Chapter 94

CHAPTER THREE When Col awoke, his body refused to move. Last night, he had ultimately joined in on the partying until the city guards came to ask them to wrap it up; he and Hyland’s guard had somehow managed to bring home two girls, unable to walk straight due to the alcohol and exhaustion and excessive laughing. One of those girls was Myuri, of course, and the other was Hyland. Both men lent a shoulder to their companions on the way back to the manor, and when they said good night before heading to their respective bedrooms, he and Hollande the guard exchanged glances. The look in his eyes was much more eloquent than anything he could have said. He had essentially wished both of them the best of luck. “I need…water…My back hurts…” Rarely did Col ever participate in dancing, so he ached all over. He realized he had been sleeping at a terrible diagonal slant over the bed, likely due to how he was writhing in pain in his sleep. His odd sleeping position had put even more burden on his already-hurting body, which made getting up even more difficult. No—there was another reason for his terrible sleep, and he had this realization because the hairs from Myuri’s tail were clinging to every part of his clothing. He was near certain he had put her to sleep in her own bed the night before. She must have crawled under his covers without his permission. “Good grief…” The rowdy girl in question was nowhere to be seen. He pressed a hand to his throbbing head—owed likely to sleeping without a pillow. A cursory examination of the room revealed that Myuri’s sword was gone. She was either out happily swinging around her sword in the courtyard bright and early this morning, or she had gone to see Le Roi again. Either way, Col needed water. The more squalid establishments in the city seasoned their food with an excess of salt and garlic, either to hide the poor quality of the ingredients or to simply encourage patrons to order more drink. But the water jug was empty, and he pictured Myuri getting up in the middle of the night to drain it in a single gulp. With a sigh, he grabbed the pitcher and stood to bring it to the well, but he noticed something odd on the desk. “…A book?” It was poorly made, the pages worn and of varying sizes, the thinning binding cord just barely holding it all together, but it was, indeed, a book. “A Knight’s…Tail.” The title was clearly misspelled. The cover did not only feature a title, but also traces of writing practice and a doodle of a knight’s profile. It was not Myuri’s writing, so perhaps it had been written as it passed through many hands. Col flipped it open and was greeted with the moldy smell particular to poorly made paper. But the inside pages were written rather neatly, and as he read, it eventually clicked this was the story of the scandalous knight captain from the era of the ancient empire, the very same one he had heard at the tavern the night previous. In the song, it sounded like the story of a rather frivolous and wild knight, but the book was filled with tales of surprising hardship, and he was soon engrossed in reading. What snapped him back to reality was the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, ones that reminded him of the day previous. “Ugh, I’m exhausted!” Myuri flung open the door, returning to the room. “Oh, Brother! You’re finally up.” She was the one typically scolded for getting up late, so she seemed particularly pleased by the reversal. “You have some hair sticking up,” she pointed out. She unhooked her sword from her belt and leaned it against the wall before letting her ears and tail out, flicking them this way and that to work out the last dregs of stress from sword practice. “What is this?” Col asked. A book’s dignity was dictated by its size. The scripture’s large, arm-sized binding spoke to the authority of its contents. In contrast, tales of ancient knights were delegated to flimsy paper and kept small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand. He held up the book, and Myuri shrugged. “You borrowed it from the bards last night. Don’t you remember?” “……” He was fairly certain that he had been the one taking care of Myuri and Hyland last night, but…on second thought, perhaps they were not the only ones who could not walk straight. Though he did not have much recollection of drinking too much, he had a feeling he had gotten swept up in the energy and imbibed quite a bit. And that meant this headache did not come from Myuri’s clinging forcing him into a weird sleeping position, but from the alcohol. “You were super drunk, too, Brother. You reeked of ale.” Of course, she would not apologize for joining him in his bed. And he knew that any inept protest on his part would only fall flat, so he returned to the topic at hand. “But…why would I borrow this?” “To copy it. Because they apparently don’t sing about the whole story. We should do what research we can to attract people to the monastery, right?” A monastery was a place of contemplation and prayer, not a place for recreation or amusement. But despite the thought, it did not seem he could write it off as a silly idea after seeing the excitement of the tavern patrons last night. “I suppose finding a way to help with the funding would ease Heir Hyland’s financial burden…” “Right? And the monastery honestly has such an incredible history, so if it ever did become a popular place to visit, Miss Eve might end up giving us a little more money. She does love a good scheme to make money.” Eve had indeed offered funds in exchange for the right to hold a market outside the monastery, under the assumption that business would thrive. If the monastery started attracting crowds, she would almost certainly start licking her chops and calculating her profits. But as he listened to Myuri, he had a feeling she seemed much too adept in the ways of the world, even if she was originally a sharp girl. “Mister Le Roi put that into your head, didn’t he?” Myuri pretended not to hear him, but regardless of where the idea came from, it wasn’t a bad one. The possibility of Hyland pushing herself too far to accommodate them with the funds was most certainly not Myuri’s wild imagination. “Also, we have to give back the book tonight, so we have to copy it really quickly. You’re going to help me, right?” Even a book like this would not be easy to write, so buying it would cost them a pretty penny. Copying it, on the other hand, would only cost them paper and a coin or two as a thank-you. Col flipped through the booklet, quickly estimating the word count, and saw that the two of them could indeed manage by themselves. He also spotted strange symbols and emphasized intonation markers—he realized these notes must have been important tools for the bards’ trade. “I see. The bards use this as a reference for their music.” “Yeah. You were sloshed last night, Brother. That’s why I had the bards tell me more of those stories until you could stand.” He had a feeling she had said something he could not let pass without comment, but that she did not appear to be teasing him made it seem awfully plausible. Perhaps his memory of exercising moderation until they went home was a dream he had while Myuri clung to him last night. “And there are some paper sellers in town who handle these story booklets for bards. What songs are popular changes depending on the city, so when they go to a new place, the bards write down the songs they know on paper and then exchange it for the popular local songs.” Col had heard valuable copies of books were often exchanged in that manner, too. That was because making a copy of a book was not an easy task, so the completed books went for very high prices. And the practice of making copies instead of being forced to buy a book meant that everyone could keep their favorite stories on hand and made it much more feasible to obtain new books. That itself was not a particular surprise, but the booklet did pique his interest. Eve had estimated that the books staunch booksellers like Le Roi dealt in were often worth more than their weight in gold. Not many people could read, and even fewer could write, so the only ones who kept books at home were nobles or affluent merchants. But there were back-alley markets like this in the world of writing and books. “Sooo…Broootheeer…” As those thoughts rolled through his mind, Myuri clasped her hands behind her back, sidled up to him, and peered up at him with wide eyes. Most people may consider that little act of hers cute, but in Col’s eyes, it was only a terrible omen. “I want to go to the papermaker.” He sighed when she said what he was expecting. But even in his hungover state, he knew that telling her to go on her own was meaningless. “I heard they have all kinds of stories there.” What she was implying was that she either wanted to buy them or borrow them to make a copy. And that meant Col would have to open his coin purse. “Ooh, and we might even find clues on our legendary artisan.” Though it sounded like a contrived excuse, what was certain was that the papermaker would be dealing in stories that were beyond Le Roi’s grasp. They had reached a total dead end in their search for the legendary artisan’s whereabouts, so talking to the papermaker was as good an idea as any. Col gave a reluctant nod, and Myuri leaped to throw her arms around him in a playful manner. “I love you, Brother!” What a glib girl she was. He plonked the tin pitcher atop her head, and it rang with a hollow noise. “Refill the water when you finish it.” Her wolf ears struggled against the pitcher. Despite how she just said she loved him, visible discontent colored her face as she snatched the pitcher from him and stuck out her tongue. Before Myuri rushed them to the papermaker, Col had to remind Hyland about Canaan and Rhodes. It was that thought that led him to her office, where he found the noble pale-faced and glumly signing documents. After Col confirmed what they had discussed the night before and let her know that he and Myuri were off to the papermaker, Hyland offered them a half-hearted smile that made it seem like she might shatter at any moment. Myuri, surprisingly, did not tease either of them, and once they left the office, Col murmured regretfully to himself, “We may have indulged a little too much last night.” And so they ventured through the lively streets of Rausbourne with Myuri in the lead. Col was surprised to see there was no hesitation in her step, but he reckoned that was thanks to the strays telling them where to go. They came to a district on the north side of the city that had a somewhat desolate mood, and there was a peculiar smell in the air. That perhaps originated from the cluster of workshops dedicated to tanning and glue-making. All those jobs were terribly difficult ones, since the workers had to keep fires running for a long time, and that meant not letting one’s attention stray from the flames for a moment. This was most certainly not a place frequented by booksellers like Le Roi and his ilk, who dealt in valuable, rare books that regularly sold for astronomical prices. “This smell reminds me of tallow candles.” The manufacture of tallow candles also came with an especially unique smell, unlike wax candles. So Col often had Myuri make them whenever she got in trouble for pulling pranks at the bathhouse. “It’s this way, apparently.” As they followed a gaunt stray’s directions through the artisans’ district, they arrived at a workshop where there sat a mountain of old clothes at the front eaves. It was an open workshop, with no windows or doors, so they could see everything inside. The crafters were wielding wooden hammers that were as big as themselves—two people per hammer—lifting them, then slamming them into a massive tub. In a corner, children were ripping the old clothes into thin strips; in the center was a large pot big enough to fit an entire bull, with liquid bubbling away inside it. “Whoa…” Myuri, the bundle of curiosity that she was, stared at the papermaking process in fascination, but it did not seem like they were actually selling paper here. “Did you need something?” Col turned at the voice behind them, and the man who spoke lowered the carrying pole he had on his shoulders. The buckets on each end of the pole were stuffed full of rags—he had perhaps just returned from collecting them. “Pardon us. We heard we’d be able to obtain booklets for bards here.” The man regarded the outsiders with suspicion—a common thing in places where obstinate artisans gathered—but Col’s request was enough to soften the animosity in his eyes. “Then it’s not here you want to be. You’ll want to make a left at the end of that block. And when you reach the square with the well, you’ll find the papermaker’s workshop in the corner.” This place processed the rags that would later be used in the papermaking process itself. “Thank you very much,” Col offered. Apparently that was considered a rather pompous demeanor in this part of town, given how the man’s shoulders jerked upward as he snorted. Myuri was reluctant to leave, fascinated by what she saw in the workshop, but Col gently pried her from her spot and followed the local’s directions. They found the papermakers immediately, and the building was a familiar combination of storefront and workshop. “We’re all out of paper.” The crafter inside immediately spoke up the moment Col poked his head into the wide-open storefront. “Even out of the books for bards?” Myuri asked, poking her head out from behind him. The crafter, clad in a dirtied apron, raised his brows. “You’re a little young to be a singer. Or are you a dancer?” “I could do both, but no.” Tickled by her confident reply, the crafter gave a quiet chuckle before wiping his hands clean and motioning for them to come in. Many of the booklets for bards had content that would garner the attention of the Church, so shops like this were probably careful about who they let browse their wares. Inside, there were several tanks that looked like holding ponds, and other crafters clad in aprons were dipping square sieves into the water and rocking them back and forth. Several of those same sieves stood leaning up against the wall, and Col spotted a meshwork made of thin wire on the