Chapter 2

About saving and painstaking multiplication

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It is believed that death on the gallows is unpleasant but quick. Well, it can be so, but not always. The rope, the knot, the physique, the skill of the executioner, everything matters.

The gallows man gasped for a long time, pounding his heels furiously on the shapely bronze bars. Flessa looked past the executioner to the harbor of Malersyde. The wind from the east drove the merchant ships, deeply settled under the weight of their cargoes, and helped them out into the open ocean. Autumn... the last weeks of good winds and calm waves. Time to hurry closing out the year's trade and bringing the balance sheet to a close. Those who rush too fast and close early will lose profits. Those who delay risk being caught in storms. Under the bright but already cold rays of the sun, the blue surface of the Great Harbor sparkled with sapphire dust. And Gatekeeper's Island, with its shining lighthouse needle, looked like an exquisite salt cellar of gold.

The second visitor, on the contrary, contemplated the agony with keen interest. Judging by the expression of his unpleasant, almost square face, he was no stranger to such spectacles. Flessa, who by the order of her revered father had stopped with the fashion of routiers, looked down at the clothes of the guest, who was dressed just in military style. A quilted jacket with over-extended shoulders and many silver nails imitating the steel hem of a brigantine. Narrow, tight stockings of fine cloth. Stiff boots with extended paddle-like noses. A mercenary. Not a knight - that one would wear pointy-toed shoes that mimic a steel boot for mounted combat. Unarmed, though, he carries a belt with a distinctive scuff where the sling is suspended. Behind the mercenary's right shoulder stood a silent statue of a guardsman from the personal guard of the ruler of Malersyde.

The duke thought, wiggling his gray eyebrows and stroking the crystal vial that hung around his neck. The unrhythmic thumping of the bare heels against the bars didn't seem to distract him. Most likely, it was. According to legend, thirty-odd years ago, the Old Man (who was not old then) had ordered the hanging of his older brother on the palace wall, thus marking the end of the intra-family competition for the ducal hoop crown. The zealous servants used an old flagpole as a rung, and the sole survivor, Wartensleben, drank wine while watching the long, very long agony of the most hated of his enemies.

The room opposite to which the first hangman had been hanged, the new Duke ordered to be turned into his study, and the flagpole was reinforced with iron and used from time to time for a new purpose. For special occasions or according to the master's mood.

The mercenary broke away from contemplating the corpse and began to examine the Wartensleben coat of arms in two-colored travertine. Flessa suffered silently, keeping a mask of respectful contemplation on her face. The heavy folder was weighing down her arm, and her riding boots were not properly worn and stung. She had only herself to blame, though. The court shoemaker had honestly warned her to keep the boots on the heated pads for at least a couple more days. To give them the marvelous softness for which, among other things, the leatherworkers of glorious Malersyde were famous. The woman was not used to being restricted in any way, and so the discomfort was doubly felt. She wanted to whip someone with a whip.

The sun cast its tenacious rays through the bars. Flessa wrinkled her straight, pedigreed nose. The hangman's trousers of mottled cloth with hemmed ribbons were getting wet fast. The Duke took the vial and flipped off the golden lid. The indescribable aroma of the finest southern pepper, otherwise known as the "phoenix of spices," wafted through the study. The most expensive spice in the world, which was measured by weight with gems, and was not even put in food because of the price. The old man held the vial to his nose and took a drag, squinting in pleasure. In addition to the wonderful odor, the pepper made it easier to breathe, cleared the lungs, dried up phlegm, and generally invigorated him.

"All right," said the formidable old man at last. "It's a deal."

"My honor and gratitude," the mercenary mimed a bow, not too subservient but still courteous enough.

"My treasurer will issue you funds to hire ..." the duke pondered. "Fifty fighters. Good foot soldiers. And a dozen sergeants. That will suffice."

"Excuse me..."

"I will not allow it," retorted the lord. "You forget I too, have spent much time in the saddle with a spear in hand. All you have to do is to bring the arrogant monastery into submission. The priests have no money, and the walls have not been repaired since the Cataclysm. Fifty good warriors are more than enough, even without cavalry."

