Cramped Quarters
The wagon had just enough space for two people if they crammed themselves in tight. Marhal was forcibly pulled down beside Alasil, who had grabbed hold of him. She threw the cloth back over them and hunkered down.
"They just want to check inside the wagon, you say? Does that sound ridiculous to you? Huh? You think the Church is a joke? I'm Bishop Anton. Do you have any idea what kind of position a bishop holds?"
"I do, sir. But this is still Lord Azenman's wagon."
The warehouse manager responded sternly. Even if the Holy Empire and the Church wielded immense power, this was Azenman's warehouse—and Azenman's wagons. Wagons used for trade demanded utmost secrecy. When multiple wagons moved together, it wasn't just about hauling more cargo; it was also about hiding valuables. If one wagon loaded with food got robbed, the loss was minimal—you could restock in the next town or village. But a wagon full of precious metals? Losing even one could be catastrophic. You might have to sell everything else just to break even.
No matter that the man was a Church bishop, they couldn't set a precedent of letting someone rummage through a wagon already prepped for departure.
The argument between the warehouse manager and Bishop Anton dragged on.
"What are they saying? I can guess the gist."
Bishop Anton was speaking in the ducal tongue. For a priest—for a bishop—who viewed using another nation's language as a disgrace, this was proof he saw the situation as dire.
"The warehouse manager's refusing flat-out. Doesn't seem like we need to stick around for this."
"No. That old codger will tear the wagon apart if he has to."
"Clashing with Azenman here in the Border wouldn't do him any favors."
If the Church had a branch in another city, souring relations with Azenman might be a mere annoyance. But this was Azenman's city. Half of it belonged to Marhal, though most people thought of it as Azenman's domain since he kept his name hidden.
"I'm a pretty important guy, you see. If he lets me slip away again, even a bishop like him will catch hell from the Papal Court."
"And a guy like that was out peddling flags all by his lonesome?"
"As long as it ends without a hitch, that's what matters."
"No wonder the Church is turning over every stone to find you."
Was she fearless, or just bold? Every move she made was extraordinary. Even if Marhal were with the Church, he wouldn't have left her alone. Someone who could reattach a severed arm was beyond what a bishop outside could dream of. There weren't many like her even if you went straight to the Papal Court. Losing a top talent from the Holy Empire on the streets would be a national disaster.
"There, see? That's Azenman's signature right there! Now step aside!"
Bishop Anton's voice brimmed with confidence. He'd apparently sent word to Azenman ahead of time—or gotten permission from the man himself.
"But isn't this your wagon? Can't you just step out and say no?"
"I don't have a title like Lord Azenman. He'd throw a fit about some lowly commoner blocking a chosen elite."
"Weren't you famous? That's what the Church folks said."
"Not close enough to Anton for that. And he's not even the one handling operations."
The operational staff might know Marhal, but bishops who saw Azenman as beneath them probably wouldn't. Bishop Anton's grumbling grew closer—"Why do I have to deal with this?"
"They're coming this way."
"I'll hold my breath. Inhale!"
Alasil pulled the cloth over herself and huddled behind Marhal. The covering cloth was yanked aside, revealing a face neither of them particularly wanted to see.
"There you are. Come with me to the Chu— Who the hell are you?"
"Just a worker waiting for my shift change. You look like Church clergy—what brings a guy like you around here?"
"...Filthy cur."
Bishop Anton turned on his heel without another word, as if he couldn't be bothered. Once he was gone, Alasil peeked out.
"Not being famous has its perks."
"Guess I'll head out then."
As Marhal started to climb out of the wagon, his collar was grabbed again.
"Didn't you come here to rest?"
"I did. Time to go rest."
Alasil tugged at Marhal's clothes. Her physical prowess qualified as superhuman. Marhal, no superhuman himself, was dragged backward by her pull.
"Who knows who else might show up? Just rest here."
"Here?"
There was space for two to lie down, but only if they pressed right up against each other. Even now, Alasil's face was inches from Marhal's nose.
"What, you getting excited over a nun chosen by God?"
Alasil grinned provocatively.
"Wouldn't dream of it. I was just worried it'd be awkward for both of us. If you're fine with it..."
Marhal simply closed his eyes. And didn't move a muscle.
Alasil blinked.
Wait, he's actually settling in?
She'd started the teasing, but she hadn't expected him to actually share space with a real nun. She poked Marhal's cheek with her finger. He didn't react, as if dead set on ignoring her.
"Hey. You really sleeping?"
"Scared?"
"No! Who'd be scared!"
"Quiet. Someone might come in."
Alasil clamped her mouth shut. She glanced sideways at Marhal, who had his eyes closed again.
"Sleeping? For real?"
Alasil was dumbfounded. She'd tossed out the joke to butter him up for when she bolted from the Church later, but he'd taken it at face value? What if someone saw them—what kind of rumors would fly?
"The booze? You didn't seem that drunk."
She poked his cheek again. This time, zero response. Had he really dozed off? A man's face right there in front of hers. It had been since orphanage winters, huddling with the other kids for warmth. Back then, they were all clueless toddlers who didn't know boys from girls. Now she was a full-grown woman who knew better.
Her neck stiffened. This feels dangerous.
Rustling came from outside. She yanked the cloth over them in a panic. The fabric shifted with a soft crinkle. Faint light filtered through the thin layer.
"There they are. Looks like they're sleeping. Probably wiped out from drinking all night—let 'em rest."
"Got it."
