“And I swore that I’d surpass all other merchants and make those perfect nobles fall to their knees before me.”
Olar did not look into her eyes as he spoke, and he suddenly seemed very old.
“Then before I knew it, I had gotten old. Too old to sit on some golden throne. On top of that, the man I’d taken as my master had ruined himself. I had no children. And…selfishly, I suppose, I wanted to entrust my dream to you.”
Bertra came and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, then placed her hand on Olar as he delivered his painful confession.
“This is all due to my selfishness.”
Everything was so sudden that Fleur had no idea of how to react.
As his eyes swam this way and that, Olar took a deep breath and stood. “Miss Bertra. Fetch some coin and my coat.”
Fleur looked up sharply, realizing what Olar was planning to do.
“So long as I am alive, I will not allow you to suffer, milady. If I may be allowed to atone for my sins, by force if necessary…”
Fleur could not prevent her face from distorting with her sobs. If she were to content herself with what he was saying, then she truly would be a pointless doll, whose only job was to exist.
In the past, she had had her family name. Now, having lost even that, if she couldn’t stand on her own feet, then what would she become? The thought terrified her, and she clung to Olar’s leg as he stood.
She could not decide between either path—and the thought that she might take neither was still more horrible.
“Milady.” Olar’s voice was gentler than she had ever heard it. He reached down and gently took hold of her hand, pulling it free from his leg, finger by finger. “Please refrain from selfishness.”
From these words, she knew he had seen right through her, and she clung on still tighter.
“…” Olar sighed, regarding her wordlessly.
In that instant, Fleur realized something. Loving eyes and scornful ones were separated by a hairbreadth. After all, the reason one extended one’s hand to help another was because they were weak.
“Do not mock me!” Fleur shouted. She glared at Olar’s frozen face, stood, and shouted again, “Do not mock me! I am sick of this! I am sick of letting myself be carried along by life! Your dream? Don’t be absurd! I am not your child! I will decide for myself where to go—because I have nowhere to go home!”
She railed at him, shouting everything she felt, then stood there glaring at Olar as her shoulders shook from her ragged breaths.
It was true that continuing to cling to Olar and allowing him to protect her was an attractive notion. But even Fleur knew it was not so simple.
Things were fine now—but what about after Olar died? The world was merciless, humans were unkind, and when money was involved, any trust might be betrayed.
There would be no more afternoon naps in the sunshine, wrapped up in a soft blanket. And yet humans had to continue, to live on.
“So, what will you do?” Olar’s voice, face, eyes—all were calm.
Fleur erased the smile that had risen unbidden to her face. “I’m going to get it back.”
“Get what back?”
“The clothes. No…” She looked down, took a deep breath, and then looked back up at Olar. “…My resolve. Bertra!” Fleur turned to Bertra and began giving the dazed woman commands. “Bring me all the money I have left and my coat. And my sword.”
A good servant was a servant before all else. Once ordered, Bertra regained her composure immediately, nodded, and left.
“Milady—”
“I thought I told you to stop calling me ‘milady,’” said Fleur, interrupting Olar with no hesitation. “I’m going to get it back. If he’s using a wagon, we have more than enough time to catch him on horseback. It’s not hard to guess where he’s heading. Not many roads lead to the noble quarter.”
Olar voiced not a single objection, nor twitched so much as an eyebrow. Yet she still knew what his gaze meant.
“Is this what you want?”
She didn’t consider the question a meaningless one.
“It is. I’m going to be a merchant. I’m going to regain my resolve.”
Atop the folded coat was a motley assortment of coins—truly all they had left—and a short sword. Bertra held the items out, which Fleur accepted with a slight bow.
“I’d rather be shivering in bed, neither going nor retreating, hoping this all was a dream. But when you die, I’d be lost, and then Bertra would go next and finally I.” Fleur cocked her head. “To the Jones Company, I mean. I’ll bet they’d pay a tidy sum.”
In point of fact, noble blood was worthless without money.
“So I have to go forward. And anyway, I know now.”
“Know…what?”
“I know what’s at the end of the path of profit that merchants walk, merchants who believe in nothing, for whom money is their only solace.”
Olar’s eyes widened, and he drew his chin in. He looked like a parent whose child had discovered some forbidden treasure.
Fleur alone smiled, putting her coat on and fastening her sword at the waist. When she put her scarf on around her head, her heart pounded with such force that it was painful.
“If there’s something out there that will bring me peace, I want to chase it. Olar—”
“Yes?” her faithful tutor and bookkeeper replied, straightening.
“I want you to help me. I won’t cause you any more trouble.”
“Very well.”
“Bertra,” Fleur said, fastening her scarf. “I’m off.”
Fleur tossed the money at a nearby stable, rented horses, and sped out into the rain.
