In the Name of John (3)

Scratch, scratch. The sound of the quill gliding smoothly over the parchment filled the silence of the office.

"There we are. Weapons bearing the blessing and name of Ioannes—when I return home, the brothers in Jerusalem will surely rejoice, seeing it as proof that God is with us."

Sir Guillaume signed his name with a flourish at the bottom of the contract. Just a short while ago, during our private meeting when he shattered Justus's armor, his face had been etched with worry. Now, it radiated thick relief, as if he'd finally grasped a lifeline. He had no idea what he'd just stamped his seal on—a contract that would later stick a massive straw into the Jerusalem Kingdom's treasury, sucking it dry like a fool's bargain. All he felt was satisfaction and relief at being able to return to his lord with face intact.

Poor guy didn't even realize he'd been played. And on top of that, this deal he'd just sealed would sow chaos across Europe down the line. As the maker—and a modern man well-versed in history—I could say that with certainty. I chuckled inwardly while nodding gravely on the outside.

"The brothers of the East will bless your decision, Sir Guillaume. The new weapons... regrettably, one of the knights transporting them will meet with an accident on the trade route. But they'll end up in the right hands soon enough."

He flashed a sly, knowing smile at my veiled smuggling reference, the crafty fox. Despite sneaking in secretly, face clouded with anxiety over the exquisite Sirion armor, all it took was handing him these new weapons for him to regain that naive confidence. With them, his ragtag reinforcements could sweep away Middle Eastern armies again. I couldn't help but smile genuinely at his shortsightedness. Why haggle tediously when he was volunteering to play the fool? It was a relief.

"I'll be expecting them. Well then..."

Guillaume pulled his worn robe low over his face and slipped out the back door, his steps far lighter than when he'd arrived.

Only after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠confirming he'd left the industrial zone entirely did Miriam, who'd been holding her breath the whole time, exhale deeply and approach me.

"The leader of an envoy, stamping seals without looking front or back? Totally unexpected."

Knowing all the details, she couldn't help but doubt the knight's intelligence. I lightly stroked her hair and chuckled.

"Obviously. When your ass is on fire and someone tosses you a perfect rope, you gonna inspect if it's rotten or gold? Nah."

"Still... isn't it too blind?"

I kneaded her cheeks as she eyed the door suspiciously and added, "It was prime bait. Holy packaging dripping with sanctity, insane unit costs a third of standard arbalests, and performance leagues ahead. Any commander would buy first, question later."

"Eek... okay, hands off my face! But okay, contract's signed—how're you gonna supply that massive order?"

At her sharp point, I shrugged casually. Sell the main weapon cheap, then bleed them dry on ammo—the classic evil business model. Modern as it gets. With the buyer hooked, it was all about production and delivery now. Secretly, in Duqaq's watchful Damascus territory. Secretly. Important, so I'm saying it twice.

"Can't exactly crank out Crusader-bound arbalests on the main line. If artisans like Kalim, who lost family to them and hold grudges, found out... they'd smash my head with hammers first."

"And word would reach the Malik in seconds."

"Bingo. Unless I'm branded a heretic selling to Crusaders and bolt to Europe, no way."

These artisans had mellowed, but each had their baggage. I'd taken them in knowing that, and never forgotten how to handle them. To expand munitions as 999—that sleazy nomad—wanted, scaling up was essential. Too risky for me alone; headaches mounting.

"I'm not crazy. No plans to drag Kalim-types into this batch."

Miriam eyed me steadily, as if asking how I'd manage then. And voiced it outright.

"So, how're you handling that volume? Most artisans will balk—Rashid or Hasim alone won't cut it..."

Her worried trailing off drew a relaxed smile from me. Crisis is opportunity's twin, right? Production pressure would shake up the routine, and I'd seize it for the big picture.

"Split it ruthlessly. Even tight-lipped guys have limits... Recruit a whole new breed, different from the current crew. Scout land while we're at it, set up a fresh factory. Sound good?"

"A new factory?"

