Spice and Wolf - Volume 5 - Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

“Well, I suppose this is how it goes,” Lawrence murmured.

“Hmm?” Holo looked over at him, her face half hidden by the cup from which she drank.

“Nothing. Don’t spill that.”

“Mmm.”

Holo drained her cup of Lenos’s famously strong ale, then picked up a slightly charred shellfish.

The clams that were taken from the river that flowed past Lenos, the Roam, were about the size of Holo’s hand. A delicacy famous in the town was made by taking the soft clam meat, mixing it with bread crumbs, and then serving it on the shell. Served with mustard seed, it was hard to imagine a finer accompaniment to a good ale.

Holo had uttered a cry of delight at seeing the many river scows anchored along the curve of the port, but her heart was soon stolen by the delicious scents that wafted from the food vendors, who had their stalls set up to feed the hungry passengers either beginning or ending their voyages.

They sat at a table constructed from old wooden crates; in front of Holo were three servings of clams, plus the two ales she had already drained.

Lawrence endured a nasty look from Holo when he ordered mulled wine, not unlike what Arold had been drinking earlier.

With this tartness, all he needed now was time to properly enjoy the wine.

“Still, at a glance it doesn’t look like there’s any particular problem with the town,” said Lawrence.

Crates as big as a man were being unloaded from the scows and pried open by groups of merchants, who immediately began dickering over their contents, whatever they might have been.

A port of this size handled a staggering amount of goods. And even without the port, it was clear at a glance that a town like this would demand a massive concentration of materials.

It wasn’t just the food required daily. For example, the lumber industry needed not only timber, but also tools—saws, chisels, nails, hammers—so traveling metalworkers would come to the town to repair and maintain those tools. Packaging and overland transport of the lumber took rope and leatherwork and horses or donkeys along with the tack those animals required—the list went on and on.

Also, the simple fact that the town was a port meant that shipbuilders and their tools were a brisk trade as were ships themselves. Only an omniscient deity could hope to grasp the amounts and varieties of goods involved.

Looking at the overwhelming liveliness and energy of this motley port town, any subtle, small problems would be immediately lost in the jumble.

Using a knife she had borrowed from Lawrence, Holo deftly scooped the minced clam out of its shell and popped it into her mouth, scanning their surroundings upon hearing Lawrence’s words. She then took a drink of ale. “From far away, the forest can seem calm, even when two wolf packs are in a fierce battle for territory within it.”

“Even with your eyes and ears, you cannot tell that from afar?”

Holo did not immediately answer, instead looking down with exaggerated gravity and twitching her ears beneath her hood.

Normally Lawrence would have grown impatient with Holo, who would have then teased him, but today he had his tart mulled wine. He sipped it and waited for her response.

“Can you see over there?” she asked after a time, pointing with the knife she held to a man surrounded by some kind of steam. The man leaned against a large, waist-high bucket, which had been filled to heaping with finely crushed rock. He was thickly muscled, and it was not hard to imagine him as a pirate.

He scowled, and the object of that scowl was a slim merchant holding a bundle of what might have been sheepskins.

Lawrence nodded in response to Holo’s question.

“The man’s angry,” she said seriously.

“Oh?”

“It seems the tax on the ship’s cargo was too high, and he does not want to hand over the goods at the original price. Something about a head price?”

“A hostage tax. Because ships heading up the river are essentially hostages of the landlord that owns that section of the river.”

“Mm. In any case, the skinny fellow’s reply is this: ‘The town’s in crisis because the military did not hold its northern campaign this year.’ He’s saying they should be grateful to get any money at all.”

Every winter, the Church funded a great military campaign into the northlands as a way of displaying its power, but a shadow had fallen over the relationship between the Church and the nation of Ploania, through which its campaign passed, so this year’s incursion had been canceled. As a consequence, Lawrence had once been driven to the brink of bankruptcy.

Lawrence looked at Holo a bit surprised. She continued to listen carefully, head bowed and eyes shut.

Then Lawrence looked back at the two men. Even from this distance, he could see the merchant give what seemed to be his final word on the subject to the sailor.

“‘In that case, you and those furs can just wait on the outcome of the meeting,’” said Holo, opening her eyes.

Was it too far-fetched to consider if he was merely standing on Holo’s shoulders? Lawrence wondered.

“There are many conversations like this one. I’d say…four. Taxes are too high. Northern campaign. Town imports—and so on.” Holo scraped the meat out of a clam as she spoke. The more meat accumulated on the blade of the knife, the more her attention turned to it.

By the time she finally brought the pile of meat to her mouth, the blade might as well have been the whole of creation as far as she was concerned.

“Now that you mention it…I reckon there’s no way a town founded on distribution wouldn’t feel the effects of a canceled northern campaign. That’s how I got into trouble back in Ruvinheigen. But what’s the relationship between that and the encampment of merchants outside the town?” mused Lawrence.

If conditions in the town were abnormal, then abnormal business opportunities would follow.

Lawrence was lost in deep thought until Holo gave a vulgar burp and pounded on the table.

“You want seconds?”

Lawrence’s attention was utterly captured by the situation in Lenos. A quick cost-benefit calculation made it clear that if he could get Holo to be quiet or to perhaps even help him in his conjectures, buying her a drink or two was a bargain.

He hailed the shopkeeper and ordered again, at which Holo gave a satisfied smile, cocking her head.

“I daresay the wine you just ordered was more for your sake than my own.”

“Mm?”

“I become drunk on liquor, but your liquor is something different entirely.” Her pleased face had a slight flush to it.

Evidently she had noticed that though Lawrence would generally have hesitated and furrowed his brow, this time he’d ordered her another round without any trouble at all.

“Aye, but it takes coin to buy liquor, while becoming drunk on the business possibilities right in front of your eyes is free.”

“And you’re surely thinking that if I’ll stop my howling or even deign to assist you, a drink or two would be a small price to pay, are you not?”

She was a girl-sized giant.

Lawrence expressed his capitulation to Holo, who had a fleck of ale foam at the corner of her mouth.

“Ah, though ’tis amusing to watch you puzzle things over, I’ll sit here drinking and watch from the side,” said Holo.

When the order of wine and crackling, hot-from-the-fire clams came back, Lawrence handed a few worn-out copper ryut coins to the shopkeeper, looking steadily at Holo. “I imagine I should glance at you every so often to make sure you haven’t disappeared?”

He passed the full cup of ale to Holo who smiled. “…Not bad.”

Holo was a tough grader, so Lawrence took this as a compliment. “Why, thank you,” he said sagely.

A bit before midday, Lawrence wound up walking around Lenos by himself.

Holo found herself surprised by the degree to which the travel fatigue that still lingered exaggerated the effects of the alcohol. She could get to her feet easily enough, but she was so sleepy, there was nothing for it.

Lawrence saw her back to the inn, simultaneously at a loss and slightly amused.

Part of Holo hated the idea of Lawrence sticking his nose into whatever was going on in this town. Looking back at their experiences so far, Lawrence couldn’t really disagree with her, but if he looked even further back, to experiences before his time with Holo, it became even more difficult to sit still.

Thus, it was rather convenient to now be able to wander around the town as he pleased.

Not that he had any particularly close acquaintances here.

After a moment of agonizing over it, Lawrence ultimately decided to head for a tavern with which he’d once done business.

It was an establishment with the strange name of The Beast and Fish Tail. A large bronze sign cast in the shape of a rodent hung from the eaves. The curious, clever creature it depicted built dams across rivers and had a mammal’s body—except for its wide, flat tail and webbed, paddlelike rear feet, which had caused the Church to declare it a fish.

Thus, despite the delicious, savory smell of cooking meat that wafted out of the tavern, it attracted a not-insignificant number of clergy. No matter how much “fish” they ate, no one could criticize them.

While the tavern’s ability to serve this rare meat made it popular in the evenings, at this hour, not yet midday, even the Beast and Fish Tail was mostly empty. There were no customers, only a shopgirl sitting at a table in the corner, mending her apron.

“Are you open?” Lawrence asked from the entrance.

A piece of thread held in the corner of her mouth, the red-haired girl lifted her apron to examine her work, smiling playfully. “I just patched a hole. Have a look?” said the fetching lass in reply.

“I’ll pass. You know what they say, ‘eyes like daggers’ and all. If I look too closely, I’m liable to open holes anew.”

The girl put her needle away in a sewing box, then stood and tied on the newly mended apron, shaking her head playfully. “So the reason my apron wears thin is from customers staring at it rather than me?”

No doubt the girl dealt with many a drunken patron.

But as a merchant, Lawrence couldn’t very well lose this little duel of wits.

“I’m sure they’re merely being thoughtful—they don’t wish to ruin your beauty by staring a new nostril into your nose, after all.”

“Oh? That’s a shame. That might let me sniff out suspicious customers a bit more easily,” said the girl ruefully as she finished cinching up her apron.

Lawrence slumped, defeated. He had to give the girl credit.

She giggled. “I guess it’s true that out-of-town customers really are different. So what’ll it be? Wine? A meal?”

“Two orders of fish tail. Wrapped, please.”

A momentary look of worry passed over the girl’s face, probably because of the sounds of clattering pots that issued from the kitchen.

They were most likely preparing the lunches to serve the rush of workers that would soon be coming from the docks.

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Lawrence.

“Perhaps some wine, then?”

In other words, was he willing to wait?

Lawrence smiled at the girl’s business acumen, then nodded.

“We’ve barley and grape wine, as well as pear.”

“Pear wine at this time of year?”

Fruit wine spoiled quickly.

“For some reason, it never went bad in storage. Oops—,” said the girl, covering her mouth in an exaggerated fashion.

The tavern had always been jam-packed when Lawrence had visited before, so he’d never had a proper conversation with this girl, but now it was easy to see that the tavern owed the comely lass much of its success.

“Pear, then.”

“Coming right up! Just a moment if you please.” She disappeared into the back of the tavern, her skirt—which was a dark, ashen red that made it impossible to know its original color—fluttering behind her.

A clever, cheerful barmaid like her in a port town such as this might wind up the wife of the second son of a successful merchant with many ships to his name.

Or she might turn a cold shoulder to any rich man or pretty lad that came courting, instead falling for a completely normal merchant that happened into the tavern.

When it came to knowing where a purchased commodity should be taken, Lawrence had some idea, but this sort of thing was outside his area of expertise. If he asked Holo, she probably could have told him the truth, but that was somehow frustrating.

“Here you are. The rest will take a bit of time, but that will give you a chance to ask any questions you might have.”

She really was a clever girl.

If he could get her to talk to Holo, it would be a magnificent display.

“Merchants coming in here at this time of day really only have one thing on their minds. If it is something I can answer, I’ll be more than happy to,” said the girl.

“I’ll pay first.”

Lawrence put two dark copper coins down before taking the cup of pear wine.

In this tavern, one copper was enough for two or three cups.

The girl’s face was now the very image of a tavern barmaid. “And?”

“Ah, yes, well, it’s nothing serious. The town seems a bit different from usual. Suppose I was to ask about the encampment of merchants just outside the walls.”

Given the generosity of the tip, the girl probably expected to be asked for inside information on one of the trading companies. She seemed relieved to hear Lawrence’s actual question.

“Oh, them. They all deal in furs or fur-related products.”

“Furs?”

“Quite. About half of them have come from afar to buy up furs. The other half deal in the materials needed for tanning and treating furs and skins. Let’s see…”

“Lime and alum?”

They were the most common materials needed for tanning work. Pigeon droppings strangely were also used. If the skins were to be dyed, many more goods would be needed.

“That sounds right, yes.”

Lawrence thought back to Arold’s words.

There was no question that the Council of Fifty’s meeting had something to do with the fur trade.

“And you wanted to know why all those merchants are camped out there, right? Well, right now, all the leaders of the town are meeting to decide whether or not to sell furs to them. In the meantime, buying and selling furs is forbidden. So naturally, the craftsmen don’t know whether there’s any point in buying any of the supplies they need for tanning, so—that’s where we are right now.”

Having been asked about it over and over again, the girl was probably used to explaining the matter. But if it was true, the situation was serious.

“So what caused this?” asked Lawrence, forgetting about his pear wine entirely.

“That thing, you know—where lots of people come through in the wintertime.”

“The northern campaign.”

“Right, that. It was canceled, so they say none of the usual people are coming through to buy leather clothes. Usually there would be a lot more people in this city this time of year.”

When people came, so, too, came coin. Furs from the north were especially popular in the south, so they made excellent souvenirs.

But why then was there a meeting discussing whether to prohibit fur trade entirely?

Were the merchants camped in front of the town not there to purchase furs? Even without the normal boom in leather clothing sales that came with the northern campaign, shouldn’t they sell to what buyers had come?

He needed more information.

“I understand that the usual people that come through to buy leather clothing aren’t around this year, but shouldn’t they still sell to the merchants outside of town?” Lawrence asked.

The girl looked at the untouched cup of pear wine in Lawrence’s hand and with a smile gestured for him to drink.

She had an instinctual understanding of how to incite a man.

If he tried to resist, she would either become irritated or flirt emptily with him.

He meekly put the cup to his lips, at which point the girl smiled as if to say, Good answer. “Knights and mercenaries, they’re free with their coin. But the merchants that come to town are as miserly as they come.” She played idly with the two copper coins that Lawrence had set down. “I’ve been given things, overly frilly dresses like some nobleman’s daughter would wear, really expensive ones. But…”

“Oh,” Lawrence mouthed. When he was out drinking with Holo, his head had been dulled by the wine. “I see now. Before it’s made into clothing, skins are surprisingly cheap. But once they’re made into clothing, they won’t sell—the money coming into the town will drop,” he said.

The girl smiled beatifically like a saint with a humble supplicant before her, as if to say, “Well done.”

