Chapter 63

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As it happened, a horse market was being held on the southwestern outskirts of Ehrenberg. It was teeming with people.

A broad stretch of open ground curved gently around a hill. Beside it stood temporary stables and fenced enclosures holding all kinds of horses, from ponies to packhorses, general-purpose horses, and riding horses for nobles and the wealthy.

Every so often, a horse dealer would lead a horse around the open ground. This served not only to advertise the animal, but also to show off the dealer's horsemanship.

Caring for horses required considerable expertise and skill. In particular, the training and breeding methods used by the masters of horse serving emperors, kings, and great nobles were practically state secrets. Revealing them without permission could earn a gruesome execution.

Most of the animals at the market were packhorses or general-purpose horses; well-kept riding horses were scarce. Warhorses were nowhere to be seen, though perhaps there might be one or two somewhere.

Here and there, people were bargaining with dealers. Some genuinely needed a horse, while others were buying for breeding purposes.

Others, for reasons unknown, had come to sell horses that were family assets. These were not particularly fine breeds, but their owners had clearly made every effort to keep them looking presentable, giving them a proper wash and brushing for the first time in a while to fetch even a slightly better price.

Suddenly, someone came riding onto the open ground. His fluttering red cloak made a striking sight.

CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP!

"Whoa, whoa!"

"H-hey, you!"

The people leading horses around the grounds scrambled in alarm. Horses had to be handled carefully. A collision could send their value plummeting.

"Sorry. I'm in a hurry."

The rider was none other than Ricard. Still in the saddle, he rode here and there across the open ground.

He cut quite a commanding figure. The dealers, who had initially stared in disbelief, soon found their attention captured by his mount instead. Their expressions suggested love at first sight.

Ricard's horse had a balanced, sturdy build, with sleek yet powerful muscles clearly defined beneath its coat. One glance was enough to identify it as a warhorse.

Warhorses belonged to a class apart, their prices soaring far beyond those of other horses. Suitable breeds were scarce, and they required special training from a young age.

Warhorses were no longer mere grazing animals. They needed fierce courage, the fortitude to endure wounds from swords and spears, and obedience and loyalty to their masters.

Add acceleration, stamina, agility in turning, and quick reactions, and a horse could become something money could not buy.

Of course, finding all those qualities in one horse was difficult. An animal that possessed them all would be a treasured mount even to an emperor.

For a knight, a horse was the beginning and the end: honor itself, and life itself. There was even a tale of a king of old who sold a castle to buy a magnificent steed.

Naturally, only one warhorse in a thousand was born with such gifts. In the right age, such a mount would write a legend alongside a hero.

Ricard's horse was not quite of that caliber, but it was unquestionably the finest at this market.

"Quick sale! Any buyers? Quick sale!"

Ricard shouted as he rode back and forth wherever he pleased. In truth, people were supposed to take strictly ordered turns walking their horses slowly around the grounds, but he paid no attention to any of that.

No one pointed it out, either. The horse was so magnificent that everyone was captivated.

Among them stood a man in silk robes, surrounded by an entourage. His beard reached his chest, and he had an imposing physique.

After watching Ricard ride about as he pleased, the man approached without a trace of fear and addressed him.

"Young man."

Ricard turned at the call. Just then, Boribori arrived, panting as he led the other horse. Ricard took its reins and headed over to the man.

"Actually, there are two horses for sale. I'd prefer you bought both together, if possible."

The blunt opening made it obvious to anyone that he was no merchant. The man in silk gave a bemused chuckle.

He calmly stroked the neck and head of Ricard's mount, examining its condition.

It was superb. Its keeper's painstaking care was evident. One look was enough to tell whether a horse was habitually mistreated or handled with love and affection.

The horse Boribori had brought was somewhat inferior to Ricard's mount. Still, it was by no means a poor animal.

After inspecting the horses, the man in silk looked up at Ricard.

"Do you know what sort of horse you're offering for a quick sale?"

"A pretty good one."

"It's a warhorse. The kind knights ride. Warhorses are divided into coursers and destriers. Even a courser fetches a far higher price than other horses, and a destrier fetches far more than a courser. I'm asking whether you understand that."

Even among destriers, there were many grades, ranging from legendary steeds to the mounts of ordinary knights.

Judging by its physique alone, Ricard's mount ranked fairly high among destriers. Its courage and endurance would have to be tested, of course.

"I know that much. My father rode a destrier."

"... Hmm."

If his father was a knight, that made him the son of a knightly house. Yet the man in silk was not intimidated in the slightest, nor did he seem particularly concerned.

"I'll give you a hundred and eighty gold for both."

"Four hundred."

"Hahaha! I admire your nerve, but that's absurd, young man. I distinctly heard you say 'quick sale.'"

"True. Since it's a quick sale, let's see... Just give me three hundred and ninety."

"Thank you for letting me admire a fine horse. Find it another good owner."

