Spice and Wolf, Vol. 5

by Isuna Hasekura

He then set the book down as Holo directed him to.

  Just as he wondered what she was doing, Holo strode toward him and took his hand.

  “Right, right, left, left, left, right—you see, do you not?”

  He didn’t even have to think about this.

  It was the ancient dance that Holo had danced in the story.

  But when he stood near her, Lawrence understood.

  It was obvious what lay beneath her bright exterior.

  Holo said that she wanted to stop traveling because it was too much fun.

  “This dance is bad if you’re drinking, though. Your eyes will start to swim before you know it,” she said, looking up at Lawrence and smiling, then dropping her gaze to the floor. “So it’s right, right, left and left, left, right—got it? Right, here we go!”

  Lawrence had never danced a proper dance before, although Holo had forced him out into the streets on Kumersun’s festival night where he had danced all night.

  With that much practice, anyone would be halfway decent.

  When Holo cried out “There!” and put her foot out, Lawrence matched her and did likewise.

  Norah the shepherdess had done the shepherd’s dance to prove her identity. Dances were everywhere. There were countless dances, but they all resembled one another.

  Lawrence matched his steps to hers on the first go, which visibly surprised Holo.

  “Hmph.”

  She had probably looked forward to making fun of his clumsiness, thinking it would not go so easily.

  Step, step, step…They moved their bodies lightly and easily, and soon it was Lawrence who was leading Holo, her feet being more prone to getting tangled. Once a person understood that this sort of thing was more about confidence than technique, all one needed was audacity.

  But Holo’s surprise only dulled her movements for a moment.

  Soon she was gliding smoothly, occasionally becoming slightly confused in an obviously deliberate manner. Lawrence wondered if she was trying to make him step on her feet.

  He would not fall for it, of course.

  “Hnn—hmph.”

  They looked like two puppets whose strings were being controlled in unison. That was how closely their movements matched.

  Right, right, left, left, left, right—the movements were simple, but they continued through the steps of the dance there in the small room without stopping once.

  It was only when Holo surprisingly stepped on Lawrence’s foot that the dance came to an end.

  “Whoops—” was all Lawrence had time to say before they fortunately wound up together on the bed.

  Their hands remained clasped together.

  Lawrence unpleasantly suspected Holo of doing this on purpose, but she looked stunned, as though she had no idea of what had just happened.

  At length, she returned to herself and met Lawrence’s eyes.

  “…What are we doing here?”

  “I suspect it would be better not to ask.”

  Holo ducked her head ticklishly and showed her canines.

  She seemed genuinely happy.

  Perhaps that is how she found the ability to continue.

  “The direction to my homeland was also written.”

  Lawrence remembered the contents of the book, a smile lingering on his face from their foolish exchange, and nodded.

  In the book, it was written that Holoh of the Wheat Tail came from the mountains of Roef, twenty days’ journey on foot in the direction of sleep and birth.

  North was sleep, and east was birth. Giving meanings to directions like this was not uncommon.

  And the most decisive part of the tale was the reference to the mountains of Roef.

  Lawrence knew the name.

  It was the name of a tributary of the Roam River, which itself flowed past Lenos.

  There was very little doubt that within the mountains of Roef were the headwaters of the Roef River. With this much information, Holo could easily find her way home, even on her own.

  And Lawrence doubted his expectations were wrong.

  His only mistake had been loading that wheat into his wagon bed that day in Pasloe.

  “So, have you read them all?” Lawrence asked quickly, lest the silence expose their lies for what they were.

  As Lawrence and Holo began to sit up, their joined hands separated.

  “I have. The oldest tells the tale of the beginning of this town, of the person who set up the first pillar of the first building for people to live in, though it was uncertain whether he was really a person.”

  “A friend of yours, then?”

  “Maybe.” Holo laughed at the banter. “Still,” she said, righting herself, “we ought to return the books before we spill wine on them. It’s not as though we need to copy them, and most of it was already in my head to begin with.”

  “Indeed. And there’s no guarantee you won’t fall asleep on them and get drool all over the pages.”

  “I do not do such things.”

  “I know. Just like you don’t snore,” said Lawrence with a smile, standing up from the bed—pretending as though if he didn’t, he was liable to be bitten.

  “Would you like me to tell you just what things you talk about in your sleep?” Holo asked, eyes half-lidded.

  Lawrence’s heart skipped a beat at her words.

  It was all he could do to keep the sadness he felt at this exchange from showing on his face.

  “I expect it goes something like this: ‘I beg you, please, don’t eat any more!’”

  There were also frequent dreams where he was able to eat as much delicious food as he wanted.

  Yet since meeting Holo, he had seen his nightmare of having to foot the bill for someone eating like that come true many a time.

  “You’re making fully enough to pay for it,” retorted Holo, climbing off the bed opposite Lawrence.

  As if they were pretending to quarrel.

  “Sure, in hindsight. If we hadn’t made money in Kumersun, you would literally be devouring all my assets.”

  “Hmph. Doesn’t the saying go, ‘If you’ve eaten poison, you may as well eat the whole dish?’ If it came to that, I’d just gobble you up, too.” Holo licked her lips theatrically, looking at Lawrence with hunger in her eyes.

