The problem was that all through the ages, men had been weak against such opponents.
“Of course,” Lawrence answered again, holding her warm body close in the moonlight.
Holo’s tail wagged beneath her robe.
The world was a stage where all wished to be main characters, but things did not always proceed as they would like. In such a place, becoming the protagonist was no mean feat as even Lawrence knew.
But that changed when someone had put her trust in you.
Holo squirmed out of his arms and stood, and it seemed as if the weight on her chest had been lifted.
Just seeing that, Lawrence had no regrets.
“Come, fill the pitcher and let us return. ’Tis cold.” It was surely not his imagination that she seemed to be trying to hide some measure of bashfulness.
Lawrence took the pitcher from Holo with his right hand and filled it with the water he had drawn. Holo held his left hand and giggled ticklishly.
Even if Lawrence was being manipulated by her, there was no question that the matter at hand had some connection to the wolf bones—and to Holo’s desire.
The next day in the early afternoon, Lawrence was summoned by Kieman.
As he left the room, it was notable that the most anxious face was Col’s.
The Kerube trading house of the Rowen Trade Guild represented the interests of the guild in this important link between the pagan and Church-controlled regions. Many crafty, experienced merchants were employed there as well as the men who oversaw them.
It would have been a mighty feat indeed to outwit them all, and from this point on, Lawrence would take his orders from Kieman and try instead to outwit the northern landlords.
As long as Eve did not betray him, all would be well. Such had been the conclusion of his discussion with Kieman the previous night, Kieman no doubt already having done the necessary background work.
What was being asked of Lawrence was not so difficult a thing. He merely had to maintain the trust of the lone wolf Eve and ensure that things proceeded smoothly.
That was all.
“Do you truly not mind leaving your companion behind?”
“No, it is fine.”
The trading house had been busy all morning, so Lawrence had only a few moments to speak with Kieman before setting out. As the master of the branch, Kieman wore fine clothes with a crisply starched collar.
Given that negotiations between the northern landlords and southern merchants were happening on the delta, leaving Holo and Col behind would make it seem as if they had been taken hostage, which might have been why Kieman went to the trouble of asking whether they would go along with Lawrence.
“So then, you have only to explain to Madam Bolan what I told you earlier. My own preparations have become rather complicated, so any independent action on your part could easily create small holes, which will quickly become large problems,” said Kieman, looking firmly into Lawrence’s eyes.
Lawrence nodded calmly in return. Even if he had been told the complete plan, he was sure he would not have understood it. Even Holo and Col could run circles around him, politically.
Just as Kieman could hardly spend two weeks on rough mountain roads while subsisting on nothing but rye bread and rainwater, Lawrence could not maneuver the way Kieman could.
The more he did as he was told, the safer he would be.
The only decision he would make independently was the very last one, at the moment when events had progressed to such that he could judge for himself whether to cooperate or defect.
Kieman seemed to want to say more, but a knock upon the room’s door interrupted him. The merchant delegation had assembled and was ready to depart.
It was time.
“Well, then. I shall be counting on you.”
Having fully received Kieman’s orders, Lawrence left the room just as others entered. The trading house’s dining hall had a tense atmosphere, as if a battle were approaching.
Of course, the troops on this side felt the strange nervousness of imminent victory. They needed no goddess of victory—they had the narwhal.
It was as if they were only discussing whose victory would be greatest.
Early on, it seemed that the guild seizing the northern vessel that had originally caught the narwhal would be the ultimate victor. Even members of the Rowen Trade Guild were whispering that it would be difficult to gain the initiative in the negotiations.
Of course, that was no reason to give up, and the group of scruffy merchants in the corner, who pantomimed rowing or fell fast asleep on the tables, had already gotten an early taste of conflict as part of the southern camp.
Knights and mercenaries were a practical sort and tended not to dwell over shares of riches not yet won. By contrast, merchants loved to count chickens before they hatched, and there was no doubt the previous night had seen many arguments over shares of profits. They were probably ongoing.
Several carriages waited in front of the guild house for Chief Jeeta and Kieman, and a steady stream of raggedly dressed beggars—spies for their merchant masters—constantly filtered between them.
Lawrence remembered the term Eve had used back in Lenos, the town of lumber and fur.
A trade war.
The fact that the atmosphere made Lawrence’s heart beat faster was not because he was on the verge of an important negotiation.
It was because he had been born a man, and to a man, this atmosphere was inherently appealing.
“Fellows!”
At this sudden raised voice, all chatter fell silent.
All eyes were now on Chief Jeeta, a thin, balding old man.
Kieman had denounced him as a mere opportunist, but the same could have been said of anyone who tried to avoid calamity. And while Kieman dressed like a nobleman, Jeeta wore loose robes, which lent him the unmistakable gravity of old age.
He surveyed the assemblage with eyes that seemed able to gaze a century into the future.
“In the name of our patron, Saint Lambardos, may our guild be triumphant!”
“To triumph!”
