The Real Horror
"Aaaargh! What a waste."
It had been a transport job, yet the crates held nothing but trash—proof the whole commission had been a cover for moving a griffin egg. Everyone connected to it, partners included, was dead, so they ought to have shaken it off and moved on. Yet Gordon kept brooding over the heap of rubbish that had filled those wooden boxes.
Whether it had been a smuggling run or a secret commission was none of their business, but he had expected a solid payday.
"Gordon, that was days ago. Why are you still sulking?"
"Listen, kid. No matter how much money you've got, it's never enough."
"Mm, unless something truly extraordinary comes along, that is a fair point."
Catherine thought of the sort of magic that could drain a fortune like drinking seawater and found herself nodding in deep agreement. Magicians already attracted misunderstanding, grudges, and false charges; one day you might find yourself dumped on the roadside. Emergency funds, relocation money, settlement costs—more coin was always better.
"Still, it wasn't a total loss, was it?"
Karem could not quite share the feeling. In this life he had never owned real cash, let alone proper belongings. Even after patching his ragged clothes with cloth and leather scavenged from the site, he still looked like any peasant or farmer's child. Yet the bulging backpack stuffed with ingredients, his share of silver and copper coins, and the cooking tools dangling from every strap made him richer than he had ever been.
Gordon, by contrast, kept mourning the gear left behind in the ruined caravan.
"Really is a shame. Just the weapons and armor we dumped for the sake of travel—think what those were worth."
Even if every crate on the wagons had been trash, valuables still remained. The mercenaries who died before they could use their kit left behind every kind of armor and weapon, each piece worth something. Dozens of swords, spears, and full sets of armor would have filled their purses with gold.
Of course, there had been a way to bring it all.
"Lady Mage, you wouldn't happen to have something like a spatial-expansion pouch, would you?"
"I do, actually."
He had asked on the off chance, and Catherine's answer was exactly what Gordon had hoped for. Karem also stared at her in open shock. Status windows and inventory screens were every reincarnator's dream, after all.
"Then—"
"I don't have it with me. It's buried in a corner of the luggage pile I sent ahead to my destination."
Catherine cut their hopes short with a single stroke. She could hardly blame them for the disappointment; she was kicking herself for not packing it earlier.
"Tch. Should've hauled more somehow. That was all money..."
"Hey, mercenary. Remember there are three of us, and one is still a kid who hasn't even hit adulthood?"
"Which is why I gave up fast and grabbed only the coin and valuables, Lady Mage."
"Then what's with the grumbling now?"
"Doesn't mean the regret goes away. Oh, right."
Talk of money jogged something in Gordon's mind; he turned to Karem.
"By the way, will a few shillings and pence really cut it? Feels short no matter how I look at it. Want a crown or some jewels?"
"Mister Mercenary, at my age even shillings are already pushing it."
"True enough, but what kid has so little greed?"
"No—it's the wise choice."
Catherine cut in. Expecting medieval authorities to come running the moment you filed a report, the way they did in modern developed nations, was pure fantasy; slicing water with a sword would be more productive. Seophon Kingdom's currency ranked from the throne gold piece at the top, down through the crown gold piece, the shilling silver piece, and the pence copper piece. Thrones were so valuable few people held or spent them; crowns, shillings, and pence did the real work.
But an unattached child—especially a runaway serf—known to carry crowns or other valuables? Secrets rarely stayed secret forever. Robbery was certain; if luck ran especially bad, the very guards who answered a report might rob him a second time. Gordon had simply forgotten that for a moment and dropped the idea.
"Ah, right. No backing, no family—valuables would be dangerous."
"Even these cooking tools feel risky before the silver, don't they?"
"Hmm, fair point."
Karem patted the pot hanging from his bag. People might look down on kitchen gear, yet every pot, pan, and knife was metal; only the spatulas, ladles, and wooden flippers were not. They cost less than weapons, but metal cookware was nothing to sneer at in a medieval world.
So Karem had a plan.
"In that spirit, I'll be counting on you both from now on."
"Huh?"
"What?"
Karem stopped walking, bowed with cheerful shamelessness, and left Gordon blinking. Catherine only snorted a laugh.
"What's this, you cheeky brat? Planning to tag along until we find somewhere safe?"
