“A servant is eager to don their own fetters for a wage worth less than the chains that would otherwise bind them.”
– Extract from “Bought and Sold no Longer”, a collection of the revised teachings of the Merchant Prince Mauricius
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The embers of revolution had spread like wildfire, scorching the paved arteries of Mercantis.
“Shall I play the dark echo to your thoughts once more?” his one-eyed collaborator inquired lightly.
The Revolutionary strolled down one of the paved roads, side by side with one of the fae. Frozen footsteps trailed in its wake, and yet nobody noticed them or the proof of their passage. The Ravel Bank presented a pleasant front face to his cause that attracted avaricious merchants like flies to honey. It was those who toiled in the shadows that undermined the city from within.
“It is only by testing the metal of one’s convictions in the hottest of forges that its worth may be assured,” Lennox clarified.
Lennox knew that the creature's words held less substance than ink on the page. They were said as part of a stage performance. However, even a mummer’s farce could fan the flames that the Revolutionary needed to see that everything burned.
“I find little value is weighing that which is plain,” the creature pondered.
The crowd parted. They were indifferent to Lennox, who moved in the background much like any other piece of the city’s décor. It was not their fault they were blind to him. The Revolutionary would frequently Fade when not ploughing the fields.
“Aqueducts like these,” he gestured with a sickly hand, “they are veins that bleed wealth upwards while the roots shrivel. Do you think water tastes sweeter at the top?”
The grand structure cast a pall over the branded who were huddled beneath its arches after their owners’ failings. A cruel irony was etched into their hollowed faces as they sat parched in its shadow. They clustered around one of his many splintered hands on the street. The man shared bread that had been subsidized with illusory coin among those stricken with poverty. It was only one act among many that would see Mercantis burn. Often these acts of charity ended in violence. For once, cooler heads prevailed.
“Would you shatter the dam and call the drowning freedom?” the fae creature on his left murmured.
It ran its fingers along the stall of a price gouger, then flicked them as if removing dust. The Revolutionary and his ally of circumstance reached one of the open markets situated partway between the wealthier parts of the city and the slums. Many stalls held nought but the wind. Some were laden with overpriced goods.
“The fields wither under the blight of greed,” Lennox countered indignantly. “What good is a harvest if only lords taste its sweetness?”
A finger extended towards a walking corpse that feasted upon the food with her eyes. The skeleton of a child huddled against her mother’s leg as she argued with a monolith of steel and malice. One of the many vultures of the city doing their beast to turn those beneath them into carcasses for their own pleasure.
“Food distributed without regard spoils before eaten,” Larat tugged a midnight collar as he replied. “It takes a careful hand to see it last the season.”
Lines of disillusioned merchants mulled outside a gated wall that cut across the road ahead.
“See the gate ahead,” The revolutionary’s hand extended forward as he spoke. “Those men are nothing more than weeds in gilded armour, choking the flow of life. Beyond lies an empty field. One that is untended and unclaimed, starved only by their own greed.”
The bronze statue of a past Merchant Prince seated atop an elephant sneered down at those who sought entrance to Forty-Stole Court, the Guild Exchange or the Princely Palace.
“Bandits would overrun the road were they not there,” his compatriot challenged. “The fetters of society shield as much as they shackle you, no matter how much they weigh you down.”
Lennox felt a swell of satisfaction burgeon in his belly as they drew closer to the statue. The words ‘All Becomes Dust’ inscribed into the side. Fellow travellers quickened as they passed beneath its gaze. He set aside the momentary urge to cast it down with his own hands. The time would come someday soon. He felt it deep in his soul. Much as he knew that the sun would rise at dawn.
“Monuments like this? They’re stories written by the victors,” Lenox elaborated. “Their cracks are erased, for their grandeur is a hollow lie.”
