Side Colors II

by Isuna Hasekura

  “Fundamentally, the amount of profit to be gained in a trade is always balanced between its participants.”

  “I know that. That’s why Milton doesn’t want to deal with the trading company anymore and was looking for someone like me.”

  Olar nodded but continued. “Which means that the company that normally does business with the Post house will see substantially less profit. Do you think they will look kindly upon this? Trading companies are cunning and sly.”

  “Huh?” Fleur retorted, but soon smiled. “Oh. Don’t worry about that. It’s the opposite.”

  Now it was Olar’s turn to retort. “The opposite?”

  “Yes. The Jones Company that introduced me to Milton did so in order to increase their own profit. Milton was buying clothes from another company and selling them on, but the Jones Company wants his sales expertise for themselves. In exchange for switching sides, Milton had a condition: Find him a different source of funding.”

  Olar’s unwavering eyes were slowly hidden behind his eyelids. A few moments later they opened again, and his gaze moved away from Fleur. “So the procurement comes via the Jones Company.”

  “That’s right. Milton buys from the Jones Company, which helps them break into the clothing business. They establish a relationship with Milton. There’s no downside for them at all. Of course”—Fleur paused, briefly proud of herself for speaking so eloquently in front of Olar like this; she got the feeling that he was smiling a bit at her dramatics—“for Milton and me, there’s nothing but upsides.”

  She thought it was perfect.

  Milton would be free from the company that had used him and sucked up most of his profits thus far, and in exchange for sharing profit with Milton, the Jones Company would guarantee their own share. And Fleur would receive a tidy fee in exchange for shouldering the risk of the money outlay.

  Not only that, but she would gain knowledge of the workings of the clothing trade. Milton could save up, and in the end he might even open his own shop.

  In any case, it seemed to Fleur like a magnificent plan, where no one stood to lose.

  “Mm.” Contrary to Fleur’s expectations, Olar did not reply right away. The wrinkles high on his bald head only deepened as he stared down at his soup.

  Fleur patiently waited for his reply, but it did not come. Finally, unable to stand the silence, she slowly reached for her soup, bringing it to her mouth. It had mostly cooled, but that made its flavors easier to discern. “It’s delicious,” Fleur said to Bertra, which finally elicited a smile from her—she had been silent all throughout dinner.

  It was only after Fleur asked Bertra for some hot water to cleanse her palate with that Olar finally spoke up.

  “Well, if milady concludes as much, then…”

  Fleur was at a loss, wondering what he was thinking, which prompted Olar to repeat himself.

  “If milady has come to said conclusion, then…”

  Fleur was not so brimming with confidence that she could immediately reply with, Well, that’s what I’m doing, then. She set her spoon down and regarded Olar with upturned eyes. “If you have something to say, I wish you’d say it.”

  “Not at all. There’s little to be accomplished even if I did. I’m probably overthinking all this. After all, I’m not young anymore. It makes it all too easy for me to reflect on the things that went wrong for me in the past. And”—Olar took a drink of soup, cocking his head slightly and glancing at Bertra as though to compliment her on it, and his still-handsome features and what remained of his fine, egg white–treated hair was more than enough to invite a smile from her—“you must be given a chance to grow up in your own way, milady. Or the legs you’ve worked so hard to acquire will weaken.”

  It was unclear whether or not he was exactly complimenting her, but at the very least he was telling her to work hard and take steps on her own, which was progress—since up until recently he seemed to trust neighborhood errand boys more than he did Fleur.

  “A true merchant is one who can learn from her failures.”

  Fleur smiled. “You’re assuming I’m going to fail.”

  “I did not say that,” said Olar, smiling faintly.

  Then, noticing that there was no more ale in the cups held in their outstretched hands, Bertra stood and made ready to pour another round. “I’m not an educated woman so such talk is beyond me, but I know my own work,” she said sagely.

  Nothing was so heartening as being surrounded by family one could trust.

