Spice and Wolf, Vol. 10, Page 2

  The kingdom of Winfiel was the very image of a northern country, as the winter snows closed much of the land off.

  As the sun set, the port air grew shockingly cold, and looking around, Lawrence could see piles of snow at the corners of buildings and the edges of the streets.

  Col had only a tattered pair of straw sandals, and he shuffled his feet rapidly, as though unable to keep them still for even a moment.

  “Come, you, if we don’t find an inn soon, we’ll all freeze on the spot,” said Holo. She, too, had slept most of the journey away, curled up in a blanket, and having just awoken evidently found the chill intolerable.

  “Didn’t it snow often in your homelands? Have a little endurance.”

  “You fool—should I cover myself in fur right here, then?” said Holo, wrapping her arms around Col from behind.

  Lawrence only cocked his head by way of response and then produced the letter of introduction he had gotten from Kieman and looked it over.

  “‘See Mr. Deutchmann of the Tyler Company,’ eh?”

  On the letter was a careful drawing of the Tyler Company’s seal, and Lawrence began walking, letter in hand. The docks were full of well-known companies, some of them with names that nearly anyone would have known.

  Despite the Winfiel winters being very snowy, the other seasons were quite mild with plenty of rain, and the fertile, grassy plains stretched on and on. Any livestock raised there, be they horses or cattle, grew healthy and strong in such conditions—but the sheep were particularly famous.

  It was often said of the kingdom that it grew more wool than grass, and it exported more wool than anywhere else in the world.

  The loading docks of the trading companies along the port were piled high with bundles of wool bags, and dangling from each company’s eaves was a sign sporting the ram’s horn mark that was proof the merchant had the monarchy’s permission to deal in wool.

  The Tyler Company was at the end of a row of shops, and its facade was of the highest quality. The sun had set, and candlelight from within the building seeped out, which was the best sign of a successful business.

  Lawrence knocked on the wooden door, which soon opened.

  No matter the town or port, merchants and craftsmen were always very particular about their hours of business.

  “And who are you?”

  “My deepest apologies for the late hour. I’m hoping to see Mr. Deutchmann of the Tyler Company.”

  “Deutchmann? And you are—?”

  “Kraft Lawrence of the Rowen Trade Guild. I come by Lud Kieman of Kerube,” said Lawrence, offering the letter of introduction.

  The bearded, middle-aged merchant stared openly at Lawrence’s face for a moment before accepting the letter, then looked it over front to back before saying, “Just a moment, please,” and retreating back within the building.

  The door was still open a crack, and warm air trickled out of it. Additionally, perhaps since they had arrived just at the end of the workday, that warm air carried the scent of honeyed sheep or cow’s milk. Even Lawrence found the smell tantalizing, and to Holo’s sensitive nose, it seemed nigh unbearable. Her stomach growled audibly.

  Just then, the merchant returned and opened the door. The stomach growl had been quite loud, so he might well have heard it.

  “My apologies for keeping you waiting. Please do come in, Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Ah, thank you.” Lawrence gave the man a small bow and went inside, followed by Holo and Col.

  The merchant closed the door, then walked ahead of them, saying, “This way, please.”

  Immediately inside the trading house was a space for negotiation, with several desks and tables made ready. All the furnishings were very finely decorated, and the walls were adorned with banners bearing the face of the ruler of the kingdom. It seemed more like a noble manor than a trading company.

  A few of the company’s merchants sat around a table playing cards. While the people of Winfiel loved to gamble, they were generally not vulgar about it and played with refinement and grace.

  Rather than heckling and hooting with a drink in one hand, they preferred warm drinks and elegant pastimes, which only added to the air of gentility.

  Lawrence took in the trading company’s interior as the merchant led them to the second floor. “Was the sea very rough?” the merchant asked.

  “Not at all. Perhaps God blessed our journey, as it was an easy one.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. Not long ago I heard it was very rough indeed somewhat north of here. Normally the current flows south to north, but it was so bad the flow reversed itself.”

  When the seas were rough in the offing, all sorts of fish could be caught nearer the shore. Perhaps that was to thank for the catching of the narwhal near Kerube.

  “The seas in this area are not usually so rough, but once roused they can be quite persistent. Normally when the snow falls, it’s as still as a pond.”

  “I see. Perhaps that’s why so many of the people here are so gentle and refined.”

  “Ha-ha-ha! We’re just a bunch of choleric opportunists, that’s all.”

  All who made trade their business would meet people from every land in the inns and taverns. While everyone had their own unique personality and outlook, each region had its characteristics, and the people of Winfiel were gentle and refined. But just as their guide had so skillfully put it, they could also be described as choleric and opportunistic.

  Lawrence wondered if Holo were to spend a few years here, would she grow calmer and more obedient, just like the sheep? But if she turned choleric, it would make her disposition even worse.

  He glanced at Holo, and she returned his look with a quizzically cocked head.

  “This way,” said the merchant, knocking at a door, then opening it without waiting for a reply. “Do come in.”

  As they were led inside, Lawrence felt a hint of surprise color his face.

  Holo’s eyes opened wide, and Col made a small sound of surprise.

