A Curious Meeting

The Millennium Pavilion is not a large inn.

A small-scale, atmospheric establishment.

Most of the guest rooms are on the second floor.

Before going up, Merea's party was given a brief tour of the first floor too.

On the first floor: a chic-shaped dining hall and a bar-counter-arranged drinking room.

On the rack behind the counter, colour-rich bottles of liquor sat polished bright, on their own carrying a stained-glass beauty.

The bar is, evidently, the proprietor's hobby.

When the mood takes him, he stands drinks for the lodgers there.

"I want a life like that…"

Salman, fond-quiet, said it.

Merea, on a laughing nod —

— A gentleman-aesthete proprietor, exactly as I'd imagined the art-city.

— internally.

The clamour-of-many-people he, also, did not dislike — but the singular refinement, not-his, was, for that reason, agreeable.

After the proprietor's light explanation, Merea's party was led to the back-rooms of the second floor.

"Apologies — the corridor is thin."

"No — fine. This register is more comforting."

By then, Merea had joined Shaw in conversing with the proprietor.

For something-comes-up, the contact in the booking was Shaw first; if Shaw was unavailable, Merea — that arrangement was set.

So Merea, on his end, thought to do face-introductions now.

"We usually walk through unreasonably open-feel corridors, so by contrast, this lands well. Above all — walls in quality timber like this — not poison-purple stone-blocks — truly settles the heart… what kind of inspiration leads someone to apply that colour to a great hall…"

Merea, recalling home, let a hah sigh out.

Home — Star-Tree Castle — apart from the first-floor great hall is, in truth, unremarkable; but the great hall just past the gate is that poison-shaded is impossible to ignore.

The author of that annihilating layout was, of course, Leilas Lif Lemuse.

— Even so…

Merea, twining a strand of his snow-white hair (Leilas's keepsake) on a finger, internally on a firm line —

— Well caught, Flander.

— recalled the words carved in the throne in the great hall.

Without Flander's check, Leilas might have spread her demolition-grade aesthetic through the rest of Star-Tree Castle.

Merea has not met Leilas direct, so he tends to predict what kind of woman she was; —

— By the talks, transcendent in look but fairly child-like in temperament.

— Heroic-Spirits' stories, plus the throne-back carving, had placed that impression.

But — the impression he himself leaves on his comrades runs along similar lines, which Merea had not yet noticed.

"Hm — unreasonably open corridors. Interesting. — For reference — usually, where do you reside?"

While Merea ran the train of thought, the Pavilion's proprietor, on an interested face and line, picked up his earlier phrasing. Brow up, eyes round behind the spectacles.

"A castle."

"— Castle."

"Yes."

To Merea's plain answer, the proprietor opened his mouth agape. On the agape he turned his eye to Shaw.

The eye, on a true-or-false-please register, was dubious.

Shaw, noticing the proprietor's expression, also instantly answered.

"A castle."

"— Castle."

When Shaw on a serious-faced nod confirmed, the proprietor blinked a few times and nodded too.

After that, a small uneeeh of interior-pain leaked from the proprietor's mouth, but in the end he, somehow, settled on it.

"Some noble?"

"No — not even noble — not even commoner, perhaps. Mind, not upward — in the poorer social-status sense. — Yes, and world-wide at that."

"This — a fine riddle."

"After we wrap our stay — answer-time. Meanwhile — be the company to the proprietor's curiosity, if you would."

"Yes — please. The art-city suits good riddles."

About when the proprietor said it on a pleased register, the party reached a door.

The proprietor stopped, turned to them.

"This is one room. The room across, and the room next to it — Sherwood-sama's party's rooms."

A door of the same fine timber as the walls came into view.

"For reference — other guests on the second floor?"

Merea asked.

"Two, in fact."

"Right — we'll mind, not to be in the way."

"Mind, one of them is rarely in the room — daytime, no particular need to mind."

— right then —

From behind, another voice came in.

A voice with a cheerful tinge, clean-toned.

"Proprietor — sorry, bad timing, but I have an important message."

Merea turned to the voice.

In the next moment, what landed in his sight — a flashy-dressed, clown-shape man.

---

"Ah —"

The clown — face lovely-as-a-woman — in the next moment had it startled.

A did-it-now expression blatantly on him.

"What's the matter, Caesar-sama? — Ah — these are Sherwood-sama's party, taking the second floor from today. Let me introduce you."

"Ah, n-, m-, mhm…. … mhm."

"Caesar?"

After their exchange, one voice raised.

Shaw Jule Sherwood himself.

Shaw, on a puzzled expression, was intently examining the slim-lined beauty of the clown.

The clown, head-down, on a trying-to-flee-the-gaze gesture.

After a few seconds of beat, Shaw spoke first.

"Hah — now you go by Caesar, hm. Hah — hm."

"…"

A grin-grin smile had surfaced on Shaw.

The clown threw a glance at it, and, even through the makeup, a flush registered in the next moment.

"My — manly name. Almost too cool, perhaps — but not bad on the look; not a case of name-outpacing-bearer."

"…W-, well-pleased."

To that exchange, the proprietor and the rest of the party tilted heads.

"And — Caesar-sama — the message?"

After a beat, the proprietor pulled the topic back on rails.

"Ah — y-yes. Ralbas-san is clearing out the room. Almost no luggage; anything left, he says, throw it."

"That so. Some emergency, perhaps. Wished to say goodbye properly. — Pity."

"He was, by the look, in a hurry. Going home, or some such."

