“It’s true that people become more childish as they get older,” said Lawrence, wondering if he should have her sit in front of him.
“Mm. So you’re wondering just how old I’ll become, eh?” She had to be in a good mood to make such jokes. Lawrence laughed and Holo snickered as well, but once the wave of mirth had receded, Holo continued, more seriously. “This seems very important to her.”
There by the hearth, Fran had spoken bashfully of someone she had called a friend. There had to be a reason she had come here without them.
Of course, it could very well be that this friend was an artisan in some town somewhere and unable to leave easily. But in this day and age, Lawrence could only imagine darker reasons.
By the way Fran had spoken, it sounded like there was a time when they had traveled together but had to separate during the journey.
The reason might have been injury, sickness, or worse.
Holo switched the cheek that was pressed against Lawrence’s back from one side to the other. “And to see such a smile from her after she’d worn so thick a mask. I wonder what she would’ve done had we not been the ones to escort her? That little fool.”
Lawrence sighed softly at Holo’s words. “Indeed. They probably would’ve been scared off by her single-minded determination to chase the angel legend, turned tail, and left her on her own. Such things happen quite often.”
Those who feared danger would gain nothing. And yet, pressing on in the face of danger would eventually lead to disaster. If they were to play the part of the bringers of good fortune, they might as well bring it. Holo laughed; she understood this perfectly well.
“Well, she’s got pluck enough to use Holo the Wisewolf of Yoitsu as her messenger. I’d say she’s got good fortune to spare.”
That was true enough. But it got Lawrence to thinking—just how lucky had he been to have Holo join him in his travels? The moment he thought about it, Holo seemed to see right through him, her cheek still pressed to his back. She chuckled an unpleasant, throaty chuckle. No doubt it had been part of her plan to sit behind him, leaving him nowhere to retreat.
“I’m fortunate indeed to have been blessed with such a wonderful traveling companion as yourself. There, are you happy?”
Holo raised her voice in a laugh. “And just who are you thanking?”
He had come along with her this far, so he had to see it through to the end. “Holo the Wisewolf of Yoitsu,” he said, gripping the reins.
“Mm. Well, see to it that you stay good and thankful.”
He heard the sound of her tail swishing.
Profit could warm his coin purse, but never his back. This sort of thing was nice once in a while.
Lawrence urged the horse on, feeling Holo’s warmth behind him.
When they returned to the village, it seemed like a perfectly ordinary day.
Some villagers were tending crops, some led livestock, some mended clothing, and some beat cooking pots clean.
Lawrence noticed Holo narrow her eyes wistfully. This was a scene that they could see anywhere—that they could continue to see no matter where they traveled.
“Their lack of integrity angers me, but I can understand why they would wish to protect this,” said Holo quietly and meaningfully.
“Indeed. And if Miss Fran is to be believed, there are even some villagers who didn’t want to claim Sister Katerina was a witch. Perhaps they meant to gain some redemption by keeping her cottage clean.”
It was exceedingly difficult to lead a straightforward, uncomplicated life. Holo remained silent—she understood that no single person was at fault, but was also unwilling to condone the situation.
“Well, if we do our job, the evil witch may well turn back into a pious nun. Then Fran will be able to dedicate herself to searching out the angel legend, she’ll draw us our map of the northlands, and everyone will be happy. Right?”
The landlord would probably continue his maneuvering, using the nun’s silent corpse as a new reason for the villagers to stay out of the forest. Holo was obviously unsatisfied with that, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Being a clever wolf, Holo could see there was nothing to be gained from anger and let her puffed-up cheeks deflate.
“So first things first—the map. It would be nice if we could track down Mr. Vino.”
The villagers in the fields were all bent over doing their work, and it was impossible to tell who was who. Lawrence decided to head into the village center first.
The people working in their homes took note of them but didn’t seem particularly interested, recognizing them from the previous day’s events. Perhaps Mueller or Vino had explained their circumstances.
Just as they were about to head for Vino’s house, they came across him in the village square, crafting arrows with some other men. They each had a white arrowhead in their hands and were carving and polishing them with stones. They were probably made from bones taken from the deer they had felled the previous day.
“Mr. Vino,” Lawrence called out.
Vino looked up and smiled when he realized who it was. He waved, set down the arrowhead he was working on, and trotted over to Lawrence. “Hey, there. You seem to have made it back safely.”
“Yes, thank you. Making arrows, eh?” asked Lawrence.
Vino glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Aye. It’ll be spring soon, with humans and animals alike starting to stir. We’ll shoulder our arrows and travel around to nearby landlords and towns to sell them. How did you fare?”
Most arrows made in towns were of iron. They were strong but expensive, and because they were made under the control of the craftsmen’s guilds, they could be difficult to obtain with short notice for those without connections or with bad reputations in those towns. Without much else to do during the winter, the villagers seemed to be making ready to fill that demand with their handiwork.
Bone arrowheads were effective enough, especially when smeared with poison, and many archers even preferred them.
“Ah, yes, well, we have a favor to ask.”