With this, Lawrence could see the basic situation.

However, before he could take a step back and confirm all the details, the girl suddenly leaned forward across the table.

Softly clutching one of the copper coins to her breast, her expression shifted. “So far, you could hear this from any floozy in any tavern in town,” she said, her words turning a bit vulgar as she looked at him through upturned eyes, chin tucked down. Lawrence tried to look at her, but her posture naturally drew his gaze to her slender, shapely collarbones.

The lass certainly understood how to press an intoxicated patron.

Lawrence reminded himself that this was about business.

“One must treat generous customers properly, after all,” said the girl. “Let’s keep what I’m about to tell you between the two of us, shall we?”

Lawrence nodded, pretending to be entirely taken in by the girl’s actions.

“There’s an eight- or nine-tenths chance that the merchants outside town will be banned from buying furs, though I’m sure the craftsmen and fur brokers will be angry.”

“How do you know this?” Lawrence asked.

The girl only closed her mouth enticingly.

Lawrence’s intuition told him that the girl’s source of information was solid. It was likely that a member of the Council of Fifty was also a patron of the tavern, but she, of course, could not say so.

She did not even explain this fact since her statement had been nothing more than her talking to herself, and its veracity was impossible to gauge.

In a way, she might have been testing Lawrence, as otherwise she would hardly be letting slip such vital information.

“I’m a simple barmaid, so I care little for the price of furs, but merchants like you enjoy such things with your ale, do you not?”

“Aye, enough that we sometimes drink too much,” said Lawrence with his best merchant’s smile.

The girl smiled slightly, her eyes closing. “A good tavern sends all its patrons home drunk. I’d be pleased if you were among them.”

“Well, I’ve drunk my wine, so I’m sure I’ll feel it soon.”

The girl opened her eyes.

The smile was on her lips, but it did not reach her eyes.

Lawrence was about to open his mouth to speak, but a voice from the kitchen called for the girl.

“Ah, it seems your food is ready,” she said, standing from the chair and returning to the barmaid she’d been when Lawrence had first entered the tavern. “By the way, sir—,” she said, looking over her shoulder before leaving the table.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a wife?”

Lawrence was taken momentarily aback at the unexpected question, but perhaps thanks to Holo constantly springing traps upon him, he was able to recover and reply. “My coin purse’s strings are not tied. However…my reins are firmly held,” he answered.

The girl grinned widely as though she were talking to a friend. “My but that’s frustrating. I’m sure she’s a fine person, too.”

She seemed to have some pride in her ability to cajole her drunken male customers.

And even Lawrence might well have been drawn in easily had he not met Holo—or had he been a bit drunker.

But if he was to say so, it would be like rubbing salt in the poor girl’s wounded pride.

“If you’ve the chance, do bring her by the tavern,” she said.

“Aye,” said Lawrence, and he mostly meant it.

A conversation between this girl and Holo would be a thing to see, though as a bystander, he might get sucked into something terrible.

“Wait just a moment, then. I’ll go get your food.”

“My thanks.”

The girl headed back into the kitchen, her skirt fluttering again behind her.

Lawrence watched her go as he brought the cup of pear wine to his lips.

Even other people could tell, he realized, that Holo was very important to him.

Holding the hot, cloth-wrapped package of tail meat, Lawrence headed down the broad avenue that ran along the docks to take another look at the boats moored there.

With the new information from the barmaid, the scows did indeed seem a bit different.

Looking closely, Lawrence could see how straw or hempen cloth had been used to cover the goods piled high on the boats’ decks, and many of the boats themselves were tied fast to the wharves, as though they did not expect to leave anytime soon. Some of them, of course, were merely passing the winter in town, but the number seemed a bit high for that to be the only explanation. At a wild guess, those were the boats that were carrying either furs or the materials needed to process furs.

The volume of fur transactions in Lenos was large enough that it was called the city of lumber and fur.

Being a mere traveling merchant, Lawrence could not easily estimate the total amount of fur traded in the town, but if a fur merchant were to buy up a single chest-high barrel of squirrel pelts, that could easily come to 3,500, even 4,000 furs. The fact that such barrels were constantly rolling through the city made him feel practically faint.

What kind of profound impact would freezing the fur trade have on the town?

But he could understand Lenos’s efforts to try to collect as much tax as they could, and the fact was that foreign merchants who bought only raw furs instead of clothing left many town craftsmen by the wayside. It was common knowledge that in any business, crafted, processed items made from raw materials had much better profit margins.

Nevertheless, with the northern campaigns canceled, the lack of travelers from the south meant there was absolutely no guarantee that there would be any way to turn such goods into coin.

Setting aside the quality of the furs and the quality of the tanning, there was any number of towns whose clothing craftsmanship was superior to Lenos’s. To take the clothing that would normally have flown off the shelves as souvenirs and instead pay the shipping costs involved in exporting it to some other town would involve significant difficulty.

Lawrence felt that from the town’s perspective, it would be better for them to decide to go ahead and sell fur to the waiting merchants, even if they had to overcome the craftsmen’s resistance to do so.

At least that way they’d be able to get some coin for the furs. The reason so many merchants gathered in Lenos was because of the high quality furs that came through the town. Such furs would command a fair price.

But the barmaid had said that the Council of Fifty was going to prohibit fur purchasing.

Which left only a few possibilities.

To begin with, it was odd that the merchants were camped outside of the town.

Merchants would happily drive someone else to ruin if they had decided that it would bring a profit, so it was unimaginable that a large group of them would simply assemble and wait patiently.

There was clearly some other authority at work here.

But whether it was the giant tailor’s guild headquartered in a town famous for its sartorial products far across the western sea or some dizzyingly massive company trying to monopolize the fur trade, Lawrence did not know.

Whatever the thing was, it wielded tremendous power.

And the minds that ran Lenos knew it, Lawrence determined, as he passed through the entrance of the docks and into the hustle and bustle.

The merchants outside the town were no doubt making their case.

“You’ll be in a tough spot if you don’t sell your furs,” they would say. “Shall we buy them up for you? Though that alone will not avail you forever. Shall we come next year and the year after that?”

If Lenos swallowed this, it would become nothing more than a place where furs were gathered, then passed along. And once that happened, the consolidation of fur itself would eventually be taken over by some outsider and removed from the town.

However, the reason the townspeople didn’t simply turn the merchants away wasn’t just because of the craftsmen’s opposition.

This problem didn’t stop with the town; it would engulf the landed nobility to which the town was connected as well. When an economic problem turned political, the amount of money it took to solve it would jump by three, sometimes four digits.

This was a battle between titans, where the expectations of individual merchants were utterly meaningless.

Lawrence scratched his beard.

“The coin involved must be incredible,” he said to himself. He hadn’t talked to himself in quite some time, and it felt good, like taking off shoes that had been worn for a week straight.

The bigger the amount of money in play, the bigger the leftovers might be.

And a merchant’s alchemy allowed him to turn the complicated relationships between goods and people into a spring from which money would gush forth.

He pictured a sheet of yellowed parchment in his mind.

On it he drew sketch after sketch of the fur situation, and gradually the page became a treasure map.

So where was the treasure?

When he put the question to himself, licking his lips, his left hand reached the door of the inn room and opened it.

“…”

He had almost no memory of when he’d come all the way back to the inn, but that was not why he fell silent.

Holo, perhaps refreshed after a nap, had been grooming her tail, but she now hid it behind her back as she regarded him.

“…What’s the matter?” asked Lawrence suddenly, after weathering a purposefully cautious look from an evidently now-sober Holo.

“I shan’t abide it,” she said.

“Huh?”

“I shan’t abide my tail being sold,” said Holo, letting a bit of her tail show from behind her, like a shy maiden peeking out from behind a tree, before she concealed it again.

Lawrence naturally understood.

His face had been consumed by his merchant self.

“I’m no hunter,” he with a smile and a shrug as he entered the room, closing the door behind him and walking over to the desk.

“Oh no? You looked as though you were ready to sell anything you possibly could.” Holo’s glance fell but once upon the package Lawrence held, then came back to his face.

“Yes, well, I’m a merchant. I buy from one person to sell to another. It’s a basic principle.”

All merchants desired money, but when they forgot exactly what kind of merchant they were, that desire for money would run wild. When that happened, things like “trust” and “ethics” were nowhere to be found.

In their place was only avarice.

“So no, I will not be taking your tail from you. Though when summer comes, should you decide to shear some of your fur off, I’ll happily collect and sell that,” said Lawrence as he leaned against the desk.

Still sitting on the bed, Holo childishly stuck her tongue out at him before taking her tail in her hands again.

For Lawrence’s part, he had no interest in seeing Holo’s tail sans fur.

“Hmph. So what is that?” asked Holo, looking at the package Lawrence held in one hand as she nibbled at her tail.

“This? This is…indeed. If you can guess from scent alone what part of what animal this is from, I’ll buy you as much of your favorite foods for dinner as you want.”

“Oh ho.” Holo’s eyes flashed.

“I think there’s some garlic in there…but you should be fine.”

Lawrence came away from the desk and gave Holo the package, whereupon her expression turned immediately serious, and she sniffed the wrapped food carefully, looking for all the world like a wolf. This was nothing so rare in and of itself, but her manner was so charming that Lawrence couldn’t help but stare.

Holo seemed to notice his gaze. She suddenly looked up at him, scowling.

She was comfortable being nude in front of him, but apparently this was a stare she could not abide.

Lawrence supposed that everyone had his or her idiosyncrasies. He obediently began to turn around but then stopped short.

“I’m sure no proud wisewolf would be thinking of sneaking a look inside the package while my back is turned,” he said.

Holo’s expression did not change, but the tip of her tail gave a sudden twitch.

Evidently he’d hit the bull’s-eye.

He had to be careful; she had senses beyond those of ordinary humans.

Holo gave a theatrical sigh, then turned away, her mouth in a pout that Lawrence was sure had a tinge of guilt to it.

“So have you figured it out?”

“Patience,” she said irritably, then sniffed the package again. Lawrence discreetly averted his eyes.

Presently the sound of a girl sniffing back tears echoed uncomfortably through the room.

Lawrence deliberately turned his attention to the clamor that filtered in through the room’s window. It was a fine day, so sunlight also found its way through the window.

It was indeed cold, but having a room with a window was still a fine thing.

A warm, windowless room would have made Lawrence feel like he was hibernating in a cellar somewhere. Holo’s judgment had been excellent.

“Well, now.”

At the sound of her voice, Lawrence turned both his attention and his gaze back to Holo. “Have you figured it out?”

“Quite.”

There were, of course, any number of animals whose meat was cooked and served. It was easy enough to tell them apart from their taste and texture, but what about by scent alone? Especially if it was something so rare and odd as the tail meat from a flat-tailed rodent. Even if Holo knew of the existence of such a creature, the odds of her having eaten it were low.

Perhaps it was a bit mean-spirited, but Lawrence had offered her the freedom to eat whatever she liked for dinner in exchange.

“So what’s the answer?” he asked, whereupon Holo regarded him with an angrier face than her positive answer had led him to expect.

“I must say it seems a bit unfair, given the conditions you proposed.”

Lawrence shrugged. It seemed she didn’t really know the answer after all.

“You should have said so in the first place,” he said.

“I suppose so…” Holo gazed vaguely at the floor as though thinking something over.

It had been a simple bet, so even the clever Holo had no room to maneuver with her typical quibbles. The simplest contracts were always the strongest.

“So the answer?” Lawrence asked again. Holo’s face suddenly showed total defeat. Though it was mean-spirited of him to think so, he couldn’t help feeling but that he wanted to see this face a bit more often.

But it was only for a moment; just as that thought crossed Lawrence’s mind, Holo’s expression shifted to one of triumph.

“I don’t know the name of the creature, but it’s a large rodent tail, is it not?”

Lawrence had no words.

He was stunned.

“I told you it seemed a bit unfair,” said Holo with a malicious giggle as she began to open the package.

“Y-you knew?”

“If you’d accused me of opening the package and sneaking a look, I was thinking of ordering so much food for dinner you’d break down in tears, but I suppose I shall show mercy.”

The food within the cloth wrapping had been carefully rolled in strips of bark and tied with fine tendrils; it would be nearly impossible to peek inside without disturbing the contents.

And in any case, looking at the finished meal did not make the original form any easier to guess. Holo must have somehow been familiar with it.

“I’m a wisewolf, don’t you forget it. There’s nothing in this world I don’t know,” she said, flashing her fangs.

It was an obvious exaggeration, but her conviction was so strong that it was hard to dismiss.

As she undid the tendrils and removed the tree bark, steam rose up from the food. Holo narrowed her eyes in pleasure, wagging her tail.

“It’s not quite accurate to say I knew,” said Holo, mimicking Lawrence’s tone. The meat had been cut into small slices, and as they were, there really was no way to discern their origin. Holo picked up one of the pieces, tilted her head back, and slowly lowered the bite into her open mouth. She closed her mouth and her eyes and chewed languorously.

It must have been delicious.

Yet there was something different about her manner.

“Mmph…yes, indeed,” said Holo. Instead of her usual, hurried devouring of her food, which gave one the impression that she was worried it might be taken from her at any moment, Holo ate slowly, savoring the flavor as though it made her remember something. “The master of this inn said something like this, did he not?” she continued, licking the oil from her fingers and looking at Lawrence. “The months and years weather even stone buildings.”

“To say nothing of memories,” finished Lawrence

Holo nodded, satisfied. She then gave a small sigh and looked at the window, squinting a bit at the brightness. “Do you know what lingers longest in memory?”

Another strange question.

Was it a person’s name? Numbers, figures? Images of one’s home?

