The Millennium Pavilion

"Childish, perhaps…"

"Hah — fine, surely. And, if you hadn't moved there, I would have."

A few minutes' walk after the prior business.

Walking the slightly-thinned main street, Merea, on a self-rebuke, let it slip.

A hand to his brow, did-it-now posture.

Beside him, Salman, on a pleasant register, slap-slap on Merea's back.

"Pulling back on everything-and-anything isn't the answer."

"Saying that consoles, slightly."

Merea, brow-low, on a small wry smile. The transcendent air he had carried opposite the merchant was gone — by face alone, a somewhat-meek young man one might find anywhere.

"And — this one, also, glad, by the look."

Watching Merea, Salman said the next.

On a playful smile, he raised his thumb and pointed a direction.

The opposite side from Merea — across Salman's body.

"G-, glad — I am not—!"

There — on a fidget-fidget register, Elma walked.

A step behind Merea, exquisite keeping.

Head a touch low; in the comparatively smoother black hair, her expression was partially hidden.

When Salman, mischievous, called to her, Elma, from under the black, peeked a vermilion-tinted cheek and protested—

"I-, not—"

"Liar, surely. Glad at being shielded, no?"

"Y-, you, don't say redundant things! Even were that not so, saying it aloud would make people misread —"

"Misread?"

"…"

When Salman, staged-puzzled-tilt, asked, Elma, mouthing something, dropped her face again. The black fringe pulled deep, hiding the eyes.

But just before she dropped, the deeper flush on her clean-cut face — Salman, properly, caught.

After a stretch, hearing her muttering chant-words between her hands, Salman, internally, did-too-much, small.

"Sal! Don't bully Elma!" "Sal-of-all-people!"

Behind Salman, the twins, in cheerful raucous mode, had been watching the exchange and threw lines at him.

In their hands, large stick-candies — proof of the trade with Merea.

"All right, all right. — Mind, Miina — lately, you just say Sal-of-all-people as default-fill, no?"

"Heheh."

"Deny, properly…"

"Detail-complaints — left to Onee-chan!"

"Hah…"

Licking the large stick-candy bought at a sweet-shop on the way, the younger twin 〈Ice King〉 Miina laughed.

Salman, on a sigh, wrapped fine, fine over it.

"Right — money-fiend."

Salman, on a light backward glance, pivoted.

"Yes?"

To Salman's voice, Shaw stepped slightly forward.

"Where do we turn? Inn — one alley over, you said."

"Yes. About here, perhaps."

Shaw's eye swept around.

In moments he found a side-lane off the main street and pointed.

"Through there. — Merea, fine?"

"Of course."

Where Shaw pointed, the party looked together.

To Shaw's question Merea returned a nod, and they pivoted toes on Shaw's lead.

---

A side-lane between a brick building with the sign Antique Shop Fouruz and a grey building with Curiosity-Art Hall carved straight into the wall — Merea's party stepped in.

"Curiosity-Art Hall, it says. Merea — I'm Lindholm-Sacred-Mountain-origin, might be a fit?"

"Lindholm-origin, surely gets it."

"Mind — with formula-craft blooming, curiosity-collecting must be getting hard… formula-craft, good or bad, cleanly explains what was, until now, unidentified."

The party passed through the thin lane on light-banter.

Side-lane, Shaw had said — but formula-lights hung sparse along the outer walls; not especially dark.

The neighbouring shops' suspicious register, plus the strangely-tinted formula-light colour, were the only odd points.

Through the side-lane, the next-over alley.

"One alley left of the central street — so, the inn-row."

Shaw, somewhere along the way, had a map open and was nodding to it.

"Inn name?"

Merea, brow-up, asked.

"〈Millennium Pavilion〉, the inn is named."

"Hah — theatrical name. — Mind, not dislikable."

To Shaw's instant answer, Merea, on a pleased smile, said it.

"May the inn itself last a thousand years as a piece of art — by-the-talk."

"That said — thousand is, in fact, fine."

