Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 862

Chapter 862: Opportunities(2)

Arlon shifted uncomfortably on the padded chair, his rough palms gripping his knees as if afraid to soil the furniture. The fabric was soft , too soft for the likes of him, and he found himself wondering how much it must have cost.

It wasn’t as if the room was richly decorated like the royal court, but to a man whose house walls were of hay and timber, even the sight of a painted beam and cushions on a seat was luxury enough to set him on edge.

He tried to sit straight, his boots awkwardly tucked under him, while his eldest son Grev stood beside him, his single arm hanging rigidly at his side.

Behind the table sat a man who looked as if he had never swung a scythe in his life. His robe was a crisp beige, the sleeves neatly folded back to reveal soft hands stained faintly with ink. His hair was combed back and held in place with oil.

“Good morning, Mr…?” the man began, breaking Arlon from his uneasy thoughts.

Arlon blinked, scrambling to respond. “Ah—Arlon, sir. And this one’s my son. I am the village head of Crosk”

The man smiled at once, wide and polite, as though he’d been expecting the mistake. “Please, don’t call me sir, Mr. Arlon. I’m no knight. Just an employee of the court. Mr. Frowk will do.”

There was something easy in his tone that set calm in Arlon.

Frowk’s gaze flicked to Grev for a heartbeat, lingering on the missing arm, before returning to Arlon with another reassuring grin. “Now then, Mr. Arlon, I assume you already know something of our services? Or would you prefer that I explain them from the start?”

“I’d be grateful if you explained, Mr. Frowk,” Arlon said, lowering his gaze slightly. “I only know barely the basics.”

“Of course.” The bureaucrat clasped his hands neatly atop a pile of parchments. “In short, the Bureau of Agriculture exists to provide farmers and landowners with improved tools and implements, hoes, shovels, ploughs, scythes, and even axes, all of iron. Sturdy, reliable, and made to last. You’ll take one and you will pass it to your grandson, Mr Arlon.”

Arlon nodded slowly, though half his mind was still trying to grasp that such things could truly be bought by men like him.

“May I ask,” Frowk went on, “how you came to hear of our program?”

“Well, last harvest, the tax collector told me,” Arlon said, clearing his throat. “Said the crown wanted villages like ours to send a man to see the terms. So I came.”

Frowk nodded approvingly. “Good. That was the crown’s intention. We’ve sent word through the tax offices of every province.” He straightened slightly in his seat. “From this point forward, Mr. Arlon, know that what I say carries the will of the crown. And I swear upon my office that it is true.”

Since Jasmine had taken the throne, the crown’s image among the common folk had grown almost too bright for its own good.

Alpheo and Jasmine’s had brought a string of small mercies that felt like miracles to those who worked the soil: lighter taxes, safer roads patrolled by men in uniform , and a growing tide of merchants who now travelled the countryside and buy grain directly from the villages instead of waiting at cities. Add to that the steady hand of the court’s reforms, and it was easy to see why the crown was so beloved.

The crown had become, in their eyes, something close to a guardian rather than a distant collector of coin.

So when the bureaucrat invoked the crown’s authority and gestured toward the sigil painted proudly on the wall behind him the effect was immediate. Those seated across from him straightened their backs, their doubts quieted, and they listened.

“Now then,” Frowk continued, shuffling through his papers, “let’s see how we might be of service to you, Mr. Arlon of Crosk. Tell me, what sort of land do you till, and how many families does your village feed?”

Arlon hesitated, glancing at Grev. He wasn’t used to questions like that, and the way Frowk’s quill hovered over the parchment made him feel suddenly small and important all at once.

“Mostly rye, cabbages and potatoes, with of course some grain, sir—ah, Mr. Frowk,” he corrected quickly. ” We’ve twenty families in the village. Soil’s good, but the tools…” He rubbed his palms together, rough and calloused. “Well I know it is better to have them of iron, rather than not.”

Frowk gave a sympathetic hum as he dipped his quill and began to write something onto the parchment before him. “Then you’ve come at just the right time, Mr. Arlon,” he said, his voice warm and practiced. “The Crown informs us that in nearly every land where iron tools have been introduced, the yield has increased by as much as fifty percent.”

For a moment, both father and son sat silent, uncertain of how to respond. They leaned toward trusting the man,especially since he was authorized to hold the crown’s emblem on the wall.

Especially Grev, who during his three years of service in the First Legion had learned to see the Crown as something larger than any one person. The Prince’s name had weight in his heart.

And besides, even now, his family reaped the fruits of that service, his honorable discharge had exempted them from the taxes on their crops. That alone was more kindness than most men received in a lifetime.

And Frowk was not lying. Iron tools truly did work the land better than wood or bronze, their edges bit deeper, turning the soil to richer breath and drawing water closer to the roots.

“M–May I ask,” Arlon said at last, voice low and cautious, “what the prices are for these things?”

