Side Colors II

by Isuna Hasekura

  “And yet if you want to know why I’ve endured it…there are many reasons, of course, though I don’t really know which one might be the truest one. Part of it was that this was the only path open to me. But…hmm…”

  Despite being stymied by the bothersome question, Hans nonetheless seemed to be enjoying the conversation. He fell silent, looking off into the distance.

  Fleur turned her gaze from his profile down to her own hands. She wore a smile on her face. Hans’s expression was a very familiar one to her. And his silent profile was all the confirmation that she needed of her supposition.

  Fleur had had no special love for her husband, but there was one thing about him that she envied—the fact that he had a goal, which he would sacrifice absolutely anything for: pride, faith, friendship, even love. He was not a good man, but he had something that drove him to incredible achievements.

  She wanted to see what it was that waited at the end of his vision, just once, and she desperately envied whatever it was that inspired such ecstasy in his eyes. Lately she had come to resent her terrible miser of a husband less and less.

  When their ruin had become inevitable, he’d lost forever whatever it was he was looking at. When the house had finally and completely fallen, he hadn’t appeared terribly disturbed. Perhaps in his heart, the object of his desire had already been taken from him—whatever it was that was of such value it made enduring any misfortune or suffering worthwhile.

  Hans, who spoke of the trials he had suffered a child, was another person chasing that thing.

  “I can’t really explain it,” he said, returning to the present from his reverie. “But it’s a feeling of anticipation.”

  “Anticipation,” Fleur repeated, which Hans smiled and shook his head at.

  “Forget I said anything. I’m far too young to answer your question.”

  If he’d refused to answer, treating her like a beggar he was turning away at his doorstep, she probably would have given him a malicious retort here. But he was honestly acknowledging the difficulty of answering the question.

  Even knights these days could hardly brag of such honesty.

  “It was a strange question. My apologies.”

  Hans regarded her playfully out of the corner of his eye. “Not at all.”

  It seemed they had become a little closer. And Fleur had received an answer worth more than mere words.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They were honestly, modestly, and above all greedily running down that road.

  After this short exchange, they turned to talk of bringing in another load of hay, but Fleur’s feelings toward doing so had completely changed.

  Completely unaware that the hay had come from the former lands of the house of Bolan, Hans was very interested in learning which hay was best and who to talk to at which villages in order to ensure smooth trading. He was showing real courtesy, which Fleur had long since realized was because she was now in a position to help him profit.

  But where once she would have found this courtesy for profit to be somehow ignoble and shabby, she realized the truth was a bit different. Merchants did not advance on the virtue that came easily to born philosophers and wise men. They endured whippings and beatings and still struggled onward.

  And if someone happened to help them in their struggle—well, of course such a person should be treated with courtesy.

  Fleur returned to the matter at hand. That day, as usual, she had hung around the trading company collecting gossip, exchanging information and jokes by turns, and returning home, making sure to cross the road that led from the edge of town to the port.

  She met up with Milton, whose face was somehow cheerful despite his being unable to hide his exhaustion—but there was only one thing on her mind. She wanted to put forth every effort to maximize their profit, then split it, and not because she was simply thinking about how to buy tomorrow’s bread.

  Milton had said he wanted to earn money to get back at the family that cast him out. But was that motivation enough to drive him to work himself to the bone and somehow force the pleasant smile he wore?

  Milton, Fleur was certain, was the same as Hans. He was anticipating something.

  He was anticipating something that awaited him at the end of his path of commerce.

  If so—

  Fleur stood before Milton, who looked so tired he seemed ready to fall into bed in that instant, and offered neither greeting nor encouragement.

  Instead, she said, “About the clothing purchase.”

  Surprised, Milton’s face slowly but steadily shifted to display a fearless smile.

  They decided to hold a meeting at Fleur’s house.

  Bertra was there, and she knew the house top to bottom, from the roof’s ridgepole to the mouse holes in the floorboards, so there was no worry their conversation would be eavesdropped upon. And on the other side of the wall, there was Olar.

  Even without her scarf, Fleur was well protected.

  “Talk has progressed to the request of a purchase representative for the company.”

  “Have you talked to any of the companies you’re connected with about starting new business?”

  “Yes. That’s why I had to show a big profit.”

  “And that’s why you’re so late?”

  Milton smiled tiredly at the question. “Yes. So I won’t be able to visit that house for a while. I’m not saying I forced the goods off on anyone, but I sold all the way down to the gardener’s apprentice, so unless someone suddenly gets fat, they won’t need more clothing for a while.”

  Milton had been carrying twenty pieces on his horse when he had set out. Even if they had been aprons, it was more than he could sell to every member of the household. There was no question he had worked hard.

  But that only proved the depth of his sales ability. They would not be taking a loss on this deal.

  “In that case, what you’re saying is that when next we go to sell clothes we’ve bought up, even in the worst case, even if you feel like you’re utterly desperate, we won’t lose money?”

  Milton stroked his chin—more scratched than it had been a week ago—with his finger. It had some stubble on it now, which made him look dignified. “That’s right. Of course…”

  There was a high squeaking cry, and a mouse ran along the rafters in the ceiling.

