Chapter 50
"Where is Lana?"
With that, Clifford pointed the muzzle at Isaac.
Monica instinctively tried to cast a defensive barrier without chanting, but Isaac gave a small shake of his head. His eyes, which seemed to say, There's no need, were as gentle as ever.
(…I wonder if Ike has something in mind.)
Monica concentrated so she could cast a defensive barrier at any moment as she watched the exchange before her.
"I'm afraid I'm not Mr. Bartholomew Alexander, and he isn't here."
"Then where is he?"
"I'll answer, so could you lower that gun?"
"Answer first."
In stark contrast to Isaac's gentle manner, Clifford's voice was hard-edged.
His tone never changed; rather than suppressing emotion, it had the mechanical quality of someone who truly felt nothing. To put it simply, it was creepy.
Isaac let out a weary sigh, then grabbed Clifford's right wrist without looking at his hand and pulled it against his right side. It was a lightning-fast move.
"—!?"
Clifford stumbled, his body pitching forward.
Isaac twisted Clifford's wrist and took the gun from him, then smoothly swept his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling.
Then he planted a foot on Clifford's shoulder as he lay on his back.
──The whole thing took about three seconds.
Monica never even had to cast the defensive barrier.
Isaac looked at the gun he had picked up and smiled sweetly.
"That's a Regan Company flintlock, isn't it? It's popular in the capital because of its fine decorations, but I wouldn't recommend it. Its bullets veer badly."
"Give it back."
"The bullet? In that mouth?"
Isaac pointed the gun's muzzle at Clifford's mouth. His voice was as gentle as ever, which made it all the more terrifying.
As Monica trembled, Clifford, still lying on his back, shifted his eyes behind his glasses to look at her.
"Tell this ill-natured-looking man something for me."
He had pointed a gun at them himself, yet he had quite the nerve.
But Monica had something she wanted to confirm with Clifford, so she timidly tugged at Isaac's coat hem.
"Um, Ike... You could take your foot off him, couldn't you...?"
"If that's what you want."
Saying that, Isaac removed his foot from Clifford's shoulder. He continued pointing the gun at Clifford with his right hand, however.
Clifford sat up from his position on his back, adjusted his slipping glasses, and rubbed the back of his head.
"I hit my head. There's a bump."
His tone was far too matter-of-fact to sound resentful, as though he were merely confirming a fact.
Isaac smiled sweetly at Clifford.
"Good thing it was only a bump."
Monica was secretly relieved that Isaac had refrained from picking up the hunting rifle.
She quietly breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face Clifford.
Monica had something she wanted to confirm with him.
"Um... You said 'Where is Lana?' earlier, didn't you...? Did something happen to Lana?"
"Lana hasn't come back."
At those words, Monica went deathly pale.
The sun had long since set. It was no time for a young woman to be walking around alone.
Isaac's expression also stiffened slightly as he interjected.
"Did you check Lady Collet's residence?"
"I did. But she hasn't returned. I searched through Lana's drawers for clues and found a note with Monica's address. So I came here. Lana wanted to meet Bartholomew Alexander."
Clifford paused, then slowly stood, brushed off his coat hem, and muttered quietly,
"...If she isn't here, then she might be at the old bastard's place."
"Um... Who would that be?"
"Mr. Pollock, the embroiderer."
According to Clifford, Lana had gone to Pollock's workshop at noon on urgent business.
But his apprentice told her that Pollock had left the workshop to go drinking at noon, so Lana had left the workshop in a fury.
"I assumed Lana had come straight to Monica's house, but perhaps she went looking for Mr. Pollock."
If it was a place where people could drink from noon, it would be in the commercial district or near the harbor rather than the residential district. Neither area was particularly safe.
"Um, which establishment did that Mr. Pollock go to...?"
"The apprentice who was minding the shop didn't know that much. I threatened him with a gun and forced the information out of him, so I'm certain."
The last part casually contained a rather serious confession, but that aside, Lana took priority now.
If Clifford's guess was right, Lana was going from tavern to tavern in Sazandoll, searching for an embroiderer named Pollock.
"...Lady Collet is a baron's daughter, isn't she? Would she really go that far?"
At Isaac's murmur, Monica and Clifford spoke at the same time.
"If it's Lana, I think she would."
"When Lana gets worked up, she gets stupidly stubborn. It's entirely possible."
