The girl who fell from the polar star - Side Story 6: Typica

Typica finished her breakfast and grabbed Varrell by the arm before he could escape.

“Not so fast!” she said. “Why is the first son of the honorable Art Family trying to slink away like a petty burglar?”

“To get away from his annoying sister! I’ve already told you everything I wanted to say. Leave me alone. This is a waste of time.”

“W-What?! How dare you talk down to me? That’s it, no more excuses! It’s time for our final showdown!”

“How many ‘final showdowns’ have we had, woman? You should think twice before humiliating yourself in front of the children.”

Typica looked over her shoulder at Stella and Rye, who were watching the altercation with interest. Marie wasn’t here; she was busy with the washing.

“Don’t mind us,” Stella said. “If you’re going to fight, though, take it outside. Remember, both of you are responsible for anything one of you breaks.”

“Why?! I can’t be held accountable for what she does!” Varrell protested.

“Yes, you can. That’s how human society works. Parents are responsible for the actions of their children. Likewise, an older brother is responsible for the actions of his younger sister.”

“She’s not a child! She’s twenty years old!”

“That’s right,” Typica said, puffing out her chest. “I am not a child. I can take care of myself!”

“I’m so proud of you, Typica,” Stella said. “Would you wash your own things and put them away when you’re done, then? Even I can do that, so it should be easy for you.” Stella picked up her used utensils and left to join Marie.

“Uhm, you’re cool to have around, you know that? Stella says there’s never a dull moment with you around, and she’s totally right,” Rye said, then stood up and walked away.

‘Keke! The place sure ’as become lively, eh? A good thing too, eh, ’cause that puts Master in a good mood!’ Clever said, then took off after Rye, leaving only Typica and Varrell.

“Well,” Varrell said after an awkward silence, “I guess I should be going too.”

“Going? Going where, exactly?” Typica said. “And what about me? What am I supposed to do now?”

“Guard the store, of course. The night shift is mine, and the day shift is yours. But I’m sure Stella wouldn’t mind you helping around the store or the restaurant, if you ever get bored to death.” Then Varrell left as well.

Now it was only Typica. After a few uncomfortable moments, she picked up her utensils to take them to the kitchen. Typica was a sensible person, and this was the sensible thing to do.

 

“You’re Marie, aren’t you?” Typica said.

“Yes. Did you want something, Typica?”

“I have nothing to do. If there’s anything I can help you with, it would be my pleasure.”

“Didn’t Miss Stella tell you what to do?”

“No, she didn’t. To my understanding, I was hired on the basis that I’m ‘entertaining’ and ‘can use a sword.’ ”

“I see.” Marie paused to consider. “Would you be so kind as to help Rye, then? She’s carving decorations on cylinders over at the store.”

“Of course!”

Typica left the restaurant and went back to the general store, which was right next door. Marie and the others had been busy with the opening preparations, and Typica had felt a little out of place. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that Marie had simply found a convenient excuse to kick her out politely. It was probably just her imagination.

“Back so soon?” Rye said as Typica came in.

“Marie said I should give you a hand.”

“Really? I don’t need help, though. Barely any customers to begin with.”

“Not that kind of help. I’m supposed to help you with the carving.”

“She used me to get rid of you, I see. Marie is craftier than she looks.”

Rye waved Typica closer and pulled up a chair. Typica sat down on it. On Rye’s workbench in front of her were wooden cylinders and whittling knives. It was also strewn with wood shavings. This kind of work probably shouldn’t be done indoors, Typica thought.

“So,” Rye said. “You take the knife and use it to carve out whatever design you want. Then you can paint it and ornament it with stones and stuff. Once you’re satisfied with the result, it’s done.”

“I see. You’re quite deft with your hands, aren’t you?”

Rye grinned. “I’ve been doing this since I was little. Anyway, Typica, start by trying to copy the design on this cylinder to these other ones. The grooves are already marked, so it should be easy enough. I’ll work on some accessories while you’re at it.”

“You should call me Ms. Art.”

“What?”

“Were you not taught the proper way to address a lady who’s older than you? We’re on friendly terms, but that doesn’t mean you should forget your manners.”

“Oh, come on. That’s too much of a bother. Besides, does Stella even call you that?”

“That girl is a lost cause. She can’t be reasoned with.”

“Well, if she doesn’t call you that, then I won’t either,” Rye said with an annoyed yawn, then started working on a half-finished necklace.

Left with no choice, Typica grabbed the first cylinder on the pile and picked up a whittling knife. The design she was supposed to copy was a floral pattern. She got to work silently, her knife moving with quick, bold strokes.

“Oh, you’re actually good at this,” Rye said.

“Of course I am. I love edged tools. When I hold one, I feel truly alive.”

“Uhm, sure . . .”

“Another thing I’m good at is butchering. Cutting apart a huge dead carcass is the definition of pleasure. Cows and pigs are such wonderful animals—barely any part of their bodies goes to waste. I thank them for their meat every day. I never kill without purpose, of course.”

