Chapter 11 Goodness, Justice, and the Smile of Fate (2)
Like the hotel itself, the restaurant gave off the impression of a fallen aristocrat trying to preserve remnants of its former glory. The dining area was nearly empty, with only one table occupied by an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and a short "Spanish" beard. Dressed in a perfectly ironed, moderately expensive but no longer brand-new dark gray suit, the lone diner was sipping something from a cup and gazing pensively out of the window. When he noticed me standing frozen, searching for a waiter, he placed the cup on the table, got up from his seat, and asked:
"Would you like to place an order?"
"Are you the waiter?" I asked in surprise. This man with intelligent eyes and traces of ink on his fingers looked like a waiter just as big Bayb looked like a graduate of the Institute of noble maidens. Although, briefly enhancing my sense of smell, I realized that he carried the scent of this hotel. So, he was indeed someone from the local staff. The manager, perhaps?
"Do I not fit the part?" The man with the well-groomed beard arched an eyebrow.
"Not really. I'd rather assume you're the manager... or even the owner of this establishment."
"Bravo! I'm impressed by your insight, young lady," the man smiled, a smile that seemed to contain a touch of irony. "But for now, while my employees are busy, I'm indeed playing the role of a waiter. And you, I presume, are the savior of my friend Hunter's niece?"
"You could say that," I replied, shrugging noncommittally.
"Then, for the young heroine, the first order is on the house," the man said, slightly widening his smile, which, I thought, contained a hint of irony. He had healthy teeth, or perhaps high-quality prosthetics.
"It would be unfair to bankrupt you," I replied, mentally grimacing at the phrase "young heroine" and the condescending tone in his voice. "So, I'll order tea with pastries and cookies, as well as a short story about the name of this place."
"I'll gladly fulfill your order," the man said, and for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "We old folks find chatting quite enjoyable," he added, returning to his warm demeanor, and headed toward the kitchen.
"Why such a reaction?" I thought, surprised by the fleeting annoyance I detected in his eyes. "Did he interpret my joking remark about not wanting to bankrupt this place as an attempt to sting him? A hint at his dire financial situation? Amusing. Let's consider it a response to the 'young heroine.'"
Why was I interested in the history of the hotel? Aside from curiosity and a desire to dispel boredom, it was about gathering information. I had indeed shaken my memory of what I was taught during training and what I had observed while working, but that wasn't enough. And sometimes, from such stories, you could unearth interesting details.
In a world without radio and television but with the internet, people were much more willing to engage in conversation, and chatting over a meal was sacred. Many could sit and talk for hours.
Soon, the man returned with a tray that held a porcelain teapot with two cups, a sugar bowl, and two crystal bowls filled with creamy pastries and almond cookies.
Sipping some good sweet tea with equally good pastries and excellent cookies (I should buy a few kilograms here), I listened to Brain's story, as that was the name of my interlocutor, about his father, who had founded the hotel.
By the way, when I asked about customs duties, I confirmed that the knowledge that had surfaced in my mind was not gibberish. There indeed flowed rivers of gold in the chief commander's pockets. The old man has a bread position.
Returning to Brain's father's story: the fifth son of an impoverished landless noble family, who had dropped out of medical school during his penultimate year, inherited a nearly collapsing grocery store in this city from his family. Relatives, having given up on this unfulfilled scion's prospects, had forgotten about him. It's unclear how his fate would have unfolded in different circumstances, but the doctor who did not fully finish his studies was lucky. Undertaking repairs in the ramshackle building that had come his way, the young man stumbled upon a real treasure. With the money he received from selling it, he built the hotel. In memory of his student years, he named the place in the dead language of medics and alchemists.
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However, fate, after rewarding the father with a smile, decided to exact its toll from the son. Inheriting a profitable hotel in a prestigious district, Brain managed it quite successfully and even began to expand his business by investing in the construction of another hotel.
But then, a massive fire broke out in the district.
Of course, they eventually managed to extinguish the fire, but a significant part of the city turned into charred ruins, including the under-construction second hotel.
Everything would have been fine since the first establishment remained unharmed. However, one high-ranking official decided to conduct a scheme, buying the land beneath the fire-ravaged area for a pittance. Naturally, the former owners were not pleased with this, and some vehemently objected. But, as always, the one with more power turned out to be right. The cunning official also managed to organize the cleanup of the fire-affected area using budget funds and reasonably expected to profit from selling the land for development.
Only one of the homeless victims tossed out into the street had a different opinion on the matter. As a result, the scheming official met an untimely demise.
Did they hope that after the triumph of justice, everything would be set right? Well, that's a funny question.