  The room into which they had been led had walls that were covered floor to ceiling in shelves, within which were stored all manner of threads, woven cloth, wool, and looms for spinning it.

  But what drew the eye more than anything else was the sheep skulls.

  Illuminated by the candlelight, their hollow eyes silently watched the intruders entering their realm—there had to be at least twenty of them, some narrow-jawed, some wide, some with great horns and some with small.

  A sudden sound brought Lawrence back to himself. A man sitting and writing at a desk in the corner of the room had gotten to his feet.

  If this had been a business negotiation, being distracted by the room’s decor would have certainly cost Lawrence credibility, and the room’s owner surely was trying to accomplish exactly that.

  He smiled a very satisfied smile.

  “These are the sheep that bring us such wealth, though I can hardly show this to the Church.”

  The mustached man seemed in the prime of his life, and when he smiled, his eyes nearly disappeared into the creases around them. When Lawrence shook his hand, his palm was a thick-skinned one. He was certainly gracious, but that was the only expression—not many people could hide the rest of their intent so thoroughly.

  Lawrence found himself deeply relieved that he was not attempting a business negotiation with this man. No matter how skilled he became, there would be some opponents he would always find difficult.

  “I am Amn Deutchmann, and I’m in charge of wool trading at this company.”

  “My most humble apologies for the sudden visit. I am Kraft Lawrence of the Rowen Trade Guild.”

  “Well, do sit down.”

  “Thank you.”

  The standard pleasantries concluded, Lawrence, Holo, and Col all sat down on the couch, and across from them sat Deutchmann. A low table separated them.

  The merchant who had led them inside gave a short bow, then left the room.

  “Now, then, I must say I could scarcely
hide my surprise at seeing Mr. Kieman’s name come up—he was once called ‘the Eye of Kerube.’ To say nothing of the name Bolan. I must wonder just what sort of terrifying deal I’m going to be asked to swallow here!”

  It was very Winfiel-like of him to make jokes that elicited wry grins all around. Lawrence took the cue and scratched his nose as though making an excuse. “A king only gives thanks to his subjects during wartime. In such times, even a cup of water can seem like a gift of fine furs.”

  “Oh ho. So there’s some sort of disturbance in Kerube, is there?”

  “I’m sure you’ll hear of it shortly. I’d be perfectly happy to tell you about it myself, though I’m not certain you would believe me.”

  Surprisingly enough, the words seemed to rouse Deutchmann’s interest. His shoulders shook with mirth. “Miracles do happen in business!” He continued, “Now, then, about this letter of yours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You say you wish to visit the great Brondel Abbey?”

  “Yes. I was hoping for help in visiting them for a reason other than buying wool.”

  “Oh ho.”

  Traveling merchants wore beards, but the town merchants of Winfiel seemed to favor mustaches. Deutchmann fingered his magnificent mustache, twisting it as he regarded Lawrence.

  “I believe that pilgrims to the abbey are only received at a building separate from the central complex and aren’t allowed to approach the abbey itself.”

  “That is true. Even among those connected to the abbey, only a few are allowed entry. As you may well know, even wool trading is done at a specially designated branch. So…”

  “It’s no easy task to knock on the doors of the main abbey.”

  “Indeed, it is not, Mr. Lawrence. Of course, the mercantile branch is the main abbey’s lifeline, so it does have some connection…but…surely you’re not suggesting…”

  Lawrence knew perfectly well what the canny merchant’s narrowed eyes were seeing.

  The signature of Bolan.

  If they had come neither as pilgrims to the famous Brondel Abbey, nor as traders seeking wool, the remaining possibilities were few indeed.

  And nearly any merchant with a sizable enough business would recognize Eve’s name, the name of a fallen noble family of Winfiel—and there was only one reason for it to come up.

  “I am not a political agent. Please rest assured.”

  But a merchant’s words were never trustworthy. It was hardly surprising that Deutchmann’s gaze came out from his narrowed eyes needle sharp. The Tyler Company’s wool buyer looked back and forth between the introduction letter and Lawrence’s face and then finally glanced at Holo and Col.

  If Lawrence had been alone, he would have been politely shown the door.

  But with two traveling companions, it was unlikely that he was anybody’s secret messenger, Deutchmann eventually seemed to conclude.

  “My apologies if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

  “Hardly. It’s only natural you’d be suspicious, I should think.”

  “Thank you very much. But this is precisely the sort of problem that Brondel Abbey is facing at the moment.”

  “Oh?” Lawrence asked, but just then there was a knock at the door, and a maid entered carrying a tray.

  It bore the same thing the men downstairs were drinking as they played cards, Lawrence supposed. The cups steamed warmly, but not too warmly to comfortably hold—evidently the hosts were considerate enough to provide their visitors with something to chase off the cold.

  “Please, drink. It’s sheep’s milk with honey and ginger. This time of year, kings and commoners alike drink it. It’ll warm you.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  The milk was still bubbling, and Lawrence was worried his teeth would melt if he drank it. He didn’t mind sweet things, but there was a limit.

  If he just took a sip for politeness’s sake, it seemed likely that Holo would take advantage of the opportunity and drink down the rest.