That had not always been the case. Typica had gotten scolded by Teacher once for killing meaninglessly. After that, she’d taken care to never kill more than was necessary. Toying with life is the stuff of demons, Typica was told; you should learn restraint. And she did. Typica learned to keep herself on a tight leash. Even when strong emotion threatened to get the better of her, she never lost sight of herself.

“H-Huh,” Rye said.

“You know what else I’m good at? Strangling chickens with my bare hands,” Typica said. “You hold the neck and twist it like so. I’ll show it to you when we get the chance!”

Rye nodded, whispering something to the effect of “I see why she hired you now.”

Typica finished on the first cylinder and started on the next one. She was doing it by memory now, whittling while humming a melody.

“So,” Rye said, “you’re Varrell’s sister, right?”

“I suppose that I am.”

“But you two don’t seem to get along very well.”

“Indeed, we don’t. We’re three siblings, and each of our personalities is wildly different, despite all of us being in the same family. Neither of us really does get along with the others.”

From eldest to youngest, they were Varrell, Typica, and Dima, who was a member of the Astral Church. Not once in Typica’s whole life had anyone mistaken them for close siblings. The three of them had no common topics of interest; understanding each other was impossible. It was something Typica had long since come to accept.

“Oh,” Rye said. “It’s good to have a family, though, isn’t it?”

“Good? Why do you say that?”

“I mean, look at me and Stella. We don’t have parents or siblings. So it makes me kind of jealous to see someone who does.”

“You have a point, I suppose. Well, you can have my fool of a brother, if you wish. Or both.”

“No, thanks,” Rye said, chuckling. “That’s stealing!”

That was a very nervous laugh. Was she hiding something? Come to think of it, something was off about this place, about Stella and her motley crew of servants. Where did Stella’s profits come from? Rye might know something.

“Do you happen to know where Stella gets her income?” Typica asked. “It does seem like she has a lot of it.”

“Uhm . . . from the businesses she’s running, I guess? I mean, have you seen how popular her restaurant is?”

“That doesn’t quite explain that level of disposable income.”

“There’s also her tears of falling stars, not to mention her side dealings with the Stock Company. If you want to know more, you should probably ask her.”

Rye lowered her head and focused on her task, ending the conversation. Still no customers. The restaurant, on the other hand, had opened its doors to a flood of waiting patrons. It had only been operational for a few days, though. Stella’s funds must have come from somewhere else—but where? As much as she didn’t want to, Typica decided to ask Varrell.

 

As dusk was settling in, Typica found Varrell taking a break outside.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked.

“What do you want?” Varrell eyed her up and down. “You’re awfully quiet today, huh? By now, under normal circumstances, you’d be destroying the place trying to kill me. Did you eat something bad?”

“I’m not the barbarian you think I am. Oh, and rest assured that I won’t bother you about that greatsword any longer. I’ve learned that I can get a different weapon like it by other means.”

Varrell opened his eyes wide. “What?”

“Why are you so surprised? Isn’t it natural that I’d prefer a weapon I can actually wield if I could get one?”

Varrell pressed his fingers against his eyes. It looked as if he had suddenly become very, very tired.

“What’s the matter?” Typica asked.

“If it was that easy to give up, you should have done so from the start.” Varrell sighed. “Tell me, then. Why were you obsessed with my sword in the first place?”

“Have I never told you?”

“No! God damn it, woman, every single time I asked, you just cut me off and tried to kill me!”

“You’re raising your voice. Well, the answer is simple. I’ve been fascinated by that beautiful tone of crimson ever since I laid eyes on it. That’s all there is.”

“T-The color?”

“Yes.”

“Is that actually the only reason?”

“Yes. Why is that so hard to understand?”

For a few moments, Varrell closed his eyes and sat there, basking in the fading light of day. Lost in thought. One with the dusk.

“You’re just like our mother,” he finally said. “You both have a screw or two loose, and you both don’t listen to people when it really counts.”

“I won’t have you slandering Mother. Your prodigality is a great burden on her.”

Varrell snorted. “You’re the number one problem child, not me.”

“I have never given Mother any trouble.”

“Anyway, I get why you agreed to work for Stella now. I bet she could change the color of your swords with her eyes closed. Heck, she could conjure up a magic sword that shoots lightning bolts and I wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“What is Stella? One would think she’s an ordinary girl—or rather, an extraordinarily weak girl—but she does things no child should be able to do. Strange spells, a bird that does her bidding, and above all, that crystal . . .”

Stella claimed to be ten years old, which was absurd. The way she talked and acted didn’t match her supposed age, and the disparity was far too great to attribute to her being “precocious.” Typica knew what children were really like; her mother ran an orphanage.

“I don’t know,” Varrell said, “but I’m going to keep an eye on her. That crystal of hers is dangerous.”

“How dangerous, exactly?”

“You’ve heard about the Astral Church’s division from Dima, right? Stella’s crystal matches the description of the Starsphere, which was destroyed at the time, many years ago.”