“Oh ho. What is it?”
“Actually, we need a map drawn for us.”
Vino tilted his head at Lawrence’s words. “Ah, er, a…map, you say? We don’t much use them. What sort of map?”
“One of the area around the lake, including all the streams and rivers that flow out from it.”
It seemed to take Vino a moment to understand what Lawrence was saying, and he was silent. When he finally did speak, it was in a voice that sounded hesitant and worried about being overheard. “You’re not thinking of building a water mill, are you?” The simple villager’s tone was nervously joking.
“We have no need of a water mill,” said Lawrence without much enthusiasm. “It seems the way the water flows is important to the angel legend, and Sister Fran requires a map in order to properly guide us.”
The explanation smelled fishy even to Lawrence, but Vino nodded, evidently believing it. “Ah, I see. Well, if that’s all, it should be fine. The village has been told to cooperate with you, and it gives me an excuse for a break, so.”
Regardless of how it was in larger towns, in small villages everyone pitched in on the same work. What was important was not who had done what, but whether all the work had been done or not.
Some found this burdensome and left for the towns, but many others found the camaraderie pleasant and reassuring. Different ways of looking at the same thing could give very different impressions.
“If you please, then,” Lawrence replied.
“Well, shall we go see Mr. Mueller? His place is the only one with paper and ink.”
“Yes, let’s.”
Vino nodded, giving his fellow arrow carvers a shout before beginning to walk.
It was not unlike scenes Lawrence had seen at many trading companies, and from time to time, he had thought that it would be nice to have comrades. This pang came to him less now, though—because he had them.
Perhaps Holo
was thinking the same thing, because when their eyes met, they shared a secret smile as they followed behind Vino.
“Hey, Mr. Mueller!” called Vino.
Mueller happened to be leaving his house at just that moment. At his side, he had a stack of dried skins, and in one hand he held a large, fine knife. He was probably about to cut them up and make them into boots or the like. Despite Mueller’s large body and hands, Lawrence got the feeling he was very skilled in their use.
“Ah, with our visitors. What is it?”
“I’m glad we caught you. We need to borrow paper and ink.”
“Paper and ink?” Mueller was dubious, both because they were items not often used in the village and also because they were quite precious.
“They say they want a map. Of the lake area.”
“A map?” Mueller looked back and forth between Vino and Lawrence and seemed to think something over. “Fine,” he said eventually, then handed the skins and knife to Vino. “I’ll draw it.”
Holo looked down, the better to hide her smile beneath her hood. The moment he had heard Mueller’s answer, Vino’s face had fallen like a child whose toy has been taken away.
“You managed to sneak your way into getting meat yesterday without helping with the deer, didn’t you?” said Mueller with a smug, older brotherish smile.
He was right, so Vino had no choice but nod in sad agreement.
“Off you go, then. These are for Lanan, Suk, and Sylhet. Ask Jana about the big one.”
“Fine, fine!” grumbled Vino. Mueller grinned as he watched Vino go.
This was a good village, Lawrence thought. It was a shame to have such good cheer spoiled by rumors of a witch.
“I’ll draw it inside. A map of the lake, you said?”
“More precisely, the area surrounding the lake, including all the rivers and streams that flow out of it.”
Inside the house were hunting implements, knives and clasps for cleaning and tanning skins, workbenches, and sewn into the gaps between all these were necessities like a hearth and straw bed. It had a singular aura, totally unlike a town workshop or trading company. It was a sturdy place, fitting for a man who oversaw an entire village.
“Ah. That’s a strange map to need.” Unsurprisingly, his reaction was unlike Vino’s. And his mind was quicker. “I’ll bet Vino asked you if you were planning to build a water mill, eh?”
“He did indeed,” Lawrence confessed, which Mueller grinned at.
“That fool. He came to me last night, pale faced, to tell me you’d asked about our hand grinding of grain. I gave him a smack and told him if you’d planned to build a mill, you wouldn’t have gone out of your way to point out our ways.” Like the landlord, he was skilled at using circumstances to keep the village safe.
Mueller pulled a workbench out and took an old sheaf of paper down from a shelf. “I hope this sort of paper will do.”
The paper Mueller produced was old and discolored with tattered corners. It would not have been worth much in a town.
“For your trouble,” said Lawrence, producing some salt, which Mueller nodded at, satisfied.
“Now then,” said Mueller as he took out a cracked, old inkstone and a battered quill pen. “I don’t think it will take much time, but feel free to sit anywhere.”
Lawrence nodded and sat down on a chest. Holo teased a chicken that had wandered its way into the house.
“So how goes your quest for the legend?” Mueller asked. His gaze was directed at the top of the paper, and though his hand was quickly drawing the map, his attention was entirely on Lawrence.
Lawrence doubted this was merely small talk.
“She seems to have seized upon something. She was very insistent that I come and get this map.”
“Ah, I see,” said Mueller as he drew. He could probably endure any amount of waiting against an animal, but not, apparently, against human opponents. Soon he spoke again. “Was there a witch?”
