You understand, right?” These were the words every merchant feared. And every merchant would lament his fate upon such a collapse. “Of course I do. I’m a merchant, after all.” It was all Lawrence could do to say even that much. “It’s simple. Of the exactly one hundred lumione worth of armor you bought from the Latparron Company, you will need to remit to us the amount recorded in the obligation deed, to wit—forty-seven and three-quarters lumione. You are aware of what this amounts to, correct?” Remelio looked as stricken as Lawrence felt. The man’s eyes and cheeks were sunken, his shirt hadn’t been changed in several days, and his eyes glittered strangely. He was not a big man to begin with, but Remelio’s weary, thin features made him look like a wounded bear cub. He didn’t just seem wounded—he was wounded, nearly fatally. Hans Remelio, the master of the Remelio Company, unconsciously ran his hand through his slightly graying hair as he continued to press Lawrence.
