Chapter 18

Boribori filled a wooden cup with water and arranged the three violets in it, smiling in satisfaction.

"This should keep them fresh for a couple of days."

"And after that?"

"Well, they'll wilt."

Volka's face twisted at the word wilt. Without warning, he picked up the cup and flung the water and flowers out the window.

"Ah! Oh!"

Startled, Boribori flustered helplessly.

"Quit this girly bullshit!"

Volka shouted as though this were something worth getting so angry about. Ricard took off his bag, set it on the table beside the bed, and sighed inwardly. These two really didn't get along.

Boribori's face crumpled, and tears began to well up. His eyes looked sad enough as it was; on the verge of tears, he looked truly pitiful. But he swallowed his sobs several times, worked his mouth, and stammered out a reply.

"B-but there are plenty out in the fields anyway. They'll bloom next year when the swallows come back. And the year after that."

It was a timid act of defiance.

Volka's eyes widened. Perhaps he realized he'd gone too far, because he simply turned his head away.

"Let's get going. It'll be dark soon."

Boribori watched him fearfully, eyes darting about. When Volka spoke normally instead of getting angry, he heaved an inward sigh of relief.

Shaking his head, Ricard gathered his purse, cloak, and dagger and went outside. Volka wore a sword at his waist, while Boribori had nothing but the shabby clothes that had belonged to a dead academy student.

As they passed through the hall, Dunkel the bartender raised a hand in a casual farewell while sipping his drink.

It was still broad daylight outside. The journey had taken less than six hours, so they had arrived early and still had some time before sunset.

Ricard said, "If we pass a cloth shop, let's stop in. I want to buy some clothes. And shoes, too."

"Then let's move. I've got a lot to do."

"Sure."

Volka first led his two friends to an apiary a little way outside town.

As they approached, bees buzzed all around them, becoming an unbearable nuisance. Volka grumbled that coming here was fucking awful every time. Ricard, too, waved his hands through the air and dodged this way and that, but surprisingly, Boribori walked along untroubled. He even let a bee settle on his fingertip and grinned in delight.

They climbed a hillside path through thick brush and found several beehives in a clearing. Nearby stood academy students in thick clothing that covered their entire bodies. Whether they had grown used to the bees or were simply too hot, they had their protective outer garments half off despite the insects flying about.

"Volka."

They spotted him and called out in recognition. Still swatting bees away, Volka asked, "Everything all right?"

"Yeah. They paid on time this round instead of putting it off. Thanks to you."

The student looked at Ricard and Boribori. Having witnessed Ricard's abilities firsthand, he seemed a little uncomfortable.

"Hi," Ricard greeted him first.

"Huh? Oh, hi..."

"Some fuckers just won't listen unless you get nasty with them. All that bullshit about knowing someone at headquarters turned out to be a lie. We're the ones with connections, not some fucking—Ow! That stings! Fuck!"

While hurling abuse at someone who wasn't there, Volka finally got stung by a bee. Paying him no mind, Ricard asked the student working at the apiary, "How's the work?"

"Huh? Oh, it's all right. It's spring now, so the bees are really getting started making honey. We have to keep an eye on them. Watch for hornets, bees robbing other hives, things like that. There isn't much else to do."

"Hey, hurry up and give me the money. This hurts like hell."

Volka seemed to be making rather a fuss over a single honeybee sting. He'd kept coming back for more even after all the beatings Ricard gave him.

"Enough chitchat. Hurry up and give me the money," Volka urged.

"Right. Hang on."

The students at the apiary handed Volka three copper coins, apparently having pooled the money beforehand. It seemed to be one copper each—a job placement fee as well as a kind of protection payment.

Ricard didn't know the precise details, but apparently there had been trouble with unpaid wages recently, too.

In an age when honey and beeswax were precious, beekeeping was generally a business monopolized by the lord. The problem lay with the overseers. They skimmed money off the top, and when trouble arose, a show of force was the only recourse. Volka handled that sort of thing.

In truth, though, getting the full agreed wage was impossible. However firmly they pressed the overseer, actually beating him up wasn't an option. All they could do was negotiate a little: whether he took half or ten percent. That was reality.

This happened because those overseers were usually the lord's retainers or servants, obliged to work for him without pay.

