Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2)
Aron studied Varaku carefully before speaking, his tone still measured and professional.
"Are you fine with determining the price for every five people?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
Varaku barely hesitated before giving a curt nod. The translator relayed his answer. "He has nothing against it."
Aron smiled faintly. "Good. Then let's start with your offer first." He gestured slightly with his hand. "Name your price."
This wasn't just about the current exchange—it was about gauging exactly how much Varaku valued his people in comparison to the goods. Future transactions would be shaped by this, and Aron needed to see where the chieftain would stand before making his own counteroffers.
Varaku took a breath, thinking for only a moment before speaking firmly.
"For every five people," the translator began, "We ask for three sacks of salt, two steel chain cloth, two hardened steel cloth, and two full sets of axes and swords."
Aron remained expressionless, though inwardly, he was already calculating. The request wasn't entirely unreasonable—most of it, in fact, was manageable. The salt, the chain cloth, even the weapons were all within the realm of fair trade. But the hardened iron cloth—the equivalent of a full breastplate—was a different matter entirely.
That was something far too valuable to be exchanged for mere settlers.
Alpheo's ability to equip 600 footmen with breastplates, in addition to the standard gear of a soldier—helmets lined with iron cloth, chainmail, cleaves, and knee cops—was nothing short of a financial marvel. Any other princedom would have easily collapsed under the economic strain, yet Alpheo had managed it through a carefully crafted trade agreement.
Every half-month, the Achea family, which were the one holding the regency of the empire, delivered ten full sets of breastplates and cleaves as part of their payment for the steady supply of cider, soap, and paper they purchased. It was an arrangement that ensured a constant flow of armor without draining Alpheo's coffers dry.
For Varaku to request two sets of hardened iron cloth in exchange for a handful of settlers? That was something Aron could never agree to.
The sheer cost of producing a breastplate was reason enough to reject Varaku's request outright. But beyond that, Aron would have been a fool to allow the tribesmen to equip themselves with armor on par with the White Army.
Alpheo was no fool. From the moment trade negotiations began, he had set strict boundaries on what could and could not be exchanged. And at the very top of that list were breastplates.
The reason was simple: no one could predict the future. Their current relationship with the tribes was favorable, but there was no guarantee it would remain so. If conflict ever arose, the last thing Alpheo wanted was for these warriors—who already outnumbered them—to be equipped in the same steel that made the White Army so formidable. Superior weapons were the one advantage they held, and Aron would not be the man to tip that balance.
The second forbidden item? Potatoes.
It was a deceptively simple crop, one that grew in almost any soil with little effort. And that was exactly the problem. If the tribes gained access to it, famine would cease to be a concern for them. Their fields would yield enough food to sustain them indefinitely, making them self-sufficient.
That was not in Alpheo's interest.
Right now, the tribes depended on trade to survive—especially for salt, which preserved their food through the harsh seasons. The moment they stopped needing it, the value of their dealings with the outsiders would plummet.
For trade to remain profitable, dependency had to be maintained.
So no, Aron would not be giving them breastplates. And he sure as hell wouldn't be giving them potatoes.
Aron exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he folded his arms across his chest. "A good quarter of the settlers are old," he stated plainly, his tone carrying the weight of irritation. "You basically dumped them on me. You expect me to pay the same for them as I would for able-bodied workers?" He scoffed before continuing, "As for the price, it's too high. What I will offer is two sacks of salt, one piece of chainmail, and a set of an axe and a sword."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto Varaku's. "And as for the ironed steel cloth that you and your son were gifted—forget it. Those are far too valuable to produce, let alone trade away."
Varaku's jaw tightened, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. After a moment, he let out a low, discontented grunt. "This is too little for my people," he said, his voice laced with dissatisfaction once the translator relayed his words.
Aron arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "You speak as if they are being sold into slavery," he said, his tone calm but firm. "They're not being shackled and sent to some distant land to be forgotten. They're going somewhere where they will work fertile fields, where they will no longer have to fear being displaced from their homes. Their lives will be better, and they will help sustain the rest of your people in return. I fail to see how you think you're being robbed."
Varaku clicked his tongue in irritation before muttering something under his breath. When the translator spoke again, his voice was measured. "Three sacks of salt, three chaincloth, two axes, and one sword."
Aron narrowed his eyes slightly. They were getting closer to a final price, but they still had some haggling left to do.
Aron sighed through his nose, glancing toward the tent's ceiling as if searching for patience before meeting Varaku's gaze again. "Fine," he said at last, his voice firm. "Three sacks of salt, two pieces of chainmail, and two sets of axes. No more."
He let the words settle, watching as Varaku's expression hardened. But before the chief could argue, Aron raised a hand. "Since this is our first exchange," he continued, "the most we can do is add 150 chain cloth as a gift. Consider it a goodwill gesture and a pre-payment for the dealings we will have in the future, as much as it is an investment considering they you shall be moving to war and we would not want our partners to lose it.."
Varaku remained silent for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly as he mulled over the offer.
He then exhaled heavily through his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly before he gave a firm nod. "Very well," he said, his voice resolute as the translator echoed his words. "After the war, we will make sure to take as many prisoners as we can. We will trade them with you."