The Revolutionary spared a moment’s thought towards a letter that had found its way across land and sea and planted itself in his palms. The Tyrant of Helike had sent “his dear friend in Mercantis” an invitation to his court. Lennox had yet to pen a refusal. There was an opportunity here. A chance for him to turn the madness of Helike towards his own ends. Lennox would topple the Tyrant with time as well. There was no government or institution that deserved to be spared the fires of his retribution.
Not even one that served his ends.
“And yet they are also symbols that people draw strength from,” Larat said. “The cracks would widen should the Merchant Prince be forgotten, and these roads would lie abandoned.”
Lennox painted a palm atop a line of men and women clad in grey standing outside an estate on their right as they passed through the gate.
“Those servants stand barred unless their hands are needed,” he raised a heated fist as he pontificated, “then blots away their freedom until the sum of their lives is spent.”
A rune branded upon their necks would boil their blood should they fancy a chance at life beyond servitude. There was nothing of substance to be found within these blighted walls.
“Locks are as much a prison as they are a shield,” the Prince retorted. “The frost claims all within the estate if you shatter the gates. Servants, master, even the hearth itself.”
Words denouncing specific Merchant Lords had been engraved onto the wall leading into the Guild Exchange. The gilded doors lay open as they stepped into the building.
“This estate is no more than a blot on the parchment of Mercantis,” the Revolutionary said. “A sombre symbol of what it values most. Profit, not people. Better to burn it to ash and write a tale worth living upon the embers, than leave it staining what remains of the book.”
Crowds of merchants thronged and argued within the fortified bastion of their greed. Wards that had once barred entry to the fae had long since been sabotaged on Lennox’s orders. Far be it for him to restrict his best tool’s freedom of movement.
“I tire of my time here,” the Prince of Nightfall drawled and trailed his fingers in the air before him, “the court beckons. I must answer its frostbitten call. See that your ruse does not fall to the predations of the West or the East.”
The departure was not unexpected. Lennox had not discerned the rhyme or reason behind when the Prince of Nightfall chose to leave or arrive. The decision was unwelcome at this juncture. The creature often assisted in weeding out infiltrators within the revolution in exchange for mortal souls. A negligible cost when considering the long term value in maintaining a field bereft of rot.
“Then I bid you farewell,” he gave the fae a short nod before heading further into the room.
Lennox ignored the many clamouring brephophagists and turned his attention towards a corpulent man who posed on a raised platform. The merchant pontificated on the dangers of dealing in coin from the Ravel Bank. The Revolutionary smiled as the man’s words passed through the crowd unheard. He scoured the Guild Exchange until at last his eyes fell upon the damned. One who he considered recruiting. He’d challenged the man to prove his worth. It was time for him to be judged.
“—think about this as a currency,” the Apprentice Salesman leaned forward conspiratorially as he argued, “but instead as an opportunity.”
The flaxen-haired youth sported an immaculate black and white outfit that had been tailored to fit him. Perfect white teeth shone as he gave his interlocutor an inviting smile.
“Procer and Praes both warn against the use of this currency,” the pot-bellied merchant replied. “Why should I risk my wealth on money that holds no worth?”
The merchant tugged at his extravagant green and gold shirt as he snorted his scepticism.
“Risk?” the Apprentice Salesman cocked his head and arched an eyebrow as he affected an air of surprise. “Are you not a merchant? True wealth lies in seizing the opportunities that others hesitate to claim.” He licked his lips then continued feeding the man’s greed in hushed whispers, “just think: you could command the market while your rivals flounder.”
The seeds of avarice glinted in the merchant’s eyes for but a moment before being smothered once more by the stubborn weight of engrained caution.
“I’ll be as indebted as half these other fools if that coin disappears,” he shook his head and scoffed.
The Apprentice Salesman shook his head and plastered on a wounded expression.
“What about if I sweeten the deal with a guarantee?” he purred. “Take the loan and invest it wisely,” he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, running them through his fingers. “Mark my words,” he explained, “your rivals will come begging for scraps by the end of the year. After all, fortune favours the bold.”
