“Mm, about two thousand.”
More properly, this was the amount fetched by Eve’s house name, not Holo’s body.
“Oh ho. How much wine would that buy?”
“An unbelievable amount of the finest quality.”
“And you’re going to take that money and profit with it, yes?”
Holo was demanding her cut, and Lawrence had every intention of giving it to her.
“If all goes well, I’ll treat you to as much drink as you like.”
Holo giggled. “Then I’ll have…” she began but then hastily closed her mouth.
After a moment of confusion, Lawrence realized what she was going to say.
Then I’ll have enough to stay drunk my whole life.
But that was an impossible dream.
“Then I’ll have… enough so that I start vomiting even before I’m drunk,” said Holo the Wisewolf.
Lawrence the traveling merchant could hardly fail to retort, “What? You lost the drinking game?”
“Yes… Still, that’s quite natural. Think about it, will you? My opponent was not as beautiful as I, but she still had looks enough – and poured such wine into her guts as made her face turn red and her cheeks puff out. Once I, a proud wisewolf, saw what a disgrace I would have to become, I couldn’t stop my gorge from rising.”
No doubt they had both been “a disgrace,” but Holo’s vain excuse was undeniably Holo-like. Lawrence had to laugh.
Holo folded her arms and made a sour face. There was a tomboyish innocence about her.
How fun the conversation would have been if it had not all been an act.
“In any case, you seem to enjoy liquor well enough, despite your loss,” said Lawrence.
To which Holo answered, “You are only and ever a fool.”
When they reached Rigolo’s house, he was not there.
Melta received them in her nun’s habit as always.
“You were very fast to read them all. It takes me near a month to read even one short tale,” she said.
She seemed to speak not out of humility but rather bashfulness, her smile carrying with it an aura of kindness.
Lawrence couldn’t help noticing this, but as Melta retrieved the key from Rigolo’s desk and led them in, Holo didn’t kick him even once.
“Mr. Rigolo said to tell you that if there is anything else you need, please feel free to borrow it,” said Melta, using the key to open the door to the archives, then lighting a beeswax candle.
“Anything you want to read?” Lawrence asked Holo, who nodded vaguely.
“Please do look around, then. No matter how valuable these books, it seems a bit sad to let them go unread,” said Melta.
“Thank you very much,” said Lawrence, smiling and ducking his head by way of a bow.
Melta’s personality seemed entirely genuine, instead of simply being a product of her occupation.
“I should say that the books you borrowed were written by Mr. Rigolo’s grandfather, and as such use modern language. Some of the older books, however, use archaic writing styles and may be difficult to read.”
Holo nodded at Melta’s statement, then took the wax candle from her and proceeded slowly into the archives. Lawrence doubted there were actually any books she wanted to read and assumed Holo just wanted to kill time.
Her dancing with him in the inn, too, must have been something she anticipated in a way.
Even having understood everything, this was fun, and she had anticipated being able to end their journey with smiles.
But he knew that was impossible.
“Er–”
“Yes?” Melta had been watching the candle Holo held, but she now turned to Lawrence.
“I hate to be presumptuous, but would you mind terribly showing me Mr. Rigolo’s garden?”
The gloom of the archives was fostering dark thoughts in Lawrence’s mind, and he was starting to scare himself.
But Melta showed not so much as a dewdrop of concern.
“I’m sure the flowers in the garden will be pleased to see you,” she said with a smile that glowed like the wax candle.
“Holo,” Lawrence called out, and her head appeared from behind one of the bookshelves. “Be careful with the books.”
“I know, I know.”
Melta laughed pleasantly. “It’s quite all right. Mr. Rigolo’s way of handling them is much worse, I assure you.”
Lawrence more or less had the sense that this was true, and having warned Holo, he let Melta lead him out of the archives and back up to the ground floor.
He looked forward to gazing upon that bright garden and thinking about nothing in particular.
“Would you care for something to drink?”
“Ah, er, no – don’t trouble yourself.” Lawrence waved off Melta’s kind offer, and she gave a short bow before quietly leaving the room.
If he had come on business, then his presence would have profited his host as well, so he wouldn’t have worried about accepting their kindness. But as it was, Lawrence was presuming upon their good graces and didn’t want to accept any more than he had to.
One of the Church’s core principles was “give all you are able to.”
“Ah, well,” he ventured to say, putting an end to the thought. He didn’t want to think about anything.
Lawrence turned his eyes to Rigolo’s garden.
He had heard that making transparent glass was quite difficult. The price aside, constructing these huge windows must have involved many problems.
On the other side of the wall, through countless pieces of glass all joined together, there was a garden that looked as if it had taken even more work.
It was eerie, seeing the green plants, the white blossoms.
Rigolo had bragged that with some effort, he could preserve such scenery within this room year-round.
If that was true, then Rigolo must have sat at this desk, never bored with the scene that greeted him every time he looked at the garden.
Surely Melta, who seemed to look after Rigolo, must have gazed in fond exasperation at his back.