same wall. A wooden box, upon which sat large stones, was likely meant to wring the water out of the freshly formed paper. Col was sure that if he left Myuri here, she would not come home for ten whole days. He skillfully nudged along the girl as her eyes roamed the workshop, and they entered the adjoining room. Shelves stuffed full of little booklets lined the walls. “Two kingdom silvers to buy; five coppers to borrow for a night.” A silver’s worth varied depending on the exact currency, and the kingdom-minted silvers were on the cheap side. But one was still enough to feed a workshop of artisans for a few days. Poorly made paper booklets could not cultivate the soul like the scripture, nor could they fill stomachs, so two kingdom silvers was much too high. But this price hadn’t been selected to accurately represent its value—it was meant to make the borrowing fee look cheaper. “What if we swap with a story you don’t have?” Myuri asked. “Then your pick of book is free, but you’re buying the copying paper from us. But I doubt you know any stories we don’t have.” The artisan was right to be proud. Col was honestly shocked to see just how many tales for bards there were out there. “How many can I get, Brother?” Myuri impatiently turned a feverishly impatient eye to Col; he thought her ears and tail might pop out at any moment. He knew she would be dissatisfied with whatever answer he gave, so he used his wit to come up with an answer. “You may borrow one for now, and you can come back when you’re done copying it.” Col knew she would give up more quickly if she understood the hardship of copying a text by hand awaited her, as opposed to the ease of writing down whatever came to mind. They still had the booklet about the Aloné Order of Knights they were borrowing from the bards, too. It was hard to tell if she had sniffed out his schemes. “Then I should pick the thickest book,” Myuri said, and leaned toward the shelf. “Huh. Writing at a young age, eh?” said the impressed artisan as he watched Myuri, after listening to their conversation. “I practically had to tie her to the desk to teach her,” Col replied. The artisan burst out laughing and nodded. It seemed he could empathize with that. “So you must be…some kind of noble’s scribe, is that it?” he asked. The young merchant’s outfit Col wore the night before stunk of roasted meat and booze-scented sweat from all the dancing and was in no state to be worn out during the day. He wore his typical, plain, priestlike garb and added a brightly colored sash to make himself seem less like a member of the clergy. This must have made him seem like one who spent most of their time around books, and since he was in search of bard’s booklets, it stood to reason his primary job was recording territorial income or writing letters on behalf of a noble. “Something like that, yes.” Perhaps that he no longer hesitated when he glossed over facts like this was, in a way, growth. But the artisan’s assumption was a welcome one, considering the question he wanted to ask. “Every day I wish I had extra sets of hands,” he said, priming the artisan with another laugh. “You know, I happened to hear of a printing device that could record entire sentences on a page in the blink of an eye without having to write with one’s hands. Can you imagine how easy my job would be if something like that truly existed?” Le Roi had said that the moment printing technology came to fruition, it was deemed heretical, so people were mostly unaware of its existence. But if the escaped artisan was still using the technology, Col reckoned it could be treated as a rumor somewhere out there. He had brought it up in a roundabout way while clinging to that slimmer of hope, but the papermaker only laughed even louder than before. “Magic like that could make our workshop filthy rich!” The carefree laugh on his face made it hard to believe he was hiding anything. Col glanced at Myuri, who was much more attentive when it came to these things, but she was flipping through a booklet, entirely uninterested in their conversation. “Still, too many paper sales is bad for business, too. We don’t have enough raw material, but that’s not a good enough excuse to force the entire city to walk around naked,” the artisan said, then turned his attention to Col. “How about it? Why don’t you tell your patron to collect all their residents’ old rags? If you do, I’ll let you copy as many books here as you like.” That must have been the ulterior motive for allowing Col and Myuri in. “Ah, you did say you were out of paper, didn’t you?” “Couple of days ago, some rich-looking fellow came in and bought a whole ream. Cleaned us out.” Col had a feeling it might have been Canaan. That fellow had been so passionate about the vernacular scripture that it made Col blush; perhaps he was planning on copying the script as a personal project separate from their main plans. Still, the idea that he might have bought out their entire stock shocked Col. Paper that was made from rags was most often used by companies to record their day-to-day transactions. He had been initially wondering if business was doing so well that a papermaker could actually run out of product, which was why the artisan’s mutterings stood out to him. “I bet some lord or another is going to force a poet to write some awful song for their vanity again.” He planted his hands on his hips with an irritated sigh. Col was standing in stunned silence, not expecting to hear about the boasting of a noble, when Myuri spoke up. “Like one like this?” She flapped the pages of the booklet in her hand. “The Adventures of Sir Dagfolk.” She read the title aloud. The artisan’s brows furrowed as he laughed again. “Exactly like that one. What a load of rubbish.” Col glanced at Myuri, who shrugged in return. “Alone he protects the fortress, fells a thousand soldiers by his own hand, and returns home, unharmed, under the protection of God. Petals fall from the sky; the people thank him for his reign; the bells of the church sing his praises. O, the magnificent Sir Dagfolk! He is a great knight—an intelligent and merciful leader!” Myuri recited the text with theatrical inflection, much like the singers from the night before, and the artisan raised his brows, impressed. And Col understood what that meant. “That sounds like the stories you write every night.” Myuri’s lips immediately folded into a pout, and she stomped on his foot. “There have been a lot of shameless, tedious songs like that nowadays.” The artisan shuffled toward the shelf and pulled out a book. “Of course, the number of enemies that the brave knights and lords face are always in the thousands, ever since the olden days. Their allies are always daring and resolute. None of them ever betray their friends or desert the front lines. God is always on their side, their rule is always fair and impartial, and the wheat always grows longer than a crafter’s beard. All according to God’s will, you see.” He ran a hand through his beard, and Myuri grinned, amused. “But a skilled lyricist can make these songs palatable, and even the alcoholic lords know shame. Rarely do they force the bards to sing these stupid songs while they’re still alive. But who cares! Things have been good recently—lords with a little extra pocket change start boasting about their victories in battle, battles that probably never even happened, and I’m not sure if they even led any soldiers to begin with! But then they make incompetent bards recite them all over the place. They start thinking they’re fit to stand shoulder to shoulder with the other tasteful families whose names are on the tongues of bards.” The artisan’s pent-up frustration was not toward the poor quality of the poetry, but to what he essentially thought was a waste of paper, something he toiled to create. Col wondered if he would faint if he saw what Myuri was writing down, what she considered to be her ideal knight’s tale. “They’re made so badly I feel myself going mad. They don’t get scribes to write them down—I bet they get apprentice miniature painters to copy the text. They spread them around, spelling mistakes and all! They’re honestly awful pieces of work.” These illustrators were craftspeople who drew the miniatures that went in copied books, and many did not know how to read. But writing was, in a way, a form of drawing, so illustrators who could deftly copy the shape of a letter could copy texts. So it was not particularly unusual for a miniature painter who was a quick worker—or who did not have any other work—to take on jobs copying books. That said, it was not as though they were copying the meaning of the words, so they often reproduced misspellings as they were, which propagated them further. “You can have that nonsense for three coppers a piece,” the artisan said. Myuri immediately replied, “Two coppers.” The artisan folded his thick arms over his chest. “Two for five.” “Three for seven.” Col could swear he heard the man grumble. Myuri certainly has a sharp tongue, Col thought as he flipped through one of the booklets, idly considering how terrible the poetry truly was. He then pulled out the booklet beside it, and shockingly, it had the same contents. “Why do you have two of the same?” He was wondering if they were popular, despite the poor quality, when the artisan put his quick-fire negotiations with Myuri on hold to look at Col. “That one? There must be some real bigheaded noble out there—whoever it is, they’re spreading that stuff all over. Which means all the bards who come to Rausbourne always bring one of those and exchange it for something new.” “I see.” It took a lot of work and a considerable amount of money to create anything even resembling a book, and that was just as true for the ones as poor quality as this. Whoever commissioned this must have truly been eccentric, but there was something nagging Col. A lot of work and a considerable amount of money… As he stood there staring at the booklet, Myuri’s bright voice echoed through the room. “Then three for seven and cleaning the workshop!” “Cleaning, eh? Hmph, can I trust you to do the work properly?” “You sure can!” Myuri grinned, and the artisan scratched his head, admitting his defeat. They shook on it, and the deal was sealed. Col wished she would read commentaries on the scripture instead of meaningless books like these, but perhaps that was expecting a bit too much from her. The actual contents of the books aside, the text was written with surprising clarity and was not a terrible thing to copy from. He wondered why, occasionally, the same letter would be scratched in places; perhaps it was the writer’s tick? “So, Boss, what do you recommend?” “Calling me Boss already, kiddo? You sure are a sharp one.” “Hee-hee.” Myuri, clearly having fun, moved toward the shelf with the artisan to pick out a book, while Col stood in place, dumbstruck. Impatient, she started physically moving him. “Ugh, get out of the way, Brother.” She shoved him aside, and he did not even stumble. His concentration was wholly on the booklets in his hand. “Brother?” He ignored Myuri’s question and turned to the artisan. “I’ll take this book.” “Hmm?” The artisan looked up in surprise. Myuri’s brows shot up. “Hey! You’re not making the decisions here!” “And I’ll take this one as the second.” “Heeey!” Myuri smacked his arms and shoulders, but he ignored her and counted out seven coppers for the artisan. “Hmm…You sure? You’ll be borrowing two of the same thing,” said the stalwart, bearded artisan as he took the coins. Or perhaps he was paying close mind to Myuri, who was acting like a beached octopus beside him. “I don’t mind at all. What I want to know is…” Though Myuri had accumulated a bit of pocket change over the course of their travels, she seemed conflicted as to whether she should get out her own wallet; Col quickly patted her twice on the shoulder. “…if you might know of the noble sung of in these songs.” Both Myuri and the artisan stared at him. At last, Myuri noticed his hands shaking. The papermaker watched with a puzzled look on his face as they left the workshop, and it was Col who now walked with longer steps than Myuri. “Mister Le Roi should be at Miss Eve’s, yes?” he asked, not bothering to turn around to look at Myuri. Myuri, who had been walking ahead of Col more often as of late, jogged to catch up with him. “He said it’s been a while since he’s come to Winfiel, so he’ll be spending most of his time at the library. Why? What are you—?” “Then you go to the library and look into the noble in this poem with Mister Le Roi.” He handed one of the three books they borrowed to Myuri, and she chewed on her words. “Oh, uh, okay. But, Brother? Can I—?” “I will speak with Miss Eve. It might be best if I speak with Heir Hyland, but…” The reason he hesitated was because he was not quite sure of his conclusion yet. There was a chance that ever since she heard about Canaan’s project, she had been planning on forging ahead with it, even if it meant harming herself. Which meant, in a way, that giving her unnecessary hope was akin to a sin. Col would have to look into what he could on his own, find his confirmation, then tell her. “Come on, Brother!” Myuri grabbed his hand, and he turned to look at her. The expression she wore was the one she had when she was being scolded for going too far in her mischief and when the shed of the door was about to be closed on her. “What is this about all of a sudden?! Could this be a—?” “We have a lead.” The papermakers’ workshop was filled with poor-quality books brought in by bards. The paper was cheap, made from rags—they were nothing like the thick copies of the scripture with paper made of parchment and covers made from hardened leather. Even so, making books was not cheap. And yet among these, the artisan said that this awful poetry was being distributed to towns all over. At first, Col thought it was simply the work of an eccentric noble, and considering how neat the writing was, he did not think much further than perhaps asking this scribe for help when he and his allies were deep in hand-copying the scripture. But one simple fact changed his entire perspective. One portion of the letters in this book were scratched the exact same way each