Aron allowed himself a small smile, inclining his head. "We will be glad to accept them," he said smoothly. "You know where to find us."
Without further words, the two men clasped hands, gripping tightly—a firm, unspoken agreement sealed between them. As they released, Aron straightened. "I will depart alongside your people," he said, adjusting his coat. "My leader has recalled me."
Varaku frowned slightly at the translation, his brow furrowing. "And whom will we treat with after you are gone?" he asked.
Aron shook his head slightly, his expression calm. "Of course, a replacement will come. The dealings will continue as normal. There will be no disruptions."
Varaku studied him for a moment before grunting. "It has been a pleasure," he said, the words carrying the weight of a man who did not give compliments lightly.
"The pleasure is mutual," Aron replied with a respectful nod.
He turned to leave, but before he could step out of the tent, Varaku's voice stopped him. "When will you depart?"
Aron glanced back. "Tomorrow."
Varaku sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing toward his side. "Then send my son to me," he muttered, half to himself, half as an order.
Aron gave a final nod before stepping out, leaving Varaku to his thoughts.
Stepping outside the tent, Aron took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. The scent of smoke, sweat, and damp earth clung to the camp, a reminder of just how long he had been stuck in this wretched place. His gaze swept over the crude wooden palisades, the uneven dirt paths, and the clusters of warriors and settlers moving about.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Finally.
The deal was done, and soon, he would be on a ship, leaving this shit-hole behind. No more sleeping in drafty tents, no more breathing in the stench of unwashed bodies, no more worrying about the savages changing opinion and attacking them for all they had. He could almost feel the warm water of a proper bath already, washing away the grime of this place.
A smirk played at the corner of his lips. One more day, he thought, stretching his arms before making his way through the camp. Then I can finally return to civilization.
