And as the door swung wide, an aged, bearded old man—
—did not stand behind it.
“May I ask who is calling?”
Lawrence was surprised by the figure that opened the door, but it was not a nervous surprise.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty, head covered all the way to her alabaster brow in the delicate cloth of a simple black habit. She was a nun.
“I believe Eve Bolan explained that we were coming.”
“Ah, we have been expecting you. Do come in.”
Lawrence purposefully avoided introducing himself, but this nun was either a particularly nice person, or Eve was a particularly trusted person.
Unable to know which was the truth, Lawrence did as he was bidden, entering the house with Holo behind him.
“Please feel free to sit and wait here.”
Upon entering the house, they immediately found themselves in a sitting room with a faded carpet on the floor.
None of the age-faded furnishings were particularly grand, and they spoke clearly of the house’s masters long tenure in the area.
The first chronicler Lawrence had ever met was Diana in the pagan town of Kumersun, so he had expected this place to be as cluttered as Diana’s was—but no, it was surprisingly tidy.
Instead of books crammed into every shelf, there were stuffed toys and works of embroidery, along with a small statue of the Holy Mother that a girl would be able to carry easily. Beside the statue hung bulbs of garlic and onion. The only things that suggested this house belonged to a chronicler were the quill pens and ink bottles and a small, sand-filled chest used for drying inked pages, along with parchments and bundles of paper tucked away in unobtrusive corners.
Holo gazed around the room, her expression of mild surprise suggesting that she'd had similar expectations.
In the first place, one hardly expected to see a nun, who looked ready to head out on a pilgrimage, in a house like this—though the statue of the Holy Mother and the relief of the three-legged chicken suggested a household of both financial security and deep faith.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,” said the nun when she returned.
Having heard tales of Rigolo’s bad disposition from Eve, Lawrence was prepared to be kept waiting because of this or that imagined fault, but it seemed they would be able to meet him with unexpected ease.
Led by the nun with her soft smile and warm, homey manner, Lawrence and Holo continued from the sitting room down a hallway to a room deeper within the house.
Holo herself did not look completely unlike a nun, but a true nun's graceful effect came from a different source. Of course, if Holo knew he was thinking this she would give him an earful,
Lawrence thought—and immediately afterward, she stomped on his foot.
No doubt she had simply been waiting for a good opportunity, but Lawrence couldn’t help feeling as though she’d undone the buttons to his heart and peered about within it.
“Mr. Rigolo, we’re coming in.”
The nun knocked on the door as though delicately cracking an egg. There was no telling what color the yolk would be, though.
Lawrence cleared his head, and once the door opened at a muffled reply that came from within, they entered the room.
Immediately thereafter, it was Holo who, impressed, uttered a quiet “huh.”
Lawrence was even more impressed and could find no words at
all.
“My, what a delightful reaction! Melta, look; they are impressed!”
The nun called Melta smiled her clear, bell-like smile at the young, forceful voice that echoed throughout the room.
The room on the other side of the door was indeed every bit as cluttered as Diana’s had been.
However, perhaps this could be called a calculated clutter, for beyond the stacks of books directly in front of them and the wooden bird model that hung from the ceiling was a wall made of floor-to-ceiling glass, through which sunlight flooded, revealing a verdant garden beyond. It was like being inside a cave and looking through the exit at the world beyond.
“Ha-ha-ha, impressive, is it not? With enough effort, I can keep it green year round,” said a young, chestnut-haired man with a proud laugh as he emerged. He wore a collared, tailored shirt and pants without so much as a single wrinkle, fit for any noble, “Fleur told me of you—said that there were some people with a strange request to make of me.”
"...Er, yes...uh, Lawrence—I mean, my name is Kraft
Lawrence,” said Lawrence, finally coming to his senses and taking the hand that Rigolo offered, though he couldn’t pull his eyes from the magnificent garden.
It was totally invisible from any of the surrounding streets—a perfect secret garden.
The hackneyed phrase appeared in his head, and he couldn’t shake it.
"My name is Rigolo Dedly. Nice to meet you.”
"Likewise, I’m sure.”
Rigolo’s gaze fell next to Holo. “Ah, this must be the companion...”
"Name’s Holo.”
Not only was Holo hardly the bashful type, but also upon a first meeting, she instantly knew how to act in order to make a good impression on whomever she wished.
Far from being irritated with her high-handed self-introduction, Rigolo clapped his hands in delight, then extended one to her in greeting.
"Well then! That’s it for introductions, and I’ve already gotten you to compliment my garden, so I’m quite satisfied. Was there something I could do for you by way of thanks, then?”
Some merchants had terrifying personalities concealed by pleasant facades, and Lawrence was not yet sure Rigolo was not similar.
Melta simply smiled as she thoughtfully brought small chairs over for Lawrence and Holo to sit in, so it seemed Rigolo was like this all the time—assuming that Melta, who gave a slight nod before leaving the room, was not a liar.
"You may have heard this from Eve Bolan, but we were hoping that you could show us any old tales of Lenos you might have records of.”