"Something has happened, perhaps. — Right — let's not pry too far. Sherwood-sama, anything you do not understand, please tell me as it comes up. I'm typically at the first-floor reception. If not visible, I'll be in the back room."

"Yes — kind of you."

Shaw, in an instant, switched the grin-grin on the clown into a clean smile and answered the proprietor.

The proprietor, sliding sideways in the thin corridor, walked off.

Left behind — Merea's party and that clown, Caesar.

---

"A-ah… well — I'll take my leave too —"

"Caesar-san."

"…Yes."

"There's something I want to talk about. If you have time — dinner with me?"

"Ah — actually, I have plans tonight —"

"If you have time — dinner with me?"

"…With pleasure."

The money-fiend, on a brook-no-argument force, secured dinner for the night.

On his face, an unmoving full smile.

Merea, catching Caesar's resigned nod and Shaw's full smile, internally —

— Found-prey face, that…

— so the thought surfaced.

Anyway — first matter — Merea wanted to ask Shaw about the sudden move.

— Acquaintance, perhaps.

Roughly predicting, Merea asked.

"Heading out?"

"Yes. We've only just arrived, sorry — but this, too, is for our 〈Demon Lord Alliance (Mea-Nesaia)〉."

In the implication-laden phrasing, Merea read Shaw's interior.

The for the Alliance line was deliberate, with implication.

Like Lilium, sharp on perception, Shaw, in normal register, would have answered the question concretely.

But here Shaw, on the what for of the dinner with the clown, did not spell it out.

— …

Merea ran several thoughts in an instant.

In the end —

"Right — fine."

— a light nod.

Then he turned to the others, looking around.

"Right —"

— raising his voice.

Sending Shaw out, an escort needed.

Then —

"I go. Just-arrived-tired — women and children rest."

Salman, on his own initiative, stepped forward.

On a one-hand hair-roughing, on a slightly bothered face, but the line was clean.

"Me too!" "Me too!"

To that, in tail, the twins.

Their small bodies, bouncing, near swinging from his arm.

"No. You lot — sleep."

"Ehh—" "No—!"

"You catch a cold day one — bother. Don't you want to see more of the art-city? Catch cold here and you're inn-stuck whole trip."

"Sleep!" "Sleep!"

"Good."

"Salman, lately, has gotten fluent with handling them…"

Merea, on a wry smile, muttered.

"Right — you lot, rest a bit. — That all right, Merea, money-fiend?"

Salman to Merea and Shaw.

"Yes."

"No problem. Doubt it'll be that tangled."

Both nodded.

Direction set.

In the exchange, from Caesar — — so even here he's called money-fiend… small line.

Shaw and Salman walked into a room. Setting luggage down, surely.

"Meanwhile — let's settle the room-split."

Elma, in the corridor, said it, and on a continuous motion opened a different door.

"I'm in Merea-sama's room —"

"Marisa, with me. Got it."

"Elma — your handling of me lately is rough, yes?"

"Imagined."

Marisa following Elma — Aiz and Shiradis, on light banter, walking into a room. — Shiradis, of course, armoured.

— Ah, head-bump.

That Shiradis's clean-tall height drove the armet's top into the door's lintel, Merea, properly, caught.

A gan, then the full-armour crouched on the spot, finger tracing the floor sulking.

Y-, yes-, you're, fine, you, sometimes, those things, happen, yes, — Aiz, rubbing the armoured back, consoling — but the picture itself is fairly eccentric.

"What is that… scary…. As I thought, the money-fiend's acquaintances are scary…"

"You know Shaw?"

Merea, last left in the corridor, turned to Caesar.

Caesar, on a small surprise at the sudden question, immediately a troubled smile —

"Yes — a little. Past dealings."

"Hm — past Shaw, that's interesting too. — Ah, late, but — I'm Merea. … I am Merea."

"I am Caesar. A small-time clown of the art-city. If you see me out and about — laugh, if you would. Being laughed-at is my reason for being. — And — please don't use formal speech. Even for-form, being honoured is, I'm not used to."

"Then — no reserve. You, also, can use boku. I'm not used to being-honoured either. … Get used to it, I'm told, mind…"

Merea, on a soft smile turning wry, scratched his head.

Caesar, on it, surfaced a pleased smile. On the clean face, a gladness tinge — and within it some curiosity.

"On my end — why the money-fiend follows you is the more interesting matter. But — drilling-in talk is, perhaps, premature. Sometime when the proprietor opens the first-floor bar, if you're inclined, let me hear."

"That side, also."

When Merea answered, Caesar on a with-pleasure and a small bow.

"Right — kept you waiting. Off we go, Caesar."

"Wish you'd just stayed in the room. I'd rather have talked with Merea more."

"That light-banter is back — relieved."

About then, Shaw, having dropped his luggage in the room fast, came out.

— By that — I can torment you without restraint, tacked on at the end, on a gold-thread hair-shake.

Salman followed; Salman tapped Merea's shoulder and went down the Pavilion's stairs.

Mid-stair, Shaw turned back up and, as if remembering, said —

"Back before the date changes, my master?"

A wink at Merea.

To which Merea —

"Acknowledged. Take care, properly. Anything happens — right… shout. I'll come. Important attendant, after all."

— answered the theatrical tone in kind.

On Merea's face was a wry smile-of-good-form, but in his eyes, a serious shade.

Shaw read in the eyes a thought not on the line and —

"Counting on you."

— that, last, then turned the heel.

The three vanished into the night-time art-city.