Outside the inn, no pedestrians crushed underfoot, Ulric set a brisk pace keeping to the wider streets. Sidewalks were busy with pedestrians but not to the extent that travel was particularly onerous. Carts, wagons, stagecoaches, and some of those man-pulled rikshaws made steady traffic along the streets, lanes might as well have been painted on the stones to designate through traffic as opposed to that which intended to turn, couriers, merchants, and transport conveyances moved in orderly fashion along Bartala's thoroughfares. Intersections obeyed proper four-lane stop rules and Ulric was staggered by the strict adherence to conventions of right of way. These folk drove their beast-drawn carriages better than most of his contemporaries back in the Before operated vehicles. If this had been the norm, Ulric would not have found himself being blind-sided by a freighter and losing most of the use of his legs.
Fantasy world folk obey traffic laws. Go figure.
Ulric made a complete loop of the block on which his Inn was located, noting the signs hanging and his overall position within the lowest district of the port city. He was a bare half-kilometer from the main entry gate. It never hurt to know where the door was.
This part of Bartala was almost certainly the one most heavily favoring the trade, manufacture, and storage of raw goods. Everywhere people dealt in or hauled unfinished products, except the necessary artisans who made everyday goods, such as blacksmiths, coopers, weavers, and cobblers. Even these were, so far as Ulric observed, only involved in the swift manufacture of simple necessities. Silk was not to be seen in this district, and even Ulric's well-cut, if thoroughly abused, clothes stood out some.
Had he entered the city without the wear of the road on him, he'd have easily been marked as being in the wrong part of town. With his robes showing the abuse of months of hard road, and stains that were as much a part of his attire as the fabric, he fit right in with the other working-class men and women that populated the squares, shops, and craft halls. Ulric was somewhat certain he was blending in as few gave him a second glance. For the most part. A couple of stink eyes from patrolling guards who seemed ready to remind the barbarian to mind his manners. A few doe eyes from some of the unmarried lasses and a jealous glance from one of the lads who did not care for sharing the gaze of the girl whom he was trying to impress, were about all the attention he garnered. Mostly he moved through the city like a ghost.
Ulric took it all in, trying to absorb the entire metropolis, its details and its overall impressions. This was his first Prespanger proper experience and he wanted to make the most of it. These folk were, technically, his enemies. Unless he could find a way to break the bindings holding them to Prosper's lead. Toward that end, he was decided on a proper walkabout to get a feel for the situation.
The townsfolk in this lowest district all dressed with somewhat modest tastes. Thick linen, no frills wool, frequently undyed, were common. The major signs of affluence seemed to be the wearing of jewelry, rings to start. When the hand had a full complement of rings those rings were connected by fine metal chains. A bracelet was added in addition to that. Beyond that, an armband. The truly outstandingly wealthy bore a sort of chainmail sleeve connecting the armband to the wristband. It was a rather eye-catching system of establishing station, and Ulric had to appreciate the granularity of it. There was rather no doubt as to who was a person of means or not amongst the Bartalan. This moor bore some resemblance to the old Scandinavian culture, those Nordic countries, sometimes referred to as Vikings, that had employed armbands of gold and silver to denote wealth and from which cuts might be used to satisfy purchase agreements.
Up one wide street, across, and back down, playing the part of a visitor from afar, which he was, he sought to get a better look at the Bartalan's along this section of city without being too overt in his study. He made frequent stops to inspect leathers, creature parts, woods, and some rather shoddy, if he might be so bold, forgework. He could see the cold shuts and failed welds in some of the smith's offerings. Quickly he turned away before the disdain he felt for such substandard work could become insulting.
Hmm...on further consideration, Ulric was doubtful as to whether this worn jewelry was utilized in place of currency, after the fashion of hack silver bands. For one thing, the only exchange he'd witnessed thus far was of coins, goods, or services. For the other, the pattern of adornment of the rings, chains, and bands had something of a very intentionally holistic nature to it. The removal of a piece here or there would have largely ruined the cohesive aesthetic that the sets possessed. Beauty was often found coupled with symmetry. If the symmetry was designed to display status, one wouldn't ruin it for a common exchange. No, no, the arrangements were declarations of status only.
