The shop hed long dreamed of opening was right before him.
“Well, I’m glad it’s going so well,” said Holo listlessly, her mood in stark contrast to Lawrences. She covered her mouth with her hand.
It was nothing — she was merely hungover.
“I told you to go sleep in the hotel if you’re feeling unwell.”
“I was worried you’d get sucked into something unsavory un less I came with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, precisely what I said . . . urp.”
“Honestly — just bear up a little longer. There’s a shop ahead. We’ll rest there.”
“. . . All right.” Holo nodded with a vulnerability that seemed deliberate and grabbed hold of his outstretched arm. Wisewoll or not, one could hardly accuse her of having any self-restraint.
Lawrence, at a loss, muttered “honestly,” again. Holo had no response.
Lhe shop they entered was a tavern attached to a small inn Though it was ostensibly a drinking establishment, it specialized in light meals and morning to night had a constant stream of merchants and travelers that used it as a rest stop. It was about a third full when they entered.
“Juice for one — any kind’s fine — and bread for two,” said Lawrence.
“Coming right up!” said the shopkeeper behind the counter cheerfully, then repeated the order to the kitchen.
Lawrence listened to the shopkeeper as he led Holo to an empty table inside the tavern.
Holo’s manner was more kitten than wolf as she sprawled over the table. The walk from the Milone Company exacerbated the fatigue of the alcohol working its way through her system.
“Your tolerance is far from weak — you drank a lot yesterday.” said Lawrence.
Holo’s ears pricked under her hood at Lawrence’s statement, but she seemed to lack the energy to look at him.
“Uugh,” she groaned.
“Here y’are, apple juice and two servings of bread.”
“The bill?”
“You’ll pay now, then? It comes to thirty-two lute'.’
“One moment, please,” said Lawrence, opening the coin purse that was attached to his waist and rummaging inside it. As he collected the black coins that could easily be mistaken for bronze, the shopkeeper noticed Holo’s condition and smiled ruefully.
“A hangover, eh?”
“Too much wine,” said Lawrence.
“Such are the mistakes of youth! It’s the same with drinking as it is with anything else — there’s a price. Plenty of young merchants stagger out of here with pale faces.”
Any traveling merchant had indeed experienced this a few times. Lawrence himself was guilty of it on any number of occasions.
“Here you are, thirty-two lutes’.’
“So it is. You should rest here awhile. I take it you couldn’t make it all the way back to your own inn?”
Lawrence nodded, at which point the shopkeeper laughed heartily and retreated behind the counter.
“Have some juice,” said Lawrence. “It was pressed at just the right time.” Holo raised her head lethargically. Her features were so fine that even her pained expression had a certain charm. No doubt Weiz would’ve been happy to take the day off to nurse her back to health. Even the slightest smile from her would’ve been thanks enough. Lawrence chuckled at the thought as Holo sipped the juice and regarded him strangely.
“Whew . . . I’ve not been hungover in centuries,” sighed Holo after drinking half the juice and regaining a bit of vigor.
“A hungover wolf is a sad sight indeed. I suppose I can imagine a bear drinking too much, but a wolf. .
Bears often took bags filled with fermenting grapes hanging from the eaves of buildings. They had to be fermented to make wine, and as they did, they exuded a sweet scent.
There were even stories of bears making off with such bags only to later collapse drunkenly in the forest.
“It was probably bears I drank with the most in the forest,” said Holo. “There was a bit of tribute from humans, too.”
The idea of bears and wolves drinking wine together sounded like something out of a fairy tale. What would the Church make of this if they overheard?
“No matter how many times I’m hungover, though, I never seem to learn.”
“Humans are the same way,” said Lawrence to the ruefully grinning Holo.
“Now that you mention it... what was I going to say? I had something to tell you, but now it’s gone. I feel like it was some thing rather important, too . . .” said Holo.
“Well, if it’s that important, you’ll remember eventually.”
“Mmm ... I suppose. Ugh. It’s no good. I can’t remember,” she said, slumping back down on the table and closing her eyes.
She had probably felt like this all day. The shopkeeper hadn't said it, but it was a good thing they weren’t about to depart. The wagon’s shaking wouldn’t make her feel any better.
“Anyway, all we have to do is leave the rest to the Milone Com pany. ‘Good things come to those who wait,’ after all. Just rest until you feel better.”
“Ugh . . . it’s so undignified,” said Holo, sounding even more pathetic than before — she would likely feel ill for some time yet.
“I suppose you’ll be off all day, then.”
“Mm . . . it’s pathetic, but you’re right,” she answered, still sprawled on the table, opening a single eye to look at Lawrence. “Did you have plans of some kind?”
“Hm? Well, I was thinking of doing some shopping after checking in with the Company.”
“Shopping, is it? You can go on your own. I’ll rest here awhile then return to the inn on my own,” said Holo, raising her head and sipping the apple juice again. “Or what — did you want me to come along?”
Her teasing was by now standard, almost a greeting; so Lawrence simply nodded.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” Holo pouted at Lawrence’s tranquility. Sipping perfunctorily at her drink, she must have expected him to become flustered, but even Lawrence could maintain his composure at times.
