Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 855

Chapter 855: Merchant business(2)

Aron looked up from his desk, his quill pausing mid-stroke as his eyes settled on the man who had begun appearing with greater and greater frequency in his reports.

Ivaylo of Villagus. A merchant, and yet not a simple one, he was more than that, a player who seemed to understand the rules of power better than most nobles Aron had ever dealt with. One of the chief actors was now striding across the stage of the rising semi-industrial complex of the princedom.

Most merchants who petitioned for leases on crown land behaved as cowards, investing with one foot in and one foot out. They dipped their toes in, tested the waters, and pulled out the moment risk rippled the surface. Not Ivaylo. He threw himself in body and purse alike.

Aron’s records showed at least 2,500 silverii poured into land purchases alone, triple the acreage of vines that any other house dared maintain.

Aron had approved the requests, of course. It was his duty as the one appointed to oversee such matters.

And he of course, had no ground nor reason to refuse the counteroffer, though vineyards were many, oil presses were few, so as a condition for his expansion into wine, Ivaylo had been forced to sink coin into olive groves and oileries, an arrangement Aron had thought might slow him down while having some more land dedicated to olive trees.

Ivaylo was quick to read the wind, quicker still to avoid entangling himself in the crown’s own tendrils. Time and again, he had refused offers of initial patronage, no doubt aware that whatever the crown gave now would be clawed back tenfold once the orchards and presses bore fruit.

And there were… other whispers. Reports Aron had collected in the margins of merchant ledgers and idle tongues. Ivaylo reaching out, weaving strands between himself and lesser traders. Worse still, deals struck directly with artisans in the capital, those that belonged to the market unclaimed by the trade guild.

The crown had cracked open a market unshackled from them, and Ivaylo had been the first to jam his boot into the door.

Iron from Romelia,Silica for glass-maker, who truly was the only one in all of Yarzat who had been poached by being offered a royal contract if he transferred from the capital of Romelia to that of Yarzat.

It was said he had secured contracts for them all, basically giving to many of them raw materials for low cost, in exchange for receiving at the same discount a percentage of the finished products from the materials he had provided.

In this way the artisans received a portion of their materials for little and the merchant acquired finished product to ship elsewhere at low cost.

He was smart, Aron judged, and he was growing too fast, too unchecked.

Aron felt unease coil in his gut as he studied the man seated across from him. The prince, of course, saw nothing but boon. A swelling tide of commerce flowing into the city, foreign merchants arriving in Ivaylo’s wake like gulls to a ship. For every coin he siphoned away, he made certain to show ten glittering in the markets.

Still, Aron did not trust him. Men who rose too quickly often had foundations built on sand, wishing to make a castle out of shaky ground, and when they fell, they dragged others with them. Yet suspicion could not outweigh necessity. Ivaylo was one of the princedom’s heaviest investors, and Aron’s duty was not to clip wings, but to ensure the bird continued to fly in the direction the crown desired.

He set his quill aside, and gave himself a fake smile that he prepared to address the merchant opposite him.

“Sir Aron! Always a pleasure to be in your company.” Ivaylo’s voice carried an unreciprocated warmth that filled the chamber as he bowed low, his smile wide enough to show teeth. “These are truly fortunate times we live in. Blessed be His Grace, whose mercy allows us merchants to flourish.”

He’s in a good mood, Aron judged as he rose to return the greeting.

“Glory to His Grace indeed,” Aron replied with a measured nod, his voice calm, courteous, but never effusive. “It is a pleasure to meet with you as well, Master Ivaylo.”

“I pray it was not overbearing of me,” Ivaylo continued, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. At the signal, his slave stepped forward, careful not to meet Aron’s eyes, and set an urn of dark clay upon the table along with two modest cups. “A small token of my labor. The fruit of my soil.”

The urn was uncorked, the liquid poured, and in moments a cup was extended toward the royal diplomat of the prince.

I wonder if he knows, Aron thought as he accepted it.

As it happened, Ivaylo did know.

The knight raised the cup, swirled it once, then brought it to his nose. The aroma was thin, lacking the deep bouquet that older vineyards produced, but not unpleasant. A young wine, certainly, barely three years since Ivaylo had first broken the soil for grapes. Of course it could not yet rival the vintages hoarded in Romelia’s cellars, but this was not a gift meant to impress the tongue.

