spice&wolfv3

by Unknown Author

“You certainly ate a lot.”

  “Apples are the devil’s fruit, full of tempting sweetness as they are.”

  Lawrence couldn’t help laughing at her overstatement.

  “Shouldn’t a wisewolf be able to conquer temptation?”

  “While one may lose much because of avarice, nothing was ever accomplished by abstinence.” The sight of Holo licking her fingers clean of the sweet juice strengthened her argument. If it meant missing such pleasure as this, asceticism was the height of folly.

  All this was merely academic, of course.

  “So, what was that you were going to say earlier?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. I’ve no money and no immediate means to earn money, so as you do business I’ll just put a few words in to help you bring in more profit. Agreed?”

  No merchant worth his salt simply answers “agreed” when so asked. It’s common sense to refrain from answering until making sure of the other party’s intentions. A verbal contract is still a contract and must be honored, come what may.

  Thus Lawrence didn’t answer right away. He didn’t understand what Holo was getting at.

  “You’ll soon be selling the marten furs, yes?” As if guessing at the reason for his hesitation, Holo turned to the wagon bed behind them.

  “Today, hopefully. No later than tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’ll try to say something to bring your profit up, if I can.

  Whatever the difference I make, I keep,” she said, licking her little finger clean as if it were nothing.

  Lawrence mulled it over. Holo seemed confident that she could sell the marten pelts higher than he could. Wisewolf or no, he had seven years of experience as a traveling merchant. He wasn’t such a weak dealer that a few words tossed in from the side would bring up his prices, and there was no guarantee the buyer would accept such prices.

  Yet his curiosity at exactly how she would attempt this farce overpowered his doubt that it would actually happen, so in the end he said, “Agreed.”

  “It’s done, then!” replied Holo, burping.

  “But this isn’t just limited to our pelts. You’re a merchant, too — there may be no chance for me to talk up our price.”

  “How modest of you.”

  “Wisdom is knowing thyself first.”

  The statement would’ve sounded better had she not said it while casting her gaze longingly back toward the remaining pile of apples.

  The pelts’ destination was the Milone Company, a brokerage house that acted as an intermediary for a variety of goods. The Milone Company was the third-largest house in the city; the two above it were local businesses that had their headquarters in Pazzio. The Milone Company was headquartered in a mercantile nation far to the south and run by a powerful trader of noble lineage; the Pazzio location was a branch.

  Lawrence had chosen the Milone Company over the local bro-kerages because it would pay higher commodity prices in order to best its competitors and also because, having so many branches in different places, it could provide valuable information.

  His aim was to dig up information akin to the story he’d heard from the young merchant Zheren. Who better to ask about cur rency exchange than traders who routinely crossed borders to do business?

  After securing lodgings for the two of them, Lawrence trimmed his beard and set out.

  The Milone Company was the fifth building from the docks and the second-largest shop in the area. It had a huge gate that faced the docks to accommodate wagon traffic, which made the shop seem even bigger at a glance. Commodities of all kinds were piled around the gates, as if to show off the company’s prosperity. It might have been their peculiar way of competing with the local businesses, which could trade on their long-standing local connections and didn’t need flashy displays to prove they were turning a profit.

  Lawrence stopped his wagon at the loading area, and presently an employee came out to meet them.

  “Welcome to the Milone Trading Company!”

  The smart-looking man tasked with unloading had a neatly I rimmed beard and hair. Normally a trading company’s unloading dock was a chaotic swirl of banditlike men shouting this way and that — Milone was an exception.

  “I’ve sold wheat here before, but today I have furs to sell. Will you take a look?”

  “Yes, yes, but of course! The man inside and to the left will be happy to see you.”

  Lawrence nodded and with a flick of the reins drove the wagon inside. Around the area were stacked all sorts of goods — wheat, straw, stones, timber, fruit, and more. The staff was quick and efficient, which is how the Milone Company was successful even in foreign countries, a fact that would impress any traveling merchant.