Her fierce glare screamed, You're already buried in paperwork nonstop! I shrugged sheepishly. But no backing down—it was necessary. Core parts, assembly, final steps had to stay hidden to avoid gossip. Artisans weren't idiots; boozing after work, they'd sense something off with their machined bits. A separate factory to conceal the essentials was non-negotiable.

Problem: land and manpower, with my movements restricted. Capital and pretext aplenty, but me scouting or hiring would ping Duqaq's spies. Training newbies would eat time too. Claim it was for elsewhere? Messengers turn executioners overnight.

Answer: a proxy. Hide my identity like a shell company, let a puppet run the show. But where's the right mark... er, talent? Zaid's swamped with caravans, no bandwidth. And too close to me—Duqaq'd suspect.

Conclusion: I run around myself for secret factory land, snag a figurehead manager.

"Who're you putting up? Finding someone low-profile like you in Damascus, tight-lipped and skilled? Sky's the limit. And talented folks don't risk it."

Her valid doubt had me tapping the world map on the desk. West: Mediterranean. East: Baghdad, Silk Road veins.

"Better options than you think. Nomads unbound by faith or flags, wandering free."

She tilted her head at my hint, then ventured cautiously, "You mean... the Radhanites?"

Her eyes narrowed even as she said it. Wood merchant's daughter or not, she was a merchant. Any trader ashamed not to know Radhanites—their name once towered.

They'd shuttled wealth from European courts to North Africa, Middle East, even Tang China via Silk Road—a commerce colossus. Past tense? Simple: they'd tanked hard. Near 200 years of blows—Tang collapse, Caliphate fractures—sank them.

Now? Lingering as interpreters or financiers for Genoese/Venetian caravans east. Or scraping by from Europe to Byzantium to Baghdad.

Mediterranean merchants stole the seas, no Caliphs protected them, Tang gone—sunk inevitable.

"They're toothless old wolves now. Not the mighty Radhanites of old."

"Exactly why they're perfect. Folks who've had it all excel at it. What's common among juggernauts? Vision for eras and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠killer luck."

She looked skeptical—Really?—so I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressed.

"Sure, faded after 200 years, but Jewish knack doesn't vanish. Stingy with coin like any Eastern trader. Prime bait for them."

Not wrong. Her eyes agreed. But the silent Betrayal risk? got my confident grin.

"You know it, Miriam. If profit trumps risk, merchants grab it."

She sighed, hands up in surrender. "True... unbound by our laws or their Pope, chasing only gold's protection."

"Right. Any land's just a payday spot. Even this Jerusalem-held dirt, unless it pays them."

She scoffed at my future-vision words—nonsense from powerless moneymen retaking Jerusalem? Fantasy.

"Anyway, seems solid to you too?"

"Yeah... looks good."

"Great. Tomorrow, we hunt..."

She shook her head wearily but hugged my arm, giggling softly. Perfect. Pipeline planned. Just scour markets for a usable Jewish drifter...

THUD—!!

My grand branch vision shattered as the office door burst open. Prime timing, as always. No surprise or annoyance anymore—just routine.

"Baraka, industrial lord!"

There stood the captain of Duqaq's guard, panting, flanked by Sirion-clad torchbearers.

Miriam blanched paper-white. I glanced at the hidden blueprints and ledgers, then rose.

"What brings the Guard Captain himself here at night? No word of a visit."

I forced a calm smile, but cold sweat trickled down my spine. Guillaume left via back door mere 10 minutes ago. Timing too perfect for coincidence. Tail on exit? Nah, knight's no slouch. Duqaq sniffed it? Unlikely—we'd just discussed. No bugs in this dark age. No Joseon stone locks yelling "I saw it with my own eyes!" No ninjas in the ceiling. Middle East ninjas? I'd be paranoid too. So, hoping no such horrors, I faced him.

He scanned the room sharply instead of answering, eyes lingering on the paper-strewn corner. Sirion scales rustled as he spoke.

"You'll accompany me to the citadel. Now."

"This late? Dawn tomorrow..."

"The great Malik's command. He wants you immediately."

Testing waters? Or fresh leash? Just as I eyed new markets beyond the board—power's short fuse yanking ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my collar, dragged off in perfect irony.