On a clear day with not a single cloud in the sky.
The warm sunlight illuminated the fortress, but within one of the rooms in the barracks, there existed a gloomy atmosphere.
Inside the room, a group consisting of two adults and three children, presumably a family, faced a soldier. The children, perhaps a little frightened, clung tightly to their mother’s clothing.
I sat slightly apart from them, near the wall, on a chair, running my pen across the paper on the desk.
“Your Grace, the Duke. Please take care of them as well.”
“…Ah.”
Even as I responded, my hand did not stop writing, and the scratching sound of the pen echoed clearly in the room. Piles of paper had already risen high on my desk and behind me, with no end in sight.
The reason things turned out this way was because of the decision to shelter fleeing farmers.
Well, to be precise, I’m the one who made that decision, so I suppose it’s self-inflicted.
At first, I thought infiltrating enemy territory with a small number of soldiers was too dangerous and had planned to stay behind as a caretaker. For that reason, I left Kurt and a few dozen soldiers at the fortress and was taking it easy.
However, as the soldiers I sent out began returning one after another, bringing back farmers they had rescued, the situation completely changed.
The number of farmers fleeing to us was far greater than anticipated, and meeting with them led to the construction of this massive mountain of paperwork.
Why was I meeting with them, you ask? It’s because not all of them were simply farmers; there were a few skilled workers like carpenters among them. This meant there were many factors to consider in planning their future lives within the duchy. Of course, even for ordinary farmers, family composition and numbers needed to be taken into account when assigning them to villages.
Since literate individuals were scarce, the soldiers asked questions while I, Kurt, and others capable of writing handled the documentation. The content was simple—just their names, places of origin, ages, and work histories—but the sheer number of people made it overwhelming.
“Alright. That’s all for the questions.”
When the soldier finished asking questions, he glanced my way.
I nodded to indicate that everything was fine.
The soldier, confirming my approval, turned back to the group.
“Alright, follow me; I’ll guide you.”
The man, who appeared to be the father, seemed to have been anxious about being turned away and now let out a visible sigh of relief.
Looking at the family again, I noticed their sunken cheeks, a clear sign of their harsh life up to now.
“Th-thank you so much!”
The man, presumably the father, bowed deeply to both the soldier and me.
The soldier left the room to guide them, and the door shut with a thud, leaving me alone with the guard in the room.
I placed my pen on the desk and stretched my back.
I opened and closed my hands repeatedly, as if to loosen my stiff muscles.
What I’m doing here is akin to creating a registry.
At some point, I had planned to create a formal register to keep track of the duchy’s citizens, but this is far more tedious than I imagined. If I don’t hire more bureaucrats, it’ll be impossible to implement.
Still, stopping this work isn’t an option.
The reason is simple: these people will eventually be sent to the capital for reassignment. If we just leave them here, the fortress will end up overcrowded with farmers. While the food situation is a concern, the bigger problem is that neighboring nobles might mistakenly think we are gathering troops. This would completely undermine the point of dispersing our forces. To ensure the safety of the soldiers infiltrating enemy territory and keep the surrounding nobles off guard, this task cannot be abandoned.
As I pondered these things, there was a knock at the door.
“Your Grace, a new family has arrived.”
“Understood.”
Still, I can’t help but wonder—does the job of an immigration officer feel something like this?
