Now I am a thug.

  I am but a nitwit thug.

  A nitwit thug who cons others.

  Not in the big sense. Not in the world-shaking, kingdom-breaking way. Just in the small, daily, necessary kind of way.

  The kind where you smile when you sell.

  The kind where you nod when someone thanks you.

  The kind where you tell yourself it is fine.

  The inn ceiling above me was stained with old smoke and water damage, a shape like a crooked cloud that had been there longer than the innkeeper himself. I stared at it while my fingers worked a coin back and forth across my knuckles.

  Pennar.

  Penmark.

  Crownmark.

  Different sizes, different weights, different lies.

  The room smelled like stale bread, boiled cabbage, and damp wood. The fire in the hearth was low and orange, barely enough to warm the place. The bed beneath me creaked every time I shifted my weight. It always did. It complained more than most of my customers.

  Across from me, Rell sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the answers might be carved into it.

  “You ever think about it?” he asked.

  I rolled the coin onto my thumb and caught it.

  “Think about what?”

  “You know what.”

  I sighed and pushed myself upright.

  “Yes, Rell. I think about it.”

  He did not look up.

  “Do you think it makes us bad people?”

  I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because if I did not laugh, I might have to answer honestly.

  “Bad people? No. Desperate people? Yes. Stupid people? Sometimes. Dead people if we stop? Definitely.”

  He rubbed his face with both hands.

  “They are starving, Tavin.”

  “They are eating.”

  “Barely.”

  “They are alive.”

  “Barely.”

  I swung my legs off the bed and stood, stretching my back.

  “Rell, listen to me. Slowly. With your ears.”

  He finally looked up.

  “We do not own the roads. We do not own the routes. We do not own the fences or the passes or the gates or the guards. We do not own the bnorths beyond the border. We do not own the Chief. We do not own the tolls. We do not own the threats.”

  I walked over and leaned against the wall.

  I stare towards the half-opened windowsill, revealing old vines and withered red roses.

  Back home they say withering roses are a sign of trouble.

  I hope not.

  “We own two carts, six horses, and a ledger full of numbers we do not get to choose.”

  He frowned.

  “We choose what we charge.”

  “No. We choose whether we want to keep breathing.”

  Silence settled between us.

  Outside, someone laughed. A child, maybe. The sound was thin and bright.

  Rell swallowed.

  “They trust us.”

  “That is not our fault.”

  “They think we are helping them.”

  “We are helping them. Just not for free.”

  “They are poor.”

  “So are we.”

  “They are farmers.”

  “So are the dirt and the rain. No one thanks them either.”

  He clenched his fists.

  “They are not wrong to hate us.”

  I shrugged.

  “They are not right either.”

  That earned me a bitter look.

  “You talk like you are already dead.”

  I smiled.

  “I talk like someone who does not want to be.”

  He stood suddenly and started pacing.

  “This is wrong.”

  “This is survival.”

  “There has to be another way.”

  “Name it.”

  He stopped.

  I waited.

  The fire crackled softly.

  He exhaled.

  “…I cannot.”

  “Then stop pretending you can.”

  He turned to me.

  “The Chief is the one doing this.”

  “Yes.”

  “He is the one forcing the prices up.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why are we the ones they hate?”

  “Because we are the only ones they see.”

  That one landed heavier.

  He sat back down.

  “They will kill us one day.”

  “No,” I said. “They will thank us one day.”

  He stared at me.

  “For what?”

  “For not being worse.”

  He laughed weakly.

  “You are horrible.”

  “Correct.”

  We sat in silence again.

  I rolled the coin across my fingers.

  “Do you remember when we started this?” I asked.

  “When we were not scum yet?”

  “When we were less scum.”

  He nodded.

  “We thought we were just traders.”

  “We thought we were clever.”

  I smiled.

  “We were wrong in many ways.”

  He chuckled, then stopped.

  “What if someone finds out?”

  “About what?”

  “About the Chief. About the prices. About the real reason.”

  “Then someone smarter than us will die instead.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “You are awful.”

  “Yes.”

  He opened them again.

  “But you are right.”

  Before I could respond, the door exploded inward.

  Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just suddenly and violently.

  Wood splintered. The latch snapped. The hinges screamed.

  Four men in village guard uniforms flooded into the room, spears raised, boots heavy on the floorboards.

  One of them shouted, “By order of the Lord, you are both under arrest.”

  Rell froze.

  I lifted my hands slowly.

  “For what charge?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Suspicion of exploitation, fraud, and illegal manipulation of trade routes.”

  I blinked.

  “That is very specific.”