These notions appeared one after another in Lawrence’s mind, but Holo’s answer was completely different.

“’Tis scent, you know, that stays longer than all else.”

Lawrence cocked his head in confusion.

“We forget things we’ve seen and heard so easily, but scents alone remain clear and distinct.” Holo looked at the food and smiled.

Her smile was what seemed so upsettingly out of place to Lawrence; it was soft, almost nostalgic.

“I had no memory of this town,” she continued. “To be quite honest, it was a bit worrisome.”

“You weren’t sure whether you really had ever come here?”

Holo nodded, and she seemed entirely truthful.

Now that he thought about it, Lawrence felt like he finally understood why Holo had been so constantly playful.

“But this food—I remember it vividly. It’s such a strange creature after all, so even in the past, it was considered special. They’d put each one caught on a spit and roast them magnificently.”

Holding the food in her hands like it was a favorite kitten sleeping on her lap, she looked up.

“I wondered if that’s what you brought back, but when I smelled it, I nearly cried from the memories—and that was the turning point.”

“So you did this on purpose?”

Now that he thought about it, the idea of Holo actually doing something so shallow as to sneak a look inside the package while his back was turned seemed a bit strange.

And when he looked away again, perhaps she had been crying a bit.

“Are you saying I’m the sort who would take advantage of another’s goodwill?”

“You take advantage of me all the time,” shot back Lawrence, and he saw Holo flashing her usual fanged grin.

“So then,” said Holo, beckoning to Lawrence.

Harboring a bit of suspicion, he approached her guardedly until she grabbed his sleeve and pulled him in close.

“I shan’t forget this scent, either.”

He’d expected words along those lines.

But Lawrence found he could not manage his usual comeback as Holo had buried her face in his chest, unmoving.

She was no mere traveling companion.

He could look at her ears and tail and work his own form of mind reading on her.

“Nor will I,” he replied, and with a soft sigh, he stroked her head with his hand.

Holo rubbed the corners of her eyes on his clothing and smiled awkwardly. “You sound a dunce when you say it so. I’ll not forget that, either.”

Lawrence gave a forced smile. “Sorry.”

Holo smiled, rubbed her nose, then smiled again—and was back to her old self. “So it seems I have indeed visited this town.”

“Then there must be legends of you left here.”

He didn’t add “in books somewhere,” but Holo would certainly notice and appreciate his consideration.

On the other hand, if he didn’t take such care, it would be impossible to avoid accidentally stepping on her tail.

“So then, what news did you manage to hear tell of?” asked Holo, like a mother asking her child to boast about some new knowledge he had acquired.

She never stayed frail for long.

“This time around is going to be a lot of fun,” began Lawrence. Holo listened closely as she ate the tail meat.

In the end, they had two reasons to meet Rigolo, the town chronicler and secretary for the Council of Fifty.

The first was to ask if any legends of Holo remained and to have him show them the records where such legends might be found. The second was to discover the particulars of how the town came to be in the situation it presently faced.

The latter reason was purely a result of Lawrence’s occupational sickness, and given the precedent set on their travels thus far, Holo listened to his explanation but was none too pleased.

In point of fact, if Lawrence had been asked whether it was really necessary to risk the danger involved in performing the financial alchemy it would take to suck money through the cracks in the current conflict, the answer was no—it was not. Given the profit he had managed to make in the pagan town of Kumersun, so long as he continued to quietly ply his trade for a while longer, the day when he would be able to open his own shop was not so very far off. In which case, he would do better to use his time frugally, carrying his goods and turning his profits, rather than to risk sticking his neck out in dangerous speculation. In the long term, spending his time in town quietly and carefully making business connections would be much better for Lawrence’s future profits.

Not being a merchant, Holo didn’t use terms like future profits, but her gist was the same: You’re not short on money, so relax.

Simply standing there in the room was cold, so as they talked, Holo crawled into her bed and eventually started dozing off. Lawrence sat down on her bed as they spoke, and Holo had—with no particular intent—slowly grasped his hand in hers.

Having sat there on the bed and passed the time quietly talking, Lawrence had to admit that Holo was absolutely right. The fact was, though, that no traveling merchant was so easygoing as to idle away his time in a town, particularly not while they were mid-journey.

He wanted her to understand that, but it was probably impossible.

It was perhaps fortunate, however, that Lawrence couldn’t do anything immediately.

Given the situation in Lenos, none of the members of the Council of Fifty, including Rigolo, would casually meet with a foreign merchant.

Since the affair centered around the fur trade that was the town’s lifeblood, meeting with a merchant of unknown background would be deeply suspicious and tantamount to societal suicide. No, Lawrence would not be able to see a council member.

Which meant that if he wanted to engage one, he would need a mediator.

Yet when Lawrence rethought the question of whether that would really be necessary, it was hard to convince himself of it. And if he were to force the issue and make a bad impression, they would never see the records of Holo.

Though outwardly Holo pressed Lawrence to hold back and not get involved, deep in her heart there was no question that given an opportunity to see those records, she would want to. He couldn’t risk anything that would endanger their ability to do that. As he thought it through again and again, he eventually became aware of the sound of Holo’s breathing as she slept.

When she was hungry, she ate, and when she was tired, she slept.

Indeed, she was as free as any beast, and those who spent their days constantly toiling to keep their bellies full had dreamed of such a life at least once.

Lawrence couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous of the life Holo took for granted. He extracted his hand from hers and lightly brushed her polished porcelain cheek with the back of his index finger. Once she had fallen asleep, even a tap wouldn’t wake her. At Lawrence’s touch, her expression clenched in irritation, but her eyes stayed closed as she buried her face in the blanket.

It was a quiet, happy moment. Nothing happened save for the passage of time itself, but this was one of the things Lawrence wished for when he drove his cart alone. The merchant knew this for a near certainty, and yet in the bottom of his heart, he felt a distinct impatience, a feeling that he was wasting this time.

He couldn’t help feeling that if he wasn’t making money or collecting information for his business, he was sustaining a loss he would never be able to recover.

The merchant’s spirit is a flame that never goes out, his master had said, but that flame might very well have been hellfire, charring his flesh.

When one was alone, the flame provided warmth, but with two…with two, he felt it was too hot.

Holo’s smile especially was very warm.

The world did not go as one wanted it to.

Lawrence stood up from the bed and paced around the room.

If he wasn’t going to get involved in the happenings of Lenos, then he at least wanted to understand the details for his own enlightenment.

The best way to do that would be to meet directly with a member of the Council of Fifty, and in order to get unbiased information, a witness who didn’t represent any particular interested party would be still more desirable.

It was the chronicler and secretary Rigolo who best fit that description.

But no council member would have any interest in meeting with an outsider.

The problem began to seem intractable.

Lawrence would have to take a different approach, but at the moment his sole source of information was the barmaid. Widening this to include more information from the town merchants would involve significant effort.

There was certainly any number of people using this machination or that to collect information, and Lawrence sincerely doubted that his own intellect and tactics would be enough to give him any advantage over the rest. Who knew how high the price for that information might rise given the scope of the demand?

Had it been a town where Lawrence had some old acquaintance, he might have been able to get nearer the essence of things and to make something happen. If it was goods you wanted, money could buy anything, but for information, you had to have trust.

In the face of this fascinating situation, Lawrence would just have to watch and wait.

Feeling like a frustrated dog pacing back and forth in a room while eyeing a piece of meat he could see through a tiny crack in the wall, Lawrence finally heaved a sigh.

He felt as if he was moving further and further away from the merchant he wished to be.

Even worse, the logic and prudence he should have long ago developed seemed to be gone. It was as though he had regressed to that period when he had just come of age; his head full of ridiculous get-rich-quick schemes.

His feet were restless.

He repeated the problem to himself, glancing at Holo.

Was it because this cheeky wolf girl was constantly pulling the rug out from under him?

It seemed possible.

He enjoyed talking with Holo too much.

That’s why he had begun neglecting other things.

“…”

Lawrence stroked his beard, murmuring to himself that shifting the blame might not be a bad idea.

It was a wasted opportunity, but the fur problem would have to wait.

Which meant that the next action would be to seek out information that would set them on the road to Nyohhira, still farther north from Lenos.

If they were fortunate, the road would not yet have been rendered impassable with snow, and they would move forward.

Information on furs…can be collected after that, Lawrence told himself as he left the room.

Lawrence came down to the first floor where there was a rustling sound coming from the corner of the clutter-filled room.

There was neither lock nor lookout, but a good number of merchants still used this storehouse, it seemed.

The rate was not too high, and some used it as a relay for their peddling while others stored goods when their price fluctuated with the season. Lawrence would not have been surprised to learn that the odd smuggler or thief kept items there, too.

Though he heard the sound of someone tampering with goods in the storehouse, the person was in shadow, and Lawrence could not tell who it was. But Arold the innkeeper did not appear to think for one moment that one of his guests was opening someone else’s luggage. He only poured a bit of water on the fire, which had grown slightly too strong.

“A road to the north?”

While Arold had reacted to Lawrence’s question about chroniclers this morning as though a child had asked him a difficult theological question, he seemed to be much more used to this sort of inquiry.

He nodded slightly, as if to say, “Well, in that case,” then paying the flame no heed, he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Not much snow this year. I don’t know where you’re headed, but I don’t reckon it’ll be too hard.”

“I’m making for Nyohhira, as it happens.”

Arold’s left eyebrow went up, and the sharp blue eyes buried in the deep folds of his eyelids glittered.

Behind his merchant’s smile, Lawrence flinched a bit, and Arold continued, brushing a bit of ash that had flown up when he poured water on the coals a moment earlier.

“Heading all the way into pagan country, eh?…Well, I suppose that’s merchants for you, carrying money bags over their shoulder and heading off anywhere.”

“Aye, and we throw them away on our deathbeds,” Lawrence said, trying to lighten things up with the devout Arold, but the innkeeper only gave a derisive snort.

“So why bother earning it in the first place? Gaining it only to throw it away…”

It was something that many merchants pondered themselves.

But Lawrence had heard an interesting answer to this question. “You don’t ask the same question when you clean a room, do you?”

If money was trash, then profit was the collection of trash.

A famous merchant in a southern country had repented on his deathbed, saying that collecting and throwing away the money that polluted the world God had given man was the ultimate virtue.

The clergy heard these words and were moved, but the merchants hid their uncertain smiles behind their wine cups—because the more successful one became, the less one’s assets were concrete things, and the more they were numbers on certificates and entries in ledgers.

Thus if these written ledger entries and figures polluted the world, then the written teachings of God were no better, and so the irony was that those scriptures, too, should be thrown away for the betterment of the world—such was the view of most merchants.

Lawrence felt much the same way. He felt bad for Holo, but he would take the business of a successful merchant over prayers to gods that never answered any day.

“Heh,” Arold chuckled. “Fair enough,” he said in an uncommonly amused tone. His mood had improved.

He seemed more cheered by the irony behind Lawrence’s words than by the words themselves.

“Are you leaving soon? I seem to recall you giving me a good amount of coin for your stay…”

“No, I expect to wait until the Council of Fifty has finished their meeting.”

“…I see. You wanted to see Rigolo. You asked about a chronicler this morning, as I recall. That’s a word I’ve not heard in some time. Hardly anyone looks to the past these days…,” said Arold, narrowing his eyes as he stared off into space.

Perhaps the old man was looking back on his life thus far.

But his gaze soon snapped back to Lawrence. “Well, if you’re heading north, ’twould be better to leave sooner. Your horse should be able to get you part of the way, but beyond that…you’d want a longhair and a sleigh. If you’re in a hurry, that is.”

“There was a longhair in the stable, wasn’t there?”

“Aye, its master is a man from the north. I reckon he knows the route quite well.”

“His name?” Lawrence asked.

Arold looked surprised for the first time. It was strangely charming. “Huh. He’s been coming here for some time, but I’ve never asked his name. He’s fatter every year, too. It’s quite clear in my mind. Strange…I suppose these things happen…”

What sort of inn lacked even a guest register?

“He’s a fur merchant from the north,” Arold continued. “He’s all over town at the moment…but if I see him, I’ll pass your questions on.”

“I’d be very grateful.”

“Aye. But if you keep waiting for the Council of Fifty to finish, you’re liable to be here ’til spring,” said Arold, putting the cup of mulled wine to his lips for the first time.

This was the first time Lawrence had seen Arold so loquacious. He must have been in excellent spirits, Lawrence guessed.

“Will the meeting take so long?” Lawrence asked, pressing for more information.

Arold’s face turned unreadable, and he fell silent. No doubt the best response if he hoped to live out his remaining years in peace, Lawrence thought.

Lawrence was about to offer his thanks as a way of ending the conversation, but Arold then spoke, cutting him off.

“People’s lives tend up and down, and so do the towns that they live in. After all, those towns are just groups of people.” The words of a man who had retired from an active life.

But Lawrence was still young. “It’s in people’s nature to resist fate, I think. Just like how we seek forgiveness after making a mistake.”

Arold regarded Lawrence wordlessly with his blue eyes.

There was anger in his gaze and scorn.

But Lawrence liked the old man when he was like this, so he stood his ground.

Arold chuckled. “It’s hard to argue with that…It’s been pleasant talking with you. This is your third time at the inn, yes? What’s your name?”

Though he had never asked the name of the fur merchant who had long made use of his inn, Arold now asked Lawrence his name.

He wasn’t asking as the innkeeper, but rather as a craftsman.

When a craftsman asked the name of a customer, it was a mark of trust that they would complete the customer’s order, no matter how difficult the request.

Evidently this old tannery boss liked Lawrence for some reason.

“Kraft Lawrence,” said Lawrence, extending his hand.

