I’d been made to pay eight denari for oats that should’ve cost three.
First thing in the morning, I took Maren to the grain merchant’s shop. Six horses had filled the stable last night. If we bought oats directly from the neighboring village, those six horses alone would leave us with thirty denari. The numbers weren’t trying to hide anymore.
“Are you really going?”
“I am. The price that’s been going on for three years ends today.”
Maren carried the old ledger beside me. The pages from when her husband was alive and the pages from after his death were all bound in the same leather cover.
Last night, I’d found the difference between three and eight denari in that ledger. The grain merchant’s name hadn’t been tainted until three years ago. Starting the month after her husband died, only the lines with eight denari had turned black with taint.
“I’m going to see all three years.”
“Will they let you?”
“I’ll ask. If they won’t show me, we’ll simply change who we buy from.”
Maren pressed the ledger against her chest.
Until now, she’d never questioned the price. Those were the numbers her husband had used to buy and pay. Even after he was gone, all that remained was going to the same shop.
Numbers hide inside habits.
Maren looked at the shop’s doorway. She’d been coming here again and again for three years. Asking about the price must have felt like questioning her husband’s way of doing things.
“My husband said there’d never be a mistake if we bought here.”
“Even a shop that never makes mistakes changes its prices every year. If the price changed, there has to be a reason.”
“Was I wrong for never asking why?”
“I’m not looking for someone to blame. I’m checking where our money went.”
Maren straightened her back a little.
“Then I’ll ask, too.”
“Yes. Today, we’ll write the answers we get in the ledger.”
Inside the shop, I could hear sacks being moved. The labor of carrying heavy sacks was real. That was exactly why the purchase price and the hauling fee shouldn’t be lumped together.
If we separated them, anyone could spot the moment a three-denari sack became eight denari.
I pushed open the grain merchant’s door.
Sacks of oats were stacked in the back. Their mouths were sewn shut tight, and there were hardly any spilled grains on the floor. For a shop that dealt in grain, it was well kept.
Which was why the number eight denari stood out all the more.
“The innkeeper, is it? You bought some yesterday, too.”
The grain merchant looked at me, not Maren.
“I came to ask about the price. Eight denari for one horse’s share. Is that fixed?”
“It is. That includes the trouble of hauling it, the cost of the sack, and the storage fee.”
“Do those three things cost five denari?”
The grain merchant’s brow twitched slightly.
Maren opened the ledger. The last page from when her husband was alive said three denari for one horse’s share of oats. The next page said eight denari. The taint suddenly grew much darker on that next page.
“It used to be three denari.”
“That was then. The sacks and the roads aren’t the same now.”
“The sacks are the same. And I walked the road yesterday to check.”
“You don’t know the first thing about business.”
I’d heard those words in the Royal Capital, too.
But the more someone knew about business, the more they should’ve been able to show, in numbers, why three denari had become eight. I pointed to the wooden tallies for receipts stacked at the side of the shop.
“How much do you pay for each sack?”
“That’s not something I tell customers.”
“Then we’ll stop being customers.”
Maren’s voice was quiet. Even so, it carried well through the shop.
“We’ve been buying from you for three years. We never asked once why the price went up. But starting today, we will.”
The grain merchant said nothing.
In the silence that refused to answer, the number eight denari grew even blacker.
After leaving the shop, we spread the inn’s ledger across the table.
I pulled out only the lines for oats, starting with the first month three years ago. The number of horses each month, the amount paid, and the supplier. Once you followed the dates, the price change couldn’t hide.
The last month before her husband died: thirty denari for ten horses.
The first month after her husband died: eighty denari for ten horses.
The number of horses was the same. The number of sacks was the same. The only thing that had changed was the amount written down.
“Fifty denari in one month.”
Maren murmured it to herself.
“Over thirty-six months, that’s eighteen hundred denari, counting only the months when you bought ten horses’ worth.”
“Eighteen hundred…”
“That difference disappears if we buy directly from the farmers in the neighboring village.”
I wrote a new line beside the ledger. Three denari for one horse’s share of oats. The purchase date, the number of horses, and the amount paid. Those were the only three things I left on it.
“But can we get back three years’ worth?”
“Whether they return it is up to that shop. What we decide first is that we won’t pay eight denari from now on.”
The taint couldn’t tell me who had reached out their hand. All I could see was the lie inside the numbers.
So whether the grain merchant was a bad person or not didn’t matter.