  “Of course, I truly did feel desperate. If possible, I’d like to avoid that,” said Milton, looking not at Fleur but at the mouse.

  With effort, Fleur avoided openly wondering what he meant by “that” and instead tried to deduce it. He probably had been just as desperate as he was suggesting and did not want to wind up running around like the mouse in the rafters.

  “You’re quite worried over, aren’t you, Miss Fleur?”

  “Huh?” she replied in spite of herself.

  Olar had warned her ahead of time to keep her mouth shut when she failed to understand something and wait for whatever would be said next. When she betrayed her own lack of comprehension, he said, she opened herself up to be exploited.

  So when Milton chuckled, she immediately decided he was chuckling at her. When Milton spoke the next moment, though, it was clear that was not the case.

  “I had debt, you know.”

  “Debt.” There was no question mark at the end of her reply.

  The word had sunk into her ears even before she voiced her response.

  “Yes. It was another company that first took notice of my talents, you see. But they took advantage of my position and used me terribly. But it’s the current company that lent me money for room and board. I suppose it’s good luck, but I can’t really thank them.”

  Fleur soon hit upon the solution to the riddle.

  Milton’s mouth curled up into the sort of smirk an uncouth mercenary might wear, and slowly the words spilled from his mouth. “Work is precious. But if a man works during the day, he must rest at night. That’s the way of the world that God established. And yet there are those who work
day and night, on holy days, on days of celebration, on days of mourning. Even though to do so means borrowing the power of the devil.”

  It was a famous scripture. And Fleur knew the next line well. “And that devil’s name is usury.”

  No doubt the size of the loan for his immediate needs had been tiny compared to what he owed now. A greedy merchant would have had the interest rate rise 100 percent or more over a short term.

  Fleur’s former husband had constantly accrued debt, adding more day and night until finally summoning a usurious lender wearing a pointed cap, who had given him a loan against the manor itself at the interest rate of 70 percent per half year.

  The reason Milton needed to make the greatest possible profit was to pay down the debt he had accrued.

  Debt was worse than any collar around any dog’s neck. No favor or foe could banish it.

  When Fleur realized it, she looked at Milton with eyes afresh. To her surprise, despite having recited that famous scripture, Milton’s eyes were now placid. They shone with a light that said, “Yes, I will return. Yes, all well be well. Yes, I will protect you.”

  For a moment Fleur was at a loss for words—because Milton, who labored so mightily to rid himself of his debt, had gone into debt all over again.

  “If I—” Fleur began, then stopped out of nervousness and raised her chin.

  Milton’s eyes were soft. “If you?”

  “If I said I wanted interest, what were you going to do?”

  One didn’t have to be a merchant to know that money was power. The reason Fleur had not been utterly destroyed when her house was ruined was not because she had Olar and Bertra.

  It was because as a small revenge upon her husband, she had pilfered money from his coin purse as she went.

  Milton’s ability to earn money was so far ahead of Fleur’s that it barely merited mention. But when it came to who had more influence—it was Fleur.

  Not even able to dress herself and not paying their wages, Fleur’s nobility alone was enough to command the service of the house servants in the manor.

  Milton looked up and spoke slowly. “I knew you were a kind soul the first time I saw you.”

  “—!” Fleur utterly failed to feign nonchalance. She could feel her face flush, and though she looked down, it was too late.

  Still, Fleur averted her gaze and coughed before responding. “P-people change when there’s money at stake. Su-surely you know that much.”

  These were Olar’s words, but in these circumstances the only thing Fleur could do was repeat the words of another. When she tried to think of something to say on her own, all she had were her feelings toward Milton.

  “Yes, of course. That’s why you can see someone’s true nature when profit is involved. And,” Milton continued with a smile, “you aren’t going to charge interest. I would be quite certain of that even if you were wearing that scarf of yours. I would know.”

  Fleur knew only too well that she was being treated not as a fellow merchant, but as a young lady of noble birth. And yet—it was so comforting that she wanted to cry, to rage at it.

  The comfort was frustrating, irritating, like scratching a spot afflicted by chilblains.

  Surrendering, she wrung the words from her throat. “I…won’t take interest. I promised we’d split the profits, after all.” She paused, then added something in an effort to save some small amount of dignity. “As a merchant, I must keep my promises.”

  But Milton was merciless. “We haven’t signed any contracts.”

  By this he meant that if Fleur decided to charge interest, she still could, though she could hardly imagine drawing such a contract up.

  Just as Fleur had bit by bit smashed her own anxiety, perhaps Milton, too, had wanted to dispose of his.

  Fleur shook her head, but instead of changing his expression, Milton only leaned back in the chair as though the strength had left his body. It did not seem like an act. She realized this was the first time she had seen him nervous.

  “Perhaps now we can speak in specifics.” He tossed the words out into the space between them.

  He was every bit the noble youth cast out of his house. In the languor following the battle, he grabbed hold of the conversation.

