weren't busy enough already—what fresh chaos was this supposed to be?
"Captain Megan, what do we do about this?"
"What do you mean, what do we do? Just enjoy it. There's nothing to be done about that. You've heard the rumors too, right? They're selling those weapons starting today, so of course people are going to flock here."
"Those weapons—you mean the ones issued to us?"
"Yeah. This is literally a privilege just for us."
Megan gently stroked the sword already belted at her waist, the one that had been issued to her.
And another.
She also stroked the long-used blade that had been directly enchanted with magic when she was summoned among the Wolves.
She was a mage, yet her craving for swords was no less extraordinary.
On top of that, the weapon held magic so complex it defied imagination.
It would have been stranger not to covet it.
I want to quit this job too and research magic alongside Lord Roy…
Lately she had been contemplating retirement.
"Hey, you there! You thieving little bastard!"
But her present duty was every bit as important.
From pickpockets and petty thieves to every sort of crime that never seemed to stop, she was one of the Wolves, and guarding this city in the lord's stead was also her responsibility.
"Pickpocket! Grab that bastard!"
The pickpocket had managed to lift a wallet unseen, yet the crush of bodies left him nowhere to run; he was seized on the spot.
While that small uproar played out outside, the firmly shut doors of the armory finally opened.
Owner Cokes had kept the shop locked tight for the past three days, preparing for its grand reopening.
And that long-awaited moment had just arrived.
"Lord Geren. Thank you so much for choosing us."
"Not at all. This is an opportunity you earned through your own good judgment. Take pride in it."
"Then let's step outside. It looks as though more than a few people are waiting."
"Yes."
A roar of "Waaah!" from the crowd filled the street.
Cokes set a small wooden crate beneath him as a makeshift platform and climbed atop it.
Noise vanished in an instant so that every ear could catch his voice.
"My thanks to everyone gathered here. As you already know, starting today our armory will be handling special weapons. We humbly ask for your continued patronage. Furthermore, those weapons are displayed only in a special room on the third floor of our shop. Because they are so exceptional, I regret that we cannot allow free browsing, but the restriction is for security. I hope you will forgive us."
At the news that free browsing was impossible, discontented voices rose here and there.
Yet it was impossible to admit the entire throng into the shop, and sending them upstairs was even less feasible.
"Also, entry to the third floor is permitted solely to those who leave as collateral a sum five times the price of the cheapest magic weapon currently on display. Of course, whether you purchase or not, we will return the full amount when you depart."
This announcement drew a collective "Boo—" from the onlookers.
But the moment Geren mounted the platform, the jeers vanished as if by magic.
"Hello. My name is Geren."
Waaah!
The jeers transformed in a heartbeat into thunderous cheers.
Cold sweat beading on his brow, Geren barely managed to keep a smile as he raised one hand.
It was a plea for quiet.
"As some of you already know, a keen blade inevitably walks hand in hand with danger. As the craftsman, my hope is that only those who will wield them in righteous causes will buy them. Now then, Master Cokes."
Geren hurried down from the platform.
Once again he was reminded that this sort of thing did not suit him at all.
Cokes reclaimed the crate and shouted,
"Though a bit belated, I will now unveil our newly made signboard."
They had replaced the sign several days earlier, yet had left it tightly wrapped in thick cloth ever since.
That cloth was about to come off.
The fabric fell away, revealing the board.
It looked ordinary enough, little different from the old one.
Yet the carvings at either end drew a murmur of varied expressions from the crowd.
On the left of the sign was the crest of House Greenhilt, rulers of this land.
On the right end was boldly engraved the mark of the Karl Mercenary Group that held sway across the continent.
In short, the message was clear: this shop stood under the protection of House Greenhilt and the Karl Mercenary Group—so do not dare to trifle with it.
Given the nature of the goods they sold, it was an idea Roy himself had devised for security.
The city, already noisy with throngs and street stalls, now hummed with an even higher festive fever as talk of the newly opened armory and the weapons it had begun to sell swept every corner.
