Chapter 475: The Origins Of Doom (3)

Pudding officially had a new home.Ordinarily, this was a cause for celebration. 

After all, The Cozy Whisker existed solely to provide temporary accommodation for abandoned cats until they could find a new home to claim as their own, and few places provided more warmth or comfort than a noblewoman’s estate. 

Lady Odette’s would certainly prove no different–at least for the week that she’d be housing him to see if they suited each other. 

A not uncommon arrangement. A trial adoption allowed many first-time owners to experience the joys, scratches and many bits of hair that cats provided before deciding if they wished to proceed.

Naturally, allowing Lady Odette to adopt Pudding for any amount of time made Mirabelle rather uncomfortable, particularly since it matched the exact number of days that the guild receptionist vacancy was open.

Although she wasn’t versed in the ways that nobility threw around their weight, she recognised the distinct possibility that Pudding would find a less than hospitable home if she refused an alternative arrangement.

In short … common extortion.

Sadly, The Cozy Whisker’s policy was clear. 

With Lady Odette financially sound and with no previous black marks to her name, the only formal stipulations were met. There was no cause to reject her wishes, even if there was a shared understanding that Pudding was generally not for adoption and instead meant to be shared by everyone. 

That’s why–

Mirabelle had no choice but to cede to every demand. 

After all, not only was there a clear discrepancy of wealth and social status between her and a noblewoman, but as a law abiding citizen who regularly picked up other people’s litter, there was absolutely no scenario where she could take matters into her own hands. 

She was well and truly defeated.

Thus, by the time the late hours of the night came, the bars began to quieten and only the moonlight visited Reitzlake’s alleys, she was sound asleep in her bed.

Or so her alibi would go.

“[Cloud Step].”

Within the walls of the Clairvaux Estate, a thief was on the prowl.

If anybody were to spot her, they’d not hesitate to call out in alarm … but probably not before asking what she thought she was wearing first.

Mirabelle, law abiding, punctual and highly fashionable, was currently boasting a wide brim sun hat, shaded goggles, a lilac scarf wrapped around her mouth and a trench coat once owned by her grandfather. 

However, while her disguise was utterly faultless, the trench coat posed a problem.

Her grandfather had been very tall. And when she was attempting to avoid the active runes on the floor by magically skipping over them, the possibility of a hem brushing against an explosive trap was very much something she needed to consider.

And then there were the other traps as well.

Wide area wards woven into the walls. Layers of illusions concealing doors, panels and tiles both true and false. Hexes and curses enveloping surfaces and handles.

To a regular thief, each would spell a swift demise worse than what any armoured knight could offer. But to a graduate of the Royal Institute of Mages, it was only worthy of curiosity. 

After all, Mirabelle had personally seen the most alarming magical traps that centuries of her peers could muster, much of them recently modernised by Headmaster Alberic Terschel.

None of what she saw here was up to par, but that didn’t stop her from studying them.

Her verdict–

Mild puzzlement.

Like many of the other aristocratic homes, the Clairvaux Estate was tucked away where few from the lower districts could trouble them. Except that this was less a home and more a fortress. 

There were an inordinate amount of defensive measures and not a lot of chairs. 

Mirabelle saw few silken carpets or framed portraits. The hallways were bare and functional, while what few rooms she spied were mostly shorn of even the most minimal of furniture. 

It was certainly not her impression of how a nobleman’s residence would appear.

In fact, it looked considerably more like a warehouse in the docks. 

A particularly suspicious warehouse.

And that also went for those who inhabited it.

“Oi. Patches. Did you feed the cat?”

“Yeah, I fed him despite you being here. That cat’s in a bad mood because of you.”

“The hells you mean? I’m the only one the cat likes.” 

“You’re the only one so dumb the cat ignores you. Not only are you ugly, but you’re bad at cards as well. I know what you got. Your cards are bent.”  

“Every card is bent. Just like your face. And also Brown Grapes.”

“Shaddup, Lemmy. It’s only like this because I have to look at yours. Why am I stuck with you guys when I could be in The Salty Mermaid. Bess is waiting for me.”

“Yeah. She sees you one more time and she’ll know to work somewhere else.”

A wave of chortling exited the chamber at the end of the hallway.

Despite the dim light, Mirabelle could easily make out the group of unshaven men within, each dressed in a way that would make any bystander wonder who between them were the intruders.

Their laughter low but insults loud, they sat around a table behind the gate as they traded jibes and cards, all the while the open crates of wine gently shook around them and loose bottles littered their table.

Mirabelle didn’t know enough about wine to tell a good vintage from bad. 