You might as well call this the cuprous district then. He wasn't sure if it was copper, but the vast majority of the bands, rings, and chains sure looked like they were fashioned out of a polished copper. That was interesting. Up until this point, he'd noticed that the predominant metallic was brass or bronze, or at least, he thought it was brass and bronze, the exact alloy was impossible to determine without spectral testing.
Fuck, Ulric remarked to himself. He wasn't even sure if this was the same universe. Were the atoms even the same? Sweet Watcher's tits Ulric, don't do that to yourself, just assume the elements are the same and keep your sanity.
Fine. Back to the matter at hand, he redirected, turning aside from a main road to amble into a smaller sidestreet, stones beneath his feet kept free of beast leavings by the careful placement of booted feet. Animal shit was very definitely one of the prevailing flavors of Bartala's mercantile district. Returning his attention to the people here, their decoration, he noticed that less brass and bronze metalwork being displayed, more, let's call it iron, and copper. What did that mean? Fuck all, at the moment. But it was certainly worth noting. Alloying was a tricky thing and could shed light on the technological mastery and overall skill of smiths, which was itself a benchmark for overall civilization. There was a reason humanity on his old world had designated entire epochs of its history based on the ability to smelt and manipulate certain metals.
These were the thoughts that occupied him as he strolled in a carefully aimless track through the city.
Ulric had sampled Bartala's lower districts pretty much to his satisfaction so he took a brief walk beside the sea, drinking in the heavy saltwater notes, the anarchy of the dockyards. Ships came in, ships went out, all of them hauling goods and people. The spring breeze was warm on his face, the Twins were high, and, all things considered, it was a hell of a day to be out and about. Leaning against a railing overlooking the sea, he mulled over what he was discovering.
He wasn't a city planner but he started to observe that the Bartalans had the odd habit of cloistering up, not entirely unlike what he knew of metropolitan life in the Before.
Many neighborhoods were self-contained, those were the big block clusters of buildings, he'd observed. Each was mostly a residential apartment sort of construct arrangement with the artisans who served that neighborhood living in the shops on the ground floor. The businesses associated with the trade of goods lie mostly along the larger causeways. He was almost certain that the buildings fronting the main avenues were, almost exclusively, storage warehouses. Ulric had seen huge double-door gates swinging inwards to reveal inner pavilions and courtyards into which wagons carrying goods would turn to make deliveries. What few interiors he saw were not well stocked, but it was the heart of the trade season. If his observation was generalized, the scale of goods exchanged here was massive and the half-empty inventory could well be due to a highly efficient system of goods transport. He might as well be in New Chicago with its train stations and the Great Shield Lake ports. More appropriately, this would be the Rotterdam of Prespang.
Returning to his inspection of the port metropolis from dockside he kept grey eyes peeled on the cargo exchanges to and from ships. The dockyards utilized big lifts and pulleys to raise up pallets suspended by wrist-thick rope nets to facilitate massive loads of goods at a time. Once aboard, an antlike crowd of sailors would strip down the pallets to store in holds or repack goods into barrels. It was all very methodical, and very organized.
Whistling in appreciation, he had to admit the huge volumes of goods, the efficient traffic that understated the sheer number of people coming and going, the ordered and robust system for declaring social status and wealth, all of these bespoke a place that was, to its bones, built around an economy of trade and transport. Bartala was a hub around which Prespang turned. It was good news, anybody trying to find him here would be looking for a rusted needle in a stack of needles. Even if you saw it, digging it out would be tricky.
One facet of his study that brought him some amount of discontent was the appearance of numerous slums, far off the main concourse but easily found. These he came across as he investigated the source of death smell, the rot of corpses that he thought might indicate something worth investigating. What his investigation turned up was destitution, desperation, and bodies that lay discarded in gutters. Bodies of all ages, genders, species, and bore only the commonality that they had been stripped at some point as they lay in water runoffs to open-air sewers. The residents there appeared on the ragged edge of desperate civilization. No effective leadership allowed places like those slums to exist and Ulric was certain now that, despite the evident wealth and productivity of the people here, all was not well in Bartala. His Barbarian appearance did him a solid once or twice in those roughly inhabited alleys. Not-so-friendly looking types leaning against even narrower alley entrances, who had the look of the type that would drag an unaware passerby into the twisted warrens for a discussion about charity to the poor, saw him, saw the sword, and stayed where they were, glaring. Ulric got the fuck out of that side of Bartala quickly, the last thing he needed was to become a mark for a good old-fashioned group mugging.