It made Lawrence frankly jealous. He grinned regretfully at his own folly, then looked back into the study.
It overflowed with papers and parchment and looked quite messy at a glance, though on closer inspection, the room was revealed to be tidy indeed. Rather than calling it a home or workplace, the term nest seemed most appropriate, given its scattered state.
Lawrence wondered if it was Eve’s closeness to Rigolo that led him to have one of her statues in the room.
Or perhaps he’d had one of the leftovers foisted off on him.
It was packed with cotton in a wooden box, along with a rolled-up piece of parchment that was probably the certificate of consecration from the Church.
The statue was about the size of both of his hands with their fingers outstretched.
Lawrence looked at it closely, wondering how much it went for when he noticed something strange.
The statue’s surface was slightly faded.
“What’s this?”
In order to improve their appearance, statues were sometimes rubbed with lime and sometimes ink. This statue of the Holy Mother was white, so surely lime had been used on it.
But in a place where that finish seemed to have come off, Lawrence saw something strange.
He rubbed the statue lightly, trying to wipe it clean.
“… This, it can’t be–”
“Is something the matter?” The sudden voice brought him back to himself.
He turned around. It was Melta. “Oh, goodness… this is rather embarrassing. I just thought this statue of the Holy Mother was so well made, I could do with having her hear my troubles.”
“Goodness.” Melta’s eyes widened slightly, and she smiled. “I am a lamb in the Church’s flock, so I would be happy to hear your worries.”
Evidently Melta was not a hardheaded nun.
“I shall restrain myself,” said Lawrence.
; Melta carried a beautifully carved wooden tray with a compact wooden cup and a metal pitcher on it. “This is a drink made from bread, though I don’t know if it will suit you.”
The tray and cup had such soft, lovely lines that Lawrence wondered if Melta had made them herself. “Kvass, is it?”
“Goodness, sir merchant, you’re quite knowledgeable,” answered Melta, pouring a pale brown liquid from the pitcher into the cup.
“It hasn’t been popular recently, so you don’t see it much these days.”
“I myself prefer it to the Blood of God… ah, er – please forget I said that!”
By the “Blood of God,” she surely meant grape wine.
For the quiet Melta to make a joke, it was charming indeed.
Lawrence nodded and put his index finger to his lips.
If this were Ruvinheigen or Kumersun or Tereo, he would have treated Melta a bit differently, fearing Holo’s revenge.
And yet if asked if he was truly enjoying this conversation, Lawrence would have answered in the negative.
His mind was racing with the knowledge he’d gained from the statue of the Holy Mother.
“Here you go,” said Melta, offering him the drink.
Feeling as though Melta’s gentle demeanor was a balm on his frayed heart, Lawrence took the cup.
“I take it Mr. Rigolo is at the meeting?”
“Yes. This morning there was an urgent message, and… oh, heavens, I’m sorry, I was told not to say anything about it.”
Lawrence flashed his best merchant’s smile at the apologetic Melta, shaking his head. “Not at all, and in any case I wouldn’t ask about the subject of the meeting. It was a poor choice of topic. I had wanted to ask about the glass here, so it is unfortunate I could not see him again.”
“Oh, is that so…? Well, this glass was gathered piece by piece, and it took over three years to collect it all.”
“I see. Mr. Rigolo’s passion for his garden is clear indeed,” said Lawrence with deliberate surprise in his voice. Melta smiled brilliantly, as though she herself had been praised.
Eve had said she didn’t understand Rigolo’s lack of ambition and his passion for his garden, but with someone as understanding as Melta at his side, he could lose himself in his avocation. Rigolo’s days were pleasant ones, Lawrence mused.
“With so much passion, I can understand why he would make such bold declarations as saying he wants to quit his post as the council’s secretary.”
Melta’s smile was troubled as she nodded. “Though it is his job, he stays gazing at the garden until the last possible moment.”
“I would say he might as well, but the secretary is an important post.”
“God says that labor is valuable. But sometimes I feel that such a modest desire as being able to spend time in one’s garden could also come true,” said Melta, smiling.
It was a decadent dream that no pious nun should be able to embrace, but perhaps it was the fact that Melta was in love that made her think of it as pleasant.
No matter how Lawrence thought about it, she seemed to be saying that Rigolo’s happiness was her happiness.
Perhaps it was Melta’s dream to stand by Rigolo’s side all day long as he watched his garden, bravely attending to him.
“Ah, but modest desires are the hardest to fulfill.”
She laughed. “You may be right.” Melta placed her hand to her cheek as she looked out on the bright garden. “And the most joyous times are the ones that you wish would last forever.”
Stricken, Lawrence looked long and hard at Melta.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
“I’m simply moved by your words.”
“You flatter me.”
He had been entirely serious, but Melta had taken his sincerity for a joke.
Lawrence wanted Holo to stay. He wanted her to stay forever, but maybe he should simply treasure the time for as long as he felt that way. The thought pierced his chest.
If they were truly always together, if they could always see each other again, perhaps that joy would unavoidably be destroyed.
