The flood of words from Milton’s mouth suddenly stopped, and he smiled pleasantly.
“Enough that my business partners find me useful, anyway,” finished Milton, drinking his wine, then ordering another cup.
Fleur had not interrupted him, but not because she was overwhelmed by his monologue. Her chest had simply tightened upon seeing his stubborn resolve, and she had been unable to speak.
“Ha-ha, was that a bit too pretentious?”
“N-not at all…”
“Still,” Milton continued, giving a silver coin to the innkeeper who brought his wine, “that was all because I have a goal.”
Hearing this, Fleur could practically see the image of a fetching town girl standing behind Milton. But that was not at all what he was getting at.
“I want to rub my family’s face in it.” Again he ate the beans to hide his smile.
Fleur watched him do so with a steady gaze.
“It’s a bit different from proving I’m not some shame upon the Post name. It’s more like showing that even though I’ve been cast out, I can still succeed. It’s about pride. If I can keep that, I don’t care how many times my knees hit the floor when I bow my head – I’ll be doing it as a merchant.”
His determination was unwavering.
Fleur rested her hand upon the plain wooden table, and she found it hard to keep it still. If this had not been a noisy tavern, and if the rough table had been covered by a fine white tablecloth, she might very well have extended her hand out to cover his.
The only thing that stopped her was the fact that this was not a noble ball or dance floor.
The person before her had decided upon his goal and was moving straight toward it, and he had embraced his role as a merchant, which meant that what Fleur needed to do was not to take his hand in hers, but rather speak these words.
“So, you are…”
“Yes?”
The words caught in her throat, and she drew her chin in, bracing herself. “… Looking for capital, I hear.”
It was a matter of course for merchants to be able to change their attitude in response to circumstances. Fleur considered Milton as a merchant and chose her words accordingly.
Milton smiled thinly – Fleur was sure it wasn’t her imagination. “That’s right.”
She took a breath. “How much?”
Milton named a figure that for Fleur, at that moment, was not an impossible amount.
The soup had plenty of bread in it, along with beans, onion, and the leftover meat from the previous night – two big bowls of it and one would be able to skip meals for two days. On top of such hearty fare had been laid a generous amount of roasted cheese.
Such a dish would not have been out of place coming from the large kitchen of a fine manor somewhere, but it was very like Bertra to manage the feat shorthanded and with a much smaller kitchen.
And since the house of Bolan operated on such a meager budget, she had become quite adept at making do with cheap ingredients. Even the seasoned merchant Olar had been stunned into silence when told how much they had cost, which was no mean feat.
When it came to cooking, none wielded a ladle the way Bertra did.
“The bread was rejected by the town inspector, so I got them to sell it cheap. It was stale and hard and couldn’t have been eaten the way it was, but look what happens when you put it in soup. I got the onions from the lady of the house three doors down – traded her some herbs I grew for them. The meat came from a chicken I found wandering about the garden.”
As a child, Fleur had always been forbidden from wandering into the yard behind the manor, and when she had learned that this was because of the traps set to catch ingredients for dinner, she was quite impressed.
Of course, those traps had been set by the elderly gardener, but Bertra had evidently been watching and had imitated him, so both Fleur and Olar were perfectly aware that the chicken had not been simply “wandering about the garden.”
But in a town thick with edible animals like pigs, sheep, goats, and rabbits, no one was going to complain about a missing chicken or two.
Olar’s constant admiration of Bertra’s craft was not unusual.
What was unusual was the way Fleur failed to praise or compliment the dinner’s flavor in any way as she ate it.
“Milady?”
Fleur nearly dropped her spoon at the unexpected address. All their silver had long since been sold, so it was a cheap tin utensil. Bertra would occasionally complain that she missed polishing the silver, but for Fleur’s part she found the tinware easier to use and much preferred it.
“O-oh yes. It’s delicious,” she said hastily, which made Olar and Bertra both regard her dubiously. “Very,” she added. Olar and Bertra shared a look.
Fleur picked up a piece of bread and put it in her mouth. It was hard to chew, but that meant it would be that much longer before she was expected to speak.
“So what did the Post lad have to say?”
Fleur heard the quiet hammering of her heart. She was sure they could hear it, too, but averted her eyes and took another bite of bread before she had finished chewing the first one.
“Oh, have you started working on another trade?” Bertra was preternaturally sharp when it came to housework but could still be rather insensitive.
Or perhaps she did know and was asking on purpose, Fleur wondered as she took a sip of ale.
“A fundamental principle of trading,” Olar said, giving Fleur an appraising look as she stood from her chair, “is to keep your distance from your partners.”
Fleur’s heart was now very quiet. She shot Olar a cold glance, which he did not flinch at.
“For trading to go smoothly, you must deal with many different partners, as it’s impossible to predict when difficulties may arise. You must above all avoid any situation wherein a delivery failing to arrive would mean your ruin.”