Aron adjusted his coat and began walking through the camp, his boots kicking up dust as he moved past soldiers busy with their own affairs—some sharpening blades, others tossing dice, wagering away their pay.
Yet Aron's mind was elsewhere. He wasn't looking for them. He was looking for Torghan.
He knew very well that this was the last chance for father and son to speak before they parted ways. Whatever grievances, whatever unspoken words lingered between them, this would be the time to settle them. Once they left, there was no telling when—or if—they would meet again after all; once across the sea, Torghan was set for an independent and isolated life away from the rest of his family.
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 䃝䁍㠱 㵏䐲㜾䃝䃝㶥㺱䨥䘘䘘䨥䠦 㼸䨥䁍䐲 㠱㔫䨥 㘥㫋䐲䨥 䱂㫋㠱㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㵏䁍㺱㺱㜾㺷䃝䨥䠦 㔫䁍㼸䠦䃝 䐲䨥䃝㠱㫋㼸䘘 㜾㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䚉㼸䨥䨥䃝㚋 䍔㫋䃝 㘥䁍㵏䨥㡮 㚹㜾䐲㼸 㠬䛰 䛰䨥䁍䐲䃝 㜾㘥 㔫䁍䐲䠦䃝㔫㫋䱂 䁍㼸䠦 㠬䁍㠱㠱㺱䨥㡮 㚹䁍䃝 㺷㼸䐲䨥䁍䠦䁍㠬㺱䨥㡮 㠱㔫㜾㺷䘘㔫 㔫㫋䃝 㠡䁍㚹 㚹䁍䃝 䃝䨥㠱 㠱㫋䘘㔫㠱㚋 䌰㵏䐲㜾䃝䃝 㘥䐲㜾䩻 㔫㫋䩻㡮 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 䃝䁍㠱 㫋㼸 䃝㫋㺱䨥㼸㵏䨥㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䱂㜾䃝㠱㺷䐲䨥 䐲㫋䘘㫋䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㘥㫋㼸䘘䨥䐲䃝 㫋䠦㺱䛰 㠱䐲䁍㵏㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥 䨥䩻㠬䐲㜾㫋䠦䨥䐲䛰 㜾㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䃝㺱䨥䨥䕻䨥㚋 䵧㔫䨥 㘥㺱㫋㵏䚉䨥䐲㫋㼸䘘 㘥㫋䐲䨥㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱 㵏䁍䃝㠱 䃝㔫㫋㘥㠱㫋㼸䘘 䃝㔫䁍䠦㜾㚹䃝 䁍㵏䐲㜾䃝䃝 㠱㔫䨥㫋䐲 㘥䁍㵏䨥䃝㡮 㔫㫋䘘㔫㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂 㺱㫋㼸䨥䃝 㜾㘥 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲 䁍㼸䠦 䃝㜾㼸—䃝㜾 䁍㺱㫋䚉䨥㡮 䛰䨥㠱 㼸㜾㚹 䃝㠱䁍㼸䠦㫋㼸䘘 㜾㼸 㜾䱂䱂㜾䃝㫋㠱䨥 䱂䁍㠱㔫䃝㚋
䰡䨥㫋㠱㔫䨥䐲 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥䩻 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥㚋 䵧㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䁍䃝 㼸㜾㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㠱㜾 䃝䁍䛰 㠱㔫䁍㠱 㠱㔫䨥 㜾㠱㔫䨥䐲 䠦㫋䠦 㼸㜾㠱 䁍㺱䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 䚉㼸㜾㚹㚋