A somewhat considerate lord might factor the skimming into the wages he provided, but there were no specific rules about how much the overseer had to share with the laborers doing the actual work.

Worse still was having multiple layers of overseers. If a lord entrusted a job to a retainer, who then delegated it to another retainer or servant, almost nothing remained for the people who actually did the work.

Fortunately, that seldom happened in Beringen, so conditions here were somewhat better.

"Right! I'm off! Let me know if anything happens!"

The instant he received the money, Volka turned and fled down the hill, flailing his arms even as he ran.

Caught off guard, Ricard and Boribori hurried after him, looking back to wave.

"Good seeing you. See you next time!"

The boy they had been talking to and the two sitting guard over the hives raised their hands in awkward farewell.

Volka ran hard until he was clear of the bees' territory, then spoke between gasps.

"Whew... whew... Always get the shitty jobs out of the way first."

"Where next?"

"The smithy. It's near the northern quarter, so be careful. Not that you need to be that scared. Nords are fucking good with iron. Riki, you should buy a sword there when you've got some money."

Volka patted the sword at his waist. It lacked any special decoration, but the workmanship and finish looked good. Of course, they would have to draw it to judge its true quality.

Ricard and Boribori followed him to the riverside. It was a windy spot, and the smithy stood beside a vigorously turning waterwheel.

CLANG! CLANG-CLANG! CLANG! CLANG-CLANG...!

Iron rang under hammer blows in a steady rhythm. A familiar smell brushed Ricard's nose on the breeze: the smell of fire and iron.

But instead of blood and death, it held sweat and birth.

Rather than stride confidently inside as he had at the apiary, Volka loitered near the smithy. A man carrying and pouring molten metal spotted them and approached.

It was Molty, the oldest-looking student at the academy. He was much taller than Volka, with a build that rivaled the Nords'. In fact, perhaps he was of Nord descent himself.

There was simply no believing he was a teenager by looking at him. His forehead was already bare, as though he were going bald, making him look forty.

His face was flushed from work and covered in black soot. He wiped the sweat from it with a dirty rag.

Then he approached Volka and handed over the money without a word. For some reason, it was three copper coins rather than one.

"Sorry. I'm short myself."

"It's fine. I'll get going. Take care."

"Yeah."

They were about to leave after that simple exchange when Ricard spoke. Boribori was hiding behind him, with only his eyes peeking out.

"How's the work?"

Molty gazed down at Ricard and answered in a deep voice.

"You earn what you sweat for. It's honest work. That's enough for me."

"There's something I've been wondering. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"You're lying."

Molty simply chuckled, turned, and went back to work.

"Hey, Riki. Quit wasting time talking. Let's go."

Despite having said there was no need to be afraid, Volka seemed uneasy around the Nords and eager to leave.

The Nords' bushy beards were frizzed by the heat. They seemed wholly uninterested in the visitors.

Water streamed down to the tip of a blade lifted from the quenching bath. It was a masterpiece brought forth from the flames by strength and sweat alone.

"Let's go, Riki. I'm scared, too."

Volka had already left, and Boribori tugged at Ricard's cloak as he spoke.

Ricard wanted to watch a little longer, but had no choice but to leave.

Volka took Ricard and Boribori all over town: a tannery, a slaughterhouse, places where workers simply hauled cargo, and even a brothel.

At each, he collected placement fees or protection money. Yet as he counted the coins, his expression was dark.

Before they knew it, the sun was sinking and the sky glowed with sunset. Workers, too, were beginning to leave their workplaces for somewhere to rest.

Fortunately, they reached a cloth shop before it closed. There, Ricard bought clothes and shoes as a gift for Boribori.

Boribori had assumed Ricard was shopping for himself. When Ricard gave him the purchases instead, his eyes went wide with surprise, and he could only babble, unable even to say thank you.

As though he understood, Ricard said, "It's all right. We agreed not to thank each other, remember?"

"Th-then what do I do? Say sorry?"

"Haha, that doesn't seem quite right, does it? Well, just put them to good use. I think that would make me happy."

"Riki..."

Tears welled in Boribori's eyes. Such kindness. He was so touched that he couldn't hold back his sobs.

"Waaaaah!"

"Hey! Have you lost your mind?!"

