Fleur soon hit upon the solution to the riddle.
Milton’s mouth curled up into the sort of smirk an uncouth mercenary might wear, and slowly the words spilled from his mouth. “Work is precious. But if a man works during the day, he must rest at night. That’s the way of the world that God established. And yet there are those who work day and night, on holy days, on days of celebration, on days of mourning. Even though to do so means borrowing the power of the devil.”
It was a famous scripture. And Fleur knew the next line well. “And that devil’s name is usury.”
No doubt the size of the loan for his immediate needs had been tiny compared to what he owed now. A greedy merchant would have had the interest rate rise 100 percent or more over a short term.
Fleur’s former husband had constantly accrued debt, adding more day and night until finally summoning a usurious lender wearing a pointed cap, who had given him a loan against the manor itself at the interest rate of 70 percent per half year.
The reason Milton needed to make the greatest possible profit was to pay down the debt he had accrued.
Debt was worse than any collar around any dog’s neck. No favor or foe could banish it.
When Fleur realized it, she looked at Milton with eyes afresh. To her surprise, despite having recited that famous scripture, Milton’s eyes were now placid. They shone with a light that said, “Yes, I will return. Yes, all well be well. Yes, I will protect you.”
For a moment Fleur was at a loss for words – because Milton, who labored so mightily to rid himself of his debt, had gone into debt all over again.
“If I–” Fleur began, then stopped out of nervousness and raised her chin.
Milton’s eyes were soft. “If you?”
“If I said I wanted interest, what were you going to do?”
One didn’t have to be a merchant to know that money was power. The reason Fleur had not been utterly destroyed when her house was ruined was not because she had Olar and Bertra.
It was because as a small revenge upon her husband, she had pilfered money from his coin purse as she went.
Milton’s ability to earn money was so far ahead of Fleur’s that it barely merited mention. But when it came to who had more influence – it was Fleur.
Not even able to dress herself and not paying their wages, Fleur’s nobility alone was enough to command the service of the house servants in the manor.
Milton looked up and spoke slowly. “I knew you were a kind soul the first time I saw you.”
“–!” Fleur utterly failed to feign nonchalance. She could feel her face flush, and though she looked down, it was too late.
Still, Fleur averted her gaze and coughed before responding. “P-people change when there’s money at stake. Su-surely you know that much.”
These were Olar’s words, but in these circumstances the only thing Fleur could do was repeat the words of another. When she tried to think of something to say on her own, all she had were her feelings toward Milton.
“Yes, of course. That’s why you can see someone’s true nature when profit is involved. And,” Milton continued with a smile, “you aren’t going to charge interest. I would be quite certain of that even if you were wearing that scarf of yours. I would know.”
Fleur knew only too well that she was being treated not as a fellow merchant, but as a young lady of noble birth. And yet – it was so comforting that she wanted to cry, to rage at it.
The comfort was frustrating, irritating, like scratching a spot afflicted by chilblains.
Surrendering, she wrung the words from her throat. “I… won’t take interest. I promised we’d split the profits, after all.” She paused, then added something in an effort to save some small amount of dignity. “As a merchant, I must keep my promises.”
But Milton was merciless. “We haven’t signed any contracts.”
By this he meant that if Fleur decided to charge interest, she still could, though she could hardly imagine drawing such a contract up.
Just as Fleur had bit by bit smashed her own anxiety, perhaps Milton, too, had wanted to dispose of his.
Fleur shook her head, but instead of changing his expression, Milton only leaned back in the chair as though the strength had left his body. It did not seem like an act. She realized this was the first time she had seen him nervous.
“Perhaps now we can speak in specifics.” He tossed the words out into the space between them.
He was every bit the noble youth cast out of his house. In the languor following the battle, he grabbed hold of the conversation.
“I do believe I can trust you.” And in truth, Fleur’s worries had disappeared.
Milton had arrived at the most reasonable possible decision and then come to her. All that was left was to buy the clothes and sell them.
“Now then, shall we discuss the styles and quantities of clothing?”
“Let’s,” said Fleur clearly and with a nod.
Dinnertime.
Around the table sat its usual occupants: Fleur, Bertra, and Olar. Fleur had tried to invite Milton but had been turned down.
Upon reflection, Milton had carried clothes, sold them off, returned, and met straightaway with Fleur at her house to discuss their contract. No doubt he wanted to rest before taking a meal.
She mused on the matter as she waited for Olar to look over the amounts, styles, colors, and provenance of the clothing Milton had proposed purchasing.
“Mm.”
Having looked over the list, the first thing that came out of Olar’s mouth was a sigh. Perhaps it was his age showing – he closed his eyes and leaned back, taking a deep breath and letting it out.
Fleur was mildly anxious, but lines had yet to appear on Olar’s forehead, so whatever his thoughts were, they could not be so very bad.
“Rather impressive,” he said. In truth, she hadn’t expected him to say anything remotely complimentary.
“It’s not bad?”