This was what he was most concerned about. As the one most responsible for protecting the village, he was more worried about shapeless rumors than he was about water mills. When it came right down to it, they could stop the construction of a mill by chaining themselves to the trees. But banishing rumors of a witch was much more difficult.
His hand stopped, and even a child could tell his eyes were not focused on the paper. Lawrence watched Holo harassing the chicken, then smiled and spoke. “No, there wasn’t.”
The quiet scratching of the quill resumed. “I see,” Mueller said and then continued the work in silence. Such a man was well suited to being a hunter. “This map would be different depending on the season.”
As Mueller spoke, Holo and the chicken seemed to have come to an understanding, with the latter tucking its head under its wing and sleeping at her feet.
“She said all she needed was a map for the winter.”
“I see. Well, this should do, then,” said Mueller, standing. His joints popped as though to give evidence of the single-mindedness with which he had drawn the map. When he stretched, there was a final pop loud enough to wake the chicken from its slumber, much to Holo’s delight. She smiled as she listened to the sound.
“You can take it once the ink’s dry. Given the hour, you ought to be able to make it by sunset.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Not at all. I’m sure Vino said the same thing last night.”
It didn’t seem to Lawrence as though Mueller was trying to avoid work, but it was good manners to laugh at the joke anyway.
Mueller accepted the bag of salt. In a village so poor in currency, finding some of the basic necessities could be a constant struggle.
“My thanks,” he said. “Now, I ought to go check in on Vino. You’d be surprised at how clumsy he can be. If he ruins those skins, I’ll have to beat his backside with the tendons.”
It was every bit the sort of thing a master craftsman would say, and Lawrence could not help but laugh. Holo was leaning against the doorway, and she smiled as she watched the village, listening to Lawrence and Mueller’s conversation. If one were to wish for a certain day to continue forever, this would be a good day to pick.
But then, she raised her voice in a curious “Hmm?” as Mueller left the house and had just gotten to the space under the eaves.
“What is it?” Mueller stopped in his tracks and looked off into the distance.
His eyes were fixed on a spot outside the village, roughly where the elder had been sitting when he stopped Lawrence the previous day. It was a place on the road leading into the village that anyone entering would have to pass. Lawrence heard something that sounded like the footsteps of rats and soon realized it was the sound of horses at a great distance. He looked hard and saw what looked to be an old man riding at the head, trailed by many armed men who carried spears.
Mueller watched them disappear behind a house, and his face went instantly pale. “—!” He dropped the bag of tools he was carrying and started running as the riders came out from behind the house and headed for the center of the village. The startled chicken started to run, and Holo stood.
“What’s the matter?”
“I have no idea. But they have spears.”
“Mm.”
If Lawrence’s eyes did not deceive him, there were flags dangling from the spears. Mercenaries would be armed with poleaxes rather than spears. That left few possibilities.
He heard voices calling from the distance.
“We summon Mueller and the village elder!”
Holo turned to Lawrence, but Lawrence had nothing to say—because Mueller had run out of the house across from them and was coming toward them.
“The landlord’s governor. He’s finally come!” Mueller’s forehead was sweaty and his face pale.
He ran into the house, opened a chest, and produced a bundle of parchment from a pot. It was probably the charter that most villages had.
Something that threatened the very existence of the village had happened.
>
“You two—” said Mueller, looking at the parchment. “There’s a path to the lake from the rear of the village. It’s well maintained, so you shouldn’t have any problems. The governor doesn’t know about you, so if you run you should arrive quickly. Tell the nun, will you please?” he said, rolling the map up on the workbench and thrusting it at Lawrence before bodily urging them toward the house’s rear door. There was a finality to his movement that was more compelling than any physical strength.
Once they got to the rear door, Lawrence peered at Mueller’s face.
“Tell her that the landlord’s come to lay waste to any lands where the legend of the angel remains. And tell her to tell the Church.”
“But—”
“Please! If you don’t hurry, it will be too late!”
Lawrence gave Holo a quick look; she nodded.
Yet there was a hesitation in her eyes—she was surely considering whether or not they should simply run. After all, none of them had come to prove that Katerina was a witch, and the landlord should, if anything, be glad for the existence of Church figures who believed her to be a simple nun.
But then Mueller said a strange thing. “We’ll repay this favor. For the sister’s sake, as well.” He looked back at the door, then again to Lawrence. “The forest and the lake will be destroyed.”
As though pushed away by the force of those words, Lawrence and Holo went out the rear door and left the house. Immediately thereafter, the governor’s soldiers seemed to reach Mueller’s house, calling out for him in loud voices.
Lawrence hesitated but eventually took Holo’s hand and ran.
The forest and the lake would be destroyed?
The question burned inside him as he ran.
CHAPTER FIVE
They soon found the path from the back of the village into the forest.
It was narrow, just wide enough to accommodate hunters carrying felled deer. Still, the snow was packed hard with footsteps and brushed free from sticks and branches, so it was well traveled and running was easy.
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