Cheered on by the merchants, Jeeta and his escorts left the guild house. Kieman never once glanced at Lawrence, exchanging words with others before boarding the carriage that was departing the guild house.
At this sight, Lawrence felt his hand spontaneously rise to his chest—how strange it was that with such a spectacle before him, he was a crucial part of a plan that would reverse the situation entirely.
If Holo had been next to him, she surely would have mocked this sudden swell of a traveling merchant’s courage. She would have laughed even—he was certainly laughing at himself.
River crossings were no longer banned, so following the guild chief’s procession came merchants, some of whom were merely watching the proceedings and others who, like Lawrence, had tasks to perform.
Lawrence mingled toward the rear of the group and made for the Roam River.
Amid all the people emerging from the guild houses and trading companies lined along it, the avenue took on a peculiar atmosphere. Business was being conducted as usual, and it was hardly the case that everyone in town was a merchant.
Yet the flow of merchants heading north called to mind the northern campaigns. The church bell rang, its strangely urgent sound echoing.
The ferrymen were treating their passengers with a strange deference, totally unlike their usual rudeness. The riverbanks were lined with onlookers alongside soldiers armed with pikes and axes to ensure that nothing happened.
A particularly weakhearted merchant found himself overwhelmed by the spectacle, and his knees started knocking when a faintly rocking boat heaved him up onto the pier.
But nobody laughed at him. All were silent as they converged on the delta.
It was not Lawrence’s imagination that those unrelated to trade were watching as if witnessing something very strange unfolding. In older days, disputes over land were resolved by the sword and were easy to understand. But now
they were fought with parchment and ink, so it was no wonder that to outsiders it seemed like so much sorcery.
Lawrence himself had the same impression.
The way that money appeared after a negotiation was not unlike a sorcerer summoning a demon with a magic circle. No wonder the Church was so strict with merchants and their relentless quest for money—the entire business seemed as though it had to be aided by some sort of devil.
Without anyone particular in the lead, the crowd simply flowed. They made their way to the spring of gold, where the costliest items on the delta changed hands. On the tables there were parchments describing an item so valuable it couldn’t be traded for coin. And perhaps not for influence, prestige, or pride.
Those like Lawrence—small-fry merchants—found themselves stopped in their path, with only higher-status, wealthier merchants allowed to proceed. Groups similarly arriving from the north were seated. The men of both groups seemed well accustomed to giving orders with mere motions of their chins, as though this were some meeting of ancient wise men.
But here and now, it was the southerners who clearly held the upper hand. Their clothing, their retainers, and their bearing all spoke of wealth and power. By contrast, all the northerners had was their dignity. And even that was shaky, supported only by their shouting.
The southerners’ seats were all assigned, and Chief Jeeta sat three seats to the right of the finely dressed old man in the center.
No doubt the seating order was determined by the profit-sharing arrangement. The northerners had to be aware of that, and Lawrence wondered how it felt to sit in front of men whose purpose was to divide their fortune up among themselves.
But given this situation, it wasn’t obvious what the Rowen Trade Guild’s profits would be. All Lawrence could tell was that at this rate, the rewards would go to Jeeta, and those below him would receive comparatively little. Lawrence imagined the profits bypassing the guilds entirely and being instead divided evenly, and he couldn’t help smiling at the thought.
That was how absurd the idea was.
At length, the northerners had all found their seats at the table. Behind them sat men who were presumably their retainer merchants, who whispered into their masters’ ears. This seemed to be a last-minute strategy conference, and their faces were uniformly grave.
Among them, behind the best-dressed man at the northerner’s table, was a face Lawrence recognized.
It was none other than Ted Reynolds of the Jean Company.
He wore what everyone else was wearing, what must have been formal attire by the local standards—a tall, thin hat. And had circumstances been different, he would have been the mediator whose goal was to choke off the northerners for good, so seeing the truth here was frightening indeed.
Or if Kieman had called upon Reynolds after all, would he have then betrayed Lawrence? Lawrence didn’t know the truth, but as he gazed at the distant Reynolds, he suddenly got the feeling that Reynolds was looking right back at him. The man was being watched by countless other merchants, though, so it was hard to imagine that he had singled Lawrence out.
Lawrence’s feeling that their eyes had met only proved how nervously self-conscious he was.
And he was very nervous indeed.
Eve was nowhere to be seen.
According to Kieman’s explanation, she wouldn’t be at the center of activity—and that appeared to be so.
Eve’s job was to manage the under-the-table dealings.
Perhaps even at this moment she was drowning in love letters from the men desperate to outwit those around them and gain all the profit.
Lawrence, too, had a bouquet to present her, so he turned on his heel and headed away from the crowd.
Not long after, he heard a high voice declare the commencement of negotiations. It was a southern voice that made the declaration, which left no doubt as to the entirely ceremonial nature of the proceedings.
But rituals were used to pray to the gods.