Aron understood. He was no connoisseur, but he understood gestures.

He took a sip. The taste was raw, not yet rounded, but serviceable. Better than most peasant swill. “It is not bad,” he judged aloud, honest enough not to cheapen the exchange.

Ivaylo’s grin widened. “The first pressing of the year. Still green, but I preferred to bring something of mine, rather than something bought.”

“The gesture is appreciated,” he said after a moment, setting the cup down with deliberate care. “I shall order fifty batches of this, for personal use, and to congratulate you for being the first vintner of Yarzat to bring his own soil to bottle.”

The merchant’s eyes glimmered at the words.

“Then I could toast to that.” He lifted his cup, and Aron raised his in turn, their clay vessels meeting with a quiet tap.

They drank together, draining what was offered.

Aron set the empty vessel aside, folding his hands atop the table. “Tell me, then,” he said, his tone shifting into the weight of business. “How progresses your first venture? The vineyards you petitioned for?”

Ivaylo leaned back slightly, resting one hand on the table, the other on the arm of his chair.

“Well enough, Sir Aron,” he began. “The hardest part is always the swallowing, the initial costs, the investments that bleed one’s purse before the fruit can be gathered. Especially the monthly salary I was forced to pay….But that stage is behind me now. The fields are planted, the workers trained, the presses running. The vines are still young, but the soil here is kind, and the sun generous. Already we see returns enough to supply not only the taverns of Yarzat, but the soldiers as well.”

No doubt Ivaylo had set aside a number of urns to age, letting them mellow into something finer for a higher price later. But the bulk of his stock, Aron suspected, was destined for the local market.

For now, Ivaylo would test the waters,filling cups in the taverns and wine-houses of Yarzat, supplying the demand of a young city still stretching its limbs. And demand there was. The legionnaires garrisoned in the city carried coin enough and bellies stout enough to crave better fare than the common man’s. Where peasants contented themselves with ale brewed from wheat, soldiers sought the richer taste of wine.

Aron had saw how they ate; he knew their rations were not far removed from a merchant’s own table. Their palates, trained on higher cuisine demanded stronger drink to match. On their rest days they wandered the streets, filling the taverns with their noise and their silver, and they did not hesitate to spend for wine.

”I am pleased to see that there have been no complications with our directives,” Aron said, setting the cup down gently. “Everything appears to be under regulation, exactly as the law demands.”

Ivaylo’s brows rose with polite curiosity, though he already knew the answer to the question he voiced. “Am I to take it that not all cases have been so… orderly?”

“Indeed.” Aron’s tone cooled a fraction. “For every three vineyards established, it seems one attempts to cut corners and drive down costs illegally. We uncovered one merchant, for instance, who thought himself clever by freeing his slaves, only to rehire them at half the minimum wage set by decree . Naturally, he was soon discovered and fined. When he proved unable to pay, his vineyard was seized and now rests under the Crown’s domain.”

He took another sip of the wine, then fixed Ivaylo with a measured look. “It is good to see you have not fallen into such folly. I trust you are sensible enough to recognize that shortcuts in defiance of the law never end well.”

“Of course, sir,” Ivaylo replied with a respectful nod. He was no fool. Yarzat was full of political agents and informants, and any leased plot of land was as easy to check upon as opening a ledger.

A man might escape trouble once, but never twice.

The only thing the prince seemed to love more than war was his bureaucracy.

Aron allowed himself the faintest curl of a smile. “Still, as much as your company lightens the day, I cannot imagine you came all this way merely to gift me wine.”

Ivaylo gave a modest chuckle and bowed his head. “You suppose rightly, sir. I came to enlist in the latest merciful grant his Grace has extended to us merchants. I was pleasantly surprised when the news reached me, and since I was close by, I felt it only proper to present myself in person.”

“Always a pleasure to have you with us, Master Ivaylo,” Aron said, his tone polite but edged with professional weight, after all, despite whatever he thought of him, it would do them only good to have the current rising star on their side when fighting the institutions of the traders guild.