The meeting was to take place in a small province west of the capital, situated between Kaō Province and Junsei Province. Maomao caught the name at some point, but had no intention of remembering it and made no effort to do so.
It took roughly ten days to travel upriver by boat and then by horse-drawn carriage. Though the signs of spring were growing stronger by the day, the dry, wind-swept grasslands betrayed no hint of seasonal change.
Maomao had been given a reasonably nice room in the estate being used for the meetings. It was too lavish for a servant's quarters, she was told, so she'd been dressed in finer clothes than her usual fare. She'd thought it surprisingly considerate of the stingy Raban, but apparently it was all coming out of the operating expenses.
She would be away from the capital for nearly a month, and word had been sent ahead to those around her. The sharp-tongued old maid had looked grim at the news, but her expression softened the moment Maomao presented her with golden-colored sweets. Raban had claimed that was a necessary expense too, though he'd looked rather pained about it.
Sao
The meeting with the merchants from Sao was set for the following day. In the meantime, Raban was rushing about with his usual busyness, and a man named Uryū seemed equally occupied.
From what Maomao had managed to overhear, Uryū had been chosen as a marriage adoptee precisely because he had a head for business. At the time, the finances of the U clan's main household had been in dire straits, so having a second son from a wealthy merchant family among their distant relatives must have been a stroke of luck.
Maomao gazed out the window. Being on the third floor, the view was excellent.
Unlike the capital, buildings here made extensive use of stone and brick. The garden had a pond with lush green plants visible around it, but outside the estate grounds, greenery was sparse.
A little further west, desert stretched to the horizon.
A dry wind brushed against her cheeks.
There didn't seem to be any particularly interesting plants.
Maomao watched with a bored expression.
(Maybe I should go catch some scorpions.)
She'd been warned that scorpions inhabited this area, and was told to check inside her shoes before putting them on upon waking.
Still, this was an odd place to hold a meeting.
The previous gathering had taken place in the capital, but that had apparently been more of a preliminary briefing. The real bigwigs would only make their appearance now, which was why the meeting was being held in this town rather than the capital.
Considering the geography, Junsei Province would have made more sense as a venue — it was more developed than this place. But presumably some thorny complications were tangled up in that.
(The U clan, huh.)
For someone like Uryū, who kept pushing his daughters into the imperial harem, Junsei Province would have been a bitter rival.
That was the homeland of the newly elevated primary consort, Gyokuyou. In principle, there would have been no need for him to come all the way out here when Junsei Province could have handled it. Was this simply a matter of competitive pride?
Yet for all that Uryū had been given this role of meeting with the merchants, one thought kept nagging at Maomao.
It was about Gyokuyou's family.
The truth was, her family apparently had not even been granted a surname. Being from such a remote region, they had never had the opportunity to receive one from the imperial family. Even among great houses, having a name versus not having one apparently made quite a difference in terms of prestige.
Born into such a family was Koki—a princess with foreign blood who was now Consort Gyokuyou. But even that presented problems. Consort Gyokuyou was most likely the daughter of a concubine, or an adopted daughter taken in from some distant branch of the family. Foreigners in the western lands were mostly merchants or entertainers.
Maomao did not think there was anything wrong with Consort Gyokuyou's capabilities. She was still young at twenty-one, but Maomao knew well enough how clever and resourceful she was.
Still, from the perspective of those around her, having named a twenty-one-year-old woman of no surname and foreign blood as consort was bound to stir some resentment.
(Why go and do something like that again?)
Couldn't they have waited a few more years at least? The crown prince had been born, true, but he was still a child. Honestly, no matter how carefully one attended to a young child, they were prone to dying.
Maomao didn't understand politics all that well, but even she could pick up on certain things.
(Must be because of the border, then.)
Thinking too deeply about the schemes of important people would only tire her out.
Maomao stretched broadly, then flopped down onto her bed. The futon was woven from sheep's wool and was quite warm. The temperature dropped sharply at night, so having this futon was a lifesaver.
As she lounged and rolled around on the bed, there came a knock on the door from outside.
(Oh, is it already time?)
Maomao got up, smoothed out the wrinkles in her clothes, and stepped out of the room.
"Next."
Before her, dishes were being arranged on plates.
"This one too."
The plates lined up on the tray were vivid in color. Rare vegetables that were hard to find in this region were used to add visual appeal. The dishes were centered around lamb.
Maomao darted glances toward the kitchen.
Nothing suspicious among the raw ingredients.
Were any strange movements being made during preparation?
She was watching for that.
On the surface, she had been given a seat supposedly to study the cuisine, which was suspicious beyond words.
Even so, she couldn't very well say out loud, "I'm watching because I'm worried you might put something strange in the food." The kitchen staff knew that already, which was why they kept quiet.
The gazes directed at Maomao were sharp, but she couldn't let that bother her.
(So that's how it is.)
Different land, different cuisine.
Looking at the ingredients was quite interesting.
The main staple was
bread,
centered on wheat. Rice was also used, but rather than making congee, they cooked it together with other ingredients and seasoned it. Buckwheat grains were apparently simmered the same way as rice, but since it was unfamiliar in the Central Region, they were kind enough not to make it. For Maomao, that was a welcome relief.
