Chapter 18 — The Herb Seller's Code (2)

I self-tested the sedative herb yesterday, and there were no side effects. Primary safety confirmed. Today's plan is simple. I take the packet of sedative herb I bought yesterday and share a cup of tea with Rosa. If it's her own product going into her own mouth for verification, she has no grounds to refuse. Once that one cup lowers her guard by a single tone, I move into the main work.

Small debts of one or two instances? Folded away. All at once. In a size too big to repay. That's how this woman will exhaust every other exit and end up standing before the final door.

I pack my bag. Notebook. Ink. Parchment. A few silver coins. The sedative herb packet. A faint bitter herbal scent seeps from the packet.

Afternoon. The commoners' district herb alley. Third visit. Same street. Same sign. Same bell chime. Ting-a-ling.

I push open the door. Bitter herbal scent. Dim interior. Bundles of dried herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. Dust motes floating in the shaft of light by the window. And the beige apron behind the counter.

"Welcome— oh, the customer from yesterday."

Rosa looks up. 0.3 seconds. From yesterday's dry impassivity, a single subtle tone has eased. More precisely, from "Customer No. 1" to "That foreign customer No. 1 from yesterday"—a one-notch shift in categorization. Not friendliness. Just memorable.

"Did you get some sleep?"

"You said to brew half a serving and drink it. I did exactly that."

"And?"

"My head felt a bit lighter at the back. Like one layer of sensation I usually ignore had peeled away. Sleep came a little quicker in that state. And I woke up this morning with no lingering effects."

Rosa nods briefly from behind the counter. The hand flipping the ledger pauses for a moment.

"...You're the first customer to describe it so precisely."

Her businesslike tone remains, but a faint thread of interest flickers through. The ear of a ten-year shopkeeper has caught the accuracy. "One layer of guard sensation peeled away" is nearly a direct echo of her own words from yesterday.

"The aftertaste was a bit bitter, though. So I came to ask. Could you brew some together once, so I can compare it to what I made at home? I'm not great at judging flavors."

I pull yesterday's sedative herb packet from my bag. Place more than half remaining on the counter.

Rosa's eyes flick to the packet. Then to me.

"...If it's just one cup."

A ten-year shopkeeper's calculations are swift. Verifying feedback on her own product with her own eyes. Could snag another sleepless regular. No loss, no reason to refuse.

"I'll heat the water."

Rosa turns toward the small brazier behind the counter. Brass kettle. A few embers. Her apron ties sway once as she turns.

I pull over the worn wooden stool in front of the counter. As expected for a spot not meant for lingering customers, a thin layer of dust coats the legs. Means it's rarely used.

While the water boils, Rosa sets out two cups. Pottery. Chipped glaze on the rims. One for the customer, one for herself.

"One spoonful each. For both cups."

"Yes."

Dried leaves divided into the two cups. Hot water poured. Pale green slowly steeps. Bitter herbal aroma spreads lightly over the counter.

"Wait about three minutes."

Rosa cups her own mug, inhaling the scent. Appraising posture. I cup mine too, and subtly apply Suggestion Lv.2 at 0.2% intensity.

The thread slips in. Same as yesterday. The sedative herb hasn't even touched her lips yet.

Three minutes pass.

"Try it."

I sip first. Bitter. Nearly the same concentration as home. Faint herbal sweetness lingers on the palate.

"Almost the same as what I brewed at home."

"Then you brewed it right. Concentration too."

Rosa lifts her mug. One sip. Quiet swallow. Two sips. Three. Half the cup. She drinks at the pace of someone who's had several cups of this a day. Familiar own product. No reason to suspect her own hands. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠And I observe.

Rosa's shoulders ease by a millimeter—truly just that. The angle of her fingers on the ledger relaxes by 0.5 degrees. "One layer of guard peeled away" looks exactly like this from the outside.

90 seconds.

"...Even though I drink this every day, sometimes the effect still hits."

Rosa mutters like to herself. First time she's let a mumble slip to a morning customer.

"Every day?"

"My sleep's shallow. Running this shop alone for ten years—if a thief breaks in once at night, I barely sleep the whole next week. Happened next door last week too."

Rosa sets down her cup. She seems to realize half a beat late that she just shared this with me. But the words are already out.

