There Is No Country for Gods (2)
"Yes. They said her name is Livia."
"Livia… You mean the Livia known as the Goddess of Astrologers?"
"That's right. In a way, it's a relief. At least it isn't someone as dramatic as a god of death or a god of war."
Across the Empire and countless other kingdoms, there was always at least one religious order known as a Pantheon. The reason was simple: every nation that refused to raise a Pantheon and instead rejected the gods had been wiped out by little more than a playful flick of a divine finger.
The Pantheon's stated goal was to record and revere every deity in the heavenly realm, and that ambition left them permanently short-handed. So, as a form of publicity, they regularly compiled the information they had gathered on the gods into concise encyclopedias and distributed them.
Naturally, gods were beings both impossibly distant and uncomfortably close to humankind, so I had once leafed through one of those encyclopedias out of sheer curiosity.
Livia, Goddess of Astrologers.
She was the idol of the astrologers who read the future in beast bones, grains, and other such odds and ends. An individual astrologer could not wield much personal power or dark sorcery, and the prevailing view held that Livia, whom they worshipped, was similarly modest in raw divine might.
Of course, the problem was that even that "modest" strength was enough to erase the Empire in a single blow.
Setting that aside, Livia's true power did not lie in brute force, but in the gift that befit a goddess of astrologers: foresight. It was commonly said that the gods were both omniscient and omnipotent, but that only held true while they remained in the heavens.
When the gods looked upon us, it was rather like reading a novel—an endless one. Flip back a few pages and they could see our past; flip forward and they could glimpse our future. That was all. A reader might finish the book, but they could not pick up the pen and rewrite the story however they pleased.
So when a god grew dissatisfied with the plot, they would form a geas with the barest fraction of their power and descend into the novel themselves, becoming a character and intervening directly. Once they left the heavens for the lower world, they were neither omniscient nor omnipotent—merely humans gifted with extraordinary abilities.
And among all those gods, Livia, Goddess of Astrologers, could reshape knowledge of the future that must never be spoken aloud in the lower world and reveal it in the form of "divination."
Small wonder the Empire's citizens—and the Empire itself—were getting worked up. Information about the future was that sweet, and that powerful.
"Then when do we leave?"
"Right now. If the two of us walk straight out of the palace and head for the plaza, the Empire will assume we're already aware of the rumor. The ideal story is that we spent some time outside, heard the gossip circulating around us, and decided to go take a look out of curiosity."
"…Understood."
"Before that, though! The two of us need to change clothes, don't we?"
She had a point. I was wearing thick, specially treated garments designed to turn a blade, layered with light armor, while Her Highness was still in the formal uniform she wore for official duties. Blending into the streets like this would be impossible.
"Here, Sir Evan. In the next room you'll find clothes I picked out myself. Change into those and come out."
"…Understood."
There was something a little too triumphant in Her Highness's voice that left me uneasy, but I obediently stepped into the adjoining room. Hanging on the rack was something that resembled an imperial formal uniform. It was too stiff for a commoner and lacked the easy drape that marked a noble's leisurewear—clothes that somehow made you not want to put them on at all.
The top consisted of a grey dress shirt, a slightly darker pinstriped vest, a long coat of white with black accents, and finally a grey shoulder cape. The trousers were white, cut to skim the line of my legs without clinging.
Once I had them on, the overall impression was less commoner or noble and more intelligence officer or inspector. Still, Her Highness must have had her reasons for choosing them. With that thought, I stepped back out of the room.
"Your Highness, I've finished—"
"Kyaaaaaaaah!!"
"…Excuse me."
Thud—!
I saw nothing. I saw absolutely nothing…
I had not seen the mature black-frilled lingerie set that matched from top to bottom. I had not seen the brassiere cupping a bosom too large for one hand, nor the panties riding smooth thighs. I had known she would change right there in the office, of course, but I hadn't expected her to still be in her underthings—I hadn't been that fast myself, so I assumed she would be nearly done.
I had never imagined she would be standing there half-naked in nothing but underwear.
…This is the first time I've seen Her Highness's bare skin…
Her formal uniform was tailored close to the body so it wouldn't hinder her work, so I already knew the outline of her figure—but I had never expected it to be this striking. Her Highness ate only what she needed and never skipped training; there was not an ounce of excess on her, and she even had a clean, ideal set of abdominal lines. Above that, her chest was so overwhelmingly larger than Violet's that "violent" felt like a fair description. And her thighs—smooth, healthy, and so alluring that no man could have looked away.
I've really gone off the deep end… Enough. Stop thinking about it.
Twenty years without romance—without so much as holding a woman's hand—meant it was only natural for a man's desires to run high. Directing them at the princess I was sworn to protect, however, was unforgivable. One wrong step and it wouldn't just be my head on the block; my entire house could be wiped out.
"Sir Evan… You can come in now."
"…Understood, Your Highness."
Creak—
When I opened the door, Her Highness was dressed in nearly the same outfit as mine, with one key difference: a skirt in place of trousers, black stockings, and a garter belt beneath.
"A-about just now…"
"Your Highness. I only just opened this door for the first time. I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by 'just now.'"
