Side Colors II

by Isuna Hasekura

  He had simply signed it on the spot, put it in his desk, and given them a merchant’s smile.

  Fleur couldn’t even bring herself to cry.

  Monsters. Merchants were monsters.

  “A contract is a contract,” said Hans, placing his hand on the shoulder of the young man who blocked Milton’s way. “Now, if you please, the payment.”

  Hans’s faithful servant held out his master’s thick ledger book and quill pen.

  A candle burns brightest the moment before it goes out.

  As though to prove those words true, Milton’s fury had vanished in the time it took to carry their cargo from the loading dock, and he said not a word.

  Receiving help moving the crate from anyone in the Jones Company was humiliating, but it would have taken too much time with Fleur alone. With the help of one of the workers on the loading dock, they got the entirety of the order loaded onto a single mule with much effort. In place of any thanks, Fleur spared the man a few copper coins.

  “My thanks,” he said.

  Fleur wondered if she was doomed to become a greedy merchant who saw the world only through the lens of money. A bitter taste arose in her mouth. Yet if she had been one of the greedy merchants she so loathed, she would not have most of her assets, turned into garbage by such a simple trick.

  That was the source of Milton’s silence. The clothes they had received were essentially garbage. She felt guilty for thinking it, but while they might be able to sell them for a reasonable price, they could never make back what Fleur had paid.

  Meanwhile, the Jones Company had managed to sell dark, shabby clothes for a huge profit. All that was left to her were the clothes as dark as her future and Milton, who was a hollow husk of a man.

  Well, that and the contract she had signed with Milton.

  “…The clothes,” Fleur said, unable to stand any more silence as they trudged down the street. Milton did not look in her direction, but she could see his body stiffen. “They aren’t all dark colors.”

  Even though she knew it was little comfort, this was not something to utterly despair over. She wanted to say as much, but Milton first looked back at the mule that plodded slowly along behind them, then to her, his lips curling up in an exhausted smile. “Like silver turned to amber, our hopes have turned to trash.”

  “That’s—” Not true, she tried to finish, but stumbled over the words.

  Milton smiled. He smiled an angry smile and shook his head. He excelled at selling fine clothes to the nobility and so knew all too well that the cargo they were carrying was worth very little.

  Fleur was only acting resolute because she did not understand the true way of the world.

  “…How much do you think we can sell them for?” It couldn’t be nothing, after all. Surely for 70 percent of what they’d paid—surely.

  “…” Milton wordlessly opened his hand. He showed four fingers.

  Forty percent.

  “Even if a few of the pieces have some value, the rest are essentially worthless. If the fabric isn’t poor quality, such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else.”

  When a person was truly desperate, their smile quivered pathetically at the edges. Fleur thought of the last time she had seen her former husband.

  But unlike then, she did not hate the person she was now looking at.

  “But if we can make back forty percent, that’s good enough, is it not? We’ll just need to find trades that’ll double our money in four deals, then do that four times, and we’ll be back to where we started.”

  Milton looked at Fleur blankly. He seemed about to say something and then snapped his mouth shut. And then, unable to help himself—

  “Stupid.”

  His face was distorted in disgust, and he seemed unable to articulate his own thoughts. Fleur herself did not understand what he meant by that single short word.

  Before Fleur even had enough time to reply, Milton turned away, diverting off the street.

  “Mil—” Her voice vanished into the tumult of the crowd, naturally far from sufficient to stop Milton. He was gone almost before she realized he was going. Left behind were Fleur and her goods, worth at most 40 percent of what she had paid. That and the mule that carried them.

  This hurt more than the loss she had taken and more than being deceived by Hans.

  Fleur took the mule’s lead and trudged back toward her home.

  She could not clearly remember the expression on Olar’s face when she arrived.

  “There is nothing to be done.”

  The next morning, Fleur awoke and descended the stairs to the first floor, gazing despondently out into the rainy courtyard and desperately wishing the previous day’s events would turn out to be a bad dream—but when she came to the table, those were words Olar spoke without even turning around.

  After speaking, though, he did turn around. Despite the gloom, she caught sight of a small piece of glass in his hand.

  The glass was a lens, the sole thing he had managed to recover when a company he worked for long ago had fallen to ruin. Fleur imagined that he had been examining the documents she brought back with her, trying to find some way out of the predicament.

  When she looked at the table, she saw a burned-down candle sitting in the candlestick there.

  “There is nothing to be done. He was very thorough.” Olar sighed in a weary voice, free of anger or frustration. More than anything else, he seemed exhausted, which pained Fleur deeply.

  “I’m sorry.” She murmured again the words she had said over and over again the previous night.

  Olar only narrowed his eyes and said nothing, but as Bertra brought in some warm sheep’s milk, he gestured for her to sit.

  “By my guess, the clothing is worth about half what you paid for it. But our man Post’s estimate is probably more accurate, since I don’t keep up on the latest fashions. Still, I must admit I’m impressed the company had these clothes stored away for so long. It’s true, though, there was once a time when dark colors like these were quite popular,” he said, gesturing to the contents of the crate that sat beside the table.