However, she knew it was unlikely that a small winery company had enough of a product range to boast as many as she now saw. The bottles each shone with different sizes, colours and labels, with the only constant being the nearby racks of empty bottles bearing the Clairvaux name waiting to be filled.

A sight likely to raise an eyebrow. But that wasn’t why she was here.

Mirabelle retreated behind the doorway.

“[Find Object].”

With a whisper of her spell, she watched as the faint image of a compass appeared on her palm. The arrow was quivering wildly, all the while pointing into the room. 

Satisfied she’d reached her destination, she took out a tiny stuffed mouse toy from her trench coat pocket, kneeled down, then discreetly pushed it out into the doorway.

It was all she needed to do.

As the sound of laughter echoed past her, she waited patiently until a ball of orange with legs appeared, his eyes lighting up with familiar joy at the sight of Mirabelle. And also his toy.

Mirabelle nodded, glad that the marking spell in every collar came to use. Pudding wasn’t lost in a tree. But this was close enough.

“Right,” she said with a smile. “It’s time for you to make your solo escape.”

As Pudding held the stuffed mouse in his mouth, Mirabelle scooped him up and rose. 

She couldn’t decline Lady Odette’s offer of adoption. But it could hardly be helped if Pudding simply absconded over his new environment. That was an entirely cat-like thing to do.

Sadly, that wouldn’t be the end of it. 

Mirabelle had no idea why a noblewoman was fixated on becoming a guild receptionist. But she had no doubt that Lady Odette had the capacity to inconvenience her more than a single night. Taking away Pudding was the softest stick. And she really didn’t want to know what the next one was.

Mirabelle hummed for a moment.

She peeked back into the room. At the assortment of wine bottles. At the semi-drunken gentlemen. 

Then, she nodded.

She knew just what to do. 

Holding Pudding in her arms, she made her way back down the many hallways, this time without pausing to study any of the runes, illusions or cursed objects. 

However, instead of making her exit via the service entrance where a guard might be enjoying a gentle [Slumber] after a long shift, she climbed the staircase up and up.

Guided by the dim lanterns and her sense for paperwork, she made her way through the hallways until no hint of a bare floor could be seen. Soon, her quiet steps were muffled by embroidered carpets and watched by portraits ensconced in gilded frames.

Were she a robber, she wouldn’t need to risk another step further. 

Mirabelle had no interest in silver or gold, though. What she needed was far more valuable. And it usually came in parchment form.

At the end of the most well-furnished hallway, she stopped before the glossiest door.

She studied it for magical traps, pressed her ears against it, pressed Pudding’s ear against it, then slowly turned the handle, peeking inside as the door quietly swung open.

… Just not quiet enough.

“Ah, good evening. Fine night for a stroll, eh?”

Mirabelle stared at the sight.

It was a fine office lined on all sides with shelving, save for the very back where a lattice window offered a shaft of moonlight onto a varnished desk. 

And also the man sitting behind it.

With an unkempt tuft of grey hair and wrinkles turning silver beneath the moonlight, he was a man in the finer years of his life. 

However, whatever time hoped to do to his eyes, it had failed. They were as youthful as a boy running amok in the streets of Reitzlake. But perhaps that was only to be expected.

The rumours, after all, described Timon Quinsley as such a figure.  

The nicest ones, that is.

“Come, come,” said the guildmaster, copper ring shining as much as his smile. “No need to stand there. We’re both up-to-no-good. May as well become accomplices. You’d be Mirabelle, I take it?”

Mirabelle blinked.

Then, she smartly fixed her wide brim sun hat, her shaded goggles, her scarf, the collar of her trench coat and also Pudding in her arms.

“Yes,” she said, closing the door behind her as though she was walking into the guildmaster’s office. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Quinsley.”

“Same for you. My receptionist, Lira, was most impressed with you this afternoon. I’m told you passed the interview splendidly. A no small thing. It takes quite a bit to impress someone who regularly meets the finest adventurers the kingdom has to offer.”

“Thank you. I’m delighted to hear that. I enjoyed the interview greatly. It was also very useful. I was also able to learn a considerable amount regarding the workings of the guild.”

“All good, I hope, although I’ve no doubt you’ll have many more questions to ask.”

Mirabelle paused as she looked at the leader of the capital branch of the Adventurer’s Guild. 

The representative of a neutral organisation sworn to not dabble in the affairs of politics, and by extension, the doings of the kingdom’s ruling class … including the homes of its nobility.

Thus, she nodded.

“I do have a question, yes.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Are lunch breaks paid or unpaid?”

