Chapter 28
Chapter 28
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 28
Chapter Title: Tax Cuts and Fanatic Loyalty
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Having stabilized the August baron's castle and its directly administered village in just a few days, Sion set to work dispatching Stella and the mercenaries to the other villages in the vicinity (roughly within ten kilometers).
This distance was perfect—they could leave in the morning, handle their business, and return to the castle before sunset.
The mercenaries, accompanied by retainers or collateral kin from the August baron family as figureheads, spread out to the nearby villages with a simple mission.
* * *
“The proxy lord, who committed an unspeakable and profane crime, has been punished by the royal family and Duke Sion's house! For the time being, the August territory shall be governed by Count Piot Sion Kilburn, with Lord Oblas Sailun providing 'assistance'!”
The territory's residents, unfamiliar with lofty words like "unspeakable," "profane," or "describe," simply understood that the greedy proxy lord—fat as a suckling pig—had committed a grave offense and been removed.
Half of them cheered, while the other half just shrugged it off.
Surprisingly, not a single person mourned or raged.
Beaten when struck, fleeced when plundered. Dying while farming, dying while grazing cattle, dying while logging—this was the everyday fate of the vast majority in this world.
Yet if they were just beaten a little less, fleeced a little less, and died a little less, they would cry out in loyalty and praise.
Now, high lords had appeared, sending even sturdy, imposing knights (to the villagers' eyes, the mounted Jansrik mercenaries looked like knights), promising to beat less, fleece less, and kill less.
Some cheered in hopeful anticipation of the future; others, skeptical that it was all the same old nonsense, at least half-believed.
But the words that followed snapped even those who had been standing dazedly with dead-fish eyes to attention.
“Furthermore, upon Count Piot Sion Kilburn's review, it has been agreed that the August territory's taxes are somewhat excessive!”
“Oh?”
“To that end! Starting this very moment, taxes on all production shall be reduced by one-tenth!”
“Ooh……!”
“And fees for tools used in planting, cultivation, harvesting, milling—all agriculture, and for raising cattle, sheep, and pigs—are hereby abolished!”
“Owaaaaaah!!!”
The tax rates in this world's territories were downright murderous.
Fifty percent was the baseline, and there were even mad lords who levied seventy or eighty percent at times.
A 'Earth writer' might interject here: 'But in medieval times, they squeezed even more, so isn't this fine?'
But that's knowing one thing and ignoring the rest.
Taxes on births, taxes for using roads cleared by the lord (they existed before, but he claims credit since it's his land), taxes when milling already-taxed grain into rice or flour.
And so on...
In reality, if a farmer produced 100, the baseline was 70 taken, and in harsh cases, 90—an insidious structure rampant everywhere.
Yet now, they were returning 10 to the people and waiving fees for essential, costly farming tools and mills.
In effect, taxes were reduced by a full thirty percent compared to before!
“From this moment, our village declares itself one with Count Piot Sion Kilburn! Any attack on Count Piot Sion Kilburn shall be regarded as an attack on our village!”
So it was no wonder declarations of such unity emerged.
“Sion! Sion! Sion! Sion!”
“Kilburn! Kilburn! Kilburn! Kilburn!”
“Ziek Sion (Long live Sion)!”
Though the last cheer was a bit odd.
In any case, before a week had passed since Sion seized the baron's castle, nearly all the August territory's residents had become fanatic devotees not of Count Piot Sion Kilburn, but of Piot Sion Kilburn himself.
* * *
“But isn't cutting taxes all at once too much?”
Piot, who had become the territory's idol despite doing nothing (unaware of this fact himself), couldn't hide his concern.
But Sion, the architect of it all, was relaxed.
“Why are you worrying about that?”
“Well... if taxes drop suddenly, won't it cause problems for the territory's finances?”
“That's why I'm asking why you're worrying. Is this your territory?”
“Uh... no?”
“See? Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Ah, um.”
Still, sensing his great-grandson had more to say, Sion paused his work, chuckled, and added,
“You wouldn't know, but even if we cut more from what we've reduced, this territory runs fine.”
“Is that so?”
“Soldiers number around a hundred, knights three—no, two now. Administrative staff under twenty. It's a miracle it's held together this far, honestly.”
“Yesss...”
Piot, his inner thoughts of 'I don't get it, but sure' plain on his face, listened intently.
“Why's the territory such a mess? Because the baron's family hogged more than half the tax revenue and goods. But I've—no, we've—established proper rule (physics). So where does that leave the baron's wealth flow?”
“...Ah!”
It would naturally cover the territory's finances.
“Got it? Even with less tax, the territory's better off. That's the point.”
Sion omitted mentioning that 'we' (I) would extract no small sum in wages, compensation, and reparations.
Even after that, the territory's finances would still improve over last year—undeniable fact.
“But is it really okay for us to do whatever we want like this? The August family are the rightful lords here, after all.”
This was Piot's deepest worry.
In the best light, they'd punished a tyrannical proxy and established just rule—but wasn't it essentially theft?
