Spice and Wolf, Vol. 4

  Copyright

  SPICE AND WOLF, Volume 4

  ISUNA HASEKURA

  Cover art by Jyuu Ayakura

  Translation: Paul Starr

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  OOKAMI TO KOSHINRYO Vol. 4

  © ISUNA HASEKURA 2007

  Edited by ASCII MEDIA WORKS

  First published in Japan in 2007 by

  KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo.

  English translation rights arranged with KADOKAWA CORPORATION, Tokyo, through Tuttle-Mori Agency, Inc., Tokyo.

  English translation © 2011 by Yen Press, LLC

  Yen Press, LLC supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact the publisher. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Yen On eBook Edition: February 2017

  Originally published in paperback in June 2011 by Yen On.

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  ISBN: 9780316559034

  E3-20170122-JV-PC

  CHAPTER ONE

  The six days of winter travel had taken a toll on his body.

  While it was fortunate that there had been no snow, cold was still cold.

  What blankets he had were bought by the bundle and closer to softish boards than proper bedding. Anything that could plausibly ward off the chill had been stuffed under those blankets.

  The warmest thing of all, naturally, would have been another warm-bodied creature, ideally one with fur.

  If said creature could talk, though, well—that would be a problem.

  “I cannot but muse that I am on the losing end of this bargain, ’tis true.”

  The sky was growing faintly brighter, the last vestiges of the night still caressing his face as though reluctant to leave.

  Normally after being awakened by the cold, he would stare up at the paling sky for a time, unwilling to emerge from the blankets—but today his furred companion was obviously in a terrible temper.

  “Look, I said I was sorry.”

  “Oh, aye, if it’s a question of who is in the wrong and who should be apologizing, ’tis you and sure enough. I help ease night’s chill as I can, and I’m even generous enough not to charge you for the favor.”

  The young man buried underneath the blankets, his face exposed and looking up at the sky, was Kraft Lawrence. He turned his head to the left.

  Lawrence had been on his own as a merchant since he was eighteen—seven years now—and he had a fair amount of confidence in his ability to talk around even the most unreasonable of customers.

  But even this seasoned merchant found himself at a loss for words when confronted by his companion, who lay to his right, directing at him a displeased stream of words with a sharp gaze to match.

  The girl with her dark red eyes and flaxen hair was named Holo.

  It was a rare name, but that was not the only rare thing about her.

  After all, she sported a pair of keen, beastlike ears atop her head, and a splendid wolf tail sprouted from her waist.

  “And yet! There are things one may do and things one may not, nay?”

  Holo would not have been as angry, presumably, if Lawrence had done something as easily understood as assaulting her in her bed while his wits were still dulled by sleep.

  She would have simply mocked him mercilessly until he could barely stand, laughed a hearty laugh, and called it a day.

  But no—the reason Lawrence endured this ceaseless stream of recrimination was because he had done something unforgivable.

  What had he done? Owing to the cold, he’d unconsciously nestled his feet on Holo’s furry tail. Worse, when he turned over in his sleep, he had caught her fur.

  The centuries-old Holo, the self-styled wisewolf, the girl who was sometimes called a goddess (though she hated it) had uttered a piercing, girlish cry—the pain alone must have been insult enough.

  Nevertheless, Lawrence felt a bit aggrieved at his subsequent treatment. He had been asleep, after all.

  Despite the fact that even now Holo continued to rail at him, the instant his feet tangled in her fur and he stepped on her tail, she had punched him hard, twice, in the face.

  Surely that was punishment enough, he felt.

  “’Tis bad enough that you humans tread so easily upon one’s feet when you are fully awake. But even when you are asleep! But lo—this tail is my pride! The only proof that I am me!”

  Though the tail that Lawrence had rolled over was unharmed, a bit of fur had come free.

  More than any pain, it was that indignity that infuriated Holo so.

  Worse, before he’d rolled over, his feet seemed to have flattened a section of fur on her tail as they slept.

  After staring dazedly at her tail for a moment, Holo tackled Lawrence, who had sensed that the situation was turning ugly and tried to escape from underneath the blankets, and she began to verbally assault him.

  When angered, most would either turn cold and cruel or demand a duel of some kind. Holo’s method of reprisal was far more effective.

  It had been quite warm sleeping underneath the blankets with Holo, and the hour was just before dawn, and Lawrence’s body was beleaguered after many days of winter travel.

  It would hardly have been surprising if he began to doze off in the face of such unrelenting abuse.

  If Lawrence’s face betrayed even a hint of sleepiness, though, no doubt he would never hear the end of it.

  It was like torture.

  Holo would have made an excellent sheriff.

  “Honestly, though…”

  The interrogation did not cease until Holo exhausted herself with anger and dozed off again.

