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POV of Rutger Breeke
Erntezeit-20-21-2492
"Ah, that scoundrel … now he sends me to buy grain in desperation," I said with a heavy sigh as I organized my accounts and prepared for the journey to Altdorf. All to fill the granaries of the Lord of Marienburg and prevent famine in his lands. It was no small task; tens of thousands of mouths depended on it not turning against him… and by extension, against me.
Things had turned grim some months ago, when the city of my birth was conquered and, worse still, massacred. I had known it as the greatest port of the Old World, filled with the cries of stevedores, the scent of salt and spices, and ships arriving from places not even charted with certainty on maps. Now, none of that remained. The gold I had once helped generate ended up financing the fall of my own republic. Yes, perhaps the blame is mine. If I had not worked for him, another would have… but the profits were too great to ignore. Money has no homeland—and neither do I, for that same reason.
Marienburg was humiliated and ruined. Three out of four of its people ended up dead by the sword, devoured by daemons, or served as meat for that vampire roaming free. And the worst, at least for me, was not the slaughter itself, but the triumph of the Cult of Sigmar over that of Manann. The temples, my faith, reduced to ashes, and my priests begging like any peasant. They thought themselves magnanimous to leave them with the clothes on their backs, but they stripped them of everything else. I saw pyres burning day and night, with men and women aflame, accused of witchcraft, treason, or simply of keeping the wrong friends. Ambassadors hanged like thieves, foreign merchants executed without trial, sailors without flags butchered in the streets. The city was left empty, mute—where once there had been life, there was only fear.
I saved my family only because I had the favor of the city's new master. The conqueror. In the first phase of the siege they hid, and when the witch hunters came with their pyres, he interceded at my request. He did not do it out of kindness, I know, but because he still needed me. I was one of the few who emerged intact from the political and religious purge. The other powerful merchants either died in battle or were dragged to the gallows. Some survivors now skulk in hiding, swearing they will gather mercenaries to retake the city. Fools. That dream died with their families in the flames.
Today, Marienburg is not Marienburg. Its houses and docks are occupied by Reiklanders loyal to Sigmar. It no longer smells of spice, but of iron and brick. If the city ever regains its freedom, it will not be in my lifetime. The dream of the republic drowned in the Reik River. But commerce… ah, commerce always survives.
And in the midst of all this ruin, I have ended up in an enviable position. I serve the undisputed master of the city, with direct access to his goods and his friendship with the dwarfs. What costs others a fortune, I obtain for a pittance. I hold rights to a percentage of his sales, and I can purchase goods cheap to resell in places I once could never have reached. The wholesalers who once saw me as a minor competitor now look at me with suspicion, for I control wares they can only dream of handling. All thanks to this new Elector…
"Well then, how goes it?" I asked the foreman of Marienburg's saltworks about the day's production.
"All according to what the dwarf master established. We are producing around ten tons of salt per day," said the foreman as he showed me the huge piles of sacks his men were loading into the train compartments bound for Altdorf.
"Excellent. Then when can I take my share to Altdorf to sell?" I asked, watching the workers empty salt from one of those dwarfen boilers that seemed to be forever boiling.
"We have reserves ready for transport. Two hundred tons are going directly to Erengrad, purchased by the Kislevites, and one hundred and fifty tons are available for you to take to Altdorf," replied the foreman, using the metric system which was becoming increasingly popular in the Westerlands—and which I had been forced to learn.
"One hundred and fifty tons… one hundred and fifty thousand kilos at three shillings the kilo… twenty-two thousand five hundred crowns. That is what I can earn in Altdorf. And if I understand correctly, that is just the base cost, isn't it? This sort of production requires no wood or fuel, correct?" I said aloud, running the numbers in my head while keeping my eyes on the boilers that evaporated the water.
"Indeed. The dwarf master designed the system so it never cools. It is always hot and must be handled carefully, but we avoid the constant nuisance of lighting fires. The water separated from the salt runs through those pipes into reserves used by some of Count Albrecht's industries." The foreman pointed towards the network of pipes extending beyond the facility.
"Ah… so that is where the water comes from. In Marienburg, it was difficult to find surplus that did not come from the swamps, and those who drank from it ended up sick and dying in the privy," I remarked, following the maze of pipes with my eyes.
"Yes, here the water is safe. Some dwarf brewmasters have even found a way to use it for making proper beer. The first attempts were tasteless swill, but at last they discovered the method to make it worthwhile," the foreman replied.
"I see… then make sure all the salt is loaded onto the train as soon as possible. I'll continue reviewing production with the other foremen to calculate recent sales." I walked away at a brisk pace, already turning my thoughts towards the soapworks that had recently opened in Marienburg—another business I needed to inspect.