time. “What? You mean that?” As Col explained his reasoning to her as he walked quickly, Myuri responded dubiously. “I know you remember,” he continued. “Do you remember how the technology Archivist Canaan told us about works?” “It, um…Oh!” “Exactly. It uses carved stamps of letters.” When he said that, Myuri hurriedly opened the book he had handed to her and flipped through the pages. “It is not all the letters, but there are cases over several pages where the same letter is scratched in the same way. I believe that is due to them preparing several stamps of the same letter in their mold.” “……” “When you pay close attention with that in mind, you will see that several of these letters are peculiar. And those peculiarities continue across many pages. Well, a very, very skilled illustrator could theoretically replicate that, if it was their work.” “……” She at last frowned and narrowed her eyes—Myuri was not as familiar with the script as he was, so perhaps the differences were not as clear to her. “I guess I can see it, now that you mention it…” “The writing is also much too legible. Text this neat over multiple volumes that have been distributed across various towns? I doubt this is the work of one lone apprentice scribe.” Myuri understood his point about the writing being too neat. She nodded in reluctant agreement. “I could be reading too deeply into this, of course,” Col admitted. “But don’t you see what I mean?” As they came to the end of the artisans’ district, the road split in three directions. They stood at the fork, and Col turned to Myuri and said, “This world of awful poetry is where stories that Mister Le Roi and the other booksellers never bothered paying attention to thrive.” The way her reddish eyes turned to him made it seem as though she was sulking. “If this mystery artisan really does exist, then it would be the perfect place for them to hide, no?” She pursed her lips, as though questioning if such a convenient development was even possible, after looking back and forth between his earnest expression and the booklet in her hands. Her brother was not very sharp when it came to most things, but when it came to books, he knew a thing or two. “The noble who commissioned this poem may know something. It’s worth looking into, at the very least.” Myuri no longer protested and nodded, albeit begrudgingly. “I hope you know you’re going to have to help me copy my books as payment for me helping you. And they’re going to be awful poems!” “I don’t mind. I will see you later in front of the cathedral.” Not waiting for him to finish, she raced down the leftmost fork in the road. Once her silver hair vanished from view, Col turned to the right and rushed off. After running breathlessly across Rausbourne, Col returned to the grand stone steps of the cathedral entrance, where he found Myuri sitting, munching on mutton skewers, sulking. “Nothing,” she said, her expression clouded; a dark contrast to the liveliness of the cathedral square. “That goes for me as well,” Col replied. He had run all the way to where Eve was staying. The dubious former kingdom noble and well-traveled merchant took one look at the book, shrugged, then handed it off to her guards, Az among them. The response he received was that none of them had ever heard of the noble’s name, and the war mentioned in it was likely made-up, which meant the victorious verse in the booklet was a work of pure fiction. “But Mister Le Roi went pale when he saw it.” “He did?” “He said he hadn’t even considered that the artisan might be hiding in that side of the book world.” The printing technique they were looking for was incredibly valuable—significant enough for the Church to stamp it out in fear. There could very well be meaning in why the person they were looking for decided to use it for something so trivial, but Col wanted to take it one step further. “Did he go pale because he noticed the unique characteristics of the writing?” Le Roi was a crafty merchant, but he was dealing with a silver wolf whose specialty was sniffing out her prey’s tracks even if they were hidden beneath a blanket of dried leaves. She may not have noticed the subtle differences in the letters, but she could easily discern how another’s complexion shifted in a conversation. “Mister Le Roi was supposed to be the artisan’s enemy, but you didn’t tell me not to show him the book, which might be a clue to the artisan’s location. I thought that was a little strange.” She turned to look at him, her red eyes boring straight through him. “But you can be bad sometimes, can’t you?” There was a hint of delight in the way she grinned at him. “My assessment could very well be wrong. I wanted Mister Le Roi’s thoughts as well.” Col was not lying, but it was not the entire truth, either. Le Roi had to have been thinking about the great damage to his business if the artisan was found in a place he did not think to look. Which meant that if he knew of the booklet, he would frantically investigate its origin. When Myuri’s lips parted in a grin, Col could see her sharp fangs peeking out. “I have the strays and the birds that work with Chicken keeping an eye on him, so we’ll know immediately if he tries to go somewhere.” Even if they and Le Roi had differing opinions on the mystery artisan, that did not change the reality that they had a powerful ally for their search. And the silver wolf, who understood everything before Col could even give any instructions, stretched her head toward him, as though asking for her reward. Of course, he obliged, patting her on the head. “Also, it seems like the story really is just total nonsense.” “Miss Eve and the others reached the same conclusion.” Col’s thought was that if they could find out who the noble was in the poem, they could interview them directly and trace the artisan’s steps. But things did not always go according to plan. It was this booklet that brought to reality the notion that the artisan could exist, but whether the booklet could lead them on the artisan’s trail remained a mystery. “I wonder if they made up a noble because they know people are searching for them.” “That would be the simplest explanation, yes.” But on the way back from Eve’s manor, Col had realized that line of thought did not quite add up. “Think about what the papermaker said. If this is not the result of eccentricity from a bigheaded noble, then no one would pay the money for a poorly made book.” Had Myuri’s wolf ears been out, they surely would have piqued at that. “No matter how easy it is to print the text, paper doesn’t suddenly become free.” “…Which means if some noble is helping make the books, it would be weird if they printed something where it was impossible to tell who the story was about?” “Precisely.” Myuri looked at the booklet in her hands and tilted her head. “Then what is this?” Col wondered briefly if there was some sort of political intent behind the book, but that did not seem to be the case. The book’s contents were bland—a poem of feats of arms written in an overly stiff style, with empty words of praise and a thick layer of arrogant pride on top. It was a tactless article. If that style was deliberate, then skilled court bards did come to mind as potential candidates, but that seemed unlikely. “Before I came here, I went back to the papermaker to ask if they knew where the book came from.” Myuri spoke up. Unfortunately, it would be nearly impossible to know where a wandering bard had been. “Or maybe it’s a code.” “A code?” She flipped through the book, turned it upside down, and tried to read out the first letter of every line. “Bad people were chasing the artisan, right? What if they’re trying to bring their scattered friends back together, so they put a code in the book before spreading it around? Then maybe, when all the other artisans get their hands on it, they figure out what it means and head for the destination!” Col had a feeling that very thing had been in a story about a person searching for their long-lost friends after a war. And pieces of paper were nothing special, yet still circulated widely over the world. The idea that there might be something special about a piece of paper because it appeared to be nothing special was not a terrible one. “Or maybe they’re selling them with the lie that there is a code in it.” Col was taken aback by her suggestion. What a bright girl. When he was about Myuri’s age, he had been deceived by that very idea. “That brings back terrible memories. I was tricked once when a swindler duped me into buying a whole sheaf of papers with a very similar selling tactic.” It had happened when he was a child. He had been a wandering student, and when he was in need of money, he fell victim to that scam. The scammer told him he had his arm cut off because he learned of a great secret. And he also claimed that the bundle of papers he was selling came from the errand boys of a particular company who escaped when they could no longer bear the hazing. That’s where he supposedly got copies of the company’s contracts and notes on their tax collections. At that age, Col thought those pages looked like they contained all the world’s secrets. “You were sitting there, upset with those papers, when you met my parents, right?” “Precisely. And in that sense, it was a very small price to pay.” When Col said that, Myuri hugged her knees to her chest and smiled. It was a long time ago now, but in that moment, Col had sat much like Myuri was in the present—on the ground, flipping through each page, desperately scanning every word. There he was, in a distant town far from home with no one to rely on, holding a stack of papers that had cost every last coin he had to his name. How he prayed for them to be the genuine article, turning his head toward the sky so his tears did not fall and lifting the papers to the heavens as well. It was a bittersweet memory. Of course, there were no secrets in the documents. All he found was a peculiar little symbol on the paper when he held it up to the sun. Or perhaps those were his tearstains. That moment remained clear in his mind—a smile crossed his face as he thought about how much he had grown in the meanwhile. Then he froze. “Hmm? Brother?” He turned to Myuri, but he had no words. What was this feeling in his chest? He felt like there was something among his replay of his memories that he could not dismiss. Was it his life as a wandering student? No—was it the swindler? Or his memory of sitting at the tax collection office at the riverside, bundle of papers in hand? No, no, no. One by one he discarded the memories, until he came to his destination. It was how he held the paper to the sky. “Yes! That’s it!” He tore open the booklet in his hands, held it up to the sky, and let the sunlight filter through. Surprised by the sudden movement, the nearby birds pecking at the ground leaped into the sky and flew away. But Col’s gaze remained fixed on the paper. Because the very thing he had seen all those years ago now returned the stare. “It may indeed be a code.” Myuri, who sat on the stairs, cheek resting on her palm like a gloomy girl annoyed by her brother’s weird act, opened her eyes wide. “But, ah, since they add this when they make the paper, that means…” Back when he worked at the Nyohhira bathhouse, he had to procure all the things he needed for his studies himself, due to how remote the village was. Countless times he would create his own copybooks by organizing all the things he heard from the visiting nobles, copying manuscripts he borrowed by hand and then organizing them into book format. So while he was generally knowledgeable when it came to writing and bookmaking, he had only vague knowledge of the craftsmanship that went into the processes that enabled those things to happen. But he had never once forgotten the strange pattern he saw on the paper the moment he had lifted his head to hold back the tears. He had even looked up what that pattern meant after he grew up. “……” The next thing he knew, Myuri stood next to him, her cheeks puffed in displeasure. “We may be able to figure out where this booklet came from,” he said. She looked back and forth between the book in her hands and the book in Col’s, then gave an almost exaggerated shrug. “Okay?” A woman staring at her excited traveling companion with cold, exasperated eyes. Col had a feeling he had seen this very sight a long time ago. The way Myuri stood with her head tipped slightly to the side, hands at her hips, reminded him very much of the flaxen-haired wisewolf. “Paper always leaves a trail. There will always be a code.” It was thanks to being duped by a scammer that he met Myuri’s parents. And it was because of that very same incident that shed new light on their conundrum. Perhaps the one who sold him the sheaf of papers all those years ago had indeed been a one-armed angel. “That’s why we need to…Ah, this code is…Yes, yes, I know. We need to follow this trail, so…” His mind raced in his excitement, and out of habit he grabbed Myuri’s hand. “We must see Miss Sharon.” The frown deepened on Myuri’s face, either because she was not too pleased with the idea of holding hands in public, or perhaps because she was not too thrilled with seeing Sharon and the dog-chicken back and forth that came with their meetings. But she did not pull her hand away; before he realized it, he noticed her walking lightly beside him. “A code? You said it was a code, right?” The red eyes she inherited from her mother still had a childlike gleam to them. “It isn’t a treasure map,” Col said, foreseeing the trouble if she acquired unrealistic expectations, but Myuri already seemed to have stopped listening. She drew her shoulders up in tickled excitement, quickened her pace, and began to drag Col along. “C’mon, Brother! Time to wring that chicken’s neck!” What an awful thing to say, he thought, yet he could not help but smile back. God always gave them trials. And he always made sure they were possible to overcome—Col was sure of it. Though Col was excited and ran at first, along the way to Sharon’s house he realized that he still had not entirely sobered up from the night before. It was not long before he was struggling to catch his breath, and even though the energetic Myuri