“Not at all. On the contrary, it’s quite good. The whims of the nobility change very easily, but their basic preferences do not. The current fashion is for bright colors and delicate fabrics. Most impressively, he even has a grasp of textiles sourced from far away. All that matters now is how convincing he can manage to be.”
“I’ve checked that already,” said Fleur wryly, which made Olar clear his throat, his expression carefully neutral.
“Next, there’s the matter of the contract regarding the funding of the Post lad.”
“… Is there yet some problem?” Fleur asked, less out of displeasure than sheer exasperation. She had initially written out the basics of the lending, repayment, and profit-sharing arrangement she’d worked out with Milton, which Olar had then looked over to make sure she had not missed a single scrap of possible gain – and thereupon substantially rewritten it.
He had changed more than the terms, too. The language was very different. It was roundabout and rambling, using all sorts of terms that would never be used in ordinary conversation. It brought her back to when she was a child learning how to read and write, and convinced that Olar was just trying to confuse things as much as he could, Fleur sighed an irritated sigh and called for Bertra.
As Bertra brought down more and more of the not inexpensive paper for revisions, Fleur could see the lines on his face all too clearly.
“We cannot be too careful. If there is a mistake in this contract, we stand to lose all the profit we are going to such trouble to gain.”
If Olar – who had spent so many decades of his life in trade – said so, then it was surely so. Yet Fleur could not help but think to herself that there had to be a limit.
After all, the other party in the contract was Milton. He was not some born merchant, but a former member of a noble and proud house, a house that relied upon its word and honor. If anything, he might be offended to be presented with such a meticulously constructed contract. At the very least, Fleur knew she would have been.
Whether he knew Fleur’s t
houghts or not, Olar made ready to read the contract over again, drawing his body up and holding the paper at arm’s length, squinting as he read the words on it aloud.
“In the name of God. From Fleur von Eiterzental Bolan to Milton Post, a good man and true. These two, having met in trade by the grace of God, do now purpose to exchange via the Jones Company a quantity of fabrics of wool, linen, and silver, the cost of which shall be entirely borne by Bolan. However, five-tenths of this cost shall be counted as debt upon Post. Upon the purchase of these goods shall this debt be recorded. Upon this debt, Bolan pledges to hold no interest. Profits shall be split evenly. All purchased items shall be held under the ownership of Bolan. Concluded. God’s blessing be upon this contract.”
Having read the contract in its entirety, Olar’s gaze remained fixed upon the paper – despite all the revisions, despite his scrutiny of every word, despite having finally written it all out.
Yet Fleur had a good idea of what Olar was likely to say next.
“About the amount we’re loaning to Post.”
It was just as she had guessed. Fleur grabbed a piece of bread out of protest. “Half is fine,” she said briefly and with finality.
Olar stared at her, but she had no intention of caving in.
That part of the contract meant that if Milton fell short of his expectations and was forced to sell the clothing for less than they had paid for it, Fleur also stood to lose.
Olar had wanted to count the entire amount as a loan to Milton as a matter of course and explained that a greedier merchant might have pushed that to one and half again, or even double the loaned amount. It would have been cruel to do so, but the Church reluctantly allowed “thanks given for money lent” in amounts of up to 20 or 30 percent per year, and trades could take several years to complete from purchase to sale, so Fleur’s insistence was a bridge too far.
But the profit would be split evenly and Milton’s responsibility would amount to only half of the outlay, an extraordinarily, almost divinely generous arrangement the likes of which Olar had never seen.
And yet Fleur insisted upon it.
There was the fact that she trusted Milton, but that was not the most important point, which was this: By having a bit of money she had no power at all, whereas Milton was given the greater share of that same power. Just as Olar and Bertra had to bow to those who just happened to be born as nobility, there was Milton, who had to bow to those who just happened to have money, and he could no longer stand it.
In exchange for borrowing power, they would assume risk. Fleur felt this would put her and Milton on equal terms and that it would be cowardly, even despicable, to do otherwise.
It was just such despicable positions that her former husband would take, and yet he had brought such misfortune upon their house. Fleur was sure she could pursue profit without resorting to such tactics. She was sure.
She admitted, though, that her notions might be naive – but it was the only way to find a partner she could truly trust.
Fleur explained as much to Olar, insisting that nobody had any intentions of taking a loss, so the fuss over this particular condition wasn’t going to amount to anything.
Olar looked steadily at Fleur, then closed his eyes and heaved a sigh. And then he folded.
The tension went out of Fleur’s shoulders, and she smiled in relief.
“In that case, I have nothing else to say. We need only pray to God that all goes well.” Olar tidied up the scattering of paper, then reached for the bread that Bertra had bought cheaply with her usual skill.
“It’ll be fine. We don’t need to pray.” Having gotten Olar’s approval, along with a fine demonstration of his skill, she was certain there was no need for divine intervention, Fleur thought to herself, her spirits high as she picked up her spoon and started to sample the soup.
But then she heard Olar clear his throat yet again. “You must not let your guard down. It is the nature of business to be unpredictable. Even if we do not make a single mistake, the ship could sink and our goods might never reach us, or bandits might attack while the goods are en route to their sale.”