If Milton managed to sell off the clothing, she would surely never see him again. All that would be left for her would be whatever clothing Milton had decided he couldn’t sell and a huge loss. She would catch him and get her clothes back, then decide how to deal with him.
That was all she could see.
In any case, retrieving the clothes came first.
“Olar, do you have your sword?” shouted Fleur through the din of the rain and the pounding of the horses’ hooves. Of course, she was not just asking if he had brought his sword—she wanted to know whether or not he would need it.
“If he’s as you saw him before, I think we’ll be fine!”
Her former husband had walked a dangerous path. He had certainly gotten into a couple of tight spots, and as the man who had kept his books, Olar could be counted upon in such situations.
“Are you quite sure about the way?”
“There were only a few nobles that Milton talked about! I can’t imagine he’ll go somewhere unfamiliar if he needs to sell in a hurry, which means this must be the way!”
The road was muddy, and the horses had stumbled several times. Though Fleur did know how to ride, she was far from an expert. She mostly avoided using the reins, instead merely clinging to her mount and praying as they sped down the road.
There was no anger for Milton in her heart. No grudge.
Why? Fleur asked herself and came up with an answer.
It was loneliness. Bottomless loneliness.
“Milady!”
The rain had ruined part of the road. Fleur nearly wound up in a large hole that had been gouged out of the earth. It was not skill that saved her, but simple dumb luck.
The horse jumped, and as she clung to it and looked down, she saw the hellhole filled with mud and water.
“Milady!”
Her horse stopped, and she nearly fell—it was all she could do to right herself. Embarrassed and frustrated, she found his usual manner of address suddenly very irritating. “I told you to stop calling me—”
She looked up to yell at him, then noticed what he was actually doing. “Olar?” The falling rain blurred her vision. The road was a mire, nearly a swamp. The rain soon washed the horses’ white breath away.
Amid all that, Olar stopped his horse, facing off the edge of the road. “Milady,
look!”
Fleur tugged on the reins and brought her horse around. Drawing alongside him, suddenly everything was clear.
Visibility was poor and the road surface was terrible. What might have happened if not for that miraculous jump? She now saw with her own eyes.
“So that was the cause of the hole.”
“It seems so.”
The large hole in the road seemed to have been scooped out by something—scooped out as a wagon, unable to make the turn, screamed out a terrible high groan, perhaps.
Fleur climbed off her horse and walked over to the edge of the road. Past it was a sudden downward slope, at the bottom of which was a small creek. It was swollen and mud colored thanks to the rain, and there in the space between slope and creek—there was a wagon missing wheels on one side and a horse on its back and utterly motionless.
It was the body of the same horse that Fleur had seen in front of her house.
“Milady.”
Fleur didn’t think there was any particular meaning to Olar’s address. He must just have thought it appropriate to call out to her. She unwrapped the scarf from around her head and carefully descended the slope.
Only a small amount of grass grew, and in this rain, footprints would be easily spotted, but she saw none. Perhaps Milton had lost consciousness in the crash, or—
Step by step, she went closer. The chilly rain continued to fall, and three steps away from the wagon, she noticed him.
Pinned beneath the wagon was a man.
His face was smeared with mud and blood, and at first glance he looked asleep.
“…So you…caught up with me…” A puff of white breath rose from his mouth as he spoke the stouthearted words, proving he was still alive.
Fleur bounded the last three steps to the wagon and stood before Milton.
“…Even I…thought…I was being too selfish…”
His left arm was half torn off. He reached out with his remaining right arm, wringing the words out of himself.
“Help…me…”
He was very clearly beyond help. It did not seem as though Milton himself thought he could be saved, either. But humans are bad at letting go, even at the brink.
Fleur also doubted there would be any lies in Milton’s words anymore.
“It was just…panic…Th-they came to ask you…about my debt, didn’t…they?” His smile had to be a tearful one.
Fleur knelt down and put her hand to Milton’s cheek, and the drops running down his face were warm.
“I was…so scared, so I…”
Fleur glanced down at Milton’s chest, pinned under the wagon. The rain had softened the earth, sparing him a worse injury. And the grip he had on her leg was surprisingly strong.
If his left arm were immediately bandaged and a tourniquet applied, and his body kept warm with the clothes from the wagon bed, he might live long enough for Olar to fetch help and move the wagon.
“I swear…I’ll never betray you again. So…”
“So help you?” Fleur asked.
Her first words to him seemed to kindle hope in his eyes. Milton smiled very clearly. “P-please…I beg you.”
Fleur closed her eyes at his entreaties.
Milton tightened his grip. “We’re both nobles…aren’t we?”
When Fleur opened her eyes, she wasn’t looking at Milton.
“…Fleur?”
Ignoring his questioning tones, Fleur slowly reached for a stick that was stuck into the earth—perhaps a broken wheel spoke or some reinforcing brace on the wagon.
