Chapter 137

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It is said that human history is the unfolding of God's will.

Yet human history was a recurring cycle of prosperity and ruin, tragedy and comedy, mountains of corpses and rivers of blood.

Did God's will truly dwell within that endless cycle of destruction and despair?

Tujis, capital of the Sultanate of Tujis, bore traces of that recurring history everywhere.

Back when the ancient Empire had been no more than a city-state, this had been the seat of its sworn enemy.

But it had fallen before the Empire, then been destroyed by barbarians long ages later. The barbarians who settled here had in turn grown weak with time and been conquered, and still later, the land had fallen to the Salaman people.

Several civilizations had risen and fallen here, each transition bringing destruction and plunder. Even the gods worshiped by its inhabitants had changed.

Huge Vikings with bushy beards roamed the natural harbor. Here, they seemed to be called Varangians.

Unlike the Nords who had settled in the Empire and assimilated, these men had sailed all the way from the distant north.

They were mercenaries as well as merchants, hiring themselves out to sultans and imperial lords alike.

Of course, some Nords had settled here too.

Naturally, there were also many merchants from the southern Empire. As for the Salaman people, this was their homeland, but they were outside the influence of the caliph, their religious leader and the equivalent of an emperor.

Most of the population, however, was of mixed heritage. They were called Tujistans, and the sultan of Tujis was himself a Tujistan, not a Salaman.

The Tujistans had features similar to the Franken people, but copper-colored skin. Somehow, every last one of them was handsome or beautiful.

The men were healthy, with intense eyes, while the women had voluptuous figures and striking features.

Ricard had not come here to sightsee, yet he could not help having his attention drawn this way and that. It also made him wonder: Why did these people not fight?

With different appearances, different cultures, and even different gods, surely they had reason enough.

"Money. Every human being has desires. Those desires, that money, bring these people peace and keep them in balance. If it benefits them, they will join hands with someone who worships another god. If it harms them, even someone who worships the same god is an enemy."

Hashim spoke as they browsed the market near the harbor, almost as if he had read Ricard's mind.

"What about honor?"

"Here, wealth is honor."

"... Well, at least you can recognize it at a glance."

Loyalty, courage, and integrity were invisible. Money, by contrast, was plain to see. In other words, a person wearing expensive clothes or fine equipment was an honorable person. Here, at least.

Still, it was not quite that simple. Having wealth and being able to flaunt it also meant possessing the force to back it up, as well as a good reputation.

That reputation did not merely mean being a good-natured person, of course. It encompassed ruthlessness when needed, keeping one's word when called for, generosity, and nerve.

All those things converged in money; people did not actually respect money alone. Someone who had nothing else could never acquire much of it here in the first place.

Ricard intended to visit a broker and sell the goods remaining after his trade with the Azur tribe. They were mostly silk and spices.

Their prices would soar the farther inland he took them, but he was no merchant, and he needed to lighten his load. That was why he meant to sell them here.

As it happened, the merchant he had chosen belonged to the Benicio Trading Company—the same company as Barbara, who had arranged his passage aboard the ship.

Things had gone wrong because they had encountered pirates along the way, not because Ricard had fallen out with the company. He had no reason not to trade with them.

The merchant was a portly man in loose silk robes. Perhaps because wealth meant honor here, he was laden with rings and necklaces.

With thick, rough hands, he spread out the silk to inspect it, then carefully smelled and tasted each spice.

Finally, he tilted his head and asked Ricard a question.

"Where did you acquire these goods?"

"The silk was a gift from the sultan of Mayub. I obtained the spices by trading with the Azur tribe."

The merchant frowned slightly, as though he found that difficult to believe. Then he clicked his tongue, as if dismissing something from his mind, and spoke.

"Whatever the case, both the silk and the spices are of the finest quality. I'll be frank. We haven't enough money on hand to pay for them."

Were they worth that much? In any case, Ricard thought him a remarkably honest merchant to admit it so plainly.

But the merchant's frankness arose from a misunderstanding: Ricard's blond hair and the Viking bracelet on his arm.