"I daresay," the rather disappointed routier persisted. "The stone ages slowly, so the walls there are still quite decent. And the monks are not going to give in. And the abbot is quite popular with the people. I'm told they've announced a voluntary collection of donations from the surrounding lands and may well raise enough to hire their troops for defense. They will have to be led to obedience quite ... vigorously."

"Curse the negligent servants of the Lord," the duke said angrily. "They have forgotten that God is God and that on earth, thanks be to Pantocrator, worldly rulers have their hand. It has been so since the fall of the Old Empire, and it must continue to be so. All right, seventy infantry. No more."

The mercenary bowed again, a look of displeasure and disagreement on his face, but routier knew he would not get more than that here.

"And tell that ..." the duke held back the epithet, ready to burst on his tongue. "That he owes me even more now. He owes me very much."

"You could write to him," Routier suggested. "I am ready to be a messenger."

"I could. But I won't. I trust your eloquence, and I believe that ..." the duke grinned. "You will be able to convey the depth of my displeasure to him most accurately and expressively. If a gentleman in authority is unable to solve the problem of stubborn priests, it speaks ill of him. And in time, I shall certainly return to the matter."

"It seems my employer will greatly regret seeking your help," Routier grinned.

The guardsman pressed his lips together and caught his lord's gaze, ready to punish the insolent guest immediately. But the Duke was in a relatively good mood today, so he ignored the joke and confined himself to a philosophical maxim:

"Everything in the world has consequences, bad and good. Some bring me good news and receive a just reward. Others, on the contrary, multiply my worries. They, too ... are rewarded."

Routier seemed to want to ask if the dead man behind the bars was a member of the second group of gifted, but he held back and bowed his head in silent understanding and agreement. With a faint movement of his palm, Duke indicated that he was no longer detaining either the visitor or the guard. After waiting for the heavy door to close, the old man took another puff of pepper and focused his attention on his youngest daughter. As usual, she felt uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze. And as usual, she muffled her anxiety with her usual effort and looked at the calmed hangman in turn, raising her left eyebrow slightly.

"Dark, sour oil," the Duke explained briefly, exhaustively.

Flessa bowed her head understandingly. She had heard of a merchant who had brought a large shipment of vegetable oil from the southern cities at a very favorable price. The negotiation must have gotten him into trouble.

"Won't we get in trouble with the guild?" the young woman cautiously inquired.

"Of course," the old man reported grouchily and reached for the peppers again. "It's business as usual. The fox children can't understand that the Wartensleben family can't be deceived."

"Such ... excesses ruin a trade's reputation," Flessa ventured to insert. "Sellers of good goods ponder whether it's worth the risk."

"Never mind the fears of peddlers. Merchants must suffer and know their place," replied the Duke even more angrily, omitting with splendid indifference the fact that he was one of the greatest merchants of the West, the representative of all the trading interests of the Island as far as the Middle Mountains.

"Truly, the land of Malersyde is miserable," the old man said sadly. "There seems to be plenty of sunshine, a warm ocean nearby. But the land is salty. The grapes and oils do not grow ... And once the local wines were supplied even to the capital. Now instead of pure clear nectar, we're filling our dishes with some kind of tar. And the saddest thing is that the land is salty, and we have no salt to eat. The founders of the Wartensleben family must have greatly angered Pantocrator, and we are paying for the sins of our fathers and mothers."

"They recommend desalinizing the soil with alfalfa," put in the daughter cautiously. "Gypsum also works well, it binds the harmful impurities in the good soil."

"My girl," the duke said patronizingly, on the verge of insult. "Do you think I haven't asked the best agrarians in Ecumene?"

"I'm sorry, Revered Father..."

"They get all this nonsense at universities," the Duke muttered. "Alfalfa, gypsum, padun-grass, these are all, scientifically speaking, palliatives, or half solutions. Only rain or heavy irrigation can actually clear the salt from the soil. And until magic returns in its former abundance, allowing us to wring the clouds dry, our harvests will remain miserable."