Hours and hours, he walked. Hours spent people-watching, trying to get a handle on what he saw. A lot of the aimless wander was spent figuring out whys and hows for Prosper's control of these City-States, and what could be done to either break that hold or to cripple the ability of such places to contribute to the imperialistic designs. Mostly, he was starting to think that what would be required was to seize or control the docks. Prosper was a naval trade empire. They exerted their will and power using the sea to move men and goods efficiently, just like the old East India Trade Company. The starting point for dealing with that was to force their agents to cross lands like the ones he'd come through, wild and dangerous. They would need more wagons, dry roads, and, if they knew what was good for them, they'd go slow, with escorts ahead to clear the way. That would also make the caravans vulnerable to the Barbarian tribes such as the M'rakur. Perhaps it would even turn out that the Aes'r would have themselves a nice juicy target to enact Brighteyes' plan to throttle Prosper's ability to move goods, the main source of her influence.
Happy with his initial scouting, Ulric sought his Inn. It only took half an hour to find the right block and two trips around said block to find his accommodations. He realized as he closed on the place that he was both parched and ravenous. It had been a long day since the Dutch oven and dried meat. Smells wafted from various Inns hinting at combinations of ingredients that represented a wholly new tradition of cuisine. Ulric was salivating already.
When he stepped off the streets and through the heavy timber door of his Inn, it was into a bustling, fever pitch of a common room.
What in the fuck had happened?! Ulric wondered, incredulous.
There had been, at most, a dozen people in the common room when he'd first entered. It was near capacity now, with each table full and only a few stools at the long bar open. Seven women and five men worked the spacious twenty-meter by fifteen-meter room, delivering food, and drink, and overseeing what appeared to be house-sanctioned games of chance to men and women representative of all the peoples he'd seen in his explorations. Dice, cards, and something involving a spinning top with symbols carved onto it. A second top was wagered on, whereupon it would be sent spinning, careening into the first, and the outcome decided according to arcane rules that made modern statistical calculus a laughing stock. Unbelievable.
The Innkeep ruled with an iron fist, strolling with casual authority. Twice she brought down a baton upon an unwelcome wrist as it reached for one of the girls and twice a man bit back an oath, as he cradled his now maybe broken arm. Never did a complaint arise to challenge the Iron Maiden's raised eyebrow and not a strand of her Auburn hair was disturbed as she continued to survey her domain. Yikes. Ulric was suddenly glad not to have traded lip with the woman.
A few strong arms lounged around the room, apparently helpful and being outwardly congenial. Hard eyes scanned the room from time to time though, and nobody met them for long, which was all Ulric needed to know about which way that wind blew.
His presence drew little attention, and he removed himself from the boisterous environment before there was even much opportunity to be noticed. Rapid steps took him climbing the stone stairs to find his room. His slight hesitation at the corner brought a smile though, as he recalled the slight boondoggle from earlier. Without trampling anybody, Ulric successfully activated the key and entered his small single room. It was a humble space with few adornments. Which was why he was confident it had been left undisturbed in his absence.
With a slow, glad, exhalation, Ulric unburdened himself of his pack. He considered the figures in the common room. Few, if any of the people there, or in the city at large went armed. Those that did mostly resembled himself, travelers with rucks still upon their backs, large satchels, and the arms that were critical to surviving what dangers might lie in the distances between cities. Beasts weren't the only things that hunted travelers on the road, as Ulric had discovered twice now. First the slavers. Then the more common bandits. Steel between the ribs handled all of these problems and more than a few of the obvious newcomers to the city were even more heavily armed than he was. A pike bent nearly twenty degrees from true and with some kind of pitted brown corrosion on it hinted at things Ulric had not yet encountered and was glad not to have. So it was that an outsider was marked by the necessity to fight the realities that lay waiting outside the high stone walls of Bartala and the natives had no need of such things.