“Oh ho, so it’s true, then. Fleur—er, no, I suppose she goes by Eve among merchants. She's a bit too feisty, that one. Once she gets to know someone, she’ll tell them all sorts of things.”
Lawrence smiled in understanding. “Does that have anything to do with why you’re not a stern-faced, long-bearded, old hermit?"
Rigolo laughed. “Seems she’s been talking again! Though the hermit part’s not necessarily untrue. Lately I’ve been doing all I can not to see anyone. Bit misanthropic of me.”
Just when his tone of voice dropped a bit, Lawrence caught a glimpse of something chilly underneath Rigolo’s smile.
He was the secretary of the Council of Fifty, a group made up of the most famous and recognized people in the city. A little chilliness was hardly worth being surprised at.
“I’m a foreign merchant—is it all right for you to be speaking with me?”
“Quite. Your timing is excellent, perhaps even the will of God, Take a look at my clothes; they’re like the garments a child leading a funeral procession would wear, are they not? I’ve just come from the council meeting. They reached a decision and were able to adjourn early.”
If that was true, then this timing really was the will of God, but Lawrence felt like it was a bit early for the council to have arrived at a conclusion.
After all, Arold had said it might drag on into the spring.
Perhaps someone had forced a vote.
“Goodness, you really are every bit the merchant that the feisty little minx said you were. Didn’t let your guard down for a second, did you?”
Even if Rigolo had seen through his thoughts, it was a third-rate merchant that got flustered and tried to cover it up.
Besides, Lawrence was with Holo, who could quite possibly read minds.
Holo would certainly be able to tell whether Rigolo was trying to trick him into telling the truth.
"Hmm?” Lawrence asked, feigning ignorance, but Rigolo’s smile remained st
eady.
"When we spend all our time using wiles and tricks, we stop understanding. Just like the back of the back is the front.”
He had seen through the trick and Lawrence’s feigning of ignorance.
Lawrence had been fairly confident that Rigolo wouldn’t see through the ruse, but Rigolo’s smiling eyes were still keen.
"I’m employed as the secretary for the Council of Fifty, you see.
I can look at a group of people and perceive the changes in the expressions at a glance. Even if your expression alone doesn’t tell me enough, if I consider the expressions of your companion, the truth naturally comes to me.”
Lawrence smiled in spite of himself. There were people in the world like this—and not all of them were notorious merchants.
Rigolo laughed. “Ah, ’tis but a parlor trick. If I meant you ill, I wouldn’t lay my cards out like this. And even if I could discern your true motives, I’m still unable to convey my own demands. I’d be a failure as a merchant, would I not?”
"...Unfortunately.”
"I also don’t have any success with the ladies.”
Lawrence smiled. He had to admit that Rigolo’s skill with words was rather unmerchantlike.
As he talked like a poet from some imperial palace, Rigolo produced a brass key from within a drawer in the room’s desk.
"All the old books are in the cellar.” He gestured lightly with the key, indicating that they should follow him, then proceeded into an inner room.
Before following, Lawrence looked over at Holo.
“The back of the back is the front apparently,” said Lawrence.
“He was even watching my face…”
"First time I’ve seen anyone do anything like that.”
He had probably developed the ability while having to hear and transcribe all the various conflicting conversations that happened over the course of a council meeting.
In order to grasp who said what, understanding their facial expressions would be of paramount importance.
"Still, he doesn’t seem malicious. More like a child. But if you had someone like that at your side, you’d be able to pass your days without any worry at all,” said Holo with a smirk.
Given how many times Lawrence had fallen prey to misunderstandings with Holo, that smirk was particularly painful to see.
"Meanwhile, you are full of malice,” he said, not waiting for Holo’s reply before he went off to follow Rigolo.
The first floor was constructed from wood, but the cellar below it was made entirely of stone.
Even in the village of Tereo, the cellar had been stone. Perhaps
it was natural to want to keep treasures hidden in stone vaults.
But there was a huge difference between a cellar built to hide things and one built to store them.
The ceiling was high enough that Lawrence had to reach over his head to touch it, and the bookshelves that lined the walls reached from floor to ceiling.
Even more impressive, the shelves were organized by era and topic and had a numbering system.
The bindings were thin and flimsy—nothing compared to the thick, leather-bound volumes in Tereo—but the effort spent on organization was on another level entirely.
"Are fires common in this town?” Lawrence asked.
"From time to time. As you may have guessed, my ancestors had the same fear, which is why they built this place.”
Although she had not been in the room that adjoined the garden, Melta seemed to have overheard the exchange there and now appeared in the cellars entrance holding a candlestick.
Holo allowed the nun to guide her as she looked for promising books.
The pleasant light flickered in and out of visibility among the shadows of the bookshelves.
“By the way,” began Rigolo once the two men were left to their own devices. “I’m the curious type, so I can’t help asking. Why exactly are you searching for these ancient stories?”
Given that Rigolo hadn’t asked about Holo’s relationship with Lawrence, the heart of his interest was clear.
“She’s searching for her origin.”