Their cold staring contest continued. But Fleur could not match Olar’s ability in hiding any emotion from his face, eyes, and mouth. She finally looked away, picking up her bowl and thrusting it at Bertra. “Another.”
“Chasing profit is a dangerous business. If you dream of great gains, you also expose yourself to great risks. Trading is a long-term enterprise. You must avoid risk,” said Olar, but Fleur could tell his words lacked real conviction.
No doubt he’d already concluded what was to blame for Fleur’s strange mood.
“He’s a trustworthy man.”
“Merchants can wear many masks.”
“He seems a trustworthy man.”
Olar nodded and indicated that Fleur could continue.
“The profit is reliable. I supply the money, and he chooses and sells the clothing. The profit comes to thirty or forty percent, which we split.”
“What of the clothing? Where does it come from and via whom?”
“A famous town across the sea, he said. He’ll use the trading company for the purchase, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
She cut a piece of chicken in two with her spoon and brought the smaller piece to her mouth. The bones had been carefully removed, which made it easy to eat.
“And to whom will they be sold?”
“The same customers he’s sold to before, so there’s no problem there, either.”
The canny old merchant stopped asking questions. Fleur’s face was downcast, and she stole a glance at him with upturned eyes, like a student seeking her tutor’s approval.
Olar put his hand to his forehead, sighing as he rubbed his head, which he often did when he was thinking something over.
Fleur thought back over her conversation with Milton. Her impression was that everything had been planned very carefully, from purchase all the way to sale. After all, they were only continuing with a business that had been conducted successfully all along. The only difference was that the money to buy the clothes would come from Fleur instead of from the company. And doing business at the company’s whims meant they kept most of the profit
.
By joining up with Fleur, Milton could make more money for himself in exchange for his expertise with clothing and customers.
He had explained his expectations and goals very clearly, and Fleur did not think there would be any problems.
“I see…”
“Is there a problem?” she shot back, stronger than she had intended.
“Well, if you truly wish to know…”
“If there is, spit it out,” she said, then realized how high-handed she was being and looked away. “I’m sorry. If you believe there to be a problem, please tell me.”
Olar sighed, brushing some ale foam off of his beard before speaking. “Can this individual truly be trusted?”
Fleur was not angry at the question, but not because of any particular generosity on her part. For Olar to ask that question meant that there was something that bothered him. And he had said that a top-class merchant could discern surprising facts from only the smallest pieces of information.
“… Is there something suspicious?”
“‘Suspicious’ might be going too far, but it is strange.”
“What’s strange?” she asked, which made Olar look down at his hands, before looking up at her out of the corner of his eye. He made this face whenever he was hesitating over whether to tell her what he was really thinking. He gazed at her like that for a while, mulling something over behind his glassy gray eyes.
He sighed, the signal that he’d come to his conclusion. “Milady, if I may…”
“What?”
“Trade is like that bowl.” He indicated the bowl that was still half full with Bertra’s soup. “Profit is like its contents. Someone skillful like Bertra can extract greater profit than others. But no matter how hard she might try, the bowl can only be filled so much before it overflows, just as every trade has a limit to the amount of profit that can be made from it.”
Opposite Olar, Bertra broke her bread and began to eat. It was very difficult to divert her attention away from anything outside of the house.
“Fundamentally, the amount of profit to be gained in a trade is always balanced between its participants.”
“I know that. That’s why Milton doesn’t want to deal with the trading company anymore and was looking for someone like me.”
Olar nodded but continued. “Which means that the company that normally does business with the Post house will see substantially less profit. Do you think they will look kindly upon this? Trading companies are cunning and sly.”
“Huh?” Fleur retorted, but soon smiled. “Oh. Don’t worry about that. It’s the opposite.”
Now it was Olar’s turn to retort. “The opposite?”
“Yes. The Jones Company that introduced me to Milton did so in order to increase their own profit. Milton was buying clothes from another company and selling them on, but the Jones Company wants his sales expertise for themselves. In exchange for switching sides, Milton had a condition: Find him a different source of funding.”
Olar’s unwavering eyes were slowly hidden behind his eyelids. A few moments later they opened again, and his gaze moved away from Fleur. “So the procurement comes via the Jones Company.”
“That’s right. Milton buys from the Jones Company, which helps them break into the clothing business. They establish a relationship with Milton. There’s no downside for them at all. Of course” – Fleur paused, briefly proud of herself for speaking so eloquently in front of Olar like this; she got the feeling that he was smiling a bit at her dramatics – “for Milton and me, there’s nothing but upsides.”
She thought it was perfect.
Milton would be free from the company that had used him and sucked up most of his profits thus far, and in exchange for sharing profit with Milton, the Jones Company would guarantee their own share. And Fleur would receive a tidy fee in exchange for shouldering the risk of the money outlay.
Not only that, but she would gain knowledge of the workings of the clothing trade. Milton could save up, and in the end he might even open his own shop.