“Kraft Lawrence, eh? I’m Arold Ecklund. In the old days, I’d make you some fine leather strap work, but these days all I can offer is a quiet night.”

“That’s more than enough,” said Lawrence, which Arold smiled at for the first time, showing a broken tooth.

Lawrence was about to leave when Arold’s gaze fell on something behind his lodger. Lawrence turned to look and did not expect the person he saw there.

It was the merchant Holo had earlier claimed was a woman, still wearing the same robes and carrying a burlap sack in her left hand. She must have been the one Lawrence heard rustling around in the storeroom earlier.

“You didn’t ask me until my fifth visit. You ask him his name so soon, Mr. Arold?” came the hoarse voice. If Holo hadn’t told him otherwise, Lawrence still would have assumed she was male, an apprentice merchant just starting out.

“That’s because I didn’t talk with you until the fifth visit,” said Arold, glancing at Lawrence before continuing. “And it’s so rare that you open that mouth of yours. Are you as sociable as I am, then?”

“Perhaps,” said the woman, and a smile quirked beneath her cowl. Lawrence noticed that she didn’t just happen to have an especially thin beard for a man—no, definitely a woman.

“You there,” she said, looking pointedly at Lawrence.

“Yes?”

“We should talk. You have business with Rigolo?”

If Lawrence had been Holo, his ears would have twitched. “Yes,” he answered, confident enough that not a single hair of his beard had so much as moved.

At the mention of Rigolo’s name, Arold turned away and reached for his wine cup. That was the effect that a merchant had these days when mentioning the name of one of the Council of Fifty.

“Shall we go upstairs?”

The woman pointed up. Lawrence had no objections and nodded.

“I’ll take this,” she said, grabbing a pitcher from behind Arold’s chair, then heading immediately up the stairs. Though they were not related, she seemed to know Arold quite well—so what was their connection?

Lawrence’s mind was full of questions, but Arold’s face had returned to its normal, unsociable mien.

He took his leave and followed the woman up the stairs.

There was nobody on the second floor, and the woman immediately bent her knees and sat down cross-legged in front of the fireplace. Her manner was that of someone used to sitting and standing in cramped places. If Lawrence had been a money changer, he would have figured her for a comrade-in-business.

She certainly wasn’t someone who had started out in business just yesterday.

“Ha, I knew it. This wine is too good to waste by drinking it warm,” she said after sampling the contents of the pitcher she had brought up.

Lawrence sat down as well, wondering why the woman was suddenly so sociable, whether her behavior was genuine, and if it wasn’t genuine, what her goal could possibly be.

After taking a couple of drinks from the wine pitcher, the merchant woman thrust it toward Lawrence. “You seem like you’ve got your guard well up. Can I ask why?”

While her cowl covered her face, obscuring her expressions from Lawrence, evidently she could see his face perfectly well.

“I’m a traveling merchant who does a lot of business with people I’ll never see again. I suppose it’s a habit,” he said, taking a sip of the proffered wine. It was indeed good.

The merchant woman looked at him evenly past her cowl.

Lawrence gave a pained grin and confessed, “Female merchants are rare. If one calls me over, I can’t help but be on my guard a bit.”

He could tell that she was momentarily disturbed at his statement.

“…It’s been years since anyone figured that out.”

“We passed this morning in front of the inn. My companion has the keen senses of a beast, you see.”

She was part beast, in truth, and if Holo had not been there, Lawrence would never have noticed the merchant was a woman.

“One shouldn’t underestimate a woman’s intuition. Though I suppose I’m not one to talk.”

“I learn that lesson every day.”

Lawrence wasn’t sure if she smiled or not, but in any case, the woman put her hand to her neck and loosened the string that held her cowl in place; then with a practiced hand, she drew it back and off her head.

He watched her with a bit more anticipation than was polite. What intrepid visage might emerge? When he saw her face, Lawrence was not at all confident that he had been able to perfectly conceal his surprise.

“Name’s Fleur Bolan. But Fleur’s not much for intimidation, so I go by Eve.”

The woman, Fleur—or Eve—was young.

But she was not so young that youth was her only virtue. She was old enough to be polished and refined, making her all the more beautiful. At a guess, Lawrence would have put her at about his own age.

Her eyes weren’t just blue; they seemed forged from blue steel.

Her hair was short and blond. If she smiled, she would look like an uncommonly beautiful boy.

And when she wasn’t smiling, she looked like a wolf—a wolf that would bite your finger off if you tried to touch it.

“I’m Kraft Lawrence.”

“Kraft? Or Lawrence?”

“In business, Lawrence.”

“Call me Eve. I’m none too fond of Bolan, and I know all too well how I look to men when I wear makeup and a wig, and I don’t like that sort of compliment, either.”

His initiative stolen, Lawrence was silent for a moment.

“I’d planned to hide it, if I could,” she continued.

It surely being the fact of her sex.

Not wanting to be discovered by anyone else, she replaced the cowl on her head and fixed it again with the tie.

In his mind, Lawrence couldn’t help picturing a knife wrapped in cotton.

“I’m really not a particularly retiring person. If anything, I’m talkative and quite courteous, if I do say so myself.”

For whatever reason, Eve was now being open and garrulous, so Lawrence matched her small talk.

She was a woman, yes, but hardly some sheltered princess. He had little reason to be nervous.

“You’re an interesting fellow. I can see why the old man likes you,” said Eve.

“Nice of you to say so. But I’ve only exchanged the briefest of pleasantries with you, so I’ve no idea why you would be interested in me.”

“Merchants don’t get infatuated that easily, so unfortunately—not quite. But you’re no fool, you know this. Anyway, the reason I talked to you is simple. I just wanted someone to talk to.”

Judging by the features on the face beneath the cowl, something about her reminded Lawrence of Holo, despite Eve’s slightly crude manners.

If he wasn’t careful, she’d pull the rug out from under him, just like Holo.

“And the reason you chose me for that particular honor is…?”

“One reason would be the fact that old Arold likes you. He’s got a good eye for people. Another reason would be your companion, the one who saw through my disguise.”

“My companion?”

“Yes. Your companion. A girl, yes?”

If she had called Holo a boy, it would’ve been exactly the kind of story some wealthy libertine nobleman would love.

But Lawrence understood what Eve was trying to say.

If he was traveling with a woman, he would be a safe person to talk to.

“It’s one thing when I’m negotiating, but hiding the fact that I’m a woman while making chitchat is no easy thing. I know I’m unusual. And it’s not like I don’t understand why someone would want me to take off the cowl sometimes,” said Eve.

“This is going to sound like a compliment, but if you were to take it off while you were drinking with some fellow merchants, I’m sure they’d love it.”

Eve smiled with a lopsided smirk, and even that was an impressive gesture. “Like I said, I think about who I can chat with, and in the end, you need to be either an old geezer or with a woman.”

Female merchants were rarer than fairies. Lawrence couldn’t even begin to imagine her day-to-day worries.

“You don’t see merchants traveling with women very often. Clergy, perhaps, or the odd artisan or minstrel couple. But none of them have anything interesting to say to a merchant like me.”

Lawrence smiled a bit. “Well, there are quite a few circumstances around my companion.”

“And I won’t be nosy. The two of you seem used to travel and don’t seem connected by money, so I figured you’d be safe to talk to. That’s all.”

Eve finished talking and held her hand out for the pitcher.

It wasn’t polite to hang onto a pitcher of wine that was being passed around in lieu of a cup, so Lawrence apologized and handed it back.

“Anyway, that’s about the size of it, but you can’t just walk up to somebody and say, ‘Hey, how about a chat?’ That’s why I mentioned Rigolo’s name, but it wasn’t just talk. You want to see him, right?”

Eve looked at Lawrence from underneath her cowl, but he couldn’t read her expression at all. She was clearly an excellent negotiator.

This hardly seemed like small talk to Lawrence. He answered carefully. “Yes, as soon as I can.”

“Might I ask why?”

Lawrence could not imagine why she would want to know this.

It may have been simple curiosity or she wanted to use that knowledge somehow or she was testing Lawrence based on his response to being asked such a question.

If Holo had been with him, he would have had an advantage, but as it was, he felt like he was being cornered.

The situation was frustrating, but he would have to go on the defensive.

“I’ve heard Rigolo is the town’s chronicler. I’d like to ask him to let me see any of the old tales of Lenos.”

The subject of fur was too delicate to broach. As long as he couldn’t see Eve’s expression, it was dangerous to bring up. He had no clock to hide behind, so it would be easy for her to see if he was being too guarded.

Nonetheless, Eve seemed to detect a certain truth to Lawrence’s words. “Now that’s a strange reason. And here I was sure you’d want information on the fur trade.”

“Well, I am a merchant, so I wouldn’t pass that information up if I could get it. But it’s dangerous, and my companion doesn’t wish it.” Lawrence couldn’t help but feel that trying any ham-fisted trickery in front of Eve would get him burned.

“It’s true that the man’s study is piled high with volumes passed down over the generations. His dream is to be able to spend his days reading them, I hear. He’s always going on about how he wants to resign his position as secretary to the Council of Fifty.”

“Is that so?”

“Quite. He’s not a very sociable fellow to begin with, but his position means he knows all the ins and outs of the council, so there’s no end of people trying to cozy up to him. If you tried to just go and see him now, he’d give you the evil eye and send you away at the gate.”

Admirably, Lawrence managed a neutral “I see,” but he doubted that Eve thought he was as neutral as he tried to seem.

Eve was, after all, hinting that she would be able to introduce Lawrence to Rigolo.

“Oh, indeed. So if that’s what you’re interested in, I do quite a bit of trade with the church here. Rigolo normally works as a scribe for the church, you see. I’ve known him for some time.”

Lawrence did not question her.

If he was to do so, there was the danger that he would reveal his own motivations, which she would easily be able to see.

So he spoke the plain truth.

“It would certainly be of great help to me if you could arrange for me to see those records,” Lawrence said.

The corner of Eve’s mouth might have quirked for just a moment, but perhaps it was just his imagination.

She seemed to be enjoying something about this exchange.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I trade in?”

“You didn’t inquire after the occupation of my companion so I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”

This conversation made Lawrence nervous in a way entirely different from his exchanges with Holo.

And yet this is fun, he thought to himself, which is why when a chuckle echoed through the room, he didn’t realize it wasn’t from him for a moment.

“Heh-heh-heh. Excellent. Excellent indeed! More than a few times have I hoped to meet a young merchant with a female companion, but I’m truly glad I spoke up, Lawrence! I don’t know whether you’re as remarkable as you seem, but you’re surely not some two-copper peddler.”

“I’m honored by your compliments, but I’d ask you to wait a moment before shaking my hand.”

Eve grinned.

Her smile reminded him so much of a certain someone that he half expected to see sharp canines bared.

“I know you’re not some sweaty-palmed fool,” said Eve. “Your face has been unreadable from the start. I can see why old man Arold likes you.”

Lawrence accepted the flattery. “Well then, instead of asking what it is you deal in, might I ask a different question?”

Eve still smiled, but Lawrence was quite sure her smile did not reach her eyes.

“And what might that be?”

“How much will your introduction fee be?” Lawrence dropped a pebble into the dark and bottomless well.

How deep was it? And was there water in the bottom?

Presently the sound echoed back to him.

“I’ll ask for neither coin nor goods.”

Lawrence wondered if she was thirsty, but she offered him the pitcher as she continued.

“All I ask is that you chat with me.”

The wetly sentimental echo had returned.

Lawrence wiped his face clean of any emotion as he coolly regarded Eve and her statement.

Eve chuckled and shrugged. “You’re good. But no, it’s not a lie. It’s only natural you’d think it strange, but someone I can talk to without hiding the fact that I’m a woman—and a merchant, to boot—is worth more than limar gold.”

“But less than lumione?”

Her reaction to some teasing would reveal the depth of her character.

Eve seemed to know this. “I’m a merchant. In the end, money is what matters most,” she replied with an even smile.

Lawrence laughed.

With someone like this to talk to, he could easily chat all night.

“But I don’t know what sort your companion is. I prefer my conversations uninterrupted. A sulky companion spoils the wine.”

Lawrence searched his memory. Was Holo the sort to be jealous over such things?

He felt like she had been somewhat irritated by Norah the shepherdess, but had that not been because of her profession?

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“Oh? Nothing is more mysterious than the heart of a woman. I myself don’t understand a whit of what they talk about.”

Lawrence opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

Eve chuckled. “Still, I’m here for business. I can’t afford to waste time, but if we get along, then I’d be pleased to have your acquaintance. I may look harsh—”

“—But you’re actually talkative and sociable, right?”

At Lawrence’s counterattack, Eve laughed, her shoulders shaking with girlish delight despite her low, hoarse voice. “Ha, quite right.”

Her words were casual, but they had the tone of sincerity.

Lawrence had no notion of how a single woman would come to tread the path of the merchant, but any woman who could swim in the whirlpools of avarice that made up the mercantile world was a force to be reckoned with. No doubt she avoided casual conversation out of simple self-defense.

He took a drink of wine from the pitcher, then stood and headed for the stairs to the third floor. “Well, so long as my companion isn’t jealous,” he said.

“That’s a terrible condition, indeed.”

The two merchants smiled wordlessly at each other.

The council meeting would end shortly before nightfall. Eve had business to attend to and could not accompany Lawrence and Holo, but she went on ahead to speak to Rigolo’s family on their behalf.

So after taking a moderate recess after midday, Lawrence and Holo left the inn.

Rigolo’s house was apparently slightly north of the center of town.

That particular district seemed relatively wealthy, given the stone foundations and ground floors of the buildings there, but the ambience was nonetheless poor. Many houses had been repeatedly expanded with carpentry, and their walls jutted into the street, almost meeting overhead.