The merchant licked his lips and rubbed his fingers together as he watched the coins. The smile on the Apprentice Salesman’s face didn’t shift, yet the Revolutionary could sense his triumph.
Yes, he thought to himself, this one would serve him well after all.
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Merchant Lord Mauricius heaved as he climbed the stairs of the Sub Rosa leading towards his favorite balcony.
What he had at first believed to be nothing more than a minor counterfeit scheme that would fall apart in the span of a few months had grown into a problem beyond his wildest imaginings. Only expert sorcerers were able to deduce the difference between fae coins and regular gold or silver. Sorcerers who were unwilling to put their talents to dealing with what they termed “mundane trivialities.”
Some merchants had fallen back entirely on other means of trade for a time. It wasn't long before those became compromised as well. Mauricius searched for a more permanent solution. He required something liquid which couldn’t be easily duplicated.
He stepped through the marble archway onto the balcony of the Sub Rosa. He found — to his mounting distaste — that he was not alone.
“Why do you haunt me like unpaid debts,” he complained with a wasteland dry tone while rubbing the sweat off his brow.
There was a scarlet haired woman wearing a yellow sun-dress seated on the velvet chair opposite his own. She finished swallowing, then laid down her fork.
“Imagine the scandal if they saw us together?” she asked rhetorically while smirking at him.
The Merchant Lord settled down into his chair and glared at her over the remains of a roast duck.
“And yet you arranged for a discreet meeting upon your arrival in this city,” he challenged as he cracked his knuckles and set them upon the table.
It had been some time since Songbird had first darkened his door. The Proceran House of Light had sent a formal petition requesting for one of their representatives to meet with him. He had almost denied the request offhand, but his more mercantile senses had whispered of an opportunity to be seized. Besides, a creative punishment could always be purchased for her should she squander his time.
“I’ve been snooping around,” Songbird shrugged and ignored his words as she wiped down her fingers.
The meeting had proved fruitful — much to his surprise — and he’d found himself an ally against the plague that had taken his city. The opportunity presented by the Ravel Bank had appeared novel at first. Then the scheme had not falled apart. Now the price of many commodities had begun to veer wildly. Once predictable rivals now made erratic trades.
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The political struggles within the Forty-Stole Court had become even more chaotic. He had expected the city of Mercantis to stabilize into a new normal after the span of a few months. It did not. Fifteen successive emergency sessions of the Forty-Stole Court had failed to elect a new Merchant Prince, and over half their number had perished due to infighting. Those who were raised to the vacant seats perished within a fortnight. The City of Bought and Sold was eating its own tail one day at a time.
“Did you stumble upon any new revelations?” he inquired.
Procer was not the only nation to have shown interest in seeing the Ravel Bank’s actions curtailed. Praes had also stuck its fingers into the coals of this raging inferno, only for their fingers to be burned. They had struck too late. Too many of the merchants within Mercantis had become reliant upon the fae coinage. They defended the Ravel Bank, blocking all action against its growing chaos.
“The usual,” she shrugged. “Goldsmiths falter, masterless servants linger by the docks, posters are plastered on every other wall speaking of rebellion.”
Mauricius had invested a small fortune into investigating the source of the troubles, only for his money to disappear down a dark hole. He’d taken to investing into grain, silk and precious metals as well as other luxuries while the madness ran its course as a result. He had also shifted the focus of his foreign investments from trading weapons in the Free Cities to the Principate of Procer. The opportunity afforded by war in the Free Cities did not outweigh the risks of becoming reliant on Ravel Bank currency.
Merchant Lord Mauricius furrowed his brow.
“You’ve made progress on infiltrating the revolution,” he surmised.
There was a lightness to her voice that he’d come to recognize as a sign that there was more left unsaid.
“The Apprentice Salesman shifted schemes,” she explained. “Take a look,” she gestured towards a pile of documents beside her.
