Chapter 18

Translator: Willia

Anyone who wished to start a business needed outside investment, unless he already held the capital himself.

But for that very reason, running a business was one of those things that was all but impossible unless one inherited it from a previous generation.

Only a tiny handful of people possessed the means to invest, and among those few, rare were the ones who understood why a business mattered; and beyond that, it was safe to say there was no one in the world who would trust a person enough to put their money down.

Most of those with the means were nobility. From the moment they were born they held wealth in their hands, and so they knew how to spend it but seldom thought that it ought to be made to grow.

What interested them, first and last, was holding on to what they already had.

Ordinary people, meanwhile, could scarcely accumulate any wealth at all, and most of them had no concept of it in the first place. When a man was scrambling to earn each day what he'd eat that day, what fortune was there to speak of?

Of course, having no concept of accumulating wealth did not mean they had no desires of their own as human beings.

The times when those desires erupted like a volcano were war, or else riot. Situations, in other words, where merciless looting and seizing were permitted.

But such things did not happen often, and so the farmer's son lived on as a farmer, the woodcutter's son as a woodcutter, the merchant's son as a merchant, and that was all.

And even if, by some means, a man did manage to run a business, keeping hold of it was harder still.

For there was not only failure in the venture itself; nobles might strip away a man's fortune overnight like common highwaymen, or a riot might break out and a mob might plunder what had taken generations to build.

That was why merchants were feverish about arming themselves. A merchant company of any size was a kind of private force, and there were more than a few whose military strength was scarcely any different from a lord's, save that they held no land.

Even a peddler could not manage the trade unless he could handle himself in a fight, and as a result many among them were renowned blades.

In the old days, the Nordics themselves had been traders and raiders and warriors all at once.

Those three had once been one and the same. It only looked as though they had been divided when the kingdom came into being; even now, the lines between them remained faint.

Put simply, if an opponent was too much to handle, one dealt with him through coin; if he was easy prey, one killed him and took what was his, and this was accepted as though it were only natural.

At the center of all these things lay survival. The undeniable command of the survival instinct, which said do whatever it takes to stay alive. And desire that could not be endured.

Valery knew the heart of all this all too well. From the very bottom to the very peak, every moment had been a matter of surviving.

Yet, ironically, the purpose of that survival had been to die by his own choosing.

Though this time, perhaps, things might turn out to be different.

For better or worse, Valery had a reliable investor. None other than Duke Sven. From him he had borrowed ten gold coins.

Ten gold coins was an enormous sum. Copper coins were what changed hands in daily life; silver coins were for commerce; and gold coins were high denominations used only in truly large dealings.

In the farming villages, where barter was still the main way of things, there were people who went their whole lives without ever laying eyes on a gold coin.

And here were such gold coins, not one, not two, but three, four, eight of them, laid out on the table.

The salt seller looked at the eight gold coins, blinking and blinking with an expression that said he could hardly make sense of it.

Then he lifted his head and looked at the man who had set the money on the table. A face so handsome it would be hard to meet its like even in a dream. It was Valery.

"......You planning to build yourself an ocean?"

"No, nothing like that. So, do you have the stock or not?"

"Stock like this, I don't have on hand right now. But before that, to buy iron and salt on this scale, you'd have to get His Excellency the Duke's permission."

Iron was one of the strategic resources, and salt was a necessity of daily life. To trade in such things in bulk, one had to seek the leave of the region's master, the lord.

At the salt seller's words about the difficulty, Valery turned to look behind him. Knut was strolling about the shop with his hands clasped behind his back.

Arne was stuck to his side like a bodyguard. He wore, not a guard's uniform, but fine clothes, with a sword at his waist; perhaps because he wasn't used to such garments, he kept twisting his body this way and that.

Feeling Valery's gaze, Knut looked at the salt seller and said,

"I really would like to buy it."

"......"

At that single remark, the salt seller's heart lurched and his mouth clamped shut.

For Knut's ill fame was known not only within the citadel but throughout the whole city. The tale of how he'd slit a servant's belly open, and more recently, the assassination of his older half-brother.

Everyone also knew that he'd been shut in the iron cage of the watchtower and given a harsh dressing-down by Duke Sven. It could be seen from anywhere in the city, so no one could have failed to know.

Being who he was, a mere salt seller found it hard to refuse Knut. There was no telling what might be done to him.

"When the goods are ready, leave them at the western wharf. Deduct two days' storage fee from the payment."

Valery spoke as though the deal were, in effect, already settled.

"The western wharf, you say? Not the eastern?"

Whether it was Knut's aura or not, the salt seller's manner of speech had grown deferential before he knew it.

"That's right. We'll be taking it to sell in Grinnen."

"......Wh, what!?"

At first the salt seller stood there dazed, wondering if he'd misheard, and then all at once he cried out loud.

Because to say you'd sell it in Grinnen was the same as saying you'd smuggle it. If Duke Sven caught him at it, it might not end with merely losing a hand at the wrist.

