A Certain Magical Index, Vol. 14

by Kazuma Kamachi

  But unlike Vento of the Front, it was hard to imagine them being involved with the dark side of the religion. They went to their schools and jobs like normal people, and on days off, they would chill at home and have barbecues in their big backyards. That’s all they were, really—wasn’t it?

  “…What is happening?” muttered Mikoto as she stared at the airship screen. “I don’t know what happened on September 30, but we didn’t want this, did we? They say that one incident triggered all this, but Academy City was minding its own business. Why are they fighting and hurting one another? The mastermind won’t even show himself, either, so those people are the only ones suffering. Isn’t that weird?”

  “…”

  Kamijou silently listened to her words.

  A mastermind.

  Mikoto had been using that term unconsciously. Part of that was probably hopeful: If someone was making everything worse, one just had to get rid of that someone and everything would go back to normal…Mikoto had raw power in the form of her Railgun, so maybe she found that easier to understand.

  But there was no “mastermind” behind this.

  Sure, certain people had been responsible for the incident on September 30 that started everything. Vento of the Front and Hyouka Kazakiri—plus whoever was behind them. Maybe if they could have stopped whoever that was on that day, they would have solved everything by “defeating the mastermind.”

  Still, in fire terms, it hadn’t been kindling that started the damage. It was a giant wildfire, born as a result of something else. They were past the point where they could stop anything just by capturing the mastermind.

  The demonstrators and protesters were completely normal people living over there. Nobody was ordering them, forcing them to do this. They’d seen the newspapers, seen news programs, and gotten angry, so they were participating in the protests—acting purely on individual beliefs.

  To use the “defeat the mastermind” method to stop worldwide demonstrations, that meant beating up every single protester throughout the world.

  They couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t.

  But then how were they supposed to fix everything?

  “…What’s happening?” Mikoto repeated. Her words lodged in Kamijou’s heart.

  This wasn’t something children would come up with an answer for.

  INTERLUDE ONE

  The Tower of Execution, also known as the Tower of London, was a tourist attraction in England.

  Once it was said to be the end of the road for prisoners, a facility for blood and torture and beheading, one so harsh that people said that none who passed through its gates could return alive. Now, however, it was open to the public, and it was easy for anyone to take a field trip to it, costing a mere fourteen pounds—less money than going somewhere for afternoon tea. The exhibits showed both its history as a place of execution and many of the British royal family’s jewels.

  Meanwhile, however, an enormous blind spot lurked just out of sight, where its “facilities” were still operational.

  It sat right next to the tourist attraction, but like a shadow cast by a bright light, one would never see nor enter this labyrinth from the outside. The dark group of facilities retained their past roles, which had given the building its “Tower of Execution” nickname—namely, capturing prisoners and, if necessary, torturing or even executing them without hesitation.

  Enter from the front, and one would never see the shadows.

  Enter from the back, and one would never escape them.

  “…It’s oppressive in here, as usual.”

  Stiyl Magnus muttered in spite of himself, as he breathed out a cloud of cigarette smoke. Unlike the touristy part, these more practical hallways were narrow and dark. Smoke from his lantern clung to the chaotically arranged stones in the walls, and with each flicker of the flame within, the human shadows it cast appeared to writhe. The floor was covered in a light layer of cold dew, as there were no systems to let moisture escape.

  Then the girl walking beside him spoke. She was Sister Agnes Sanctis, a former Roman Orthodox nun.

  “About this interrogation of Lidvia Lorenzetti and Biagio Busoni…”

  “There are things I need to ask them about God’s Right Seat,” he replied. “If someone leading an entire force like you hasn’t heard of them, asking a VIP would be faster.”

  “…Think they’ll talk, those aristocrat priests?”

  “Well, that’s part of why I’m letting you see firsthand how we do things in England,” he quipped. “It’s too much effort to lecture every single person in your unit about it, though, so I’ll leave that in your hands.”