  “So, about what I was saying.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Mr. Lawrence, did anything in particular strike you when you saw the port today?”

  Changing the subject and asking a sudden pointed question was a good way to determine someone’s true motives. As such, Lawrence didn’t stop to think and simply answered his mind.

  “Out of what I supposed was a combination of the chill and the hour, it seemed a bit desolate.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right. Business has been bad recently—and I’m not saying that just to make merchant small talk. It’s the truth.”

  “…You’ll have to forgive me, but as a traveling merchant from the mainland, I’m not terribly familiar with the circumstances here.”

  “I see. Not even of King Sufon’s ban?”

  “Embarrassingly, no.”

  Traveling merchants like Lawrence needed a grasp of any proclamations that affected business in the lands they traveled. But unlike traveling merchants who could flee to the hinterlands if things went poorly, a trading company needed a port in order to unload its goods, and to them, such proclamations were like the word of God.

  “To put it plainly, imports have been banned. Exports are fine. But wheat and wine are the only imports allowed. The goal is—”

  “—to stop the loss of currency, I assume.”

  “You assume correctly. King Sufon has been on the throne for five years, and his greatest goal is to make his nation wealthy. But wool sales have steadily dropped—the last few years have been truly awful. And given that Winfiel has little else it can export abroad, it only stands to reason that the more our imports exceed our exports, the poorer our nation becomes. Which is why the king, who has no experience with business, came up with that solution.”

  Deutchmann raised both his hands in a gesture of resignation. If his frustration was any indication, no doubt the ban was deeply unpopular in the town.

  “No merchant will trouble himself to come here once he learns he won’t be allowed to sell his goods. The number of ships in the harbor has dropped, and the inns are all empty. The taverns sell no wine, nor meat, nor do travelers buy any blankets or mantles. Stables are on the verge of ruin just feeding their horses, and the money changers have nothing to weigh save the dust on their scales.”

  “It’s a vicious cycle.”

  “Exactly. A king who knows how to swing a sword is at a loss when it comes to applying his mind. Given the situation, it’s no surprise conditions are so bad. Currency vanished from the town in the blink of an eye, and now look—here we are.”

  As he spoke, Deutchmann produced a coin with a practiced motion.

  The Winfiel kingdom had been founded after ages of conflict with the kings of nearby islands and struggle with the pirates of the northern seas. Sufon was the third in the line, and his profile was embossed on this coin, though this one was so blackened its details could barely be discerned.

  “It looks like this because they’ve mixed copper and who knows what else in with the silver. I hear it’s so bad that not even the best money changers can tell how much silver’s left. When a coin loses its faith, it’s no longer useful for business. I hear some landlords have been hoarding copper coins from the mainland so they can at least buy themselves some bread, but that’s a drop in the bucket. And yet with things so bad, the king only turns harsher, so…”

  Holo and Col peered at the coin on the table, but straightened when they saw that Deutchmann was continuing.

  “And so now merchants have started appearing with an eye toward taking advantage of the situation.”

  Business was nothing more than a tug-of-war. By pulling on each thread one found, it was easy to see where they led. The economy was poor and the currency so corrupted that it could not even buy bread, so what then? A nation’s economy was not some secret ritual held behind stone walls, so surely its coin would be compared to the coins of other lands.

  So what would happen then, once Winfiel’s currency alone was
inferior and devalued? Just as a weakened deer would be devoured by wolves, fortunes whose value was measured with a weakened coin would be devoured by stronger monies.

  “You speak of those who come not to buy goods, but assets.”

  “Exactly so. Just like sharks attacking a wounded fish. So you see why I was worried you were such a man.”

  “I see. It does seem likely that Brondel Abbey will become a target. It possesses reputation, influence, and assets aplenty.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Incidentally, just who is acting as the shark?”

  At this question, Deutchmann bared his canine teeth with a vulgar grin that would not have been out of place in a seedy tavern somewhere. “The crest of the moon and shield.”

  “…!”

  “Even so. The Ruvik Alliance, whose home territory is the whole of the northlands. It is they who play the shark.”

  It was the single most powerful economic alliance in the world, whose many large warships flew a beautiful green flag bearing a crest with a moon and a shield and with whom no less than eighteen regions and twenty-three craft guilds cooperated. It was backed by thirty noblemen and led by ten great trading companies.

  One might joke that at their meeting table, they might decide whom to place on the throne of a given nation, but such a joke could not be easily laughed off.

  When targeted by such an organization, ordinary tactics were all but useless.

  “Naturally we’re all too terrified to do anything, so we’ve been reduced to mere bystanders. And they’re following the rules. They haven’t interfered with the wool trade.”

  “I suppose their goal is the land held by the abbey.”

  “Yes. My guess is they’re trying to acquire the abbey’s territory, buying out the gentry’s holdings in order to put pressure on the monarchy—and the gentry are already suffering from increased taxation and decreased revenue. Given their vast size, the alliance can hardly act in secret, which in turn motivates them to move forward.”

  Lawrence imagined the gentry believing that once this was all over, King Sufon would be reduced to a figurehead.