"Money's money, isn't it? It's not as if coin has eyes."

"B, but that......"

"Just get the goods ready. No harm's going to come your way, so don't worry."

Leaving only those words, Valery walked out of the shop. The two others followed after.

"Did you really have to go and say a thing like that?"

Arne asked.

"Say what?"

"The part about selling it in Grinnen."

"It's better to spread the word. Make it look like some green, gullible young noble with no experience is fool enough to try his hand at trade. That's the only way to whet their appetite, right?"

Naturally, since business was not something just anyone could do, they kept up the pretense that the front man, that is, the one heading the venture, was Knut.

And since anyone with sense already knew there had been friction, or rather a falling-out, between Duke Sven and Knut, it lent the whole affair more justification.

A reckless, trouble-loving, venom-hearted young lord acting up, trying in his own way to make money without holding out his hand to his father.

"But why salt, of all things?"

"Grinnen's surrounded by wetlands. Gemstones and peat are its specialties, but with wetlands all around, it's short on every daily necessity, things like timber, food, and salt. It all has to be brought in from outside. You know the Duke's had an embargo on Grinnen for a long time now, right? So there, salt's worth practically its weight in gold. And it's relatively easy to haul."

"Then from their side, doesn't that mean they can't afford to make an enemy of His Excellency the Duke?"

"Whether ordinary folk suffer or not, so long as he makes his money, that's all that matters to him. That Creed fellow, I mean."

It could all be worked out with a little thought, but because Arne had never lived through any of it and had never been taught it, all of this was strange and wondrous to him.

And amid the strangeness and the wonder, he also felt a revulsion sharp enough to make him shudder.

"......Nasty piece of work."

"There are plenty of people like that. In this world."

"Anyway, to smuggle, don't you need a boat?"

"That's what we'll be off to find now. Chances are none of them will lend us one. Salt, you can wave off as just having sold some goods, but lending out a boat means taking part in the smuggling."

Of course, whether Valery's party actually smuggled or not made no difference. It was Duke Sven himself who had, in the first place, given the order to kill the "Ball-Ripper" of Grinnen.

Only, since it was a kind of secret mission, it couldn't be declared openly.

"What if none of them will lend one?"

"That'll spread its own kind of rumor, so it doesn't matter. Maybe word will even carry all the way to Grinnen, and those who've caught the scent of money will come to us, offering to broker the thing. Or else the smugglers here in the city will approach us. Every city has its smugglers."

Whatever city one went to, there were thugs of some Brotherhood or gang or other, so it made no sense that there'd be no smugglers. Indeed, from the very start, it was crews like that who mostly ran the smuggling.

Arne nodded along, thinking, so that's how it is, and then, for a moment, looked at Valery with an expression that said, what in the world is this fellow?

Because there seemed to be nothing he didn't know, as if he saw right through everything that lay ahead. 'Could a person really be this clever?' Beyond admiration, it struck him as somehow unreal. Wasn't he like a hero who'd been through every hardship under the sun? And he was only fourteen now.

And sure enough, just as Valery had said, the merchant companies who owned boats all wore troubled looks and refused.

"Looks like the only ones left are the thugs. Hmm......"

Arne said this standing beside Knut, who, as though he hadn't the faintest interest in the affairs of the world, was crunching away on dried fruit candied in honey, crunch, crunch, as a snack.

Valery simply stood gazing at the river. From all the walking about the city since morning, the sun had begun to set before they knew it. The ripples mirrored on the river glinted orange.

Standing with a sword at his waist, weight cocked on one leg, taking in the river breeze, he looked almost as if he were waiting for someone.

And astonishingly, someone really did come toward the spot where Valery's party stood, footsteps crunching across the grass. None other than Skard, who not long ago had been thrashed within an inch of his life by Valery.

At the sight of Skard, Arne looked on in surprise.

Paying that no mind, Skard bowed his head toward Knut, who took no interest at all, and then went straight to addressing Valery.

"Heard you're after a boat."

"Yeah."

"I can get you one."

"The price?"

"Cut me into the job too."

"You've got a reason?"

"Can't spend forever guarding the watergate and squeezing extortion money. I want a big score too."

Valery turned his gaze away from the river and looked at Skard. It wasn't that he'd steeled himself to something, or that he was nursing a grudge; there was something a little sorrowful about him.

"That's not all of it, is it."

Valery said. At that, Skard too gazed at the river and sank into thought, and then, like flowing river water, let his true feelings show.

"My father really did die begging in the streets."

At those words something pricked Valery inside, but with astonishing concentration he kept his composure on the surface. It was on account of the insult he'd once thrown at Skard's parents.

"He used to be a truly fine man, but from one day on he fell into gambling and drink, and every day he beat my mother. Demanding money. Beat my brothers, beat my sisters, beat me too. One day my eldest brother, at the end of his patience, beat him nearly half to death and threw him out of the house. Even then he never came to his senses. He'd beg, and the moment he had a little coin he'd gamble, he'd drink...... and then he croaked in the gutter."