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷'䃝 㘥㫋㼸䘘䨥䐲䃝 㠱㫋䘘㔫㠱䨥㼸䨥䠦 㫋㼸㠱㜾 䁍 㘥㫋䃝㠱 㜾㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䚉㼸䨥䨥㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䚉㼸㺷㵏䚉㺱䨥䃝 㚹㔫㫋㠱䨥㼸㫋㼸䘘㚋 䍔䨥 㫋㼸㔫䁍㺱䨥䠦 䠦䨥䨥䱂㺱䛰 㠱㔫䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫 㔫㫋䃝 㼸㜾䃝䨥㡮 㔫㜾㺱䠦㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥 㠬䐲䨥䁍㠱㔫 㘥㜾䐲 䁍 㺱㜾㼸䘘 䩻㜾䩻䨥㼸㠱 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 䐲䨥㺱䨥䁍䃝㫋㼸䘘 㫋㠱 㫋㼸 䁍 䃝㺱㜾㚹 䨥㰥㔫䁍㺱䨥㚋 䵧㔫䨥 㠱䨥㼸㠱 㚹䁍䃝 䠦㫋䩻㺱䛰 㺱㫋㠱㡮 㠱㔫䨥 㘥㺱㫋㵏䚉䨥䐲㫋㼸䘘 㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥 㘥㫋䐲䨥 㵏䁍䃝㠱㫋㼸䘘 㺱㜾㼸䘘㡮 㚹䁍䕻䨥䐲㫋㼸䘘 䃝㔫䁍䠦㜾㚹䃝 䁍䘘䁍㫋㼸䃝㠱 㠱㔫䨥 㘥䁍㠬䐲㫋㵏 㚹䁍㺱㺱䃝㚋 䀜㺷㠱䃝㫋䠦䨥㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䃝㜾㺷㼸䠦䃝 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥 㵏䁍䩻䱂—䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥䃝 䩻㺷䐲䩻㺷䐲㫋㼸䘘㡮 㠱㔫䨥 㵏㺱䁍㠱㠱䨥䐲 㜾㘥 䩻䨥㠱䁍㺱㡮 㠱㔫䨥 㜾㵏㵏䁍䃝㫋㜾㼸䁍㺱 䠦㫋䃝㠱䁍㼸㠱 㺱䁍㺷䘘㔫㠱䨥䐲—㘥䨥㺱㠱 䠦㫋䃝㠱䁍㼸㠱㡮 㫋㼸䃝㫋䘘㼸㫋㘥㫋㵏䁍㼸㠱 㵏㜾䩻䱂䁍䐲䨥䠦 㠱㜾 㠱㔫䨥 䃝㫋㺱䨥㼸㵏䨥 㠱㔫䁍㠱 䃝㠱䐲䨥㠱㵏㔫䨥䠦 㠬䨥㠱㚹䨥䨥㼸 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲 䁍㼸䠦 䃝㜾㼸㚋
"䳵㜾 䛰㜾㺷'䐲䨥 䐲䨥䁍㺱㺱䛰 䘘㜾㫋㼸䘘 㠱㜾 㺱䨥䁍䕻䨥㡮" 㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 㘥㫋㼸䁍㺱㺱䛰 䃝䁍㫋䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 㺱㜾㚹㡮 䩻䨥䁍䃝㺷䐲䨥䠦㚋 㸬㺷㠱 㠱㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䨥㺱䃝䨥 㠬䨥㼸䨥䁍㠱㔫 㫋㠱—䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䐲䨥䃝㠱䐲䁍㫋㼸䨥䠦㡮 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㵏㺱㜾䃝䨥 㠱㜾 䐲䨥䃝䨥㼸㠱䩻䨥㼸㠱㚋 "㨑㜾㺷 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 䁍㠬䁍㼸䠦㜾㼸 㠱㔫䨥 㺱䁍㼸䠦 㚹㔫䨥䐲䨥 㜾㺷䐲 㠱䐲㫋㠬䨥 㔫䁍䃝 㺱㫋䕻䨥䠦 㘥㜾䐲 㔫䁍㺱㘥 䁍 㵏䨥㼸㠱㺷䐲䛰㚋 䵧㔫䨥 䃝䁍䩻䨥 㺱䁍㼸䠦 㚹䨥 㚹䨥䐲䨥 䨥㰥㫋㺱䨥䠦 㘥䐲㜾䩻㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䃝䁍䩻䨥 㺱䁍㼸䠦 㚹㔫䨥䐲䨥 䛰㜾㺷䐲 䩻㜾㠱㔫䨥䐲'䃝 䃝䱂㫋䐲㫋㠱 㚹䁍㫋㠱䃝㡮 㚹㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䨥 㚹㫋㺱㺱 䃝㜾㜾㼸 㠬㺱䨥䨥䠦 㠱㜾 㠱䁍䚉䨥 㫋㠱 㠬䁍㵏䚉㚋"
"㨑㜾㺷 䁍㺱䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 䚉㼸㜾㚹 㠱㔫䨥 䁍㼸䃝㚹䨥䐲 㠱㜾 㠱㔫䁍㠱㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 㺱䨥㠱 㜾㺷㠱 䁍 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂 㠬䐲䨥䁍㠱㔫㡮 䃝㔫䁍䚉㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䃝 㔫䨥䁍䠦㚋 "䌰㼸䠦 㘥㜾䐲 㚹㔫䁍㠱䤋" 䍔㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䨥䠦䘘䨥䠦 㚹㫋㠱㔫 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㠬㫋㠱㠱䨥䐲 㼸㜾㚹㡮 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㵏㺱㜾䃝䨥 㠱㜾 䁍㼸䘘䨥䐲㚋 "䛮㜾䐲 㠱㔫䨥 䱂䐲㜾䩻㫋䃝䨥 㜾㘥 䁍 㺱㫋㘥䨥 䛰㜾㺷 䩻䁍䛰 㼸䨥䕻䨥䐲 㺱㫋䕻䨥䤋 䛮㜾䐲 䁍 䱂㺱䁍㵏䨥 㠱㔫䁍㠱 㫋䃝 㼸㜾㠱 䛰㜾㺷䐲 㔫㜾䩻䨥㡮 䁍䩻㜾㼸䘘 䱂䨥㜾䱂㺱䨥 㚹㔫㜾 䁍䐲䨥 㼸㜾㠱 䛰㜾㺷䐲 䚉㫋㼸䤋"