“Lunch breaks are most definitely paid. And I would riot if they were anything else.” Timon Quinsley chuckled as he leaned back in his borrowed chair. “An excellent question. Now I’ve one of my own.”

“Of course. What would you like to know?”

“Your thoughts. Where do you think we’ll find what we’re searching for?”

Mirabelle hummed.

The blunt implication that the Adventurer’s Guild was investigating the Clairvaux Estate’s doings was certainly unexpected, all the more so since Timon Quinsley was here in person.

That suggested this was a matter of extreme importance. A worrying prospect, given that all Mirabelle had seen were suggestions of commercial fraud. 

In which case, she needed to give this her all.

“In a ledger,” she said after a moment. “There is no evidence more black than what’s written in ink. Should any records of hidden or unusual transactions exist by the Clairvaux Estate, it will need to be recorded just as much as any other.”

“Indeed, proper records are important. Everybody needs to be paid. And that payment needs to be written down. Otherwise someone can and will complain that they weren’t.”

The guildmaster pointed all around him.

“Here is the problem, Miss Mirabelle,” he said, his voice relaxed. “There are three safes in this room and several lockboxes. Every drawer has a false bottom and most of the shelves move to reveal hidden compartments. The potted fern can be pulled out to reveal the key to most of them, the paintings within the frames can be switched to lower a ladder into a ceiling stash, and the vase in the corner has a switch just hidden enough to be barely noticed by an expert rogue and will thus explode in a ball of flames. In none of these places, holes and gaps can an incriminating ledger be found. Assuming it’s in this room, where would it be?”

Mirabelle eyed a heavy-duty book on the desk directly before the guildmaster.

It was labelled ‘accounts’.

“... Have you read this one?” she asked, her tone polite.

“Indeed, I have. Or rather, I flicked through it. Just as I did a number of them. There’s quite a few on these shelves. But while hiding an incriminating ledger among the usual ones is certainly bold, it also does rather leave things up to chance should a treasury inspector come calling.”

Mirabelle nodded.

Then, she walked over to the desk, let Pudding down and picked up the accounts book.

Flipping to a random page, she noted almost immediately the high level of detail and efficiency. 

It was a complete financial recording for the current season, including procurements, sales, loss and theft. Little was spared, with even the cost of replacing broken corks dutifully itemised.

At first glance, nothing appeared out of place. 

And then–her brows knitted. 

The handwriting grew just a shade tighter in certain lines, the ink faintly heavier whenever particular grape varieties were mentioned. A pattern. An item called Gold Reserve appeared only in the expense columns, never in income, stock, or production, yet it recurred with predictable regularity, always paired with a vague note such as external transport or off-site handling. 

The amounts were mathematically tidy, far too consistent to reflect real goods. 

Mirabelle looked up with a professional smile. 

“There is a disguised payment category. A wine is being used as a cipher.”

The guildmaster stared.

A moment later, he let out a chuckle so loud that the gentlemen downstairs would likely be wondering who among them had made the noise. Yet while amusement played in his eyes, there was no hint of surprise. If the suggestion that the ledger contained a cipher was news to him, then he didn’t show it.

Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.

In fact … it was the expression he wore even as a bell started loudly ringing.

Echoing throughout the room and likely throughout the entire estate, Mirabelle winced as the noise pummeled her ears. And also Pudding’s. The orange cat jumped from the desk into the safety of her arms, his head digging for reprieve as he sought to trade places with the ledger.

The guildmaster reached out for the book as he stood up.

“Hm, how devilish,” he said, tucking the ledger beneath his arm. “It seems Lord Clairvaux isn’t one for remaining seated. Fair play to the man. I thought I caught all his traps. I’ll need to remember this.”

He looked at the chair with admiration.

… Then, he promptly kicked it, smashing the window to a brisk evening air and the invisible sight of the sheer drop below. Unfazed, he walked over to the very edge, before glancing back with a smile.

“It’s been delightful, Mirabelle. I greatly appreciate your time. I do not believe that the informal discussion next week is still required. As such, I’ll be in touch shortly regarding the status of your application.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quinsley. I look forward to hearing from you.”

The guildmaster nodded.

A moment later–he hopped away, all his years gone with the wind as he paid no heed to the height between here and the ground.

Mirabelle fixed her sun hat, then did the same.

She wore a smile all the while her [Feather Grace] gently bore her down.

Tonight had been a good night.

After all, regardless of whether or not she succeeded in her application, she learned an important lesson.

Saving cats was a lot of effort.

That’s why–if there was ever anybody who was very good at it, she would earnestly support them with all her heart.