“The entire week, he’s just been reading?” Lennard said in surprise, looking upon the attendant as he gave his report late in the night. “Reading what?”

“Many things. Law books. Maps. Economic records. Censuses of the territory, and some beyond it. He’s been paying particular attention to succession law.”

Lennard leaned back in his chair, feeling that everything had become somewhat clearer. “Succession law, is it?” He scoffed, laughing. “Not even trying to hide it. I imagine he’s looking for allies, too.”

“He’s paying particular attention to disinheritance, baron regent. I believe that’s his intention,” Dirk continued.

“Disinheriting me?” Lennard laughed. “As if he’d ever find justification for that. There’s no grounds, no precedent. And he’s not even the regent.”

“I believe his intention is to disinherit himself, actually,” Dirk continued. “If he’d been preparing for this a long while in advance, why would he not be prepared? Would he not have read these books long in advance, and already be acting out his plan?”

Lennard stared at the attendant. “As I recall, I asked you no question.”

“Just…” Dirk swallowed nervously. “…trying to show a little forethought. A little initiative.”

Lennard said coldly, “I asked you to gather information, not to form opinions.”

“Of course,” Dirk lowered his head. “My apologies, baron regent.”

“You can go. Report to me if he does anything outside of what you’ve already outlined,” the baron regent dismissed.

***

Dirk walked to the room of the strange young lord Willem, bearing a tray with tea. Without fail, Willem insulted his tea every time he brewed it. Nevertheless, he kept asking it be made. It was a perplexing thing. He stopped before the door, took a deep breath, and opened it up.

Willem laid on his bed, reading through documents with a grin on his face. He didn’t notice Dirk’s presence until he put the tray down on the bed—strange, for someone practiced in aura to be so inobservant.

“Dirk,” Willem greeted him by name. “Tea again, I assume.”

“Yes. Greenberries and—”

“All tastes the same, anyway.” Willem drank it, and set it down. “Dull. Next time, just squeeze some fruit juice into the cup—same result, but less time spent. I won’t mind.” Willem held out a document. “You know what’s not dull? This.”

Dirk took the paper, skimming it. “It looks like a statement of a loan, young lord.”

“Half-right. You read fast.” Willem took the paper back. “This is called a bottomry contract. They’re given to fund voyages—seafaring vessels. The moneylender charges high interest, but in return, they agree to drop the loan if the vessel used as collateral in the loan sinks, is captured by pirates, or whatever.”

“That sounds…” Dirk trailed off, hesitant to voice his opinion after being rebuked by the baron regent.

“Like a terrible deal for the moneylender?” Willem smiled. “Yeah. It is. It’s rife with fraud. I imagine ships ‘disappear’ all the time, and people make away with tremendous sums of money. Even with rigorous processes to interview potential merchants, the moneylenders get screwed all of the time. But, fundamentally… do you know what this is?”

“A bottomry contract.”

“I walked into that one…” Willem sat up on his bed. “It’s insurance. It’s a really terrible form of insurance, but it’s insurance.”

“Insurance,” Dirk repeated.

“It’s a simple concept. Let’s say we have this bed.” Willem grabbed it. “You really like this bed. If it was destroyed, you’d cry. I imagine you cry a lot, Dirk.”

“Not particularly…”

“Regardless, you like this bed,” Willem brushed past Dirk’s rebuttal. “Hence, you pay me a monthly fee, worth vastly less than the value of the bed. You become insured, and I become the underwriter. If anything happens to this bed while you’re paying insurance, as the underwriter, I’d give you money equivalent to the value of the bed so you could replace it.”

“Sure. That… that makes sense, I suppose.”

“You suppose, do you?” Willem smiled. “I love insurance. If you do it right, basing it off statistics and probabilities, you’ll generally make off quite well.”

Dirk thought about the matter. “So… you’re betting they’ll pay long enough that what you earn from fees is larger than the payments made to the customer? That’s how money is made?”