“Who am I?”
“Pardon...?”
To his dumbfounded great-grandson, Sion said playfully,
“Who am I?”
“Well, obviously... Huh?”
“Right, I'm Sailun. Of the Obla royal family.”
Collateral or not, he was undeniably royal.
A royal who received an opening salvo (demand for disarmament) from the lord, resolving that issue, 'happens' to uncover the baron's house's abuses and fixes them—natural progression.
“...That's our claim, anyway.”
“Y-Yes, I see.”
“Of course, once the capital learns, they won't let it slide. They'll try to interfere at first. That's what kings are for.”
“From what you're saying, you have a solution?”
Sion smiled at his increasingly perceptive great-grandson.
“Appoint a proper heir. The capital doesn't meddle deeply in distant territories far from their direct lands.”
“But... doesn't that contradict what you said earlier? You said they'd try to interfere.”
“They interfere, but not deeply. If the royals meddled in every lord's heir issues, think the lords would sit still?”
“No, they wouldn't.”
Lords are the king's vassals, paying fixed taxes, but ultimately independent.
Loyal subordinates and partners, so to speak.
For the king to micromanage the family affairs of dozens of such lords, even advising?
They'd have no ground to complain if the lords banded together in rebellion.
“The royals are arbitrators. They listen from the middle. But without the parties requesting more, they shouldn't push further.”
“...Complicated.”
“Exactly. Incredibly so. That's politics.”
“Politics...”
“You should learn some of it.”
Piot gazed at Sion in admiration.
“As expected of someone born and raised in the royal family.”
Same nobility, but his scale felt different.
“Ahem. Yeah, something like that.”
Truth be told, he knew squat about politics—learned by watching his princess wife handle it.
When leading the dukedom, diplomacy was her domain; he mostly followed her advice.
“So we just wait for someone from the capital?”
“No need to go that far.”
It'd take time, and as Sion predicted, the capital was probably tearing its hair out by now.
“We just wait for someone from Duke Sion's house.”
“And go with them...”
“To Sion Dukedom.”
Of course, whether welcomed with courtesy or suspected as enemies and forced into a moonlit flight—yet to be seen.
'Though it doesn't matter either way.'
But Sion's prediction hit one mark and missed another.
* * *
“August territory? Where the hell is that?”
Crown Prince Philon of the Obla Kingdom furrowed his brow.
In his forties but still vigorous and brimming with energy, he spoke arrogantly while attended by beautiful maids.
“Do I need to know about some backwater territory's affairs? Especially now?”
“We have intelligence that Duke Lloyd has taken an interest in August territory, Your Highness.”
“Hm?”
The crown prince's bored expression shifted slightly.
Duke Lloyd.
Personally Philon's nephew, but second in the line of royal succession—a heavyweight.
Lately, in Philon's eyes, a thoroughly suspicious bastard making ominous moves.
“What's a duke slumming it in the sticks for? Pathetic. Ah, is Lorian still not here? How long ago did I summon him? What's he doing?”
The nobles stifled sighs as the crown prince, dismissing it lightly, called for one of his seven royal mistresses.
'That pathetic fool is your biggest rival!'
Some swallowed shouts rising to their throats.
They were nobles aligned with Philon.
Precisely, followers of Philon’s father, the crown prince who died two years ago, loyal out of righteousness and benefit.
But Philon, who had little presence before, showed strong presence right after his father's death.
In a bad way.
The king was elderly—could drop dead tomorrow—but still alive, and the crown prince's scandals with drink, violence, and women were a terrible sign.
They'd exerted every effort to keep rumors from spreading beyond the capital, but it had reached its limit.
Philon's excesses had gone too far, and ascending to first in succession drew far more scrutiny.
“This isn't a matter to take lightly, Your Highness.”
“What's that supposed to mean, Lord Rundle?”
Not yet king, in private quarters, yet calling his great-uncle 'lord.'
But Count Rundle, knowing the massive loss if this fool nephew never ascended, pressed his bulging-veined forehead and spoke.
“A strange piece of intelligence reached me recently.”
“Strange intelligence?”
Even his great-uncle, Philon tilted his head in interest, so Count Rundle signaled the other nobles.
At the unspoken command from the head of the 'Get the Blockhead Crown Prince Safely on the Throne' faction, the nobles ebbed out like a receding tide.
“You too.”
At Count Rundle's fierce aura, the maids flinched and scurried off in short steps, leaving only Philon and Count Rundle in the lavish, spacious room.
“What? What are you getting at?”
Count Rundle sighed at his nephew's surly tone—the boy spoiled rotten since infancy, fearing no one but his grandfather the king.
“Whew. It's highly sensitive—can't reach others' ears.”
“So? What is it?”
“Whale.”
“Whale...? What nonsense is that?”
“It's the term the intelligence guild's top echelons are treating as utmost priority lately. Whale.”
The desperate flailing of a demoted intelligence compiler had finally reached deep into the capital.
(To be continued)