After the death of the schemer, his actions were deemed illegal, and the land fell under the jurisdiction of the city administration. While the deceased's colleagues were eagerly fighting over the juiciest piece of the pie, the destitute population quickly built their hovels on the vacant lot. The once prestigious district, now turned into a slum, instantly lost its allure, and land prices in the area plummeted.
As a result, what was once a fairly expensive and prestigious hotel owned by Brain lost all its wealthy clients (who among the rich would want to stay in a place infested with vagrants, thieves, and bandits?). Currently, the "Smile of Fate" managed to stay afloat mainly thanks to its old clients and the determination of its owner and staff, who were unwilling to leave the place.
"How cute and familiar," I chuckled. "Worlds and times change, but corruption, incompetence, and indifference continue to triumph over common sense. And if, by some miracle, I manage not to die, save the country, and secure a significant position, I'll have to do something about all this," I imagined with irony and a touch of fear the prospect of digging through paperwork and listening to the false justifications of corrupt bureaucrats.
"To hell with it!" I dismissed the fleeting images that flashed in my mind. I wanted to steer clear of such work.
Back when our group was still considered a training unit, I had handed over the responsibilities of being the leader to a friend precisely because of my near-zero leadership skills and the complete lack of desire to deal with reports. It would be best to start working on overcoming this deficiency. Otherwise, if I became a leader and purged all the corrupt and embezzling officials with public executions—then who would work on the field of accounting and distribution of goods? Although a high-profile and public execution of a dozen or so particularly notorious and useless individuals could make the rest quiet down and moderate their appetites.
Temporarily, at least.
For a lasting effect, you needed a properly functioning police force, not thugs in uniforms with anecdotes circulating about their "honesty" and "integrity" throughout the Empire. The relative exception was the Capital Guard. Despite Kay Lee's low opinion, the city's police knew how to work, although they were by no means flawless angels.
I wasn't an expert to pass absolute judgment on this matter, but as a lover of walking through the streets of the cities visited by our group, I knew that the chances of encountering bandits in the heart of the Empire were many times lower than in any other city—of course, if we were talking about the prosperous districts. Rumor had it that the current head of the Capital Police, Ogre, or as they nicknamed him for his mild and good-natured character—Demon Ogre, was to blame for this "outrage." He was a quite epic character, who had taken control of the city's police and criminal underworld through extremely brutal means.
If the rumors weren't false, this man had truly achieved an epic task of restoring order in the city and deserved respect regardless of his methods. However, this didn't absolve him of the "universal love" for the chief police officer in the capital. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he holds the record of the century for the number of murder attempts he has experienced.
Yes, I was talking about that villainous villain, the one who would be killed by the valiant freedom fighters from the Night Raid in the future. What was he charged with? An unlawful execution of a prostitute's husband? Or did she become one after her husband's death? A solid reason to kill a man who maintained order in a city with a population of millions and to plunge the city into chaos with police-criminal wars and power struggles! Well, isn't that a heroic feat?
Of course, the rebels wanted just that, but I doubted that my sister would enthusiastically embrace such a goal if their leader openly declared it. Refusing to accept cannibalistic practices in the country's leadership, Akame went against the Empire, killed the former commander of our unit, General Bill, her adoptive father and mentor Gozuki, and didn't spare even her comrade-in-arms with whom she had grown up. I highly doubted that she would willingly fight for "the same eggs, only in profile." More likely that the inner world of this cunning creature, Najenda, will be waiting for a very deep acquaintance with the Murasame blade.
However, she was a cunning creature precisely to ensnare those like my naive little sister with webs of deception. Although, if you believed the canon, the rebel general didn't bother much with creating realistic evidence to justify the necessity of eliminating a target.
How did a second-rate prostitute manage to contact one of the representatives of the most wanted terrorist organization in the Empire? Through a newspaper advertisement? Not to mention the question of where she got the money for the contract (after all, "heroes" from the Night Raid didn't work for free). How much would it cost to order the assassination of one of the key figures in the Capital? Not less than several hundred gold pieces, or, in terms of the past world's money, at least several hundred thousand dollars.
Even if our hypothetical prostitute took on multiple clients at once to collect the necessary sum, she would still have to work for a minimum of a year. Without stops and lunch breaks. Before my eyes, there was a momentary image of the advance worker of all brothels, tirelessly—ahem, working without pause, even in her sleep.
Yes, that would be a labor feat capable of outshining even Stakhanov!
"Ah, what a mess! Aw, I don't believe it! And no one with a head on their shoulders will believe it." I commented on the actors' performance and the play's plot. It seemed that Najenda had a very low opinion of the intellectual capabilities of her subordinates.
Oh, sis, who are you messing with?