Chapter 62

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Having a river beside a town or city made securing water easier, but best of all was the cool river breeze. Compared with other inland cities, Ehrenberg was remarkably free of foul odors, and its people were neatly dressed.

It really was a fine place to live. Yet even this pleasant city had its problems.

Problems arose naturally wherever people gathered. A society without a single problem would probably be a deeply sick one. There was no need to become disillusioned with humanity itself over society's troubles.

Wherever you went, there were good people, and there were rotten bastards. That was all.

“Remember what I told you last time? That the boy who killed Steiner the Mad Dog was my friend? Ta-da! Here he is! This is Riki, the one I told you about. Amazing, isn't it? Hard to believe, right? But it's true. I was there with him. Underestimate him and you could lose your head. I've already seen it happen to dozens of people. Hee hee hee.”

Boribori was speaking to a powerfully built man with a kerchief wrapped around his head. This was Mason, the Guild Master and leader of the stonemasons' guild.

At Boribori's frivolous words, Mason folded his arms and gazed at the boy in the red cloak. Boribori's account alone would have been hard to believe, but he already knew that the famous Red Cloak had come to town.

Ricard, however, was looking past Mason toward the docks. Several ships lay moored there, unable to depart for days. Roughly fifty stonemasons' guild members and their families had spread out mats and were living right on the docks.

Women struggled over with several enormous pots, lit fires on the spot, and cooked meals to share with their families. Times had grown hard lately, so they were pooling their food and cooking together. Whole river fish floated in the pale, watery gruel. The smell drifting over on the breeze was not particularly appetizing.

“So what do you want us to do?”

Mason directed the question at Boribori. Something about his blunt tone tended to make people shrink back.

Boribori paid it no mind. Whether out of confidence, cheerfulness, or sheer thoughtlessness, he simply carried on in his own fashion. With the phantom sword at his hip, his eyes wide and a finger raised, he seemed to be making an earnest sales pitch, in his own way.

“We're adventurers, you know? Taking care of people's troubles is what we do. For a small fee, of course. So we can collect that money you're owed. What do you think? Don't we look dependable?”

In truth, their appearance was far from reassuring. Boribori had only just reached about 160 centimeters, and while Ricard was as tall as a grown man, his face was unmistakably boyish. Even a tremendous reputation might mean little to someone who lived in a different world.

But this was Ehrenberg. Though the Ehrenberg Five had roamed from region to region rather than always staying here, this had once been their base, if only in name. No one knew better than the locals how terrifying they were. And this was the boy who had killed them.

Mason had already heard the rumors: the boy in the red cloak, Boribori the Quarterer, and X the Nameless. The Heroes of Siegfringer had put the Ehrenberg Five to death.

The kerchief-wearing stonemason gazed at Ricard, but Ricard was watching the people eat. Mason turned to follow his gaze. More than ten people crowded around each of the three enormous pots, scraping them clean. The fish gruel vanished in moments.

Mason turned back to Ricard.

“As you can see, this is the state we're in. We don't have the money to commission an adventurers' guild.”

Ricard's red cloak fluttered. Whatever was on his mind, he only watched the people eating their gruel: women feeding their babies first, a small child wedged between siblings barely managing to get a morsel of fish, an elderly man claiming he had no appetite and giving his share to the children.

After taking in these sights, Ricard looked at Mason and asked,

“For our fee, we can add interest to the unpaid debt and keep that interest. But first, could you explain what happened? A man named Marconis told me he'd paid for the construction.”

Mason led Ricard and Boribori to a stack of wooden crates near the docks. There, he produced a contract and pointed to a clause.

<Should additional building materials be required, the guild shall first procure the materials at its own expense and complete construction, after which the merchants' association shall pay the cost of the additional materials.>

A stonemasons' guild was not merely a group of people who cut and worked stone. A stonemason did indeed cut and dress stone, but a stonemasons' “guild” meant something rather different. It was a body that took responsibility for construction from beginning to end.

Design, surveying, procurement, transport, building—they handled literally every aspect of construction, even hiring local laborers to provide the workforce.

The Ehrenberg Stonemasons' Guild was famous because it built everything, from ordinary homes to lords' castles, city walls, and temples. It was a tremendously skilled organization, yet received surprisingly little respect from society. Even when it completed vast projects costing astronomical sums, little remained for the guild after labor and materials were paid for.

Its skills developed as they were passed down through the generations. They were not something one could learn at a school. If people like these were ruined, their knowledge could never be recovered.

“So you've received the full construction payment, and it's the additional costs that are the problem. Why won't they pay when it's clearly written in the contract?”

Ricard sounded puzzled. In truth, there was little to puzzle over. It looked plainly as though the merchants' association was refusing to pay simply because they were scumbags. Still, he asked.

“They said that since construction was already finished, how could they know whether we'd used any additional materials?”

It was nothing more than an excuse. However carefully a contract was drafted, any undertaking required mutual trust. Whether the merchants' association lacked that trust or was doing this deliberately was unclear.

“There's something I'm curious about. Even if you needed more materials, couldn't you just make do without them and build only as much as you'd been paid for?”

Or stop construction and negotiate a new contract. Ricard wondered whether they had really needed to complete the work at their own expense.

But Mason, the stonemasons' leader, stared at him for a moment and abruptly asked,

“Why do you wield a sword?”

“Pardon?”

“Do you swing it about because you're drunk on your own strength, like the Ehrenberg Five?”

“No.”

“We have traditions and principles. ‘When you build, build to last forever.’ Those words have been passed down to us since ancient times. We've built homes, raised castles, and constructed cities. Their owners may all be different, but our hands made them all. Look at this city. Look at these docks. Look at those walls. Our fathers, grandfathers, and ancestors built every one of them.”