Here, in this Inn, Ulric decided he would forego the obvious weaponry. Besides, he was always armed. His core was a weapon greater than anything a guy might swing.
Content with his choices, he decided it was time to see what smelled so damned good down there. Nothing much had changed in the few short minutes he was unloading his gear, the same clamor of men and women flush with the prospects of a new season of plenty. Ulric sat himself atop one of the few available stools at the long bartop. The bartender, a young man with a missing eye and an easy smile took Ulric's order.
He was going to try what had to be a blackened fish of some kind and whatever the pale ale was that he saw making its way to the patron's mouths, and, sometimes, the floor. An Argentum Servant paid his meal and opened a respectable tab. Unless something had changed greatly since he'd left Trachn'ir he'd be collecting change in a couple of days. The beer was hoppy and citrusy notes made him think of some sort of double India Pale Ale, the bitter being nicely balanced by the fruit. He found the bottom of his mug surprisingly quickly. A plate of fish, blackened and steaming, with grilled green beans of some kind and a hard bread with a fish broth to dip it in arrived soon after he'd received his second serving of the beer. The two paired exceedingly well.
Ulric had a mind for a third mug when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Instantly, his core hummed to life, preparing to level the place and some of the nastier magics sprung to mind, their spellforms, the mental algorithms of their weaving ready to enact carnage. He turned his head to see the elder Lupid he'd bumped into earlier, grinning with a mug in his clawed hand, the other resting on Ulric's deltoid.
"Easy young hunter, it is only I, Varrock." Greeted the Beastkin.
He took the empty seat to Ulric's left and made a show of becoming comfortable on the stool before addressing Ulric again with the same mix of casually grumpy humor as before.
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"I take it your prowling left no one dead in the streets then, the victim of your boots?" Joked the old man.
Ulric received his mug and took a heavy swallow, calming the ramping violence to adopt an easy attitude. Admittedly, the beer was assisting that effort. After wiping a bit of foam from his beard he rejoined in a deadpan, "Gesundheit. You should do something about that cough, Elder. Have we met before?"
The old wolf scowled and cursed something in his own tongue that Ulric couldn't make out.
"It's Varrock! Varrock is my name, insolent pup! And you know it, I can see a man with a mind behind his eyes, even when it holds the recklessness of youth." Varrock scolded mildly, before continuing in his harumphing tone, "I am old but not senile. You go by Einar, do you not?"
The old boy liked his beer, he punctuated his sentences with a swig. This right here was a man after his own heart back in the Before.
"Aye, that I do, Old Man Varrock. And, no, I did not find any slow pedestrians to clobber into the sidewalks." He reported back to the geezer with good humor.
Nodding along the wolf-headed Beastkin surveyed the room briefly, suddenly laser-focused, before returning to his rheumy-eyed gaze. Now that was interesting. Perhaps he wasn't as ancient as he let on.
"What brings one of the Tribesmen so far from distant holds, if you don't mind my asking? You have the look of one out on his first foray in new hunting grounds, all nose to the wind and hackles quick to rise." Inquired the Old Wolf.
Ulric didn't mind that curiosity at all, it would have been strange to not notice Ulric's foreignness.
Voice pitched low but leaning in so his elder didn't have to strain to hear, Ulric confided, "Same thing as any young man, Elder: I journey to find prosperity, to see the horizons beyond the ones I see today, and to experience all this world has to offer."
That made the Lupid's teeth show in a wide canine grin.
"Oho, now that is what all pups fresh from the teat want. Just be sure not to nose around the badger's dens, eh?" suggested the elder man.
That made Ulric recall his encounter with a badger. The great smelly bastard.
Nose screwing up from remembered foul musk Ulric had no trouble sincerely asking "Where was this advice before I found the den?" which amused his drinking buddy greatly.
"And what did you learn from it?" the smiling wolf asked, stroking his braided chin tuft.
Ulric thought back to the [Shrieking Ravager] and said without any doubt whatsoever, "That it will always be a better day if you just go the long way around."
Which brought a belly laugh from Varrock. A clawed finger wiped a tear from his eye once the chortles subsided.
"Ahh, see? I knew there was a sharp thinker inside that meat. I too learned to go around, but not before I had to check twice more to see if it was still there!" Claimed the Wolf with self-deprecation.