Mauricius clicked his tongue in understanding as he perused the trove she delivered to him. The Apprentice Salesman had been responsible for pawning off properties that he didn’t own to people with fewer wits than Mauricius had expected. It appeared that he’d abandoned his old game to promote the Ravel Bank. He smiled when he saw a note Songbird had made. A note that proposed they plant documents that implicated the Apprentice Salesman in running a plot against the Revolutionary after they’d used him as a lever to find cracks in the revolution.
“Then we have a path forward,” he declared.
Mauricius would advance his efforts to both undermine and denounce the actions of the Ravel Bank. Songbird would attempt to infiltrate the hidden part of the revolution. While both of them were certain there was some connection between the Bank and growing dissent within the city, neither of them had been able to discover the link.
“You tossed a few coins to the masses once, and look how they sang your praises,” Songbird’s eyes flickered with mischief as she leaned forward and changed the topic.
He reached towards a pitcher and poured himself a cup of mulled wine while her words rushed past him.
“There was more profit to be made in bribes from the other candidates than the cost I spent on the poor,” Merchant Lord Mauricius sighed.
He concluded that this was another attempt on her part to sell him on ending indentured servitude within Mercantis.
“I spent some time plumbing the mind of Procer’s newest hero,” Songbird noted.
“I’ve been told she is unskilled at swimming these waters,” Mauricius mused.
“Quite true,” Songbird acknowledged, “but her way of seeing the world is… almost quaint. I’d guess from listening to tales of the land she came from that servants who are paid are more productive than those who aren’t.”
“Are you insinuating that I would accrue more wealth through paying workers than I do through indentured servitude,” he replied.
“Humour me for a moment,” Songbird grinned, “and think about this.”
Merchant Lord Mauricius sat and listened while Songbird presented her argument. He wondered what she would appeal to this time. At least her words made for a fascinating diversion. No tugs on his heartstrings would see him moved. The only morals Mauricius adhered to were those which lined the walls of his vault with gold.
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Lennox froze mid-step. A glint caught his eye. His fingers twitched before he bent to pluck the coin, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger with a frown. Then the Revolutionary cast it to the side.
The coin had no worth to him save for the ink it put to the page. The people’s faith in gold had tarnished with time. Its allure had faded under the weight of lies. Merchants who were once eager to trade in coin now resorted to trading in other goods. It was a shift in the economy of the city which hindered the blossoming of the seeds he’d planted, and the fault could all be laid at the foot of a single Merchant Lord.
Merchant Lord Mauricius existed as a weed in his meticulously ploughed fields. A weed that refused to be plucked. The man had spread rumours about the illicit activities of the Apprentice Salesman, undermining his efforts to tempt the few more stalwart figures among the remaining Merchant Lords. The few guards who remained loyal to the Consortium scoured the city to apprehend the villain. An admirable adherence to their convictions that would nonetheless see them burn.
The Revolutionary slowed as a heated argument blossomed into a fight further ahead. Desperate citizens attacking a black market profiteer. Nothing beyond what he’d come to expect in his quest.
Lennox veered off the main road and eavesdropped on the muttered complaints of a crowd clustered in the lee of a tower. It was time to test a new harvest. Some fields only bloomed when drenched in blood. It had taken some effort to find a sorcerer willing to remove brands from the city’s indentured servants. That alone had provided him with an influx of supporters.
The Revolutionary slowed as a figure atop the tower caught his eye. He smirked a moment later when they cast themselves over the railing. There was a satisfying squelch as their broken body fertilized the soil only a few moments later. Lennox approached the shattered carcass and examined it closer.
Dead.
Lennox spared not another thought before he continued his stroll.
It was nothing more than another bloated merchant — fat on gold — collapsing under the weight of their own avarice.
The city would drown in bodies before his work was done.