Skard looked at Valery again and said,

"Shaking people down, when you get down to it, is no different from begging. However much you scrape together, it never amounts to more than pocket change. I want to, want to do something real. Whether it's a wicked thing or a right one. Because I don't want to live like my father. Does that answer you?"

Valery felt an odd twinge of guilt. He decided he'd have to hold back on the insults from now on.

"Right. And about the things I said......"

"Forget it. Come on."

Just as Valery was about to apologize, Skard cut him off and started walking. Caught off guard, Valery's party followed after him.

The place Skard led Valery's party was an ancient sewer. Perhaps because it had gone unused properly for so long, only groundwater flowed through it, and the water was, unexpectedly, on the clearer side.

But the stale, musty stench peculiar to sewers hung thick in the air. And there were those who lived wearing that mildew smell like a garment.

Whether people dwelt deep in the sewer's recesses he couldn't say, but there were, at least, folk gathered in twos and threes near the entrance.

Skard approached three men who sat around a campfire they'd built.

They recognized Skard, but made no show of it. They only watched, still and quiet.

Skard too, without the customary word of greeting, launched straight into his business.

"We need a boat."

At that, one of the men seated around the campfire glanced at Valery's party and said,

"Having a noble nearby turns my stomach."

He meant Knut. Valery signaled to Arne with his eyes to take Knut and, for the moment, keep him at a distance.

Only once Knut was out of sight did the man speak again.

"What'll it be used for."

"You've heard the rumors, you know already, Yorik."

Since Valery had, over the course of the day, all but shouted it up and down the neighborhood, there was no way the Torvik Thieves' Guild didn't know. That Knut was trying to smuggle salt.

At Skard's words the one called Yorik grinned. One of his front teeth was gold. It gleamed, catching the light of the campfire.

He seemed to polish that gold tooth with his tongue out of habit. Keeping it always shining.

"On top of the price for renting the boat, we'll need a security deposit."

"What deposit?"

"If the Duke catches us, we're the ones who get screwed, aren't we? The little young lord can do a day or two in the iron cage and be done, but we croak. We need a deposit, a security deposit."

Never having faced such a thing before, Skard turned to look at Valery. Valery spoke to him across the campfire. The flames lit the lower half of his face.

"How much?"

"One gold coin."

It seemed he was throwing out the most outrageous bullshit of bullshit, perhaps meaning to haggle.

"I can give you about five silver coins."

Valery said.

"Oh come now, my friend. With a face like that, you could sell yourself for a single night and earn a gold coin easy."

His companions beside him cackled. Valery lowered his head.

While Skard stood there at a loss, Valery raised his head again and spoke.

"All right. Will one gold coin do it?"

"Oh? Really?"

Valery came around the campfire and stood before the one called Yorik. Still seated as he was, Yorik cocked his head and looked up at Valery. His mouth was grinning.

But then, before that grinning Yorik's very eyes, a flash of lightning burst. Valery had suddenly landed a front kick square in his face.

Thwack!

"Gah!"

Yorik squeezed his eyes shut and toppled flat onto his back. He rolled a full turn and stopped when he struck the wall, and the pain in his face soon turned to rage.

"Why, you bastard!"

Yorik shouted, springing to his feet. But in that instant, a sense of wrongness swept over him all at once.

For one thing, everything around him was far too quiet, and the Valery who came into his sight was just now flicking something off his sword and sliding it back into the sheath at his waist.

Shing. Clack.

And then a scene he couldn't comprehend came into view. Skard, having landed on his backside, was gazing up at Valery with eyes gone round, and the companions lay sprawled across the ground.

'Sleeping, at a time like this?' It was evening and dark all around, so he hadn't caught it right away, but the two sprawled companions had no heads.

The heads, wrenched from where they should have been, were tumbling down the slope end over end.

When he finally registered the fact, gooseflesh raced across Yorik's whole body. And the strength drained from his legs, so that he dropped down hard onto his backside.

There had been other guild members too, tending their own campfire nearby, and they, having come running, now checked themselves and were creeping backward step by step. Their faces were drained pale with terror.

Valery, who had brought all of this about, picked up something fallen on the ground and came toward Yorik. What he'd picked up was none other than Yorik's gold tooth.

To Yorik, gazing up at him, Valery held up the gold tooth and said,

"One gold coin. That settles it?"

Yorik nodded, so fast it was hard to tell whether he was trembling or nodding.

Valery tossed the gold tooth to him with a flick, and, turning to go, said,

"Let's move, Skard."

It was Skard's first time seeing Valery swing a real sword rather than a practice one, and past mere shock, his face was that of a man looking upon some ghost.

He hurriedly gathered himself and went after Valery. And without meaning to, he kept glancing back, again and again.

By the light of the campfire, the gold tooth resting on Yorik's chest was glittering like a star in the sky.