“Her origin?” repeated Rigolo, the surprise obvious on his face His powers of discernment might well have been the equal of any great merchant, but he had no control over his own expression. “For a variety of reasons, I’m escorting her to her homeland.”
If he omitted a few details, well, Rigolo could come to whatever conclusions he wished, which would allow Lawrence to avoid telling a lie while simultaneously keeping the truth at a distance. Rigolo seemed to fall for it. “I see...So you’re heading north, then?”
“Yes. We don’t know the precise location, so we’re trying to pinpoint it based on the stories she knows.”
Rigolo nodded, a serious expression on his face.
He probably concluded that Holo had been captured in the north, then sold into slavery in the south. It was commonly said that children from the northlands were hardier and more obedient. There were also many stories of nobility whose children had died or were precariously sick and in danger of having their inheritance taken by other relatives who bought such children to adopt. “It’s not uncommon for children from the north to stay in town. It would be best if she could return to her home,” said Rigolo.
Lawrence nodded his wordless agreement.
Holo emerged from the bookshelves, holding five volumes that evidently held some promise.
"You’re certainly a glutton for knowledge,” said Lawrence at a loss. It was Melta, not Holo, who answered him with a smile.
"These were all we found, so I should think it would be best if you look them with you for the time being.”
"I see. Here, let me carry some of those. We’ll be skipping meals for three days if we drop them.”
Rigolo laughed as Lawrence wound up carrying the entire stack of books, and they returned to the first floor.
"Normally I’d ask that you read them here,” Rigolo said, looking at the stack of books that Melta had bound into a convenient bundle. But I trust Fleur, and Fleur trusts you, so I shall as well. I cannot say the same for others, though...”
Anytime foreign merchants were involved, there were many reasons to be distrustful.
»I certainly understand,” said Lawrence.
"But if you drop, burn, lose, or sell them, it’s three days without food!”
It was a joke, but Lawrence didn’t laugh. Being able to calculate the monetary value of nearly anything, he was well aware that these books were priceless.
He nodded and picked up the bundle. “I’ll protect them as I would protect my most precious cargo, on my honor as a merchant.”
"Right then,” said Rigolo with a boyish smile.
Lawrence wondered if Eve’s heart would be moved by such things.
"Just bring them back when you’ve finished reading. If I’m not here, Melta will be.”
“Understood. Again, thank you.”
Rigolo answered Lawrence’s nod with a smile, giving Holo a jaunty little wave.
Such gestures made him seem less like a merchant and more like a courtly poet.
Satisfied, Holo returned the wave as the two left.
“It’s easy to wave when you’re not carrying anything.” Lawrence reasoned that a little grumbling was justified. Between carrying books and asking for directions, he had become quite the manservant recently.
“Aye, and you’d do well to make sure you’re not waved off,” shot back Holo, traipsing ahead of Lawrence.
Her teasing was frustrating, but at the same time, Lawrence was well aware that unless they were getting along well, such teasing would be impossible.
The problem was, Holo did little else.
“One can flatter a pig right up a tree, but flattering a male just makes him lose himself,” said Holo, sealing off any protest from him.
There was no room for denial; that was the problem.
“Oh yes, I’m at such a loss I may well lose my temper," said Lawrence.
Once they had left the books at the inn, Lawrence made good on his promise to treat Holo to whatever she wanted for dinner and having picked a tavern at random, Holo decided she wanted a whole roasted piglet.
Such a dish was a rare pleasure—an entire pig, spit down the center and roasted slowly over an open flame, occasionally drizzled with nut oil squeezed from a certain fruit.
Once the piglet was golden brown, its mouth was stuffed with herbs and it was served on a giant plate. It was customary for whoever cut off the piglet’s right ear to wish for good luck.
Normally such a dish would feed five or six people; it was generally ordered for celebrations of one kind or another, and when Lawrence gave his request to the barmaid, her surprise was obvious. A murmur of envy was audible among the other men in the tavern when the dish was brought out.
And when that same dish was set down directly in front of Holo, the voices became a sigh of sympathy.
It was not uncommon for Lawrence to weather envious gazes because of his beautiful companion, but these men seemed mollified once they understood that his existence was an expensive one indeed.
Seeing that Holo would be unable to carve the roast herself,
Lawrence took it upon himself to do so, but he lacked the willpower to put any of the meat on his own plate, instead settling for the crunchy skin. The fragrant nut oil was tasty enough, but Holo beat him to the crunchy left ear. Wine went better with meat than ale, and it commanded a fair price.
Holo literally devoured the meal, completely unconcerned when her chestnut hair slipped out from underneath her hood, becoming occasionally spattered with oil from the roast. She was the very image of a wolf taking its food.
In the end, she made short work of the piglet.
As she finished taking the meat from the last rib, a round of applause arose in the tavern.
But Holo took no notice of the noise.
She licked her fingers clean of oil, took a drink of wine, and burped grandly. Her actions were strangely dignified, and the drunken patrons of the tavern sighed with their awe.
Still ignoring them, Holo smiled sweetly at Lawrence, who sat on the other side of the now-ravaged piglet carcass.
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