Olar’s words were a splash of cold water on Fleur’s good mood. Her smile disappeared and was replaced by a pouf as she slurped her soup – his observation had hit the bull’s-eye.
It was true. She could not ignore those possibilities, nor should she. But that hardly meant one should never do anything for fear of what might happen.
“Still, worrying over such things is for the servants. Milady would never get anywhere if she agonized over such things as I do.”
At Olar showing the slightest bit of consideration, Fleur completely forgot the taste of her soup. While his logic might have been inconvenient or frustrating for her to hear, it was certainly sound, and she had to admit it would be a mistake for her to become displeased upon hearing it.
But when Fleur looked up, she saw Olar looking off into space, a rueful smile on his face.
Regardless of what it was he saw at the end of his vision, Fleur knew this expression well. She’d seen it when her former husband had been Olar’s master.
“My old master was also an unpredictable sort. Rather, he made decisions his own way, and it was certain he could see things that I never did. Many were the times my worries came to nothing, it’s true. There are different sorts of talent in this world… the sort that forges new paths and the sort that follows those paths. There’s a great difference between the two. And milady…” Olar’s gaze moved from the distant past to the here and now, fixing upon Fleur. “You have the former.”
This was not the sort of joke or jape that Olar occasionally made.
Fleur put her spoon down, and after politely wiping her mouth, she smiled a shy smile to hide her real embarrassment.
“You’ll embarrass me saying such things to my face. And I’m likely to become rather full of myself if you keep it up.”
“If you have that much self-awareness, then I have little to worry about. And as I said, worrying is my job, not yours. Caution is part of that. And of course Bertra will also be on hand.”
A model servant, Bertra had betrayed no interest in her masters’ conversation. Although it was more likely that her head was already full of the housework she planned to do next, given that she alone did an amount of work that would normally have been handled by several maids.
At Olar’s words, though, she returned to herself with a start, her cheeks reddening as she looked intently down. Fleur wondered if she was angry.
“Risking Bertra’s ire is the second worst thing I might do,” said Fleur with a small smile, looking at Bertra cautiously.
“And what’s the first?” Olar asked.
“The worst is making her cry.”
Bertra’s eyes fluttered; she seemed to understand in what light she was being discussed. She put her hands to her reddening cheeks. “Please stop making such fun of me!” she said.
Fleur couldn’t help but be charmed by Bertra, who had seriousness beyond her young age.
“It seems I’ve nothing I ought add this time,” said Olar.
“And that might be the happiest outcome of all.”
The old man raised both hands in surrender. “God’s blessings be upon us.”
Night had quietly fallen.
Ship traffic was heavy.
The previous day had seen ships arrive from long distances for repair or resupply only to be gone the very next. Moreover, there was a limited number of priests praying for the safety of those ships and their sailors. If Fleur and Milton missed this shipment, it would be at least a month before the next chance to do business.
The very next day after her meeting with Milton, Fleur found herself at a table with him at the Jones Company.
But Hans, the man representing the Jones Company in this transaction, was nowhere to be seen.
Before they completed a contract with Hans, there was the matter of the contract between Fleur and Milton.
“Will this do?”
It was the very same contract Olar had so carefully revised for Fleur ahead of time. Milton was no mere apprentice, so a brief look was all he needed.
The nobility used contracts only when they did not trust the other party or else wanted to deliberately insult them. Fleur was certain the thudding pain in her heart was not her imagination.
Milton accepted the proffered sheet of paper, then looked up and regarded Fleur uncertainly. She froze, and visions of his angry face flashed through her mind.
But far from being angry, Milton smiled. “Well, this is certainly a relief.”
Fleur had trouble understanding what he meant, so though it made her sound like a fool, she asked, “A relief…?”
“Yes. I was mostly certain that you wouldn’t assume a verbal contract would be sufficient – not that I don’t trust you, Miss Fleur. But since you’re the one lending your precious money, and money is life. If it had remained a verbal contract…” Milton jokingly patted the hilt of the short sword at his waist. “Like any knight, I’m ready to lay down my life.”
Fleur realized what he meant with a start. “Ah!”
Unlike the relationship between a noble and their knight, the relationship between merchants was one of clear mutual responsibility, where profit and loss were shared.
Though Fleur might have infinite trust in her partner, the amount of profit that partner would bring her could be very small – uncomfortably so.
A large amount of trust invested did not necessarily lead to commensurate returns – such was the way of trade.
A knight could lay down his life. A merchant did not have that luxury.
“Still, this is very generous. No merchant is unhappy at being trusted. And this amount… I’ll have to work like mad to be worthy of it.”
Though he was simply discussing the figures in the contract, Fleur felt her face redden at Milton’s words. It was hardly surprising that he was interpreting the degree of trust she was putting in him as a measure of her affection.
But this was a company meeting room. Fleur chose her words carefully. “An old veteran knight who saw many battles once told me that it’s only when you have no worries that you can reach your full potential.”
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