He was a funny codger was this Varrock. Quick on his feet too, for an old dude.
"And you, Elder, what brings you to Bartala, or do you call this sprawling place home?" Ulric asked.
The Beastkin grumped a moment in his own tongue before answering, not towards Ulric, just bitching in general, as was the right of the elderly.
"I have been invited to attend the wedding of my daughter's daughter to a gap-toothed half-wit with a nice coat and not enough fur to fill it." Spat the old man, not simply casually disgruntled but riding outrage, "If not for my other children, I might as well open my own belly so I don't have to see my line decline before my very eyes."
The both of them drank to that statement.
"Phaw!" Exclaimed the Lupid, calming down with the beer's refreshing bitter on his palate.
"Thus am I called to this great mess called Bartala, away from the downs and thickets of my clan's origin." Answered Varrock.
Ulric nodded in sympathy. Most weddings sucked. Not all, but most. At least the after-parties tended to be a little lively.
"Forgive my saying, Elder, but I get the impression that the unfortunate groom would have difficulty pleasing your sensibilities." He teased.
"Nonsense!" Growled the Beastkin, "All I have ever asked is that my daughters bring home a husband that can fight for their honor, put food on their table, and give me many grandchildren to spoil. I had not reckoned that those husbands grow to be so soft that they would let some weasel-faced scavenger sniff around their own daughters."
This guy was a treasure. He had a feeling any family get-togethers were going to be thoroughly ruined by the old-timer's antics.
“Alright, alright, I believe you!” Surrendered Ulric, before he got Varrock even more riled up.
If the Beastkin got the bit between his teeth there wasn't going to be any turning that horse. On the other hand, there was an opportunity here to be educated about the doings and situations of Beastkin. Ulric was thoroughly ignorant in this regard. Snippets here and there from Brighteyes and Taipan were nowhere near sufficient to pass for understanding.
"Why then has your esteemed granddaughter agreed to accept this bottom feeder for her mate?" Ulric prompted
Varrock put his head between his arms on the bar top refusing to let the world see his suffering. From somewhere below, muffled basso rumbled, "Because my clan is poor. Because I have failed to lead us to attract the more noble suitors. My dowry for my daughters was strong, but times these last few years have been difficult. Too many rivalries between clans. Too much of our youth's strength siphoned off, and our promising youngsters were selected to be press-ganged into the Baron's army tithe. I cannot refuse those summons without open war. And, last and most bitter, too heavy the taxes. Even the sight of a magister brings bile to my throat and I am not ashamed to admit it."
Maybe it was the booze, but Ulric found himself commiserating with the Beastkin. He was having a rough go of it. This wedding was the cherry on the crap cake he'd had served to him. Ulric had known a time when it seemed all the things that had once been good had failed. He flagged the bartender for another mug for the old wolf. It wasn't the answer, as well he knew. But, for one night, it was an answer. Perhaps there was a way to smooth the rougher edges off his new barfriend's troubles. And he might learn much about the state of things if he listened and kept an open mind. The mug slid down the smoothly polished bar and Ulric clapped a hand on Varrock's shoulder, prompting the muzzle to lift from its hiding place in the Lupid's arms.
He looked at the offered mug, and tilted his head questioningly. Ulric gestured to the foaming solution and nodded in confirmation.
"A round on me Elder. Your tale is one I have known before but from a more bitter experience of mineself. Drink. Spin me yarns of your clan, the better times and the bad. I will listen." Ulric implored earnestly.
A man doesn't have to be kind for kindness' sake. Life is complicated and doing the right thing can, frequently, coincide with doing the thing that furthers your cause, if you have a brain in your skull to see it. The hard part was still doing that right thing, even when it hurt. This here, this was an easy one.
Old Man Varrock was begun, painting a picture of rocky springs, rolling hills, and dense pockets of tangled woodland with his words. Ulric listened and summoned another mug for them both after a while. Faceless figures behind them came in, blurred into the background, adding their notes to the music of a crowded bar room, and moved out, mostly ignored. By the time he half carried the Beastkin towards a rented bed down the hall from Ulric's own he'd gotten quite drunk, learned as much of the Lupid's clan, their rise, their doings, and their downfall as one of their own, and, somehow, committed to joining Varrock at the wedding of his granddaughter. It was a bit of a ride.
