May, 867 AD.
Little Pascal once again arrived at the mouth of the Neva River.
Rows of livestock sheds had been built near the docks, while groups of idle Pechenegs wandered nearby.
"Looks like Rurik didn't brush us off."
Little Pascal headed toward the harbor, exchanged a few pleasantries with the nobles who came to greet him, then accepted the lists of mercenaries and supplies.
At the beginning of the year, the Bulgarian War had ended.
Large numbers of mercenaries suddenly found themselves unemployed.
Rurik had successfully recruited three hundred nomad cavalrymen and purchased over seven hundred steppe horses.
"The prices for the mercenaries and horses are acceptable," Little Pascal said calmly.
"But reduce the fur prices by another ten percent."
The noble stared in shock.
"They were already lowered once last year. Why cut them again?"
Little Pascal replied:
"Don't panic. I'm not deliberately driving prices down.
"The New World is supplying massive quantities of furs at extremely low prices. Britain's fur market is already oversaturated.
"And at the beginning of this year, the Admiralty dispatched a second wave of settlers. Once the new settlements establish contact with nearby native tribes, fur prices will continue to fall."
The two bargained back and forth until finally reaching an agreement acceptable to both sides.
During dinner, Little Pascal brought up Rurik.
He had heard the man remained in the middle Dnieper region.
"Why?"
After several cups of excellent whisky, the noble became slightly drunk and explained the recent turmoil.
At the end of February, Eastern Rome had disbanded its enormous mercenary armies.
Thousands of Rus warriors returned home.
Some tribes brought back huge amounts of weapons and armor and had grown immensely wealthy.
Rurik feared he could no longer suppress them.
Thus he personally led his guards to the fortress of Uruborg to prevent any rebellion from brewing.
Little Pascal listened carefully, filtering useful information from the drunkard's rambling nonsense.
After dinner, he immediately drafted a report overnight evaluating the strength of Rurik's regime.
At present, Rurik's influence remained confined to the Black Sea–Baltic trade route.
The territories he truly controlled were only the regions surrounding Lake Ilmen and Lake Ladoga—Novgorod and nearby lands—with a population of merely sixty to eighty thousand.
The Rus tribes of the middle Dnieper nominally submitted to him—
but in reality all harbored their own ambitions.
At the end of the report, Little Pascal concluded:
"His regime is heavily dependent on foreign trade and inherently weak. It poses no meaningful threat."
After finalizing the trade arrangements, Little Pascal left the fleet at the Neva estuary to unload cargo while he boarded a two-masted sailing ship bound for Livonia.
The previous year, the Baltic Fleet had established an outpost on the Livonian coast named Viljanka.
Upon arrival, Little Pascal discovered the terrain was quite favorable.
A river flowed from east to west into the sea.
The outpost sat on the southern bank, protected by wooden palisades and ditches—more than sufficient against locals lacking iron weapons.
Climbing a wooden watchtower, Little Pascal looked beyond the walls.
Outside stretched large freshly cleared fields.
Smoke still curled upward from burned tree stumps.
Farther away spread endless primeval forest.
Layer upon layer of treetops rolled in the wind like a vast green ocean.
"What a savage wilderness."
After observing for some time, a rowing longship appeared upstream.
As it drew closer, Little Pascal noticed dozens of holes punched through its sail.
Arrows still protruded from the hull.
It had clearly suffered an ambush.
Something happened?
Little Pascal climbed down from the tower and questioned the shaken survivors.
They explained they had been attacked roughly fifty miles upstream.
As the king's special envoy, Little Pascal instinctively preferred caution and gathering intelligence first.
But the outpost defenders had no interest in restraint.
An attack required retaliation.
Only vengeance could intimidate potential enemies.
The next afternoon, the garrison hired guides from a relatively friendly tribe and dispatched four rowing longships carrying a total of one hundred eighty men to punish the hostile tribe.
The battle lacked suspense.
Possessing overwhelming advantages in equipment and training, the Vikings annihilated the tribe, seizing grain and livestock while capturing over three hundred prisoners.
During his observations, Little Pascal gradually understood how the outpost operated.
Its primary activity was trade.
Whenever weather allowed, settlers also cleared forests and reclaimed land for farming and pasture.
Overall, however, the settlement's profits remained far below its costs.
By his estimate, it would take ten—perhaps even fifteen—years merely to recover the investment.
Little Pascal could not understand the king's intentions.
"Livonia lacks mineral wealth. It's little more than a worthless wilderness.
"The money would be better invested domestically."
Land?
Suddenly, Little Pascal felt he had grasped the truth.
Perhaps the king valued the land itself.
Years of peace had allowed Britain's nobility to multiply rapidly.
Only the eldest son inherited titles.
The remaining second sons and bastards all faced uncertain futures.
Some counts divided small portions of their domains, granting younger sons or bastards positions as barons or knights.
The less fortunate inherited nothing at all and became officers in the standing army or officials within the administration and temples.
The truly unlucky fell into the common class entirely—working for merchants, running small businesses, or smuggling.
Little Pascal ordered a servant to unfold a parchment map and carefully studied Livonia.
"The terrain here is flat. Yes, forests cover everything—but given enough time, the land can always be cleared into farmland and pasture.
"And it lies hundreds of miles from East Francia. Enemy armies cannot easily march this far.
"The king is spending resources developing Livonia because he intends for the Second Prince or Third Prince to rule here?"
The more he considered it, the more he liked the idea.
He himself had two sons and a daughter.
His younger brother had three sons.
Their family lands could never support so many descendants.
Livonia would be an ideal destination for them—helping a prince govern this territory.
Of course, there was also the vast New World in the west.
But Little Pascal had no desire to send his sons or nephews there.
The distance was simply too great.
It was practically exile.
Though he suspected many nobles would happily dump their bastards there to avoid staining the family name.
Over the next week, Little Pascal visited nearby friendly tribes, desperately searching for any useful information.
He wanted to prove his diligence to the king and secure promotion as quickly as possible.
Back in February, Prime Minister Goodwin had grown too old and frail and resigned to retire in the countryside.
Interior Minister Mitcham replaced him as the new Prime Minister.
Meanwhile, Industrial Minister Lucar, after a string of failures, had "voluntarily" submitted his resignation.
Before departing Britain, Little Pascal had quietly tested the king's attitude.
The king did not oppose him joining the cabinet—
but still hesitated regarding which office to grant him.
Apparently further personnel reshuffling was underway.
"At least two cabinet positions—or more—are likely to become vacant."
Little Pascal considered his rivals carefully.
The first was Sebert Stormrage.
As one of the earliest graduates of the Tyneburg Academy, he enjoyed enormous trust from the king and was highly likely to enter the cabinet.
Then there was Loki, secretary to the prime minister.
The man had spent over a decade climbing the administrative ranks.
Back when Vig himself served as Ragnar's prime minister, Loki had already worked under him.
After reviewing everyone's information in his mind, Little Pascal frowned deeply.
He decided to return home as soon as possible.
Missing such a rare opportunity would be unforgivable.
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