Spice & Wolf Omnibus Read online

  Prologue

  In this village, when the ripened ears of wheat sway in the breeze, it is said that a wolf runs through them.

  This is because one can make out the form of a running wolf in the shifting stalks of the wheat fields.

  When the wind is too strong and the stalks are blown over, it is said that the wolf has trampled them. When the harvest is poor, it is said that the wolf has eaten it.

  It was a nice turn of phrase, but it had a troublesome aspect that flawed it, she felt.

  Still, lately it was a popular sort of expression, and there were few remaining who wielded it with the sort of familiarity or awe it had held in the past.

  Although the autumn sky that was visible between the swaying stalks of wheat had not changed in hundreds of years, conditions below that sky had indeed changed.

  The villagers who tended the wheat as the years passed lived for seventy years at the most.

  Perhaps it would be worse for them to go centuries without changing.

  Maybe that is why there is no need for them to honor the ancient agreement, she thought.

  In any case, she knew she no longer had a place here.

  The mountains that rose in the east caused the clouds over the village to drift mostly north.

  She thought of her homeland beyond those drifting clouds and sighed.

  Returning her gaze from-the sky to the fields, her eyes fell upon her magnificent tail, which twitched just past her nose.

  With nothing better to do, she set to grooming it. The autumn sky was high and clear.

  Harvest time had come again.

  Many wolves were running through the wheat fields.

  Chapter One

  “So that’s the last, then?”

  “Hm, looks like… seventy pelts, on the nose. Always a pleasure.”

  “Hey, anytime. You’re the only one who’ll come this far into the mountains, Lawrence. I should be thanking you.”

  “Ah, but for my trouble I get truly fine pelts. I’ll come again.”

  The usual pleasantries concluded, Lawrence managed to leave the village just around five o’clock. The sun was just beginning its climb when he left, and it was midday by the time he descended from the mountains and entered the plains.

  The weather was good; there was no wind. It was a perfect day for dozing in the wagon as he crossed the plains. It seemed absurd that only recently he had felt the chill of the approaching winter.

  This was Lawrence’s seventh year as a traveling merchant, and his twenty-fifth since birth. He gave a huge yawn in the driver’s box.

  There were few grasses or trees of any notable height, so he had an expansive view. At the very edge of his field of vision, he could see a monastery that had been built some years earlier.

  He didn’t know what young noble was cloistered in this remote location. The masonry of the building was magnificent, and unbelievably it even had an iron gate. Lawrence seemed to remember that roughly twenty monks lived there, attended to by a similar number of manservants.

  When the monastery had first been built, Lawrence had anticipated fresh clientele; the monks were somehow able to secure supplies without employing independent merchants, though, so his dreams were fleeting.

  Admittedly the monks lived simply, tilling their fields, so trade with them would not be especially profitable. There was another problem in that they would probably solicit donations and leave their bills unpaid.

  As far as simple trade went, they were worse partners than out-and-out thieves. Still, there were times when trade with them was convenient.

  Thus Lawrence looked in the direction of the monastery with some small regret, but then his eyes narrowed.

  From the direction of the monastery, someone was waving at him.

  “What’s this?”

  The figure did not look like a manservant. They wore dark brown work clothes. The waving figure was covered in gray clothing. His deliberate approach likely meant some hassle, but ignoring him could make matters worse later. Lawrence reluctantly turned his horse toward the figure.

  Perhaps having realized that Lawrence was now headed his way, the figure stopped waving but made no move to approach. He appeared to be waiting for the cart’s arrival. It would hardly be the first time that a Church-associated person demonstrated arrogance. Lawrence was in no mood to take every such insult personally.

  As he approached the monastery and the figure became clearer, Lawrence muttered in spite of himself:

  “… a knight?”

  He at first dismissed the idea as ridiculous, but as he drew nearer he saw that it was unmistakably a knight. The gray clothing was in fact silver armor.

  “You, there! What’s your business here?”

  The distance between them was still too far for conversation, which is why the knight yelled. He apparently felt no need to introduce himself, as if his position were obvious.

  “I am Lawrence, a traveling merchant. Do you require my service?”

  The monastery was now directly in front of him. He was close enough to count the number of servants working in the fields to the south.

  He also noted that the knight in front of him was not alone. There was another one past the monastery, perhaps standing guard.

  “A merchant? There’s no town in the direction you came from, merchant,” said the knight haughtily, sticking out his chest as if to display the golden cross that was engraved there.

  But the mantle draped over his shoulders was gray, indicating a knight of low rank. His blond hair looked freshly cut, and his body did not look as if it had been though many battles; so his pride most likely came from being a new knight. It was important to deal with such men carefully. They tended to be excitable.

  So instead of replying, Lawrence took a leather pouch out of his breast pocket and slowly undid the twine that held it closed. Inside were candies made of crystallized honey. He plucked one out and popped it in his mouth, then offered the open bag to the knight.

  “Care for one?”

  “Mmm,” said the knight, hesitating momentarily before his desire for the sweet candy won out.