The Art Family had been at the heart of that incident, though it had happened years before Typica and Varrell were even born. They’d heard most of what they knew from secondary sources, because those who’d been directly involved had refused to disclose much on the matter. Thanks to Dima, however, they had the general picture.

A nasty power struggle between two Church factions—the extremists and the moderates—had left the city of Art half in ruin. That battle, which had seen Typica and Varrell’s mother elevated to the status of hero, had also left her deeply scarred. Teacher as well, whom Typica respected very much. For all their bickering, Typica and Varrell agreed on one thing—a disaster like that must never be repeated.

“Are you suggesting she has the Starsphere?” Typica asked. “It’s similar, I’ll grant you that, but the Starsphere is gone. Teacher—”

“—destroyed it, yes. The extremists were scattered, their remnants mostly hunted down and executed by the Inquisition. Still, the fact remains that a second Starsphere—or something like it—currently exists. I can’t in good conscience let it out of my sight.” Varrell’s eyes burned with determination.

“If it really is another Starsphere . . .”

What then? Was it possible to seal it away somehow, or perhaps destroy it? Teacher had managed it, but it had cost her much. Could Typica do the same, should the need arise? Sacrifice herself for the greater good?

“You know,” Varrell said, “I actually tried to destroy it once, at night.”

Typica gasped. “H-How did it go?”

“I swung a hammer at it with all the force I could muster, but it didn’t even make a dent. What’s more, the hammer was pulverized. I was about to bring my sword down on it when the bird showed up and said I should stop making a racket because it would wake Stella. Fixed a death stare on me the likes of which I’ve never seen.”

An all-out strike from Varrell could easily crush solid steel. Stella’s crystal didn’t look nearly that resilient, but it must be true. This man was no liar.

“Have you told Teacher about this?” Typica asked.

“No, and neither should you. Her body is no longer fit for fighting, but she’d still try. This time, we need to figure it out on our own.”

“Yes, of course. We’ll do it on our own.”

Typica wouldn’t tell Teacher. How could she? Typica and Varrell’s swordmaster was blunt and sharp-tongued, but also soft-hearted to a fault. She would come if she knew, no matter what she might say. Even if it meant her death.

“It looks like she has it under control for now, but that could change at any moment. I have no idea what she’s thinking. If worse comes to worst, I’ll have to kill her—even if I die in the process. In that case, it’ll fall on you to take that crystal and sink it somewhere in the middle of the ocean or—”

‘Kekeke!’ came a jarring screech from above. ‘Look at you two, eh, plottin’ together like good chums! Master would cry tears of joy, eh!’

It was the red bird Clever, perched on the roof of the store overlooking Typica and Varrell. He looked very pleased with himself.

“Eavesdropping, were you?” Varrell said.

‘Keke! You wanna ’urt Master, you’ll ’ave to get through me, eh?’

“And what are you going to do?” Typica said. “You’re just a talking bird!”

‘Keke! I wouldn’t take me lightly if I were you, ’uman. I could eat ya down to the marrow and tell Master you went on an adventure.’

Clever’s eyes smoldered with deadly anger. Typica’s hands went unconsciously to her swords.

“Typica, wait,” Varrell said. He turned to Clever. “This is as good a time as any. Tell me—what is Stella’s crystal? Did the Starsphere somehow remain? And if it did, how did Stella come upon it?”

‘You’ve got it all wrong, ’uman. Master’s crystal is nothing like that poor copy created by yer kind. It’s ’er real body—’er very soul. And it’s the crystalized sins of the scum who perished! Keke!’

“. . . So it’s not the Starsphere?”

‘Nope! Keke!’

“What does Stella intend to do with it, then?”

‘Were you paying attention, eh? It’s ’er soul. Yer not supposed to do anything with yer soul! It’s just there!’

Varrell folded his arms. He didn’t bother to hide his suspicion.

Typica couldn’t tell whether Clever was lying, but if the crystal was truly harmless, that was fine by her.

‘Well,’ Clever continued, ‘it may be a poor copy, but you did all right, all things considered. The Starsphere and the Starspire, eh? Impressive, both of ’em. Can’t wait for you stupid ’umans to make another one of those—though Master and I probably won’t be around to see it, eh! Keke!’

Typica frowned. “What are you talking about?”

‘Lemme put it in terms even a boar can understand, eh? It’s dinnertime, so get to that restaurant quick or I’ll eat yer food! Everyone’s waiting, eh!’

Clever spread out his wings and took off, flying in a circle before swooping down and into one of the restaurant’s windows.

“I suppose we’ll watch her for a while,” Typica said. “There’s no reason to interfere just yet.”

“Yeah. That’ll be enough for now.” Varrell scratched his chin. “Keep an eye on Stella and an ear on Clever. No matter what it takes, we must not allow that crystal to unleash its power.”

“Of course.” Typica paused, then snorted when she realized what she’d just said. “Do not tell me what to do! It makes me sick to the stomach.”

Typica left Varrell alone and entered the restaurant, where she found Stella regarding her with an amused grin.

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Source: https://ncode.syosetu.com/n4468cs/34/