  He stopped in front of one of the doors. It was thick and wooden, blackened, and weighed down by absorbed moisture. He opened it without knocking, then entered the quite cramped three-meter-square room beyond. This was still only an “interrogation” room, so the commonplace Inquisition torture devices were absent. The only things in the room were a table bolted to the floor and two chairs on either side of it, also secured in place.

  The chairs on their right had minimal cushioning.

  The chairs on the left, however, were exposed planks of coarse wood. Their armrests featured belts and metal fixtures, too—they were made for holding people’s arms still.

  And those two left-hand chairs did, in fact, have people bound to them.

  Lidvia Lorenzetti.

  Biagio Busoni.

  Both were “high executives” in special positions in the Roman Orthodox Church.

  Stiyl sat down in one of the chairs on the right and, sounding like this was a pain for him, said to them, “You know what I want to ask, yes?”

  Agnes seemed to hesitate to sit down in the other chair; she remained standing next to him, looking uneasy with nothing to do.

  Biagio, the middle-aged bishop anchored with belts and clasps to his chair, glared sharply at Stiyl. Agnes, formerly of the bishop’s own cloth, winced even though the look wasn’t directed at her, but Stiyl didn’t seem to care.

  Biagio’s face was pallid; he had been sufficiently sleep-deprived to wear down his mind but not enough to damage his health. The shine in his hair and skin was gone as well. It was like he was steadily drying out.

  “…What do you want to ask?” he said. “If you want a lecture on the Bible, leave it for Sunday.”

  “God’s Right Seat. Tell me everything you know.”

  “Why don’t you bring in those puritanical torture devices you’re so proud of? Then I’ll show you the depths of my faith, you inexperienced whelp.”

  Biagio maintained an insolent attitude. Lidvia, in the meantime, didn’t seem interested in exchanging words at all. It wasn’t that she was willing her emotions away; her expression was perfectly natural and unchanging. Biagio was letting his irritation show. Perhaps she was the one with more perseverance here.

  Biagio’s answer came as no surprise whatsoever. Agnes determined that this might take a while.

  “Do not belittle Necessarius.”

  But Biagio wasn’t the only arrogant one in the room.

  Stiyl Magnus puffed out a thin cloud of smoke and smiled.

  A chilling, brutal smile.

  “I don’t particularly care if you die during torture. Necessarius has ways of extracting information from the brains of corpses. Depending on protection and injuries, of course.”

  Those words were enough to shake even Agnes, standing nearby, to the core.

  Biagio realized Stiyl wasn’t bluffing and made a woefully bitter face. Lidvia seemed to finally take an interest as well—she glanced sharply over at Stiyl without moving her head.

  The man didn’t get particularly worked up over this; his voice was beleaguered, like he was staring down a pile of paperwork. “What I mean is, what you call ‘torture’ is a different beast than what we call ‘torture.’ None of this thinking it’ll be easier if you died. I don’t mind if you resist, but let me say that would be a waste of your lives.”

  Silence continued for
a few seconds.

  As Biagio kept his glare on Stiyl, Lidvia spoke readily. “Such trivialities mean nothing to us,” she said, looking straight at him. “That aside, there is one thing I’d like you to tell us, however. What is it like ‘outside’ right now?”

  Stiyl frowned at that but remembered a moment later…Come to think of it, I did get those reports, didn’t I?

  From what he knew, Lidvia Lorenzetti was an eccentric even in the Church, one who only reached out to help people society couldn’t accept. From her point of view, being locked in the Tower of London and not having the information she wanted from “outside” made her worry about those under her patronage. The fragments she’d caught about “worldwide chaos” served only to deepen her anxiety.

  After thinking that far, Stiyl grinned.

  Then he said, “I’m sure you can guess.”

  Lidvia’s expression twitched with a growl. It went without saying—the first victims of the revolts and disorder had been the weak ones.

  “…Hmph.”