One cup of tea has just completed a one-tone operation. Now.

I activate Memory Read Lv.2. Rosa's last week slides by like a slideshow.

Monday lunch. Shop empty briefly. Rosa sorting herb bundles in the back room. Counter vacant. About an hour. That's the key gap.

I start weaving the thread. Emotion Manipulation Lv.2 at 0.4%.

"There's something I need to remember, but it won't come."

Unease. Barely sticks to the surface loosened by one cup of sedative herb. It sticks.

Rosa's brow twitches faintly.

"...Customer."

"Yes."

"Sorry, just a moment. Something's nagging me."

Rosa touches the ledger. Unconsciously. Directs the unease toward it.

I lay another thread on top. This time Suggestion Lv.2. From the back of her head to the ledger on the counter.

"This unease relates to last week's Monday transaction."

Rosa flips the ledger pages. Monday section. Lunchtime-after one-hour gap.

"...What was here."

Feels like her own discovery. Now the final thread.

Suggestion Lv.2. Core of the false memory: "Last Monday lunchtime, took a bundle of rare herbs on credit from an outlander peddler. This foreign customer stood guarantee. Balance: eight gold coins."

It sticks.

"...Huh?"

A flash of brief bewilderment crosses Rosa's face. Then fades. Before her conscious self can ask "What was I thinking," the sensation at the back of her head answers first: "Oh, that."

The false memory taking root. But too early to relax. A ten-year shopkeeper's defenses are strong.

Half a beat later, awareness returns.

"...No. It's nothing."

Rosa moves to close the ledger. I layer on words calmly, precisely, utterly dry. Not with ability. With conversation.

"Monday, you mean? Oh, I was here then. Just after lunch. No other customers, and you came out from the back."

Rosa looks up. Eyes meet mine once. Suspicious gaze. But inside, the planted unease has taken hold. My words mesh with it.

"You were... here then."

"An outlander peddler came in. Middle-aged man with a hood. Burn scar on his left hand. Three wooden crates on a cart. Said he had a bundle of rare herbs; you appraised them. Rune dogweed one stalk, handful of coral grass, one millennium reishi root. He named a price. Eight gold coins."

Minimal details. Hood. Burn scar. Three wooden crates. Three herbs. Eight gold. Five bones. No more. The rest, her mind fills in.

"...Eight gold coins."

Rosa repeats the number. Rolls it twice in her mouth.

"Yes. You said you didn't have cash on hand. Suggested credit. The peddler hesitated—said your small shop lacked credit. So I guaranteed from the side."

"...You guaranteed."

"My status as a foreign ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠scholar staying at the palace. It worked. He took a signature and left. That was the end of it."

Rosa's eyes waver. Rare for a ten-year shopkeeper to freeze before her own credit ledger.

The human brain hates blanks. When a narrative fills it from outside, and resistance is low, it accepts for now.

"...Impossible."

Rosa says. But her voice is half a tone lower than before.

"If it was impossible, it wouldn't be in the ledger. But there's a one-hour gap Monday after lunch. Even you can't recall clearly what happened in that blank right now."

Rosa opens the ledger again. Monday slot. Five morning transactions. Then blank. Then afternoon starts.

Her own handwriting: first afternoon deal is 'Menstrual remedy - five coppers - Neighbor Emilia.'

Above it, that post-lunch hour is truly empty.

"...I was in the back then. Hanging dried herb bundles."

"Yes, in the back. The peddler called you from the counter, you came out. Quick appraisal, price haggle, prepping to note in the credit ledger—"

I cut here. Timing matters. Finish fully, and she has room to counter. Stop midway, she fills it herself.

"...Prepping to note."

"Yes."

"And then."

"I told you, I guaranteed. You meant to record it yourself right then, but the peddler was in a rush and left immediately. You put off the credit note briefly. Then the neighbor came for the menstrual remedy, and it flowed from there."

Meant to record in her own hand, but postponed. So not in the ledger. Logic closes.

Rosa's finger halts over the blank. Irritability recedes briefly; bewilderment and fatigue settle in.

"...Eight gold coins."

Rosa repeats the number again.

"Yes."

"That amount on me."

