Chapter 33: Volume 1- [ - 34 ]
Master Harwick sat across from me like a plum about to burst, his gold rings clicking against the table as he drummed his fingers in anticipation. The package he had brought — a bottle of imported wine, from the shape of it — sat unopened between us, a token offering from a merchant who hoped to leave with more gold than he arrived with.
I folded my hands on the table. Smiled.
"Master Harwick, may I propose something to you?"
"Anything, my lord! Anything at all!" He leaned forward, his belly pressing against the table’s edge, his small eyes bright with the gleam of a man who smelled profit the way a hound smells blood.
"I have heard," I said, letting each word fall with the measured weight of a man who had done his research, "that you have two daughters. Eighteen years of age. Both."
The drumming stopped. Harwick’s smile faltered — not with fear, not yet, but with the confusion of a man who had prepared himself for a conversation about land and found himself suddenly discussing offspring.
"My lord?" He blinked. "My daughters? What — why do you—"
’My daughters? What does this lord want with my daughters? He called me here to discuss land — the maid said he wanted to purchase — what is this about my girls? Is he proposing a match? A noble house... for my daughters? No — impossible. The Veyne house is disgraced, but even disgraced nobility does not marry merchant stock. Then what? What does he want?’
I let his confusion simmer for a moment, watching the calculations run behind his eyes — the hope, the wariness, the greedy little spark that ignited whenever a possibility for advancement presented itself. Then I leaned back, steepled my fingers, and spoke with the quiet authority of a man who had spent the morning reading every document in his study, including the ones about the agricultural crisis in the eastern provinces.
"Tell me, Master Harwick. The land you hold in my estate — the three hundred acres east of the cliff road, where you grow wheat and barley — how much does it cost you each year to have the Church purify the soil?"
The confusion on his face shifted. Sharpened. The mention of purification had landed exactly where I intended — in the soft, vulnerable place where a farmer’s profits met a churchman’s greed.
’He knows about the corruption? How does he know? I never reported it — I told the Magistrate the yields were low due to weather — if the lord knows about the Church fees...’
Harwick cleared his throat. Adjusted his rings. "My lord, I am not certain what you mean. The land produces adequately. There are some... expenses, of course, as with any land—"
"The corruption," I said, cutting through his deflection with the precision of a scalpel. "The monstrous presence in the eastern soil. The disease that spreads through the roots and rots the grain before it can be harvested. The corruption that requires annual purification by the Church — a service for which the local parish charges you, if my documents are accurate, forty gold coins per acre, per year."
Harwick’s face went the color of old parchment. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
’Forty per acre — how does he know the exact figure? I have never disclosed — the Church sworn me to secrecy — if this becomes public knowledge, the other farmers will demand the same rates, and the Church will—’
"I— my lord, that is — those figures are not—" He swallowed, his composure cracking like old paint. "It is a private arrangement with the parish. I do not believe—"
"I am not interested in exposing your arrangement," I said, and the words landed like a cool hand on a fevered brow. I watched him relax — slightly, incrementally, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction. "I am interested in the cost. Because I know what it means. The corruption spreads from the monster dens in the eastern hills. It seeps into the groundwater, into the soil, into the roots. The land cannot bear fruit unless it is purified — baptized, as the Church calls it. And the Church charges for this baptism the way a landlord charges rent."
I stood. Walked to the window. Let the morning light silhouette me against the grey sky, my form casting a long shadow across the table where Harwick sat with his gold rings and his sweating brow.
"The cost of purification is so high that you must charge exorbitant prices for your grain to cover it. The prices are so high that the common people — the ones who should be eating your wheat — cannot afford it. They starve. Not because there is no food, but because the food is too expensive, because the land is too corrupt, because the Church charges too much for the cleansing." I turned back to face him. "Meanwhile, you sit here with gold rings on every finger and a chain around your neck that could feed a village for a month."
Harwick’s mouth worked. His internal voice was a cascade of defensive calculations:
’He is judging me. He is judging my wealth. But what choice do I have? The purification costs forty per acre — I have three hundred acres — that is twelve thousand gold per year — twelve thousand! How else do I cover it except by charging what I charge? I am not a monster. I am a businessman. The Church sets the price. I simply pass it on. If I did not charge, I would lose the land, and then there would be no wheat at all. He does not understand. He is a young lord who has never worked a field in his life—’
"It must be costing you dearly," I said, and my voice carried a warmth that was entirely manufactured and entirely effective. "The purification. Twelve thousand gold per year, if my arithmetic is correct. Forty coins per acre, three hundred acres. That is more than most nobles spend on their entire household."
Harwick stared at me. The wariness in his eyes warred with something else now — the tentative, dangerous hope of a man who had been carrying a burden alone and was suddenly being offered a hand.
"You... are correct, my lord." The words came out quiet, stripped of bluster. "Twelve thousand. Every year. To the Church. And the corruption spreads — each year, the purification lasts a shorter time, and the Church charges more for the same service. Last year’s yield was down thirty percent from the year before. I have been considering selling the land — which is why I came when your maid summoned me. I thought — I hoped your lordship might be interested in purchasing."
’I thought I could sell it at a premium — ten times market price, she said — but if he knows about the corruption, he knows the land is nearly worthless. No one will buy poisoned soil. I am trapped. The Church has me by the throat, and the lord knows it.’
"I am not here to purchase your land, Master Harwick."
He blinked. Confusion again. "But — your maid said—"
"My maid speaks without full understanding of my intentions." I returned to the table, sat, and opened the drawer. From it, I produced a document — a contract I had spent the better part of the previous night drafting by candlelight, drawing on the original Caelum’s memories of noble law and my own modern understanding of contractual exploitation.
I placed it on the table between us. Slid it toward him.
"I am here to offer you a partnership."