  The next day, Fleur woke up early. Well—early by the standards of the nobility, which she knew differed quite a bit from the habits of the common folk. Lately, when Fleur had been woken by Bertra, the latter had already finished a round of housework. As far as Olar was concerned, it went without saying that this day of all days he’d risen early.

  Fleur climbed out of bed and quickly combed her hair with a comb Bertra had made for her in what time she could find between housework. Her hair had been cut above the shoulders and offered hardly any resistance at all, so the combing was quickly accomplished. The day after she had cut the long, beautiful hair that was the surest sign of nobility, she had let out a whistle at how much more quickly her morning dressing went.

  Long hair could not be properly washed at the sort of water well that would be shared by a large number of townspeople. On top of that, there was no time to spend on daily grooming when there were so many other things to accomplish during the day.

  Moreover, it was hardly in her best interest to reveal the fact of her gender while doing business.

  Given all that, she had not hesitated to cut it.

  The strange thing was that when she actually went through with it, she herself was not the most disturbed by the change. Olar’s face had been deeply pained when he had informed her she would have to cut it, and Bertra had flatly opposed it. Fleur had let her hair down and wrapped herself in a large blanket in preparation for the cutting, and while Olar and Bertra argued endlessly about it, she had finally just done it herself.

  She still vividly remembered Bertra’s cry and had never seen Olar go wide-eyed in exactly that way either before or since.

  Fleur did not dislike the image of herself that was reflected in the polished copper plate she used for a mirror. In fact, the first time she had smiled at herself there was after the haircutting. The person she saw was not some noblewoman whose job was simply to exist.

  From then on, she would live by her own hands and feet as Fleur Bolan the merchant.

  “Right.”

  There was always a line in front of the well in the morning, so Fleur washed her face with water she had brought in the previous night, rinsing her mouth and sprinkling the rest on the garden, then finally bracing herself for the day.

  Shortly thereafter she heard the sound of someone climbing the steps, which was probably Bertra, having heard the sound of the water splashing down.

  “Milady?” came the question after a hesitant knock at the door. And no wonder she was surprised. Normally Fleur would not wake up even when her shoulders were shaken.

  Fleur opened the door with a smile. “Good morning!”

  “Ah, good morning, milady.”

  “Where’s Olar?”

  “Er…I believe he’s on his usual walk through the marketplace.”

  She had woken early enough that Olar the watchdog was not here to bark at her. Fleur knew what she would say.

  “Well, then, I’d like some breakfast. Bread with a bit of cheese. And just a bit of wine.”

  Breakfast was a privilege reserved for the noble and the wealthy. It was proof of prosperity. One of the hardest things about leaving the manor was the immediate loss of breakfast.

  Bertra’s eyes widened. “Well…,” she said, and after thinking a moment with her eyes downcast, she slowly looked around, then smiled a small smile. “If you’ll give me just a moment.”

  No doubt this was her way of rewarding Fleur for waking up so promptly.

  In return for thi
s, Fleur embraced Bertra. Bertra giggled and turned to go.

  The clucking of the chickens could be heard from the garden, and the morning was very fresh.

  After cleaning up evidence of the breakfast—evidence that had to be kept from Olar—Fleur put on her cloak and carefully covered her head in her scarf.

  “Goodness, are you leaving so early?” said Bertra, surprised, as she dried her hands on her apron.

  “I’m heading to the port. Tell Olar where I’ve gone.”

  “Very well, milady,” said Bertra, and then continued in a low, indistinct voice. “It’s surprising…Somehow I’ve gotten used to seeing you in those clothes.”

  It was an honest admission from Bertra, though it did not displease Fleur to hear it. She spun around in her cloak. “I’m off,” she said in an affected, dramatic voice.

  “Take care,” said Bertra with a long-suffering smile that was very like her.