  Even Holo seemed impressed.

  “Ho there, sir, where are you headed?”

  The two were watching the busy loading and unloading in the shop but stopped at the sound of the voice. They looked in its direction and saw a large man with steam rising from his suntanned body. He didn’t seem like the man Lawrence had been directed to find, but he was certainly huge.

  “Is he a knight?” Holo said under her breath.

  “We’re here to sell furs. I was told to come to the left side of the shop.” Lawrence met the man’s eyes and smiled.

  “Right, then, I’ll just take your horse. This way, if you please.”

  Lawrence did as he was told and angled his horse toward the man. The horse snorted. Apparently he sensed the man’s vitality.

  “Ho-ho, a good horse, sir! He looks stout of heart.”

  “He works without complaint; I’ll say that much,” said Lawrence.

  “A horse that complains — now that would be something to see!”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  The two men laughed, and the worker led Lawrence’s horse inside the unloading area, and after hitching him to a sturdy wooden fence, called out.

  The person that answered was a man who looked more fit to be carrying a quill and ink than hay bales. He seemed to be the buyer.

  “Kraft Lawrence, I presume? We thank you for your patronage.”

  Lawrence was used to being greeted politely, but he was impressed that the man knew his name before Lawrence had given it. He’d last visited the company during a winter three years ago, selling wheat. Perhaps the man that now greeted Lawrence in the entryway still remembered him.

  “I’m told you’ve come to sell furs today.” The buyer skipped over the usual pleasantries about the weather and jumped straight to the heart of the matter. Lawrence coughed slightly and shifted into his trader persona.

  “Indeed I have. These are the very ones, here in the back of the wagon, seventy total.” He hopped down from the wagon and invited the buyer to view the furs. He was followed by Holo, who jumped down from the wagon a moment later.

  “Ho, these are good marten furs indeed. The year has been a good one for crops, so marten fur is scarce.”

  About half the marten fur that reached the marketplace came from farmers who hunted in their free time. When the harvest was plentiful, they were too busy to hunt, and marten fur was scarcer. Lawrence decided to push his position.

  “You only see furs this fine once every several years. They were drenched with rain on the way here, but look — they’ve lost none of their luster.”

  “’Tis a fine luster, to be sure, and with good lie. What of their size?”

  Lawrence pulled a largish pelt from the bed and of

  There was no point in lying, so Lawrence told the

  Lawrence pulled a largish pelt from the bed and offered it to the buyer, since it was generally prohibited for people other than the owner of the goods to touch them.

  “Oh, ho. They’re not lacking in size. You said you had seventy?”

  He didn’t ask to see all the pelts; he was not so unrefined. Here was the challenge of trade — there was no buyer that would not want to see each pelt, but likewise was there no seller that would want to show each.

  This was the intersection of vanity, propriety
, and desire.

  “Well, then ... Sir Lorentz ... ah, my apologies, Sir Lawrence, you’ve come to trade with us because you sold wheat here in the past?”

  The same name was pronounced differently in different nations. It was a mistake Lawrence himself made often enough, so he forgave it with a smile and produced a wooden abacus from his pocket, which the man looked at. Different regions and nations had different ways of writing numbers, and because nothing was harder than trying to puzzle through these differences, merchants hardly ever wrote figures down while negotiating. Moving the wooden beads of the abacus would make the numbers completely clear, although one still had to be mindful of exactly what currency was being counted.

  “I can offer . . . say, one hundred thirty-two silver trenni.” Lawrence pretended to think on the matter for a moment. “You don’t see furs like these often. I brought them to you because I’ve done business with you in the past, but. . .”

  “We certainly appreciate your business.”

  “For my part I’d like to continue our association.”

  “As would we, I assure you. In light of friendly relations, then, what say you to one hundred forty?”

  It was a somewhat transparent exchange, but within the mutual deception was truth — which made the dealings more interesting.