often made fun of him for this, she was currently occupied—as she hurriedly proceeded down the streets, she stared hard at the book in her hands, turning it this way, that way, and flipping it upside down. She was, at first, naively excited after hearing there was a secret code hidden in the paper, but she grew more and more irritated knowing that her feeble brother, who could barely run, had noticed the secret before her, the wolf. “It’s not that I’m particularly smart.” Col spoke up. “It’s simply a matter of knowledge. If you look—” “Don’t tell me!” Myuri shouted, frustrated and growing ever more stubborn in her search for the clue. While he let her do as she pleased, he took each booklet from her, one by one, to test his theory. And it seemed as though all the paper in each booklet had been made at the same workshop. Myuri must have asked the papermakers where the booklets came from. Their answer apparently did not lead anywhere, but that was because she had asked the wrong question. Had she asked which workshop the paper had come from, the papermaker would have doubtlessly taught them how to find what they were looking for, even if he himself did not know the answer. “Master Col?” As they proceeded down the complicated maze of houses, they ran into Clark, who sat in front of the orphanage with several small children, working; he had called out to them after noticing their approach. “I’m sorry, I know you’re busy right now,” Col replied. “It’s all right.” Clark was in the middle of doing the laundry with the kids. They had filled the washtub with water and mixed ash in with it. Clark was swishing the clothes around with his hands, and the children were using their feet to stomp on them. The children, however, seemed to be treating this more like a chance to play in the water, and were having a delightful time splashing one another and drawing on one another’s faces with the ash. Clark had a swirl drawn on his left cheek. “Is everything okay? Is there a problem with the monastery?” he asked. As he hurriedly stood, wiping his hands, the children leaped on him, and he scolded them in turn. “I would call this good news…I think,” Col replied. “But I need Miss Sharon’s help.” Clark seemed unsure if they brought good tidings, but he ultimately nodded. “Sharon’s inside,” he said. He pulled open the door, the one with the peephole through which Sharon typically greeted them, and invited Col and Myuri inside. Though the children seemed somewhat curious about them, they were much more interested in playing in the washtub. They quickly forgot the visitors and went back to squealing and playing. “We’ve managed to get our hands on a lot of ash by cleaning up the monastery,” Clark said as they entered the building. He likely meant that they had burned all the grass and shrubbery they cleared from the plot of land, securing them a big supply of ash for laundry. “But what is that?” he asked, a curious gaze fixed on the small stack of booklets in Myuri’s hands. When the clothes being washed in that tub grew too ragged to wear, and too thin to use as cleaning rags, they would eventually be reborn as books. “The legendary artisan might’ve made these books, so they should help us find them,” Myuri replied. “What?!” “I mean, I’m not sure how.” Myuri directed a sharp look at Col. “But my brother says we can.” “I believe it’s possible. So long as we have Miss Sharon’s help,” he added. “Sharon?” Sharon was apparently keeping her true nature as eagle spirit from Clark. But they had not come seeking the aid of the eagle avatar, who ruled the skies above Rausbourne—no, this time they needed to speak with the Sharon whose two feet were firmly planted on the streets of Rausbourne and wielded great influence in human society. “Sharon,” Clark called. As they passed through the building and emerged into the inner courtyard, they came across freshly washed clothes hanging and drying on a long rope. There were so many—the new abundance of ash might have led them to taking in the washing from the entire neighborhood. Sharon sat beside the children who were hanging up the clothes, working on mending with a needle and thread. “Are you just going to stand there and stare?” she said. “Master Col says he needs your help, Sharon.” Upon hearing this, Sharon must have also assumed they wanted her help as an eagle spirit. She frowned, quietly reprimanding them for starting this conversation with Clark present, but Col took one of the books Myuri had on her and handed it to Sharon. “We’ve found a lead that might help us solve several problems, including where to get the funds for restoring the monastery.” “The legendary artisan made that book. And I found it!” Myuri’s excited tone only invited Sharon’s frown to deepen. “…And?” she said. “We need to find out where this booklet was made,” Col explained. Sharon turned it over in her hands, looking at the front and back, then shrugged. “Hmm…I see. And that’s why you came to me. You sure like to give me work, huh.” Myuri’s eyes went wide, seeing that the conversation was proceeding without Sharon asking for an explanation. “Wait, you can tell, Chicken?!” After being called “Chicken,” Sharon pulled herself up fully and thwacked Myuri across the head with the booklet. “It’s not easy chasing after tradesmen and merchants who don’t pay their taxes, but they’re not impossible to find. We have our ways.” Sharon once worked in an industry at the Rausbourne ports that garnered terrible hatred from a small subset of people. She had been the vice president of the guild that brought together all the tax collectors. “I’ve chased merchants who hand in sloppy documentation from all over to the ends of the earth to make them pay their taxes.” The cold-blooded smile suited her, but in her opposite hand, the one that did not hold the booklet, she held needle and fabric, mid-mend, and very young children clung to her legs, looking up at her wide-eyed as they listened. Sharon herself was a little too idyllic to be called a heartless tax collector. “But we’d need more people. I bet these kids could be useful.” Sharon called to one of the eldest children. A smart-looking girl took the message and rushed into the house. “But you didn’t go to Hyland or that Eve woman. You came to me. Seems like you know a little bit more about how the world works than you let on,” she said. Col shrugged. “It comes from an experience I had traveling as a child. I was duped terribly by someone selling copies of leaked company ledgers and fake permits.” “Well, well.” “But it was because of that experience that I met her parents and found the help I needed,” he said, placing his hand on Myuri’s head. “And now it’s helped us find an important lead.” Myuri had been sulking, not getting a chance to join in on the conversation, and she swatted his hand away. “All of our experiences help us grow, but it’s on us to embrace that growth and learn from it. You’re wasted on this dog, Big Brother.” Myuri, who was busying herself by running her fingers through her hair, hissed at Sharon when she said that before looking away in a huff. In the meanwhile, the older child who had rushed into the house returned with a handful of children around her age. “Ready? We’re going to the tax collector’s association office.” “““Okay!””” As the children gave an enthusiastic reply, Myuri stood beside them, the only one looking cross. They found that eight or nine out of every ten books at the papermakers’ had been printed using a technique that should have been stamped out ages ago. But no one knew any of the nobles referred to in the interiors, and no one seemed to know where any of these books had come from. Myuri seemed to believe that they might be able to sniff out a clue from the scribbles in the margins, but the truth was that paper made from rags had special properties that parchment did not have. And Sharon, too, seemed to know this. Clark remained at the orphanage to watch over the children and continue with the laundry, while Col and Myuri joined the strange entourage of children with Sharon in the lead. Together, they made their way to a large, magnificent building near Rausbourne’s lively harbor. That was the tax collector’s association building, and though she was technically no longer a member, when the former vice president showed up, the tax collectors welcomed her with open arms. When she asked to browse through the tax documents the building had kept, they happily lent their assistance. And when she announced that what she needed was not what was written on the paper, but the paper itself, they immediately knew what she was trying to do. They brought out countless random bundles of paper from the cellar archives and stacked them in a sunny room with a view. Once everything was ready, Sharon announced: “It’s treasure-hunting time!” There was a theatrical nature to her voice, either because the children were with her or because she used to act like this at work. But once it rang out, everyone rolled up their sleeves and got to work. Both the children and the current tax collectors began to take the paper and hold it up to the light. It was like everyone was hoping to spot the handprint of an angel. “Rrrgh…How was anyone supposed to figure this out?!” Myuri groaned, frustrated. She held in her hands the record of a company based in a distant land, requesting permission to bring a great amount of cider into Rausbourne. There was no secret code on it to suggest there was any trace of smuggling, of course—but paper like this always had traces. Rags were torn by hand, hammered, and boiled in an oven; once it became sufficiently goopy, the pulp was spread thin in cold water and eventually became paper. A wire net stretched over a sieve was part of the last step of the process, and the weave of that mesh imparted a characteristic pattern. The texture of the mesh, made of thin metallic wires, was different depending on the workshop. That meant, upon very close inspection, finished paper all possessed different and unique patterns, depending on the mesh used. If they managed to find a match among the tax collectors’ archives, they could ask the company where they purchased that paper. And once they knew where the paper was made, they could find where the artisan might be, since they would have purchased a great volume of paper to print those booklets. There were enough printings of these booklets for there to be copies in every city, so the papermakers would almost certainly remember who their client was. And there was no better place for them to begin their search than a tax collectors’ association, where paper from far and wide came together. “That said, there are as many workshops as there are cities. This will not be easy.” Many patterns were similar. But honest work always led to a proper answer. “And if we find it, you owe me a plate of fatty mutton,” Myuri said before diligently holding one page after another up to the light. The tax collectors seemed used to this job, since it was a standard part of chasing down scoundrels who refused to pay their taxes, so they flipped through the pages with amazing speed. And while Col was glad he knew enough to come up with this idea, his understanding was purely academic—he had never done this before. He found it nearly impossible to detect the subtle differences, and he found himself constantly looking back and forth between the tax documents and the booklet pages, which had been unbound from their twine and distributed to everyone. Myuri, on the other hand, was very good at this, so she made great progress while keeping her sorely lacking brother in the corner of her eye. As he began to wonder if he should just help ferry documents in and out of the cellar instead of awkwardly fumbling around, it happened. “I found it!” The delighted cry came from a girl a few years younger than Myuri. “Here!” She handed Sharon the paper, who held it and a page from the booklet up to the light, then patted the girl’s head with a gentle smile. “This is it,” Sharon said to Col before scanning the contents. “Can you tell what city workshop it’s from?” Col asked. Commonplace documents all generally used local paper. “Wool trade history of the Vide Company, huh,” Sharon said. “They operate widely in the kingdom’s eastern midlands. Their headquarters are in a town called Salenton…but this won’t be easy if they’re using this paper throughout their entire trade network.” “They have a branch here in the harbor,” one of the tax collectors said. “I’ll send someone right away.” “Just tell them we want to know where they got their paper.” “And we’ll find their smuggled goods while we’re at it.” After their conversation, several men left the room. In the meanwhile, after they had found the first match, another and then another began to pile on the table—they had begun to selectively look for documents from similar regions. When Sharon saw the small stack, she seemed relieved. “They’re all from the same place. We’ll find this workshop in no time. We can stop now.” She had likely pictured this taking all day and night, or perhaps an entire week if their luck was bad, but they had found what they were looking for more or less instantly. When Col and Myuri first came to the city, they had sensed a very delicate situation between the tax collectors like Sharon and the merchants who dealt in long-distance trade, and it soon became very clear why the merchants hated the tax collectors so much. Sharon and the tax collectors were very skilled hunters. “Ugh…I haven’t done anything!” Myuri complained. Col, who was rebinding the scattered pages of the bard’s booklet, patted her on the back. “You were the one who led me to this booklet,” he said. “You are the divine—no, the lupine of luck.” “……” For a moment, Myuri seemed displeased, but she threw her arms around him for a brief second before moving to help put away the documents. Afterward, it sounded like there had been a bit of trouble at the Vide Company when the tax collectors went to pay them a visit, but they did manage to find out where the paper came from. Apparently, the paper originated from a workshop in Salenton, where the Vide Company’s headquarters were located. Salenton served as one of the stockyards for wool coming