Clifford's words were harsh, but they hit the mark.
Monica could easily picture Lana walking briskly with her fist clenched, declaring, I'll find him no matter what!
＊ ＊ ＊
Having lost count of how many taverns she had checked, Lana left another one after confirming that Pollock was not inside.
(…Another miss.)
Lana let out a weary sigh. Her legs were heavy from walking around since noon, and the winter night wind made her ears and nose ache.
Even so, Lana lightly slapped her cheeks a few times and lifted her head before it could droop.
"Then I'll find him no matter what!"
She was precisely the "stubborn Lana" Monica and Clifford had imagined.
(I've already checked every place I can think of within the area where I usually go...)
That meant Pollock was likely in a tavern in an area Lana did not usually visit—one that was not very safe.
In fact, the area around the tavern where Lana was now was by no means safe either.
This was the boundary between the safe and unsafe districts. Turn down a single alley, and you would come out onto a street lined with several disreputable establishments.
Even apart from that, a young woman walking around alone at this hour was bound to attract disapproving looks.
As she wrestled with the decision of whether to turn down the street, someone patted Lana's shoulder.
Hoping it might be Pollock, she turned around, only to have the sharp smell of strong liquor sting her nose.
The person who had tapped Lana's shoulder was an unfamiliar middle-aged man. His face was bright red, and his eyes beneath his heavy eyelids were glassy and murky.
"I hear you're looking for Mr. Pollock. I saw him at another tavern just now, so I'll show you the way."
Apparently, the man had overheard Lana asking around about Pollock at the previous tavern.
Lana was neither carefree nor naive enough to follow him innocently, saying, "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
Lana took a step back and quickly scanned the area, but there was no one else around.
"...How kind of you, mister. But just telling me the name of the establishment will be quite enough."
Realizing that Lana was wary, the man closed the distance at a quick pace and seized her wrist without giving her a chance to refuse.
"I said come with me!"
"Ow! Let go!"
"Shut up!"
The man's face twisted at Lana's resistance, and while gripping her wrist with one hand, he raised the other.
(He's going to hit me!)
Lana instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, but the impact never came.
When she cautiously opened her eyes, a tall man was standing behind the drunk, twisting his arm up behind his back.
"Violence against a lady. I cannot overlook it."
"Who the hell are you?!"
"I'm afraid I have no name to give a drunkard! I only give my name to ladies! ...Which is why I am Antony. Be sure to remember it, milady!"
The man looking at Lana with a sharply confident expression had short black hair and an impressive physique. He was the elder brother of the pair she had met yesterday before going to the fried-pie stand with Monica.
The drunk clicked his tongue loudly and reached inside his coat. When his hand closed around what appeared to be a knife hilt, Antony placed his large hand over it.
"If you draw that, I won't hold back. If you're ready to be cut down here and now, draw it."
"Hah! You talk big about cutting me down when you don't even have a sword!"
As the drunk pointed out, Antony was not wearing a sword. His hands were empty.
But Antony shoved the drunk away to create some distance, lightly raised his right hand, and began chanting something or other.
The air around them suddenly grew cold, and white mist drifted around Antony's hand. It was ice magic—and not ordinary magic at that.
In the darkness of night, a pale-blue light appeared and gathered around Antony's hand.
When Antony clenched his hand around it and swung his arm, the pale motes of light scattered in a flash.
What Antony now held in his hand was a beautiful longsword made of ice.
(Is that... a magic sword!?)
Lana was not the only one who was astonished. The drunk was backing away, his face completely sobered.
The tip of the ice sword was pressed right between the man's brows, as if drawn there by a magnet.
"Now, what will you do!?"
"Eek, eeeek!"
At Antony's intimidating roar, the drunk's face changed color, and he fled, flailing his arms and legs.
Lana, left behind, looked up at Antony apprehensively.
"Um... Thank you for helping me, mister."
"Hmph, it was nothing."
Antony wore a confident smile on his rugged face.
But then his complexion suddenly changed, and he looked down at the ice magic sword he had created.
"Oh no... The ice magic sword...!"
"T-The magic sword?"
Worried, Lana wondered if that magic sword had placed some kind of strain on his body, but Antony furrowed his thick brows and said with an anguished expression:
"...The ice magic sword has stuck to my glove and won't come off."
...