  On the other hand, Biagio Busoni had a strong sense of elitism, believing those in the priesthood were supreme. He seemed more interested in the fruits of the chaos than its harm.

  Lidvia watched Stiyl. “In exchange for my cooperation, I request the release of my own who are currently being held in this tower. The release of people who can quell this chaos, even if only slightly, and build a roof over the heads of the weak.”

  However, it was Biagio who reacted to this, not Stiyl. He spat, not trying to hide his vexation.

  Stiyl, meanwhile, was nothing if not relaxed. “You think I’ll accept?”

  “I will make you accept.”

  “And how?” he asked. The woman caught her breath.

  As she sat there, both hands fixed to the armrests of her bolted-down chair, her lips began to move quickly.

  “…San Pietro elude le trappole dell’imperatore e del mago.”

  Stiyl frowned. They’d confiscated anything Lidvia could use as a Soul Arm or spell. No decent sorcery would activate just from a verbal incantation.

  A light appeared anyway.

  But not from Lidvia Lorenzetti.

  It emanated from Agnes, as she stood next to Stiyl—more accurately, from the cross hanging at her chest.

  “Damn!” Before Stiyl could react, a pillar of light flashed madly from the cross. It extended toward Lidvia in a straight line, destroying the belt and clasps holding her right arm down.

  With that hand, she grabbed a sharp piece of broken metal from the ruins and thrust it at Stiyl’s chest.

  Slash!! Two hands intersected like bullets.

  “…”

  “…”

  Stiyl and Lidvia remained silent.

  Both had pressed something against the other’s throat—Lidvia the metal fragment and Stiyl the corner of a rune card.

  “—! Lidvia!!” Agnes recovered from her momentary shock and hurriedly grabbed the Lotus Wand from the wall she’d stood it against.

  But Stiyl, still glaring at Lidvia, waved Agnes back with a hand.

  The sorcerer was clearly having fun with this. As if to say this was what made it an interrogation.

  “Did you think so little effort sufficient to take my life?”

  “I have no other choice if you will not release those relevant,” said Lidvia, her voice dispassionate. “Oriana Thomson. I request her release and that you let her lead away those overwhelmed by the revolts.”

  “Why don’t you consider your position again?”

  Stiyl’s voice didn’t shake, either. Oriana was the talented “smuggler” who had joined up with Lidvia.

  “Your smuggler knows what’s happening in the world right now, too. On top of that, she offered a deal—to have her mentor Lidvia Lorenzetti shelter the weak, and she’s already agreed to temporarily cooperate with the Puritans. Tell me to release her all you want, but Oriana won’t have any of it.”

  “…”

  Lidvia and Oriana had both been thinking the same thing.

  And Oriana had acted first.

  Lidvia quieted, and Stiyl continued, “…Let’s not let her resolve go to waste. If the Roman Orthodox Church—or rather, God’s Right Seat—is creating this situation, there must be a clue as to how to overthrow them, correct?”

  Lidvia didn’t answer for a few moments. Biagio tsked and looked away, as if to say this was all a farce.

  After a period of heavy, heavy silence, she slowly opened her eyes. “…What are you hoping to gain?”

  “Necessarius’s goal is explicit,” he said wearily. “To save the lambs lost and engulfed by the overwhelming power of magic. That’s what it was back then, and that’s what it is now.”

  Lidvia stared sharply at him.

  He didn’t flinch.

  Whatever she was searching for in Stiyl’s expression, eventually she slowly exhaled and relaxed. “…I haven’t met them directly,” she said. “I have heard fragments of information by chance, however.”

  Lidvia Lorenzetti’s words echoed through the dark interrogation chamber.

  Next to Stiyl, Agnes finally took a seat and spread out a piece of parchment to record.

  “According to that information, God’s Right Seat is…”

  CHAPTER 2

  Deciding Trigger

  Muzzle_of_a_Gun.