Flessa bowed her head, trying to look as penitent as possible. She'd made a big mistake, displaying her scholarship at the wrong time and place and in light of the Wartensleben patriarch's disdain for classical education. But it seems to have worked out.

"Alright then," the old man signaled that it was time to move from empty words to business. "So...?"

Flessa eagerly stepped toward her father, opening the folder of the newfangled style that had come from the City. The boards, so thin that light and darkness could be distinguished through them, were covered with embossed leather on the outside and a special compound on the inside that kept the contents clean while allowing her to write with a stylus like a regular wax tablet.

"Spell it out," commanded the duke.

"In fulfillment of your will, revered father, I have audited the accounts of the merchant communities for this year. I have also audited all the active Fueres and Arvettes [1] of the subject lands. Here is a list of them."

A large sheet of parchment, folded in half and written in very small handwriting from edge to edge, almost without margins, fell onto the stone lectern. There seemed to be quite a few Fueres and Arvettes.

"I must say, our affairs are quite messy. There are too many rules that were introduced at different times and haphazardly, according to current needs. Therefore ..." Flessa drew in air, making up her mind. "I have taken the liberty of proposing a reorganization of the trade duty system."

The duke raised a gray eyebrow.

"... And address the issue of the city's constant supply of provisions. Move from incentive rules to prohibitive and punitive rules."

"'Well...' the Duke stretched out, flicking his fingernail on the crystal of the pepperpot. The noble material echoed with a transparent, vanishingly thin ringing. "I didn't tell you to do that."

"Such is my duty," Flessa faded modestly, mimicking a shallow bow. "A respectful child should strive to please his parents and find something to do, avoiding idleness, the mother of all vices."

"Beautifully phrased," smiled the duke sourly and, after a short pause, relented. "Well, let's see."

"So..." Flessa pulled out two sheets of parchment already. "I have evaluated all the goods that pass through our harbor..." she trailed off for a barely perceptible fraction of a moment, realizing that she had said something stupid and this 'our' could cost her dearly. But it was too late to correct it anyway.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"...and the markets and fairs of Malersyde. Of these, one hundred and fifty-nine are worthy of mention. I've divided them all into six parts. The first is craft goods ready for use. The second is raw materials. The third is the position between the raw materials and the finished product."

"What that?"

"Leather, furs, fabrics, fluff. Anything else that has already been processed but is not yet usable."

"Keep going."

"The fourth list is craft goods, which are already self-valuable but are purchased in bulk for manufactories. Shoe straps, parts of harness, and so on. Fifth - tools, sharpening and potter's tools, scythes, hoes, and so on. Sixth - food and livestock. Accordingly, here are my proposals for duties."

"So..." the duke took the parchment with thin strong fingers. "And what's the point?" the old man was definitely interested.

"The current Code is excessively confusing, cumbersome. There are many old privileges, too many separate Fueres, and different interpretations. By bringing everything down to a simple and intelligible system we shall, with little or no change in the basic rates, make bookkeeping simpler and much more convenient for inspection. In other words ..."

"Easier to collect, harder to steal," articulated the Duke.

"Yes."

Flessa wanted to add a few more phrases, but prudently decided it wasn't too appropriate right now.

The duke read on, wrinkling his nose, not so much out of frustration as out of attention. He read for a long time, first taking a cursory glance at the entire detailed document and then going over each paragraph, line by line. Flessa waited patiently.

"The merchants will be furious," summarized the duke abruptly, without preamble or transition. "How much they will now pay...? Тot less than a twelfth part more. Enough to start sending assassins to me again. Admit it. Is that your goal?"

Flessa shuddered but outwardly remained calm. At least, she wanted to believe it.

"I'd say at least a tenth," the woman objected cautiously. "But ..." she held out the next document. "These are the arguments that should reach the ears and wallets of the representatives of the trading communities."