It was not such a difficult truth.
Because it was so simple, Holo’s dream of overturning this was too difficult.
“However, I do believe it’s a fortunate thing to be able to pursue a simple dream,” managed Lawrence, unable to forget his own reality.
Soon Holo came up from the archives, holding the wax candle.
She said the flame had gone out, but that was surely a lie.
Just as Lawrence had fled, Holo had found the dark corners of the archives distasteful and had escaped.
Lawrence knew this because as soon as Holo entered the room facing the brightly lit garden, she shot him a bitter glance.
Saying nothing, she stood next to him.
Lawrence looked straight at her, and spoke. “Did you find any good books?”
Holo shook her head. Her eyes asked, “Did you?”
Holo was Holo.
She could easily detect the slightest change in his demeanor.
“I had a very useful conversation,” said Lawrence.
The next instant, there was the sound of banging on the door.
Following this came the sound of the door opening.
Heavy, graceless footfalls echoed through the house, and then someone appeared.
Melta was shocked, but she did not become angry or flustered at the surprising intrusion, because it was someone she knew well.
It was Eve.
“Come with me,” said Eve. “Things are bad.”
She was breathing heavily.
“It’s an armed uprising.”
“Lock your doors, and don’t open them for anyone you don’t know,” said Eve, and Melta nodded, gulping as though she had swallowed a stone.
“Y-yes!”
“I don’t care how displeased they are with the council’s decision, I doubt they’ll come to the secretary’s house, so you should be fine,” said Eve, giving Melta a light embrace. “And of course, Rigolo will be safe.”
Melta nodded pathetically.
She was far more concerned for his safety than for her own.
“Right, let’s go.”
Eve directed these words to Lawrence and Holo, and Lawrence gave a short nod.
Holo stood a bit away looking disinterested, but Lawrence could tell that her ears were twitching to and fro beneath her hood. She probably had a good idea of what was going on in the surrounding area.
“We’re off, then.” Eve stepped out of the door, and Melta clasped her hands as if to pray for their safety.
Eve, Lawrence, and Holo walked down a deserted street at a fast stride that was almost a slow trot. “You said an ‘uprising,’ but who is it actually?” Lawrence asked.
“The fur craftsmen and the people who supply them their tools and wares.”
The first thing Eve had said upon getting to Rigolo’s house was, “This is bad.”
The trigger had been the council making their decision public earlier than predicted.
Just as the council was trying to set up the wooden plaques that displayed the decision in the town square, the craftsmen and suppliers rushed in wielding their tools in place of weapons, demanding that the council rescind its ruling.
Though to Lawrence the decision seemed like an astute one, he could imagine that those who would find their businesses completely gone the next day could hardly swallow it.
And Eve said the council’s decision was based on a naive forecast.
It was hardly surprising that the uncertainty and worry would take the form of a violent uprising. Even if the town’s fur industry did survive, the townspeople themselves would be ruined, so it would be meaningless.
News of the uprising had reached the center of town quickly, and it was now apparently in complete disorder.
Lawrence could hear the distant cries and shouts.
He looked to Holo, who nodded.
“The council’s decision ca
n’t be revoked, can it?” he asked.
Eve shook her head.
The Council of Fifty was an assembly of powerful people from all parts of town, and the decisions they made showed the town’s resolve. Such decisions were given preference above all others, and all who lived in Lenos had to abide by them.
If a group whose interests lay in opposition to those of the council denied those decisions, there was the danger that it could severely damage the council’s authority and make it difficult for the council to conduct its normal management of the town.
The fur craftsmen were no doubt well aware of that when they decided to revolt.
“The council has to protect its credibility, so the decision will be upheld. The foreign merchants are already coming into the town. The craftsmen are desperate to prevent them from doing so, but it’s probably impossible.”
Eve walked through the complicated maze of streets without any trouble.
Occasionally they passed others with goals similar to their own. Several times they saw merchants running through the alleys as fast as they could.
Lawrence was worried about whether Holo would be able to keep up, but she seemed fine for the moment. She held on to Lawrence’s hand, careful to stay close.
“And our fur deal?” asked Lawrence.
“The council’s decision was exactly what my information said it would be. Assuming it’s upheld, then the deal is still on.”
If so, every second counted.
“What shall we do? Shall we accept the money afterwards and do the fur buying in the meantime?”
“No,” was Eve’s answer. “I don’t want any complications. We should go with the money in hand. You head to the Delink Company and pick up the coin.”
Eve strode down the street, unconcerned with puddles, and continued speaking before Lawrence could say anything. “I’ll make ready a boat,” she said, stopping suddenly.
The trio came out of the narrow, winding street to find the docks directly in front of them.
Throngs of people walked to and fro, all of them with dark expressions.
Lawrence could tell that the crowds of hurrying merchants were all running to procure furs, and a chill ran down his spine.
It must be even worse in the town square, Lawrence thought, where the fur craftsmen were confronting those tasked with defending the signs that announced the councils decision.
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