The merchant sat in his countinghouse and reviewed the document again, though he had memorized it years ago. The name at the bottom was clear. The debt listed was precise. And the interest accruing year after year had grown to something substantial. The creditor had made overtures twice. He had refused them both times, not out of pride, but out of principle. A debt required patience to become a teaching. Paid too quickly, it resolved into mere transaction. But paid when the debtor had nearly forgotten the original offense and believed himself safe? That became wisdom. Ten more years, he calculated. Perhaps fifteen. By then, the creditor's children would be grown. The capital he had borrowed would have multiplied in their hands. And when the payment came due, it would strip them of everything they had built. He felt no anger. Anger was messy and imprecise. This was simply accounting, the balance of the world kept in order. Hoar watched such things, and the merchant had learned long ago that the god preferred those who understood that revenge was not about emotion. It was about mathematics. He set the document carefully in the chest and locked it. The day would come when he opened it again, and the words would be executed with the same careful attention he gave to everything. Until then, the debt would age, would ferment, and when it was ready, it would be collected with the precision of a surgeon and the satisfaction of a craftsman completing a long work...