  One hundred forty trenni was a good price. It wouldn’t be wise to push past that.

  But just when Lawrence was about to say “It’s done, then,” Holo — who’d been silent up until that point — tugged slightly on his sleeve.

  “Excuse me a moment,” said Lawrence to the buyer, then leaned down, putting his ear level with Holo’s hood.

  “I don’t quite know — is that a good price?”

  “Quite good, yes,” said Lawrence simply, smiling to the company representative.

  “Well then, do we have an agreement?” It seemed the buyer was ready to conclude the deal. Lawrence smiled and was about to reply.

  “Wait just a moment.”

  “Wha — ” said Lawrence, without thinking.

  Before he could say anything further, she kept speaking — just like a canny merchant would.

  “One hundred forty trenni, you said, yes?”

  “Uh, er, yes. One hundred forty in silver trenni pieces,” answered the representative, a bit taken aback by the sudden question from t he up-to-now silent Holo. Women were rare in places of trade — not unheard of, but rare.

  For her part, Holo either didn’t know or didn’t care; she spoke as freely as she pleased. “Ah, perhaps you didn’t notice?”

  The buyer, quite taken aback, looked at Holo. He seemed not to understand what she was getting at; Lawrence didn’t know, either.

  “My apologies, but have I overlooked something?” The buyer, a merchant from a neighboring country, looked to be roughly the same age as Lawrence. He was a veteran of countless negotiations, who’d dealt with innumerable parties in his career.

  It was to his credit that despite his experience, he appeared to be sincerely apologizing to Holo.

  Of course it was far from surprising that he was taken aback. Holo had effectively asked him if he knew what he was looking at.

  “Mm. I can see you’re a fine merchant, so surely you pretended not to notice? I can see I won’t need to hold back with you.” Holo grinned underneath her cloak. Lawrence nervously hoped she wasn’t showing her fangs, but more than anything he wanted to know what she was doing.

  The buyer had been accurate and honest. If Holo was telling the truth, then Lawrence himself had also missed an important detail.

  Which was impossible.

  “My intention is anything but, I assure you. If you’ll kindly point out what you’re speaking of, we will be happy to adjust the price appropriately ...”

  Lawrence had never seen a buyer act so meekly. To be sure, he’d seen them pretend meekness, but this was no act.

  Holo’s words had a strange weight, and her delivery was perfect.

  “Master,” she said to Lawrence. “It’s not polite to make sport of people.”

  It was hard to tell whether she called him “master” to mock him or because it was appropriate to the situation, but in either case, if he bungled his response here, he knew he’d hear about it later. He frantically groped for a response.

  “Th-that was certainly not my aim. But perhaps you should be the one to tell him.”

  Holo grinned a lopsided grin at Lawrence, flashing a fang. “Master, pass me a fur, if you please.”

  “Here.”

  It struck Lawrence as silly that he had to exert himself to maintain his dignity in the face of being called “master.” Holo was the only master here.

  “Thank you, master. Now, if you please, sir . . .” said Holo, turning to the buyer and showing him the fur. At a glance its lay, size, and luster did not seem to merit an increased price. Even if she were to talk up the lay as being especially fine, the buyer would unavoidably ask to examine the fur more closely, and would inevitably find flaws. The price was unlikely to drop, but the relationship between buyer and seller would suffer.

  “These are fine furs, as you can see,” Holo said.

  “I quite agree,” replied the buyer.

  “You won’t see their like in many years. Or perhaps I should pul it this way — you won’t smell their like in many years.”

  Holo’s words froze the air in an instant. Lawrence had no idea what she was talking about.

  “’Tis a scent, but to miss it you’d need to be blind!” Holo laughed. She was the only one. Lawrence and the buyer were too stunned to be amused.

  “Well, a smell is worth a thousand words. Would you care to sample the scent?” Holo handed the pelt to the buyer, who took it and looked uncertainly toward Lawrence.

  Lawrence nodded slowly, hiding his confusion.