“In part.” Willem nodded. “For one, what policyholders pay isn’t revenue, per se—you’d classify it as money reserved for insurance claims. By reserving it for payouts, it helps avoid taxes. I don’t know how that’ll fly in this backward economy, but I think I can sell it…” He shook his head. “Whatever the case, the true value of the insurance business is this—the money people pay in premiums can be put to use in other investing activities until you need to pay out the claim. They’re essentially interest-free loans.”

Dirk said nothing, but he thought this all sounded rather risky.

“I can see on your face that you’ve doubts. They’re good doubts. Caution is good, but I know what I’m doing. As I said, the only bit of insurance I could find was this.” He lifted the bottomry contract. “We’re dealing with my wet dream. I often wake up sweaty at night thinking of this, and then I have to explain to my partner why the sheets are ruined.” He leaned in. “Dirk, we’re dealing with an inefficient market. It’s the duty of any red-blooded capitalist to correct those inefficiencies, for the sake of the people.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“How would this…?”

“How does this help people?” Willem put the paper down. “Imagine this. You own a house. It burns down. No insurance, you’re on the streets. With insurance, you’ve got the money to buy a new house. In a way, the underwriter is betting that nothing bad will happen. I think that sort of service entitles them to profit. It’s all rather fair.”

Dirk did see the utility in the idea, but he had doubts about whether Willem could actually make it work well enough to generate profit. More importantly, he doubted that this man with his terrible reputation could get people to buy into the idea.

“You’re going to be my insurance salesman, Dirk.” Willem patted him on the shoulder.

“What?!” Dirk said loudly in alarm.

“Like I said, you’re perfect. You have sad eyes. I do the analysis, the number-crunching, the information-gathering, then you go out there looking all pitiful. We certainly won’t be giving out bottomry contracts. Bleh. No—I have a much better business in mind. The details can come later. There’s only one thing I ask of you.” He pointed. “Never lie to a customer. Never. We’ll do honest business, but make great money. Integrity, and the reputation it affords, can’t be bought.”

Dirk blinked in surprise at that request. Before he could ask if Willem was being serious, a knock at the door disturbed him.

The door opened, and a well-groomed butler stepped inside. “Your father is ready for visiting. Your brothers have called for you.”

“Ah.” Willem rose. “First, I have to get out of this annoying obligation. But aren’t you excited, Dirk? I certainly am.”

***

Three young men stood around a bed where an emaciated older man laid wrapped in blankets. It was clear from their shared appearance that the four were close family—golden hair, blue eyes, cream skin. They were all quite physically fit, excepting Baron Tielman lying down with his eyes closed. He bore scars from years of warfare, and his considerable frame seemed to make his atrophied muscles all the more pitiable.

The scene couldn’t be clearer—three sons, standing at what could be the deathbed of their father.

One might expect tears in such a situation; hugs of comfort, either among themselves or with the man dying. Instead…

“I never thought you’d actually do it,” Hans said, crossing his arms as he looked at Willem. “Much less cock it up so badly.”

Willem looked what he thought was the youngest brother, Hans. He only had the words of Dirk to guide him—and with a name like Dirk, his instructions couldn’t be too reliable. But Dirk’s description matched. Hans was the shortest of them, yet still tall enough that his casual arrogance could be seen as charming rather than annoying. He wore his hair in a lazy ponytail.

In the end, Willem chose not to answer. He didn’t see the value in verbal sparring over someone’s sickbed.

“Hans.” Lennard focused on the youngest among them. “Why did you and the other knights start calling me the Goldrain Knight?”

A brief flash of amusement came to Hans bewildered face, but Willem saw him skillfully hide his smile with a contemplative purse of his lips. “Why, it’s because your golden aura in battle flows so skillfully and constantly it might be likened to rain.”

Lennard nodded, giving a glance at Willem to ensure he’d heard. After a time, he asked Hans another question. “Where’s Godfried?”

