Estiang-style Negotiation (3)
"Anyway, it's done for now."
He sealed a verbal agreement with Oto right on the spot. Before heading back north after the Founding Festival wrapped up, they'd draw up a formal contract. The terms covered exclusive buying rights and pricing for magic stones produced in the Berg Grand Duchy, plus investments from the Geltner family into the northern mines and infrastructure.
It felt a bit late in the game to think it now, but he was damn glad for the territory's abundant resources. Setting aside monster byproducts, the high-value stuff boiled down to magic stones and minerals. Plenty of prime timber for shipbuilding too, but hauling it all the way south to sell? Pass.
This is really lucky.
No matter how much knowledge he crammed into his head, it meant squat without the right environment to put it to use. Hence the whole concept of appropriate technology. What if the north was like Russia—sitting on riches but too technologically backward to dig them up, scraping by in poverty? He didn't even want to imagine it.
We'd end up like them, sending out Cossack cavalry to export sable pelts. Or just begging the capital. 'Help us or the Great Wall gets overrun!'
Ugh, nightmare fuel. How the hell did you bootstrap a poor territory? Pray for a gold or silver strike? Seemed like the only play.
On that note, anything innovative he could peddle? He scraped his brain for every lecture from his major, every alt-history book, every wiki page and paper he'd skimmed.
Danchon silver refining? Economically sound, but only useful if they struck silver in his lands.
Turning the north's rotting timber piles into paper? Tempting, but tricky. Wood was going to waste anyway, worth a shot. Problem was brewing up strong alkali solutions and coating the sheets—massive lime and glue requirements. Not to mention building the colossal pressure cookers for boiling the pulp.
And even if I pull it off, it'll suck compared to linen pulp. Would cheap printing paper really rake in the big bucks?
Not likely. Sure, it'd pioneer a low-end market, but the return on investment felt meh.
After mulling it over, he reached a conclusion.
"Looks like there's only one option left."
Coke. For a north rich in quality iron ore, it was a must-have. Even the Song dynasty had used it—no crazy tech barrier. With proper coke, no need wasting effort on charcoal. Higher furnace temps, better steel. Why wouldn't he?
"When Oto sends out prospectors, have them scout coal mines too."
Todo list growing. A few other ideas bubbled up, but technical hurdles killed them. A mage in the territory might magic some workarounds. Maybe hire one in the capital before leaving.
That could wait. Time to head back to the banquet hall.
As he turned to go, the terrace door swung open.
"Hello, Your Grace. Thrilled to see you again."
"You're... definitely."
Vivid red hair. A face that screamed prickly personality. Helena Iliad smiled gracefully, fan shielding her mouth.
"You remember."
"How could I forget? I was the interviewer, but you barge in demanding a face-to-face and declare me passed. Hard to unsee that brazen lady."
"...Ahem. Let me formally apologize for the rudeness once more. You're so renowned—I just had to meet you. Got ahead of myself."
"Whatever. What's the business this time?"
"Saw you head to the terrace with Geltner's head right after the banquet kicked off. Looked important, so I waited till you finished."
"Waited? For me?"
"Yes."
Helena flashed a confident smile. What was with this girl suddenly acting buddy-buddy? In the original story, she'd lose it whenever the male leads showed interest in the heroine—went full bully mode. Ended up ruined like the villainess she was, of course.
Modern trends favored total destitution over outright death. His sister had just looped her into treason and sent her to the guillotine, bold as brass.
Did she think he was some romance fantasy male lead now, crushing on her?
Eh, kinda.
Right now, strong army and prosperous territory trumped romance. How to shake off this clingy noble?
Whether sensing his thoughts or not, Helena said innocently, "Word is, Your Grace needs talent with specialized skills. That true?"
"Depends on the skills."
"So, to atone for my rudeness, I scrounged up some slaves."
"Slaves?"
"Heard you're into the military, so I hunted for ones with relevant know-how. Managed to snag a few ex-technicians."
"I see. Thanks first off. But we have plenty of free artisans in my lands, so the gesture is—"
"One was a clockmaker. Another blew glass. Don't know details, but they're rare skills—valuable, they say. What Your Grace needs?"
He paused mid-rejection. Clockmaker. In this era, that meant precision work: filing metal for escapements, tiny gears, mainsprings. And glassblowers? Even better. Glass needed temps way hotter than iron—meant they knew refractories, mastered kilns.
Too juicy to pass up.
"......"
He looked up at Helena's triumphant face.
What was this? Some newfangled proposal?
"I'd accept the sentiment, but on second thought, Berg lacks clockmakers or glassblowers. Lady Iliad, I gratefully accept your kindness."
"You can use my name."
She replied breezily, inwardly cheering. Success.
How stunned she'd been hearing from the butler about the Berg Grand Duke's 'tastes.' Talent for territory growth and military reform? Less a personal kink, more a ruler's wishlist.
The desperate one adapts.
Thirsty folks dig wells. She was needy, so she tailored herself. Hit the slave markets—uncharacteristic for her—and snagged slaves with unique skills. Amid whispers she was shopping for punching bags.
Infuriating then, irrelevant now.
Plan on track.
Her lip curled faintly. Estiang had been about to refuse, then flipped.
Worth the legwork. Now for the kill shot.
"Not expecting payback, Your Grace. Purely atonement for my rudeness. But separately... one request."
She flashed her signature haughty smile. His wariness eased. Time to lock it down.
"A request for me?"
"At tonight's ball... may I have a dance?"
"A dance?"
Estiang's brow furrowed instantly. He'd never danced in his life.
Not that he was uncoordinated—Sword Master via patty-cake? Nah. Body control was his jam.
Just never learned steps. Wouldn't flail like a noob, but the whole hoot-and-holler social dance? Meh.
Seeing his sour face, Helena rushed on. "Truth is, no partner yet. You don't seem booked either. If you're amenable—"
"Sure."
He nodded, reluctant but swayed. Why the sudden chumminess made sense now—gift was gold. Forgave the first-meet rudeness.
Precision machinists and refractory masters didn't sprout from permafrost.
Prepaid via slaves; one dance was fair trade.
"Oh, truly grateful. Without you, I'd have scrambled in embarrassment."
Still per plan. She'd smoothly roped him into the dance. Fan to mouth, she tittered.
Then the terrace door opened again.
Blonde like molten gold, porcelain skin, sparkling blue eyes. A fragile beauty stirring protective instincts—trailing a hazy spiritlet giggling away.
"Sylph, really? For real?"
She looked up, spotted Estiang and Helena, and startled.
Didn't expect company? The spirit darted behind her. She bowed, apologetic.
"S-sorry... Didn't know the terrace was occupied."
"Ah."
Estiang froze, clocking the spirit. Instinct screamed her identity.
Romance fantasy heroines always packed suspiciously rare healing or spirit affinity. This one fit the trope to a T.
"Aisha Leste......"
"Pardon? Who might you be?"
Aisha tilted her head. Estiang groaned.