  “I do believe I can trust you.” And in truth, Fleur’s worries had disappeared.

  Milton had arrived at the most reasonable possible decision and then come to her. All that was left was to buy the clothes and sell them.

  “Now then, shall we discuss the styles and quantities of clothing?”

  “Let’s,” said Fleur clearly and with a nod.

  Dinnertime.

  Around the table sat its usual occupants: Fleur, Bertra, and Olar. Fleur had tried to invite Milton but had been turned down.

  Upon reflection, Milton had carried clothes, sold them off, returned, and met straightaway with Fleur at her house to discuss their contract. No doubt he wanted to rest before taking a meal.

  She mused on the matter as she waited for Olar to look over the amounts, styles, colors, and provenance of the clothing Milton had proposed purchasing.

  “Mm.”

  Having looked over the list, the first thing that came out of Olar’s mouth was a sigh. Perhaps it was his age showing—he closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a deep breath and letting it out.

  Fleur was mildly anxious, but lines had yet to appear on Olar’s forehead, so whatever his thoughts were, they could not be so very bad.

  “Rather impressive,” he said. In truth, she hadn’t expected him to say anything remotely complimentary.

  “It’s not bad?”

  “Not at all. On the contrary, it’s quite good. The whims of the nobility change very easily, but their basic preferences do not. The current fashion is for bright colors and delicate fabrics. Most impressively, he even has a grasp of textiles sourced from far away. All that matters now is how convincing he can manage to be.”

  “I’ve checked that already,” said Fleur wryly, which made Olar clear his throat, his expression carefully neutral.

  “Next, there’s the matter of the contract regarding the funding of the Post lad.”

  “…Is there yet some problem?” Fleur asked, less out of displeasure than sheer exasperation. She had initially written out the basics of the lending, repayment, and profit-sharing arrangement she’d worked out with Milton, which Olar had then looked over to make sure she had not missed a single scrap of possible gain—and thereupon substantially rewritten it.

  He had changed more than the terms, too. The language was very different. It was roundabout and rambling, using all sorts of terms that would never be used in ordinary conversation. It brought her back to when she was a child learning how to read and write, and convinced that Olar was just trying to confuse things as much as he could, Fleur sighed an irritated sigh and called for Bertra.

  As Bertra brought down more and more of the not inexpensive paper for revisions, Fleur could see the lines on his face all too clearly.

  “We cannot be too careful. If there is a mistake in this contract, we stand to lose all the profit we are going to such trouble to gain.”

  If Olar—who had spent so many decades of his life in trade—said so, then it was surely so. Yet Fleur could not help but think to herself that there had to be a limit.

  After all, the other party in the contract was Milton. He was not some born merchant, but a former member of a noble and proud house, a house that relied upon its word and honor. If anything, he might be offended to be presented with such a meticulously constructed contract. At the very least, Fleur knew she would have been.

  Whether he knew Fleur’s thoughts or not, Olar made ready to read the contract over again, drawing his body up and holding the paper at arm’s length, squinting as he read the words on it aloud.

  “In the name of God. From Fleur von Eiterzental Bolan to Milton Post, a good man and true. These two, having met in trade by the grace of God, do now purpose to exchange via the Jones Company a quantity o
f fabrics of wool, linen, and silver, the cost of which shall be entirely borne by Bolan. However, five-tenths of this cost shall be counted as debt upon Post. Upon the purchase of these goods shall this debt be recorded. Upon this debt, Bolan pledges to hold no interest. Profits shall be split evenly. All purchased items shall be held under the ownership of Bolan. Concluded. God’s blessing be upon this contract.”

  Having read the contract in its entirety, Olar’s gaze remained fixed upon the paper—despite all the revisions, despite his scrutiny of every word, despite having finally written it all out.

  Yet Fleur had a good idea of what Olar was likely to say next.

  “About the amount we’re loaning to Post.”

  It was just as she had guessed. Fleur grabbed a piece of bread out of protest. “Half is fine,” she said briefly and with finality.

  Olar stared at her, but she had no intention of caving in.

  That part of the contract meant that if Milton fell short of his expectations and was forced to sell the clothing for less than they had paid for it, Fleur also stood to lose.

  Olar had wanted to count the entire amount as a loan to Milton as a matter of course and explained that a greedier merchant might have pushed that to one and half again, or even double the loaned amount. It would have been cruel to do so, but the Church reluctantly allowed “thanks given for money lent” in amounts of up to 20 or 30 percent per year, and trades could take several years to complete from purchase to sale, so Fleur’s insistence was a bridge too far.

  But the profit would be split evenly and Milton’s responsibility would amount to only half of the outlay, an extraordinarily, almost divinely generous arrangement the likes of which Olar had never seen.

  And yet Fleur insisted upon it.

  There was the fact that she trusted Milton, but that was not the most important point, which was this: By having a bit of money she had no power at all, whereas Milton was given the greater share of that same power. Just as Olar and Bertra had to bow to those who just happened to be born as nobility, there was Milton, who had to bow to those who just happened to have money, and he could no longer stand it.