from the eastern midlands, and they were told reaching the town would take about two days by horse. Myuri enthusiastically proclaimed she could get there in half a day, but sending her alone would accomplish nothing. Col and Myuri thanked Sharon for her help, then gave earnest thanks to the girl who found the first matching sheet of paper. They decided for the time being to return to Hyland’s manor. There they asked one of the maids, who was cleaning the beautiful candleholders that lined the peristyle, and she told them that Hyland was in her office with a guest. Interrupting her may have been bad manners, but Col wanted things to get moving as soon as possible. There Hollande stood guard outside the office, a look of slight surprise on his face, alongside the stalwart guard they had first seen several days ago. Col greeted both, told them he had urgent business, and pushed open the door. Inside, he found Hyland, sitting before a bundle of parchment, and Canaan, who had apparently been in the middle of speaking. Even Rhodes was present. To them, Myuri announced: “We’re hot on our prey’s tail!” And it went without saying that all three of them stared at her in shock. Just as Col managed to calm Myuri, who was ready to rave about their findings, Canaan seemed to sense what was going on and immediately explained Rhodes’s presence. “I knew right away that we simply must add Sir Rhodes to our forces,” he said. Evidently, Canaan had decided to reveal himself to Rhodes and share their goals. Rhodes made his intention clear by immediately rising from his chair and falling to one knee. “I will risk all I have to assist you in your project, Master Col!” He had knelt before Col could stop him and was now offering incredibly dramatic vows. The captain of the Knights of Saint Kruza had once called Rhodes the most knightly of knights in their order, and though he had said those words with a wry smile at the time, it seemed he was right. “It is clear that we can place our trust in the members of the Knights of Saint Kruza. Especially in Sir Rhodes.” “Excising the putrescence from the Church is our mission!” Even when he had been lying face-first in the mud on an empty stomach, the boy would still find the strength to stand up straight and offer proper greetings. And his energy when he was healthy was almost more overbearing than Myuri’s. “I’m glad to have you, Rhodes. You’ll be a huge help,” Col said. “It is an honor!” He bowed, as though speaking to his lord; Col eventually managed to get him on his feet, but the boy instead offered him an almost painful handshake. But it was only when he shook hands with Myuri that he seemed bashful. “And what sort of miracle have you performed now?” Hyland said. There was little doubt the group had been speaking about what to do if they were unable to find the artisan who understood this miracle technology. The look of relief on her face probably related. Regardless whether Myuri was still aware of the lingering oppressiveness in the air in the room, Hyland’s question prompted her to proudly and excitedly recount what had just happened, almost as though she had achieved it all herself. There was practically no doubt that the books they had found at the papermakers’ had been printed using the banned technology, so their first order of business was traveling to Salenton and locating the workshop where the Vide Company had purchased their paper. Hyland had scarcely gotten a word in edgewise during Myuri’s storytelling; but when it was finished, she said, “We’ll get you a horse.” When she rang the bell, a maid came into the room to receive her orders. Everyone’s interest had moved from whether they would be able to find the paper workshop in Salenton to how they would track the artisan afterward, but Col took the opportunity to speak up. “If it’s all right, I have one request,” he said. “Would you mind if we brought along a bookseller we know to Salenton? Namely, Mister Le Roi.” Myuri blinked. Le Roi’s interests were in direct conflict with theirs when it came to the artisan. While showing him the booklet had set them on the right path, she was not sure why they would want to bring along a rival. “Mister Le Roi is a merchant who deals in rare books, which means his interests are diametrically opposed to ours in this matter,” Col continued. “However, his depth of knowledge on books and the world of books is fathomless. I would like to leave open the possibility that he be of assistance not only in our search for the artisan, but for what comes after.” None of what he said was untrue, but it was not the only reason. After a brief pause, he added, “I traveled with Mister Le Roi when I was a child, and I owe him a great deal, as he taught me many things. In fact, he was the first person I looked to for information when I initially set out on our search. I know this is more personal than anything, but…” If it seemed like they could indeed find this artisan, then Col wanted to share whatever information they unearthed with Le Roi. Because there was a possibility that this artisan was secretly printing the valuable tomes that Le Roi stocked. “This is clearly someone you trust, so I don’t mind,” Hyland immediately replied. “Even an opponent is worthy of love, respect, and trust,” Rhodes said. “That is one of the oaths we knights must always keep in our hearts.” He was the ideal knight, one who refused to abandon his principles even on the bloodiest of battlegrounds. Myuri nodded deeply in respect. Canaan smiled and said, “I know Mister Le Roi. He served in the archives long ago.” “You do?” Col turned to Canaan in surprise. He shrugged lightly. “The world of literature is small. Mister Le Roi was once sent by a mercantile company, contracted to manage the books of the Curia—he is a wise man who created an inventory system for the mazelike collection of books. He’s rather well known among us archivists.” Le Roi had mentioned frequenting the archives, but he had never said anything about being the one responsible for creating the cataloging. But now it made sense why he knew so much. “But in that case, he must have realized it was me the moment you spoke to him of the printer. There are very few people who know of the technology’s existence.” “……” Col recalled the conversation they had at the monastery ruins, the grounds Clark had been cleaning up, and the way the man had acted did seem to suggest that. “So if he comes with us—” “I would not mind. You should prioritize your long-term relationship with someone like Mister Le Roi.” What Canaan said sounded both like a practical decision and also one that was considerate of Col. Col thought he recalled Hyland saying that Canaan had been quite tense in Col’s presence, but when it came to the ease with which he navigated the world, Col knew he could not win, even if Canaan was at a disadvantage. “In that case, you’d best send word as soon as possible,” Hyland said. “He sounds intelligent—he may have already reached the same conclusion, and he may already be on his way to Salenton.” That can’t be, Col thought at first, but Le Roi was the type to cross the sea in the dark of night, which even the most adept sailors feared doing. It was not out of the realm of possibility that he noticed the pattern on the paper immediately, got Eve’s help, and was already on his way to the Vide Company. He glanced at Myuri, who drew up her shoulders in displeasure but reluctantly got to her feet anyway. “Why not leave tomorrow morning? If the weather is good, a horse can get you there by the evening.” Col had no objections to Hyland’s suggestion. “May God watch over you.” He nodded deeply in response to her blessing. In the time of night before dawn broke, when the stars still shone in the sky, the air was cold, even at this time of year. As the readied horses huffed white breaths in the manor courtyard, a group clad in traveling clothes gathered. “It’s good to see you again, Master Le Roi.” “Well, well! Look who it is!” As Canaan and Le Roi caught up, Rhodes, Hollande, and Canaan’s guard inspected the horses. They were quite the entourage—even if Myuri and Col shared a horse, there was still Canaan, Canaan’s guard, Rhodes, Le Roi, plus Hollande, whom Hyland insisted on sending with them for their safety. Altogether, that meant there were quite the number of horses in the courtyard. It seemed as though Myuri could communicate directly with the horse, so Col thought she would be able to ride one even if she did not know how to handle it properly, but he recalled how much she had whined about her rear hurting after their last excursion on horseback. If they were traveling by cart, she could walk alongside the horse, but that was not the case when it came to horseback riding. It would only spell trouble if she was unable to manage the horse along the way, so he made the decision to have her ride with him. He thought she might whine that a knight should ride their own horse, so he was caught a little off guard when she easily accepted his proposal. But he had a feeling the reason was that she had stayed up late. The naughty girl saw an opportunity and took it. The moment she clambered onto the horse’s back, she buried her face in its mane and dozed off. With a sigh, Col adjusted his grip so that he held her small frame between his arms, just to make sure she would not fall off. And she had insisted on bringing her sword despite his attempts to convince her to leave it behind. It was a terrible nuisance, but he had a feeling she was dreaming about brandishing it on horseback in battle. “I pray your search goes well,” said Hyland, who had come to see them off, smiling at the dozing Myuri. “I’ll make sure things proceed smoothly here with the monastery repairs. Don’t push yourself if you don’t end up finding this mythical artisan.” “We will return with good news,” Col said. Hyland smiled, ran her hand over the horse’s nose, then stepped back. “Keep them safe,” she said to Hollande, who often stood by her side. Though Col doubted there would be any dangers on the road itself, Hyland reasonably questioned if it was Heir Klevend who was targeting the Knights of Saint Kruza, so she could not afford to let her guard down. “We will see you soon.” Col bid her farewell. “May God watch over you.” Hyland and the servants watched as the column of six horses set off. They proceeded through the empty streets, passed through the city gates just as the night watch and the morning guard were exchanging posts, and once they came to the wide roads, the horses picked up the pace. Myuri sat up, perhaps woken by the sound of clopping hooves and the swaying of the horse, the top of her head butting into Col’s chin, and she gave a big yawn. “Yaaawn…Hmm? We’re already outside the city?” It was Rhodes’s horse that took the lead, its rider vigilantly keeping an eye out; behind him, Canaan and Le Roi trotted side by side, staring intently at the map; they were followed by Myuri and Col; and bringing up the rear were Hollande and Canaan’s guard, their eyes carefully scanning the area. “Heh-heh, a whole band of knights,” Myuri said as she looked back and forth. She held out her chest, as though proud to be a part of this procession. And once she chuckled to herself, she yawned again. “I thought I told you to go to sleep early. You were up much too late,” Col scolded. But Myuri was not listening. She patted the horse’s neck, as though saying hello. “But I couldn’t help myself once you told me there’s hidden codes in paper.” Myuri’s excuse did not amount to much. After reporting to Hyland and informing Le Roi of the situation, she rushed to finish copying the booklet they borrowed from the bards. Col, of course, was drafted to help; he was already at his wit’s end when he ran to the tavern to bring back the book, only to discover upon his return that Myuri was adding to her ridiculous knight story again. She was fully engrossed, writing a story about receiving a letter from an ally trapped behind enemy lines who begged her for aid. Nowhere in the letter did the ally state their whereabouts to avoid detection by the enemy, but they would be able to infer the location through the patterns on the paper. It was not the stern priest who noticed the pattern, but the silver knight. Myuri was perhaps more upset that she did not realize the secret than Col first thought. “I wonder…Yaaawn…I wonder what kind of person the artisan is.” This time, she was not sprawled over the horse’s neck to sleep, but instead leaning back against Col. “Should a knight be acting like such a spoiled child?” he asked, already weary. Myuri’s only response was twisting to get into a more comfortable sleeping position; she gave a satisfied sigh, like a dog sleeping with its back on the floor. “Knights march through the day and night. It’s normal to support each other when a comrade needs to take a rest. Didn’t you know that?” That was quite a stretch, and Col only sighed. He could feel her snickering below his chin, which prompted another sigh. Then he turned his attention to the starlit road ahead of them. “I am less interested in their personality and more interested in what their goals are.” The artisan was using technology that had been erased for being heretical to print large amounts of booklets that would not earn them any money. It was so strange that it drove Col to analyze the text itself for hidden clues, wondering if there was some sort of ulterior motive. Though he had no leads at the moment, he would not be surprised if this artisan was involved in some sort of plot. “I hope everything goes smoothly,” he said. “Yeah…Yeah…” Myuri’s reply was nothing more than a mumble as she drifted off to sleep. They passed shepherds, who always began the day’s work at this early hour, and by the time they started crossing the wide-open fields, the sky had begun to lighten, heralding the dawn. At the very least, that sight was enough to make this a hopeful departure. Myuri remained asleep for a while after leaving the city. She awoke again once the rays of the sun began to warm her cheeks, and she was dazzled by the sight of the plains at daybreak. They faced no dangers or difficulties on the way to Salenton. And while Col was a bit worried about the mud from