  Lawrence was well aware that Holo’s wrath was something to be feared and that anger could take many forms. He’d had no particular desire to discover yet another facet of it, but discover it he had—and having done so, he started the wagon moving along.

  Worn out by her own tirade, Holo had stolen the blankets entirely and curled up like a caterpillar against the cold.

  But she wasn’t in the wagon bed. Instead, she lay sideways in the driver’s seat, her head resting upon Lawrence’s lap.

  She certainly looked suitably meek and lovely, but given the timing…No, the depth of her calculation was frightening.

  If she’d bared her teeth, that would have given Lawrence an excuse to fight back. If she’d ignored him, he could have ignored her in turn.

  But forcing her head onto the merchant’s lap only further worsened his position.

  He couldn’t get angry; he couldn’t ignore her. And if she were to beg him for something to eat, he’d be unable to refuse her. Her actions, after all, made it clear that she was mollified.

  Though the sun had now risen, taking the chill off the morning air, the sigh that came fro
m Lawrence’s mouth was a heavy one.

  Despite warning himself that he would need to be more careful of Holo’s tail in the future, it was hard to resist such warmth when camping in the winter.

  If there had been a god to ask, he would’ve prayed: “What should I do?”

  But then the mute morning travels came to an unexpectedly sudden end.

  As the pair had not passed anyone so far that day, Lawrence assumed that they had a long way yet to go. But as they crested a small hill, a town came into view.

  He’d never been to this region before and lacked any sense of the lay of the land.

  It was slightly to the east of the central region of Ploania, a vast nation that was home to both pagans and church followers. Lawrence wasn’t sure about the military importance of the area, but he knew it held little to interest a merchant such as himself.

  The only reason he was here at all was because of the devilish girl who lay asleep on his lap.

  He was guiding her back to her homeland, Yoitsu.

  Because of the centuries that had passed since she had left, her memories of the details of the place were blurry and dim. Much had changed in the world over such a span of time, and Holo was eager to learn even the tiniest rumor of her homeland—all the more so now that she had learned of the legend recounting Yoitsu’s destruction.

  Six days earlier in the town of Kumersun, they’d made the acquaintance of Diana, a chronicler who collected folklore. Diana had told them of a monk who specialized in tales of pagan gods.

  The monk in question lived in a remote monastery, and only the Church priest in the town of Tereo knew its location.

  The path to Tereo was not widely known, however, so the pair headed first to another town, Enberch, to ask directions.

  It was that town at which they had finally arrived.

  “I wish to eat sweetbread.” As they approached the town’s gatehouse, Holo stirred and awoke, and these were the first words from her mouth. “And by sweetbread, I mean—you know. Wheat bread.”

  What she requested was not inexpensive, but Lawrence had no right to refuse her.

  Lawrence didn’t know what would sell in the region, so he’d brought wheat with him—wheat he had bought from his friend Mark the wheat seller, to whom he owed a favor. But as Lawrence and Holo traveled, it was bitter rye bread he’d chosen for their rations.

  His miserly decision had made him the target of no small amount of complaining on Holo’s part.

  He couldn’t help thinking darkly of the high-quality, grandly risen bread Holo would no doubt demand.

  “We’ve got to sell our goods first, in any case.”

  “I suppose I’ll allow that.”

  Truthfully it had been Holo who begged Lawrence to allow her to accompany him, yet most of the time Lawrence felt like her valet.

  She seemed to notice Lawrence’s irritation. “Ah, but my lovely tail has been trampled ’neath your feet. ’Tis only fair that I trample upon you a bit in return,” she said mischievously, stroking her tail beneath her robe.

  He’d expected Holo to continue complaining for some time, but it seemed she had spoken her piece.

  Lawrence sighed inwardly, relieved, and turned the wagon toward the miller’s.

  Though Enberch was remote, it seemed to be the acknowledged trade center of the region and fairly busy.

  Lawrence and Holo had merely happened to approach the town from a less-trafficked direction.

  Throughout the town square were carts loaded with grain, produce, and animals that had been brought from nearby villages. Buyers and sellers jammed the area.

  There was a large church that faced the square, its doors flung open to accommodate the bustling trade it seemed to do. Through the doorway passed a steady stream of townspeople coming to pray or to attend service.

  Enberch was the sort of rural town you could find anywhere in the world.

  Upon asking at the gatehouse, Lawrence learned that the largest miller in town was the Riendott Company.

  Though it was little more than a miller’s shop, the word company had been tacked onto the end. It struck Lawrence as awfully countrified.

  Yet past the north edge of the square on the right side of the clean, straight road, there stood the Riendott Company—complete with a wide storefront and grand loading dock. The merchant understood why this business would want to maintain its reputation.

  He’d bought up about three hundred trenni worth of grain in Kumersun.

  About half of this had carefully been winnowed and ground into flour. The remainder had merely been threshed.