This parchment the duke ran his eyes over very quickly.

"No, it won't work," the ruler hummed.

"They will pay more, substantially more, but the turnover will speed up, and there will be less confusion in warehouses. And in general, clear and comprehensible rules will improve commerce."

"Not really," grinned the duke, now almost good-naturedly, but only almost. "The clearer and simpler the rules, the harder they are to circumvent. And if there is nothing to circumvent, then why offer and take bribes? The merchant curses and hates bribe-takers, but the first is ready to 'grease' the right decision or privilege."

"I thought about it. But I thought the work should be done anyway. And you'll make the best use of it."

"Flattering," the duke snorted. "Frankly. But flattery is such a seasoning that it is difficult to over-pepper a dish. I will reread it again and think it over. To introduce it all at once ... premature. But the idea itself."

The old man curled his thin, colorless lips.

"The idea itself is not hopeless."

Flessa bowed again, hiding an already barely visible smile of triumph.

"Is that your idea?" The Duke inquired suddenly.

"Yes. But I used the writings of Klecken of Rovia."

"I've never heard of it."

"He is a monk-book-writer, rumored to be of the Demiurges Church. He has traveled widely, and has written a book in three parts - "On the Preservation of Wealth," "On the Painstaking Multiplication of Wealth," and "On the Fanciful Ways of Money, and Six Methods of Concealing Income and Nine Ways of Exposing It." It is very popular in the City and Universities."

"Another clergy..." the duke frowned.

"His thoughts are reasonable," Flessa allowed herself a little liberty.

"On the Preservation of Wealth," the duke repeated. "Order me a copy. I want to read this book."

"It will be delivered immediately. I thought you might be curious about it, and the scribes have made two copies." [2]

"Now for provisions," the Duke changed the subject curtly.

"Yes..." Flessa turned to the thinning stack of sheets in the folder.

"The old problem of Malersyde is the lack of provisions. Our sea is very scarce, the land gives birth poorly, and the city grows and grows. The more trade and craft, the less farming. Food prices accordingly also rise, and supplies are small. This unpleasantness was solved by bread purchases and back rents when your revered grandfather went back from monetary taxes to a food tax. But now, the city has expanded too much, and the peasants are free. We can't naturalize them that easily. A partial solution is preferential duties..."

Flessa paused, remembering how she had spelled it out beforehand in front of the mirror. The moment was a slippery one, for now, it was no longer about the tariff policy of the grandfather but of the current duke's father. Who, according to one legend, had been poisoned by his respectful son in a brief but infinitely brutal power struggle that, having erupted only once, had reduced the Wartensleben family several times over three months. And according to another, less formal one, he strangled him with his own hand, repaying him for the years of humiliation.

"Nowadays, only sea fish, honey, liquid oil, lard, spices, and fruits are subject to duties. That is luxury and delicacies. This has encouraged merchants to import provisions. But it's still not enough. Encouraging measures are no longer justified."

"Prohibitions and fines?"

"Yes. Penalties for taking food outside of Malersyde, the whole county, not just the city. It used to be only for fish and game, but there's no edible fish in our water, and the only game left is in the hunting woods. Besides, we need price controls. A ban on trading on certain days. And ..."

"And?"

"The salt monopoly," Flessa exhaled.

"Not the tax levied by the Arvettes," the duke clarified. "A monopoly, exactly?"

"Yes. We need more corned beef to fill the cellars for at least a year's supply. With imported salt at fair prices, even the cheapest, island salt, it's too expensive."

"Flessa," the old man measured her with a cold stare. "Are you suggesting I have a small war on my hands? With that approach, I'll have to triple the number of executioners to nail all the troublemakers."

"Rumors are rife that the mountains have had another crop failure after the summer rains. The crops are rotting at the root. Last year, half of the grain was harvested per measure sown. This year, it will be good if the harvest is at least a third of a measure. Then, in the spring, prices will rise, perhaps many times over. We should stock up on provisions, and execution nails are cheaper than gold. If we gather enough provisions and sell them to the same mountaineers, we shall get more than enough back."

