In the Name of John (2)
"Alright, time to get ready for our VVIP customer."
With that one line to steel myself, Miriam finally slid off my lap. She'd been wrestling with that mountain of paperwork since early morning—minus a brief break for rest and food, she'd basically spent the entire day buried in documents. Three days' worth, no less. Processing that much in a single day was insane to begin with, but then Hasim had innocently dumped today's stack of files and ledgers on top. The only reason I hadn't drowned in that black-and-white tidal wave was entirely thanks to Miriam.
Anyway, it was time to set work aside, at least for now. An important guest was due any minute, and as I tidied the scattered papers, I glanced out the window. The red sunset had vanished, replaced by pitch-black night sky.
"What? It's already this late?"
Miriam giggled at my words, but I just rubbed my dry, stinging eyes—staring at paper and ink all day had made them ache like hell. Artificial tears sounded tempting, but getting clubbed to squeeze out real ones was more realistic. Even in this barbaric medieval world, carving out a spot at the top wasn't easy.
As I stretched my back, Miriam meticulously gathered the ledgers, filed them away, and straightened my clothes in a flash. It was the perfect picture of a blushing bride and her husband—pure newlywed vibes.
'My wife, after all.'
But idle thoughts like that didn't last. Her gaze flicked between the blueprints and me, like she had something to say. She trusted me, sure, but worry won out. Probably fretting over how to handle this thing.
"Baraka, are you sure this is okay? I believe you can make outstanding gear, but that's exactly why I'm worried. Is handing the weapons you create to them really the right choice...?"
Her concern was valid—hell, I wondered why she hadn't brought it up earlier. The industrial complex was a massive nest built on land granted by Damascus's ruler, Duqaq. History said this Crusade was doomed to get crushed. But if I armed them properly? Even if their weapons couldn't fully pierce Sirion scales, our side's casualties would rise.
Times being what they were, selling arms to European enemies from Islam's heartland was like flipping off Duqaq with a giant middle finger—practically daring him to come get me. To Miriam, born and raised here, it must look like playing with fire. And arms dealing between hostile nations always draws side-eye, no matter the era.
"What's the problem? When you're fleecing rich, dumb suckers for their wallets, who gives a shit if they're infidels or whatever."
"Money's great, but this is Damascus. Even if Hasim, me, and Dad have your back, the artisans in the complex might not. Their brothers and families could be dying under Crusader blades right now. If they find out we're arming the enemy, it could spark a riot. And if it reaches the Malik's ears..."
"It'd blow up into treason charges or something, yeah?"
My casual tone downplayed the chill-inducing words, and Miriam's eyes went wide, staring up at me in disbelief. But I had my side too.
"Miriam, you know what people think when they get power?"
She tilted her head at my question. I wasn't expecting an answer anyway—her cute reaction softened me up, and I pressed on.
"Greed kicks in. Greed that swells beyond control. It spreads, inevitably turning on those around them. Those guys pour money into weapons, grind through troops to grab land—and what do they end up with? Bigger territory, wary neighbors, depleted forces, and shrunk coffers. Magic where the only gain is land amid massive losses? From our side, it's free money without lifting a finger."
Tying it to humanity's historical idiocy seemed to ease her gaze. At least she had a defense for the Malik now.
"And we just rob the wallets of the ones who come crawling back for more weapons. Money multiplies, right? By then, the Malik won't dare touch us—I'm sure of it."
Yeah. With the Malik's push clearing out the stagnant blacksmith guild, our bulk now dominated the local arms market. The petty domain wars among Europe's kingdoms and nobles? Their influence on me would grow with their greed, tying us less to one-sided dependence on Duqaq. I never planned to stick with him forever anyway. And I was confident I wouldn't live in fear here.
The key was how well those around me grasped my intent. But enough of that—the talk paused as our precious customer... er, guest walked in on his own two feet.
"...I hope I'm not intruding."
Guided by Kalim through the sprawling complex, Sir Guillaume finally entered the office. His getup was unexpectedly low-key—no parade-ground finery, just a worn traveler's robe hooding his face, hiding his identity. A bold knight and envoy slinking in like a secret visitor screamed it from every pore. But he couldn't hide the sword hilt peeking from under the robe or the glint in his eyes, even in the dim light.
Roles reversed from before. I was seller, he buyer. My prime mark. I flashed a relaxed smile and opened.