"You set me as guarantor; you're the debtor."

"...Eight gold coins is over eight times my shop's annual net profit."

I say nothing.

"...I wouldn't make a deal like that. That's beyond what my shop handles. My monthly take is around six silvers. Even with coppers, never topped seven silvers a month."

Rosa's voice rises. Counterargument. Natural. A ten-year shopkeeper resists that sum. No resistance would be suspicious.

I don't break it. Trying would harden her more. Instead, like a drop on water, dryly: one line.

"You said the exact same to me then. Too big to handle. That's why the peddler dropped to eight gold. Originally twelve."

Fits her shopkeeper pride. What she'd do in the moment. Info matching her narrative sticks better.

"...I haggled it down to that price."

"Yes. I watched the negotiation from the side."

Look at the ledger. Right above her handwriting 'Emilia - menstrual remedy - five coppers': the blank. This man's narrative fills it precisely. One hour. One deal.

"Then—"

Rosa holds her breath. Ten-year shopkeeper's final defense. Credit ledger lives in writing. No writing, no deal. Sturdy.

"...Then why isn't it in the ledger. I always note credit right there. Ten years, never skipped. My rule."

"You were about to. I saw. But right then Emilia came in; you handled her urgently, flow shifted. Said you'd note it later."

"...Then why still not noted now."

"The 'later' got forgotten. That's why I'm back today. Missed the timing yesterday. Honestly, hesitated—didn't want to burden you with me guaranteeing such a big deal."

Plant the narrative that I hesitated. Makes me not malicious.

Rosa's hand rests on the ledger. It trembles faintly.

"...I don't remember."

"One-hour gap, memory fades. Next deal right after covered it over."

I apply Emotion Manipulation Lv.2 at 0.3% once more. Edge of resignation this time.

"Rules are rules." Hooks her professional ethic. Sticks deeper.

It sticks. Rosa's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finger traces Monday's blank. Picks up the pen.

"...Have to note it myself. Now."

"Yes."

Pen tip descends to parchment. Ink drop. In her handwriting, her hand, on her ten-year ledger: records the false memory.

A ten-year shopkeeper's handwriting doesn't waver in any state. But when double-stroking the '8's circle, the pen pauses. Long pause.

Clatter. Pen rolls off the ledger across the counter. Ink drop splatters the parchment edge.

Hand freezes midair half a beat. Her handwriting. She just wrote it.

Irritability vanishes briefly; thin daze spreads. Eyes lose half focus.

"...Eight gold coins."

Mutter.

"...Eight gold coins."

Second mutter. Same number.

I wait silently. 5 seconds. 10. 15.

Rosa exhales long, slowly retrieves the pen. Hand trembles slightly. Rare for a ten-year trained hand.

0.5 seconds later, pride returns first; irritability half-revives.

"...How long do I have to repay."

Rosa says. Cold tone. Hiding the tremor. I can hear the number rolling endlessly in her head.

"Within a month."

"...A month."

"Yes. Peddler set a one-month term. Guild-registered credit, so date matters."

Guild registration's a lie. Checking means a guild trip; by then, I'll be one step deeper.

"Eight ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gold in a month..."

Rosa can't continue. Closes her eyes. Mental calculator whirs. All numbers fall far short of eight gold.

"...That's."

Words cut. I wait. If she voices "Can't repay" herself, it's her pride's first crack. Can't say it for her. Must come from her mouth.

"...That's tough in a month."

Not "can't," but "tough." Ten-year shopkeeper pride holds that gap to the end.

"...Give me time to think."

Rosa says. Finger slowly strokes the line she wrote: eight gold coins. Ink not fully dry; faint black mark on fingertip.

"One day."

"...Come tomorrow."

"Afternoon."

"Yes."

I rise from the stool. Pack my bag.

"Shopkeeper."

Turn once at the door. Rosa still stands behind the counter. Head half-drooped toward ledger; one hand still grips the pen.

"...Yes."

"I'm not comfortable with this either. Think of a way together for a day."

"...Yes."

Lie. But right now, to her ears: "This customer isn't pushing me." Device to keep her from seeing me as enemy.

Push the door. Ting-a-ling.

The bell chimes sound utterly different from yesterday and today.