Terms of the Deal
Baron Cliv Greenhilt had been nursing a splitting headache of late.
The cause was everything currently unfolding across his territory.
It had begun with the Great Southern Expedition two years ago.
Or perhaps the roots stretched even further back than that.
The Steel Kingdom, perched at the southeastern tip of the continent, was defined by a tangled landscape of hundreds of mountains and ranges. The terrain carried both blessings and curses. Its greatest blessing was the wealth of mineral veins. True to the kingdom’s name, iron was abundant, and gold and silver lay so thick that neighboring nations looked on with open envy. The ranges themselves stood in for fortress walls, leaving the realm naturally favored in any war against outsiders.
The curse, however, was a chronic crisis of food. More precisely, stabilizing the grain supply had always been nearly impossible. It was not merely that mountains outnumbered plains and left too little land for farming. The vast unexplored wilderness of forest and range made ideal dens for monsters, and those frenzied beasts rarely stayed put. Every year as winter drew near they descended on the villages, devouring crops, livestock, and people without distinction. Throughout the long history of the Steel Kingdom, farming had been little more than an endless tug-of-war with monsters.
In the midst of that cycle, a large-scale expedition had been launched two years earlier. The main force had naturally been the soldiers of Margrave Biswald; Baron Greenhilt had supplied materials from the rear. Greenhilt produced the second-largest harvest in the kingdom, so becoming the margrave’s son-in-law had not given him leave to quietly withdraw. He could only be thankful he had suffered no open penalty.
That much he understood. The trouble was that a great many of the margrave’s troops who had been stationed inside the barony had been pulled away for the expedition. Monsters appeared most often on the farmlands, and with the garrisons that should have guarded those fields suddenly thinned, damage was inevitable. The real problem was that the damage had continued without end for two full years—and of late it had grown even worse.
“Sissel. Could you send the margrave one more letter?”
“Writing a letter is no trouble, but he refused the last one. I hear Biswald territory is wrestling with the same crisis right now.”
At her husband’s request, Sissel Greenhilt—his second wife—frowned and declared the effort useless. Until two years ago she had been Sissel Biswald, the margrave’s seventh daughter. Before the marriage the baron had sworn to himself, again and again, that pride would never let him make such a plea. As the situation worsened, however, pride had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
“This is serious. Deaths among the mercenaries and hunters keep rising. If this year turns out like the last, we may see riots break out across the territory…”
It was August, the height of the baptism season. Harvest time was drawing near. Autumn was when the forest monsters came down to the villages most aggressively. First the wild animals prowled the fields and houses in search of food; the monsters followed those animals and ended by devouring the humans as well. No such mutterers had been present when he visited the temple for Roy’s baptism, yet Cliv was certain the number of local farmers cursing his name was steadily growing.
“If it’s that bad, why not request support from the capital?”
“Hmm…”
“The villages whose farmers were wiped out last year have left every field fallow this year. If this continues, grain prices will skyrocket throughout the kingdom.”
“I’ve already written to Father in the capital, but…”
The Greenhilt family had never aligned itself with the margrave, the royal house, or any third faction. Unlike most territories, it had grown and endured through agriculture rather than war; the ancestral teaching handed down for generations had been to preserve strict neutrality. Now that the baron had taken a Biswald daughter to wife, however, rumors whispered that the balance had tipped toward the margrave. Among the nobility it was even said that this generation’s baron harbored outsized ambitions. At the root of those rumors stood a certain figure who had yet to show his face to anyone.
“You have a request?”
Roy, fresh from his baptism, entered the baron’s study. According to the high priest he was a child blessed by the gods, born with more mana attributes than could be counted. As a father first and a lord second, Cliv had rejoiced. Yet the reason the boy gave for wanting the fact concealed left the baron utterly dismal. At the tender age of seven he was already fretting about attending the Knight Academy and facing the children of high nobles. Though Cliv would never dare speak of it aloud, there had been more than a few moments when he himself had nearly spat curses at the damned arrogance of those higher ranks.
And that is why he needs the Dragon’s Breath…
Because of the affair two years earlier, the treasure he had safeguarded for so long had been lost in a single night. Replacing it was no simple matter.
My brother drank the poison, so he could not have taken it. Looking at the wounds on Boodle’s corpse, someone else was clearly there…
Cliv was certain that besides the bodies discovered that day, another person had been inside the underground vault. That someone had either drunk the Dragon’s Breath or carried it off. Not a single clue remained. Between the territory’s main business of grain production, the endless monster hunts, and a dozen other problems demanding attention, the wrinkles between the baron’s brows had multiplied of late.
“You’ve had your baptism, so I’ll grant a simple request. Speak.”
“I would like to invite my friends to the mansion.”
“Friends?”
“Yes. The ones I made at the baptism ceremony.”
“Who? Don’t tell me you mean commoner children?”
“Both. Noble children and commoners. I want them to take swordsmanship and magic lessons with me whenever possible. I could teach them myself, but if that won’t do, I’d like them to join my lessons with Master Geren.”
The baron stared as though the boy had lost his senses. Noble children were one matter, but commoners? Why?
“The reason?”
“At yesterday’s baptism I spotted several who showed real talent. I mean to claim them before anyone else does.”
“Talent?”
“Yes. For commoners their mana is high and their minds are sharp. If I teach them… no, if they take Master Geren as their teacher, I believe they will turn out well. When they grow up they will be quite useful.”
“Useful? Don’t tell me you intend to imitate Eric?”
“I know Brother Eric is struggling to gather companions. Apart from the collateral kin who share our blood, we will ultimately need commoners. Outstanding commoners are rare, though. Few receive education from childhood the way we do.”
Most of the party formed by the eldest son, Eric, consisted of Greenhilt collateral relatives. A few commoners were included, yet they could never satisfy a young man who dreamed of becoming the next lord. Noble sons of other houses were doing the same as they came of age—building personal factions. In such a climate, few were eager to serve under the son of a mere baron, the lowest of the five ranks. Given the choice, talent preferred finer colors. Capable people all sought places under marquis or count houses, or at worst a viscount.
Hmm…
Cliv knew the difficulty all too well. Relative to its rank, Greenhilt held vast lands and therefore needed many capable hands. The shortfall had to be filled somehow, which naturally meant elevating gifted commoners. Finding commoners one could trust, however, was never simple.
“So you mean to raise them from now on and put them to use?”
Roy nodded and met the baron’s gaze with clear eyes.
“Yes.”
He’s my son, and he certainly has a head on his shoulders. Still…
“Will their parents allow it?”
“I already spoke of it at the baptism, so they should have received permission and be waiting for the summons. If they refuse, that can’t be helped.”
“Do you plan to have seven-year-olds commute between home and the mansion every day? The age is far younger and more fragile than you think. Without their parents’ help—”
“Their parents will help. They may be commoners, yet they are wealthy merchants or officials who carry some weight in our territory. The fact that they shared the first day’s baptism with me is proof enough. If Father grants leave, those parents will never refuse. And for any children who wish it, we can give them empty rooms in the servants’ quarters for room and board. There are plenty of empty rooms.”
“Ha—feed them and house them as well? And the cost?”
Somewhere along the way the baron had grown unhesitating about speaking of money with Roy.
“If it is a burden, I will bear it myself.”
“You? With what money?”
As though he had foreseen the conversation would reach this point, Roy drew two gold coins from his pocket at once.
“This should more than cover a year’s living for those children. Their parents will also pay for food and lodging.”
The baron’s eyes went wide.