"䛮㜾䐲 䁍 㺱㫋㘥䨥 䆰 㚹㫋㺱㺱 㼸䨥䕻䨥䐲 㠬䨥 䁍㠬㺱䨥 㠱㜾 䁍㵏㔫㫋䨥䕻䨥 䁍䘘䁍㫋㼸㚋 䆰 㚹㫋㺱㺱 䩻䁍䚉䨥 䩻䛰 㼸䨥㚹 㔫㜾䩻䨥 䁍㼸䠦 䆰 㚹㫋㺱㺱 䩻䁍䚉䨥 䩻㜾䐲䨥 䚉㫋㼸㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷'䃝 䘘䁍䲌䨥 㔫䁍䐲䠦䨥㼸䨥䠦㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䩻㺷䃝㵏㺱䨥䃝 㫋㼸 㔫㫋䃝 㠡䁍㚹 㘥㺱䨥㰥㫋㼸䘘㚋 䍔䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䃝䨥䁍䐲㵏㔫㫋㼸䘘㡮 㚹䁍㠱㵏㔫㫋㼸䘘㡮 㚹䁍㫋㠱㫋㼸䘘 㘥㜾䐲 䃝㜾䩻䨥 㘥㺱㫋㵏䚉䨥䐲 㜾㘥 㔫䨥䃝㫋㠱䁍㠱㫋㜾㼸㡮 䃝㜾䩻䨥 䘘㺱㫋䩻䩻䨥䐲 㜾㘥 䐲䨥䘘䐲䨥㠱 㫋㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䃝㜾㼸'䃝 䨥䛰䨥䃝㚋 㸬㺷㠱 㠱㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䁍䃝 㼸㜾㼸䨥㚋
䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 㺱䨥䁍㼸䨥䠦 㘥㜾䐲㚹䁍䐲䠦 䃝㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㺱䛰㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䨥㰥䱂䐲䨥䃝䃝㫋㜾㼸 㺷㼸㚹䁍䕻䨥䐲㫋㼸䘘㚋 䵧㔫䨥 㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥 㘥㫋䐲䨥 㵏䁍㺷䘘㔫㠱 㠱㔫䨥 䨥䠦䘘䨥䃝 㜾㘥 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㵏䨥㡮 㔫㫋䘘㔫㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂 䱂㺱䁍㼸䨥䃝 㜾㘥 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䨥䁍㠱㺷䐲䨥䃝㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䠦䨥㠱䨥䐲䩻㫋㼸䁍㠱㫋㜾㼸 㫋㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䨥䛰䨥䃝㚋
"䆰㠱 㫋䃝 㚹㜾䐲㠱㔫 㠱㔫䁍㠱㡮" 㔫䨥 䃝䁍㫋䠦㡮 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 䃝㠱䨥䁍䠦䛰㡮 㘥㫋䐲䩻㚋 "䌰㼸䠦 䩻㺷㵏㔫 䩻㜾䐲䨥㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 䨥㰥㔫䁍㺱䨥䠦 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂㺱䛰㡮 㼸㜾䠦䠦㫋㼸䘘 㜾㼸㵏䨥㡮 䃝㺱㜾㚹 䁍㼸䠦 䠦䨥㺱㫋㠬䨥䐲䁍㠱䨥㚋 䍔㫋䃝 䃝㔫㜾㺷㺱䠦䨥䐲䃝㡮 㠬䐲㜾䁍䠦 䁍㼸䠦 㚹㜾䐲㼸 㠬䛰 䛰䨥䁍䐲䃝 㜾㘥 㠬䁍㠱㠱㺱䨥㡮 㺱㫋㘥㠱䨥䠦 䃝㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㺱䛰 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 䃝䨥㠱㠱㺱㫋㼸䘘 䁍䃝 㫋㘥 䐲䨥㺱䨥䁍䃝㫋㼸䘘 䁍 㚹䨥㫋䘘㔫㠱 㔫䨥 㔫䁍䠦 㺱㜾㼸䘘 㵏䁍䐲䐲㫋䨥䠦㚋 䍔䨥 䃝㠱㺷䠦㫋䨥䠦 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 㘥㜾䐲 䁍 㺱㜾㼸䘘 䩻㜾䩻䨥㼸㠱㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䨥㰥䱂䐲䨥䃝䃝㫋㜾㼸 㺷㼸䐲䨥䁍䠦䁍㠬㺱䨥㡮 㠱㔫䨥㼸 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥㚋
"䞍䨥㺱㺱㡮" 㔫䨥 䃝䁍㫋䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫 䛰䨥㠱 䃝㠱䨥䁍䠦䛰㡮 "㫋㠱 㚹䁍䃝 㔫㫋䘘㔫 㠱㫋䩻䨥 䛰㜾㺷 䠦㫋䠦 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㚹㜾䐲㠱㔫㚹㔫㫋㺱䨥 㜾㘥 䛰㜾㺷䐲 㺱㫋㘥䨥㚋"