"Didn't expect the envoy captain to sneak in the back gate at night. Hoping it's something big."
I settled into the curule chair, feigning ease, spine straight, sipping tea. Cocky, maybe, but he scanned the office from his seat, sizing me up. Got a rough estimate? He eyed the floor's faint disorder traces, then spoke.
"Some nights, practicality trumps pride. And visiting a foreign blacksmith like you at the front gate in daylight? Not ideal for my position."
His tone stayed stiff, but I read between the lines. A proud noble knight hiding his rank to see me? Had to be a proposal he couldn't make openly—or a shady deal.
"Tea? Oh, might not suit a knight's palate."
"Skip the courtesy. Etiquette in a covert meet is laughable."
Aware of his own sneakiness, he ditched noble circumlocution for a fastball.
"Straight to it, then. I'm curious about you. Don't look like a local infidel. Street talk says you're from Shiraz, but my gut whispers otherwise."
His gaze narrowed, steady on me. But he wasn't done.
"Your craft baffles me. If you deny it, fine—but it feels off for 'far eastern' tech from whatever distant land you claim."
Spot-on instinct, closing in. My throat burned, but no panic.
"But that's not the point now. I'm here to propose. We need that tech too."
Guillaume smirked slyly.
"I'm not like that pup Justus—no theft planned, and I know formal tech transfer's off-table. But... if your goods 'accidentally' go missing and flow our way?"
Jackpot. I'd planned to hook him into shipping to Europe; now he was begging. Sirion-clad Muslims must've spooked him. Perfect bait timing. I revved up slow.
"Hmm, leaks would piss off the Malik. But losses in transit? Unavoidable."
"True. Big ops always have shrinkage."
He nodded along. I set my cup down, voice low.
"More importantly, Sir Guillaume—do you believe in miracles?"
His brow furrowed at the sudden shift from gritty arms smuggling to religion. He coughed, stalling.
"Didn't expect that from an infidel smith in an infidel city. Asking a knight about miracles? Rude, no?"
"Rude? Just checking. Infidel or not, what's it matter for miracles? Isn't there one source?"
He nodded; I jumped in.
"Then miracles touch all. I'm offering something helpful... care to hear?"
His evasion failed; I had the pace. Suspicion and curiosity flickered—I dove in, hawking hard.
"My homeland had no priests when faith bloomed. No missionaries ever set foot."
"Nonsense. How without their teachings?"
"They sought heaven's way through books alone, faith sprouting unseen. Self-grown belief at world's end, unspread. Imagine?"
He scoffed.
"Absurd! Faith without priests? Devil's heresy, maybe—but a book to reach the Word?"
"'Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.' (Dicit ei Iesus Quia vidisti me, credidisti beati qui non viderunt, et crediderunt.)"
The fluent Latin shut his sneer cold.
"Gospel of John...?"
"Sir Guillaume. You took the cross to reclaim the Holy Land, but my people believed without seeing. These weapons..."
I slid him a blueprint Miriam had tidied—rough frame exposed, corner marked IOANNES. It hooked his eyes.
"...bear the name for those who believed unseen, a gift to brothers."
Struck dumb, he gawked between blueprint and me. A smith in Islam's core from a holy eastern Christian kingdom? Perfect medieval knight fantasy.
But religion high or not, I'd club his daze with capitalism's bat.
"True miracles aren't faith, though."
"What...?"
"This arbalest. No iron. Pure wood, horn, sinew—pierces chainmail. Lighter, simpler. Farm serfs with lifetime plows become one-man armies."
I locked eyes, dropping the devil's number.
"Key: cost. No iron means under a third your stirrup crossbows."
"...!"
"Kill obstacles for pennies. Army miracle, right?"
His eyes bugged. Knight first, but noble, veteran commander—religion hit plus insane value obliterated reason. Faith plus utility: unbeatable pitch. Refusing as a war leader? Sin.
I drove the wedge soft into his stun.
"Main units 'regretfully lost' near cost."
Targeting his blank, I rattled off arrows, quivers, correlations—like insurance fine print, glossed over. Double-dosed, he couldn't call bullshit.
"Let's... negotiate. Jerusalem needs John's arbalests."
Perfect. Sucker sealed. Bodies dirt-cheap, consumables monopolized. Ultimate Crusader cash cow complete.