What a bold move!

  Arno tossed the visiting card onto the table. Emblazoned with gold trim on a vermilion background, it bore the name Sarkomo—the Bell Province Merchant Guild chairman of the Orlando Empire, a man whose wealth rivaled entire kingdoms.

  In his teens, during the Second Imperial Civil War of Emperor Orlando V, Sarkomo had witnessed two grand dukes wage war against the crown, reducing the land to chaos. Homeless, starving refugees had turned to banditry, and the empire’s lawlessness had been unbearable. Armed with a dagger and a satchel, the young Sarkomo had embarked on his merchant journey, a path that would eventually make him a living legend—brave, tenacious, and shrewd, standing at the pinnacle of mercantile success.

  Arno naturally accepted his visit. As a city lord, he needed merchants’ support to expand his power. Though irritated by the guild’s meddling in local affairs, he could overlook it—for the right price.

  The old man arrived with a gift worth 20 gold coins, a gesture that coaxed a faint smile from Arno. A tactful operator? Or a troublesome rival? Time would tell.

  “Welcome, Master Sarkomo,” Arno said, standing on the steps, looking down at the man below. Sarkomo merely smiled warmly, unperturbed.

  “It is my honor to visit you on this beautiful day, Noble Lord of the Golden Thorn, Baron Arno Alcania.” His smile was flawless, practiced to perfection, leaving no room for criticism.

  Arno nodded, stepping aside. “I hired a new gardener two days ago. His work is passable, but I sense flaws. Perhaps your wisdom can spot them. Come, let’s walk the gardens.”

  “An honor, my lord.” Sarkomo ascended the steps, following Arno through the mansion to the gardens, where three gardeners—paid a hefty 10 silver coins monthly—pruned yellow leaves, dead flowers, and weeds, shaping the grounds into seasonal masterpieces.

  Sarkomo praised their work, but neither he nor Arno cared for flattery.

  After a half-circle of the garden, they settled in the central courtyard, where the chief maid served black tea, warm milk, red wine, and brandy.

  “I have a special gift for you—one that represents my sincerity and goodwill. I hope you’ll appreciate it.” Sarkomo slid a parchment rolled in red silk toward Arno. Their eyes met briefly before Arno’s gaze fell to the scroll.

  Unraveling it, Arno raised an eyebrow. Cunning old fox. It was the deed to the Golden Ring manor—the same document that had sparked nearly a thousand deaths. Now it had cycled back to him, a cruel jest from fate.

  Sarkomo had spent 8,000 gold coins bribing mercenaries and Harvey the slave trader to retrieve this deed, clearly angling for greater gains.

  Arno sipped his tea, glancing at the deed. “When a wolf brings gifts to a shepherd, it wants more than safety, Master Sarkomo. State your purpose—I prefer directness. Games annoy me.”

  Sarkomo’s impression of Arno solidified: dominant, as all nobles were, but also cunning. By dismissing the deed as a “wolf’s gift,” Arno had neutralized its leverage in their negotiation.

  A formidable opponent, especially at his age.

  Sarkomo’s confidence wavered, but he pressed on. “I come on behalf of the Bell Merchant Guild to discuss taxation.”

  Arno smirked. “My tax collector tells me there’s no revenue to collect here.”

  Sarkomo cursed inwardly but maintained his Oscar-worthy smile. “That was before your arrival, my lord. You’ve turned this wasteland into a thriving hub.”

  The empire’s standard commercial tax was 20% (one-fifth), but cities like Alexandria halved it to attract trade. Sarkomo knew Arno would soon impose order, and securing a lower tax rate was urgent—merchants flocked to Pramisburg for its lawlessness, not high taxes.

  Arno stayed silent, gazing at the garden. Sarkomo continued cautiously, “We fully support your authority and imperial rights. However, regarding commercial taxes… we humbly propose—”

  Arno waved him off. He’d studied taxation. These merchants smuggled contraband and evaded duties; lowering taxes for lawbreakers served no purpose. Plus, most revenue would flow to the imperial treasury, leaving him with nothing but merchant hatred.

  “Twenty percent is imperial policy. I won’t alter it.”

  Sarkomo frowned. “But that will drive merchants away. They’ll seek new routes—”

  “From Pramisburg to Sunrise City in Byron via the Weimar Corridor is 600 kilometers,” Arno interrupted. “A month’s round trip at speed. No better cross-border hub exists.”

  A fact even Sarkomo couldn’t dispute. “What of Alexandria? Their tax is 10%.”

  “Sea transport costs far exceed land. Captains charge by the inch of cargo space.” Arno set down his empty cup, and a maid refilled it. “Besides, Alexandria’s guilds will block you—assassinations, bandit raids… they’ll ensure you never reach their ports.”

  Sarkomo fell silent, then sighed. “What would you have us do, my lord? I trust you’ll guide us.”

  Arno snapped his fingers, grinning. “I enjoy speaking with wise men—hence why I agreed to this meeting.”