It was a young woman's voice. One was the person who'd chattered in an unknown language all night; the other, the one whose eyes she'd met yesterday. Just as Marin had clocked Alasil's origins, Alasil had pegged Marin's. Others might miss it, but women who'd survived the streets alone knew the signs. Street survivors carried a unique venom. You couldn't make it as a lone woman out there without being ready to chew flesh and tear throats.
The cloth settled back, and the footsteps faded. Alasil peeked out from under it.
Empire noble and ducal commoner? Odd pair.
People who could barely stand face-to-face chatting like old pals. Throw in a mage named after Silanatiell and herself with the Egoman name, and it got weirder. Two Hero Party associates—the ones the Holy Empire was desperately hunting—right here together. Even if one was a fake.
* * *
Marhal woke to the wagon's jolting. Opening his eyes revealed a round lump like a giant wheel of cheese. He pulled back the cloth to uncover Alasil, curled up tight and snoring softly in colors. She instinctively groped for the covering. Marhal handed it to her, and she draped it over herself without stirring.
Marhal stretched. He hadn't gotten blackout drunk, and the solid sleep had washed away any hangover.
He pulled a pocket watch from his bosom. It was the same type supplied by the Union to land race overseers. Don't underestimate supply gear—the glass-faced timepiece was a luxury item crafted jointly by master artisans. Call it standard issue, but it cost a fortune off the shelf.
Marhal rarely used one. He gauged rough time from the sun or stars, counting minutes internally for precision. Still, estimation versus an exact measure was night and day.
The hands pointed to 12.
"Lunchtime, huh."
They could eat here, rest once, then take it slow till evening. Marhal swept the cloth aside and climbed out.
The caravan consisted of dozens of wagons and around a hundred people. No one walked. Riders mounted up; others crammed into coach seats or whatever space remained in the loads. It was all to save time.
Spotting Marhal, Marin rode over.
"You're up?"
"Everyone else accounted for?"
"Yeah. Nothing special happened."
"Let's eat. Who's leading?"
"Mercenary Hugo hired. Seems famous."
"Better say hi."
As Marhal hopped down from the wagon, a cloth-covered lump behind him suddenly sat up. Alasil threw off her covering, rubbing her eyes.
"Yawn... Already noon? You said just a quick nap."
Alasil's eyes met Marin's.
"What the hell are you doing coming out of there?"
Marin didn't know Holy Empire tongue, and Alasil didn't know ducal. But some vibes needed no words.
Alasil grabbed Marhal's forearm and looked up at Marin.
[Because we slept together, duh. Why? You haven't yet? ]
Marin's grip tightened on the reins. The thick leather creaked under her strength.
No translator needed—somehow, Alasil's words came through crystal clear.
"It's not what you're thinking, Marin."
[Alasil, why provoke her? ]
[It's my habit. Bet she thinks the same. ]
"Yeah. It's our habit."
[Oh, our—I know that word. Translate this for me: Let's get along, us same kinds. ]
Alasil hopped down from the wagon. With bouncy steps, she caught up to a lead wagon and mounted one of the riderless spares.
"What'd she say at the end?"
"Let's get along."
Figured as much. Marin trusted her gut. That woman's words were legible without translation.
"Lord Marhal, that woman—she's street stock like me. With money and power in sight, you never know what she'll do. Watch your back."
How she'd become a nun was a mystery. But if nunhood hadn't curbed her old habits, better safe than sorry.
"I know. But she's key for this job, so try not to fight."
"If you say so, Lord Marhal."
Her words were compliant, but her face screamed dissatisfaction. Marhal knew her feelings well enough to count the agreement as a win.
Folks forgot one thing about his "Hero's guide" title: the wealth and fame he'd built in the West from nothing. Sure, talent and Hero Party lessons helped, but at root, Marhal was street-born too.
Back when the Union formed and land race buzz spread. When crooks with cash and muscle but no legit power ran rampant, craving official clout. The back alleys of a nameless eastern border town—that was Marhal's starting line.
He knew how slum-dwellers thought and acted. And how those scars lingered.
Marhal headed to the caravan's front. And there met a familiar face.
"Haribal? That you?"
Haribal, the Hessen mercenary who'd shone in the Union wars, gotten scammed on a contract, and joined the land race. He was leading the caravan.
"Marhal? What're you doing here?"
"I'm the owner of these wagons."
"Owner? All of 'em?"
Haribal glanced at the trailing wagons. Even if packed with just food and sundries, the sheer volume was no small investment.
"You don't seem shocked."
"Figured you weren't your average merc. But owning the whole caravan? That's a surprise."
Back then, he'd bought the "easterner" line hook, line, and sinker. In hindsight, weird. Hessen wasn't huge—you'd hear of any local your age, even from another village. But Haribal had never heard of a Marhal. He'd double-checked with buddies. No mistake.
He'd realized too late he'd been had, but no hard feelings. No scam—just debts owed the other way. And the Hessen intel checked out, so no real gripe.
"How'd the land go? No curveballs there, I bet."
"Got some results. Looking for settlers now."
"Nice. This job too?"
"Heard we're hauling migrants. Tea leaves—even kids and women can pick 'em."
Couldn't plug migrant leaks—Azenman and Marhal's warehouse outbound and destination screamed it.
"Tea fields in the West?"
"Turns out, minus the killing, that's all I had left."
He'd fled home hating a life of plucking leaves. What he'd learned since? Deceive, kill, steal.
"Maybe staying put in that podunk village, griping away, would've been better."
No dreams fulfilled, but no blood caking his hands either.