snowmelt, they were well into spring, so it was not a problem. The warm sun that hung over the grassy roads was invigorating, and Myuri was not the only one smiling at the beautiful weather. They ventured north from Rausbourne. A little after noon, they reached a small port town. There, they turned west and made their way inland. Along the way, they happened upon a great flock of sheep that flowed like a great river. They took a break by a cairn, built up carefully by travelers who added stones as they passed as a prayer for good luck. They were blessed by good weather, and the view of the setting sun was dazzling. And just as planned, they arrived at their destination of Salenton right before the sun dipped below the horizon. It was less a town and more a large village—it did not even have a city wall to speak of. But unlike Col, who wanted to ride for a little longer, Myuri practically collapsed on the bed when they got to their room at the inn. “My bum…hurts…” This apparently had very little to do with her being light. In the early afternoon, she had already seemed uncomfortable in the saddle, so she now lay face-first on the bed, her rear in the air. As much as he pitied her, Col could not help but say, “It seems you cannot handle riding the way the knight in your story can.” “Uuugh…You’re so mean to me, Brother!” Myuri wailed. But ever since her rear started hurting, she had pawned off her sword onto him, demanding he carry her on his back since she could no longer sit properly. His hands had been full caring for her all day, so he felt it was well within his rights to scold her. “You will simply have to get used to it,” he said, doffing his travel gear. Myuri began to wriggle her bum in the air. “Hrmph! Fine, then you’ll have to let me take lessons in mounted combat!” “I’m sorry?” “Fighting from horseback and jousting are the essence of knighthood! I know I’ll have to do my best once I get your approval!” There was a proud, victorious look on her face, despite her silly pose. “Gosh, I really want to enter a jousting competition sometime. I wonder if Rhodes has been in one. I have to ask him when I get a chance.” “……” Col pictured Myuri clad in a leather cuirass with her sword at her hip, returning gallantly on horseback to Nyohhira. He had a feeling her mother, the wisewolf, might find the sight hilarious, but her father, Lawrence, would be beside himself. That thought convinced him he could not allow her to become any wilder than she already was. He had a feeling that reminding her that girls ready to be married should not be riding horses all over would only go in one ear and out the other three, so he decided go after her one weak point—she would always listen when it came to knighthood. “Mounted knights typically wear full plate armor. I doubt there is any armor that can fit your smaller frame.” Combat on horseback, especially, required swords much longer than ones used on the ground, or spears that were as long as a full-grown adult was tall. While Myuri may have displayed fine swordsmanship, there was little she could do about her physical strength and size. “Even if you did master horseback riding, you would be relegated to a messenger.” “Yeah, I guess…” Her wolf ears and tail drooped. There was little she could do about the natural size of her body. Col thought she might give up on the outrageous idea of wielding an oversize sword in mounted combat, but she quickly leaped to her feet. “Okay! Then I have to eat a lot so I can grow bigger!” “What?” “C’mon, Brother, we’re going! There’s a tavern on the first floor, right? I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, and there was a huuuge eel in a bucket!” Myuri tugged on Col’s arm, forcibly dragging him out of the room. Col thought he had emerged victorious, but at some point, the tables had turned. Only an eel would be more slippery and harder to catch than a wolf. “You’re growing to be more and more like Miss Holo every year…” “Hmm? Did you say something about Mother?” Col prayed in partial defeat that she did not inherit her mother’s love for alcohol. That night, they all had their fill with a big eel dish, and they headed straight for the Vide Company the following morning. Salenton’s main source of business was the exchange of wool coming from farther inland, and trade goods and marine products coming from the sea, and the Vide Company was the biggest wool dealer in the area. They asked the innkeeper where their place of business was located and received an immediate answer. “But why only you and Canaan? That’s not fair!” When it came to asking the company about where they procured their paper, Col and Canaan decided their best course of action was to act like tax collectors who hailed from Rausbourne. They could not state their objectives explicitly, but poorly hiding their goals would only make them seem like inquisitors. It was typically only tax collectors or inquisitors who investigated the paper of documents. The members of their entourage who could plausibly pass as tax collectors were Col and Canaan, and that displeased Myuri, who was eager to stick her nose in every aspect of an adventure. “Miss Myuri, when the artisan realizes someone is actively looking for them, that might be the moment they slip out the back. It happens a lot when we seek out corrupt Church officials. We will stand watch in the back,” Rhodes offered. Myuri’s eyes immediately went wide; she was shocked to know that flavor of adventure was an option, too, and she quickly cheered up. When she thanked him, he gave her a boyish, bashful smile. “You’re in a rather good mood this morning,” Canaan said amusedly, turning to Col as they made their way to the company. “When is that girl ever going to grow up…?” Together, they stood at the front of the Vide Company building as wool cart after wool cart passed by them. Col took a deep breath, knowing they had a job to do, but then Canaan suddenly spoke up. “Thank you, Master Col.” His attention turned to the boy beside him—he wondered if he misheard him. Canaan dropped his gaze from the company sign, which used a design of a sheep, and let his eyes go to Col. “We never thought we would ever find a clue that pointed to the artisan’s whereabouts.” “O-oh…I see.” Canaan smiled and dipped his head. His gaze drifted to the side, and he watched Myuri bound eagerly to the back of the building as she dragged Rhodes along. “We simply sat in the dark of the archives, lamenting our powerlessness. But we heard that there was someone called the Twilight Cardinal out in the world fighting to radically change the Church. That gave us courage—if we were willing to sit there and let the wicked crush us, then we could at least recklessly leave the Holy See.” Hyland had joked that Canaan came to see someone he truly admired under the pretense of negotiation. “We at last managed to pool enough money together to travel. When we met Heir Hyland and informed her of our dream to rid the Church of its corruption, we felt as though that was somehow proof that we, too, were fighting against the world.” Three burly men passed by them on their way to the loading dock, pulling along a cart piled high with wool. “To think that would actually lead us closer to the artisan and let us move forward.” The way he spoke made it seem like he never had any hope of finding the artisan from the beginning. He and the other archivists had simply accepted that they were powerless in the face of much greater forces in the world. That was why they were overjoyed when they first stepped out of the shadows and into the sunlight. “And so, when I understood that Heir Hyland was a wiser leader than I had anticipated, I felt a terrible regret.” Col wondered if that was when he and Myuri arrived at the office to inform them they were on the artisan’s trail. He had noticed a heavy, oppressive mood in the air when they entered the room. Hyland had perhaps been talking about a plan to make copies of the scripture without relying on the artisan’s skill by spending a massive sum of money, one she might not be able to afford. Canaan turned his attention back to Col and drew up his shoulders with a smile. “I don’t want Heir Hyland to suffer on our behalf. We should be the ones to shoulder the burden—we were the ones who proposed this project. I will make sure nothing happens to her, even if it means joining forces with Mister Le Roi.” The Vide Company seemed to deal in every facet of the wool trade, judging by the traveling merchant carrying several large shears on his back as he exited the loading dock. Once he passed them, it was Col’s turn to speak. “Did you put the archives’ books on the black market?” Le Roi dealt in tomes worth more than their weight in gold, and the Curia’s archives were full of them. The wicked could make plenty of money in that business, but Canaan and the other archivists had retained their virtue by not doing so. Canaan looked at Col in neither confirmation nor denial. Those of the cloth considered lying to be prohibited, so Col understood that this was essentially a silent confirmation. Had this happened right after he left Nyohhira, he would have immediately grabbed Canaan’s shoulders to try to convince him to stop. But Col, too, had traveled and seen things. “I really hope we find the artisan,” he said. He knew Myuri would have said the same, so his tone mimicked hers. But considering how busy things were, it was unlikely his voice would reach the back of the building. “And if not, we’ll think of something else.” After a moment’s hesitation, he patted Canaan’s back to encourage him. Canaan was not all that much taller than Myuri—he easily stumbled forward. But that instead only energized him, and he began to march ahead with this second step. “I…I believe!” Col watched as Canaan gave him a forced smile, then followed in after him. When they first met in Hyland’s manor, he had been so calm that Col felt like the boy’s aura alone would drown him, but Canaan now looked appropriately nervous for his age. So to ease the tension, Col leaned forward to whisper in his ear: “It’s God you believe in, isn’t it?” Canaan’s eyes widened as he turned to look at Col out of the corner of his eye, before he straightened with a boyish grin. “Of course!” he replied, throwing his chest out proudly. He turned to the busy company loading dock, which was a hive of activity, and called out, “Pardon us! We’ve come from Rausbourne! We would like to meet with the master of the house!” Canaan’s voice carried well. Merchants visiting to exchange wool craned their necks curiously to see, and the company couriers and wool inspectors blinked blankly at them. “I run things around here…How may I help you?” Col noticed an errand boy dash toward the back of the building, and not long after, a friendly-looking merchant emerged from the back counter with a cautious look on his face. He could tell that Col and Canaan were no normal visitors, due to the way they dressed. “We apologize for intruding during such a busy time. We are here on behalf of the Rausbourne tax collectors’ association.” Canaan only dropped his voice in the latter half of his statement so that those around them could not hear. The head of the Vide Company, who regularly delivered wool to Rausbourne, gulped. “Wh-why? We are not engaged in any shameful activity…” No merchant was entirely guiltless. But Col and Canaan were not there to accuse them of adding sand to the fibers of their wool to falsify its weight, or mixing in cheap fibers with more high-quality wool. “We know of your trustworthiness. A clue to the one we are looking for was found on one of your bills of delivery, so we ask for your assistance.” Canaan produced the paper they found at the association from his breast pocket. “Where did you purchase the paper used for this document?” The master, seeing that they were not after him, gave a sigh of relief with a quiet apology as he took the paper. “This…most certainly is one of our bills. This building serves as the point of origin, so…Hey, bring me those weighing notes!” The master shouted to the errand boy, who was staring off blankly into the distance. He snapped out of it and brought over papers detailing numbers of boxes of wool. The master took the second sheet of paper and lifted it to the sky. The loading dock was dim, even at midday, but his practiced eye could see what he was looking for right away. “Yeah, it’s the same. This’d be Thearte’s workshop. The papermakers here in town.” “Thearte.” Canaan repeated the name and glanced at Col. “Could you tell us where the workshop is?” “Yes, of course. His workshop is in the crafters’ district to the north of the church. It’s a bit confusing, considering all the parchment workshops in the area, but you’ll find it right away if you ask.” The master returned the paper to Canaan, who folded it back into his pocket. “Thank you for your help. Fair trade to you.” The master gave a tired smile in return and saw both of them out. Once they emerged from the shaded loading dock, the springtime sun stung their eyes. Hollande, who had been watching from an alley across the street, lifted his hand in his way of asking how things went. “That went smoothly because you stood menacingly beside me, Master Col,” Canaan said as he raised his hand in response to Hollande. Col had done nothing. He had simply stood there—he was certain Canaan was saying that to be nice. “It was your gift of charisma,” he replied. “Nonsense. You exude gravitas just by standing.” Canaan, who acted with perfect grace before Hyland and who always kept a calm smile on his face, suddenly seemed rather nervous. When Col had that realization, he decided that did not necessarily mean Canaan’s words were empty flattery. And there was a rather cheery look on Canaan’s face. Col hesitated voicing his doubts because he did not want to ruin his mood. Canaan had brought them a dream—and even if it remained a dream, he at least wanted proof that he had made waves in the flow of world events. And though his place in the Church was somewhere the light of the sun never reached, he had at last seen its rays here, in this country. Col watched as the boy strode with long steps across the street; he did not feel overwhelmed by his