Faced with Ricard's ludicrous asking price, the man in silk patted the horse's neck, turned, and simply walked away.

Ricard hurried after him.

"All right. Two hundred."

"A hundred and eighty. I'm not interested in further haggling."

"Fine. A hundred and eighty it is."

Ricard spoke as he dismounted. The man beckoned to someone, who promptly brought over the money. He handed Ricard two fairly large purses and one small one.

Ricard opened them to check the contents. A few passes of his fingers through the coins were enough to count them precisely. One hundred and eighty gold, exactly.

"R-Riki, oh my gosh. We're rich."

At the sight of more money than he could ever have imagined, Boribori's eyes went wide. He grabbed Ricard and shook him vigorously. Perhaps because he had grown up poor, Boribori had quite a soft spot for money.

Just then, they heard rapidly approaching hoofbeats.

CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP! CLOP-CLOP!

It was Marconis, without his customary hat, his half-bald head exposed.

"Hey! Hey! That horse isn't for sale!"

He came rushing up and stopped in front of Ricard and the man in silk, then scrambled out of the saddle. He saw the purses in Ricard's hands. The transaction was already complete.

"Sir, that horse isn't for sale."

Marconis addressed the man in silk. The man looked from Ricard to Marconis and snorted.

Without answering, he gave a sharp whistle and snapped his fingers toward his entourage.

A group of men promptly mounted the horses inside an enclosure and rode over. Lightly armed though they were, they carried spears and swords like a band of mounted brigands.

Their features marked them as foreigners. With their small eyes and low nose bridges, they seemed to belong to the nomadic peoples said to inhabit some distant part of the Salaman lands—people Ricard had only heard about.

Seeing nomads for the first time in their lives, Ricard and Boribori stared wide-eyed. Were they mercenaries? What were they?

Paying them no heed, the riders gripped their weapons and fixed Marconis with cold stares. Few things were more frightening than people one could not communicate with.

Besides, there were chilling rumors about nomads: that they rode like demons and ate people.

Under their stares, even in his haste, Marconis grew tense and swallowed hard.

"One thousand."

The man in silk spoke curtly. If Marconis wanted to buy the horse back, he would have to pay a thousand gold.

Anyone could tell that the price was deliberately outrageous. Cowed by the man's bearing, Marconis could not answer.

"If you haven't got the money, piss off."

The man in silk left no room for argument.

Marconis's lips moved as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Somehow, he felt that saying the wrong thing would get him killed.

A merchant like him had no nerve for staking his life. Unable to say a single word, he withdrew.

Still reluctant to let go, he kept looking back as he left the market.

Ricard watched Marconis leave, then turned to the man in silk.

"What's this? Was that horse actually worth a thousand gold?"

The man chuckled.

"Regardless of price, you cannot find a good horse unless fate brings you together. Putting a price on one is foolish."

"But you're a horse dealer. Surely you know what a fair price would be?"

The man gave Ricard a quiet smile.

"Do I look like a merchant to you?"

"... What?"

"Whether you stole the horses or not, we've both obtained what we needed. Surely that makes this a satisfactory bargain for us both."

With that, the man strode away. At his order, the nomads dismounted as well.

Ricard decided that the man was certainly no mere horse dealer. Was he really the chief of a mounted bandit gang?

In any event, the horses were sold. He hurried to the docks with Boribori and went to speak to Mason, the stonemasons' Guild Master.

"How much do they owe you?"

In truth, Ricard had charged in, seized the horses, and sold them without even knowing the amount of the debt.

"A hundred and twenty gold, including transport costs."

Ricard handed over a hundred and twenty gold on the spot. Apparently Mason had not expected much; his eyes widened when he actually received the money.

"H-how... How did you...?"

"How? We just barged in, took his horses, and sold them."

"..."

"You have to use force to collect an unpaid debt. Sitting around at the docks isn't enough."

Whether it was audacity or shamelessness, Ricard spoke as though this were perfectly obvious. But that was the reality. Collecting unpaid debts was difficult without a show of force.

He looked at the people still camped out on the docks. Now they would no longer have to live outdoors, he thought. That alone made it worthwhile.

"By the way, we haven't even drawn up a contract yet, have we?"

Boribori was right. But a verbal contract was still a valid contract.

It merely made disputes harder to settle if something went wrong. As long as the agreement was carried out successfully, it made no difference.

"We've got money left over."

A full sixty gold remained. In effect, they had completed a commission and earned sixty gold in less than an hour.

Yet Ricard gazed at the purse full of gold before turning to Boribori.

"How much interest should we charge?"

"Hmm... Yesterday, I heard it was the third day without payment. That makes today the fourth."

Interest rates were a matter of agreement, but ten percent a day was customary.

It was an age of brutal interest rates. The best course was to avoid borrowing at all. If one did borrow, repayment had to be made on time, no matter what.