Ricard looked far too well-groomed for a Viking, but a Viking bracelet was given when a father recognized his son as a warrior. Vikings therefore never removed their bracelets for as long as they lived, treasuring them as dearly as their lives. They were not something just anyone could wear.

And if you lied to a Viking or a Nord, there was one thing you could count on: he would hunt you to the ends of the earth, rip out your tongue, and split your head with an axe.

The merchant's honesty might have stemmed from a misunderstanding, but he had sound reasons of his own.

"Is there a larger merchant who could afford them?" Ricard asked.

"Probably not. Unless you count the sultan. But as you know, dealings with powerful men rarely work in your favor. They get messy. Why not sell only part of your stock? Keeping the spices dry won't be easy during a sea crossing."

Ricard considered the merchant's suggestion in silence before replying.

"Then let's do this. I'll sell you all the silk and spices. In exchange, have a battle robe, armor, a couple of cavalry lances, and horse tack made for me. I already have a breastplate, so I need protection for my shoulders, arms, lower body, and shins. You can deduct the cost from my payment."

The merchant slowly looked Ricard up and down. Though covered with silk, a sliver of the emperor's armor showed through, gleaming gold in the sunlight.

People who were especially fond of showing off sometimes gilded their armor, so that was nothing surprising.

Only its ancient design struck him as odd. Was this man an actor?

Not that an actor would receive gifts from the sultan of Mayub and cross that boiling desert to meet the Azur tribe.

"That should be no trouble. The finest Nord craftsman belongs to our company. Let's draw up a contract, then."

The merchant brought parchment from inside his shop and drafted the contract on the spot.

It stipulated the transfer of the goods, a partial payment, the crafting of the armor, and payment of the outstanding balance to conclude the agreement. There was also an oath to fulfill the contract in the names of God, the Emperor, and the Empire, along with the usual provisions about what would happen if either party broke it.

When Ricard signed, however, the merchant tilted his head yet again. His handwriting in the Imperial language was remarkably elegant for a Viking or a Nord. Very strange indeed.

At any rate, perhaps thanks to the contract, their wariness of each other eased. As the merchant put the document away, he casually asked a question.

"By the way, are you a mercenary or a merchant? Do you belong to any company? The Black Fangs, perhaps?"

Ricard shook his head.

"Neither. I'm merely a traveler. This is my friend Hashim. We're on our way to Sinatria together."

"There? You'd be better off staying away for now."

"Why is that?"

"Because of the Order of Flame. They've always squabbled with the sultans there, but lately it's turned rather vicious. Whole villages are being massacred regularly. I hear they captured a city called Dostia and killed everyone inside. Children, women, the elderly—every last one. They say the blood rose ankle-deep."

"..."

The unexpected news left Ricard somewhat shaken. Unaware of his reaction, the merchant kept talking.

"Perhaps it's because the Emperor has been raiding all their branches... And not just the Emperor. Wherever the order has branches, the local kings are stripping them bare, calling them demon worshippers. Maybe they're trying to redeem their honor, or perhaps they're short of money... How would I know? Either way, it doesn't look likely to settle down anytime soon."

"..."

When Ricard still said nothing, the merchant's eyes darted about, wondering whether he had said something wrong.

He had not. Ricard was simply heartsick at the thought of innocent people dying.

As if he understood, Hashim laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What's the fastest way to Sinatria?" Ricard asked.

"By ship, of course. It takes less than a day. Half a day if you're quick? Perhaps even less. If you only need to reach Sinatria, rather than a particular city, you can disembark anywhere, can't you?"

"What about going by land?"

"Keep heading west and you'll reach the World's End. There's a very narrow strait running north to south, but it'll take two or three days to get there, even on horseback."

Ricard looked at Hashim. He was reluctant to board another ship. Yet now, he felt an inexplicable urgency.

"Are there fewer pirates around here?" Hashim asked.

The merchant found the question so absurd that he burst out laughing and could not stop for some time.

"Hahahaha... This is the pirates' home base. Who's going to punish anyone for what happens at sea? There's no way even to know about it. Still, a ship flying the sultan's flag might be a little safer. Or... a Viking ship. What madman would pick a fight with Vikings at sea?"