Lying abed, the corners of the darkened room threatened to start turning unbidden. With a foot hanging off the bed touching the ground to still them, Ulric digested what the day had brought him. There was much. Standing out from it all was the feeling that all was not well within Prespang.
Things were not what they seemed from the outside, the picture from the perspective of the Orlethrem was incomplete. Hazy spirals of thought circled round, bringing statements, exclamations, curses, and hints from Harlan and his crew to meld with Varrock's tale. These joined with the lessons of Instructor Gother, on the courses of trade and manufacture from the Elves' side. Sprinkle in a dash of Brighteyes' fireside stories, prompted by Ulric's complete ignorance and insatiable need to know, and Taipan's instructions on the strengths and weaknesses of the Enemy and the world Ulric had awoken to started to crystallize, like watching the fractal spread of a deposition crawling across its substrate, all alien precision and sublime geometrical pattern.
Ulric would not have known before, but a man would have to be an outsider here to gain a wider view to perceive the scope of the problem. They would also have to have a scholar's training in historical politics, socioeconomics, and a couple of thousand years of documented global history from which to draw. On Varda? That was a tall order. In this, as in magic's somewhat strained relationship to physics, Ulric's perspective was unique. And also, completely accidental. His old life was that of an engineer, a technical problem solver. Reading history was just a passion, a hobby, a diversion, and one that had been partly mandatory through the survivors of the collapse's reactionary insistence on public education. The more things change, the more they stay the same. The analysis was, at the end of the day, simple: Prespang's problem, as much as the Orlethrem, was Prosper. Only, instead of an enemy, a great fat golden spider pulling its militaristic strings to direct violence, the "Golden Thrones" as Varrock had mentioned twice contemptuously were more akin to a creeping disease, a gilded rot feeding on the clans of the reaches as much as the independent City States.
Ulric smelled shades of the Roman Republic, bleeding the riches and talent away from its vassals until no more could be drawn. Depleting them, and once no more sustenance could be taken, expanding to do the same elsewhere, before eventually consuming itself at the end. The war, the willingness to be part of it, was something that made more sense to him now.
The people of Prespang were growing quietly desperate, despite the apparent wealth that moved through Bartala. Things were worse than they had been before, though it had happened so slowly that they hadn't been provoked to resistance. Yet.
Again, Ulric was struck by the incredibly cynical and abnormally long strategy being employed. There was a phrase from his homeland, "Never attribute to malice what can reasonably be explained by incompetence." Ulric's intuition said the Prespang situation had all the hallmarks of the mirrored image of that proverb. "When incompetence shows signs of being so carefully, deliberately executed, then know malice guides it.". This was the song of his old Earth's decline, the consumption of its peoples and the world's resources, without end.
Prosper, through its supposed council of Merchant Lords, each in control of the trade for different regions, each regulating the taxes and monitoring the flow of goods through its region, was supposed to generate a form of constructive competition that promoted the success of the independent city-states and clans around them. Each Merchant Lord was supposed to argue and arbitrate towards the growth of their demesne. What appeared to be playing out was that one single faction had assumed complete dominance of the council, and had subsumed them into a singular power. The result was, of course, hegemony.
That itself wasn't news, it happened all the time. No, what made his buzzing brains tingle was how slowly, thoroughly, and inevitably it had been done.
First, soon after the population centers had established relatively rigid and fortified positions that became the City States and established Prespang some four or five thousand years back, came the consolidation of small merchant companies into larger ones. That was, historically, a recent condition only taking place some thousand years ago.
In and of itself, Ulric viewed that as only sense, Varda was a dangerous place and a couple of traders banding together could pool resources towards a platoon of caravan guards defending their wagon trains far more efficiently than lone traders hiring a sellsword or two. Ulric was pretty certain that this was an organic event. What followed, however, had the feel of a more…intentional direction. The larger merchant companies within particular regions, normally confined to the routes between specific population centers in Prespang, the City States and outlying clans, congealed into regional conglomerates, establishing trade monopolies and wielding political influence through their wealth.
