The Rope Walk district smells of hemp and tar. It is loud with the sound of industry. Men with mallets are pounding on fibers.
Silas Visser’s shop is small, narrow, and terrifyingly organized. The walls are lined with shelves, and every item on them, from brass sextants to coils of silk rope, is tagged with a white card.
Behind the counter stands a man who looks like he is made of driftwood. He is gray, weathered, and still. He is currently inspecting a silver compass presented by a nervous-looking young captain.
We stand back and watch.
"The gimbal is loose," Silas says, his voice quiet. "And the north needle drags. It will get you lost in a storm, boy."
"It belonged to my father," the captain pleads. "I need fifty crowns for provisions."
"It is worth twenty," Silas says. "But I will give you thirty. Not for the silver, but because I know your ship is sound and the mackerel run is starting."
He pulls out a ledger.
"Thirty crowns. Five percent interest due in two months. If you don't come back, I sell the compass to the academy."
The captain signs. Silas counts out the coins. He does not throw them; he stacks them.
The captain leaves, looking relieved.
Silas looks up. He sees Olin. He does not look surprised.
"The Vulture," Silas nods. "I heard you were working for the Fey now. Come to audit my dust?"
"I came to offer you a job," Olin says.
"I have a job," Silas gestures to the shelves.
"You have a shop," I say, stepping forward. "I have a bank."
Silas looks at me. His eyes are pale blue, like sea glass. He recognizes the power, but he does not flinch.
"The Princess," he surmises. "The one buying the harbor."
"The one building the harbor," I correct. "And I need a Branch Manager for Varpua. Someone who knows that a compass with a loose gimbal is a bad risk, but a captain with a sound ship is a good one."
Silas wipes the counter with a rag.
"The Banking Guild won't like it," he says. "They call me a bottom-feeder."
"The Banking Guild is about to become irrelevant," I say. "I am introducing a new system. Fractional Reserve Banking. Backed by the assets of the Crown and the Fey Embassy."
Silas pauses. "Fractional Reserve? You lend the deposits?"
"I lend the potential of the deposits," I say. "To the millers. To the shipwrights. To the people who actually make things."
Silas stops wiping. He looks at his shelves. He looks at the nets and the tools he holds in trust.
"The big banks... they only lend to men who already have money," Silas says softly. "They lend to Dukes to buy velvet. They don't lend to a fisherman to buy a new boat."
"Exactly," I say. "And that is why the economy is stagnant. I want to lend to the fisherman. I want to lend to the cooper. I want to lend to the woman who smokes the herring."
I place a hand on the counter.
"I will provide the capital. Millions of crowns in liquidity. Olin will provide the oversight to ensure you don't get 'creative.' You will provide the judgment."
Silas looks at Olin. "You will audit me?"
"Daily," Olin promises. "I will weigh your ink."
"Good," Silas says. "I hate sloppy books."
He looks back at me.
"And the interest rates?"
"Standard market rates for business loans," I say. "But for the small holders? The net-menders? The widows?"
"Yes?"
"Low," I say. "Sustainable. I don't want their houses, Silas. I want their loyalty. And I want their business to grow so they can deposit their profits with us later."
Silas slowly unties his apron. He folds it carefully and places it on the stool.
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"I will need a larger vault," he says.
"You will have the largest vault in Varpua," I promise. "Torvald is digging the foundation tomorrow."
Silas nods. He reaches under the counter and pulls out a heavy iron key. He locks the cash box.
"My assistant can run the shop," he decides. "When do I start?"
"Now," I say. "We have to transfer the payroll for the construction crew. I want the men paid in Silver Ledger slips, not coin. You need to explain to them why a piece of paper is better than gold."
Silas snorts. "Easy. Gold gets stolen in the tavern. Paper has a name on it. I'll tell them it's 'theft-proof wages'."
"See?" I say to Kenric. "He is a natural."
As we walk out, Olin falls into step beside Silas.
"I noticed you capitalized the interest on that compass loan," Olin murmurs.
"Standard practice for high-risk maritime assets," Silas counters. "If the ship sinks, the compass is gone too."
"Acceptable," Olin grunts. "But we will need to discuss your depreciation schedule for the nets."
I listen to them bicker about math. It is the most beautiful thing I have heard in days.
"The Shark, the Vulture, the Bear, the Blue-Inker," Kenric counts on his fingers. "And now... the Driftwood Banker."
"We are ready," I say, looking up at the castle where Jellema waits. "My team is in place."
Duke Jellema arrives two days later. He looks windblown, tired, and smells of horse.
He bursts into his own study, expecting to find chaos. He expects to find me drowning in resumes, begging for his local expertise.
Instead, he finds me sitting by the fire, drinking a glass of his best imported wine, while Kenric reads a book on naval history. The room is quiet. The fire is crackling. There is a sense of aggressive orderliness.
"Princess?" Jellema blinks, pulling off his riding gloves. "You are... relaxed?"
"I am efficient, Duke Jellema," I say, gesturing to the chair opposite me. "Pour yourself a drink. You look like you rode hard."
"I did," Jellema admits, pouring a generous measure of brandy. "I was worried. Varpua is... difficult. The guilds here are entrenched. The merchants are thieves. I feared you might have trouble finding... suitable personnel."