"... I see. Thank you for the information."

"Information like that is yours for the asking. Now, follow me. I'll introduce you to the smith."

Ricard and Hashim followed the merchant. Leaving the harbor, they walked along a large lake. Sunlight danced across its beautiful surface, where a few fishing boats drifted.

The smithy was not far from the merchant's shop, and there were many other workshops nearby. It was a sort of industrial complex run by the Benicio Trading Company.

Rather than specializing in the manufacture and distribution of particular goods, the Benicio Trading Company handled almost everything people used—and maintained a respectable standard of quality, too.

Nothing was more profitable than war. Wherever war broke out, the company supplied goods and made money.

Compared with them, the Ehrenberg Trading Company Ricard had dealt with before was little more than a traveling peddler.

At any rate, Ricard visited not only the smith but a tailor as well, having his measurements taken and explaining his various requirements.

He did not mind sacrificing a little protection, so long as he could move his shoulders freely; the lances should be a particular length, and so on.

He told the tailor what colors and fabrics he wanted, and how they should be sewn.

Since Hashim had traveled with him all this time, he naturally ordered clothes and other necessities for him too.

He handed over the goods to the merchant and received his partial payment: a full 120 gold coins, equivalent to 2,400 silver coins.

For a moment, he thought of how delighted Bori would have been, declaring that they were rich. Hashim, on the other hand, was utterly indifferent to the money.

That thought prompted Ricard to write to Marie and his friends in Adelorn. Having heard that the Benicio Trading Company also delivered messages, he entrusted his letter to them.

He wrote that he had suffered some hardships after being shipwrecked along the way, but was safe. He described visiting the holy city, acquiring the red horse in the Sultanate of Mayub and receiving gifts from its sultan, meeting Auku of the Azur tribe while crossing the desert, and what had happened in the emperor's mausoleum.

He added his own impressions: the holy city was less remarkable than expected; there was a sea of sand in the desert; there were flowers that glowed softly like moonlight and never wilted, even after being picked.

Once he finished, though, he realized that every part of it sounded hard to believe. Surviving a shipwreck in the middle of the sea was implausible enough to begin with. He even began to worry that they might not believe him.

In any case, as he handed the letter to a surprisingly young courier, he asked,

"Have you heard anything about Adelorn lately?"

"I hear the legendary Red Prince has appeared. They say he defeated Grantz the Invincible single-handedly and drove him far away."

That was broadly correct, but not entirely accurate. Nor did the courier seem to know the very latest news. Even so, it was impressive that he knew that much. They were in Tujis, after all.

With his errands finished, Ricard took lodgings with Hashim at an exotic lakeside inn. He intended to leave as soon as his armor was ready.

"Will we take a ship?"

Hashim asked as they unpacked and waited for the bathwater to be drawn.

"Since we have horses, wouldn't it be better to go by land? We've lightened our load too. Once everything is ready, let's ride on, changing mounts along the way."

"That sounds best. Taking horses aboard a ship is no easy matter."

Livestock could be transported by sea, but it was troublesome in many ways and carried a risk of illness. Ricard knew firsthand how unsanitary a ship could be. He could not subject the red horse to that.

Before long, a young attendant came to tell him that his bath was ready. Ricard went to the exotic Tujis bath, undressed, and lowered himself into the hot water.

Perhaps all the fatigue of the journey had caught up with him. His head swam, and his body felt as if it might melt away.

Indeed, this was his first proper rest since the shipwreck. Until now, he had done nothing but walk or run, snatching sleep whenever he could.

As he closed his eyes and rested his head against the tub, his older brother Bilter naturally came to mind. He could never forget the dazed, frightened expression on his brother's face the day they parted.

Now, he only hoped Bilter was alive. If they met, it would be their first reunion in eight years. How much would he have grown? Had he settled into the order?

With things so troubled now, was he doing all right...?

One question followed another.

Drowsiness suddenly washed over him, and an image of Bilter flickered before his eyes, standing in a burning village with blood lapping over the ground. The very image of me, as though I were looking into a mirror.