The area seemed to have once been a wealthy neighborhood but had declined over time.

While families who had been prosperous for generations knew that money did not always bring happiness, the nouveau riche were different. So long as they had money, they wished to flaunt it by expanding their homes.

That was all fine and good, but those expansions ruined the atmosphere of the neighborhood. Stray dogs and beggars began to wander the ever-dim streets.

When that happened, the truly wealthy moved elsewhere, and the value of homes in the area fell, and with that value went the quality of the neighborhood. Once it had been mostly moneylenders and masters of middling trade companies that lived here, but now the area was populated by apprentice craftsmen and market stall owners.

“Quite a cramped street this,” said Holo.

Perhaps owing to the weight of the buildings on either side of it, the street was warped and buckled, and here and there cobblestones were missing, perhaps having been pried free and sold off by someone hurting for money. Water would then pool in the holes left behind, contributing to the feeling of general disrepair, an impression that the narrowness of the lane only heightened.

Lawrence couldn’t walk side by side with Holo, and if someone was to come the other way, they would have to flatten themselves against the wall in order to pass.

“I’ll admit it’s inconvenient,” Lawrence said, “but I like this kind of disorderly place.”

“Oh ho.”

“You can really feel how it comes out of years and years of change. Just like a beat-up old tool that gradually takes on a different shape over time, turning into something unique.”

Lawrence looked back at Holo who walked behind him. She traced her fingers along the walls as she followed.

“Like the way a river changes shape?”

“…I’m sorry to say I don’t follow your comparison.”

“Mm. In that case…like the way the heart changes shape. The soul, is it called?”

Holo’s example was so much closer to home that Lawrence was a bit sluggish to keep up. “I suppose so,” he finally answered. “If we could take it out and get a look at it, I imagine that’s what it would look like. The heart becomes scratched and dented and repaired over time, and with one glance, you’d be able to tell your own from others.”

As Lawrence and Holo walked, they encountered one of the large puddles that dotted the lane. Lawrence crossed with a single bound first, then turned and extended his hand to Holo.

“Milady,” he said with courtesy. Holo offered her hand with exaggerated magnanimity in reply, hopping over the puddle to land next to Lawrence.

“And what would your soul look like, eh?” she asked.

“Mm?”

“No doubt it would be tinged with my color.”

Lawrence no longer flinched at the chestnut-red eyes that looked up at him.

Their effect on him was indeed fading.

Lawrence shrugged and resumed walking. “I’d say poisoned is a better word than colored.”

“Then ’tis a potent poison, indeed,” said Holo over her shoulder haughtily as she ran ahead. “After all, my smile still knocks you right over.”

“So what color is your soul?” shot back Lawrence, still and always impressed with her wit.

“What color?” Holo repeated, then looked ahead as if pondering the matter. She slowed for a moment, and Lawrence caught up to her from behind. The street was too narrow for him to pass, so he simply peered down at her.

She muttered, apparently counting something on her fingers. “Hmm,” she intoned. She then noticed Lawrence looking over her shoulder and tilted her head up, leaning back into him a bit. “There are many.”

“…Oh.”

For a moment, Lawrence didn’t follow her meaning, but then he understood that she was referring to the history of her romances.

Holo had lived for centuries, so it stood to reason that she would have experienced love once or twice. Given her clever wit, no doubt some of her partners had been human.

With Holo blocking the path ahead, Lawrence lightly pushed her small back, urging her forward.

Holo obediently began to walk.

They usually walked side by side, so Lawrence had few opportunities to see her form from behind. It was strangely novel.

Seen from behind, she was slender, the lines of her body lovely even through the thick clothes she wore. Her strides were neither too long nor too quick; the word graceful came to Lawrence’s mind. There was also something lonely about her form, something soft when embraced.

Is this what is was to feel protective? Lawrence wondered with a self-deprecating smile but was suddenly filled with doubt.

Holo had ticked the numbers off on her fingers, but just how many men had held her slender shoulders?

He wondered what her expression had been like. Had she been pleased? Had she narrowed her eyes, being coy? Or had her ears twitched and her tail swished to and fro as she was unable to conceal her happiness?

They had held hands, embraced…Holo was not a child, after all…

Who else has she had? Lawrence thought to himself.

“…”

As soon as the thought appeared in his mind, he hurried to dismiss it. An awful tongue of flame reached up from the depths of his heart.

His chest pounded as though he had fallen from a cliff. The shock was like touching a hot coal, thinking the fire had gone out, only to be badly burned.

She had counted them off on her fingers.

It was the most obvious thing in the world, but as she ticked off each finger in his imagination, something deep in him collapsed, leaving only a smoldering anger.

The feeling was unmistakable.

It was the blackest jealousy.

Lawrence was annoyed with himself. It was incredibly selfish of him, even if he had been born to the avarice that leads one to take on the occupation of merchant.

But the love of money was nothing compared to this feeling.

So it was that when Holo turned to him with accusation in her eyes, this had a deeper effect on him than any clergyman’s sermon ever could.

“So, have you finished your introspection?”

“…You see through just about everything, don’t you?” he answered wearily.

His heart felt so heavy it made him want to sit and rest.

But surprisingly, Holo smiled, showing her sharp canines. “I’m no better myself, though.”

“…”

“You simply sounded so happy, so desperately happy, to speak with someone without so much as a hint of charm—”

In that instant, Holo’s face turned angry.

He had seen her angry face any number of times before, but this one had a particularly savage edge to it.

She is a wisewolf, Lawrence reminded himself.

“Would it make sense if I said I enjoyed it as a merchant?” he asked, trying to offer an excuse.

Holo stopped, then started walking again once Lawrence had closed the gap between them.

“Do you want me to ask you which is more important—money or me?”

That line was among the top three things that a lonely traveling merchant would dream of hearing from a woman.

And it was a problem that would cause any merchant to tear his heart out in frustration.

Lawrence raised both hands in defeat.

“To be sure, the reason I would be angry is not one whit different from what you’re thinking. ’Tis an utterly selfish, childish notion. But the two of us have our wits; we can speak of this. Thus, I am not angry.”

“…”

Holo was a wisewolf of long experience.

Lawrence could not hope to cross swords with her.

For a while, he searched his small vocabulary for some suitable response but found nothing. “What I’m thinking is that it’s not fair of me.”

“Truly?”

Lies were hopeless against Holo.

“Truly.”

She did not turn around at his answer.

He was not certain that it had been the right one.

Holo continued to walk quietly, gracefully, finally coming to a fork in the road. According to the directions they had received from Eve, they needed to bear right.

Lawrence didn’t feel good about it, but since Holo had stopped, he spoke up.

“We head right here.”

“Mm.” Holo turned to face him. “So this is the fork in the road.”

Lawrence did not ask which road was forking.

Evidently that had been the first barrier. Holo’s right eyebrow moved slightly.

“How do you resolve your selfish jealously toward me?”

Was she now asking questions that sounded like they had come from some clergyman of the Church?

Outwardly the right thing to do was to lose this black, selfish feeling, but inwardly Lawrence knew it would not disappear so easily.

He looked back at Holo, a bitter expression on his face.

This was Holo the Wisewolf. He could not imagine that she would corner him with questions like this for no good reason.

In other words, even if the answer was wrong for nearly everyone, there was something that would be correct for Holo.

But how to reach it?

Lawrence’s mind raced.

Holo had said just a moment ago that she was the same as him.

So the answer, he reasoned, must be within Holo as he saw her.

The most difficult problem for him might be the easiest thing in the world for someone else to solve.

Holo was also having trouble dealing with her jealously.

And Holo herself wanted to know how to resolve it, did she not?

So given that, all Lawrence needed to do was consider the problem from the outside, and the answer would come naturally.

He opened his mouth to speak and saw Holo steady herself in preparation. “My answer is that there is no way to resolve it.”

It was a single ripple in the smooth surface of a lake.

He tossed another pebble into that lake, trying to bring expression back to Holo’s face.

“And it makes you hate yourself.”

Neither defiance nor selflessness was the correct response, he thought.

If he imagined that Holo was the jealous one rather than himself, it was the most natural thing in the world, and it was actually quite nice to be the object of that jealously.

After all, jealousy was nothing more than wanting to have someone all to yourself, so how could it be anything but flattering as long as it wasn’t excessive?

Hence Lawrence’s answer, but Holo still remained expressionless.

Lawrence did not look away. He was certain this was the final barrier.

“Hmph. So we bear right, do we?” she said with a smile, cocking her head. At this, Lawrence couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. “Still,” she added, giggling.

“What?”

“Jealousy and self-hatred, eh? Indeed,” said Holo with a smirk.

This struck him as rather unnatural, and by the time he started walking down the right-hand path, he had fallen behind Holo.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, grinning over her shoulder.

If Lawrence had really managed to produce an answer that satisfied her, Holo shouldn’t have been smirking like this. He’d anticipated either a smile of happy relief or an out-and-out scowl.

So what did this mischievous smile portend?

Lawrence felt his face flushing. He had turned red so many times that day that he began to worry the color would stick.

Holo giggled. “Have you figured it out, then?” she inquired over her shoulder. “You agonized over the problem, reversed the positions in your head, and arrived at the answer. ’Twas plain as day on your face. But if you’d thought about it a bit, you’d see. When someone comes to you for advice, the answer you think is correct is what you want him or her to be. Which means?”

Indeed.

Holo had not been waiting for Lawrence’s words to solve her problems.

She had, in fact, been waiting for him to reveal his own feelings.

“You become jealous and agonize over it. Is that what you wish from me, so that you can play the role of offering your hand in consolation? Should I now collapse into charming tears of self-recrimination, pathetically clinging to the hand you so generously offer?”

“Urgh—”

So this was what it was like to have one’s heart laid bare.

He felt like a shamed maiden, covering her face with her hands.

The sharp-fanged wolf glided smoothly to his side.

And yet there was some solace in seeing that Holo did this not simply for her own enjoyment.

Even Lawrence could tell that much.

Holo had been truly jealous about his enjoyable chat with Eve, and this conversation was something of a diversion.

“Hmph. Come, let’s go,” Holo said, perhaps reading Lawrence’s unguarded expression. “We can leave it at this,” she seemed to be saying.

Surely her mood had improved with all of this, and she would probably be more generous about him enjoying the odd merchant-to-merchant chat with Eve.

Lawrence couldn’t help feeling that he had been careless, though.

He had allowed his deepest wishes to be hauled out for all to see.

“So then,” said Holo beside him, her tone completely casual. The atmosphere was still poor, but the street had widened enough for the two of them to walk side by side. “In truth, I’m asking you this simply because I want to tease you, but…”

Even given a warning like this, Lawrence felt like a hare waiting for the slaughter.

“Do you want to know how many I counted off?”

Her pure, innocent smile came down upon him like a giant meat cleaver.

“I’ve been reminded just how small and fragile my own heart is” was all the battered Lawrence could manage, but this seemed to satisfy Holo.

Sadistic satisfaction was written large all over her face as she clung to his arm. “Well, I have to get my claws into that fragile heart of yours before it freezes solid.”

Lawrence looked down at her, unable to manage any sort of response.

Unbelievably, her smiling face was like that of a winsome girl, pleased at her own mischief.

But even the worst nightmare eventually comes to an end.

Once they found the house that Eve had described to Lawrence with the green copper signboard cut in the shape of a three-legged chicken, Holo abandoned her harassment.

“Well then,” said Lawrence to break the silence, his tone strangely light after the frustrating, embarrassing conversation that had preceded it. “I’m told this Rigolo is a difficult character, so let’s be careful.”

Holo nodded her assent as she walked alongside him, still holding on to his arm. “I suppose this ends our lovely, dreamlike exchange. We’re now back to boring reality.”

Lawrence had no idea exactly how serious this murmured statement was. “In that case, feel free to go back to the inn and sleep,” he shot back under his breath.

“Mm…that might be nice. Of course, it wouldn’t be sheep that I count as I fall asleep…”

Holo still held the upper hand when it came to being nasty.

But now that the subject had come up, Lawrence felt strangely emboldened. “Oh? So how many men have there been?”

He didn’t want to know every detail, but it would also be a lie to say he was totally uninterested.

She had randomly brought the subject up, after all, so the answer might well have been zero.

To suggest that some part of him didn’t hope that was true would also be a lie.

But Holo said nothing in response to the question. Her expression was blank, and she didn’t so much as tremble. This made her look like a perfect, untouched doll.

Once he realized it was an act, Lawrence knew he couldn’t win.

“Men are fools, and I am their king,” he finally said. Holo came back to life and seemed quite tickled. Lawrence slumped in defeat, smiling.

The three-legged chicken that hung from the eaves of the Rigolo house was carved in the image of the chicken that had long ago predicted the flooding of the Roam River, which flowed by Lenos.

The Church claimed it was a messenger from God, but according to the tale, the flood had been predicted by the position of the stars, moon, and sun—in other words, by the astronomical records of the time.

Ever since, the three-legged chicken had become a symbol of wisdom.

Perhaps the Rigolo family, who had apparently served as chroniclers for ages, hoped that the monotonous records they kept would one day act as guideposts, pointing the way to the future.

Lawrence rapped on the door using the silver-plated knocker, clearing his throat.

Their introduction from Eve should have already arrived, but even Eve, whose negotiation skills were considerable, claimed that Rigolo was a tough nut to crack. Lawrence couldn’t help feeling nervous.

Behind him, Holo had neglected to continue holding his hand, but her presence was embarrassingly reassuring.

It was possible that he hadn’t been overwhelmed by Eve earlier precisely because he’d met Holo and it was her companionship that enabled him to think this way. Before meeting Holo, the only person Lawrence had been able to count on was himself. He had been filled with both a burning desire to win and a terrible fear of losing.