“Of course,” Frowk replied smoothly, as though the question were expected. “An iron hoe would cost four silverii; a shovel, six; an axe, eight; and for the plow—” he paused to look up, almost apologetically “—forty silverii.”

As the words left Frowk’s mouth, the color drained from Arlon’s face. Four silverii alone was more than what most men saw in a month, and farmers rarely earned more than three times that sum in a year. But forty? That was nearly half a lifetime of sweat and calloused hands.

Of course, his situation was different. His son’s years in the legion had brought home one hundred and thirty silverii in discharge pay, coin that still lay tucked away beneath the floorboards, meant to expand the fields next spring. Still, even with that comfort, forty silverii felt like a mountain made of iron.

The plow, like so many good things in life, seemed destined to remain only a dream.

Frowk, however, was a man who knew the expression of the common folk, he saw the droop of the shoulders, the flicker of despair in the eyes, and, as trained by his superiors, he struck while the mood hung low.

“Mr. Arlon,” he said kindly, folding his hands over the desk, “if you fear that you may not be able to pay for them in coin, you need not worry. The Crown, in its wisdom, has made provision for that as well. There is another way of repayment.”

Both father and son straightened at that.

“Since you are, as I see here,” he flipped briefly through a thin folder of names, “the headman of Crosk, I would assume your intent is to acquire enough tools for the entire village?”

Arlon nodded, the spark of curiosity already rising in his eyes.

“Well then, you may be pleased to know,” Frowk continued with a genial smile, “that you could walk out of this office today with those tools already on your cart, without laying down a single silverii.”

Arlon blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard correctly, Mr. Arlon,” Frowk said smoothly, clearly used to this very reaction.

“If you do not wish to pay in coin, then you may pay in kind. Under the Crown’s new policy, when the collectors next visit your village, instead of taking the usual twenty percent of your annual levy, they will take forty. The additional twenty will be used to pay down the value of the tools. And since your yields will increase by half with iron implements, you will still bring home more food and profit than before.”

He let that sink in for a heartbeat before continuing.

“Each time the collectors come, they will issue a parchment detailing the remaining balance of your debt. Once the total is settled, the tools will become your permanent property, and the debt will be considered cleared.”

Arlon’s jaw slackened slightly. He could almost see the new tools glinting in the morning light of Crosk, the fields plowed deeper, the harvest richer, the other farmers shaking his hand for securing such a gift. His heart thumped faster at the thought.

“That’s….by the gods, that’s more than fair!” he breathed, his voice shaking with excitement. “If what you say is true, we could have the whole village outfitted for the next harvest!”

But Grev, ever the soldier, ever the cautious one, kept his father’s enthusiasm in check. He leaned forward slightly.

“And what happens,” he asked, “if a village fails to pay its debt in let’s say ten years?”

The bureaucrat didn’t seem offended by the question. In fact, he appeared rather pleased to be given the chance to clarify.

“Well there is of course a limit of time, ranging from five years to twenty for the plow.

In such cases,” he said gently, “the debtor will be given a choice. They may either pay an additional fifteen percent on top of the remaining balance, spread again over the following seasons, or they may return the tools in good condition, and the debt will be canceled entirely.”

He paused, his voice taking on an almost paternal warmth. “I assure you, young man, slavery by bondage was abolished by the prince. The Crown will also not seize property for unpaid debts, nor will your land be taken.”

Alpheo’s true purpose in launching the program had little to do with earning silver as much as on Improving food production across his princedom.

The more iron tools he could spread through the crownlands, the greater the yield and with every harvest that swelled, so too would the tax coffers that fed his wars.

“Now then, Mr. Arlon,” Frowk said, tapping the parchment before him, “we should take note of your request. How many tools does your village require?”

Arlon thought a moment, his lips moving silently as he counted. “Ten hoes, two shovels…” He hesitated, glancing at Grev as though asking permission to dream bigger. “And one plow.”

Frowk nodded approvingly, already scratching the numbers onto the ledger. “Very good. That will be delivered to the village by week’s end, should you confirm your choice of payment. Are you ready to sign the contract, Mr. Arlon?”

Before Arlon could nod, Grev cleared his throat. “Before that—” he said, his tone careful, practiced from years of reporting to officers. “I should mention… I’m a retired legionnaire. Served three years in the White Army. First Legion.”

The change in Frowk’s demeanor was immediate and striking. His brows shot up, the quill froze mid-stroke, and within the space of a heartbeat, the bureaucrat was half out of his chair.

“By the Crown!” he exclaimed, standing and bowing deeply across the desk. “A veteran of the White Army, please, you should have said so at once!”

He hastily snatched up the contract he had been writing, tore it cleanly in two, and tossed the pieces aside with a sheepish laugh.

“In that case,” he said, almost breathless with new deference, “you are entitled to the veteran’s discount. Twenty percent off.

On behalf of the crown I thank you for service sir…”