  1

  After Kamijou split up with Mikoto, he paid a visit to the department store near the station like he’d been meaning to. He peered into the fresh food section on the ground floor and saw that vegetables were cheap today, so he went in and bought about four days’ worth of ingredients.

  …Ready-made food seems really popular, but nobody’s going for the ingredients like vegetables and meat and stuff. Maybe less people are cooking for themselves these days, he wondered as he left the store.

  He looked up to see the airship still there, a news program on the screen on its side. Initially, he thought it would be more about the protests in the U.S.…but now it was on Russia. News about the demonstrations was the only thing going right now, so it was starting to get hard to tell what was new and what was old.

  “…” Kamijou stopped and thought, grocery bags in both hands.

  Something Mikoto Misaka said earlier was bothering him.

  Demonstrations and protests happening throughout the world. These huge “incidents” weren’t unmotivated—rather, there were so many motivations, they left no clues as to how to solve them.

  The thing Mikoto was angriest about was having been used during the September 30 incident. The people of Academy City had done everything in their power, endeavoring to bring back the peace they used to have, but it had been used against them to help create new chaos.

  Kamijou still wanted to do something.

  Even Vento of the Front, who caused the upheaval, had her reasons. Even Hyouka Kazakiri, who stood at the crossroads of science and magic, didn’t want this kind of discord. Outsiders, those whose names and faces they didn’t even know, had butted in and made the world into this mess. That was wrong, no matter how one looked at it.

  But…

  What do I do…? Kamijou gritted his teeth as he stared at the airship floating in the sky. I have to stop the problem. That’s the biggest goal and easy to understand. But what am I actually supposed to do?

  Perhaps one way was to contact Tsuchimikado, who knew the inner workings of Academy City, or someone from the Puritan camp, like Kanzaki.

  But now that the problems were so much bigger, Kamijou couldn’t imagine any of them settling the situation at all. If pressed, he felt more like they were backstage specialists who took the initiative before the problems grew this large.

  Anyway, standing around here isn’t going to do me any good, he thought. Still, I don’t know how to contact the Puritan Church. I guess I’ll go back to the dorm first and pay Tsuchimikado a visit, partly just to ask about that.

  And about how he skipped out on the weeding, too, he added inwardly. Though maybe I’ve
got it better than regular students just by having contact with an agent like him…? He forced himself to think positively as he mused, walking down the dark streets again. Thinking in circles was making the grocery bags in his hands feel oddly heavy as he walked.

  It was the homebound rush hour, so a lot of people were around. Still, he felt like he was bumping into more people than usual. Going back to the dorm, getting dinner ready, and taking a bath was going to be a chore. Wonder if there’s any shortcut recipes that bypass the annoying parts, like using the microwave or rice cooker, he thought with some seriousness. Normally, there was a chance Index surrendered to hunger and bit him if he took too long to make food.

  As he wondered, he ran into another person walking. This time, it was an old woman about fifty or sixty years old.

  “Whoops, sorry.”

  “No, don’t be,” said the old woman with an elegant smile, bowing her head to him instead.

  She didn’t walk hunched over, but even standing up straight she was two sizes smaller than Kamijou. A coat was folded over her bent arm. Plus, she wore a scarf around her neck, looking rather overdressed for the beginning of October. Maybe she’s sensitive to the cold, he thought idly.

  The old woman brought her head back up and said in an unhurried tone, “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “Oh, no, I’m the one who bumped into you.”

  “No, no, not about that.” The old woman smiled.

  Kamijou was about to frown before she spoke again.

  “About the trouble I’m about to put you through.”

  He heard a soft metallic click. He looked toward the sound—near his stomach.

  The old woman’s arm was there. But with the folded coat hanging over it, everything from her elbow to the front of her wrist was covered with its thin fabric, completely out of sight.

  All he understood was the feeling against his gut.

  It felt like a hard, pointed stick. He cringed slightly.

  “I really do apologize for this,” said the old woman gently, bowing her head again.