“How much grain?” Baron Clovis asked. The goblet of wine froze halfway to his lips, then was carefully placed back on his desk as he turned to fully face his Steward.

  Steward Malcus gulped and after the smallest of hesitations, repeated –“At least a hundred tons My Lord. And, ahh, not just grain either.”

  The baron tapped at his desk, his face a nearly blank mask. Nearly.

  He wasn’t happy. That much Malcus could read!

  “How much was the Road Tax?”

  “Ahh, the usual passage fees were waved-“

  “None?” His voice became dangerously calm.

  “Not none, My Lord.” He hurried to assure him. “Just not technically a tax. They acted as a trade caravan for us in lieu of such. Twenty tons of grain for a like weight of Posca- which as you know we have a large quantity of and little use for-“

  “The Basics use it as a preservative, do they not? Pickels and such?”

  “Ah, yes Sire.”

  “Is that why this mewling baronet wants it?”

  “I, ahh, I don’t think so. Former soldiers, Bandsman you understand. Low tastes and no breeding. I believe they intend to…” He hesitated, then in a voice fit for ghost stories and frightening children continued. “drink it.”

  The baron stared at him for a moment, then grunted refusing to dignify the idea with a retort. Still… “Failed wine for grain. It’s a good deal. Worth waving the fees on a few wagons or a boat. But for four large river boats...” He mused.

  Malcus hesitated; he considered reminding his baron that he had agreed to the trade some months ago. But good sense prevailed. The baron wasn’t the type to punish without a reason. Not if you gave him time to think things through. But he did have a temper.

  “An impressive caravan.” The Baron muttered at last. Shaking his head at the lost opportunity.

  And Malcus wished he could leave it there. He really did. But…

  “Ahh, Sire?”

  “Yes?”

  “It wasn’t just that.” He winced as the glare returned, but pushed onward quickly. “The boats stopped on the way back through, and we did a decent bit of trade with them-“ he hurriedly included, “-and they weren’t shy about talking. It wasn’t just 4 boats that left the Riverlands. It was 12 and from what they claimed near enough to 700 tons of grain.”

  The barons stilled again, like a snake preparing to strike, Malcus mused as his mouth went dry.

  “700. Tons.” He spat the words out. Fury mixed with something else. Something that might just have been… fear. He spent a moment, his lips moving soundlessly. Then at last spoke again. “Around 15 thousand gold? How?”

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  He gulped. “Not, not that much My Lord. Much less in the Riverlands. And even that likely wasn’t all theirs. It’s, ah, not something I can confirm My Lord. But the Baronet’s father-in-law is Baron Theodric of Rivervald and they mentioned several other nobles saw the boats off.”

  He tapped his fingers against the desk again. Slowly. Ponderously. “A partners? That’s… good. And bad.” The Baron mused. “Sharing profits, he won’t have all of that in his war chest. But… the connections it implies…”

  The Steward nodded. Connections could be worth more than gold at times. Expecially if… “Ah, My Lord?”

  “You have more bad news?” He asked, his tone becoming dangerously sharp.

  “Ah, not more. Just an observation. Only 4 boats passed us. The other 8 made their trades and turned back. All that grain, and after a harsh winter. Depending on the price, that’s a great deal of will, good or ill.”

  “Hmmm. Now that is a true statement. The next road patrol, have them find out. And plan to send our own traders up, by mid-summer perhaps? And sponsor a few ‘hunters’ to scout out those hills. That we can start in the next few weeks, yes? I need to know more about this new neighbor. And apparently, I need to know it soon.”

  “Yes My Lord.”

  ___

  Marcellus, 5th of his name, defender of the Northwest and by the Emperor’s grace, the Count of Auenland, was surprised.

  “How much grain?”

  “700 tons My Lord. And the Barons along his route are singing his praises as it was sold as low as 16 silvers per score south of here, and 21 just north.”

  The count grunted. “Kind of him.” And either brilliant or completely foolish. Depending on what he got it for.

  “Any idea what he paid?”

  “Anything I might say would be but guesswork, My Lord.”

  “Then guess!” he barked, giving his spymaster a gimlet stare.

  The man swallowed and with an uncomfortable shrug spoke. “The grain was ready and waiting for them at Rivervald. Baron Theodric’s doing-“ The father-in-law, and a powerful man in his own right. He had to be, to guard the Riverlands north against, well, himself. “-but he didn’t manage it alone. There were at least 3 other Barons involved. Between them, they likely acquired the grain from the good Duke in this last season's, ah, unpleasantness.”

  “I found it quite pleasant!” The count snorted. Damn that fat, crooked old man. May he choke on the shame! And another duke just might have, but this was Obstegartenfeld. He’d long proved he didn’t have any shame.

  “Ah, yes Sire. But you see, it makes guessing the price difficult. Much of it was acquired by force of arms not coin. But with such a glut offered the price to sell it downriver was likely low.”

  “Why? It’s the same harvest, good but not great, as seen in many a year. Why would that produce a glut?”

  The spymaster nodded along cautiously. “It was exactly that, My Lord. A good but not exceptional year. But even in a great year, they don’t sell all the grain they harvest. Some of it should have fed Obstegartenfeld itself. And that takes no small amount!” The count nodded easily, as the second largest city in the empire, even if it was completely outclassed by the capital, the stomachs within were not easily filled. “-but another large portion of the crops, grape and grain, goes to the vintners, not the grain boats.”

  “Ah!” Now that. That he understood. “More raw products sold and less refined.”

  “Yes Sire.”

  “So your guess?”

  “Ten, maybe twelve silvers per score.”

  “Profits just shy of half again to almost double?”

  “Conservatively My Lord. I’d remove the ‘just shy’ and ‘almost.’”

  The count grunted. Considering the trophies on his walls, and a tiger head in particular. Well into the 3rd tier when they killed it, and not yet fully grown. It had still managed to kill several decades of men before they found it. If it had grown up and broken into the fourth tier? Perhaps it would have wiped out a barony. Or got itself killed fighting one of the existing beast kings.

  Either way, the ground had to be mapped, and the powers on it tested before he’d decide.

  “New as they are, they wouldn’t turn back a trade caravan.”

  “No Sire. They would not.” The spy smiled easily.

  “Make it happen.” And soon they would see.

  Was the young pup brilliant?

  Or a great fool.

  ____