There was forthright pride in his words.

As Mason had suggested, Ricard looked from the docks nearest him to the distant houses and city walls. He saw them in a new light. Yes, all of those things must have been built by human hands.

Buildings only a few years old stood alongside others that had endured for decades, even centuries, all still sturdy. These people had probably built the home he and his companions shared, too.

“You probably kill people easily and earn your money just as easily. So we must look foolish to you. But some things matter more to us than making a living. We're willing to go hungry to preserve them.”

“You don't look foolish to me.”

“...”

“I think you're admirable. If my question was rude, I apologize. I was simply curious.”

Ricard smiled and apologized with an openness as refreshing as the river breeze. There was nothing shameful or humiliating about apologizing to a man like this.

Mason regarded him with surprise. He had expected arrogance, but found none. In truth, Ricard treated different people differently. He could certainly be arrogant, but Mason was an admirable man, and he wanted to show him respect.

“We can draw up the contract later. For now, do you agree to let us collect the debt?”

“... If you can get it back, we'd be grateful.”

“Good. Let's go, Bori.”

“Huh? Where?”

“Where else? To collect the money.”

With his sword slung over one shoulder, Ricard left the docks. He headed toward the mansion where he had attended the banquet the day before.

Boribori hurried after him.

“Can we really do this right away without signing a contract?”

“I can tell at a glance whether someone's decent or a scumbag. Those merchants' association people felt shady. If we're going to settle in this city, shouldn't we take the long view? In that case, I think it's better to judge the people than the money.”

“No, I'm asking whether it's all right not to sign a contract.”

“A noble stakes his life on keeping his word. Some even consider a written contract an insult.”

“Huh... Since when have you ever acted like a noble, Riki?”

“You little rascal.”

Ricard roughly tousled Boribori's hair. Boribori was fourteen now and would be an adult next year, yet Ricard, two years his junior, was the bigger of the two.

“Anyway, how are you going to get the money back?”

“How else? By force.”

Courts did exist in this age, but disputes were settled by force far more often than by trial. Trials took a long time and, unless a lord personally presided, carried little weight. Even if you won, there was nothing you could do if the loser effectively told you to go to hell.

There were, of course, various kinds of trial. Trial by combat offered a clean resolution, and every member of the traditional nobility had the right to demand one.

Frankly, Ricard had that to fall back on, being a traditional noble himself. If necessary, he could settle this through trial by combat. Besides, there was little way to recover an unpaid debt other than force.

Arriving at the mansion gates he had visited the day before, Ricard addressed the gatekeeper.

“You saw me yesterday, didn't you? Please open the gates.”

The gatekeeper peered through a gap in the beautifully carved gates and readily opened them. He remembered Ricard because of his shabby clothes.

“What brings you here, young master?”

“I'm here to collect an unpaid debt.”

“... Pardon?”

The gatekeeper looked bewildered, unable to make sense of this.

Ignoring him, Ricard pushed the gates wide and entered the courtyard. He strolled around, surveying the grounds, then headed for the stables.

“Bori, take a horse by the reins.”

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Sell the horses to cover the debt.”

“Huh?”

Horses were extremely expensive. Unless it was a packhorse, even the cheapest could fetch several gold coins. At the upper end, their prices soared beyond imagination.

The stables were fairly large and well built, with five large horses inside. Ricard picked the one with the glossiest coat and finest build. One look told him it received meticulous care.

“W-who are you?”

The stable keeper, who had been sweeping the floor, was startled by the unfamiliar visitors. Paying no attention to his confusion, Ricard brought over some tack and began fitting it to the brown horse with the striking white markings.

“W-who are you, sir? Please don't touch that horse.”

“Stay back. I might kill you.”

Ricard drew his dagger threateningly. It was practically robbery, but this was the forcible enforcement of a contract.

At the menacing flash of the sharp blade, the terrified stable keeper fled to alert his master.

Meanwhile, Ricard finished tacking up the horse, led it outside, and mounted. He had learned to ride at home and was fairly good at it.

Boribori did not know how to ride, so he hurried out leading his horse by the reins. Ricard rode into the courtyard to wait for him.

CLOP, CLOP. CLOP, CLOP. CLOP, CLOP.

He wheeled this way and that, trampling the lawn as though he owned the place. A mounted rider had a commanding presence that dominated his surroundings, and the mansion's servants all stared in alarm.

“Open the gates! Or I'll ride you down!”

Ricard drew his sword, pointed it at the gatekeeper, and shouted. Faced with the enormous horse, the gleaming blade, the commanding cry, and those fierce eyes, the startled gatekeeper flung the gates wide before he knew what he was doing.

Boribori hurried out. Just then, Marconis emerged from the mansion, shouting in bewilderment and alarm.

“W-what do you think you're doing?”

Ricard looked down at him from horseback with a derisive smile.

“I'm here to collect an unpaid debt. You really should pay what you owe on time. If the horses don't cover it, I'll be back for the rest. Good day to you. Hyah!”

With that, he brazenly spurred the horse and galloped out of the estate. Its pounding hooves raised a pale cloud of dust.

CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP!

His blond hair streamed in the wind, his red cloak billowing. The mansion's servants could not tear their eyes from the picturesque boy. It seemed that what truly proved one's bloodline was not outward appearance, but bold deeds and a confident bearing.

The horse's owner, Marconis, meanwhile, could only stare blankly after Ricard, utterly dumbfounded.

The horse the boy had just taken was worth far more than the unpaid debt.