"R-right. Ahem. Well? How do I look, Sir Evan?"
"Beautiful. The braid suits you as well."
"Hehe… Thank you. You look dashing yourself, Sir Evan."
"I'm grateful. But Your Highness—why these clothes?"
They were far too fine for commoners and far too rigid for nobles. Exactly as I had thought, they would not blend easily into a crowd. We would be lucky if people on the street didn't start giving us a wide berth.
"These are the formal uniforms of Academy professors. They're authoritative enough without drawing too much suspicion—and if a god truly has descended, we can still show proper respect."
"I see."
She was right. Academy professors' uniforms would earn a measured wariness from people on the street without outright rejection, making them decent for melting into the city—and not bad for paying respects to a deity either. All things considered, it was an excellent choice.
"And pin this brooch somewhere on you. It's a shape-shifting magic tool. I might get away with my face, but yours has been plastered everywhere, hasn't it? Better safe than sorry."
"Fair enough. Thank you."
I fastened the hummingbird-shaped brooch to a secure spot on my shoulder cape. When I fed it just enough mana to keep it from falling off all day, a faint sense of dissonance settled over my face. To anyone else, my features would now look like someone else's.
"My name is Lena. Yours is Duprein. We're friendly colleagues who happen to be professors. We're the same age, so we should speak casually with each other, right?"
"…We don't really need a setup that elaborate…"
"But I want to use it. Right, Duprein?"
"Haa… Fine. I mean—yeah, alright, Lena."
"Hehe…"
Her Highness beamed as if nothing in the world could make her happier. If she was pleased, there was no reason for me to insist on changing the cover story.
"Shall we go, then?"
"Yeah… Let's go."
Her Highness and I slipped out of the palace and headed into the city. Word had already been passed to the gatekeepers; they took one look at our clothes as we left together and simply waved us through.
Neither of us had eaten lunch yet, so our first stop was a famous restaurant in the city center: Zaltelleni's Index Finger.
Zaltelleni was the god of food and cooking, and he so thoroughly enjoyed having capable chefs use his name that if a restaurant bearing it thrived, he would even bestow a blessing. The usual effects included making even those who weren't hungry suddenly ravenous at the scent of food from a blessed establishment, and ensuring that diners never felt full until they had cleaned their plates.
"But Your Highness—Zaltelleni's Index Finger is always packed. I was under the impression you can't get in without a reservation…"
"…."
"Your Highness?"
"…."
"Lena… Did you make a reservation?"
"Of course I did. Best food, best seats—don't worry about it."
"Right…"
Her Highness seemed to have memorized the entire route; she led the way without hesitation, and before long we stood before Zaltelleni's Index Finger, a restaurant whose façade was shaped like an enormous pig's head. Because it was lunchtime, a long line of people stretched out of the pig's mouth—but Her Highness and I skipped the queue and walked straight inside.
"Welcome! Reservation, yes? Name?"
"Lena and Duprein. We booked the 'Knife' seats."
"My, my! Academy professors, are you? Garm! Show them to the Knife seats!"
"Yes, sir! Guests, this way."
We followed a massively built orc deep into the establishment, and the scale and interior lived up to the restaurant's imperial renown. Along one entire wall, a bar dominated the room where orcs performed fire-show cooking on enormous iron griddles, their rough yet precise hands drawing every eye as meat seared and sizzled. My stomach growled of its own accord. The overall lighting was kept deliberately low, with soft lamps over each table carefully angled so that diners could see only one another—or watch the fire show in the center.
"Climb these stairs all the way up and take the table at the top. The food will come to you, so please enjoy yourselves."
"Thank you. Come on, Duprein—up we go."
On the way, Her Highness had explained the seating hierarchy: Hand, Spoon, Fork, and Knife, in ascending order of quality. Hand seats were for walk-ins. Spoon seats were a step better, given to lucky walk-ins. From Fork upward, everything was reservation-only; Fork tables offered a closer view of the fire show and better cuts of meat. Knife was the best of all—seats on the mezzanine with the absolute front-row view of the fire show, and the finest ingredients prepared and brought to the table automatically.
I had heard it took at least a month to land a Knife reservation. How Her Highness had managed it was a mystery.
"Whew… All this meat smell already has me starving."
"This is my first time here… Your High—I mean, have you been before?"
"No, first time for me too. Rio unnie made the reservation."
"She did? Well… that tracks, coming from her."
Princess Rio, who refused to take part in the struggle for the throne, somehow maintained an absurdly vast network of connections. She was on terms with the heads of nearly every major enterprise led by a woman. Zaltelleni's Index Finger was run by a female orc who served as both head chef and proprietress, so snagging a reservation through her would have been no great feat.
"Still, Lena—you usually eat in moderation. Are you sure it's alright to pile on this much greasy food today?"
"It's fine. It's not even once a month—more like once a year. If anything, it'll help more than it hurts."
"If you say so."
We whiled away the time with idle talk until an orc whose green skin was scorched in patches from constant exposure to open flame arrived, both enormous hands laden with dishes.
"Food's here."