Industry May Be Honest Though Trade Never Is
Past the modern harbor facilities which distinguished Dwecosptichdeu as the country's naval headquarters during the fleet's transformation into the mightiest on the continent, the place got a lot more Yumin. Except for the paint jobs. Those tended toward uniformity far more than those on the mainland, and uniformity in Dwecosptichdeu meant yellow. There was a reason for that according to Audnauj. “They make that from ochre. It's all very clever. I've never known how they figure these things out. Chunawm Metals does a lot of business in that, ochre I mean, not paint. I don't know what companies deal in that. Does anyone?”
Dirant did. “Onlova Pilnostoreska and Urshdoi Sweravidju Snochtenvris are the two most familiar to me. Since business sense suggests shorter names are easier to remember, and business is known to be contrary to artistry, they must be very artistic firms indeed.”
Takki could not permit such naive reasoning to pass without notice. “You have to suspect they're faking, don't you? That those names are ruses by businessmen who know exactly what they're doing? We'll have to get to the bottom of that later, Ressi. Find out where their main offices are.”
“A trip to Chtrebliseu is indicated in the latter case. Is that possible? Must you not return to Pavvu Omme Os for hoarbird season?”
“Oh, certainly, but after that is the perfect time for a southern vacation. You will come, won't you?”
“I fear I've expended all my vacation time for the next five years or so, yet I will try regardless.” Dirant remembered the third person in the conversation and stopped relying on his patience, not that there seemed to be any limit to it. “I don't know if either of those companies buys Redrin ochre or other pigments, and I must mention it when I return to the Stadeskosken offices on the possibility there is profit unreaped. Of course, with these trade restrictions . . .”
Audnauj nodded sagely, though the sight gave a non-sage impression since he was upside-down over the saddle at the time. “Oh, yes, definitely. Sad that there's so much distrust in the world. Deserved much of the time, but sad. The Chunawm Metals base is just a bit past the city.” He shifted to Dvanj and addressed his chief attendant. “That's right, isn't it? A few miles to the site?”
“Yes, my lord. Good exercise for the servants.” Onzalkarnd shook out his right leg while the Yumins shook their heads. If only that uncle had died a little sooner.
The island, or rather the northern half of it controlled by Redrin, looked to be the sort of place a company called Something-or-Other Metals might thrive. The uneven land resembled piles of compacted refuse covered with a tarp more than hills, pebbles grew like grass, and orange beat out green as the most prominent color after brown. None of that bothered travelers, since the Redrins knew how to lay down a road, but poets stayed away, aghast. A few painters liked it. The ones who rejected traditional notions of beauty. Audnauj's retinue met none of those along the way, though quite a few Yumins of a more practical inclination were taking that same road with the same destination or, in some cases, origin.
The Chunawm Metals camp sprawled across a good amount of land, enough to qualify as a hamlet if more of the employees had chosen to live there in company dormitories instead of walking to and from Dwecosptichdeu every day. Most of the place was given over to storehouses and cart depots whence tracks ran into the interior and brought back material for workers to sort and smelt in the work areas that comprised most of the remainder, the rest of the space going to a cafeteria and nice little offices for managers, accountants, and specialists who waited to be called upon to do whatever it was they did.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
As for the mining firm's more alive assets, the workers ignored fashion in favor of smocks and masks which helped them endure the dust. The head manager there, Disal esIdyuin, violated style in a different way by wearing a simple shirt with short sleeves that exposed his hairy arms, a hat with a full brim instead of the narrow visor normal on the mainland, and several kerchiefs hanging from his belt which he pulled out one after another to wipe his brow, rotating them to give the oldest time to dry. Lesser Redrin, to its inhabitants, was Far Hotter Redrin, and all the more so in an industrial complex. Visitors straight off the boat did not yet understand, but they would.
Manager Disal stood ready to greet Lord Audnauj Olzenchipt Stavripdeu Blawraj. He had set an employee as a scout to watch for the advent of that distinguished personage, which was the sort of maneuver that put him above lesser managers. A formal greeting was unnecessary. That was no meeting between peers; one was to command and the other to be commanded, nothing more. “Lord Audnauj, what an honor this is for you to come out here in your own person. How was your trip? Wet? Ha ha.”
“I feel wetter now, frankly.” Audnauj accepted the reserve kerchief Disal offered.
“The best thing, my lord, is to come inside here. We have rituals strategically deployed around the camp so we don't pass out as often.” He led the entourage into a low building in which chalk rectangles had been drawn on the floor around long tables. The visitors felt cooler the moment they stepped inside one of the marked areas.
“Refrain from scuffing the chalk,” Dirant warned in Yumin. “What was ground up to make it would surprise you. This is a ritual for people who hate money.”
Audnauj's servants lifted their knees high to step over the lines as ostentatiously as possible. The Ritualist's cautionary statement sounded like a joke to them, but the relief and gratitude Disal experienced were the real thing. He had not dared to say in front of a prominent nobleman anything resembling a hint of an implication that the company needed to worry about trivial expenses, but those rituals hit the budget hard. He realized at last how foolish he had been to worry himself. Of course Lord Audnauj included nothing but highly perceptive and considerate servants in his train.
“Would you like anything, my lord? Iced tea, perhaps?” He deserved a raise for managing to make that offer without a crack in his voice. The rituals used to prepare iced tea and keep it ready for important executives carried their own hefty bills that made him anxious about depleting the stock. He hoped this was not one of those lords who considered the welfare of those under him at all times.
“That sounds just right, Mr. esIdyuin. My servants had a bit of a walk getting here.” He was one of those. “So I'd like it if you opened your cafeteria to them. They can buy themselves some relief while I take advantage of your offer, and we'll all get on well.” One of those true nobles who was sent by the gods to beautify this world of sordid struggle, that is. “Let's start in on pressing matters with a gallop so we can relax and enjoy ourselves later. 'The mind eased by duty done,' as they say.”
“Certainly, Lord Audnauj. Just as you say. The complication is easy enough to explain, but it calls for the client's judgment.” The manager laid it out. Eardron, aside from being a terrible material for most purposes, came in small quantities. Even trinkets typically required two or three chunks to be joined together. Chunawm Metals put a great deal of effort into categorizing eardron in order to ensure the most compatible samples would be combined, and from no category of the higher grades might enough be scraped together to provide plating for a statue of the size described. Potential solutions included using a lower grade to preserve uniformity, making do with a lower grade for most of it but with lustrous eyes picked from the best-quality stock, or a more artful mixture. For instance, perhaps the Olzenchipt Stavripdeu family wished to distinguish the head of its statue from the rest much like the famous steed King Chevarnj rode off the Dvanj Plateau and into the annals of history. Countless variations might be imagined. Chunawm Metals had not bothered Count Blawgnu with requests for clarification without cause.
“We never dreamt you did, Mr. esIdyuin. Father sends letters to handle that sort of thing, not sons.”
The manager brought out labeled cases filled with samples for the client to peruse. As said client began to do so, his servants and guests settled themselves in for some true boredom that failed to arrive, for a man came to the door who ought not to have been there.