  He had known this was an act for ages.

  But something different lay behind that look that he now understood painfully well.

  Somewhere along the line, their bond had been broken. It was very sad, but not so sad that he couldn’t bear it.

  What was saddest was that it was because of a mean-spirited god.

  “I’ll just bet. So, once we’ve returned the book, what do you want to eat?” queried Lawrence.

  Holo’s tail swished as she smiled unpleasantly. “We’ll decide that once we’re there.”

  Their conversations, at least, were as fun as they always had been.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next day Holo and Lawrence left the inn shortly past noon, telling Arold that they were going to Rigolo’s house but would return.

  It seemed unlikely that during the short time they would be out, the council’s decision would be made public, but there was always a chance. Arold nodded silently, never taking his eyes off the charcoal fire.

  They ventured out into the town, again walking down its cramped, narrow streets.

  Unlike the previous time, puddles were in short supply—as was conversation.

  Holo asked him over and over again about details of the deal she had long since understood, just to show she was being thoughtful.

  “Seems all is going well, then,” she finally said.

  One of the spots where Lawrence had so gallantly lent Holo his hand to help her cross was gone. In its place was a hole, perhaps dug by some mischievous youngster, and although the water level was lower, it was still a puddle.

  Thus, it was the only opportunity Lawrence had to once again extend his hand, which Holo accepted before crossing the hole.

  “Yes, all’s well
. A little too well,” he said.

  “You’ve been burned many times in the past,” said Holo, eliciting a smile from Lawrence.

  His fear was mostly because of the size of the profit that awaited him on the other side of the deal.

  He didn’t think Eve was laying a trap for him, and in any case, luring someone into a clever setup was not such a simple thing to do.

  They were borrowing money, buying up goods, and selling them at a profit—that was all.

  As long as their trading succeeded, there was naught to worry about.

  If she were trying to strong-arm him into some kind of trap, like forcibly stealing the goods from him midway, she wouldn’t have suggested a ship for transport.

  The river was a more important trade route than the road, and many vessels plied it.

  It would be nearly impossible for a robbery to be carried out along it without someone noticing.

  There really seemed to be no problems.

  “How many thousands did my body fetch, I wonder?”

  “Mm, about two thousand.”

  More properly, this was the amount fetched by Eve’s house name, not Holo’s body.

  “Oh ho. How much wine would that buy?”

  “An unbelievable amount of the finest quality.”

  “And you’re going to take that money and profit with it, yes?”

  Holo was demanding her cut, and Lawrence had every intention of giving it to her.

  “If all goes well, I’ll treat you to as much drink as you like.”

  Holo giggled. “Then I’ll have…,” she began but then hastily closed her mouth.

  After a moment of confusion, Lawrence realized what she was going to say.

  Then I’ll have enough to stay drunk my whole life.

  But that was an impossible dream.

  “Then I’ll have…enough so that I start vomiting even before I’m drunk,” said Holo the Wisewolf.

  Lawrence the traveling merchant could hardly fail to retort, “What? You lost the drinking game?”

  “Yes…Still, that’s quite natural. Think about it, will you? My opponent was not as beautiful as I, but she still had looks enough—and poured such wine into her guts as made her face turn red and her cheeks puff out. Once I, a proud wisewolf, saw what a disgrace I would have to become, I couldn’t stop my gorge from rising.”

  No doubt they had both been “a disgrace,” but Holo’s vain excuse was undeniably Holo-like. Lawrence had to laugh.

  Holo folded her arms and made a sour face. There was a tomboyish innocence about her.

  How fun the conversation would have been if it had not all been an act.

  “In any case, you seem to enjoy liquor well enough, despite your loss,” said Lawrence.

  To which Holo answered, “You are only and ever a fool.”

  When they reached Rigolo’s house, he was not there.

  Melta received them in her nun’s habit as always.

  “You were very fast to read them all. It takes me near a month to read even one short tale,” she said.

  She seemed to speak not out of humility but rather bashfulness, her smile carrying with it an aura of kindness.

  Lawrence couldn’t help noticing this, but as Melta retrieved the key from Rigolo’s desk and led them in, Holo didn’t kick him even once.

  “Mr. Rigolo said to tell you that if there is anything else you need, please feel free to borrow it,” said Melta, using the key to open the door to the archives, then lighting a beeswax candle.

  “Anything you want to read?” Lawrence asked Holo, who nodded vaguely.

  “Please do look around, then. No matter how valuable these books, it seems a bit sad to let them go unread,” said Melta.

  “Thank you very much,” said Lawrence, smiling and ducking his head by way of a bow.

  Melta’s personality seemed entirely genuine, instead of simply being a product of her occupation.

  “I should say that the books you borrowed were written by Mr. Rigolo’s grandfather, and as such use modern language. Some of the older books, however, use archaic writing styles and may be difficult to read.”

  Holo nodded at Melta’s statement, then took the wax candle from her and proceeded slowly into the archives. Lawrence doubted there were actually any books she wanted to read and assumed Holo just wanted to kill time.

