Spice & Wolf II (18 page)

Looking at her sad, serious manner, even Lawrence could easily imagine that sometime in Holo’s past, someone had said something careless and hurtful, something that she still felt resentment over.

But Lawrence was a merchant. He was always careful with his words.

“So—you’ll need to show me something. Do knights not entrust their swords and shields as proof of their good faith? You’re a merchant, so what will you show me?

Lawrence had also heard the tales of knights who would hand over their swords and shields—said to be their very souls—when swearing oaths of loyalty.

So what, then, of a merchant? The answer was obvious: money.

Lawrence could just imagine Holo’s unamused expression if he handed her a purse full of coins.

He needed to buy something for her, something that would both make her happy and stand for the money—his merchant’s soul—that he would unhesitatingly use for her sake.

The item that sprang immediately to mind was the ultimate luxury: honeyed peach preserves.

"Fine,” said Lawrence. “I’ll show you I don’t say such things lightly.”

Her eyes filled with a mixture of suspicion and anticipation.

If he could somehow answer the question in those red-brown pupils of hers, well—than honeyed peach preserves would be a bargain.

"I’ll buy you some honeyed peach...”

That was as far as Lawrence got before a strange feeling came over him, specifically regarding the triangular kerchief on Holo’s head.

Holo cocked her head curiously at the frozen Lawrence.

Then, with a quick “Oh,” she hastily put her hands to her head.

Don’t tell me you—,” Lawrence started.

“Wh-what? What’s wrong? You were about to say you would buy me something?”

He had to give her credit for staying shameless, but Lawrence wasn’t going to simply laugh this off.

Looking at the kerchief on her head made it obvious. Beneath it, her ears had been twitching strangely, vigorously. That was the proof.

This was all part of her plan.

“You know, there are some things you just can’t do!” he said.

Holo seemed to realize that her plan had failed, and now suddenly sullen, she stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “You said I should ask more charmingly!”

For a moment Lawrence didn’t follow her, but then he remembered their conversation on the outskirts of Poroson. Exasperated, he looked up to the heavens.

“No, I said you should ask nicely. I never said anything about feminine wiles!”

“But I was charming, was I not?”

Lawrence hated himself for not having a ready reply, and hated himself still more for not becoming angrier with her.

“Though I must say,” continued Holo, “you were twice as charming. That was far more exciting than if my plan had gone as I meant it to.”

Finally, at a loss for words, Lawrence simply walked down the road.

Holo laughed and followed him.

“Come now, don’t be angry!”

When he gave her a look that said “whose fault is that?” she just laughed at him harder.

“I was happy, though, truly. Are you still angry?”

Lawrence found his expression softened by the way Holo's swaying, chestnut-brown hair complemented her smile.

He suddenly very much wanted to share a drink with his reliably silent horse—who was male.

“Fine, I’m not mad. I’m not mad—okay?”

Holo let slip a private smile as if enjoying her victory, exhaling before she spoke again.

“It won’t do to get separated. May I take your hand?”

To return to their lodgings, they would have to reenter the crowded streets, but even separated from Lawrence, Holo would have no trouble finding her way.

So it was an obvious pretense.

She was a canny old wolf, indeed. Lawrence relented. “Yes, we mustn’t get separated,” he agreed.

Holo smiled, and her hand slipped into his.

All Lawrence could do was tighten his grip ever so slightly on that hand.

“So, what about my honeyed peach preserves?”

The cathedral bells rang out to signal noontime—and the beginning of a new battle.

The Remelio Company was a wholesaler that operated a shop in the Church city of Ruvinheigen.

Lawrence, betting that he would be able to turn a profit, had half threatened the Latparron Company into letting him buy up more armor than he had assets to secure. In order to pay them back, he planned to sell to the Remelio Company, which Latparron often dealt with—and there would be no need to return all the way to Poroson to repay his debt. He’d just have them record it in their ledgers and that would be that.

He entered a street one block removed from a crowded main road and arrived at the Remelio Company.

It was the rear entrance, where a large area was reserved for loading and unloading goods.

In a city the size of Ruvinheigen, unloading goods through a shop’s front entrance was considered uncivilized. If you tried it on a street with heavy traffic, you’d be laughed at, at best, and at worst, you would not be able to sell your goods at all. In fact, in many places, merchants weren’t even supposed to take their wagons on streets with heavy traffic.

This was why, on the side streets running parallel to the main street, horses pulling wagons often outnumbered pedestrians. Lawrence knit his brows.

The area around the Remelio Company seemed oddly quiet.

“Is this company managed by monks?” Holo asked.

“With monks, I’d at least expect to hear prayers. But I don’t hear a thing.”