Compared with the rates charged by vicious loan sharks, ten percent was quite reasonable.

"Twelve times four makes forty-eight gold. Let's return the rest."

"Huh? Why?"

"We need principles too. We should only take what we've earned. Otherwise, how are we any different from thieves?"

"Hmm... I guess you're right."

Boribori was plainly reluctant to part with the money, but he followed Ricard's lead.

Mason's words about upholding traditions and principles had struck Ricard as right.

Loot won in battle was fair game, but payment for a commission ought to be kept strictly to the agreed amount.

So he headed straight back to the mansion with Boribori.

When they arrived, the mansion was still in an uproar over the trouble Ricard had caused. Seeing the culprit return, the people there could only blink in disbelief.

Ricard stopped the first person he found.

"Where is Master Marconis?"

"P-pardon? W-why?"

"I'm here to return the leftover money."

"... He's in his study on the second floor, but..."

Ricard walked into the mansion as though he owned it. He went upstairs to the study and flung open the door.

Sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, Marconis shouted,

"I said no one was to come—!"

Then he recognized Ricard, gave a startled jolt, and failed to finish his outburst.

"We got a hundred and eighty gold for the horses. A hundred and twenty went to the stonemasons' guild, and we agreed to take the interest. Since you were four days late paying, at ten percent a day, we get forty-eight gold. Here are the remaining twelve."

Ricard scattered twelve gold coins across the desk.

Marconis stared blankly at him, then let out a hollow breath, apparently beyond disbelief.

"... Hah!"

"What? Do you feel wronged?"

"... Do you have any idea what sort of horse that was?"

"No."

"What?"

"Do I need to? All I know is that you didn't pay, and we accepted a commission to collect that money on behalf of the stonemasons' guild. Isn't force how you collect unpaid debts? A businessman like you ought to know that."

"Ha... Fine. Let's say you're right. But who do you think I am? I'm a member and the chairman of the Ehrenberg Merchants' Association. Do you think I'll let this slide? There is such a thing as common sense. What is this supposed to be? Twelve gold coins? Ha! Are you fucking joking?!"

Marconis seemed to be losing his composure by the moment. Cold and cunning though he was, he apparently treasured that horse, despite not being a knight who rode into battle.

But even men who were not knights had their romantic aspirations. Swords and horses were prime examples. That was why Marconis had ridden a destrier far above his station.

Ricard stared blankly at the heavily breathing merchant, as though unable to understand him.

"What's so special about your merchants' association? What exactly are you going to do if you won't let it slide? I've got no common sense? If I were Steiner the Mad Dog, do you think your head would still be on your shoulders? Want me to show you what a real lack of common sense looks like? Unbelievable."

At the name Steiner the Mad Dog, Marconis flinched. At last, some sense seemed to return to him, and he remembered just what sort of boy stood before him.

Ricard fixed Marconis with an icy stare, letting his killing intent rise.

Marconis's heart hammered, and cold sweat broke out across his skin. Unbidden, the certainty that he was about to die began filling his mind. Those were not human eyes.

"Listen carefully, Marconis. If you're a merchant, stick to business. Rich people always start thinking they're somebody and overstep their bounds. That's what gets them killed. Nothing more complicated than that. Are you a knight? Are you going to ride onto a battlefield and fight? Is that horse really worth your life? No. Know your place if you don't want to fucking die. Understand?"

Leaving that warning as though he truly intended to kill him, Ricard walked out of the study with Boribori. Before leaving, Boribori gave a polite bow.

Only after Ricard was gone did Marconis feel he could breathe again. The pressure had been tremendous. The fact that this boy had slain the Ehrenberg Five struck home anew.

But in his opinion, Ricard was no more normal than they had been. Staring at the twelve gold coins on his desk, Marconis decided that the boy was a different breed of madman from Steiner the Mad Dog.

If he was going to take the money, why not take it all? Why return twelve coins? From beating his daughter to stealing his horses and returning the leftover gold, everything they did was incomprehensible.

A realization came to Marconis. He had been mistaken to think he could coax and tame the beast that had killed the Ehrenberg Five.

Predators such as lions and tigers were captivating creatures. Their unhurried strides and languid repose were elegant, beautiful, and majestic.

But approaching to touch one merely because it was captivating could end in horror. It would bare its powerful claws and teeth and tear a person apart.

Blood everywhere. Entrails spilling out. Limbs crushed and torn away.

When the tiger vanishes from the mountain, foxes and wolves inevitably rise to power. Marconis realized that he was one of those foxes or wolves.

Even the cleverest person could lose perspective after a run of success. That was what had happened to him.

There were people in this world who were true beasts. Provoking them was a profoundly foolish thing to do.

Marconis had always said it, almost as a habit: before taking any action, first weigh the profits and losses.

But before weighing profits and losses, one first had to consider the possibility of death.

Chapter 12 — The Tiger in the Mountains. End.