  Upon leaving the house, Fleur found that the morning air was very pleasant. The cold, dry winter had ended, and each day was warmer than the last, the air smelling as fresh as the heart of the forest. The shadows cast by the buildings and trees in the morning sunlight felt somehow deeper and sharper than usual.

  When spring came, it would bring blossoms that bloomed and scattered, and then the season would turn vivid green.

  Fleur stepped lightly to avoid a merchant dragging a line of goats all tied together. Her destination was a loading dock at the port, where she would meet someone.

  Many streets led to the docks, the port town’s center of trade, where many ships arrived every day. The cargo had to be unloaded quickly—as quickly as possible and moving as much as could be moved.

  Most of the dockworkers arose before the sun, and by the time the clergymen in the church were ringing the morning bells, the port was already buzzing with work. The working hours for craftsmen in the town were strictly controlled, but the port was an exception. A damaged ship on the verge of sinking could not be turned away just because it happened to arrive outside of working hours—or so the excuse went, and it was probably only half-true.

  But the market would not open just because a mule hauling goods there was about to collapse from exhaustion.

  “Right, this is everything! God be with you!” shouted a shirtless dockworker, slapping the side of a wagon as he finished loading it. But the din of the port was such that even this shout was soon lost in the tumult.

  Once the sun rose, even the oldest, feeblest merchant would be able to move his goods.

  This was also the hour, apparently, when travelers setting out from the port were most numerous. The many companies’ docks were crowded with wagons, horses, and people, all making ready to leave. Between them wove errand boys carrying messages between ships and companies, merchants carefully counting boxes to make sure nothing was forgotten during loading, and beggars collecting the salt that spilled from the tightly packed barrels of salt-preserved herring.

  It was a mad throng.

  In the midst of all the goods, one would want to leave as soon as possible—but the moment one did, they would begin to miss it. It took time to get used to.

  At the moment, though she still had yet to reach Olar’s level, Fleur could navigate the waters with some measure of calm.

  “This is the last? Huh? Twenty?! It’s fine! They should be there!”

  She soon spotted a young man shouting directions to the horsemen fastening goods to a stout horse. There in the midst of shirtless men with arms as thick and strong as their legs, he stood out like a poet on a battlefield.

  “Right, I’ll be off! We’ll meet atop the hill! God be with you!” He probably didn’t have to shout so loudly, but the man couldn’t seem to help raising his voice amid the hustle and bustle around him.

  Fleur found it a bit amusing, and she approached the man who held the horse’s reins.

  The man noticed her just as he was finishing his inspection and making ready to take the horse on its way. “Ah—”

  “Morning.” She had wondered how politely to greet him, but when the time came, it was a casual greeting that escaped her lips.

  Milton glanced at his cargo, then looked back to Fleur and returned her greeting. “And good morning to you.”

  “I’m glad I caught you in time.”

  “Ha-ha, I didn’t dare to hope you’d come today,” said Milton with a smile, the breath escaping his mouth in puffs of white in the still-chilly air. He looked past the horse, and after waving his hand broadly, he began to lead the horse. “Mind walking with me?”

  “Not at all.”

  Fleur drew alongside Milton as they began to walk.

  There were many sorts of people who all fell under the title of “nobility.” Some lived in towns, others in forests, others atop hills with grand views. Some even lived in monasteries built on great plains.

  The noblemen Milton was now going to deal with were a well-known family who controlled a forest and its adjacent river.

  Fleur had not been sleeping well over the past few days, but her youthful, fine features were just as sharp as always. As they cut through the crowds, she did not embarrass herself with a single yawn. Beneath her scarf she took deep breaths, careful not to have them noticed. As a merchant, she had to appear calm.

  “So, about our recent discussion,” Fleur began, once they had joined the avenue that led away from the port and the landscape changed from trading houses and companies to inns and taverns. She did not continue, though, and not because she had collided with someone else on the crowded street. It was because Milton smiled as he led the horse.

  “It something amusing to you?” If she hadn’t been wearing the scarf around her head, she probably would have exposed even more of her own ignorance.