energy, but instead watched to encourage him. Once they reconvened with Myuri and Rhodes, they headed to the north side of the church, just as the Vide Company had instructed. There were rows and rows of parchment-makers, fitting for a city that pulled wool in from all over, but they found Thearte’s workshop right away. Myuri rushed ahead, bards’ booklets in hand, knowing it was her turn to deal with the hot-blooded artisans. Canaan’s guard and Rhodes took up post in the back of the workshop so that the artisan did not escape when they realized pursuers had finally caught up. Col accompanied Hollande and Canaan in watching Myuri from afar as she showed the booklets to the dignified master of the workshop, who was flitting around busily. There were a great number of these booklets around the country, so he surely must remember the face of the patron who bought all that paper. And Myuri was the perfect candidate to weasel her way into the crafter’s heart. And so the sight that followed in the moments afterward came as a surprise. “That fool finally got himself into a real mess, didn’t he?!” The man’s bellow rang out over the bustle of the crafters’ district; Myuri flinched, shrinking in on herself as he did. While Col stood dumbstruck, Hollande the guard rushed across the street. “Do you happen to know where the author of this booklet is?” he asked. The master craftsman looked at the knight, then to Col, who had arrived a few moments later, and a bitter grimace crossed his face. “What the hell…? L-look, I don’t care if that idiot’s gotten himself into trouble with some noble or another—it has nothing to do with my workshop! That’s all I have to say!” Behind the lead crafter were other artisans, watching the exchange with uneasy looks. It seemed like the head crafter had assumed them to be catchpoles dispatched by one noble or another. Perhaps he had feared a situation where a conflict with an aristocrat would lead to the closing of his workshop. “So you know where the creator of this is, do you?” Hollande, of course, did nothing to rectify the crafter’s misunderstanding. And he posed his question like the loyal hound of an authoritarian noble—an attitude Col could have never imagined him taking on from his typical attitude back in the manor. Though the master crafter was shorter than Hollande, he was of a strong, stocky build, like any artisan would be, and he exuded a power that matched the knight’s. The artisans watching behind him were the same. Not only that, but there were others farther in the back who were beginning to rest their hands on anything that could serve as a weapon. Rhodes and Canaan’s guard, hearing the yell, rushed from the back alleys and stood ready to draw their swords at any moment. Le Roi rubbed his chin, leisurely taking in the scene, as though wondering what to do next. For his part, Col wanted to ease the tension in the air, but he was the very picture of a noble’s houseboy; were he to do or say anything, it would only make things worse. But considering the master crafter and Hollande, it did not seem possible to reach a peaceful resolution to the situation. Col ultimately made up his mind, knowing he had no choice but to try, so he opened his mouth to speak, but a hand stopped him. He turned around and saw it was Myuri. “Hey, come on, no fighting.” She hugged the booklets to her chest, her brows drawn up, eyes wide, as she looked at the men. The tone of her voice was much meeker than usual. Col tensed, ready for the master to yell about a woman butting into men’s business, but all he heard was a low groan. He sounded somewhat relieved, too. “Hrrm…” Both the master and Hollande looked away from Myuri’s wide, innocent eyes. “Hmph. I’m not in the business of making kids cry…,” the master said, and Hollande eased and nodded. The artisans behind the master crafter breathed sighs of relief. And that was when Col realized—a fight would break out if anyone else were to interject, but the master crafter could not disregard this lovely young girl’s request. “We just want to know who wrote the book. We’re not going to bother you,” Myuri said. Col, too, looked to him and nodded. The master crafter sighed, scratched his head, and said, “I know ’im. Worked here for a while.” They had found a definitive trail of the artisan who had eluded both the booksellers and the inquisitors. “Where? Where’s he now?” The crafter looked at Myuri and shrugged. “Worked here for about two years, quit not long ago. Heard he started scribe work in town after that, but…heard he quit that, too, and went to play herder on the outskirts. Hey! Which one o’ yous knows where Jean went?!” One of the artisans who had been watching the situation from afar, a young man, timidly spoke up. “Jean came back to town for the snowmelt. Man’s spineless—probably couldn’t handle taking care of sheep. Saw him in his cups plenty of times at the cheap pubs.” “I saw him, too,” another piped up. “At the Reel.” “That place?” said another. “I heard they serve moldy ale. Sounds like a perfect fit for Jean.” As the other artisans began to add to the conversation, the master crafter jerked his chin. “You heard ’em. The Reel’s on the road leading out northwest from town. It’s an old, shabby place, and there’s a spool of thread on the sign—you’ll know it when you see it. That good enough for you?” His eyes had stopped on Hollande. “It is. Sorry for the trouble,” Hollande said, then turned to Col. The master crafter must have thought Col was the shot caller among the six of them, so he also turned to him with a grouchy, but at the same time appeasing, look. Behind him stood his artisans—it was his job to protect their livelihoods. “All we want is to speak with Mister Jean. We apologize for the intrusion.” The master crafter folded his arms and sighed. But the annoyed look on his face was not only for Col and his entourage, but for Jean the artisan as well. Even as they left the workshop, the master crafter stood out front, cautiously watching them leave. Behind him, a few of the other workers were poking out their heads, expressions brimming with curiosity as they wondered what that was all about. Then, once Col saw from afar how the master yelled at his workers to get back to work, he finally managed to speak. “I’m glad that did not end in a fight.” He had not expected the master to know the artisan personally, much less think of him as a nuisance to his workshop. “My apologies, Master Col. Those methods often work best with stubborn crafters.” “Oh, um, it’s—” “The timing for my entrance was perfect, wasn’t it?” Myuri asked Hollande, and they shared a laugh. Though he truly seemed like a young man dedicated to upstanding work back at the manor, it seemed no person was ever purely good. Col was terrible with these sorts of tactics, and they tired him out quickly. “We can overcome any hardship we come across, so long as we stick together,” Canaan said, excited. He was delighted in simply being able to continue to move forward. “So the artisan,” said Myuri, who broached the subject as they began their search for the Reel. “I got the feeling there was some kind of problem here.” “The man did ask if he angered a noble. I wonder what he meant by that,” Rhodes wondered aloud. “The poem in that booklet is honestly of terrible quality,” Canaan replied. “It’s likely the master crafter and his fellow artisans knew Jean the crafter was writing poetry, and probably assumed that the noble in the song must have grown angry upon hearing it.” “Like a court jester story,” Le Roi said, and Myuri’s eyes rounded with curiosity. “Jesters serve the king, but they’re also the only ones allowed to make fun of the king. Though they are sometimes hanged by those same kings when they’re in a bad mood.” Myuri was shocked, but Canaan paid her no mind and continued with his own question. “But would a noble request a poem from a worker from a papermaking workshop?” “He may have gone to sell his poems if he wanted the seat of house bard. Much like how wandering scholars will go from court to court in search of sponsors for their studies.” While that made sense, that still did not explain why he was printing and distributing so many copies. And there was one other point that did not quite add up. “Oh, but isn’t the noble in the poem fake, though?” Myuri brought up the very thing Col was wondering about and flapped the booklets in her hands. Rhodes, who had his hand to his chin in thought, suddenly spoke up. “Maybe he was contracted to harass someone?” “Contracted?” Rhodes nodded, somewhat nervous with five sets of eyes on him. “War is a knight’s time to shine. Those of noble heritage, especially, see the battlefield as a place where they can make or break their family’s honor. One terrible poem can ruin their reputation. Which means it is possible that the distribution of this poem could be out of spite, meant to look like it is praising someone when its true intention is to make them look worse.” “Ah-ha. That does sound possible,” Le Roi replied. “Even if the name of the noble itself is falsified, it would still serve its purpose perfectly if the locals knew who it was speaking of, I see.” Upon hearing that, Col recalled how the artisan at the Rausbourne papermakers’ workshop had acted. He was furious knowing there was a shameless noble out there making someone recite these poems. If the poem was written in a way that made it obvious to those close to the noble in question who it was referring to, on top of being of very poor quality, then it would certainly be top-class harassment. If there was one particular noble who was ordering the harassing, then that also solved the mystery of who was paying for the printing. “Hmm.” Myuri hummed. “But doesn’t that mean he’d already be hanged for making someone important mad?” According to what Crafter Thearte said, it sounded as though, after quitting the workshop, this Jean character worked as a scribe, putting his printing technology to use. But he quit even that and left town to look after sheep, which suggested that he did not have the support of someone with money or power. And when he was then unable to continue working as shepherd, he returned to town to become a drunkard at a place called the Reel. He did not sound like the plucky type to take on a dangerous job in the face of a powerful opponent. “I’m sure we’ll find out when we meet him,” Hollande said, pointing at the road ahead. There were few buildings beyond the limits of town, with more free-ranging chickens and pigs than people. Hanging from the eaves of a building, one that looked like it might have once been a sheep barn, was a tattered and fragile sign with a picture of a spool and thread. “As the one responsible for your safety, I am not particularly happy with any of you going to this place.” Just as Hollande said, the establish could not be called “nice” by any means. The walls were worn from the elements, and the roof sagged so deeply it looked as though it might collapse at any moment. It did not seem like the town guard ever ventured out this way, either; a red-faced old man sat leaning against the front of the building, dozing off. “This may be less of an inn and more of a bandit hangout. Sometimes the townsfolk ask us to take care of them while we’re out on a mission,” Rhodes said, unsheathing the sword at his waist in a show of caution. Myuri, her eyes glittering, immediately latched on to the words bandit hangout and hurried ahead. “Let’s keep things peaceful,” Col said. Jean the artisan had evaded the inquisitors’ pursuit and possibly even distributed booklets with the intention of sullying a noble’s honor. And considering he never lasted long at any of his jobs and ended up a drunkard at a bottom-of-the-barrel tavern, there was a real chance that fighting could break out. Despite what he said to Hollande and Canaan’s guard, the two of them, who likely had real combat experience, exchanged glances and both shrugged. “That is the plan, but it depends on what the man does.” Hollande was a knightly knight back at the manor, but he perhaps seemed to enjoy situations like these more than Col had anticipated. Between the two guards, who suddenly burst into smiles, and Rhodes, who pulled his expression taut, Myuri took on an air of determination, influenced by all those around her. Despite how much Col wished to tell her she did not have to put that much effort into the situation, Canaan and Le Roi, who had been watching her with delighted smiles, nodded at him, and he quickly gave up. “First, we’re going to kick down the door, right?” “Like a bandit?!” Col interjected, no longer able to help himself. Hollande laughed. “Let’s go.” And so, with Hollande at the front, they slowly pushed open the thinning door to the Reel. The Reel was the worst of the worst kinds of pubs. Almost all the floorboards had been peeled away, revealing the dirt floor underneath, and it doubled as a lodging house—there were people curled up in blankets in a corner of the room. In the middle of the room were two long tables, which was the only signifier that this was a tavern, at which sat a gloomy merchant shaving off the edges of copper coins; a weedy, half-naked man face down at the table, snoring; and four rough-looking men who could very well have been bandits themselves. Col would have never come to a place like this alone with Myuri. “Where’s the owner?” Hollande bellowed. The men turned to stare daggers at them, but when they realized the difference in class between them, they quickly looked away. “He’s in the back,” replied the merchant shaving the coins. “You here to arrest some thugs? Some jewels get stolen from your lord’s coffers?” That was perhaps the first thing that came to mind when a whole group of well-dressed individuals armed with swords came to a place like this. “I wouldn’t be this nice if we were,” Hollande snapped. “I’d cut your right arm off first before asking any questions.” The sinister-looking merchant pursed his lips and circled his arms around the coins on the table, as though protecting them. “We’ll speak to the owner,” Canaan’s guard whispered to Hollande, and proceeded to the back. While Hollande scowled at everyone in the tavern, Canaan stepped forward. “We are looking for an