"I found them," I say calmly.
Jellema sits. "Already? But... who? The Guild Masters require weeks of negotiation just to schedule a meeting."
"I did not hire the Guild Masters," I reply. "I hired the people the Guild Masters are afraid of."
I slide a piece of parchment across the low table. It is the finalized roster.
Jellema picks it up. He reads the first name. He chokes on his brandy.
"Master Olin?" he gasps. "The Vulture? Víl?, the man is a menace! He audited my kitchen staff once and fired my pastry chef for 'excessive use of saffron'!"
"He saved you forty gold crowns a year on saffron," I correct. "And he is now my Project Comptroller."
Jellema reads the next name. His eyes bug out.
"Torvald? The man who threatened to drown the Mayor in a barrel of tar?"
"It was a barrel of pitch," I clarify. "And he is pouring the foundations as we speak. I visited the site this morning. He has driven twelve piles. The man is a machine."
Jellema reads further. "Sander Vane? The ink-thrower? And... Silas Visser? The pawnbroker?"
He drops the paper. He looks at me with a mixture of horror and awe.
"You have assembled a suicide squad," he whispers. "These are the most hated, difficult, stubborn people in Varpua."
"They are the most competent people in Varpua," I say. "They were hated because they refused to play the game of corruption. Now, they play my game. And my game has very strict rules."
Jellema leans back, swirling his brandy. A slow smile spreads across his face.
"The Guilds are going to be furious," he muses. "The Carpenters' Guild has been trying to run Torvald out of town for years."
"Let them be furious," I say. "If they interfere, send them to Sander. He has a very sharp tongue and a lot of ink."
I lean forward. "Now, Jellema. Let us discuss your role."
Jellema straightens. "My role?"
"You are the face of this operation," I tell him. "To the King, and to the other Dukes, this expansion is a joint venture. You are the benevolent Lord of Varpua, modernizing his port for the glory of the realm."
"And you?"
"I am merely the... silent partner," I say. "The financier."
Jellema laughs. "You? Silent? You put your name on the spoons, Víl?."
"Not here," I say, my voice dropping. "In the capital, I need visibility. Here, I need speed. If the King thinks I own the harbor, he will find a way to meddle. He will send his own inspectors. He will demand changes to the architecture to make it 'prettier'."
I point to the window, toward the gray sea.
"I need deep-water berths, Jellema. I need cranes capable of lifting heavy artillery, though we will call it 'heavy machinery'. I need granaries that are rat-proof and fire-proof. And I need it done in three months."
Jellema’s smile fades. He looks at me sharply.
"Three months? That is... fast. Is there a reason for the haste?"
"The markets wait for no one," I say smoothly.
Jellema studies me. He is a gambler. He knows a bluff when he sees one. But he also knows when to fold.
"And the revenue?" he asks.
"The Fey Bank holds the mortgage on the infrastructure," I explain. "We take the docking fees and the storage rentals until the principal is repaid. You, as the Duke, take the taxes on the goods moving through the port."
I do the math for him.
"If we double the capacity, your tax revenue doubles. You will be the richest Duke in Centis within a year."
Jellema likes the sound of that. "And the King?"
"The King gets to cut the ribbon," I say. "And he gets to borrow money from me to pay for his gambling habits."
"Speaking of which," Jellema says, lowering his voice. "I received a letter from Duke Webbe this morning. He says Oskar lost heavily the night you left."
"Three thousand crowns," I confirm. "He borrowed it from the Bank."
"At what rate?"
"Forty percent."
Jellema closes his eyes. He exhales a long, pained breath.
"Forty percent," he whispers. "He is dead. He just doesn't know it yet."
"He is liquid," I correct. "For now."
I stand up and walk to the decanter to refill his glass.
"So, Duke Jellema. Do we have an accord? You keep the Guilds off my back, you take the credit for the expansion, and you enjoy your taxes. In exchange, you let my sharks run the water."
Jellema looks at the list of names again. The Vulture. The Bear. The Blue-Inker. The Driftwood Banker.
"It will be chaos," Jellema decides. "But... it will be profitable chaos."
He raises his glass.
"To the expansion," he says.
"To the future," I reply, clinking my glass against his.
"Oh, and Jellema?" I add.
"Yes?"
"I hired a new cook for the inn down the road. The Gilded Pheasant. If you are hungry later, I suggest the roast pheasant. It is excellent."
"The inn where Joppe used to steal the spoons?" Jellema asks.
"Joppe is gone," I say pleasantly. "New management there, too."
Jellema shakes his head, laughing. "Remind me, Princess, never to bet against you."
"A wise policy," I say. "Now, drink up. We have a groundbreaking ceremony to plan. I want you to hold the silver shovel. It will look good in the portraits."
Jellema suggests serveral local artists. Kenric and I go to view their work and sit while Guild Chairs rattle on about their portfolios. They paint candy coated visions.
Jellema sees the roster:
I need this embroidered on a pillow.
A business coup
A political maneuver so subtle it screams
And the formation of a team so dangerous it could overthrow a kingdom with paperwork alone
- 1 Goose Farmer Who Is Not a Goose Farmer**
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