  The farther north one went, the harder it was to raise wheat—thus the price rose.

  If a merchant was unlucky enough to encounter a few days of rain on his journey, the wheat would quickly rot—and in any case, it was too expensive for northlanders to afford as a staple, so finding buyers could be difficult.

  Lawrence mostly carried wheat simply because, as a merchant, he hated to travel with an empty wagon.

  It was also because, having made a large profit in Kumersun, he’d decided to err on the side of prudence.

  In any case, a town the size of Enberch should have a few nobles or Church officials rich enough to afford wheat, so Lawrence expected the Riendott Company would be willing to buy from him.

  “Ho, is that wheat?”

  It was Riendott himself who emerged to greet Lawrence, probably because Lawrence’s wagon was loaded with wheat. Riendott was a round man, giving the impression more of a butcher than a miller, and his face seemed a bit troubled.

  “Indeed. Half as flour and the other half in grain. I’ve a writ of quality to go with it.”

  “I see. I’ll allow as how kneaded and baked it would make fine bread—but as you can see, we’ve had a huge harvest of rye this year. We simply lack the resources to deal with extra wheat.”

  The company’s loading dock was indeed piled high with sacks of rye, and on the wall next to them, placards were affixed, upon which delivery destinations had been scrawled in chalk.

  “Though for our part, wheat does yield a nice profit. We’d like to buy from you given the chance, but we’ve no spare funds on hand…”

  The owner was surely thinking that rye—which was guaranteed to sell—was more important to him than wheat that might or might not be easy to sell, depending on the whims of wealthy customers.

  Interpersonal relationships were important in business. This was doubly true in remote areas like Enberch. The miller could scarcely afford a single traveling merchant disrupting his business with farmers who would bring in rye year after year.

  “I gather that you’re a traveling merchant—have you come to create a new trade route?”

  “Nay, this is merely a side business.”

  “I see. May I ask your destination?”

  “I’m bound for Lenos, but there’s a place nearby I’d like to visit first.”

  Riendott blinked his surprise.

  Though Lenos was yet farther north, it was sure that the master of a trade company—even one like this, a glorified mill—would know it at least by reputation.

  “Good heavens, you’re headed quite a ways…quite a ways, indeed.”

  It was obvious that Riendott assumed Enberch was the only town in the region worth a merchant’s time.

  “Aye, though I plan to stop in Tereo first.”

  Riendott’s surprise was obvious. “Goodness, what would take you there?”

  “I’ve business with the Church there. Ah, and merchant matters aside, would you happen to know the way?”

  Riendott’s gaze swam for a moment, as though he’d been asked the price of the very first good he had ever sold. “The road that leads there has no forks, so you needn’t worry about losing your way. I’d say it’s about half a day’s travel by wagon. The road is poor, though.”

  Maybe it really had been a strange question to ask. Maybe there truly was nothing of note in Lenos.

  Riendott hemmed and hawed for a mom
ent, glancing toward Lawrence’s wagon. “Will you be coming through Enberch on your return?”

  “Unfortunately, no; I’m taking a different route.”

  No doubt the miller was contemplating buying on credit if Lawrence had been coming back through Enberch.

  But no—Lawrence had no plans to add the region to his regular route.

  “I see, well…unfortunately, I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it at that, then,” said Riendott, his face twisted with regret that was probably at least half-false.

  Buying up expensive wheat from a traveler just passing through was a dangerous gamble.

  The wheat flour could easily have been cut with flour from other grains, or it might merely appear to be of fine quality, only showing its true colors upon baking.

  If the miller could buy on credit and defer payment for a while, then even if the quality was bad, he could con some distant countryside nobility into buying the wheat.

  But Lawrence had no particular need to sell his wheat immediately.

  The time was not right. He shook hands with Riendott and prepared to take his leave.

  “I suppose ’tis true—the fastest way to sell wheat is not as flour, but as baked bread,” said Lawrence.

  Bread’s quality could be easily determined with a single bite. A taste was far more effective than the grandest tale of a sack of flour’s supposed quality.

  “Ha-ha-ha. All us merchants think so. It’s a sore spot with the town bakers!” declared Riendott.

  “Ah, so the bakers here are tough, are they?”

  “Aye, and how. If anyone besides the bakers begins selling bread, they’ll come running, stone rolling pins brandished high!”

  Merchants bought and sold, and bakers baked—this division of labor could be found anywhere in the world.

  It was a reality, though, that if a merchant was to take over the entire process, from buying wheat to baking bread, the profits would be substantial.

  As it was, the process between harvesting wheat to selling baked bread was long and involved many different people.

  “Well then—God go with us,” said Lawrence.

  “Indeed. I look forward to your future patronage.”

  Lawrence gave Riendott a smile and a nod, and then he and Holo put the shop behind them.