artisan named Jean,” he said. Though he always spoke with polite speech, his words were more articulated than they usually were, perhaps to give the impression of someone even more educated. Then even those who had decided they would be losers in any sort of trouble and pretended to sleep lifted their heads from their blankets and straw mats. “We heard he used to work for Crafter Thearte and was recently working as a shepherd’s hand.” Salenton’s beggars, day workers, and those living hand-to-mouth lives sensed a reward might be forthcoming and began to grow restless. But it seemed there was a reason why they hesitated to speak up. “You will be thanked. Would anyone happen to know?” Right after he said that, there came a loud sound of a foot stomping against the floor. One of the four ruffians, who had made this tavern their territory but begrudgingly stayed put when they realized they were no match for Hollande and the rest, had viciously dropped his foot from the stool onto the floor. “If you’re not foolin’ around, then show us the coin.” Col was not sure what he meant, but Canaan produced several copper coins from his pocket without a word and stepped toward the men, unafraid, and placed them on the table. “How generous of you. He’s over there.” The man pointed at the half-naked man asleep at the table and swiped the coins for himself. Rhodes scoffed, and Hollande stared hard at the man to see if he was telling the truth. As Canaan reached out to the sleeping man— “A-are you taking him away?” —there came a voice, terribly dry and cracked, like an instrument that had not been touched in many years. “He sings us nice songs…” There came another voice, like a groan. “He stays here in the pits with us, and he sings for us…Even though he’s terrible at it…” Before they knew it, all those who had been sleeping in the dim had sat up and were staring at them. Their hair was ratty, and dirt covered their faces, but their eyes alone gleamed sharply. “…We are only going to talk to him,” Canaan said, overwhelmed, and Hollande stepped forward to take his place. The man who was supposedly Jean showed no signs of waking; a good shake of his shoulder only earned them a quiet groan. With a sigh, Hollande crouched down and quickly hoisted the scrawny man onto his shoulder. “Do you have a well around here?” he asked. One of the ruffians sneered. “Once he falls asleep, he don’t wake up.” “It’s in the back,” another said. “It’s practically dried up, though.” Hollande gave his thanks and turned to leave with Jean over his shoulder; his steps were light, as though he were carrying a sack of straw. Le Roi; Canaan’s guard, who had been speaking with the owner; and Rhodes followed after him. Myuri glanced at Col before doing the same. “Canaan?” Col called to Canaan. That freed him from his spell—he tore his gaze away from the people sitting in the corner of the tavern. “I-I’m sorry.” This was likely his first time coming to a place like this. Col let Canaan leave first. Col offered a polite nod to those in the tavern and followed the rest. “…Why did that affect me so deeply?” Canaan muttered to himself as they rounded the building. “I have stood face-to-face with saints and famous theologists.” He slowly turned to look at Col as he spoke. “But I found shock in the face of normal people. But…,” he quickly amended, “that might not be quite it.” A tense smile crossed his face as he nodded. “It seems I was excited at the prospect of finding the artisan. It felt as though I was part of one great tale.” Col could almost hear Myuri scolding him for reading too many books. By the time they wrapped around to the back of the building, Hollande was already splashing water over the drunkard’s face. Jean leaped up in his shock. “Wagh! Augh!” He looked around and quickly realized he was no longer in the dark, run-down tavern but in the open lot by the well, surrounded by strange company. “Are you Jean?” Hollande asked. The man gulped so deeply that the lump in his throat almost looked like it was going to leap out of his throat. “A-are you…inquisitors…?” That question was enough to confirm that this gaunt man was indeed the very one they were looking for. Canaan went pale, likely out of the pure joy of actually finding the one he had been looking for. “Then you must be the last artisan who escaped to the kingdom, hmm?” It was Le Roi, who had been hanging back and out of the way, who asked this. “…Aye? Ah…I don’t know if I’m the last one, but…I am. You a bookseller? I can tell. You stink of books.” Jean scrunched up his face, making him seem like a man who had all but turned his back on the world despite being only a little older than Col. “Good grief…After all this time…” This person had mastered a dangerous technology, one that the Church had gone to great lengths to stamp out. He spread his arms wide and lay back down on the damp earth. “Just take me. Hang me. Do whatever you want with me…” He gave a loud hiccup, and his eyes slipped shut, as though he was ready to fall asleep again. Le Roi looked to Col and shrugged, as though asking what to do with him. “We have a job for you.” Canaan spoke. Though the ground was muddy due to the splash of water, Canaan knelt beside the man, not caring his clothes might get dirty, and took Jean’s hand. He looked all the world like a military priest comforting a dying soldier. “…You what?” “We need your help. Your technology could change the world!” The Church had taken note of the printing technology’s might and attempted to suppress its use. Taking advantage of it would allow the vernacular scripture to spread across the mainland like wildfire, and perhaps even shake the Church to their foundations. That may lead the pope to reconsidering his stance, and may even hold the power to reconcile the conflict between the kingdom and the Church. Canaan’s plea caused Jean’s tired eyes to widen. But the light slowly vanished from them, and he pulled his hand out of Canaan’s. “Who cares.” He rolled over onto his side, not caring that would only further cover him in mud, and laid his cheek on his arm. It made him seem as though he was not turning them down because of his principles, but simply because he had turned his back on the world. Myuri was surprisingly weak to situations like this, and Hollande and Canaan’s guard exchanged meaningful glances. On the other hand, Rhodes and his strong sense of justice looked like he was about to beat both Jean and his disposition into his ideal. Just as Canaan was about to straightforwardly ask his question again, it was Le Roi, surprisingly, who stopped him. And his request was one that none other in the group had come up with. “Well, either way, why not have a drink with us?” It was the most casual invitation imaginable in that situation. But it seemed to touch Jean on a level deeper than Canaan’s earnest resolve. “…Like, with proper wine?” “The smooth stuff, without pomace.” Jean leaped to his feet and motioned for Hollande to come closer. “Splash me with water again.” Hollande rolled up his sleeves, ready to give him a good, aggressive splash, and heaved a sigh. He drew some water from the well and dumped it over Jean’s head once again. When they asked why Jean was mostly naked, he replied that he had either dirtied his clothes beyond repair with vomit or he had lost them in a bet. The entourage made their way to a reasonably fine tavern toward the center of Salenton and took a seat at the tables outside. Jean’s face was well known among the pubs in town—the waitress did not bother hiding her belief that their drink would be wasted on a guy like him, and aggressively slammed their drinks on the table. “Glug… Glug…Ahhh! That’s the stuff!” Myuri gulped as she watched, tempted, so Col jabbed her in the head. “Good, good! Drink up!” There came Le Roi’s friendly smile. “You’re not drinking?” Jean asked as he tore into the jerky that came not long after. “Let me join you, then. Miss! More wine, please!” Despite the awkward atmosphere, Le Roi’s easygoing attitude remained steadfast. Eve once likened him to a bear attracted to the honeycombs at her doorstep, after all. “Hey, you’re not a bad drinker yourself,” Jean remarked. “It’s my job to drink my business partners under the table, after all!” Jean had taken an immediate liking to Le Roi. Hollande and Canaan’s guard had determined there would be no fighting as a result, so their hands had stopped hovering over their swords, and they took a seat at a table a short distance from them. They called over Rhodes, who was nervously frowning at Le Roi’s handling of the situation, and ordered some snacks. Jean and Le Roi sat across from each other, and right next to them was Col, Myuri, and Canaan. “I don’t understand,” said Jean, not quite believing they were actually drinking together, after watching Le Roi savor his wine and order lamb sausage and stew and other food. “How come you don’t have my hands bound? Is this my last supper?” He flashed a lopsided smile. “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding,” Canaan interjected. “Your fellow printers, the ones who were arrested, were not hung.” “No,” Le Roi continued, adding to the conversation. “While they are unable to leave the city under the Curia’s control, I believe they are making fine livings as craftspeople now.” Jean frowned. “You mean they’re just being kept on the payroll.” Had Col come across Jean at a place like the Reel without knowing what to look for, he would have thought the man to be unrefined and ignorant. But what he said was solid, showing he was indeed educated. “We need your technology,” Canaan said. Jean attempted to scoff, but his own hiccup interrupted him. “You keep repeating yourself…” “It’s important. Your technology can change the world.” Canaan placed a hand on the table and leaned forward to speak. But Jean looked away, annoyed, and drank down his wine. “I don’t care.” He sulked. “I don’t do books anymore.” He reached for the freshly served lamb sausage, still steaming, and desperately shoved it into his mouth. “Then how do you explain all the booklets you’ve so widely distributed?” Canaan asked. Jean did not even look up. “Did you work at the papermakers’ in order to obtain paper at a cheaper price?” Canaan continued. With terrible manners, Jean chewed with his mouth open, washed down his food with his wine, then stared at Canaan with dim eyes. “What’d be faster? Me wringing your neck or for the swords at that table to stab me?” Canaan pursed his lips and rounded his eyes just as Myuri interjected. “There’s a sword at this table, too.” Jean looked at Myuri as though he had just noticed her for the first time. He turned a defiant, violent eye to her, but a look of surprise quickly crossed his face. “What?” Myuri asked, doubtful. Jean cleared his throat, as though suddenly brought back to reality, and said, “Why’s a little girl got a sword?” “Because I’m a knight.” “What?!” Her emphatic tone caused Rhodes, who had been watching on from a short distance away, to leap from his chair. But it did not seem like Jean would be harming Myuri, so Col turned to look at Rhodes and nodded. “…A girl knight?” Jean said. “Nobles sure are into weird stuff these days.” Col could tell this was not quite a drunken statement, so he was not sure how he should respond. But Myuri, the most competitive person in all of Nyohhira, raised her brows. “Hey!” She leaped from her seat, stamped her foot onto her chair, and took her scabbard in her hand. Her ferocity almost caused Canaan to reach out and grab her sleeve. “Can’t you see this crest? I’m a real knight!” The wolf crest sat proudly on the sheath of her sword—the crest protected by privilege granted by Winfiel royalty, one only two people in the entire world could use. “Uh…What? A crest? And a wolf one, at that…” Jean’s shock was a lot like that of a lowly, wandering soldier who made a pass at a traveler, only to find she was secretly a noble—it was the very picture of that sort of scenario in those stories, but there was something slightly different about it. And Myuri, too, was surprised. “Wait, you know about wolf crests?” she asked. Canaan sat between Myuri and Jean—his eyes darted back and forth as he tried to get a grasp on the situation. “Well…wolf crests in this country are…I mean, it’s the same on the mainland, too. I’ve only ever seen them in books. Is that actually real?” Crests had their fads. Wolf crests, especially, were not in use nowadays due to the menacing air they gave off, or so they were told. Myuri, who had wolf blood in her veins, was terribly displeased with this, but in contrast, she was delighted that Jean realized how rare wolf crests were. “And? Isn’t it stunning?” Myuri said proudly. Jean only clicked his tongue and brought his mug of wine to his lips. But he was not completely shutting her out as he did earlier; instead, it seemed as though he was trying his best to hold back his curiosity. Ultimately, he failed. “S-so hold on a second…Are you…are you from some family with ties to the ancient empire?” he asked. His tone was nervous, yet at the same time held a flattering wistfulness. Myuri immediately cheered up and breezily replied, “I wish. But not exactly.” She lowered her foot from the chair and plopped down again. As she spoke, she pointed to Col without bothering to look at him. “A really important noble gave us the privilege out of respect for the big adventure my brother and I are having.” Her explanation was not the correct interpretation of the circumstances, but it could not be called completely wrong, either. Now that they had finally gotten a way to keep Jean’s attention, Col reckoned they should have a proper conversation with him to get him earnestly on board. But just as that thought crossed his mind, he realized Jean looked more serious now than at any previous moment. “An…adventure?” “Yeah!” There was delight in Myuri’s voice. But beyond her, Rhodes and the other guards had realized that things had taken an odd turn and were watching with curious looks. “I admit, I’m curious as well. I’ve only heard bits and pieces from Miss Eve,” said Le Roi, who had at some point put away all the food they had been served, as he raised his glass toward the inside of the building, requesting seconds.