The duke thought again. He walked to the window as if not noticing the hangman. Flessa faintly frowned, taking advantage of the fact that the old man had no eyes in the back of his head. The dead man stank too much. The Duke looked at the harbor and took a long look at the multicolored scales of the houses descending to the quays, the large and small shipyards, the ship arsenal being built on the model of the Island. Sails were added - merchants were hurrying to leave the comfortable shelter, catching a tailwind. Fewer ships were coming in, five or six at most.

Autumn... life grinds to a halt, wars end, and commerce shuts down like a snail in its shell until the warmth returns. Autumn and winter are the time to reap the results of tireless labor and dispose of the accumulated wealth of the abundant seasons. And also - a lot of hard thinking, preparing for the next round of life. This is how it was from the beginning, and this is how it will be until the end of time. An eternal spiral that moves continuously, remaining in place.

The old man wondered whether he should tell his respectful daughter that the kind Flessa would have saved a lot of time and effort if she had asked a respectful question at once. After all, the elaborate plan to reform duties and taxes had been lying in a secret drawer for years and, frankly, decades. But, unfortunately, it was too early to overturn the established edifice..... The Duke perfectly understood the limits of his power and did not tempt fate beyond what was necessary. It's normal to hang an arrogant merchant, and the guild's way grumbles, but in their hearts, everyone treats such excesses with understanding. Sometimes, you even have to show excessive cruelty when you can do without it. Just to maintain the image of a ruthless despot - it's good for business and power. People look at the cruel but restrained Bonom Wartensleben family and compare it to the high-born ghouls from the southern cities, where they may well hang all the falconers for the disease of their favorite hunting bird.

But tearing down a structure that had been built over decades... This is what the young Emperor is doing now in Milvess, forgetting that his power outside the palace walls is shaky and ends where the interests of the Twenty-Two, the Island, and the Merchant Guilds begin.

It's not time. Unfortunately, it's not time yet. We have to wait for the right moment, for some crushing calamity, for the horror to overwhelm everything, and no one will pay attention to the rewritten Fueres, the revoked privileges, or the disappearance of malicious troublemakers. And then everyone will accept the new order because it will become habitual.

Will such a time come in his lifetime? Or will that be the concern of the next generations? But then, who will take the burden? Flessa? Kai? Should the girl be encouraged, pushing her onward? Or, on the contrary, should she not think before her time about how comfortable a ducal crown could be and how weightlessly comfortable a ring with a ruler's seal was? However, Flessa is venturesome and overbearing. She certainly thinks about it daily. It is required thoughts remain mere thoughts, and they recoil in unbearable terror.

Or still...

I must make up my mind. To trample the overgrown shoot before it braids the trunk of the father's tree, depriving it of the sun. Or, on the contrary, risk letting the young tree grow to its full height.

Power is like the finest porcelain, my father used to say. It is a fragile thing, and it does not tolerate intrusion.

"Nice work," he said without turning around as if he were pouring out gems, one at a time, sparingly. He inhaled another sniff, feeling the precious dust invigorating, rushing the blood through his veins. But only just barely, like a single coal in a cold warmer.

But I am not getting any younger... Who will continue my work? Four children and three are already unfit. The beautiful and greedy wretch Clavel. The elder recluse, devoted to the Demiurge. Kai. So much hope. And such disappointment. A brilliant warrior who will never be a ruler.

"Yeah, it's not bad. But the tariffs will have to wait. As for provisions and salt, yes. Your suggestion is timely."

He turned to his daughter abruptly so the hem of his loose robe, white - cleaner than freshly fallen snow - swept up like a street dancer's cape. Flessa froze, trying to interpret the incomprehensible expression on the ruler's face. It was as if he was waiting for something, hoping for something. It was strange. And unfamiliar. The Duke was always clear about what he wanted. His questions were short, and the answers must be immediate.