“Delayed, I hear, by a minor border raid. He can handle it, but it’ll take time. Meanwhile… you and I have to decide what to do about him,” Hans gestured. “Are there any free racks we can put him on, or are you devoting all of those to torture the kitchen staff?”

Lennard looked at Hans icily. “There is no ‘you and I.’ I’m the eldest son. I’m the regent. And I, alone, will decide what happens.”

Hans clicked his tongue. “Oh, look at you. Already acting like the baron. You’re not half as frightening as father, even when he’s lying in bed like this.”

Lennard shook his head, then looked back at their father. After a while of silence, he studied Willem. “The librarian tells me you’ve been getting a lot of books.”

“I have been.” Willem nodded without hesitation. “I’ve been studying the succession law of the kingdom.”

Hans laughed. “Not even trying to mask it at all?”

“And what about succession law has you so interested?” Lennard asked firmly.

“Disinheritance.” Willem stared at Lennard. He didn’t like this young fellow much at all—much too guarded. “You seem to have gotten it into your head that I had something to do with this. Your reasoning, I imagine, is that I’m gunning for this man’s seat. Well, I figure there’s only one way to absolutely prove you wrong.”

Lennard’s firm face showed cracks for the first time. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the baron regent. You’re the head of the household while Tielman is indisposed. That carries with it certain legal rights—principally for our situation, the right to disinherit.”

Hans shook his head. “Nah, that’s not true. The king made quite sure that no one could disinherit in any non-hereditary position like a regency, and—”

“Unless, of course, the person who the request affects gives their explicit consent, with proof it was not done under duress confirmed by an accredited mage’s lie-detecting spell.” He held his hand out. “If I agree to be disinherited, Lennard, you can disinherit me. We can put this damned farce behind us, once and for all, so I can go about my day without thinking of this nonsense ever again.”

Lennard and Hans were both confused, and could muster no words at all.

“Would you like to go get started on that process, Lennard? Or shall we continue saying mean things to each other while your father lies dying in front of you?”

***

Lennard stared down at the paper splayed out before him. On the very bottom of it was a signature. The part that read ‘Willem’ looked practiced and refined, while the ‘van Brugh’ looked like a messy scrawl, almost as if the man wasn’t used to signing his own last name. Maybe he wasn’t—Willem didn’t have many official duties in the household.

He leaned back in his chair, feeling odd. His younger brother had asked for only three things: to be disinherited and cleared of all noble obligations while keeping the van Brugh name, to be paid a sizable sum of gold, and to be transported with armed guards—plus the one known as Dirk—to the county of Gent. The contract detailed that in precise language. Their sister was married to the count residing there, but as far as Lennard knew, that was the only connection Willem actually had with the place.

Willem had spent years honing his swordplay and his aura. Lennard had always felt a secret panic watching him train, watching him grow more skillful every day. If envy was the thief of joy, it had robbed much of his. Willem was far more skillful far younger, and eventually caught up to Lennard, who was ten years his senior. He had thought Willem aimed to take his place as heir. Their father did nothing to disabuse him of the idea that would be possible.

Now… their father was dying, and Willem had expressed an earnest desire to leave.

A signature, and a visit to the magistrate assigned by the Cabinet. That was all it would take to rid himself of this tremendous fear—a monstrously talented younger brother. Lennard knew his father wouldn’t approve. But Tielman wasn’t here, now. His father couldn’t linger over his shoulder any longer, judging his every move.

Lennard leaned forward quickly, grabbing the quill and dipping it in ink. He lifted it up, watching it drip down, then brought it to the parchment. He rapidly inked his name, then set down the quill. With a ring of the bell, the door opened. His father’s—no, his majordomo entered.

“Majordomo. Good timing. When the ink dries…” Lennard stood, tapping the paper. “Deliver this to the magistrate’s office. After, bring Willem, and bring what’s dictated on this contract. I’ll send someone ahead to watch the whole process.”