  “Shut up.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They grabbed us before we could move. Rough hands. Tight grips.

  Rell panicked.

  “We did nothing wrong.”

  One guard snorted.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  They dragged us down the stairs, out into the street, and threw us onto a waiting cart.

  The innkeeper watched with wide eyes.

  Someone spat.

  Someone whispered.

  Someone made the sign against evil.

  The cart jolted forward.

  Rell whispered, “The Lord.”

  I nodded.

  “So he exists.”

  “...That means we’re dead.”

  “Probably not.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “I said probably.”

  The manor rose ahead of us, tall and spruced against the village.

  They pulled us inside, up the steps, through halls that smelled like polish and flowers and money.

  Then into a spare room.

  Then into chairs.

  Then rope around wrists and ankles.

  Then silence.

  A guard said, “Wait here.”

  The door closed.

  Rell whispered, “What do we do?”

  I leaned back as far as the ropes allowed.

  “We tell the truth.”

  He stared.

  “We tell all of it?”

  “Yes.”

  He swallowed.

  “About the Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the threats?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the routes?”

  “Yes.”

  “About the fear?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook.

  “They will kill us.”

  “No,” I said softly. “They will decide whether we deserve to live.”

  “That is worse.”

  “Yes.”

  Footsteps approached outside the door.

  I smiled.

  “Good thing I am very charming.”

  He groaned.

  The door opened.

  And that was when I knew.

  We were no longer dealing with farmers.

  We were dealing with him who rules them.