His feet took him to an open plaza. A mob of disaffected citizens thronged on black and white tiles. Dissatisfaction had taken root within a handful of revolution cells in the past few weeks. His messengers were losing their way, and he had yet to determine why. Lennox was not prepared to see the seeds he’d sown rot in the shadow of their greed. Better to throw more kindling into the blaze than allow the fires of revolution to dim.
Lennox shoved his way past oblivious rebels and climbed onto a podium. The guards who patrolled this part of the city turn a blind eye to his activities. They had long been turned to his cause through purchased loyalty. One of the darker ironies of what occurred when everything was for sale.
“Is this enough for you?” he thundered as he swept his arm out towards the throng.
He met the eyes of each person in the crowd, watching as their interest sparked. The veil he had once cast upon them vanished as he took to the stage.
“How many of you can afford to eat?” he asked.
Silence fell as thousands of appraising eyes descended upon him.
“The Merchant Lords spirit the fruits of the earth away deep in vaults where they do nothing but rot while the workers who grew them starve!” he shouted and raised a fist into the sky.
There was a hardened intensity buried within the eyes of all who turned his way. Lennox caught a glimpse of muttered disagreement near the back of the crowd. A crop of red flickered for a moment, then disappeared.
“They torture you for sport!” he shouted again while repeating the motion.
The shoulders of a small army firmed as he spoke. His ears caught the muttered oaths from those who served among the Merchant Lords. They murmured of betrayals given, indignities suffered and possessions “confiscated” by their rulers.
“They laugh while you die!” he bellowed a third time while pointing in the direction of the Princely Palace.
An angry mob repeated his words.
“Do you feel it?” the echoes of his words whispered from the walls on the opposite end of the plaza. “The ember in your chest? That spark desperate to ignite and consume the rotten foundation of their rule?”
Now, his Name whispered to him.
Now was the moment to Incite them.
“I ask all of you that live in the margins once again,” his voice rippled outwards. “Is this enough for you?”
The Revolutionary’s smile widened as the mob returned his indignation.
No.
It wasn’t enough for them.
Mercantis was a book with no spine.
Lennox could already see the pages falling apart.
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The wheels of the chariot rattled against the road as Merchant Lord Mauricius departed one of his many estates outside the city for the Guild Exchange, with four armed guards beside him. Hardly any among the richer merchants travelled without an escort these days. It wasn’t long before he was beyond the walled safety of his own garden and out on the open road. He glanced through the window and grimaced at the eyesore that stained the view. Fabianus’s mansion — once one of the jewels of the trip into the city — now lay in ruins. Squatters had taken up residence.
Mauricius waited by the public gate, choosing not to use the private passages reserved for the wealthy. It was a calculated statement designed to build upon the respect he’d earned among the peasantry. The chaos within Mercantis had become deleterious for his profits. It was time for order to be imposed. Merchant Lord Mauricius would campaign for the position of Merchant Prince once the city was secure again now that it was profitable to do so.
Crowds parted as he approached the gate. The rabble roared his name in praise. They called him the common man’s Merchant Lord. He waved out the carriage window in response. He’d been popular among the mob ever since he’d freed indentured servants working within his many ventures. That, and because Mauricius had sponsored bread distribution to undercut the Revolutionary’s rhetoric. Little did they know that he’d only made those decisions after running the numbers on his latest scheme to capitalize on the growing influence of the Revolutionary.
He remained unconvinced as to the efficacy of the labour reforms Songbird had proposed. However, there were other intangible benefits that made them worth the cost. Both the trust and popularity he earned could be leveraged to encourage the people of Mercantis to buy into his newest innovation. It was a ploy that would fail without widespread adoption. One that he’d invested much into the success of.
Merchant Lord Mauricius made no choices save those which fattened his own purse.
The carriage halted outside the walled enclosure separating the Guild Exchange from the more common rabble. Mauricius adjusted his cloak and huffed as he climbed out of the vehicle. His guards followed behind as he strolled towards the gilded doors.