My God, how tight the boots are... and how silly - the noble heiress of an honorable family suffers like a common city fool for having thoughtlessly spent her husband's money on a shoddy outfit.

"I try to consider the reports of spies," Flessa realized that something very, very unusual was going on. And decided it was worth the risk. "The news ... is not encouraging. The harvests in the southern lands will be barely a crop or two. Grass leprosy is ravaging the butter. And the City is seething with new trends. The Emperor is no longer a risk-taker but a freak. And then there's the Tournament of Faith. Next year's Milvess will bring together the best Brethers and knights from around the world. I'm sure..."

Now, she was silent, searching for the most precise words. The duke waited patiently.

"I'm sure this year will end badly. And next year will be hard, very hard. If the Highlanders have lost crops, they've already had five hungry years in a row for the first time in two centuries. And in the spring, the clans won't have enough grain at any price. It's bad enough when the fiercest infantry in the world finds itself starving. Regardless of the will of the Princes, the tukhums will start plundering again, descending to the plains."

"The mountains are far away."

"And neighbors are always close. And good mercenaries will be cheap."

Flessa was silent, thinking that that was enough. She wanted to go on and on, revealing thoughts and plans as best she could, but the woman knew her father too well. He had already understood everything. To go on would only increase his displeasure.

"Are you suggesting we prepare for hard times?"

"Always buy land by the river, salt, and long provisions, these goods don't go down in price," the woman was quoted as saying.

"Demiurge's ideas, too?"

"Yes."

"A clever man," the Duke approved. "Sound advice. I approve. Well ..."

He stepped closer to her, almost right up to her. It was only now that Flessa noticed how different her father was. Not aged, but tired. Dead tired under an intolerable burden. And again, the woman thought that the old man knew more, far more than she did. About the world. About Malersyde. About what is to come. And the knowledge of it oppressed even the Duke of Steel.

"Prepare a plan," said the lord curtly. "The duties will wait. Forget about them. The main thing now is provisions. I leave in two days on my flagship."

Where? almost came out of Flessa's tongue, and she bit down on the unreliable organ to be sure.

"For everyone's consumption, I'm off on a whale hunt to the northwest. In my absence, you will handle our affairs alone. When I return. We'll discuss some things. Perhaps."

The woman cheered, keeping a carefully held mask of nonchalant compliance on her face.

"Yes, what about that girl?" asked the duke suddenly when it seemed the audience was over.

Flessa hoped the question wouldn't come up, but she was ready for it. The answer came immediately, quickly, clearly, with no attempt at justification or embellishment.

"Spies traced her to the Crossroads of All Roads. Beyond that, her tracks are lost. She moves smartly and never stays anywhere for long. But the girl is heading for the City. Apparently, she thinks it's the easiest place to get lost. The search continues, and instructions have been sent to agents in the capital."

"What do you think?"

"That's silly. The danger is not measured by the number of people around but by the number of snitches per city and neighborhood. The girl made a mistake. When she comes to the City, we'll find out sooner or later. Father, I'll find her."

"Maybe... Maybe. But there's another side to the concern. Our spies may be needed for other, uh, concerns."

"Other concerns? There's something I don't know. And this sudden departure. Something extremely important has passed me by."

"Should I hire more spies? Intensify and speed up the search?"

"No. Let things take their course for now. If it pleases Pantocrator, she will fall into your net. If not... I will weigh the problem and make a decision. After I return."

The duke nodded, or rather, lowered his chin to the width of his fingernail. Flessa quite correctly understood this as a signal of completion. She retreated three steps, remaining in a half bow, only then straightening up and walking toward the heavy door, taking advantage of the family member's privilege of turning her back to the lord. As the woman grasped the hard cold handle in the shape of a boar's head, the duke spoke softly:

"Prepare your dresses."

Flessa stopped and looked at her father with a silent question in her gaze.

"Order dresses after the island fashion," commanded the duke grimly. "For all occasions. And learn to wear them properly so you will seem your own among the islanders. I authorize the treasury to pay for the tailors' services. Go."

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