  And people who rule are far more dangerous than people who steal.

  ```

  The guards were waiting outside the guest room when I arrived.

  They straightened immediately when they saw me, spears tapping lightly against the stone floor as they shifted their footing.

  “Are they secured?” I asked.

  “Yes, Lord Jakob,” one of them said. “Both of them. Tied to the chairs. No weapons. No tricks.”

  Good.

  I adjusted the strap of my saber across my shoulder.

  I had chosen the thin dueling blade instead of something heavy. A saber meant for thrusting, not chopping. Clean. Precise. Intimate in a way that axes and spears never were.

  I did not plan to hurt them.

  But I did plan to make them believe I would.

  I opened the door.

  The room was small and poorly lit. Just a single lantern on the table. The two men were tied to wooden chairs in the center. Their hands bound behind them. Ankles tied to the chair legs. Rope around their waists.

  They looked exactly like I expected.

  Tired.

  Dirty.

  Eyes sunken in the way people get when they sleep too little and worry too much.

  The one on the left was thin with narrow shoulders and patchy facial hair. The one on the right was wider, rounder, with a swollen cheek like he had been slapped recently.

  Both of them looked up when I entered.

  The thin one swallowed.

  The round one licked his lips.

  Neither of them spoke.

  Good.

  Silence is better than lies.

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

  The sound of the latch clicking shut was louder than it should have been.

  I walked slowly toward them.

  Each step was deliberate.

  Not rushed.

  Not aggressive.

  Just present.

  I stopped in front of the thin one.

  I drew my saber.

  The blade whispered softly as it left the scabbard.

  I placed the tip just under his chin.

  Not pressing.

  Just touching.

  Close enough that he could feel the cold of the metal.

  “Good evening,” I said.

  He nodded rapidly.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  His voice cracked on the last word.

  I tilted my head slightly.

  “You are going to answer my questions,” I said. “You are going to answer them honestly. You are going to answer them fully.”

  He nodded again.

  “Yes, my lord. Yes. Of course.”

  I shifted the saber slightly so it rested against the soft skin under his jaw.

  “If you lie to me, I will know.”

  He swallowed.

  “Yes.”

  I looked at the other one.

  “You too.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the round one said quickly.

  I returned my focus to the thin one.

  “Your name.”

  “Rennel,” he said. “Rennel, my lord.”

  “And him.”

  “Boros,” Rennel said.

  I nodded.

  “Rennel. Boros.”

  I let their names hang in the air for a moment.

  Then I asked the real question.

  “Who is the Chief.”

  Both of them stiffened.

  Not dramatically.

  Not visibly.

  Just enough that I could see it.

  Their breathing changed.

  Their eyes shifted.

  Their shoulders tensed.

  That told me everything.

  Rennel spoke first.

  “Chief Elbien, my lord.”

  The name settled into the room.

  I did not react.

  I simply waited.

  Boros added, “Of Carmien.”

  “Tell me about him,” I said.

  Rennel hesitated.

  The saber tip pressed very slightly closer.

  Not enough to cut.

  Enough to remind.

  “He is the village head of Carmien,” Rennel said. “Carmien sits inside an old fortress. Thick walls. Old war stone. Guards. A lot of them.”

  I nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “He controls the gates,” Boros said. “You cannot enter Carmien without paying. Not just travelers. Merchants too. Everyone.”

  “How much.”

  Rennel winced.

  “It started as two Penmark per cart. Then five. Then ten. Now it rises to many Crownmarks a cart..”

  Per cart.

  Per entry.

  “That is excessive,” I said.

  “Yes, my lord,” Rennel said quickly. “That is why we had to raise our own prices.”

  “Explain.”

  Rennel licked his lips.

  “We buy grain from Foklunn. Wheat. Rice. Sometimes beans. Then we take it to Carmien. Sell it there. But if we pay the villagers fairly, and then pay Chief Elbien his fee, we lose money.”

  “So you pay the villagers less.”

  “Yes.”

  “By how much.”

  Rennel hesitated again.

  The saber moved closer.

  “Half,” he said.

  The word felt heavy.

  Boros flinched.

  I breathed in slowly.

  Then out.

  “So you take their grain at half its worth.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then sell it at full value in Carmien.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then pay Chief Elbien.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what remains.”

  “Enough to eat,” Boros said. “Enough to live. Not enough to grow. Not enough to stop.”

  I considered that.

  Not enough to stop.

  That was the key.

  Not greed.

  Not ambition.

  Survival.

  A chain of people barely staying above water, each pushing down on the one below them.

  I lowered the saber slightly.

  Not enough to relax them.

  Enough to show that I was thinking.

  “Why does Chief Elbien hate Foklunn,” I asked.

  Rennel blinked.

  “Hate.”

  “Yes. Why does he target this village.”

  Rennel shook his head.

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  Boros added, “He does not talk about it.”

  “When did this start.”

  “Three years ago,” Rennel said.

  “What happened three years ago.”

  They exchanged glances.

  Then Rennel said, “Nothing. At lnorth nothing we know.”

  That was a lie.

  Not a full one.

  But incomplete.

  I lifted the saber again.

  “Try again.”

  Rennel swallowed.

  “There was a fire,” he said. “In Carmien. A warehouse burned. Grain storage. It was blamed on a trader from Foklunn.”

  My eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Blamed.”

  “Yes. He said the trader brought cursed grain. Said it was tainted. Said it caused the fire.”

  “That sounds absurd,” I said.

  “Yes,” Rennel agreed quickly. “But he used it anyway.”

  “To do what.”

  “To justify the fees.”

  “To punish the village.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the trader.”

  “He was executed.”

  The word felt heavier than the rest.

  I stared at Rennel.

  “How.”

  “Public hanging.”

  I felt something cold settle into my chest.

  Not anger.

  Not yet.

  Just clarity.

  “So this is not just economics,” I said. “This is personal.”

  “Yes,” Rennel whispered.

  I stepped back.

  I sheathed the saber.

  Both men sagged slightly in relief.

  Then I spoke.

  “You are not innocent.”

  They froze.

  “You are complicit,” I continued. “You hurt this village. You starve children. You drain families.”

  “Yes,” Boros said quietly.

  “But you are also trapped.”

  They looked up at me.

  Hope flickered.

  Dangerous thing.

  “You will cooperate,” I said. “You will testify. You will give names. Routes. Schedules. Receipts. Everything.”

  “Yes,” Rennel said. “Yes. Anything.”

  “And in return,” I continued, “you will not be punished as criminals. You will be treated as witnesses.”

  Their eyes widened.

  “Truly.”

  “Yes.”

  Boros began to cry.

  Not loudly.

  Just silently.

  I turned to the door.

  “Send for Wilmoris,” I told the guard outside. “And prepare writing tools.”

  Then I paused.

  I looked back at Rennel and Boros.

  “One more thing.”

  They stiffened.

  “You will not warn Chief Elbien.”

  They shook their heads violently.

  “No, my lord.”

  “You will not flee.”

  “No.”

  “You will not lie.”

  “No.”

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  Then I left the room.

  As I walked down the hallway, I felt strangely calm.

  This was not a battle.

  This was not a war.

  This was something else.

  Something quieter.

  But no less dangerous.

  Chief Elbien had built a system.

  A small one.

  But systems were like weeds.

  If you let them grow, they spread roots everywhere.

  I would not pull this weed yet.

  Not until I understood how deep it went.

  And why it had grown in the first place.

  I need to do something about this.

  …But how? I myself am no info-gathering spy nor veteran warrior.

  Wait.

  Warrior.

  Hah…

  I don’t need to be one.

  I just need to ask one.

  …

  I have a plan.