Lawrence couldn’t help smiling down at Holo again as he chewed on a piece of bread.
“I was thinking of buying you a comb or a hat,” he said. “Perhaps some other time.”
Holo’s ears twitched underneath the cloak.
“. . . Just what are you planning?” she asked, her eyes halflidded, but watching Lawrence carefully nonetheless.
Lawrence could hear the swish, swish of her restlessly twitching tail. Apparently she was worse than he expected at hiding her thoughts.
“What a way to talk.” “As the saying goes, one has to be even more careful with meat in one’s mouth than with meat that’s about to be taken away.”
Hearing Holo’s bitter words, Lawrence drew close to her face and whispered into her ear.
“If you’re going to act the prudent wisewolf, at least do something about your restless ears and tail.”
Surprised, Holo felt for her ears. “Oh!” she said.
“That should make us even,” said Lawrence with a hint of arrogance. Holo glared at him, thin-lipped and frustrated.
“You’ve got such lovely hair, it seems a shame for you not to have a comb for it,” he continued briskly.
He was happy having finally gotten the best of her, but if he pushed, it was quite possible she’d put him in his place again.
However, upon hearing Lawrence’s words, the bored-looking Holo sniffed and sprawled across the table once more. “Oh, you’re talking about my hair,” she said shortly.
“All you do is bind it back with a hempen string. You don’t even comb it.”
“My hair isn’t important. A comb would be nice, though — for my tail.” A swish, swish sound could be heard after she spoke.
“. . . Well, if you say so.”
Lawrence did think that her flowing, silken hair was beautiful, and hair of any kind that was so long was very rare. It was difficult for anyone other than nobility to be able to w
ash their hair in hot water daily, so having such long, beautiful hair was a mark of high birth.
So like anyone else, Lawrence had a weakness for a girl with long, beautiful hair. Holo’s hair was so lovely that few among even the nobility could match it, yet she seemed not to understand its value at all.
If she were to hide her ears with a veil rather than a heavy cloak and wear fine robes instead of the rough clothes of a traveling merchant, shed be the equal of any maiden from a minstrel’s poem — but Lawrence shied away from saying so.
There was no telling how she’d react, after all.
“So, then.”
“Hm?”
“When will you buy this comb?”
Holo looked up at Lawrence from her prone posture on the table, her eyes shining with a certain anticipation.
“I thought you didn’t need one,” said Lawrence without rancor, his head cocked slightly.
“I never said that. I would like a comb. A fine-tooth one, if possible.”
Lawrence didn’t see the point of buying a comb if it wouldn’t be used to comb hair. In his mind, a fine brush of the sort used by weavers would be best for her tail.
“I’ll buy you a brush. Shall I introduce you to a good weaver?”
It was best to leave fur to experts with specialized tools, after all. Lawrence was only half-serious, but when he finished speaking and looked at Holo, his voice caught.
She was angry — so angry she was gnashing her teeth.
“You ... you would treat my tail as a simple piece of fur?” she said, her intonation flat — surely not because she was afraid that talk of tails would be overheard by the other patrons.
Lawrence winced at her vehemence, but Holo looked as unwell as she had all day. There was a limit to how much she could counterattack.
“I cannot take this anymore,” she said.
Lawrence suspected that her threats were empty.
He imagined that she might try crying, so he nonchalantly drank some apple juice. “What, are you going throw a tantrum now?” he asked, a note of accusation in his voice.
Naturally his resolve would waver if she actually burst into tears, but he didn’t say this.
Perhaps chastened by his words, or possibly for some other reason, she opened her eyes slightly to regard Lawrence then looked away.
Her childish demeanor was rather charming. With a small smile, Lawrence mused that it would be nice if she were always like this.
Holo was silent for a moment. Then, in a small voice, she said, “I can’t take it. I have to vomit.”
Lawrence almost tipped the cup of apple juice over as he scrambled to his feet and called out for the shopkeeper to bring a bucket.
Well after the sun had set in the west and the clamor from outside his window had subsided, Lawrence looked up from the desk. Pen in hand, he raised both arms and stretched expansively. His back popped gratifyingly, and he turned his head left and right to work out the kinks in his neck, which also popped.
He looked back down to the desk. On it was a sheet of paper with simple plans for a shop — the town it would be situated in, the goods it would sell, and plans for its expansion. Written separately were construction costs, plans for securing citizenship, and a variety of other anticipated expenditures.
It was a plan for realizing his dream — to own a shop.
Even a week ago, this remained only a fantasy, but since Lawrence had made his deal with the Milone Company, it sud denly felt much more imminent. If he could bring in two thou sand trenni, then after selling some ornaments and jewels that amounted to his savings, he would be able to open his shop, Lawrence would be a traveling merchant no longer, but a town merchant.
“Mmph .. . what’s that sound?”
While Lawrence had been absorbed in gazing at the picture of the shop he’d drawn, Holo had at some point awoken. Her eyes were still blurry with sleep, but she appeared mostly recovered. She looked at Lawrence, blinked a few times, and dragged herself out of bed. Her eyes were slightly swollen, but she looked well enough.
