Chapter 34: Volume 1- [ - 35 ]
Harwick took the contract with trembling hands. His eyes — small and sharp — scanned the text with the speed of a man who had been reading contracts since before I was born.
The document was clean, precise, and generous on its face. The terms, as written:
|| Contract of Land Lease and Mutual Agreement||
|| Party A: Lord Caelum Veyne, Lord of House Veyne||
|| Party B: Master Harwick, Landholder of the Eastern Acres||
1. Party B hereby leases the eastern three hundred acres of agricultural land to Party A for a period of ten (10) years, effective immediately upon signing.
2. Party A shall assume all costs associated with the annual purification of said land, including but not limited to Church fees, ritual materials, and administrative costs, for the duration of the lease.
3. Party A shall pay Party B an annual lump sum for all crops produced on said land, at a rate of sixty gold coins per acre, per year, regardless of yield. This sum shall be paid in full before the autumn harvest.
4. Party B shall continue to manage the day-to-day operations of the land, including planting, tending, and harvesting, and shall deliver all produce to Party A’s designated storehouse.
5. Party B shall provide produce to Party A at a rate fifteen percent below market value, in recognition of Party A’s assumption of purification costs.
6. In the event of Party B’s death, incapacity, or inability to fulfill the terms of this contract, all obligations — including the lease, the land management, and the annual payments — shall transfer to Party B’s legal heirs, who shall inherit both the responsibilities and the protections outlined herein.
7. Party A, as lord of the estate, shall extend his full protection to Party B and Party B’s household, including family members and dependents, for the duration of the lease. This protection includes shelter within the lord’s manor if deemed necessary by Party A for the safety and well-being of Party B’s family.
8. Party B’s heirs, upon inheritance of this contract, shall present themselves to Party A within thirty (30) days of Party B’s death or incapacitation to review the terms of the lease and confirm their continued participation. Failure to do so shall result in the forfeiture of the land to Party A without compensation.
9. Any disputes arising from this contract shall be adjudicated by Party A, as lord of the estate, whose judgment in such matters shall be considered final.
|| Signed: _______________ (Party A)||
|| Signed: _______________ (Party B)||
Harwick read it twice. His internal voice was a study in cautious optimism:
’Sixty gold per acre — that is below market, but he is covering the purification — twelve thousand in costs that I will no longer pay — net gain, even with the fifteen percent discount on produce. And the protection clause — shelter in the manor if needed — that is unusual, but not unheard of for a lord to offer his tenants. The heir clause is standard. The thirty-day presentation requirement is... strict, but reasonable. What is the catch? There must be a catch. No lord offers terms this generous without—’
"The purification costs," I said, answering his unspoken question. "That is the catch, or rather, the benefit. I have means of dealing with the corruption that do not involve the Church. My family — the Veyne bloodline — has certain ancestral knowledge regarding the land. I will handle the purification myself, or through my own channels. The Church will not be involved."
’He can purify without the Church? Is that possible? The Church has always said — they said only the clergy could — but if it were true, if he could cleanse the soil without the parish fees, the savings alone would—’
"This is..." Harwick looked up from the document, his eyes wet with the beginning of tears he would never shed because merchants do not cry, they calculate. "This is remarkably generous, my lord. I must ask — why? Why offer such terms?"
I leaned back. Let a note of weariness enter my voice — the weariness of a young lord who had inherited a broken house and was trying, against all odds, to piece it back together.
"Because I am the lord of this estate," I said simply. "And the people on my land are starving. Not because there is no food, but because the food is too expensive. The Church bleeds the farmers, the farmers bleed the people, and the people die. I cannot change what the Church charges. But I can change who pays."
Harwick stared at me. His internal voice had gone quiet — not because the calculations had stopped, but because they had arrived at a conclusion so favorable that the calculating part of his brain had temporarily shut down in self-defense against the possibility that it was wrong.
’He is an idealist. A young, foolish idealist who wants to save his people. This is perfect. I can give him the low-grade wheat — the stuff I cannot sell at market anyway — keep the premium grain for myself, sell it on the side, and collect sixty gold per acre for the privilege. He will never know the difference. This lord is a gift. A gullible, idealistic gift.’
He smiled. The oily, calculating smile of a man who believed he was the one doing the exploiting.
"Where do I sign?"
I handed him a quill. He signed. His name — Harwick of the Eastern Acres — sprawled across the bottom of the document in a hand that was lavish and overconfident, each letter a little monument to the ego of a man who thought he had just outsmarted a lord.
I countersigned. Sealed the document with wax and the Veyne serpent ring. Set it aside.
Then I looked at him.
"By the way," I said, and my voice shifted — not abruptly, but with the slow, deliberate change of a key turning in a lock. "You asked why I mentioned your daughters."
Harwick’s smile faltered. "I — yes. Why did you? I must confess, I was confused by—’
I reached behind my back. My fingers found the grip of the Serpent’s Fang — smooth, warm, solid. I drew it from my waistband and placed it on the table between us, the barrel pointing at his chest.
His eyes found the pistol. Blinked. His internal voice produced a single, confused note:
’What is — that is not a wand — it is not any artifact I have — what is that—’
"Well," I said. "The daughters. I want to fuck them."
The silence lasted exactly one and a half seconds.
"What?" Harwick’s face drained of color. "What are you — my lord, what are you saying? What is that — that thing in your hand—’
"The Serpent’s Fang," I said, lifting the pistol. The barrel found his chest — the center of his velvet coat, directly above the gold chain, directly above the heart that was currently hammering against his ribs with the frantic rhythm of a trapped bird. "A weapon, Master Harwick. One that does not require magic, or strength, or skill. One that kills with a single touch."
"You are joking," he whispered, and his smile had become a rictus, frozen in place by disbelief. "My lord — this is — you cannot — killing a merchant will bring the guild’s wrath, the Magistrate’s men, the—’
"Of course," I said, and my smile was the smile of a man who had already accounted for every variable, "to fuck your daughters. Aren’t they going to love their loving lord?"