"䞍㔫䛰 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 䛰㜾㺷 㵏䁍䐲䨥 䁍㠬㜾㺷㠱 㠱㔫䁍㠱 䤋" 㔫䨥 䁍䃝䚉䨥䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㠱㜾㼸䨥 䨥䠦䘘䨥䠦 㚹㫋㠱㔫 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂㡮 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㺷㼸䃝䁍㫋䠦㚋 "㨑㜾㺷 䠦㫋䠦㼸'㠱 䃝䨥䨥䩻 㠱㜾 㘥㜾䐲 㔫䁍㺱㘥 䩻䛰 㺱㫋㘥䨥㚋 䌰㼸䠦 䛰㜾㺷 䁍㺱䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 㔫䁍䕻䨥 㜾㘥㘥䃝䱂䐲㫋㼸䘘䃝 㠱㜾 䱂䁍䃝䃝 䛰㜾㺷䐲 㠬㺱㜾㜾䠦 㠱㜾㚋 䞍㔫䁍㠱 䠦㜾䨥䃝 㫋㠱 䩻䁍㠱㠱䨥䐲 㚹㔫䁍㠱 䆰 䠦㜾䤋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷'䃝 䘘䁍䲌䨥 䠦䁍䐲䚉䨥㼸䨥䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䨥䁍㠱㺷䐲䨥䃝 㠱㫋䘘㔫㠱䨥㼸㫋㼸䘘㡮 㠱㔫㜾㺷䘘㔫 㼸㜾㠱 㫋㼸 䁍㼸䘘䨥䐲—㼸㜾㡮 㠱㔫㫋䃝 㚹䁍䃝 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䨥㺱䃝䨥㚋 䳵㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䠦䨥䨥䱂䨥䐲㚋 䍔㫋䃝 㘥㫋㼸䘘䨥䐲䃝 㘥㺱䨥㰥䨥䠦 㠬䐲㫋䨥㘥㺱䛰 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 㔫䨥 䃝䨥㠱 㠱㔫䨥䩻 㜾㼸 㔫㫋䃝 䚉㼸䨥䨥䃝㡮 䃝㠱䨥䁍䠦䛰㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䩻䃝䨥㺱㘥㚋 䞍㔫䨥㼸 㔫䨥 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䊰㺷㫋䨥㠱䨥䐲㡮 㠬㺷㠱 㼸㜾 㺱䨥䃝䃝 㘥㫋䐲䩻㚋
䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸'䃝 㠡䁍㚹 㠱䨥㼸䃝䨥䠦㚋
"䆰 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 㼸㜾㠱 㔫䁍䕻䨥 䠦䁍䐲䨥䠦 㠱㜾 㺱㜾㜾䚉 㔫䨥䐲 㫋㼸 㠱㔫䨥 㘥䁍㵏䨥 䁍㼸䠦 㠱䨥㺱㺱 㔫䨥䐲 㠱㔫䁍㠱 䆰 䠦㫋䠦㼸'㠱 䨥䕻䨥㼸 㠱䐲䛰㚋" 㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷'䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 䠦㫋䠦 㼸㜾㠱 㚹䁍䕻䨥䐲㡮 㠬㺷㠱 㠱㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㫋㼸 㫋㠱㡮 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䐲䁍㚹 㠬䨥㼸䨥䁍㠱㔫 㠱㔫䨥 㚹㜾䐲䠦䃝㚋 "䵧㔫䁍㠱 䆰 㺱䨥㠱 㜾㺷䐲 䃝㜾㼸 㚹䁍㺱䚉 䁍㚹䁍䛰 㠱㜾 䁍 䱂㺱䁍㵏䨥 㚹㔫䨥䐲䨥 㔫㫋䃝 䃝䱂㫋䐲㫋㠱 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 㼸䨥䕻䨥䐲 䩻䨥䨥㠱 㚹㫋㠱㔫 㔫䨥䐲䃝㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 㺱䨥䁍㼸䨥䠦 㘥㜾䐲㚹䁍䐲䠦 䃝㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㺱䛰㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䘘䁍䲌䨥 㺱㜾㵏䚉㫋㼸䘘 㜾㼸㠱㜾 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸'䃝 㚹㫋㠱㔫 㠱㔫䨥 㫋㼸㠱䨥㼸䃝㫋㠱䛰 㜾㘥 䁍 䩻䁍㼸 㚹㔫㜾 㔫䁍䠦 㺱㫋䕻䨥䠦 㠱㔫䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫 㚹䁍䐲㡮 㠱㔫䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫 䨥㰥㫋㺱䨥㡮 㠱㔫䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫 㺱㜾䃝䃝㚋