Ricard was startled and flustered when Boribori burst into tears in the middle of the street. All his attempts to soothe him were useless; before long, Boribori was bawling as though his heart were breaking.

"Waaaaaah!"

"This won't do. Let's get back to our room."

Ricard forcibly dragged Boribori back toward guild headquarters. The whole time, Boribori clutched his new clothes and shoes to his chest as though they were the greatest treasures in the world. He was going to wrinkle them all.

Fortunately, by the time they reached headquarters, his sobbing had subsided.

Then Volka, who had remained silent and stiff-faced all this time, hesitantly addressed Ricard.

"H-hey, Riki."

"Hm? What is it?"

"Back at the cloth shop, it looked like you had quite a bit of money..."

"Well, I got lucky and made a little on the way to the academy."

"Well, the thing is, I was wondering if you could lend me some."

"How much?"

"Five... silver coins..."

Five silver coins was no small sum. Of course, what counted as a lot of money was relative, but by ordinary standards, it was. To an average person, five silver coins was a considerable amount. Especially to young boys.

"Can you tell me what it's for?"

Too embarrassed to meet Ricard's eyes, Volka scratched the bridge of his nose and answered in a tiny voice.

"I'm short on tribute..."

Tribute? What did that mean?

"Do you need it right now?"

"Yeah. It's due today. And tomorrow I've got my own work to do."

Ricard took out his purse and counted out five silver coins. As he handed them over, he said, "You don't mind if I come along?"

"Huh? Uh..."

"Do we have to go now?"

"Yeah..."

"Let's go."

Ricard started walking, despite not knowing where they were going. Boribori blinked his tearful eyes, wiped them, and simply followed.

The sunset deepened, and as the sun disappeared, dusk began to settle.

Around then, the three reached a quiet stretch of fields dotted with widely scattered farmhouses.

A bonfire was burning, surrounded by clusters of people joking among themselves.

There were three groups, totaling a little over twenty people—all academy students. Boys and girls were present in roughly equal numbers, and some sat close together, apparently couples.

Ice's gang, said to hold ranks one through five, sat a short distance away in silence. They were an utterly inscrutable bunch.

The other students laughed or conversed with serious expressions.

Then Volka approached, his footsteps rustling through the grass, and the conversations abruptly stopped. He went to each group and handed over money. There was little conversation during the exchanges.

Once he had paid everyone, he turned back. Ricard and Boribori, who had stood watching from a distance, followed him.

"Why do you have to pay them?" Ricard asked.

"Just because. Isn't that how the world works? It's the same here."

Just as peasants farmed and paid taxes to their lord, the academy had a system in which lower-ranked students pooled money to pay those above them.

Volka had defeated the fifteenth-ranked student in class that day, reducing the number of people he had to pay. But fewer recipients didn't mean he owed less money.

"They used to just beat people up and take it. Even when you couldn't find work in town, they'd keep demanding money, and the beatings only got worse. That's why so many kids jumped off the cliff. But I thought they should at least have jobs, and that pooling everyone's money might make things a little better..."

Volka wasn't finding jobs for students and protecting them purely for his own benefit. Quite the opposite: doing so left him unable to look after himself, and he was forced to put his own money toward the tribute.

"Sorry. I'll pay you back. I promise."

He lowered his head in shame. Independent as he was, having to ask Ricard for help clearly embarrassed him deeply.

Suddenly, Ricard stopped in his tracks. Then he turned and strode back toward the bonfire. Not knowing what was going on, Volka and Boribori followed.

All three groups were still there when he reached the fire. Every one of them looked at the boy who had appeared so abruptly.

Standing before them, Ricard said, "Hey. You lot. Give the money back."

Silence fell. For a while, only the crackle of the bonfire could be heard. Sparks rose from the tips of the roaring flames and vanished into the air.

Then someone gave a disbelieving snort.

"Are you the new kid who beat up Volka?"

"I said give the money back."

"You know, we don't play childish games like Pankration."

One student shifted the sword at his waist forward as he spoke. Unfazed, Ricard fixed him with a piercing stare.

The flickering flames reflected in the boy's hazel eyes. Yet they burned less fiercely than the anger smoldering quietly behind them.

Ricard spoke softly, but clearly enough to be heard.

"You're going to die..."