A Gamer's Guide 234 (Patreon)

“Oh, yes, very dreadful,” the respectable Judgess of Feynix commented, waving her fan in front of her face. Compared to other hostesses Emil had had the displeasure of entertaining, she at least didn’t pretend to actually enjoy her human company, keeping herself and her conversation far away from them. Both she and her aristocratic friends sat bundled together on the other end of the fancy dining table, their expensive suppers barely touched despite the famine. She smiled at her conversation partners with lazily hidden delight. “What is this, the twentieth one this week? Oh, I wish they’d catch that horrible lunatic!”

“If you ask me, your honor, I’d say that if you are foolhardy enough to remain outside after the curfew, then you deserve to have your heart ripped out.” The grin on the judge’s face easily gave away the thrill he found in the tales of the heart-ripper.

Emil stifled a sigh. On the other end of the table, he found his party members having a similar discussion, mindlessly indulging themselves in fantasies of what they’d do if they caught the elusive serial killer. If nothing else, it certainly brought their minds off of the still very real plague. Yes, unlike the so-called drake pox, a single serial killer was a lot more manageable in terms of capture and containment.

“Lunatic, your honor?” another one of the rich, high-born aristocrats around the table said. “Haven’t you heard the latest word? It’s not a single person at all—it’s a group of assassins, hired by the humans to take out the sick as a means of hampering the spread!” Emil tried to give the Judge of Provet a meaningful look. They may have been separated by a quarter of the dining table, but did the judge think humans were deaf?

…No, much like the rest, he simply assumed Emil was incapable of understanding them. Another sigh dropped from Emil’s lips.

“What’s wrong, Mole?” someone on his right asked. Emil turned to Ursula, attempting to form his lips into a smile as he did. She smiled back at him, warily. “You look… glum.”

“Oh, that’s… I’m just…” Looking down at the all-too-expensive food on his plate, Emil tried to mentally ascertain how much this must have cost; how many mouths could have been fed with the amount of crowns that had gone into this seven-course meal. He grimaced at it and turned back to Ursula, distracting himself from one bad thought with another. “Last week, thirty-six people died. Thirty-six.”

“That’s great!” Ursula chirped. “Before that, we had…”

“Forty-five,” Emil said. “And the week prior, we had fifty-nine.”

“See? I told you it’d work!” Smiling warmly, she patted him on the back. “Can you imagine how many have been saved thanks to your penicillin?”

“I was just following OrthodoxPox’s recipe,” Emil muttered. “Until we can produce it in greater quantities, it’ll be limited in usage.”

“Well, sure, but…” She shook her head. “It’s alright. A few more months and we’ll be out of this place. Compared to when we got here, things are a lot better already. These idiot judges might have fought us at every turn, but we got them to open new wards, use alcohol to keep themselves clean, wash their hands… And you got to name the disease!”

“We,” Emil corrected. “We got to name it. Finding out that it was contracted from drakes was just a matter of following the infection backwards, but, that’s…”

Ursula watched him sadly. “Is this…” She fought off a look of contempt, replacing it with a sympathetic frown. “He still hasn’t answered?”

“...Yeah.” For a few seconds, Emil kept his mouth shut. They’d already discussed this. She’d already comforted him, and he’d already agreed that there was nothing he could do. What was the point in having it again? Still silent, Emil met her gaze—her worried, compassionate gaze. He found himself smiling, if only a little. “It’s okay, though. I know he’s alive, and that’s what matters most.”

“Still a dick move,” Ursula said by reflex, catching herself right as the words left her lips. “I—I mean… It’s not something you do to friends. Very… mean. Unkind. Yeah—all that stuff.”

Moleman chuckled. She wasn’t too good at this, was she? Still, her attempt mattered more than her actual ability. “Thanks, Sully.”

She quirked a smile, albeit an awkward one. “No problem, Mole.” Her gaze wandered, lips pouting out. “I just want you to know… I know you won’t, so if he ever shows his face in front of me…” She glanced back at him and held up her closed fist. “I’m punching him, alright?”

“Why are you asking for my permission to punch him?” Emil asked.

“Well, you’re his friend, so…” She shook her head abruptly. “B—but even if you disagree, I’m still punching him! Or, at the very least, giving his bony hide a pinch!” Her sly eye turned to him again. “That’s… okay with you, right?”