"䌰䐲䨥 䛰㜾㺷 䐲䨥䁍㺱㺱䛰 䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 㘥㜾䐲 㠱㔫䁍㠱䤋" 㔫䨥 䁍䃝䚉䨥䠦㚋
䳵㺱㜾㚹㺱䛰㡮 㔫䨥 㺱㫋㘥㠱䨥䠦 㔫㫋䃝 㔫䨥䁍䠦 䁍㼸䠦 䩻䨥㠱 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲'䃝 䨥䛰䨥䃝㚋 䵧㔫䨥䐲䨥 㚹䁍䃝 㼸㜾 㔫䨥䃝㫋㠱䁍㠱㫋㜾㼸 㚹㔫䨥㼸 㔫䨥 㘥㫋㼸䁍㺱㺱䛰 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥㚋
"䆰 䁍㺱䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 䃝䁍㫋䠦 㠱㔫䁍㠱 㫋㠱 㚹䁍䃝 㚹㜾䐲㠱㔫 䩻㜾䐲䨥㚋"
"䆰 㚹㫋㺱㺱 㵏䐲䨥䁍㠱䨥 䁍 㼸䨥㚹 䱂㺱䁍㵏䨥㡮" 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 㵏㜾㼸㠱㫋㼸㺷䨥䠦㡮 "㚹㔫䨥䐲䨥 䩻䛰 䃝㜾㼸 㚹㫋㺱㺱 䩻䨥䨥㠱 㚹㫋㠱㔫 䩻㫋㼸䨥 䁍㼸䠦 䩻䛰 䩻㜾㠱㔫䨥䐲'䃝 䃝䱂㫋䐲㫋㠱㚋 㥉䨥䐲㔫䁍䱂䃝… 㜾㼸䨥 䠦䁍䛰㡮 㚹䨥 㚹㫋㺱㺱 䁍㺱㺱 㠬䨥 䐲䨥㺷㼸㫋㠱䨥䠦㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷'䃝 㘥䁍㵏䨥 䐲䨥䩻䁍㫋㼸䨥䠦 㫋䩻䱂䁍䃝䃝㫋䕻䨥㡮 㠬㺷㠱 㔫㫋䃝 㠡䁍㚹 㠱㫋䘘㔫㠱䨥㼸䨥䠦 䨥䕻䨥䐲 䃝㜾 䃝㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㺱䛰㚋 䍔㫋䃝 㘥㫋㼸䘘䨥䐲䃝 㵏㺷䐲㺱䨥䠦 䁍䘘䁍㫋㼸䃝㠱 㔫㫋䃝 䚉㼸䨥䨥㡮 䁍㼸䠦 㘥㜾䐲 䁍 䩻㜾䩻䨥㼸㠱㡮 㠱㔫䨥 㜾㺱䠦 㵏㔫㫋䨥㘥 䃝㫋䩻䱂㺱䛰 䃝㠱䁍䐲䨥䠦 䁍㠱 㔫㫋䃝 䃝㜾㼸㶥
䵧㔫䨥 㚹㜾䐲䠦䃝 㚹䨥䐲䨥 㺱㫋䚉䨥 䁍 䚉㼸㫋㘥䨥 䃝㺱㫋䱂䱂䨥䠦 㠬䨥㠱㚹䨥䨥㼸 㠱㔫䨥 䐲㫋㠬䃝㚋 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 㫋㼸㔫䁍㺱䨥䠦 䃝㔫䁍䐲䱂㺱䛰 㠬㺷㠱 䃝䁍㫋䠦 㼸㜾㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘㚋 䍔䨥 㔫䁍䠦 䁍㺱䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰 䩻䁍䠦䨥 㔫㫋䃝 㵏㔫㜾㫋㵏䨥㚋 䞍㔫䨥㠱㔫䨥䐲 㜾䐲 㼸㜾㠱 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲 㵏㜾㺷㺱䠦 䁍㵏㵏䨥䱂㠱 㫋㠱 㚹䁍䃝 㼸㜾 㺱㜾㼸䘘䨥䐲 㔫㫋䃝 㵏㜾㼸㵏䨥䐲㼸㚋
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 㺱䨥㠱 㜾㺷㠱 䁍 㺱㜾㼸䘘㡮 㚹䨥䁍䐲䛰 䃝㫋䘘㔫㡮 䐲㺷㠬㠬㫋㼸䘘 䁍 㔫䁍㼸䠦 㜾䕻䨥䐲 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㵏䨥 䁍䃝 㫋㘥 㠱䐲䛰㫋㼸䘘 㠱㜾 㚹㫋䱂䨥 䁍㚹䁍䛰 㠱㔫䨥 㚹䨥㫋䘘㔫㠱 䱂䐲䨥䃝䃝㫋㼸䘘 䠦㜾㚹㼸 㜾㼸 㔫㫋䩻㚋 䍔㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥㡮 㚹㔫䨥㼸 㔫䨥 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥㡮 㚹䁍䃝 䊰㺷㫋䨥㠱䨥䐲 㼸㜾㚹—䐲䨥䃝㫋䘘㼸䨥䠦㚋
䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 䐲䨥䩻䁍㫋㼸䨥䠦 䃝㫋㺱䨥㼸㠱㡮 㚹䁍㠱㵏㔫㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲 䁍䃝 㔫䨥 㵏㜾㼸㠱㫋㼸㺷䨥䠦㚋
"㵷䁍䃝㔫䁍 㚹㫋㺱㺱 㵏㜾䩻䨥 㠱㜾㜾㡮" 㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 䁍䠦䠦䨥䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㠱㜾㼸䨥 䩻䨥䁍䃝㺷䐲䨥䠦㡮 㚹䁍㠱㵏㔫㫋㼸䘘 㘥㜾䐲 䁍㼸䛰 䐲䨥䁍㵏㠱㫋㜾㼸㚋 "䆰㠱 㚹㫋㺱㺱 㠬䨥 䁍 䘘㜾㜾䠦 㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㠱㜾 㔫䁍䕻䨥 䃝㜾䩻䨥㜾㼸䨥 㜾㘥 䛰㜾㺷䐲 㠬㺱㜾㜾䠦 䩻䁍䐲䐲䛰 䃝㜾䩻䨥㜾㼸䨥 䨥㺱䃝䨥'䃝 㺱䨥䁍䠦䨥䐲㚋 䌰 㠬㜾㼸䠦 㜾㘥 㠬㺱㜾㜾䠦 㫋䃝 䃝㠱䐲㜾㼸䘘䨥䐲 㠱㔫䁍㼸 䁍 㠬㜾㼸䠦 㜾㘥 㠱䐲䁍䠦䨥㚋"