  Fleur remembered Milton’s words: “Such dark colors are fit for funerals and not much else.”

  “Still, it’s fortunate that you did not take on any debt to buy these. You won’t owe interest, nor are you facing immediate ruin. The clothes that will sell will sell, so to turn them into money…unfortunately, I’m afraid you’ll have no choice but to do the hard work yourself.”

  Fleur nodded at Olar’s plainspoken words.

  Bertra was adding honey to the milk in a cup she had carved herself.

  Fleur knew that this was not a time for tears, nor for apologies, but she could not yet force herself to look up. What she needed to do was to raise her head and proudly proclaim it: I will not fail next time! Never!

  But no such energetic, undaunted voice was heard—only the emptily echoing sound of the rain outside.

  Just like the politics of a noble banquet, merchants tried to overcome suspicion, gain trust, and then use that trust to their own advantage. And now she had gotten a glimpse of the true nature of that world.

  They cared nothing for human emotion and would happily use it for monetary gain, always trying to take the best course, at the best time, to reap the best outcome.

  Because no matter how it was earned, money was money. That’s what Olar would say. And it was true.

  “…I’m so sorry,” murmured Fleur, holding the cup in both hands and wishing she could pour her shame into it.

  Olar was motionless. Bertra started to stand, but Fleur saw that Olar stopped her.

  “Perhaps you should rest for a while. Miss Bertra, if you would…”

  Olar addressed Bertra and had her move the crate into the storeroom, while he said he was going to check on the severity of the rain and left the room.

  And then Fleur was alone.

  Rain continued to fall outside, and now that she was alone the sound was oppressive. No on
e would notice the sound of a couple more drops falling.

  She found her own excuses pathetic as she held her cup and cried. She was frustrated, of course, and felt utterly useless. But worst of all was her rage at the fact that she was still going to have to trade with these despicable merchants.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t do it.

  Fleur wanted to call Olar and Bertra and tell them so plainly and definitively. But even if she did so, she had no idea what she would do after that. Hell was behind her, and hell awaited her.

  She wanted someone, anyone to save her. She would do anything. Fleur called out to God. And then the very next moment—

  “—?”

  Fleur looked up suddenly, but not because Bertra or Olar had returned.

  There was a strange sound. Cats and mice tended to seek shelter on rainy days like this one, so she wondered if that was what she was hearing—and then the sound came again.

  It was a knock on the door. Someone was there.

  “—”

  Fleur wiped her messy face and quickly blew her nose with a kerchief. There were only a limited number of guests that could be expected on a rainy day.

  And if so, there was really only one person it could be. Another person hurt just as she was hurt, afraid, and anxious.

  Fleur stood. This was impossible to bear alone, but perhaps with another…

  Clinging to that hope, she put her hand to the door, drew the bolt back, and opened it. For a moment she wondered if water had splashed her eyes, blurring her vision.

  She did not immediately recognize the individual at her door.

  “May we speak for a moment?”

  Fleur stared and was at a loss for a reply, which was hardly surprising. It was not Milton at the door.

  It was the man responsible for putting them in this predicament—Hans himself.

  “You and Mr. Post—I cannot imagine you failed to draw up a contract to provide him with funds, correct?”

  He had a vexing voice, like a snake coiling around its prey.

  “What of it?” growled Fleur, the loathing boiling up from her stomach and forming hoarse words.

  “Post had no assets, which meant you were the investor and he was responsible for sales.” The rain rolled off his fine leather coat. Out from under a hood not too different from those worn by monks, Hans looked at Fleur with oily eyes.

  “S-so?”

  Hans struck a frightening figure, but the reason Fleur’s voice was so hoarse and hesitant was because she had absolutely no notion of why he had come.

  He had taken all of their money and given them useless goods in return, so he ought not to have any further business with her. So why had he come all the way, and in such weather, to talk to her?

  In her heart, Fleur never wanted to see Hans’s face again, nor enter into his field of view. But there he was, looking at her. Like a snake unwilling to let its prey escape.

  “In that case, I can’t imagine you assumed all the risk. You must have let him take on some. So how much? One hundred fifty percent? Two hundred?”

  Her hand trembled as she held the door, but not because of the chill. It was anger that moved it so as she squeezed a growled answer from her throat. “I’m not like you. I’m not that greedy.”

  “How much, then?”

  Hans was insistent, and Fleur’s rage at him made her dizzy. “Half. Because I trusted him,” she managed to answer, somehow controlling her temper.

  Hans pressed his lips together and tilted his head. “Goodness. It seems you’ve taken quite a loss, then.”

  Fleur had her limits. She saw red and drew a deep breath in preparation to scream her rage at him—but as though he’d been waiting for that precise moment, Hans took a step forward and spoke in a smooth and even voice.

  “I’d like to purchase your share of the contract you signed with Mr. Post.”

  Fleur’s mind went white. “Wha—?”

  “This sort of thing happens all the time. It’s a simple transfer of liability. Whether or not you asked for interest, it’s clear that Mr. Post owes you a debt. And I want to buy that debt. At a price that will leave you losing absolutely nothing.”