“How do you feel?”
“Better. A bit hungry, though.”
“If your appetite’s back, you must be fine,” said Lawrence, smiling and indicating the bread on the table. It was dark rye bread — the worst, cheapest bread you could get, but Lawrence enjoyed its bitter flavor and bought it frequently.
Unsurprisingly, Holo made her displeasure with the bread known after a single bite but ultimately gave up, since there was nothing else to eat.
“Is there anything to drink?”
“The water jug’s right there.”
Holo checked to see that the jug actually contained water and, after taking a drink, moved next to Lawrence as she munched away on the bread.
. . A drawing of a shop?”
“My shop.”
“Oh ho, not bad,” said Holo, looking intently at the paper as she ate.
When traveling in a country whose language he didn’t speak, Lawrence would use drawings to make deals. Sometimes he simply couldn’t remember the name of a particular commodity, and interpreters were not always available. Hence, most traveling merchants were good at drawing. Whenever Lawrence turned a healthy profit, he would draw a picture of his future shop. It made him feel even better than drinking wine.
And while he had confidence in his drawing abilities, it was nice to be praised.
“What’s this writing?”
“Location and expense planning. I don’t expect it to go exactly like this, of course.”
“Hmm. You’ve drawn parts of a city, too, I see. What city is it?” “None in particular — just an idealized city for my shop.” “Ho-ho. You’ve been very detailed here — I suppose you’re planning to open it soon, then?”
“If the deal with the Milone Company goes well, I will probably be able to.”
“Hm.” Holo nodded, not looking terribly excited at the idea. She popped a piece of bread into her small mouth, then walked back over to the table. Lawrence imagined that the ensuing gulping sound was her finishing the water.
“It’s every traveling merchant’s dream to have a shop. I’m no different.”
“Heh. I know. You’ve even gone so far as to sketch out your ideal city, so you must have done this many times before.”
“When I draw it, I feel that it will happen someday.”
“An artist I knew long ago said something like that — that he wanted to paint all the scenes he saw before him.” Holo bit into a second slice of bread and sat on the corner of the bed. “I doubt the artist would have fulfilled his dream even now, but it seems that yours is getting closer.”
“Indeed. When I think about it, I can hardly stay still — I want to run around the Milone Company, swatting the ass of every employee I see.”
It was a bit of an exaggeration, but far from a lie. Perhaps that was why Holo refrained from making fun, simply chuckling and saying, “I hope your dream comes true, then.”
She continued. “Still, is having a shop such a good thing? Can’t you do well as a traveling merchant?”
“If you profit, sure.”
Holo cocked her head slightly. “What else would there be?”
“A traveling merchant might make the rounds between twenty or thirty towns — if you don’t keep moving, you won’t make any money at all. Most of your year is spent on a wagon.” Lawrence sipped a bit of wine from the cup on the table. “The life being what it is, you don’t really make any friends — just business associates.”
Hearing his explanation, Holo seemed to realize something and to regret asking the question.
She really is a good sort, Lawrence thought, and he continued, hoping to assuage her regret. “But if I could open a shop, I’d become a true citizen of a town. I could make friends, and it would be simple to search for a wife. It would be a great solace to me to know where I would be buried when I die. Though finding a bride who’ll stay beside me even in death . . . that will take some luck.”
Ho
lo laughed slightly.
Among traveling merchants, the act of going to a new city to dig up new goods was known as “searching for a wife,” as it carried the sense of going to find something rare and valuable.
In reality, though, simply opening up a shop did not guarantee that one would be close to the citizens of the town.
Nonetheless, being able to stay on the same piece of land for a long time was every merchant’s dream.
“It will be bad for me if you open a shop, though,” said Holo.
“Why’s that?” said Lawrence, turning around. Although her smile had not disappeared, it was tinged with sadness.
“If you open a shop, you won’t want to leave it. I’ll have to either travel alone or find a different companion.”
Lawrence then remembered that Holo had said she wished to travel the world for a while then return to her homeland in the north.
But she had her wits. She had the money shed made from the fur sale. Surely she would be fine on her own.
“You could travel alone, though, right?” Lawrence had no particular agenda behind the words, but upon hearing them, Holo silently looked down as she ate her bread.
“I’m tired of being alone,” she blurted out, looking suddenly childish as she swung her legs — which didn’t quite reach the floor — over the edge of the bed. She fell back and seemed so small that even the flickering candlelight threatened to swallow her.
Lawrence recalled the time Holo had so fondly reminisced about her friend from centuries earlier.
Dwelling so nostalgically on the past proved she was lonely. He remembered how she looked then, curled up as if to protect herself from a storm of isolation.
Lawrence chose his words very carefully to avoid hurting her feelings — she didn’t often show this side of herself. “I expect I’ll stay with you until you’re back home in the north country, though.”
He had little choice but to say as much, but nonetheless Holo looked up with an expression that said “Really?” in a rather humble manner. Lawrence carefully concealed the excitement he felt and continued.
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