Noodles existed too, simmered together with mutton. They were often served with aromatic vegetables to cut the gaminess.
To be blunt, the local cuisine had a strong character to it. Maomao didn't mind much, but the nobles complained about one thing after another — that the soup made with goat milk tasted spoiled, that they wanted meat other than sheep or goat.
If Maomao hadn't been keeping a careful watch on things, they would probably have been the type to spit into the food out of spite.
Even so, they did everything they could —
professionals,
so it seemed they had gone out to procure new ingredients today.
Chicken and fish, and in the baskets were what appeared to be dried fruit. Maomao thought that it must have been quite a challenge to get fish out here.
While she was observing all this, dinner appeared to be ready.
They were placed on
trays and carried away.
Maomao followed the servant carrying them.
The meal was served in the hall of the mansion.
They sat on carpets spread across the floor, and large platters of food were set down in the center.
This manner of dining was probably not well-regarded by people from the Central Region either.
"Eating like barbarians,"
some even hurled such insults.
It was likely because it resembled the dining customs of nomadic peoples.
Another factor was that some ate without chopsticks, using only their hands.
Maomao sat half a step behind and to the side of Raohan, who was already seated. There was a prevailing sentiment against women joining the table, but Maomao was at least being treated as a guest. In the back sat Uryū, and beside him was presumably the master of this town.
A thoroughly masculine man with a generous growth of beard. Maomao saw no need to memorize his name, so even after hearing it, she had not bothered to remember.
Around them were women busily attending to the guests. Whenever a plate was emptied, they would serve the next dish, but as it happened, Uryū had no appetite.
He only touched the rice and the bone-in lamb, declining everything else except refills of sake.
Raban seemed to be enjoying the fish dishes, eating nothing but those. The cooks looked visibly relieved.
Maomao tried the fish as well. It was a salted blue fish, preserved through curing. It had an unusual smell, but it was likely the funk of fermentation, not rot.
For someone accustomed to eating fresh fish in the capital, it might leave something to be Raban's satisfaction, but at least it didn't have the gaminess of the lamb, so that was fine by him.
Maomao ate evenly without fussing over anything in particular.
In this style of dining, there was no food taster or anything of the sort, so all she could do was start by eating a little of everything to check whether anything strange had been slipped in.
*(If things go this way, it'll probably be this kind of meal setup.)*
Saō was a region with many nomads. Culturally, it would be similar to this area.
Since you never knew who would end up eating what, the servants doing the serving had to be watched carefully. On top of that, you had to know what ingredients were available, or you might mistake a fragrant herb for a poisonous plant.
Thinking along those lines, she ate while memorizing the taste and appearance of each dish.
As she chewed away, a sake cup would quietly appear beside her—she noted that the servants were quite attentive—when the man seated next to her placed his cup aside.
It seemed he had allowed the servants to pour him sake, but had no intention of drinking it himself.
He was around thirty, with a lean, clean-featured face.
This had to be the subordinate of the eccentric strategist Raban had mentioned. The name was...
"..."
She didn't remember.
"
Rikima
," he said.
"Lord Rikima."
"Please, no honorifics. I'm Rikima."
The moment he used the word "Miss," Maomao's face twisted in open displeasure. But correcting him was equally annoying, so she laid down this condition instead.
"Then just Rikima."
"Then just Maomao, please. I'm a lightweight, so I'd be happy if you'd drink with me."
Once he said that, there was no reason to hold back.
(I'd be in trouble if something strange were mixed into the drink.)
Maomao raised the cup to her lips. It was wine—not particularly strong in alcohol. The food aside, the wine wasn't bad, she thought. But it would be pointless to dull her palate before she'd had a chance to taste all the dishes.
She drank some water to reset her mouth, then reached for the next dish.
The servants kept bypassing Maomao, so she had no choice but to serve herself.
"Is this one all right?"
"Thank you."
It was Rikuson who held out what she wanted. He'd portioned it out carefully in small amounts.
He wasn't just tagging along with that eccentric strategist for nothing. His attentiveness was extraordinary—perhaps that was why he could keep up with that man.
Rikuson kept stopping servants as they passed, directing them: "Bring me that," "This isn't enough."
At first glance he seemed a harsh taskmaster, but his gaze was fixed on the servants' faces and builds.
(He's memorizing them?)
Maomao, apparently, had no need to memorize the servants' faces.
She could leave that to the man beside her and focus entirely on committing the taste of each dish and ingredient to memory.
It was then that—
A crashing sound of broken dishware rang out. Looking toward the noise, Maomao saw a frightened maid and Uki with her hand raised in the air.
Beside them, wearing a stunned expression on his face—
the Chief—
was standing there.
"I told you it wasn't needed."
"S-sorry..."
The woman scrambled to gather the plates while trembling. They had bounced off and shattered against the wall. The filling had scattered everywhere.
(What a waste.)
He'd probably wanted them to try the fish dish he'd gone to such trouble to prepare. She could understand the sentiment, but as a servant, it was overstepping.
The Chief stroked his beard and whispered something to another servant.
They would either be reprimanded or fired—she was sure of it.
It was pitiful, but there was no helping it.
Thinking that was just how things were, Maomao continued her meal.