The soapworks had been set up near the salt production boilers, making use of the same pipes that supplied the water needed for the process. The smell was unmistakable: the sharp mix of boiled fish, offal, and melting fat. That stench was the hallmark of the fish industries, and one of the reasons why many in Marienburg had always despised this kind of manufacture.
In front of the entrance stretched a long line of workers gutting fish, stripping them of entrails and leaving them clean to be carried into the vats where the fat would be rendered for soap. It was not the first time someone had tried to produce soap from fish fat in the city; it had always been a poor business. The chief problem was the odor and consistency: rough, unpleasant soaps, which could only be sold to the Cult of Shallya, since wealthy folk preferred the imported soaps of Tilea or Estalia, made from finer, less foul-smelling fats.
But the dwarfs had found a way to cleanse the fat and strip it of its stench, producing vast quantities of quality soap. They mostly used the surplus fish brought by dwarfen ships, those that dragged massive nets and supplied the entire city.
Upon entering the soapworks, the contrast struck me. The interior was filled with pleasant aromas: dried flowers, herbs, and perfumed oils used to scent the soaps. The atmosphere was far more tolerable than the reek outside.
"How goes production?" I asked, fixing my gaze on the foreman, a stern-faced man checking a ledger while watching the piles of finished lots.
"Oh, Rutger… yes, all well," he answered with some unease. "I'm afraid I have nothing to offer you for transport."
I frowned. "How so? I can see great quantities stacked there myself."
"Yes, but the entire production has already been purchased by the Cult of Shallya. New temples are being built in every town and city, and they need soap in enormous amounts. Our whole output goes to them. In fact, I have more orders than I can meet, so for quite some time there will be nothing available for you."
"Damnation…" I muttered in frustration. "Very well, I suppose it will have to be another time." And I walked away, grinding my anger between my teeth.
There was plenty of industry in the city, all under the control of the Elector Count, and many aimed directly at supplying the Cult of Shallya: soaps, bandages, medicinal plants gathered from the marshes —though fewer with each passing month, as thousands of dwarfs and Bretonnians labored day and night to drain the land and turn it into fertile fields. I had seen the convoys of workers and the drainage engines myself, like ants devouring a swamp that would soon be arable soil.
I also knew of more ambitious projects underway, such as a sea farm for breeding oysters to harvest pearls. The Count said the venture would take at least a year to yield results, but he was determined to fill every last train wagon with profitable goods.
Much of the day I spent arranging the purchase of spices and jewels from the merchants arriving in port. Many of them would not risk the long journey to the Imperial cities, and I was there to seize the opportunity: spices of Araby acquired at absurdly low prices, whole shipments of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg that in Altdorf would sell as treasures. Also jewels from Tilea and Estalia, mined and crafted with a quality few Imperial workshops could rival. Buy cheap on the coast and sell dear in the heart of the Empire: the perfect trade.
With the train already half-filled with salt, spices, jewels, and timber, we set out towards the Elector's mountain fortress. In just a few hours, from the windows I could see the old swamps already turned into dry, fertile lands, thanks to the tireless work of dwarfs and Bretonnians. There, in the fortress, they loaded my wagons with huge amounts of dyes: deep blues, bright reds, vivid yellows and oranges, all ready to be sold at high prices in the cities where nobility paid fortunes for colorful fabrics. But what caught my eye most were the barrels of smokeless powder, the new flagship product. That substance sold like hot bread to the state regiments; every army of the Empire wanted its share.
Continuing the journey, we reached Reinsfeld, where my workers were already waiting with fresh cargo prepared. There we loaded tools of every kind, firearms in large quantities bound for the Emperor's armies, fine jewelry crafted by the dwarfen artisans of the city—delicate pieces, worked with the patience and perfection only they possessed—and luxury furniture, built by those same dwarfs for the houses of human nobles ever eager to flaunt their wealth.
The train was packed to the brim when at last we set out for Altdorf. Night had already fallen, and within hours we reached the great capital of the Empire. Around the train station stretched a vast improvised market. Hundreds of merchants sought to sell their goods or hire transport towards Marienburg. The din was deafening, with vendors shouting, wheels rattling under loads of wares, and torchlight illuminating a crowd eager to trade.
The designated priests did not take long to appear. Those carrion hounds always arrive first when there is something valuable to sniff out. But business is business, and they took all the smokeless powder I had available. Only they were authorized to distribute it within the Empire, for the Elector feared that some wizard, too curious, might uncover the secret of its making.
Quickly, my dozens of workers loaded much of the cargo onto carts, and we began dispatching them across the network of Imperial cities: Nuln, Middenheim, Talabheim—anywhere there were customers willing to pay. I, for my part, turned to my contacts in Altdorf to place the most valuable wares. While some sold, I bought. I began hoarding all the grain I could find, sending my men across the villages of minor lords to purchase every last sack of cereal.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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