The inn no longer had a reason to keep buying at eight denari. Once we understood that, the gap could be sealed.
When we went to the neighboring village, the farmer quoted the same price as yesterday.
“Three denari for one horse’s share. That’s fine as long as you return the sack.”
We’d do the hauling ourselves. It was an hour’s walk from the inn. If we timed it for the nights we boarded horses, it wasn’t an extra trip.
Maren stared at the three-denari sack.
“So we’ve been throwing five denari onto the roadside all this time.”
“Not throwing it away. It was simply staying in someone else’s hands.”
“Can we get it back?”
I closed the ledger.
That evening, six caravan horses came into the stable.
Instead of returning to the grain merchant’s shop, I transferred the oats we’d bought from the neighboring village into a trough. Eighteen denari for six horses. Until yesterday, we would’ve paid forty-eight.
Thirty denari stayed inside the inn.
“Thirty denari. Same as last night.”
Maren said it as she wrote down the number.
“Last night, that thirty denari went toward paying debt. Today, it’s thirty denari we get to keep.”
Money’s meaning isn’t determined by the amount alone. Once you know where it was leaking from, the same thirty denari carries a different weight.
One of the caravan men returned from the stable.
“The horses are eating the oats just fine. Isn’t it eight denari here?”
“Three denari. We changed suppliers starting tonight.”
“Then I’ll come here next time, too.”
Customers didn’t come because something was cheap. They came back because their horses had full bellies.
The next morning, Maren went into town. I organized the ledger and waited for her to return.
She came back in the evening carrying a small package.
“This is for Tina.”
Inside was a new pair of shoes.
They weren’t black leather. They were brown, and the stitching was a little crooked. Still, the soles were thick and looked like they’d keep the rain out.
“They were four denari. The shoemaker said new ones would last longer than putting new soles on the old pair.”
Four denari. Even after paying it from yesterday’s thirty, twenty-six denari would remain.
Tina held the shoes in both hands. She didn’t try to put them on right away.
“Can I wear them?”
“They’re yours starting today.”
Tina put one on, then the other. She stood and stamped her feet twice on the floor.
The soles answered with a dry sound.
“There aren’t any holes, even when I walk.”
I crouched down and checked the stitching. The leather still smelled new.
Maren didn’t throw away the old shoes. She put them on a shelf. The shoes with holes would serve as a reminder not to forget the five denari from all those years.
That night, the grain merchant came all the way to the front of the inn.
“I’ll sell them for five denari starting tomorrow.”
“Directly, they’re three denari.”
“Think about the trouble of hauling them.”
“We’ll haul them ourselves.”
The grain merchant looked at the inn’s stable. Six horses were eating dry oats.
“…For four denari, I’ll bring the sacks to your shopfront.”
“We’ll compare the prices before we decide.”
The seller wasn’t the only one who got to set the price.
Maren looked at Tina’s new shoes.
“Even if we don’t get back the money from the last three years, we’ll get it back starting tomorrow.”
“Yes. Five denari every night.”
The shoes were proof that the inn’s money had finally reached their feet.
The oats line in the ledger began to settle at three denari.
There were days when the grain merchant brought them for four denari, but buying directly cost three. We compared the difference and chose what we needed. Just like that, the inn stopped being one that simply accepted whatever price it was given.
Tina went back and forth to the stable in her new shoes. Every step made a dry sound.
The next gap to seal was the straw beneath the oats and the water the horses drank.
Cheap wasn’t always better. If cheap straw kept the horses restless, the customers would never come back.
I lifted one bundle of damp straw.
The taint in the numbers was still inside the inn.
Tina took off her shoes and ran a finger along the soles.
“My old shoes let water in when it rained.”
“Then walk so it won’t get in this time.”
“Can I run?”
“Not inside the inn.”
Tina nodded, but she headed straight for the stable. She apparently wanted to test how far she could walk in the new shoes.
After watching her go, I set the holey old shoes beside the ledger. The five-denari difference should’ve vanished without anyone seeing it. But once it became a pair of shoes, anyone could touch it with their own hands.
Even if the grain merchant lowered his price to four denari, the difference from three would remain. It wasn’t a matter of cheap or expensive. We had to compare what we were paying for inside the same sack.
We were able to buy the new shoes before the rains came. Change the order in which money disappears, and even four denari can make its way into someone’s daily life.
Tina retied her shoelaces. She was already beginning to learn how to tie them for walking again tomorrow.