Ulric would have bet his left and favorite nut that the conglomerates first grew out from the mouth of the Zelus and were matched elsewhere as a reaction to the hypercompetitive space created by these large singular monolithic companies. Join or die, would have been the only viable decision.
Eventually, these conglomerates consolidated their power through the formation of the Merchant Lords, a body of men and women elected by their respective companies to represent them. This happened, so far as Ulric was able to discern from Varrock's rambling narrative of his family tree and their clan's role in historically being a group of itinerant body guards and small time crop farmers and local traders, at too small a scale to be bothered by the powers that be, some seven hundred years ago. That was when the citadel city of Prosper was established, to exert total dominance over access to the inland sea and to seize central control over shipping for the City States that had always existed along the southern shores of Vatyn. With the appointment of Merchant Lords into a political entity, whose source of power was total control of the shipping and trade routes between Vatyn and the Zelus, they took control of all the merchant companies trading across Vatyn, effectively gaining the ability to isolate the halves of the continent if they chose.
Near as Ulric could figure from the Wolfkin's story, about four hundred years ago a sort of college of artisans was created by Prosper's Golden Thrones, calling itself the Free Artisans Guild, to ensure the growth and development of the key crafts and trades that powered Prespang's civilization. Varrock argued briefly, as he'd spoken of his clan's woes regarding their ability to obtain durable hardwood to expand their holds, that this had proven necessary due to the skill and long lives of the Elven artisans, with whom the access to these crafts was unstable. Unstable thanks to regular, for the Elves that is, clashes along the border which discouraged the Aes'r artisans from taking apprentices from Prespang and some from directly doing business there all together. It was odd just how frequent such border clashes were, given the rather sedate attitude most Elves had and their tendencies to stay to themselves. They just weren't aggressive and lack any impulse to expand their territory. These expansionist brushfires were all being ignited from the Prespang side, though Varrock confessed he knew not why, his own clans had not had any poor dealings with their neighbors. Combined with Harlan's observations about the Legranel dealing honorably with his own tribe, Ulric had some ideas about the sources of the flareups.
The last incursion was the most severe and resulted in the most tension: the murder of the Iriel'en King's son as he traveled to a treaty talk with the Zelussin and the subsequent rise of the Blood Moon over Prosper. It was an atrocity on both sides, though, of course, Bald'rt's rampage had been vastly more visible to the people of Prespang and hardened attitudes towards the Elves. This happened a mere two hundred years ago and effectively closed trade from Iriel, Aktin, and Melond who joined Iriel in solidarity, placing an embargo on Prespang. No more goods flowed from these lands, and no more traders from Prespang were welcome there. This made the Free Artisans Guild even more powerful domestically. Varrock's family were among the first of the Lupid clans to partake of the college and guaranteed their success for many decades. Not long after though, came a sort of "certification of mastery", a stamp of approval for artisans trained at the college. A magister of law, laws written in Prosper, of course, would grant each certified artisan a seal, which granted them the backing of the guild, and thus Prosper's approval. Those magisters could also deny or annul those seals.
That practice started the fall of the Elder Lupid's clan, as they refused to subject themselves to the complete oversight required by the magisters. The Wolf-headed Beastkin cursed when he spoke on it, calling those laws a slaver's collar and the magisters a leash to pull for their holders in Prosper. Later still, under the guise of protections to combat counterfeiting and shoddy workmanship, no artisan could sell goods through the Prosper-owned trade routes without the seal certifying them as belonging to the Free Artisans Guild. This doomed Varrock's clan to decline, as now they were only able to conduct trade along routes not controlled by Prosper's merchant empire. These routes weren't controlled because they were long, slow, rugged affairs packed with monsters. Absent the backing of its local artisans and crafters and access to the safe trade routes, many markets were closed to the Beastkin clan, as well as the other barbarian clans who refused Prosper's yoke.