  As the clear explanation sank in, Fleur finally understood. She understood what he was thinking—no, what he had been thinking all along. His whole plan had led up to this moment. This had been the goal from the start.

  He wanted to buy Milton’s debt. It would allow him to collar and control a brilliant clothes salesman.

  “Perhaps I should make the offer more attractive. After all, you’ll have to live the rest of your life somehow. With that…sweetness of yours.” She felt the phantom sensation of the snake’s tongue licking her neck. “What about using that money as a dowry and finding yourself a husband? I’d be more than happy to help—”

  It was the first time Fleur had ever hit anyone.

  “…Very well.” Hans wiped his lips with his hand and closed his eyes for several seconds. “When you’ve fallen as far as you wish to fall, feel free to knock on my company’s door with that hand. No harm will come to you.”

  He licked the blood from his lips with a strangely red tongue, glaring at her rudely.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned and began to walk back out into the rain, but then suddenly looked over his shoulder. “Don’t hesitate to call on me when you change your mind.”

  Merchants.

  Her rage had left, and that single word was the only thing occupying her mind.

  Merchants.

  They pursued profit to the point of cruelty. And for what? What drove them to such lengths?

  She watched Hans as he went, stepping lightly through the rain down the deserted street, and wondered. She didn’t understand. It was as though he wasn’t human.

  Fleur collapsed on the spot, and perhaps hearing the sound, Bertra gave a cry and came running.

  She was sure that Bertra was calling for Olar, but Fleur only stared at the puddles in the falling rain. She felt utterly helpless and wanted to cry, but with Bertra’s help, she managed to stand again, whereupon she began to walk unsteadily out into the rain.

  Bertra was looking at Olar, who had come down the stairs to see what was the matter, and she hastily tried to pull Fleur back inside.

  Profit changed people.

  There in the rainy street, as the downpour strengthened, Fleur beheld a strange sight.

  Despite the rain, a single wagon came into view along the street that ran directly next to the house.

  The driver’s face was concealed by a hood that came down to his chin, yet the wagon bed was filled haphazardly with goods—as though it had been loaded in a great hurry.

  That instant, Fleur cried out in a ragged voice, “Milton!”

  Though her vision was blurred by tears and rain, she could still see the driver of the wagon freeze for a moment.

  “Milton!” she cried again. Her voice would surely not withstand another cry.

  Olar rushed out of the house, grappling her into a bear hug and pulling her back inside.

  “Milton…It’s Milton. He’s…,” Fleur mumbled deliriously, but she could hear Olar and Bertra’s exchange quite clearly.

  “Check the storehouse. The door was broken.”

  “Most of the clothes in the storehouse are gone.”

  “Milady.”

  When she came to, Olar’s serious face was the first thing she saw. “What happened?”

  He was holding her face between his hands, so neither escape nor shaking her head were possible. She closed her eyes, hoping desperately to pass out.

  But reality did not change.

  “Milady.”

  She began to sob like a scolded child in response, but Olar continued his questions, like a kindly old priest.

  “That was a man from the Jones Company? So…the one who took the clothes was…”

  Fleur nodded. There was no mistaking it.

  Milton must have realized what Hans’s goal was immediately after the
y had been taken by the Jones Company. And then he had waited for his chance to steal the clothes. If he was lucky, they might be worth half what they had been bought for.

  So he could steal them, sell them, and if all went well, pay back his part of the debt.

  Fleur gritted her teeth and closed her eyes. Milton had never trusted her. If he had, there would have been no need for him to steal the clothing, even if he did plan to repay her. Fleur had never blamed him for her loss or demanded immediate payment and would never have dreamed of selling his debt to someone else.

  Profit changed people—as did loss.

  She had wanted to believe that it would not change her. But Milton hadn’t trusted her.

  “Milady.” It was something akin to a dog’s faithfulness that finally prompted her eyes to open. Or perhaps it was just that this voice had always supported her through difficult times.

  Yet it was not Olar’s usual face, the one that had always led her to safety. This was a stern old man.

  “Milady. You must be resolved!”

  For a moment, Fleur forgot to cry. “Re…solved?”

  “Even so. You must resolve whether you will be ignored, robbed, kicked, smeared with mud, or stand up on your own strength and walk forward.”

  He was telling her that if she wanted to continue on as a merchant, she had to get the clothes back.

  “Milady!” Olar shouted when Fleur tried to look away. A scolded dog, even when terrified, can never look away. “Milady. I brought you into the world of merchants because I pitied you. Because your former role was simply to exist, you were washed away and had no choice but to rely on others. I wanted to give you the chance to make your own fate, to stand on your own two feet and walk,” said Olar. He took a deep breath, shook his head, and continued.

  “No…I cannot be dishonest about my feelings now. The truth is…I wanted you to take revenge for me.”

  “…What?”

  “Before I worked for your former husband, I worked at a famous trading company. But before that, I was something of a noble myself.”

  At those words, everything stopped. Fleur felt as though her heart ceased to beat.