“Fleu…” Milton’s voice trailed off, and he merely looked at her.
“Olar,” Fleur called out to her faithful servant, who’d come down the hill. “What of the cargo?”
“It seems intact. The contents are safe. If it had fallen in the mud it would’ve been all over.”
“I see.”
So the cargo was safe.
Milton smiled—Fleur wondered if he thought that meant he would be safe, too.
But she knew all too well that his smile was not a true one. She was still holding the stick, and its tip was very sharp.
“You said it yourself,” she said almost contemplatively. “Black clothes won’t sell unless there’s…a funeral.”
Clever man.
Fleur took a deep breath.
“So that’s why…I thought you had such a lovely face…” Milton choked out a laugh—or maybe it was just more of a choke.
From the mud, cold, and blood loss, his face was the color of clay. His gaze was directed up at the sky.
He would soon be moving on to his next residence.
“I see…ha-ha…” Milton’s laugh was a tired one, and when he suddenly closed his eyes, he smiled a satisfied smile. “Sh-shit! I was pretending to be near death, but you’ve found me out!”
No amount of acting could give rise to that sort of pallor. And yet Fleur still hesitated. She had realized what he was trying to do.
“I-I never hesitated a second to deceive you! You, who couldn’t…rid yourself of the weakness of the nobility…you’ll never be a merchant! You have to delight in deception, have no conscience, fear no God—”
Milton was cut off in the middle of his speech by Fleur looming over him.
But his eyes still moved.
She hesitated—hesitated to plunge the stake into his doomed body.
“Hey.”
Fleur flinched at Milton’s sudden utterance.
“…If you don’t hurry, I’ll die before you can end me.”
At these words, spoken in a gentle voice, Fleur leaned her weight on the stake. She would never forget the sensation as it sank through.
“…Good. That’s good…”
The taste of blood filled her mouth. Milton put his quivering hand over hers.
“A good merchant has neither blood nor tears…”
Perhaps it had just been the sound of his final bloody gurgle.
Fleur stayed as she was. She did not know for how long. When she got up, she was a different person.
“Olar!” she called out, and the reply was immediate.
“Yes?”
“Get the goods on the horses. As soon as we’re home, we’ll make the black clothes and amber jewelry ready for sale.”
“Understood.”
Fleur gazed at the blood on her own hands and then gave a final instruction.
“He may have been cast out of his house, but this noble son died in an accident. For the funeral, people will need black clothing and amber jewelry the color of earth.”
“Yes, mil—” Olar started to say but caught himself. It was no act. He bowed sincerely to Fleur as she looked sharply over her shoulder at him.
“I am no longer a noble. I am a merchant. My name…”
It had been Milton who had given her the final push toward becoming a merchant who could turn even her heart’s peace into money. And so she decided to borrow his name.
“…Is Eve.”
“Wha—?”
It came from adding but a few lines and dots to Milton. Just as had been done to them.
“Eve Bolan, the merchant.”
The rain continued to fall.
Eve wrapped her scarf around her head once more and moved to help Olar load the horses.
There in the cold and pouring rain, Eve Bolan had taken her first step toward profit.
End.
AFTERWORD
It has been a while. This is Isuna Hasekura.
This is the eleventh volume, a collection of short stories—the second one so far.
Since I’ve written almost nothing but long works ever since my debut, I feel extremely unskilled when it comes to writing short stories. Also, all of my stories come from the same source, so I got it into my head that using a good idea on a short story was a waste and wound up not writing very many. But when I tried writing this one, I surprised myself. In particular, I found that depicting one of Lawrence’s and Holo’s ridiculous conversations from top to bott
om was perfect for the short story format.
So the stories about Lawrence and Holo turned out very nicely. I will brook no complaints.
However, half of this volume is taken up by Eve’s story. Eve is the merchant who shows up in volumes five, eight, and nine. She was perfect for an idea I’d been wanting to use for a long time but just hadn’t found a place for, but the number of pages she took up kept increasing, and now here we are. So far we’ve seen her crafty, money-grubbing side, but this is a story from when she still hadn’t rid herself of her nobility. Personally, I think it’s interesting to go back and read her earlier appearances once you’ve read this story. Especially volumes eight and nine!
In any case, I’m an author who writes a lot of disposable side characters, but now that I’ve done Eve, I’m thinking of doing Norah next. Truth be told, I’d already written about a hundred and fifty manuscript pages of that before neglecting it. So maybe once that’s done, or…I have the plot worked out up to the climax, but…motivation…and sheep…
But I wrote steadily away, and thankfully the pages stacked up.
The next volume will be a long-form story. Hopefully it’ll be out just as the second season of the anime is at its peak!
—Isuna Hasekura
Isuna Hasekura, Side Colors II
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