Salman this time. Same pleased smile.

To Salman's line, Shaw, theatrical-relax-mode, light-faced —

"They likely hold the conviction art with no end is no art, perhaps."

"Hah… — the locals here pack in too many troublesome types…"

He was not in a position to opine on others' art-views, but the variety of art-view here pulled a sigh out of Salman.

The leaked sigh, on a light register, drifted up and dissolved into the art-city's air.

A while of light-banter walking on, finally — the inn's sign came into view.

"There."

Merea, eye on a seeing-far register, pointed.

"Cannot see it whatsoever."

"Yes — there, is."

In contrast to Salman's reply, Aiz — walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the armoured Shiradis — gave a small nod.

"Truly, you both have good eyes…"

And I'm good myself, Salman small-muttered, then said it to Merea and Aiz.

To Salman's line, Merea, on a theatrical both-arms-wide — Right? —-pose. The white hair swung happily, the embroidered cloak flared softly.

To which Aiz, on an embarrassed smile, cheeks flushing. To Salman's no-back-meaning praise, Aiz, by the look, was unusually glad.

That that reaction held the complications of her up-bringing — the others quietly sensed.

But the Demon Lords, deliberately, did not press.

Not for Aiz, particularly.

There was nothing in that exchange worth raising. — It's ordinary.

To praise the ordinary, ordinarily.

That she'd not had it before is what made her not yet used to it.

Being strongly glad of small things is good — but if one settles there, the foot loses strength against the ground.

This is still the opening.

So — they don't, deliberately, press.

On the two's reaction, the Demon Lords, in turns, threw light-banter and agreement, and resumed the walk.

---

"Excuse me."

〈Millennium Pavilion〉.

Different from the stone-built register of the main street — the inn was wood.

But — fine wood.

Slightly-deep-brown timber; reading the grain alone, a strange weight of time.

Heavy presence, an air of dignity coming off.

The hung lantern under the eaves was not a formula-light but a carefully-built fuel-lamp.

Formula-lights, with the light-emission formula carved into stone and hung, are plenty convenient but, on the atmosphere side, thin.

Formula-lights have their depths — when one fusses on the décor or constituent-formula — but with formula-craftspersons handy and the inscription-style available, mass-produced convenience-first models dominate.

The lights hung casually around streets and storefronts are, in the main, plain.

"Hah — good. On the road, atmosphere like this lands."

Salman, fond-quiet, on the fuel-lamp.

"Don't, not, know the feeling."

To Salman's line, Merea, on a nod.

For Merea also, the fuel-lamp's atmosphere sat well.

— Fuel — oil, perhaps.

The light's colour leaning toward an orange brighter than ordinary flame suggested a special oil.

Even in his prior life such tools were classical-already; seeing them again, the fresh register surfaced.

In this world, fundamentally, the fantastical-beauty dominated; but both-world-classical-feeling objects offered a different atmosphere.

"Welcome."

About then, Shaw, having stepped first into the Millennium Pavilion, was met with a returning voice.

Looking through the entrance, an aged-with-grace, white-bearded man stepped from a doorway.

The doorway being beside the counter — that, almost certainly, the proprietor's office.

The aged proprietor pulled a seasoned silver-finish spectacles from his breast pocket, set them, and looked at Shaw afresh.

"To whom do I have the pleasure?"

"Sherwood, with a booking from today."

"Ah — Sherwood-sama. We have been expecting."

The booking had been made cleanly.

Naturally — Merea hadn't doubted it; the proprietor's reply settled him quietly.

"I shall guide you to the rooms. — Most of the second floor is, in fact, reserved for Sherwood-sama's party."

"Coming in like a flood, sorry."

"No, no — that we were chosen among the many inns of this city is, in fact, gladdening."

"The proprietor's aesthetic sense is splendid, you see."

Somewhere along the way Shaw and the proprietor were laughing together.

Praise-words on the inn surfacing from Shaw's mouth like infinite spring-water — Merea, on quiet amazement, followed them in.