  Her dancing with him in the inn, too, must have been something she anticipated in a way.

  Even having understood everything, this was fun, and she had anticipated being able to end their journey with smiles.

  But he knew that was impossible.

  “Er—”

  “Yes?” Melta had been watching the candle Holo held, but she now turned to Lawrence.

  “I hate to be presumptuous, but would you mind terribly showing me Mr. Rigolo’s garden?”

  The gloom of the archives was fostering dark thoughts in Lawrence’s mind, and he was starting to scare himself.

  But Melta showed not so much as a dewdrop of concern. “I’m sure the flowers in the garden will be pleased to see you,” she said with a smile that glowed like the wax candle.

  “Holo,” Lawrence called out, and her head appeared from behind one of the bookshelves. “Be careful with the books.”

  “I know, I know.”

  Melta laughed pleasantly. “It’s quite all right. Mr. Rigolo’s way of handling them is much worse, I assure you.”

  Lawrence more or less had the sense that this was true, and having warned Holo, he let Melta lead him out of the archives and back up to the ground floor.

  He looked forward to gazing upon that bright garden and thinking about nothing in particular.

  “Would you care for something to drink?”

  “Ah, er, no—don’t trouble yourself.” Lawrence waved off Melta’s kind offer, and she gave a short bow before quietly leaving the room.

  If he had come on business, then his presence would have profited his host as well, so he wouldn’t have worried about accepting their kindness. But as it was, Lawrence was presuming upon their good graces and didn’t want to accept any more than he had to.

  One of the Church’s core principles was “give all you are able to.”

  “Ah, well,” he ventured to say, putting an end to the thought. He didn’t want to think about anything.

  Lawrence turned his eyes to Rigolo’s garden.

  He had heard that making transparent glass was quite difficult. The price aside, constructing these huge windows must have involved many problems.

  On the other side of the wall, through countless pieces of glass all joined together, there was a garden that looked as if it had taken even more work.

  It was eerie, seeing the green plants, the white blossoms.

  Rigolo had bragged that with some effort, he could preserve such scenery within this room year-round.

  If that was true, then Rigolo must have sat at this desk, never bored with the scene that greeted him every time he looked at the garden.

  Surely Melta, who seemed to look after Rigolo, must have gazed in fond exasperation at his back.

  It made Lawrence frankly jealous. He grinned regretfully at his own folly, then looked back into the study.

  It overflowed with papers and parchment and looked quite messy at a glance, though on closer inspection, the room was revealed to be tidy indeed. Rather than calling it a home or workplace, the term nest seemed most appropriate, given its scattered state.

  Lawrence wondered if it was Eve’s closeness to Rigolo that led him to have one of her statues in the room.

  Or perhaps he’d had one of the leftovers foisted off on him.

  It was packed with cotton in a wooden box, along with a rolled-up piece of parchment that was probably the certificate of consecration from the Church.

  The statue was about the size of both of his hands with their fingers outstretched.

  Lawrence looked at it closely, wondering how much it went for when he noticed something strange.

  The
statue’s surface was slightly faded.

  “What’s this?”

  In order to improve their appearance, statues were sometimes rubbed with lime and sometimes ink. This statue of the Holy Mother was white, so surely lime had been used on it.

  But in a place where that finish seemed to have come off, Lawrence saw something strange.

  He rubbed the statue lightly, trying to wipe it clean.

  “…This, it can’t be—”

  “Is something the matter?” The sudden voice brought him back to himself.

  He turned around. It was Melta. “Oh, goodness…this is rather embarrassing. I just thought this statue of the Holy Mother was so well made, I could do with having her hear my troubles.”

  “Goodness.” Melta’s eyes widened slightly, and she smiled. “I am a lamb in the Church’s flock, so I would be happy to hear your worries.”

  Evidently Melta was not a hardheaded nun.

  “I shall restrain myself,” said Lawrence.

  Melta carried a beautifully carved wooden tray with a compact wooden cup and a metal pitcher on it. “This is a drink made from bread, though I don’t know if it will suit you.”

  The tray and cup had such soft, lovely lines that Lawrence wondered if Melta had made them herself. “Kvass, is it?”

  “Goodness, sir merchant, you’re quite knowledgeable,” answered Melta, pouring a pale brown liquid from the pitcher into the cup.

  “It hasn’t been popular recently, so you don’t see it much these days.”

  “I myself prefer it to the Blood of God…ah, er—please forget I said that!”

  By the “Blood of God,” she surely meant grape wine.

  For the quiet Melta to make a joke, it was charming indeed.

  Lawrence nodded and put his index finger to his lips.

  If this were Ruvinheigen or Kumersun or Tereo, he would have treated Melta a bit differently, fearing Holo’s revenge.

  And yet if asked if he was truly enjoying this conversation, Lawrence would have answered in the negative.

  His mind was racing with the knowledge he’d gained from the statue of the Holy Mother.

  “Here you go,” said Melta, offering him the drink.

  Feeling as though Melta’s gentle demeanor was a balm on his frayed heart, Lawrence took the cup.