  What was the point in smelling the pelts? He had never heard of such a thing in all his dealings.

  Neither had the buyer, surely, but he had no choice but to placate his vendors. He slowly brought the fur up to his nose and sniffed.

  At first, his face showed a mixture of confusion and surprise. He sniffed again, and only the surprise remained.

  “Oh? Smell something, do you?” Holo said.

  “Ah, er, yes. It smells like fruit, I’d say.”

  Lawrence looked at the fur in surprise. Fruit?

  “Fruit indeed. Just as fur is scarce this year because of the harvest, so did the forest overflow with fruit. This marten was scampering about in that same forest until just a few days ago, and it ate so much of that plentiful fruit that the scent suffused its body.”

  The buyer sniffed the fur again. He nodded, as if to say “true enough.”

  “The truth is that while the fur’s luster might be better or worse, it generally changes little. Does the problem not come, then, when the fur is made into clothing, when it is actually used? Good fur is durable; bad fur soon wears thin.”

  “True, as you say,” said the buyer.

  Lawrence was astonished. How much did this wolf know?

  “As you can tell, this particular fur has the sweet scent of a marten that has eaten very well indeed. It took two strong men to pull the hide clear of the body, it was so tough.”

  The buyer tugged on the fur experimentally.

  He couldn’t pull too hard on goods he hadn’t yet purchased, though — something Holo knew full well.

  She was a perfect merchant.

  “The fur is as strong as the beast itself was, and will keep the wearer as warm as a spring day, shedding rain from dawn ’til dusk. And don’t forget the scent! Imagine coming across a perfumed piece of clothing like this among coats made from nose-wrinkling marten fur. Why, ’twould sell so dear your eyes would pop out.”

  The buyer was indeed imagining the scenario, gazing off into the distance. When Lawrence thought about it, he could see that the goods would sell high — or perhaps, he could smell as much.

  “So, what do you think would be a fair price, then
?”

  The buyer snapped out of his reverie and straightened himself, then played with some figures on his abacus. The beads flew back and forth with a pleasant tak-tak-tak sound, finally displaying a figure.

  “What say you to two hundred trenni?”

  Lawrences breath caught in his throat. One hundred forty pieces was already a respectably high price. Two hundred was unimaginable.

  “Mmm,” Holo murmured to herself. He wanted to beg her to stop — this was going too far, but she was implacable.

  “How about three pieces for each fur — two hundred ten in total?”

  “Er, well . . . ”

  “Master,” she said to Lawrence. “Perhaps we should try elsewhere —”

  “Uh, no! Two hundred ten pieces, then!” said the buyer.

  Hearing this, Holo nodded, satisfied, and turned to her “master.” “You heard the man, master.”

  She was definitely teasing him.

  The tavern called Yorend was on a slightly removed alleyway, but it looked well-kept enough. Local craftsmen appeared to make up the bulk of its clientele.

  Lawrence found himself suddenly tired when they arrived at the Yorend tavern.

  Holo, on the other hand, was quite energetic, probably because shed managed to outwit two merchants at once. The hour was yet early, so the tavern was mostly empty, and their wine was out very quickly — Holo drained hers in one huge draught, while Lawrence was content to nurse his.

  “Ah, wine!” said Holo, belching a fine belch. She lifted her wood cup and ordered another round, which the tavern girl acknowledged with a smile.

  “What troubles you? Aren’t you going to drink?” said Holo, munching away on some fried beans.

  She didn’t seem to be particularly dizzy with success, though, so Lawrence decided to broach the subject directly.

  “Have you ever worked as a merchant?”

  Holo, still munching the snack and holding her refilled glass, smiled ruefully. “Oh, I’m sorry, have I injured your pride?” Naturally, she had.

  “I don’t know how many deals you’ve done in your life, but I watched countless transactions when I was in the village. Long ago, I once saw a man use that technique — I didn’t invent it myself. When was that, anyway . . . ?”