In any case, it seemed to Fleur like a magnificent plan, where no one stood to lose.
“Mm.” Contrary to Fleur’s expectations, Olar did not reply right away. The wrinkles high on his bald head only deepened as he stared down at his soup.
Fleur patiently waited for his reply, but it did not come. Finally, unable to stand the silence, she slowly reached for her soup, bringing it to her mouth. It had mostly cooled, but that made its flavors easier to discern. “It’s delicious,” Fleur said to Bertra, which finally elicited a smile from her – she had been silent all throughout dinner.
It was only after Fleur asked Bertra for some hot water to cleanse her palate with that Olar finally spoke up.
“Well, if milady concludes as much, then…”
Fleur was at a loss, wondering what he was thinking, which prompted Olar to repeat himself.
“If milady has come to said conclusion, then…”
Fleur was not so brimming with confidence that she could immediately reply with, Well, that’s what I’m doing, then. She set her spoon down and regarded Olar with upturned eyes. “If you have something to say, I wish you’d say it.”
“Not at all. There’s little to be accomplished even if I did. I’m probably overthinking all this. After all, I’m not young anymore. It makes it all too easy for me to reflect on the things that went wrong for me in the past. And” – Olar took a drink of soup, cocking his head slightly and glancing at Bertra as though to compliment her on it, and his still-handsome features and what remained of his fine, egg white-treated hair was more than enough to invite a smile from her – “you must be given a chance to grow up in your own way, milady. Or the legs you’ve worked so hard to acquire will weaken.”
It was unclear whether or not he was exactly complimenting her, but at the very least he was telling her to work hard and take steps on her own, which was progress – since up until recently he seemed to trust neighborhood errand boys more than he did Fleur.
“A true merchant is one who can learn from her failures.”
Fleur smiled. “You’re assuming I’m going to fail.”
“I did not say that,” said Olar, smiling faintly.
Then, noticing that there was no more ale in the cups held in their outstretched hands, Bertra stood and made ready to pour another round. “I’m not an educated woman so such talk is beyond me, but I know my own work,” she said sagely.
Nothing was so heartening as being surrounded by family one could trust.
The next day, Fleur woke up early. Well – early by the standards of the nobility, which she knew differed quite a bit from the habits of the common folk. Lately, when Fleur had been woken by Bertra, the latter had already finished a round of housework. As far as Olar was concerned, it went without saying that this day of all days he’d risen early.
Fleur climbed out of bed and quickly combed her hair with a comb Bertra had made for her in what time she could find between housework. Her hair had been cut above the shoulders and offered hardly any resistance at all, so the combing was quickly accomplished. The day after she had cut the long, beautiful hair that was the surest sign of nobility, she had let out a whistle at how much more quickly her morning dressing went.
Long hair could not be properly washed at the sort of water well that would be shared by a large number of townspeople. On top of that, there was no time to spend on daily grooming when there were so many other things to accomplish during the day.
Moreover, it was hardly in her best interest to reveal the fact of her gender while doing business.
Given all that, she had not hesitated to cut it.
The strange thing was that when she actually went through with it, she herself was not the most disturbed by the change. Olar’s face had been deeply pained when he had informed her she would have to cut it, and Bertra had flatly opposed it. Fleur had let her hair down and wrapped herself in a large blanket in preparation for the cutting, and while Olar and Be
rtra argued endlessly about it, she had finally just done it herself.
She still vividly remembered Bertra’s cry and had never seen Olar go wide-eyed in exactly that way either before or since.
Fleur did not dislike the image of herself that was reflected in the polished copper plate she used for a mirror. In fact, the first time she had smiled at herself there was after the haircutting. The person she saw was not some noblewoman whose job was simply to exist.
From then on, she would live by her own hands and feet as Fleur Bolan the merchant.
“Right.”
There was always a line in front of the well in the morning, so Fleur washed her face with water she had brought in the previous night, rinsing her mouth and sprinkling the rest on the garden, then finally bracing herself for the day.
Shortly thereafter she heard the sound of someone climbing the steps, which was probably Bertra, having heard the sound of the water splashing down.
“Milady?” came the question after a hesitant knock at the door. And no wonder she was surprised. Normally Fleur would not wake up even when her shoulders were shaken.
Fleur opened the door with a smile. “Good morning!”
“Ah, good morning, milady.”
“Where’s Olar?”
“Er… I believe he’s on his usual walk through the marketplace.” She had woken early enough that Olar the watchdog was not here to bark at her. Fleur knew what she would say.
“Well, then, I’d like some breakfast. Bread with a bit of cheese. And just a bit of wine.”
Breakfast was a privilege reserved for the noble and the wealthy. It was proof of prosperity. One of the hardest things about leaving the manor was the immediate loss of breakfast.
Bertra’s eyes widened. “Well…” she said, and after thinking a moment with her eyes downcast, she slowly looked around, then smiled a small smile. “If you’ll give me just a moment.”
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