Now Prosper controlled both the blood and the bones of civilization. All that was next was the brain. Using the incredible leverage over the city-states lifelines of supplies and economy, each city-state had a Baron appointed by the council, and a magister assigned to oversee the laws of the land. The Barons were granted total control of the city-states but had to provide a tithe of money, arms, and soldiery towards the common defense of the City States so that Prosper could ensure fair and open markets across all the lands. It would also allow them to wield a force to oppose "infractions of domain by the hateful knife ears" as Varrock sarcastically described it, indicating that he did not agree. Refusal to adhere to the terms of the military pact meant that a Baron had declared themselves an outlaw, a rogue state. Most of them were either exiled or killed within a couple of years, as Prosper used the common defense army, the "Federated Defense Corp" against them. As well as the much-maligned but also feared criminal syndicates and stunningly well-funded Triads.
Thus completed the slow boil, the frog in the pot was brought to crisis temperature without feeling the heat.
It was inhuman, that was Ulric's instinct. The same conclusion he’d made all those months ago when he considered how the attitudes and strategies of the Orlethrem were being manipulated against them.
Love Humanity or hate it, but it was not capable of the sort of cohesive will that seemed to have driven things to this point over such a long time period. This was a conquest a thousand years in the making. Who the hell would do something like this? Who could? The incremental nature of it, the gradual acquisition and centralization of power, while decreasing the strength of opposing forces, it was akin to the combat philosophy of the Iriel'en, more than anything else.
The Dance of One Thousand Steps was a martial philosophy that dictated making every step a motion towards total, certain victory. Every step, one at a time, sometimes forwards, sometimes backward, sometimes to the side, but always stealing balance from the opponent, always claiming advantage. Until the enemy was destroyed.
Ah! The lightbulb flashed in the once engineer's head. Eureka. It was an Elf, maybe even an Iriel’en.
That's who was doing it, there was no other explanation that agreed with the facts. The strategy, the methodical nature of it, the sheer godsdamned patience, it smacked of an Aes'r with an axe to grind. And grind they would. Elves lived in the present, without dwelling on the past over much. Unless they were given cause to hold a grudge. They didn't forget a wrong and they could be utterly alien in their persistence of carrying out revenge. Generations wouldn't be too long to see the slight repaid.
The more he thought about it, the fog of drink lifting over the last couple of hours, the more this hypothesis meshed with what he knew of Varda's people. Elves could live a thousand years, but almost none of them did. Death had many helpers on Varda, just because disease wasn't one of them didn't change that. He'd almost been killed by fucking weasels for shit's sake. So, while they didn't normally live beyond their physical primes of six or seven hundred years, they could.
What if one did? An Aes'r with a grudge towards their own people entire. An outcast? Hmm…yeah. A criminal, exiled from the home of their kin for some action. They might take it personally, might decide to start playing chess with the scattered, disjointed peoples of Prespang, while everybody else was playing checkers between their clans. If you could plot a line of movements that played out beyond a single Valin or Jormun lifespan you were almost impossible to counter. You could play slowly, building pressure points that would take a century to manifest force. If Machiavelli would have had millennia to work, what might he have suggested? Probably a similar strategy.
Ulric's conclusion wasn't a certainty. Science dictated one thing clearly and that was that there were no certainties, only degrees of freedom and standard deviations from average. Sometimes though, you had to go with your gut, the biocomputer in your skull did the math differently and its systems were honed by millions of years of being right or being food. Such condition made intuition a potent component of effective decision-making. Trust your instincts, Padawan, and search your feelings.
Well, his instincts said it fit, and his feelings foreboded an enemy hidden behind a screen of misdirections and subtle plots. The only thing that didn't fit was actually this past year. Why the sudden interest in the [Plateau of Ancients]? Why the hasty attack on Irielhos, which expended the majority of Prosper's mage forces? For some reason, the enemy was, after such careful strategy, in a hurry.
Oh, duh, Ulric. They're old now. Dying, maybe. They need to see it done, and soon, or they won't live to realize their vengeance. Or something, he couldn't pin that one down very well. Something had their knickers knotted to get on with the horrorshow.
With the calculus done and some reasonable confidence intervals on its being a real answer, the next question was clearly this: What are you going to do about it, Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]?
He was pretty certain the solution remained the same. There was once a military strategy game, of notorious difficulty requiring rapid multitasking and precise execution of troop movements, incomplete knowledge of the field of combat, and some amount of luck involved in interpreting and out-maneuvering your opponent. One of the sages who was a master of the craft had this to say: When the enemy is doing something strange, just go fucking kill them.