Although the absurdity of her request made him chuckle, it still didn’t relieve the weight on his chest. And the second Rat distracted her with some silly joke, he found himself sighing again.

Across the table, a pair of spectacled eyes glinted at him. “You are quite loud creatures, are you not?”

Despite everything, the polite, dead-eyed smile Emil had taught himself over the course of his stay in Purgatory was able to impose itself on his lips, twisting his face into a grimace that the aristocracy usually found at least somewhat pleasing. “Forgive me, your honor. The culture we come from is very open, emotionally speaking.” On the other side of the table, the mayor of Oran chose to deign him with a sympathetic nod. Reading the look on the mayor’s face with exhausted unemotionality, Emil recognized an unspoken request for praise. “The unflappable coolness with which goblins of your status act is certainly impressive to our kind. In light of that, I wish to once again thank you deeply for the dinner.”

The mayor let his lips peel back into a toothed grin. “I am not the one you ought to thank, Moleman. This is the honorable Judgess of Feynix’ banquet, after all.” Behind the rose-rimmed glasses, his eyes sharpened. “However, there is no need to thank her for a dinner yet to conclude.”

“...Of course. You are most correct. Pardon me, your honor.”

The mayor leaned back. “Think nothing of it. I am always happy to teach humans such as yourself the manners expected of a judge. Though, with that said, I did have something to ask you about.”

Emil felt something heavy drop into the pit of his stomach. “Pray tell, what would that be?”

“Have you contacted that king in Acheron in regards to the unsealing of the gates yet?” the mayor asked, his fingers steepled atop the table.

“...No, your honor, I have not.” Gathering his wits and strength, Emil continued, saying, “As I explained the last time I had the honor of your visit, opening the gates when there are still dozens dying every week would be unwise. Furthermore, with the regulations on the use of drakes, trade and travel would be difficult even with the gates open. Until the weekly death toll has reached an acceptable level, I insist that the gates remain closed.”

All traces of good humor fell off the mayor’s face. “I see. That’s a shame. With the gates open, we could import suitable resources, such as cloth, grain, liquor, stones…” The mayor’s speech quickly devolved into a rambling list of things he’d like to bring inside the city, without paying any heed to the fact that they’d be paying the merchants with plague. “...In short, I believe that opening the gates would allow the city to breathe anew, to gain fresh eyes on the situation, and…”

“Forgive me, your honor, but my answer remains the same.”

The mayor’s nose crumpled into a show of disgust. “...I see. Very well. Have it your way, human.”

The mayor soon resumed conversation with the judgess on his right, letting Emil deflate with a sigh. He hated this. He hated the fine dining room, he hated the fancy dragonheart chandeliers and the extravagant furniture and the plush chair beneath him and the sparkling silverware and the silken dresses and the squawking, squealing laughter of the aristocrats held in here. The only people he didn’t dislike were his own party and the servants—the poor, unfortunate servants cursed to play along with every whim of the judges or face impoverishment. Although it was his lot in life currently, Emil hated sucking up to the judges. Smiling at ridiculous, selfish requests, laughing at jokes that insulted him and those he cared about, listening to people who had absolutely nothing of value to add… It was infuriati—

Emil froze where he sat. He drew a choked breath.

There it was. He could feel it. Someone; watching.

<[You are being watched.]>

Mentally dismissing the notice from his sovereign skill, Emil turned to Ursula, hiding his hands under the table so she wouldn’t notice that his knuckles had turned white. “I’m going home,” he told her.

It took a second for her to realize that not only was he talking to her, but he had actually said that. Her head snapped to face him. “You’re what?”

“I’m going home.”

Next to Ursula, Rat cocked his head out, bringing his face into view. “Wait, you’re going home? What? Why? We haven’t even had dessert yet!”

“I know,” Emil said. “I just… I have to go.”

Ursula’s brows knitted themselves together. “Is it…?”

He nodded to her with determination. “Yeah.”

“Even then…” She shook her head. Turning to him, she mustered a smile, uncertain though it may be. “Just… don’t be hasty, okay? You may be the strongest guy around, but if someone snuck up behind you to club you like a seal puppy…” She smashed her fist into her open palm. “Blam! You’re gonaroo.”

Smiling lightly, Emil stood up. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “If it helps, I’ll even…” Removing the heavenly orb, Emil affixed it into his invalid right arm. “See? Nothing can hurt me now. Almost, at least.”

“Sure, but…” She frowned up at him. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Alright. I will.”