"What?"
"How did you guess that instantly?"
Since things had already gone this far, Karem decided to brazen it out. They said extreme shamelessness could invent facts that never existed. The saying didn't quite fit, but he smothered the flicker of unease and spoke with earnest gravity.
"Until then, I'll take full responsibility for Gordon's and Lady Atanitas's meals—"
"Pfft—"
"Wow, has anyone ever looked less dignified?"
A ten-year-old wearing the world's most serious face was simply funny.
"Hey, I'm completely serious! Anyway, protection money has to be paid somehow!"
"Hah, Karem. Our little serf—well, not anymore. Anyway, kid. You do realize what hiring a mercenary of my caliber costs, right?"
"Uh... not really?"
Gordon grinned and named his daily rate. Karem's eyes did not widen—Catherine's did.
"Mercenary. You earn as much per day as a decent knight-errant?"
"Is that really so shocking, Lady Mage?"
"Lady Atanitas, just how much money is that?"
Catherine winced, remembering the life Karem had described for himself in this world, and frowned for a moment.
"Lady Atanitas?"
"Sorry—I was hunting for a proper comparison. All right. Twenty days of his work equals a full year's income for your parents."
"...Whoa."
Compared with what Karem had earned in his previous life—hardly a golden spoon—it was pocket change. Yet the thought that someone could make in less than a month what others sweated a whole year for made him look at Gordon with fresh eyes.
"Still, mercenary, I'm doubtful a mercenary's rate matches a knight-errant's."
"You forgot one little adjective."
Gordon savored the mixed looks the two gave him and smiled in pure satisfaction. He truly had every reason to be confident in his skill.
"An exceptionally skilled mercenary."
"Ha."
Catherine, who had dismissed him for his constant lighthearted greed, suddenly recalled the facts she had overlooked. Even if he claimed he was not serious, no ordinary mercenary dodged her magic head-on. He had even avoided ice spells launched from his blind spot—clearly reading the sound alone to judge direction and evade.
When she conceded with a look of pure exasperation, Gordon added a teasing note.
"Anyway, your labor's way too cheap to settle the account with just that."
"Urrrgh. Fine. Then laundry, fire-starting, and clean-up for both of you as well—"
"Laundry? Really? You? My clothes?"
Karem tilted his head, wondering what the problem was, then his eyes went round. Gordon let out a low whistle and smirked wickedly.
"Wheeeeew. You little bastard. So that was the angle. You're a guy after all."
"Aaaah, cancel cancel cancel! No, I—"
"Precocious brat. For your information..."
Catherine was not the sort of adult who would scold a child over something so minor—even if her body was not that of an adult. She simply pointed to her mantle, tunic, trousers, and boots one by one, reciting their prices.
Clothes that looked the same could differ wildly in cost depending on material and maker. The garments worn by a mage of her standing, even judged by Karem's previous-life standards, were eye-poppingly expensive.
As she listed the value of every piece, Karem trembled with dread while Gordon, pale with horror, muttered in a daze.
"Good gods. A full set of knight's plate armor is..."
"So, kid, your labor isn't even close. Just quietly accept the kindness of adults."
Catherine watched the two men, still gripped by terror of the luxury goods she wore like armor, and felt a hollow sense of unreality. She had carefully revealed her curse on the journey precisely to avoid misunderstandings. The Curse of Famine—every living thing she touched, directly or indirectly, withered, decayed, and died. With peerless magic and talent that had reached the realm of agelessness, she had spent centuries trying to lift it. Her efforts succeeded only halfway: she managed to narrow the range and target to food alone. That was all. Whether she picked something up with her bare hands or used tools, the curse itself remained.
Misunderstandings and trouble had followed, yet the mercenary and the former serf boy in front of her feared the bill for dirtying or damaging her clothes far more than the curse itself. A mercenary who dreaded debt more than curses, monsters, or magic was one thing—but was the kid not even a little scared?
Not that she was complaining. She might be an ageless mage, but her values were not warped. She was simply puzzled by a reaction she had never once seen from ordinary people—until the next words made her flare up.
"Good gods, while I was cooking for you, food must have splattered more than once...!!!"
"...Hey! Who said anything about fleecing a kid for his pocket money?! That's slander!"