Carriages so luxurious they seized every gaze at once cut straight through the city center and rolled toward the baron's mansion.
Benjamin Biswald.
The coach carried the third son of Margrave Biswald.
"Brother!"
The instant Benjamin stepped down, Sissel—meeting her brother for the first time since her wedding—rushed forward and threw her arms around him with fierce joy.
Those watching decided that, though she had never shown it, she must have missed her family terribly while living so far from home.
"It's been a while, Sissel. Have you been well?"
"Of course."
The baron offered his greetings a beat later.
"It has been a long time, Sir Benjamin. I trust the long journey was not too taxing?"
"Good to see you, Sir Clive. Riding in a carriage is always a trial, but more than that—rumors have been flying of late, have they not?"
The mansion servants felt, almost imperceptibly, the spark of clashing gazes between the two men.
"It's nothing of consequence."
"Nothing of consequence? Word has it your son brought down an ogre."
"…He was merely lucky."
"Is that truly so?"
Benjamin seemed to study the baron's expression with careful attention.
The baron noticed the scrutiny and was nearly frantic with curiosity over what scheme had brought the man here.
He doubted the reason would prove pleasant.
Even at the time of his marriage to Sissel, the member of her family who had looked upon the match with the least favor had been Benjamin.
There was a rumor the Margrave's health had taken a turn…
Margrave Biswald was famous for still gripping the headship firmly even past fifty.
Even setting aside the sons who had fallen in battle, one of the Margrave's remaining sons was already past forty.
The third son, Benjamin, himself was thirty-six.
Succession should long since have become an issue, yet the Margrave continued to hold the seat on the grounds that he had not yet found a successor worthy of his line.
But of late a strange rumor had begun to circulate.
After the failure of the southern great expedition, Margrave Biswald's health was said to have declined with alarming speed.
Naturally, the sons who had kept quiet until now were now said to be at one another's throats for the margraviate.
In the midst of such urgency, to travel all this way merely to attend the birthday party of a seven-year-old boy who happened to be the lord's third son?
Impossible.
It was glaringly obvious that Benjamin had come with some other design in mind.
"Roy's birthday party is three days from now. Will it be all right for you to stay until then, Brother?"
"Of course. I came to see your face, and the face of the child you bore as well—two birds with one stone."
"I am grateful you would take time from your busy schedule to make the journey."
"No need for such formality. It truly is fine. Only someone like me could come here at all. Father is still alive and well, yet my elder brothers and the rest already carry themselves as if the weight of the world rests on their shoulders."
"Haha…"
As he listened, the baron's thoughts grew rapidly tangled.
What? Why is he leaking that sort of information to me?
Benjamin never spoke without purpose.
In an instant the baron's mind filled with competing hypotheses born of those words.
Was the Margrave's condition truly that dire?
Was there already someone who regarded himself as the next Margrave?
Why confide such things to me?
Yet he could show nothing.
It might well be a trap Benjamin had laid.
While his thoughts raced, the baron kept a carefully manufactured smile on his face.
It seemed the mansion would feel thoroughly uncomfortable—nothing like home—for the next several days.
"Ah, and this is my youngest son. James, come here and present yourself to the lord of Greenhilt."
"It is an honor to meet you. I am James Biswald."
"Nine years old this year. When he heard there was a seven-year-old here with a gift for magic, he insisted he simply had to meet the boy, so I brought him along. Though he is my own son, the child was born with a true talent for the craft. His mana reserves need no comment."
The baron thought privately,
What's so surprising about that…
With Biswald blood in his veins, of course the boy would have been born with magical aptitude.
That was the power carried by the blood of the great house that held the entire southern kingdom in its grip.
I will have to caution that Roy boy thoroughly.
Build and bearing might belittle his years, yet he was still only a nine-year-old child.
There had to be a clear reason for hauling such a boy all the way to distant Greenhilt.
An ominous premonition whispered that if he let Roy run free as usual, the boy would cause an accident of spectacular proportions.