"Next up," I began, "the rent for the concession area will be determined by size. If there’s farmland or mines within, we'll bump up the rent accordingly. Populace will also sway the dues a touch. But mind you, these bits aren't a must. Handing over a barren patch is no skin off my nose either."
"Agreeable."
"And lastly, the concession must butt up against Viscount Reed's territory. After all... you understand, right? Our tiny viscountcy picking a fight with the behemoth of the West, even an underhanded ambush wouldn't do if it's a separated piece of land. It simply wouldn’t be proper."
Arwin stroked his short beard thoughtfully, “Aye, that works.”
Upon hearing the terms, Murphy's face lit up with glee, "Well then, I am keen to get the contract signed with haste. Rest assured, I speak with full authority on behalf of the Viscount here."
Arwin pondered for a moment before speaking, "Care to hear my side of the bargain?"
"Ah?" Murphy was momentarily flustered. 'He's giving me a boon, yet laying down terms?' But he regained his composure quickly and said, “Please, do tell.”
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, lad. My terms are simple: Let’s expand the scope of the assistance from last time. Support won't just cover victuals. How do you fancy that?" Arwin paused before adding, “That fellow Seth, who became head honcho after decades as a butler, must have clued you in on such matters, eh?”
Murphy thought to himself that he was the most influential man in Viscount Reed's domain by now, confidence brimming as he replied, "His lordship did impart, before my departure, that our lands are sparsely populated, recently stripped of some fiefdom and vassals. Therefore, we are willing to offer all manner of support, barring manpower.”
"Smart lad. You must've seen that despite our unscathed victory over two wee towns, the kingdom is cottoning on. We've got, at best, three or four more of these fights before we’re proper knuckle to knuckle with the enemy,” Arwin noted.
"Quite so, Your Grace," Murphy concurred with a slight bow, "Posters for recruits already plaster the capital. Given the size of the Royal Domain, if it's to be a war of attrition with both the Dukes, it's us likely to buckle first."
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"Hm, indeed. Which is why I'm aiming to expand the aid. Though the Viscountcy's output might just match a smidgen over a tenth of the West, desperate times call for all the assistance we can muster."
"I understand. Has Your Grace already decided on the nature of the supplies?"
"Arms and armor," replied Arwin without hesitation.
Murphy almost burst out laughing. 'The old coot has an eye for quality. But sorry, you can't have the muskets yet; you haven't lost any battles, have you?'
Ecstatic within but composed outwardly, Murphy answered, "Within the realms of possibilities, as Lord Seth mentioned. When might we sign the support agreement?"
"Let's not rush the aid pact, but your Viscountcy's artisans... they can start getting ready now," Arwin inserted a rare note of feeling into his tone. "Eric, fetch a map of the Western lands. Let’s pin down the concession agreement play now."
"At once," the man called Eric across from Murphy stood swiftly and fetched a sizeable parchment map from behind the tent.
The aged parchment unfurled, revealing to Murphy a detailed image of the Westlands he’d never seen before—a piece of strategic gold in this epoch.
At the center lay the immense burgundy domain of the Western lands—a legacy of the two gentlemen present, making up more than half the map.
To the northeast, a modestly sized North; to the east, a golden chunk of the powerful Royal Domain. Even though just a fraction showed, the numerous marked towns and villages betokened the wealth therein.
Where the three bordered, the recently abandoned Stucar area sat idle—a stark, barren patch mired in neglect.
Beyond the Westlands, through a noisome swamp, one would stumble upon the ghost and owl-rich Dark Wood—prime monster territory drenched in pale black.
Taking it all in, Murphy mused, 'My home's actually quite sizeable, isn't it…?' But what had he forgotten? He scanned the map and there, in the southeastern corner, he spotted a tiny cobalt blob—less than an eighth of the West and hardly noticeable against the red, had it not been for the striking color contrast.
Reluctantly, Murphy recognized it: the Viscountcy of Reed. Almost overlooked amidst the grander territories.
"Oops, my apologies," Eric, also perusing the map, suddenly spoke with an indistinct tone, "This here's an outdated version."
Before Murphy could wave away the concern, Eric pulled out an ink-dipped quill and delicately drew a line next to Reed's plot. Standing back with a sigh of relief, he said, “Almost forgot about the Viscount's reduced holdings.”
Grumbling inwardly at Eric's sly dig, Murphy chose to stay silent.
But Arwin, unconcerned with such trifles, circled a spot just north of Reed, "This here's Clarkstown; by my reckoning, a couple of towns and a handful of villages around, nothing special. Just farming and fishing folk with no lord but myself to answer to. What say you?"
"Of course, I trust in the Duke's judgment.” Murphy internally noted the familiar-sounding locale, sensing a hint of blessed land there.