  Still, perhaps because of his position as a knight, a considerable amount of time passed between his initial nod and when he actually reached out and took a honey drop.

  “A half-day’s travel east of here there’s a small village in the mountains. I was trading salt there.”

  “Ah. I see you’ve a load in your cart. Salt as well?”

  “No, but furs. Look,” said Lawrence, turning around and removing the tarp that covered his load, revealing a bundle of magnificent marten pelts. A year’s salary of the knight before him was paltry compared with its worth.

  “Mm. And this?”

  “Ah, this is wheat I received from the village.”

  The sheaf of wheat in the corner of the mountain of furs had been harvested in the village where Lawrence had traded his salt. It was hardy in cold weather and resisted insects. He planned to sell it in the northwest, where crops had sustained heavy frost damage.

  “Hm. Very well. You may pass.”

  It was a strange way of speaking for someone who’d summoned him over so high-handedly earlier, but if Lawrence were to meekly say, “Yes, sir,” now, a fine merchant he’d be.

  “So, what occasions your post here, sir knight?”

  The knight’s brow knitted in consternation at the question and furrowed still deeper as he glanced at the bag of honey drops.

  He was well and truly caught now. Lawrence undid the bag’s string closure and plucked out another sweet, giving it to the knight.

  “Mmm. Delicious. I should thank you.”

  The knight was being reasonable. Lawrence inclined his head gratefully, using his best tr
ader’s smile.

  “The monks have caught wind of a big pagan festival that’s approaching. Thus the increased guard. Do you know anything of this festival?”

  If his face had betrayed any hint of his disappointment at the explanation, calling it a third-rate performance would have been generous. So Lawrence only affected a pained expression and answered, “Sadly, I know nothing.” This was of course a huge lie, but the knight was just as mistaken, so there was nothing for it.

  “Perhaps it truly is being held in secret, then. Pagans are a cowardly lot, after all.” The knight was so mistaken it was amusing, but Lawrence merely agreed and took his leave.

  The knight nodded and thanked him again for the honey drops.

  Undoubtedly they had been delicious. Most of a knight’s money went to equipment and lodging; even an apprentice cobbler lived a better life. It had surely been a long time since the knight had eaten anything sweet.

  Not that Lawrence had any intention of giving him another piece.

  “Still, a pagan festival, they say?” Lawrence repeated the knight’s words to himself once the monastery was well behind him.

  Lawrence had an inkling of what the knight was talking about. Actually, anyone from this area would know about it.

  But it was no “pagan festival.” For one thing, true pagans were farther north, or farther east.

  The festival that happened here was hardly something one needed knights to guard against.

  It was a simple harvest festival, of the sort to be found nearly anywhere.

  True, this area’s festival was somewhat grander than the typical celebration, which is probably why the monastery was keeping an eye on it and reporting to the city. The Church had long been unable to keep control over the area, which undoubtedly made it all the more nervous about goings-on.

  Indeed, the Church had been eager to hold inquisitions and convert heathens, and clashes between natural philosophers and theologians in the city were far from rare. The time when the Church could command the populaces unconditional submission was vanishing.

  The dignity of the institution was beginning to crumble – even if the inhabitants of the cities said nothing, all were gradually beginning to realize it. In fact, the pope had recently had to petition the monarchs of several nations for funds when tithes had come in below expectations. Such a tale would have been preposterous even ten years before.

  Thus the Church was desperate to regain its authority.

  “Business everywhere will suffer,” said Lawrence with a rueful smile, popping another honey drop into his mouth.

  The western skies were a more beautiful golden hue than the wheat in the fields by the time Lawrence arrived in the plains. Distant birds became tiny shadows as they hurried home, and here and there the frogs sang themselves to sleep.

  It appeared that the wheat fields had been mostly harvested, so the festival would undoubtedly begin soon – perhaps even as soon as the day after tomorrow.

  Before Lawrence lay the expanses of the village of Pasloe’s fertile wheat fields. The more abundant the harvest, the more prosperous the villagers. Furthermore, the noble who managed the land, one Count Ehrendott, was a famous area eccentric who enjoyed working in the fields himself. Naturally the festival also enjoyed his support, and every year it was a riot of wine and song.

  Lawrence had not once participated in it, though. Unfortunately, outsiders were not permitted.

  “Ho there, good work!” Lawrence called out to a farmer driving a cart heaped high with wheat in the corner of one of the fields. It was well-ripened wheat. Those who had invested in wheat futures could breath a sigh of relief.

  “What’s that?”

  “Might you tell me where to find Yarei?” Lawrence asked.

  “Oh, Yarei’ll be over yonder – see where the crowd is gathering? That field. It’s all youngsters at his place this year. Whoever’s slowest will wind up being the Holo!” said the farmer good-naturedly, his tan face smiling. It was the kind of guileless smile a merchant could never manage.

  Lawrence thanked the farmer with his best trader’s smile, and turned his horse toward Yarei’s place.

  Just as the farmer had said, there was a crowd gathering within its confines, and they were shouting something. They seemed to be making sport of the few who were still working the field, but it wasn’t ridicule at their lateness. The jeering was part of the festival.