Holo, munching on a bread roll, lightly took off her kerchief and started to prick up her ears, but Lawrence had no time for such roundabout methods.

He got off the driver’s seat, crossed the slope for wagons to pass through, and entered the loading dock.

Buildings were densely packed, and maintaining a loading dock in Ruvinheigen—a city where people constantly joked that buildings were so close together that “poor people can sleep between them standing up”—was not easy. Yet the Remelio Company’s dock could accommodate at least three wagons with space for easily a hundred sacks of wheat. There was a table for conducting negotiations and an exchange stand in the corner, and the walls were decorated with parchment on which blessings for good commerce had been written.

It was a magnificent dock.

But livestock feed was scattered everywhere, along with pieces of horse dung and the remains of this and that cargo. Clearly, no one was tending to its upkeep, and there was not a dockmaster in sight.

Business comes and goes, so it would not be outlandish to have times when there are simply no customers. But it was still common sense to keep your shop neat and tidy.

It was as if the company had been destroyed. Lawrence withdrew and got back in the wagon’s seat. Holo appeared to have finished her bread and now rummaged around for her meat pie, which, if Lawrence remembered correctly, was supposed to be his.

“If you eat that much, the sound of your chewing is going to wreck that hearing you’re so proud of.”

“Nicely put—but for the sake of my reputation, I should tell you I can hear the sound of someone in the building.”

Holo then bit down enthusiastically on the meat pie. She was clearly not going to have just a bit.

“There’s someone there?”

“Mm...mmph...mrgh. Seems dangerous, though. At the very least, it’s nothing pleasant.”

Hearing this, the five wooden stories of the Remelio Company, given the state of its loading dock, started to seem downright sinister. Nothing was so cursed as a trading company that had gone bankrupt. When that happened, the local church usually found itself very busy conducting funerals for the newly deceased.

“Well, there’s no point wandering around here. We can’t make money if we can’t sell the goods.”

“A meat pie’s no good until you eat it,” agreed Holo.

“I was saving that!”

Lawrence shot Holo a glare before moving the wagon and got an equally sour look for his trouble.

But perhaps eating the whole thing would have been a bit too much guilt—Holo split the pie and offered one half to Lawrence.

It was about a quarter of what he had originally planned to eat, hut as complaining might have cost him what little was left, he •Hatched the piece up.

Normally meat pies were made with ground beef that was approaching the expiration date set by the butchers guild, but here in Ruvinheigen, the meat pies were as noble as the city itself.

The meat was entirely tasty, and Lawrence ate his pie in two bites as he drove the wagon up to the deserted loading dock.

The horse’s hooves clopped against the ground, and it seemed as though their familiar sound reached the ears of the people within. Lawrence drove the wagon up, climbing down from the driver’s seat just as the dockmaster finally emerged.

“I daresay there are a few hours left before the sabbath—so what is the matter?” said Lawrence.

“Er, well, that is...did sir come to the city today...?” The middle-aged dockmaster slurred his words initially, but his fat ulties seemed to return to him as he appraised Lawrence.

Those eyes were like a thief eyeing his mark’s coin purse, and Law-rence’s merchant instinct sensed danger. The dockmaster seemed ragged now that Lawrence got a look at him. This was a place of physical labor, so he would hardly be standing ramrod straight, but even so, Lawrence could tell if someone was filled with vigor.

This was not good. This was clearly not good.

“No, I came a few days ago. You know how it goes. Well, you seem busy, so I’ll come by later. I’m in no special hurry”

Lawrence avoided making eye contact, and without waiting for the dockmaster’s reply, he turned back to the wagon.

Holo seemed to sense something off as well. She looked to Lawrence questioningly but soon nodded. Despite her appearance as a normal town girl, her wits were extraordinary. She didn’t boast of being a wisewolf for nothing.

But the dockmaster did not give up so easily.

“Well, now, do wait just a moment, sir. I can tell sir is a trader of some repute. It would be rude of me to let sir leave empty-handed."

If Lawrence just refused the man, there was no telling how his reputation might spread around the city.

But the merchant blood fairly frothed in his veins.

Run, it said. This is dangerous.

“Not at all,” replied Lawrence. “I’m a merchant with little besides complaints to sell.”

It was only a third-rate merchant who was so clumsily self-effacing when selling. Humility was a virtue for men of the cloth, but for traders, it was like sticking one’s head in a noose.

But Lawrence had judged that escape was the best plan. Holo’s frozen posture reinforced this decision.

“Sir shouldn’t sell himself so cheaply! Even a blind beggar could tell sir is a man of stature!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” said Lawrence, sitting in the wagon seat and grabbing the reins. The dockmaster seemed to be able to tell that it was time to relent. He had been leaning forward so earnestly that he almost stumbled, but now he righted himself.