Was it better or worse to have friends to count on? Just as Lawrence considered this question, the door slowly opened.

That moment—the instant between the opening of the door to the point where he could see the person’s face—was the most nerve-racking of all.

And as the door swung wide, an aged, bearded old man—

—did not stand behind it.

“May I ask who is calling?”

Lawrence was surprised by the figure that opened the door, but it was not a nervous surprise.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty, head covered all the way to her alabaster brow in the delicate cloth of a simple black habit. She was a nun.

“I believe Eve Bolan explained that we were coming.”

“Ah, we have been expecting you. Do come in.”

Lawrence purposefully avoided introducing himself, but this nun was either a particularly nice person, or Eve was a particularly trusted person.

Unable to know which was the truth, Lawrence did as he was bidden, entering the house with Holo behind him.

“Please feel free to sit and wait here.”

Upon entering the house, they immediately found themselves in a sitting room with a faded carpet on the floor.

None of the age-faded furnishings were particularly grand, and they spoke clearly of the house’s master’s long tenure in the area.

The first chronicler Lawrence had ever met was Diana in the pagan town of Kumersun, so he had expected this place to be as cluttered as Diana’s was—but no, it was surprisingly tidy.

Instead of books crammed into every shelf, there were stuffed toys and works of embroidery, along with a small statue of the Holy Mother that a girl would be able to carry easily. Beside the statue hung bulbs of garlic and onion. The only things that suggested this house belonged to a chronicler were the quill pens and ink bottles and a small, sand-filled chest used for drying inked pages, along with parchments and bundles of paper tucked away in unobtrusive corners.

Holo gazed around the room, her expression of mild surprise suggesting that she’d had similar expectations.

In the first place, one hardly expected to see a nun, who looked ready to head out on a pilgrimage, in a house like this—though the statue of the Holy Mother and the relief of the three-legged chicken suggested a household of both financial security and deep faith.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” said the nun when she returned.

Having heard tales of Rigolo’s bad disposition from Eve, Lawrence was prepared to be kept waiting because of this or that imagined fault, but it seemed they would be able to meet him with unexpected ease.

Led by the nun with her soft smile and warm, homey manner, Lawrence and Holo continued from the sitting room down a hallway to a room deeper within the house.

Holo herself did not look completely unlike a nun, but a true nun’s graceful effect came from a different source. Of course, if Holo knew he was thinking this she would give him an earful, Lawrence thought—and immediately afterward, she stomped on his foot.

No doubt she had simply been waiting for a good opportunity, but Lawrence couldn’t help feeling as though she’d undone the buttons to his heart and peered about within it.

“Mr. Rigolo, we’re coming in.”

The nun knocked on the door as though delicately cracking an egg. There was no telling what color the yolk would be, though.

Lawrence cleared his head, and once the door opened at a muffled reply that came from within, they entered the room.

Immediately thereafter, it was Holo who, impressed, uttered a quiet “huh.”

Lawrence was even more impressed and could find no words at all.

“My, what a delightful reaction! Melta, look; they are impressed!”

The nun called Melta smiled her clear, bell-like smile at the young, forceful voice that echoed throughout the room.

The room on the other side of the door was indeed every bit as cluttered as Diana’s had been.

However, perhaps this could be called a calculated clutter, for beyond the stacks of books directly in front of them and the wooden bird model that hung from the ceiling was a wall made of floor-to-ceiling glass, through which sunlight flooded, revealing a verdant garden beyond. It was like being inside a cave and looking through the exit at the world beyond.

“Ha-ha-ha, impressive, is it not? With enough effort, I can keep it green year round,” said a young, chestnut-haired man with a proud laugh as he emerged. He wore a collared, tailored shirt and pants without so much as a single wrinkle, fit for any noble. “Fleur told me of you—said that there were some people with a strange request to make of me.”

“…Er, yes…uh, Lawrence—I mean, my name is Kraft Lawrence,” said Lawrence, finally coming to his senses and taking the hand that Rigolo offered, though he couldn’t pull his eyes from the magnificent garden.

It was totally invisible from any of the surrounding streets—a perfect secret garden.

The hackneyed phrase appeared in his head, and he couldn’t shake it.

“My name is Rigolo Dedly. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure.”

Rigolo’s gaze fell next to Holo. “Ah, this must be the companion…”

“Name’s Holo.”

Not only was Holo hardly the bashful type, but also upon a first meeting, she instantly knew how to act in order to make a good impression on whomever she wished.

Far from being irritated with her high-handed self-introduction, Rigolo clapped his hands in delight, then extended one to her in greeting.

“Well then! That’s it for introductions, and I’ve already gotten you to compliment my garden, so I’m quite satisfied. Was there something I could do for you by way of thanks, then?”

Some merchants had terrifying personalities concealed by pleasant facades, and Lawrence was not yet sure Rigolo was not similar.

Melta simply smiled as she thoughtfully brought small chairs over for Lawrence and Holo to sit in, so it seemed Rigolo was like this all the time—assuming that Melta, who gave a slight nod before leaving the room, was not a liar.

“You may have heard this from Eve Bolan, but we were hoping that you could show us any old tales of Lenos you might have records of.”

“Oh ho, so it’s true, then. Fleur—er, no, I suppose she goes by Eve among merchants. She’s a bit too feisty, that one. Once she gets to know someone, she’ll tell them all sorts of things.”

Lawrence smiled in understanding. “Does that have anything to do with why you’re not a stern-faced, long-bearded, old hermit?”

Rigolo laughed. “Seems she’s been talking again! Though the hermit part’s not necessarily untrue. Lately I’ve been doing all I can not to see anyone. Bit misanthropic of me.”

Just when his tone of voice dropped a bit, Lawrence caught a glimpse of something chilly underneath Rigolo’s smile.

He was the secretary of the Council of Fifty, a group made up of the most famous and recognized people in the city. A little chilliness was hardly worth being surprised at.

“I’m a foreign merchant—is it all right for you to be speaking with me?”

“Quite. Your timing is excellent, perhaps even the will of God. Take a look at my clothes; they’re like the garments a child leading a funeral procession would wear, are they not? I’ve just come from the council meeting. They reached a decision and were able to adjourn early.”

If that was true, then this timing really was the will of God, but Lawrence felt like it was a bit early for the council to have arrived at a conclusion.

After all, Arold had said it might drag on into the spring.

Perhaps someone had forced a vote.

“Goodness, you really are every bit the merchant that the feisty little minx said you were. Didn’t let your guard down for a second, did you?”

Even if Rigolo had seen through his thoughts, it was a third-rate merchant that got flustered and tried to cover it up.

Besides, Lawrence was with Holo, who could quite possibly read minds.

Holo would certainly be able to tell whether Rigolo was trying to trick him into telling the truth.

“Hmm?” Lawrence asked, feigning ignorance, but Rigolo’s smile remained steady.

“When we spend all our time using wiles and tricks, we stop understanding. Just like the back of the back is the front.”

He had seen through the trick and Lawrence’s feigning of ignorance.

Lawrence had been fairly confident that Rigolo wouldn’t see through the ruse, but Rigolo’s smiling eyes were still keen.

“I’m employed as the secretary for the Council of Fifty, you see. I can look at a group of people and perceive the changes in the expressions at a glance. Even if your expression alone doesn’t tell me enough, if I consider the expressions of your companion, the truth naturally comes to me.”

Lawrence smiled in spite of himself. There were people in the world like this—and not all of them were notorious merchants.

Rigolo laughed. “Ah, ’tis but a parlor trick. If I meant you ill, I wouldn’t lay my cards out like this. And even if I could discern your true motives, I’m still unable to convey my own demands. I’d be a failure as a merchant, would I not?”

“…Unfortunately.”

“I also don’t have any success with the ladies.”

Lawrence smiled. He had to admit that Rigolo’s skill with words was rather unmerchantlike.

As he talked like a poet from some imperial palace, Rigolo produced a brass key from within a drawer in the room’s desk.

“All the old books are in the cellar.” He gestured lightly with the key, indicating that they should follow him, then proceeded into an inner room.

Before following, Lawrence looked over at Holo.

“The back of the back is the front apparently,” said Lawrence.

“He was even watching my face…”

“First time I’ve seen anyone do anything like that.”

He had probably developed the ability while having to hear and transcribe all the various conflicting conversations that happened over the course of a council meeting.

In order to grasp who said what, understanding their facial expressions would be of paramount importance.

“Still, he doesn’t seem malicious. More like a child. But if you had someone like that at your side, you’d be able to pass your days without any worry at all,” said Holo with a smirk.

Given how many times Lawrence had fallen prey to misunderstandings with Holo, that smirk was particularly painful to see.

“Meanwhile, you are full of malice,” he said, not waiting for Holo’s reply before he went off to follow Rigolo.

The first floor was constructed from wood, but the cellar below it was made entirely of stone.

Even in the village of Tereo, the cellar had been stone. Perhaps it was natural to want to keep treasures hidden in stone vaults.

But there was a huge difference between a cellar built to hide things and one built to store them.

The ceiling was high enough that Lawrence had to reach over his head to touch it, and the bookshelves that lined the walls reached from floor to ceiling.

Even more impressive, the shelves were organized by era and topic and had a numbering system.

The bindings were thin and flimsy—nothing compared to the thick, leather-bound volumes in Tereo—but the effort spent on organization was on another level entirely.

“Are fires common in this town?” Lawrence asked.

“From time to time. As you may have guessed, my ancestors had the same fear, which is why they built this place.”

Although she had not been in the room that adjoined the garden, Melta seemed to have overheard the exchange there and now appeared in the cellar’s entrance holding a candlestick.

Holo allowed the nun to guide her as she looked for promising books.

The pleasant light flickered in and out of visibility among the shadows of the bookshelves.

“By the way,” began Rigolo once the two men were left to their own devices. “I’m the curious type, so I can’t help asking. Why exactly are you searching for these ancient stories?”

Given that Rigolo hadn’t asked about Holo’s relationship with Lawrence, the heart of his interest was clear.

“She’s searching for her origin.”

“Her origin?” repeated Rigolo, the surprise obvious on his face. His powers of discernment might well have been the equal of any great merchant, but he had no control over his own expression.

“For a variety of reasons, I’m escorting her to her homeland.”

If he omitted a few details, well, Rigolo could come to whatever conclusions he wished, which would allow Lawrence to avoid telling a lie while simultaneously keeping the truth at a distance.

Rigolo seemed to fall for it. “I see…So you’re heading north, then?”

“Yes. We don’t know the precise location, so we’re trying to pinpoint it based on the stories she knows.”

Rigolo nodded, a serious expression on his face.

He probably concluded that Holo had been captured in the north, then sold into slavery in the south. It was commonly said that children from the northlands were hardier and more obedient. There were also many stories of nobility whose children had died or were precariously sick and in danger of having their inheritance taken by other relatives who bought such children to adopt.

“It’s not uncommon for children from the north to stay in this town. It would be best if she could return to her home,” said Rigolo.

Lawrence nodded his wordless agreement.

Holo emerged from the bookshelves, holding five volumes that evidently held some promise.

“You’re certainly a glutton for knowledge,” said Lawrence at a loss. It was Melta, not Holo, who answered him with a smile.

“These were all we found, so I should think it would be best if you took them with you for the time being.”

“I see. Here, let me carry some of those. We’ll be skipping meals for three days if we drop them.”

Rigolo laughed as Lawrence wound up carrying the entire stack of books, and they returned to the first floor.

“Normally I’d ask that you read them here,” Rigolo said, looking at the stack of books that Melta had bound into a convenient bundle. “But I trust Fleur, and Fleur trusts you, so I shall as well. I cannot say the same for others, though…”

Anytime foreign merchants were involved, there were many reasons to be distrustful.

“I certainly understand,” said Lawrence.

“But if you drop, burn, lose, or sell them, it’s three days without food!”

It was a joke, but Lawrence didn’t laugh. Being able to calculate the monetary value of nearly anything, he was well aware that these books were priceless.

He nodded and picked up the bundle. “I’ll protect them as I would protect my most precious cargo, on my honor as a merchant.”

“Right then,” said Rigolo with a boyish smile.

Lawrence wondered if Eve’s heart would be moved by such things.

“Just bring them back when you’ve finished reading. If I’m not here, Melta will be.”

“Understood. Again, thank you.”

Rigolo answered Lawrence’s nod with a smile, giving Holo a jaunty little wave.

Such gestures made him seem less like a merchant and more like a courtly poet.

Satisfied, Holo returned the wave as the two left.

“It’s easy to wave when you’re not carrying anything.” Lawrence reasoned that a little grumbling was justified. Between carrying books and asking for directions, he had become quite the manservant recently.

“Aye, and you’d do well to make sure you’re not waved off,” shot back Holo, traipsing ahead of Lawrence.

Her teasing was frustrating, but at the same time, Lawrence was well aware that unless they were getting along well, such teasing would be impossible.

The problem was, Holo did little else.

“One can flatter a pig right up a tree, but flattering a male just makes him lose himself,” said Holo, sealing off any protest from him.

There was no room for denial, that was the problem.

“Oh yes, I’m at such a loss I may well lose my temper,” said Lawrence.

Delighted at the joke, Holo clapped her hands, laughing high and loud.

Once they had left the books at the inn, Lawrence made good on his promise to treat Holo to whatever she wanted for dinner, and having picked a tavern at random, Holo decided she wanted a whole roasted piglet.

Such a dish was a rare pleasure—an entire pig, spit down the center and roasted slowly over an open flame, occasionally drizzled with nut oil squeezed from a certain fruit.

Once the piglet was golden brown, its mouth was stuffed with herbs and it was served on a giant plate. It was customary for whoever cut off the piglet’s right ear to wish for good luck.