  As Lawrence lazily approached the crowd, he was able to make out their shouting.

  “There’s a wolf! A wolf!”

  “A wolf lies there!”

  “Who will be the last and catch the wolf? Who, who, who?” the villagers shouted, their faces so cheerful one wondered if they were drunk. None of them noticed Lawrence pulling his cart up behind the crowd.

  What they so enthusiastically called a wolf was in fact not a wolf at all. Had it been real, no one would have been laughing.

  The wolf was the harvest god, and according to village legend, it resided within the last stalk of wheat to be reaped. Whoever cut that stalk down would be possessed by the wolf, it was said.

  “It’s the last bundle!”

  “Mind you, don’t cut too far!”

  “Holo flees from the greedy hand!”

  “Who, who, who will catch the wolf?”

  “It’s Yarei! Yarei, Yarei, Yarei!”

  Lawrence got off his wagon and peered at the crowd just as Yarei caught the last bundle of wheat. His face was black with sweat and soil as he grinned and hefted the wheat high, threw his head back, and howled.

  “Awooooooo!”

  “It’s Holo! Holo, Holo, Holo!”

  “Awooooooo!”

  “Holo the wolf is here! Holo the wolf is here!”

  “Catch it, now! Catch it quick!”

  “Don’t let it escape!”

  The shouting men suddenly gave chase after Yarei.

  The god of the bountiful harvest, once cornered, would possess a human and try to escape. Capture it and it would remain for another year.

  None knew if this god truly existed. But this was an old tradition in the area.

  Lawrence had traveled far and wide, so he put no stock in the teachings of the Church, but his faith in superstition was greater even than that of the farmers here. Too many times had he crossed mountains only to arrive in towns and find the price of his goods dropping precipitously. It was enough to make anyone superstitious.

  Thus he didn’t bat an eye at traditions that true believers or Church officials would’ve found outrageous.

  But it was inconvenient that Yarei was this year’s Holo. Now Yarei would be locked in a granary stocked with treats until the festival was over – close to a week – and would be impossible to talk to.

  “Nothing for it, I suppose…” said Lawrence, sighing as he returned to his wagon and made for the village head’s residence.

  He had wanted to enjoy some drinks with Yarei and report on the events at the monastery, but if he didn’t sell the furs that were piled high in his wagon bed, he wouldn’t be able to pay for goods purchased elsewhere when the bills came due. He also wanted to sell the wheat he’d brought from the other village and couldn’t wait around for the festival to end.

  Lawrence talked briefly of the midday happenings at the monastery to the village head, who was busy with festival preparation. He politely declined the offer to stay the night and put the village behind him.

  Years before the Count began to manage the region, it had suffered under heavy taxes that drove up the prices of its exports. Lawrence had bought some of this unfavorably priced wheat and sold it for but a meager profit. He hadn’t done it to win favor with the village, but rather because he simply didn’t have the resources to compete with the other merchants for the cheaper, finer grain. Nevertheless, the village was still grateful for his business then, and Yarei had been the middleman for the deal.

  It was unfortunate that he couldn’t enjoy a drink with Yarei, but once Holo appeared Lawrence would soon be
chased out of the village as the festival came to its climax. If he’d stayed the night, he wouldn’t have been able to stay long. As he sat on his wagon, Lawrence felt a sense of loneliness at being excluded thus.

  Nibbling on some vegetables he’d been given as a souvenir, he took the road west, passing cheerful farmers returning from their day’s work.

  Having returned to his lonely travel, Lawrence envied the farmers with their friends.

  Lawrence was a traveling merchant and twenty-five years old. At twelve he’d apprenticed under a relative, and at eighteen he set out on his own. There were many places he had yet to visit, and he felt that the true test of his mettle as a trader was yet to come.

  Like any number of traveling merchants, his dream was to save enough money to open a shop in a town, but the dream still seemed distant. If he could seize upon a good opportunity it might not be so, but unfortunately the larger traders seized such opportunities with their money.

  Nevertheless, he hauled loads of goods across the countryside in order to pay his debts in a timely fashion. Even if he saw a good opportunity, he lacked the wherewithal to seize it. To a traveling merchant, such a thing was as unreachable as the moon in the sky.

  Lawrence looked up at the moon and sighed. He realized such sighs were more frequent lately, whether as a reaction to years of frantic trading simply to make ends meet, or because recently he’d gotten slightly ahead and was thinking more about the future.

  Additionally, when he should have been thinking about little else besides creditors, payment deadlines, and getting to the next town as quickly as possible, thoughts chased one another through his head.

  Specifically, he thought of the people he’d met in his travels.

  He thought of the merchants he had come to know when visiting a town repeatedly on business and the villagers he had become acquainted with at his destinations. The maidservant he’d fallen for during a long stay at an inn, waiting for a blizzard to pass. And on and on.

  In short, he longed for company more and more frequently.

  Such longing was an occupational hazard for merchants who spent the better part of a year alone in a wagon, but Lawrence had only recently begun to feel it. Until now, he’d always boasted that it would never happen to him.