As he thought about what the men at that table might be praying for, Lawrence loosened his collar, terribly afraid.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Just as there are any number of paths to reach the summit of a mountain, there were many ways to contact Eve. Strangely, Lawrence had been directed to meet her at the same plain inn where Holo had brought Col for her drunken ramble.
There were no customers on the ground floor, but the innkeeper seemed mostly unconcerned, as someone from the north had rented out the entire inn. Every inn and tavern on the delta would be like this today.
Lawrence handed over a weathered copper coin with the face of a long-gone king on it, and in return, the innkeeper placed an empty cup on the counter and indicated the inn’s staircase. “There you are.”
He was being told to take the cup upstairs.
Lawrence did as he was told, climbing the staircase, and at the end of the hallway, he saw the form of a merchant speaking to someone. He would have overlooked the person, but for the fact that no good merchant ever forgets a face.
Despite the fake beard and the cotton he had stuffed his clothes with in order to change his figure, one of the men was clearly one of Eve’s lookouts.
Lawrence faced him yet again, which earned him a sharp glare.
“How’s business?”
Lawrence stopped for a moment, but overcame his trepidation and walked up to the men, greeting the one he hadn’t met before. He realized he was being asked for some sort of password, so he calmly turned his cup upside down. “So bad I can’t even drink,” he answered.
His interrogator grinned and indicated the door next to him. The nails on his hand were twisted and deformed, probably because he was used to hard physical labor.
Lawrence gave a friendly smile and knocked at the door, entering only when he got a reply. Upon stepping inside, he found the smell of ink was almost overwhelming and mixed with that scent was something more pungent.
It turned out to be the scent coming from an old man in the corner, who was melting candle wax to use for seals.
“Have you any idea how much it saddens me to see you here?”
Physical and mental exhaustion were not the same. Eve’s face wore the exhaustion of having read too much, and she smiled, leaning her cheek against her hand, which was propped up by her elbow on a table that overflowed with letters and documents.
“Was it time for your nap?”
“Exactly so. Look how much I’ve been talking in my sleep.”
Lawrence stood in the entrance, yet even there were papers scattered about his feet.
He took a casual look at them—the ones he could easily see included two threats, three unverifiable accusations that such-and-such a person on the north was secretly connected with so-and-so on the south, three invitations of alliance, and one invitation to flee to a foreign country.
Lawrence picked up that last one—it seemed the most amusing—and brought it to Eve.
“Once I was crossing the sea out there, and I happened to be on a ship with a group of pilgrims. We had the rotten luck to be attacked by pirates.” Just as Lawrence wondered what Eve’s sudden speech had to do with anything, Eve took the letter from him and began to neatly fold it up. “At first the cowering pilgrims prayed to God, but once several sailors were killed and it seemed all hope was lost, what do you think they started doing?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Lawrence, and Eve continued, amused.
“Those pilgrims finally started just going at it! I watched them do it and thought to myself what strange, powerful creatures humans are.”
A poet had once said that fear for one’s life was the greatest aphrodisiac.
But a question remained.
“So what did you do, Miss Eve?”
Eve tossed the neatly folded letter into the fireplace. “I went through their belongings to collect the money I’d need to buy my own life back.” Her dry lips did not move, but her eyes crinkled in a smile.
Lawrence shrugged and produced
a piece of parchment from his breast pocket. “I was told to give this to you.”
“There’s no need for me to see it,” said Eve, which made the old man who was stirring the molten wax look up at them.
Eve turned to him and made a gesture with her finger, and the old man turned his attention back to the wax.
It seemed the old man was deaf. Either that or they wanted Lawrence to guess as much and thus feel free to speak.
“All I’m interested in is whether you’re my ally or not.”
“Or more accurately, whether I’ll listen to what you tell me to do in the end or not.”
Eve really did smile with her eyes, not her lips. Not replying to Lawrence’s statement, she instead held her hand out. Lawrence handed her the parchment, which she read as though it were a letter of no particular consequence.
“Hmm…it’s so close to my expectations it’s a bit unnerving. Almost as though you told them about our secret meeting.”
“You jest,” Lawrence answered with his best merchant’s smile, and a bored-looking Eve set the parchment down on the table.
“So, he’s finally come to the table, has he…?” she murmured, closing her eyes.
At the very least, she seemed to be considering the parchment Lawrence brought her for longer than the other.
“What do you think?” Eve asked, her eyes still closed.
It was still too early to bargain.
“Given that you’ve received my message, my job’s been completed without incident.”
“The northern landlords exchange a note of deed transfer of their land for the narwhal. I split the profits with the northern traitor, and your guild gets the profit from having bested their competitors.”
“Everybody’s satisfied,” said Lawrence, which made Eve sigh and rub at the corners of her eyes.
“It’s a hard thing, not being able to see the hearts of others with your own eyes.”
The only people who could trust in their partners and be sure a trade would go smoothly were those who had never seen betrayal. And those that planned to cheat another—who could also boast that their own trades would go well?
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