Normally such a dish would feed five or six people; it was generally ordered for celebrations of one kind or another, and when Lawrence gave his request to the barmaid, her surprise was obvious. A murmur of envy was audible among the other men in the tavern when the dish was brought out.

And when that same dish was set down directly in front of Holo, the voices became a sigh of sympathy.

It was not uncommon for Lawrence to weather envious gazes because of his beautiful companion, but these men seemed mollified once they understood that his existence was an expensive one indeed.

Seeing that Holo would be unable to carve the roast herself, Lawrence took it upon himself to do so, but he lacked the willpower to put any of the meat on his own plate, instead settling for the crunchy skin. The fragrant nut oil was tasty enough, but Holo beat him to the crunchy left ear. Wine went better with meat than ale, and it commanded a fair price.

Holo literally devoured the meal, completely unconcerned when her chestnut hair slipped out from underneath her hood, becoming occasionally spattered with oil from the roast. She was the very image of a wolf taking its food.

In the end, she made short work of the piglet.

As she finished taking the meat from the last rib, a round of applause arose in the tavern.

But Holo took no notice of the noise.

She licked her fingers clean of oil, took a drink of wine, and burped grandly. Her actions were strangely dignified, and the drunken patrons of the tavern sighed with their awe.

Still ignoring them, Holo smiled sweetly at Lawrence, who sat on the other side of the now-ravaged piglet carcass.

Perhaps she was saying thanks for the meal, but having reduced the piglet to bones, she seemed even keener to hunt.

Or perhaps it would serve as emergency rations for the next time she was hungry, Lawrence told himself when he thought of the truly painful bill, giving up all hope of escaping from Holo’s fangs. He would have no choice but to try not to forget about this emergency boon he had left buried in the den.

They rested for a while, and after Lawrence paid the bill—ten days’ worth of bribery surely—they left the tavern.

Perhaps being the center of the fur trade gave Lenos an excess of tallow. The road back to the inn was dotted with a number of lamps, which softly lit the way.

In contrast to the bustle of daylight, people walked in small groups, speaking in low tones as if trying not to blow out the flickering lamps.

Holo had a dreamy smile on her face as she walked, perhaps thanks to the satisfaction that came with demolishing the roast.

Lawrence held her hand to keep her from straying off the path.

“…”

“Hmm?” Lawrence intoned. It had seemed like Holo was about to say something, but she merely shook her head.

“’Tis a good evening, is all,” said Holo, looking vaguely down at the ground.

Lawrence, of course, agreed. “Still, we’d soon turn rotten if we spent every evening thus.”

A week of such indulgence would empty his coin purse and turn his brains to mush, no doubt.

Holo seemed to agree.

She chuckled quietly.

“’Tis saltwater, after all.”

“Hmm?”

“Sweet saltwater…”

Was she drunk, or was she trying to snare him yet again? Lawrence considered a reply, but the mood was too lovely to spoil with boorish chatter. He said nothing, and at length they arrived at the inn.

No matter how drunk they are, town dwellers can always find their way home as long as they can walk, but it is a bit different for travelers. No matter how tired their feet, they can persevere until they reach their inn.

Holo seemed to collapse as soon as Lawrence opened the door to the inn’s entryway.

No, Lawrence thought, she’s probably just feigning sleep.

“Goodness. At any other inn, you’d be scolded by the innkeeper,” came Eve’s hoarse voice. She and Arold were huddled around the charcoal hearth, Eve’s head covered as usual.

“Only on the first night. After that, they’d give us a hearty laugh, no doubt.”

“She drinks that much?”

“As you can see.”

Eve chuckled voicelessly and sipped her wine.

Lawrence passed the two of them, staying next to Holo in order to support her, when Arold—who had been reclining in his chair, eyes closed and apparently sleeping—spoke up.

“About that fur merchant from the north. I talked with him. Said the snow’s light this year, good conditions for travel.”

“I appreciate your asking.”

“If you want to know more…I forgot to ask his name again.”

“It’s Kolka Kuus,” offered Eve.

Murmured Arold, “Ah yes, that was his name.”

Lawrence would have liked to stay longer in this relaxed atmosphere.

“That Kuus fellow is staying on the fourth floor. He said he was mostly free in the evenings, so if you want to know more, go ahead and stop by his room.”

Everything was going extremely well.

But Holo pulled on his sleeve as if to hurry him, so Lawrence paid his thanks to Arold and took his leave, and the two began to ascend the stairs. Just as they did, Lawrence caught a glimpse of Eve raising a wine cup to him, as if to say, “Hurry back down.”

Step by step, they climbed the staircase, finally arriving at their room and opening the door.

How many times had Lawrence half carried Holo back to a room like this?

Before he met Holo, he had drunk and celebrated any number of times, but he always returned to his inn room alone, where the fear lurked that shocked the intoxication and joy from him.

Yet the fear was not gone.

It had merely been replaced with a new fear, as he wondered how many times he would be able to do this with her.

Though he knew it to be impossible, there was no escaping how much he wanted to tell Holo the truth—that he wanted to continue traveling with her forever. He now felt that whatever shape it took, being with her was his dearest wish.

Smiling ruefully to himself, Lawrence turned down the blanket and had Holo sit on the bed. He had gotten so that he could tell when she wasn’t feigning sleep.

He unwrapped her cape and removed her robe, took her coat off, and helped her out of her shoes and sash—all with such skill it was almost sad. He then laid her down on the bed.

She slept so deeply he didn’t think she would notice if he was to fall upon her.

“…”

The wine helped such notions bubble up in his mind, but he suddenly remembered Holo’s shamelessness. She really wouldn’t notice, right up until the end.

There is nothing so futile as all this, he thought, wilting faster than a popping bubble.

“You’re awful,” Lawrence murmured to himself, blaming her for his own selfishness, when she surprised him by moving, drawing herself up a bit.

Holo opened her eyes and gradually focused on him.

“What’s wrong?” Lawrence asked, alarmed at the sudden thought that she might be feeling sick.

But that didn’t seem to be the case.

From beneath the blanket, Holo reached her hand out.

He took it without thinking. Her grip was weak.

“…”

“Huh?”

“…Scared,” said Holo, closing her eyes.

He wondered if she had been having a bad dream. When she opened her eyes again, her face was tinged with a lingering embarrassment, as though she’d said too much.

“What could you possibly have to be afraid of?” asked Lawrence in a cheery tone, and he thought he saw a grateful smile flicker on her face for a moment. “Everything’s going well right now, is it not? We have the books. We haven’t gotten swept up in any trouble. The path to the northlands is unseasonably clear. And”—he held her hand up for a moment, then lowered it—“we have yet to quarrel.”

This seemed to work.

Holo smiled, then closed her eyes again and sighed softly.

“You dunce…”

She snatched her hand away and wrapped herself up in the blanket.

There was only one thing Holo was afraid of.

Loneliness.

So was it the end of the journey that she feared? Lawrence himself feared it, and if that was the case, perhaps their travel proceeded too smoothly.

But even so, that didn’t quite seem to fit the expression on her face right now.

Holo did not open her eyes for some time. Just when Lawrence began to wonder if she was asleep, her ears twitched as if she anticipated something, and she stuck her chin out a bit. “…What I’m afraid of, it is…,” she began, then lowered her head when Lawrence reached out to caress it. “This is what I fear.”

“Huh?”

“Do you not understand?” Holo opened her eyes and looked at Lawrence.

Her eyes shone, not with scorn or anger but with terror.

Whatever it was, she truly feared it.

But Lawrence could not for the life of him imagine what that was. “I don’t. Unless…are you afraid of the end of our travels?” Lawrence managed to ask, though it took all his strength to do so.

Holo’s expression softened somehow. “That is, of course…frightening, yes. This has been the most fun I have had in a great while. But there is something I fear still more…”

She suddenly seemed very distant.

“’Tis well if you don’t understand. No”—she said, pulling her hand out from underneath the blanket and clasping the hand with which Lawrence still stroked her head—“even more than that, ’twould be troublesome if you did.”

She then laughed at some jest, covering her face with both hands.

Strangely, Lawrence did not feel like this was a rejection.

It rather seemed to be the opposite.

Holo curled up into a ball beneath the blanket, seeming this time to truly intend on sleeping.

—But then she popped her head out again, as though suddenly remembering something. “I do not mind if you go downstairs, so long as you do nothing to make me jealous.”

She had either noticed Eve’s gesture or was simply luring him into a trap.

In either case, she was correct about his plans. Lawrence patted her head lightly before answering. “Apparently I have a soft spot for jealous, self-loathing girls.”

Holo smiled, flashing her fangs. “I shall sleep now,” she said, then dove again beneath the blanket.

Lawrence still didn’t know what she feared.

But he wanted to allay that fear if he could.

He gazed at the palm of his hand, the sensation of her head beneath it was still palpable. He closed it lightly, as if to prevent it from disappearing.

He wanted to stay longer, but he needed to go and thank Eve for introducing him to Rigolo.

She was a merchant who might well be gone from the town tomorrow, depending on circumstances, and he didn’t want Eve to think of him as the kind of man who would tend to his companion before expressing proper gratitude.

After all, Lawrence himself had been a merchant for nearly half his life.

“I’ll be downstairs, then,” he murmured by way of some sort of excuse.

It occurred to Lawrence that what he’d told the barmaid earlier was true—that while he controlled the strings of his coin purse, his reins were tightly held. Frustratingly, he expected that fact was all too apparent from Holo’s perspective.

“…”

Yes, all he feared was the end of the journey.

But what did Holo fear?

Lawrence was lost in thought like a little boy.

Lawrence saw three inn patrons drinking on the second floor. One of them seemed like a merchant; the other two were probably itinerant craftsmen. If they had all been merchants, it was unlikely they would have been able to drink together so quietly, so Lawrence was confident in his guess.

He reached the first floor. Arold and Eve were still there.

It was almost as if time had stopped. Nothing had changed since he went upstairs. The two of them did not speak and stared in different directions.

“Did a witch sneeze?” Lawrence asked. It was a common superstition that a witch’s sneeze could stop time.

Arold only looked in Lawrence’s direction with his deep-set eyes.

If Eve hadn’t laughed, he would have worried he’d made some kind of faux pas.

“I’m a merchant, but not so the old man. Hard to make conversation,” said Eve.

Perhaps because there was nothing that served as a proper chair, she gestured at an empty wooden box.

“I was able to meet with Rigolo thanks to you. He certainly was a melancholy sort,” said Lawrence, taking the cup of wine Arold offered him. Someone could tell the stoic old man that his beloved daughter had come, and he probably wouldn’t even go out to meet her.

Eve laughed. “He is, isn’t he! There’s no helping a man that gloomy.”

“I do envy that technique of his, though.”

“So you saw that?” Eve said with a smile. “He likes you. If you could get him to help you with business, you’d be able to strip most merchants naked, don’t you think?”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t seem inclined.”

Rigolo was entirely indifferent to such things.

“That’s because he’s got everything he could ever want in that run-down, old place of his. You saw the garden, right?”

“It was incredible. You hardly ever see glass windows that large.”

Eve’s face was tilted down, but she looked up a bit and grinned at Lawrence’s purposefully merchantlike answer. “I’d never be able to handle such a life. I’d go mad, I tell you.”

Even if Lawrence didn’t feel as strongly about this, he understood Eve’s sentiment.

Merchants thought of profit roughly as often as they breathed.

“So did you hear about the meeting?” Eve’s eyes peered out from beneath her cowl. Arold turned an openly baleful gaze upon her. She looked away.

Lawrence wore a smile, but beneath that, his merchant’s face was ready.

“Apparently it’s finished,” he said.

Of course, Eve had no way of knowing whether or not that was true; she probably half doubted his answer.

That was assuming she didn’t have any background information. If she did, this new revelation might well tell her all sorts of things.

“And its conclusion?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t get that far.”

Eve looked closely at him from beneath her cowl, like a child staring at an hourglass waiting for it to run out, but presently she seemed to decide that no amount of gazing would reveal any more information.

She looked away, sipping her wine.

It was time to go on the offensive.

“Have you heard anything yourself, Eve?”

“Me? Ha! No, he’s completely suspicious of me. Still, whether or not I believe you…hmm. Did those words really come out of his mouth?”

“It may well be the truth,” said Lawrence.

If a conclusion had indeed been reached, then there might be others who knew what it was and whose lips would be looser. If the meeting’s conclusion wasn’t something that would profit foreign merchants, then no one would be harmed by its telling.

In the first place, official town meetings were held based on the assumption that their contents would be made public.

“What worries, me, though…,” started Lawrence.

“Mm?” Eve folded her arms and looked in his direction.

“…is why exactly you are pursuing this avenue of conversation in the first place, Eve.”

Lawrence thought Arold might have smiled.

In a conversation between merchants, the interests and motivations of the participants were obscure, indistinct.

“You certainly get right to the point. Either you’ve done more than piddling two-copper business somewhere along the line, or you didn’t come to do a proper negotiation.”

It was hard to imagine a woman having such steady resolve.

No, to be a woman and a merchant, she would have to have that resolve.

“I’m like the rest,” said Eve. “I want to know how I can turn this into a huge gain. That’s all. What else would there be?”

“You could be trying to avoid a huge loss.”

Lawrence remembered the Ruvinheigen incident.

Even if one understood such loss intellectually, it was impossible to truly imagine until one experienced it for him or herself.

“People have two eyes, but it’s no mean feat to watch two things at once. Though I suppose from a certain perspective, you’re right about trying to avoid a loss.”

“By which you mean…?” asked Lawrence. Eve scratched her head at this.

Arold watched them, smiling beneath his bushy beard. The two were like longtime boon companions.