  Or Milton would have been even meaner.

  “Ah, apologies,” Milton said, covering his mouth.

  Fleur could not be truly angry, because Milton’s expression seemed genuinely pleased. His smile was a kind one. It was too pleasant a morning to rage at someone with such a smile.

  “It just seemed mysterious to me, that’s all.”

  “Mysterious?” asked Fleur.

  Milton smiled apologetically. Fleur looked away, but not because she was angry. Milton was her trading partner. She reminded herself of that emphatically.

  “Yes, mysterious. A year or two ago…or even just a short while ago, if you’d stood beside me and asked about ‘our recent discussion,’ my heart might well have thudded right out of my chest.”

  The horse’s hooves clop-clopped as it walked along.

  Fleur closed her eyes, trying to calm herself with the monotonous sound of the horse’s footsteps.

  It was indeed just as Milton said. Time had certainly changed them both.

  “Of course, I can’t say my heart is exactly at ease right now, either,” said Milton with a smile.

  When Fleur finally realized she was being teased, she grinned as though she was not wearing the scarf at all.

  “My apologies for teasing you. Now then, what do you think of my business proposal?”

  They were out of the center of town and now starting to see more travelers and visitors from other towns. Craftsmen’s shops lined both sides of the street, and young apprentices bustled around here and there as they prepared for work. The bakeries were already buzzing with activity, and the sinfully delicious smell of baking bread wafted about.

  “I accept,” said Fleur. She had aimed for the moment when the bakery had stolen their attention. She returned her gaze from the bakery back to Milton.

  “Truly?”

  “I do not lie,” she countered.

  Feeling like a true merchant, she exhaled slowly beneath her scarf. But when she saw Milton’s face shift from surprise to happiness, she suddenly felt very small and petty.

  Now she truly understood what the term shining eyes referred to.

  “Thank you…very much.” He spoke slowly, pausing in the middle to take a breath.

  �
��Of…of course,” she replied, her voice muffled by the scarf, knowing how foolish she must sound.

  Fleur cleared her throat and thought back to what Olar had said. His advice was always good.

  “I was up all night thinking about it, and I have decided to accept your proposal.”

  “I see…truly, my thanks to you.”

  “…”

  His boyish smile hit her yet again, and she fought to keep her equilibrium. Looking ahead, she feigned composure and took the opportunity to calm herself. “Still, between the buying and the selling of the clothing, is there truly no cause for worry?”

  “No, the trading company that introduced you to me, Miss Fleur, is sincerely trying to cooperate with me, I’m sure.”

  Thinking on Olar’s sharp eyes, Fleur continued her questioning. “Can they be trusted? You don’t imagine they’re doing this merely to obstruct other companies?”

  “Well, that’s always a possibility, of course. But think of it this way: Clothes are light and can be packed very tightly aboard a ship. And the more you’re moving, the lower your shipping expenses are per unit. But that’s nothing if you fail to sell it. On the other hand, if you believe you can sell it all, then the more you can buy up the greater your profit margin, and because you’re selling a lot, your profits are boosted yet again. The Jones Company is desperately trying to become the largest company at this port. Was your price beaten badly down?”

  Milton’s smile was a rueful one, perhaps because he was not speaking ill of the company they were using in order to convince her.

  But Fleur was strangely ready to accept this. The sense that they each would do anything for their own self-interest was very clear.

  Milton continued. “Everyone’s trying to get away with something. I can understand why you would be suspicious.”

  Fleur, a girl who had once been a proper lady and known nothing of the world, drew her chin in at these words.

  “Everyone—everyone!—is putting their own self-interest first. I’m no different, of course.”

  “If that’s so—” Fleur began, but shut her mouth.

  If that’s so, then why should I trust you?

  Had she actually said those words out loud, she would have looked like a child who could be counted upon to try to argue with anything. Fortunately, thanks to a mighty effort of self-control, she had managed to avoid embarrassing herself.