Six attempts had been made on his life by those who had bought into rebellious doctrine in the month and a half since Songbird had first set foot in Mercantis. His rise in popularity had undermined the Revolutionary’s doctrine in a manner that made his continued survival anathema to the movement.
The polished wood stairs creaked as Merchant Lord Mauricius ascended to the second floor of the Guild Exchange. He passed two of his rivals whispering to each other in a red leather booth and moved towards the gated podium overlooking the floor below. He handed the guards before the podium the permit that he’d purchased. It wasn’t long before they’d verified it and ushered him through. Three sharp tugs of the purple silk rope beside him had the brass bell overhead let out a thunderous gong.
“If all of you would spare me a moment of your attention,” he cleared his throat as he addressed the assembly of Merchants.
Numerous heartbeats passed before the raucous din that typically punctuated the Guild Exchange at last died down. Mauricius had paid the requisite fee to address the full gathering of the Guild Exchange. He would milk every moment of their time for what it was worth.
“Only six members of the Forty-Stole Court remain among the living,” he announced as he leaned over the gilded railing. “Mercantis has no Merchant Prince. Rioters have taken to the street. Shipyards have been set alight and the people of Mercantis have lost faith in the value of coin.”
Merchant Lord Mauricius pulled a steel token branded with an intricate series of markings out of the pockets of his green and gold jacket and raised it in the air.
“This token is a solution to our woes,” he paused for effect. “I expect that many of you are confused by my revelation. You are asking yourselves how a circle of steel can restore order to Mercantis. Rest assured, that question and many others will be answered during the course of this demonstration.”
There was nothing truly novel about the invention. It was a modification of an existing enchantment that he had commissioned from a talented Praesi sorcerer that had been provided to him full time by the Dread Empress. Malicia had a vested interest in seeing the fall of the Ravel Bank. She’d deemed it more expedient to control the problem through him than by adding another ball to her juggling act. Mauricius was content to play the part provided it fattened his purse.
Most of the complexity lay in adding deliberate layers of obfuscation to the final working. He examined the crowd below him for any hints of interest. None had taken root yet, but that was to be expected for any grandiose claims.
“This token uses a repurposed version of the brands we use to enforce servitude,” he explained. “It was engineered to fulfil two purposes. The first is to prove the owner’s identity. The second is to store and update a numeric value…”
Merchant Lord Mauricius watched the eyes of the members of the consortium light up as he continued to both dive into the intricacies and extol the virtues of the token. It was nothing more than a variation on existing methods of banking backed by real gold. The enchantment — once set in steel — used for transactions wasn’t replicable by the fae and thus any tokens produced by them would fail to trigger. Transactions were done through tokens instead of through coin or anything else, and were authenticated through a series of proprietary tools purchasable only from his new bank.
Banking was a risky venture that Mauricius would’ve remained away from less chaotic times. However, discord presented an opportunity. Mauricius was never one to turn away from new wealth. He’d leaned on Malicia’s sorcerer to authenticate his existing gold before establishing his new bank.
Those who adopted the system were secure in the knowledge that any gold they traded in had real worth. It was unfortunate that the man claimed that providing such a service within the bank to others for a fee was a waste of his time. Sorcerers were truly blind to what mattered in the world.
There were many ways he planned to capitalize on the trade upheaval that unfolded. Passing labour reforms to make newly freed workers dependent on his banking system would unfortunately have to wait for him to claim the position of Merchant Prince, but with time it was all but assured.
It had been some time since Merchant Lord Mauricius had fought against such a stimulating opposition. He was under no illusions that this was the end of the game he played with the Revolutionary. No, it was nothing more than the start of another round.
Profit remained his inocciduous guide. This contest of theirs afforded him the opportunity to fatten his purse. It was often claimed that there was nothing within the City of Bought and Sold which couldn’t be purchased. Not even the city itself. Mauricius believed that he could put that claim to the test with enough time against his present foe.
He eagerly anticipated the Revolutionary’s next move.