“I trade in stone statues.”

“Of the Holy Mother?”

The statue in Rigolo’s house flashed through Lawrence’s mind.

“Didn’t you see the one in Rigolo’s place? It’s from a port town called Gerube on the western seacoast. I buy them there and sell them at the church here. That was my business. Since it just amounts to transporting and selling stone, there’s not much profit in it, but if you can get one blessed by the Church, it’ll sell for far more. The pagans are stronger in this region, so when the northern campaign comes through, it brings throngs of people who want to buy statues.”

It was the strange alchemy of the Church. Just like in Kumersun, where speculation and enthusiasm drove the price of iron pyrite sky-high, religious faith could easily be turned into cash.

It was enough to make Lawrence want to have a go at it.

“Unfortunately, I don’t see any of that profit, but in exchange, I moved a respectable amount. But that’s all wiped out with the cancellation of the northern campaign. I’ve learned firsthand that no one hangs you out to dry faster than the Church.”

It was hard to imagine a greater tragedy than carrying all your assets as heavy, unwieldy statues.

Transport costs would rise. Places to sell were limited. If she had gotten together credit to make her transaction bigger, her business might well suffocate.

Lawrence didn’t think a merchant of Eve’s stature would put all her risk in one place like that, so she probably wasn’t facing utter ruin—but it was still a serious blow.

It would hardly be strange if, in her frustration, she turned her eye to speculation.

“The Church’s influence is waning in the south, I hear. I’d been thinking it was time to stop loading my goods on a sinking ship—figured I’d make one last big deal, then make a break for it.”

This suggested that she wouldn’t be able to make a break for it unless she was able to make that one last deal.

“So,” continued Eve, “we were just talking about how if I manage to hit it big, we might as well head south.”

Lawrence didn’t have to ask with whom.

Beside her, Arold murmured, “Been thinking it’s about time for a pilgrimage.”

A trip like that wouldn’t be much different than looking for a place to bury his old bones.

Arold had been talking about going on a pilgrimage ever since Lawrence had started coming to his inn, but this time he sounded serious.

“So, that’s how it is,” said Eve, pulling Lawrence’s gaze to her. “Want to lend me some coin?”

The sudden request did not seem connected to anything.

Yet Lawrence was not particularly surprised. He’d had a certain premonition that something like this was coming.

“I’ve got some very accurate information about the content of the council meeting,” said Eve. “I can make all the arrangements. I just need money.”

Her eyes were fixed steadily on Lawrence. She almost glared at him, but he could tell that it was something of an act.

“If I look at the details of the investment and decide the risk is worth the profit—with pleasure.”

“It’s the fur trade. You’ll double your money.” No merchant in the world would get on board with such a short explanation, but Eve seemed to understand that. She lowered her voice and continued calmly. “The Council of Fifty is going to provisionally allow fur sales to merchants.”

“What’s your source?” It was probably useless to ask—like trying to get a barmaid to tell her real age.

“The Church.”

“Even though they turned their back on you?” Lawrence shot back.

Eve shrugged, smiling. “We might have split on bad terms, but everyone knows to leave a few sympathetic contacts behind.”

Lawrence obviously couldn’t trust her, but she didn’t seem to be lying, either. It was a lot easier to believe this explanation than if she had just claimed to have heard it from Rigolo. “So what’s the deal?”

“The provision will be that anyone buying furs will have to do so with cash.”

There on the brink of the possible monopolization of the town’s fur trade, Lawrence had wondered what decision would be handed down—but the cleverness of this particular plan made him speak without thinking.

“So they’re not saying ‘no sales,’ but at the same time, merchants from distant places are hardly carrying significant coin.”

“Exactly. But they can’t very well return empty-handed, so they’ll buy whatever fur they can afford with the miniscule cash they have on hand.”

This meant that with cash, it would be possible to buy up the fine furs of Lenos and take them to some other town.

But something bothered Lawrence.

Now that Eve had told him this, there was nothing stopping him from cutting her out of the deal and doing it himself.

“You seem strangely comfortable talking about this with me.”

“If all you care about is making a little extra allowance, then by all means, go do this deal yourself.”

Eve’s expression was unreadable beneath her cowl.

Was she merely looking down on him, or was there some reason why this deal couldn’t work with just one person?

He couldn’t say anything careless, Lawrence concluded, as he waited for her to continue.

“In reality, you don’t actually have that much money, do you?”

“I won’t disagree.”

“Then you shouldn’t waste this opportunity. You didn’t even know Rigolo before I introduced you. Who in this town would be willing to lend you money?”

She was quite correct.

But something occurred to Lawrence, and it sent a chill down his spine.

It was possible that the reason Eve approached him in the first place was in order to evaluate him as an investor. If so, there was a huge discrepancy in the information they had.

Lawrence didn’t know anything about her.

“True, but I could head back to a different city and raise the money there. But isn’t that what you’re counting on me doing anyway by proposing I invest in this opportunity?”

He didn’t have a large amount of cash, and there was nowhere in this town where he could borrow the money, so that had to be it.

But Eve shook her head slowly. “Naturally, I took a look at you and your companion, the way you paid for the inn, and I figured if you went all in, you’d be good for maybe a thousand pieces of trenni silver. But by the time you get it together, the furs will be bought up is my guess.”

The back of the back was the front.

The more careful Lawrence was to stay out of Eve’s trap, the more tangled up he felt his feet becoming.

Wasn’t the decision of the council intended to prevent all the fur from being bought up?

At a glance, the idea of limiting fur purchases to cash only had struck him as a clever plan.

“You don’t actually think that all those merchants outside of town are just hanging out there separately for no reason, do you?”

“Somebody with real money is using them to make an even bigger profit,” Lawrence suddenly realized.

“Yup. This, friend, is a trade war.”

“A trade…war?”

It was an unfamiliar term and was the first time Lawrence had heard the phrase, but something about it made his merchant heart tremble.

“I guess you don’t spend a lot of time near the sea. Go into any tavern in a port town and drink with the merchants there. You’ll hear talk of the trade wars, believe me. It’s not something that just happens out of nowhere. We’re merchants, not bandits. The attacker has to make preparations well in advance.”

That stood to reason. There wasn’t a merchant in the world who didn’t carefully inspect his merchandise.

“Odds are, the merchants camped outside the town are taking guesses at how the council decision is going to go and firming up their plans. How many people with money do you think there are in this town?”

Posed this question out of the blue, there was no way to be sure—except Lawrence was a merchant.

A rough estimate based on the size of the town appeared immediately in his head.

“The number of trading firms worth mentioning…maybe twenty, of various sizes. Shops specializing in a particular kind of good…perhaps two or three hundred. Maybe the same number of prosperous craftsmen.”

“Roughly, yes. And among those, the question is how many will put their own gain in front of the town’s.”

Lawrence could not answer that question. Not because he lacked information about the town, but rather because people always hid their selfish desires even as they tried to fulfill them.

“Anyway, if even one of those trading firms chooses treachery, they’ll sneak away with all the fur. If they operated through a branch office of another town, it would be easy to hide what they were doing.”

Merchants were a generally sociable group and would not lightly betray a town in which they had operated profitably for years. But enough profit would cause anyone’s loyalty to waver.

“Of course,” continued Eve, “I doubt a large trading company would turn traitor. Nowadays everything’s recorded in account ledgers, so it would be easy to see what they’d done. If they secretly lent money to an outside merchant, it could be traced.”

Lawrence understood immediately. “Even if they had a hidden, unrecorded source of money, the council could stop that with a single line, ‘The source of all money used to purchase furs must be confirmed.’”

He had thought that the foreign merchant registration plaques being handed out at the town gates were to prevent foreign merchants from laying unexpected traps, but now the practice felt much more significant than that.

Lawrence thought back to the strangely thorough inspection he and Holo had undergone. In retrospect, it had probably been to prevent travelers from bringing large amounts of money into the city.

Had the council arrived at its decision even then?

“But there are many, many other people with money outside of trading companies. The heads of the tanneries and the people who trade in the fur-tanning materials all have reason to be pessimistic about the future of the fur trade in this town. They’re going to be looking for capital in order to get into new businesses, and they’ll be happy to deal with the merchants that are threatening the town in order to raise that capital. The council’s policy probably is the best choice they have, but hardly anyone actually thinks that such a policy is going to stop the fur from being completely bought up. Let me say it again—”

Eve’s voice was cold.

“—this town’s fur will be completely bought out.”

Was she suggesting that they close that gap and buy it themselves?

Defeating the merchants who planned to monopolize Lenos’s fur trade meant being both inside and outside the town.

They must have understood that as long as they tried to infiltrate the town, not only would the council decision not come down, but the defensive measures the town took would only be redoubled—so they made camp outside of town.

In that case, even when the council’s decision did come out, the merchants wouldn’t immediately enter the town. They would only make their move after the public proclamation, ensuring it couldn’t be reversed.

It was not impossible that Lawrence and Eve would be able to buy up the fur.

“You know then that there’s no time to go to another city and borrow the money, so I can’t help you. As you said, I have no connections here,” said Lawrence.

This was the most puzzling part.

What was Eve planning?

Blue eyes peered out from beneath her cowl.

“Ah, but you do have one huge asset.”

Lawrence quickly ran through the list of what he had on hand.

Nothing that could be called a “huge asset” came to mind.

In any case, if Eve knew about it, then it had to be something that was immediately obvious.

The only thing Lawrence could think of was his horse.

Then something else occurred to him. He looked back at Eve in disbelief.

“That’s right. You have your lovely companion.”

“…That’s absurd.”

Lawrence was now completely honest.

Though what he meant was not that he couldn’t possibly sell Holo, but rather that selling Holo could not possibly raise the amount of money they required.

While it was true that Holo was a striking beauty, that was not something that could immediately be turned into a thousand silver pieces. If it could, beautiful girls everywhere would be constantly getting kidnapped.

It was possible Eve had figured out Holo wasn’t human, but even if that was so, it didn’t change the situation.

“I figured you’d think so. But there’s a reason I chose you.” Eve wore a thin smile for a reason Lawrence did not understand.

Perhaps she was merely that confident in herself, or perhaps she was drunk on her own plan. Or perhaps—

Eve removed her cowl, exposing her short, beautiful golden hair and blue eyes. “We’ll claim she’s a nobleman’s daughter and sell her.”

“Wha—?”

“Think it’s impossible?” Eve grinned, baring her right canine tooth.

It was a smile of self-derision.

“My name is Fleur Bolan. Formally, I am Fleur von Eiterzentel Bolan, eleventh heir to the Bolan clan, which swears fealty to the kingdom of Winfiel. We are title-bearing nobility.”

Laughter seemed impossible in the face of so ridiculous a joke.

The eyes and ears that were Lawrence’s most important tools told him that Eve was not lying.

“Of course, we’re fallen nobility that have trouble even finding food, but the name is grand, isn’t it? Once we fell so low that we couldn’t afford even bread to feed ourselves, I was sold to a newly wealthy merchant.”

That was often the path down which fallen nobility were forced, and it explained her bitter smile.

Despite having fallen from grace, these proud nobles often had their titles and their bodies bought by wealthy merchants.

If this was true, it would explain Eve’s strangely world-weary merchant’s mien.

“That’s the kind of woman I am, so that’s why I know one or two places to sell a girl with a noble name. What say you?”

This was business territory Lawrence had never entered before.

Once he had amassed some wealth, the first thing a merchant would do was gild his own name. The massively wealthy owner of a successful trading company might once have been a garbage collector’s orphan; such things were not rare. And apparently there were noble titles that one could buy with enough money. Lawrence had heard of such things but had never come face-to-face with the phenomenon.

But here in front of him was Eve, who had been bought in exactly that fashion.

“Your companion can easily pass as nobility. I would know,” she said with a smile.

Her voice had turned low and hoarse after she’d suffered such a cursed fate, no doubt.

“Naturally, selling her is not the objective. As I said before, they’re going to limit fur purchases to cash only in order to prevent a run on the fur market, but the trading firms here won’t lend money to an outside merchant, right? But there’s more than one kind of trading firm. If you can give them a good enough reason to, they’ll float you a loan in exchange for a cut of the profits, and I happen to know one. ‘Selling a noble maiden’ is just a pretense, and the trading firm understands that. They just need her as collateral in case our deal falls through. That’s how I can guarantee it.”

Lawrence found himself half-impressed at the convoluted explanation, but there was no way he was going to toss Holo into hock. It was far too dangerous. Even setting aside the issue of her own safety, if things went badly, there was no question that his life as a merchant would be over.

“I—no, we’re not asking you to pawn off your precious companion.”

“We?” repeated Lawrence, doubt in his voice. Eve shot a side-long glance at Arold, who had been silent the whole time.

“I’m going on a pilgrimage,” said Arold abruptly.

The old man had said it every time Lawrence stayed at the inn.

But Eve had said “we.” That meant that Eve had joined up with Arold. It had to be that he really was going on a pilgrimage, and he was leaving Eve in charge of his assets and inn.

And pilgrimages could last for years, sometimes more than a decade. For Arold to go on such a journey at his age meant that he would never again set foot in Lenos.

Which meant—

“This may well be my last chance to go on the journey. I’ve thought to do it many times in the past and have been able to put away some capital for it. But I was never able to work up the resolve…”

Lawrence’s stomach hurt from the suspense.

Arold gave a tired smile and looked at Eve.

He must have weathered some heavy persuasion from the woman.

Then from beneath his wrinkled eyelids, his blue eyes turned toward Lawrence.

“I’ll hand over this inn.”

Lawrence’s breath caught in his throat.

“After all, don’t all merchants dream of the same thing?” asked Eve, her voice only now as bright as the noble maid she had once been.