㵷䁍䐲䁍䚉㺷 䃝㠱㺷䠦㫋䨥䠦 㔫㫋䩻 㘥㜾䐲 䁍 㺱㜾㼸䘘 䩻㜾䩻䨥㼸㠱 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 䨥㰥㔫䁍㺱㫋㼸䘘 䁍䘘䁍㫋㼸㡮 䃝㔫䁍䚉㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䃝 㔫䨥䁍䠦㚋 䍔㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 㚹䁍䃝 䐲㜾㺷䘘㔫䨥䐲 㚹㔫䨥㼸 㔫䨥 䃝䱂㜾䚉䨥 㼸䨥㰥㠱㡮 㺱䁍㵏䨥䠦 㚹㫋㠱㔫 䃝㜾䩻䨥㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 䁍㺱䩻㜾䃝㠱 㠬㫋㠱㠱䨥䐲㚋
"㨑㜾㺷䐲 䩻㜾㠱㔫䨥䐲 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 㼸㜾㠱 䃝䱂䨥䁍䚉 㠱㜾 䩻䨥 㫋㘥 䆰 䠦㫋䠦 㼸㜾㠱 䨥䕻䨥㼸 㠱䐲䛰 㠱㜾 㔫䨥㺱䱂㚋"
䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 䐲㜾䃝䨥 㠱㜾 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䨥䨥㠱㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䩻㜾䕻䨥䩻䨥㼸㠱 䃝㺱㜾㚹㡮 䠦䨥㺱㫋㠬䨥䐲䁍㠱䨥㚋 䍔䨥 䃝㠱㜾㜾䠦 㠱㔫䨥䐲䨥 㘥㜾䐲 䁍 䩻㜾䩻䨥㼸㠱㡮 㺱㜾㜾䚉㫋㼸䘘 䠦㜾㚹㼸 䁍㠱 㔫㫋䃝 㘥䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲㡮 㚹㔫㜾 䐲䨥䩻䁍㫋㼸䨥䠦 䃝䨥䁍㠱䨥䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㘥㫋㼸䘘䨥䐲䃝 㫋䠦㺱䛰 㠱䐲䁍㵏㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥 䐲㫋䩻 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥 㚹㜾㜾䠦䨥㼸 㵏㺷䱂 㔫䨥 㔫䁍䠦 䃝䨥㠱 䠦㜾㚹㼸 䨥䁍䐲㺱㫋䨥䐲㚋
"䆰 䃝㺷䱂䱂㜾䃝䨥 㠱㔫㫋䃝 㫋䃝 䘘㜾㜾䠦㠬䛰䨥㡮 㠱㔫䨥㼸㡮" 䵧㜾䐲䘘㔫䁍㼸 䃝䁍㫋䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䕻㜾㫋㵏䨥 䃝㠱䨥䁍䠦䛰㚋
"㙯㜾㜾䠦 㺱㺷㵏䚉㚋"
䞍㫋㠱㔫 㠱㔫䁍㠱㡮 㔫䨥 䱂㫋㵏䚉䨥䠦 㺷䱂 㠱㔫䨥 㵏㺷䱂 㜾㘥 㚹㫋㼸䨥 㘥䐲㜾䩻 㠱㔫䨥 䘘䐲㜾㺷㼸䠦㡮 㠱㫋㺱㠱㫋㼸䘘 㫋㠱 䃝㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㺱䛰 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 㠱䁍䚉㫋㼸䘘 䁍 䃝㺱㜾㚹 䃝㫋䱂㡮 䁍䃝 㫋㘥 㠱㔫䁍㠱 䃝㫋㼸䘘㺱䨥 䩻㜾㠱㫋㜾㼸 㵏㜾㺷㺱䠦 㚹䁍䃝㔫 䠦㜾㚹㼸 䨥䕻䨥䐲䛰㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘 㠱㔫䁍㠱 㔫䁍䠦 㠬䨥䨥㼸 㺱䨥㘥㠱 㺷㼸䃝䁍㫋䠦 㠬䨥㠱㚹䨥䨥㼸 㠱㔫䨥䩻㚋
䵧㔫䨥 㵏㜾㺱䠦 䁍㫋䐲 䘘䐲䨥䨥㠱䨥䠦 㔫㫋䩻 䁍䃝 㔫䨥 䨥䩻䨥䐲䘘䨥䠦㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䃝㵏䨥㼸㠱 㜾㘥 䃝䁍㺱㠱 䁍㼸䠦 䠦䁍䩻䱂 䨥䁍䐲㠱㔫 㘥㫋㺱㺱㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䃝 㺱㺷㼸䘘䃝㚋 䍔䨥 㚹䁍㺱䚉䨥䠦 䁍 㘥䨥㚹 䱂䁍㵏䨥䃝 㘥㜾䐲㚹䁍䐲䠦㡮 㔫㫋䃝 㠬㜾㜾㠱䃝 䱂䐲䨥䃝䃝㫋㼸䘘 㫋㼸㠱㜾 㠱㔫䨥 䠦㫋䐲㠱㡮 㠬䨥㘥㜾䐲䨥 㘥㫋㼸䁍㺱㺱䛰 㺱㫋㘥㠱㫋㼸䘘 㔫㫋䃝 䘘䁍䲌䨥㚋
䵧㔫䨥䐲䨥㡮 㫋㼸 㠱㔫䨥 䠦㫋䃝㠱䁍㼸㵏䨥㡮 䱂䁍䃝㠱 㠱㔫䨥 㚹㜾㜾䠦䨥㼸 䱂䁍㺱㫋䃝䁍䠦䨥䃝 㜾㘥 㠱㔫䨥 㵏䁍䩻䱂㡮 㠱㔫䨥 䘘䐲䨥䁍㠱 䃝㔫㫋䱂䃝 㚹䁍㫋㠱䨥䠦㚋 䵧㔫䨥㫋䐲 㠱䁍㺱㺱 䩻䁍䃝㠱䃝 䃝㠱䐲䨥㠱㵏㔫䨥䠦 㠱㜾㚹䁍䐲䠦 㠱㔫䨥 䃝䚉䛰㡮 䠦䁍䐲䚉 䃝㫋㺱㔫㜾㺷䨥㠱㠱䨥䃝 䁍䘘䁍㫋㼸䃝㠱 㠱㔫䨥 䨥䁍䐲㺱䛰 䩻㜾䐲㼸㫋㼸䘘 㺱㫋䘘㔫㠱㚋 㰕㜾䱂䨥䃝 䃝㚹䁍䛰䨥䠦 㚹㫋㠱㔫 㠱㔫䨥 㚹㫋㼸䠦㡮 䃝䁍㫋㺱䃝 㘥㺷䐲㺱䨥䠦 䁍㼸䠦 䐲䨥䁍䠦䛰㚋 䌰㼸䠦 㠬䨥㺱㜾㚹 㠱㔫䨥䩻㡮 㔫㫋䃝 䱂䨥㜾䱂㺱䨥 䘘䁍㠱㔫䨥䐲䨥䠦—㚹䁍㫋㠱㫋㼸䘘㡮 䱂䐲䨥䱂䁍䐲㫋㼸䘘㡮 䩻㺷䐲䩻㺷䐲㫋㼸䘘 䁍䩻㜾㼸䘘 㠱㔫䨥䩻䃝䨥㺱䕻䨥䃝 䁍䃝 㠱㔫䨥䛰 䃝㠱㜾㜾䠦 㜾㼸 㠱㔫䨥 㵏㺷䃝䱂 㜾㘥 䁍 㠡㜾㺷䐲㼸䨥䛰 㠱㔫䁍㠱 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 㵏㔫䁍㼸䘘䨥 䨥䕻䨥䐲䛰㠱㔫㫋㼸䘘㚋
䞍㔫䨥䐲䨥 㔫䨥 㚹㜾㺷㺱䠦 㠬䨥 㠱㔫䨥 㜾㼸䨥 㫋㼸 䱂㜾㚹䨥䐲