...attempted entry by force... Clause 11 invoked... Captain Hrolf stood down (Housing Protocol effective)... King signed the first Emergency Liquidity contract... 3,000 gold crowns withdrawn... Interest clock active.
I smile. It is a terrible, sharp smile.
"He took the bait," I tell Kenric. "Three thousand crowns. At forty percent interest."
Kenric’s jaw drops. "Forty percent? Víl?, that is..."
"Predatory?" I suggest. "Or in Oskar's case, perhaps, educational is a better word?"
"He can't pay that," Kenric says. "He literally cannot pay that."
"I know," I say, folding the letter and tucking it into my coat. "Which is why I also had him sign the collateral agreement."
I turn back to the sea. The waves crash against the pier, eating away at the wood.
"He thinks he bought a week of freedom," I say. "What he's really done is to sell me the Royal Forest. By the time we get back, the interest will have compounded enough to cost him a hunting lodge."
"And the guards?" Kenric asks. "The report said they stood down?"
"Of course they did," I reply, stepping over a missing plank. "I provide their housing, Kenric. I own the land their homes stand on. I feed them. I clothe them. Their families have warm, safe Fey housing. Oskar gives them orders; I give them a life."
I look at the shivering courier.
"Go get a hot meal at the inn," I tell him, tossing him a couple of silver coins. "Find yourself a cloak and tell Jan to keep the ledger open. I have a feeling the King will be back for the other two thousand before the week is out."
I take Kenric’s arm.
"Come," I say. "Let's go find a builder who knows how to pour concrete that survives saltwater. I want this harbor finished before I have to foreclose on the rest of the kingdom."
Duke Jellema’s coastal palace is smaller than Oskar’s monstrosity in Dobile, but it is infinitely better managed. The floors are clean. The servants are efficient. And the windows actually close properly.
We have commandeered his study. It smells of pipe tobacco and old leather, a comforting scent that reminds me of Kenric.
“Three candidates,” Kenric says, reading from the list Duke Jellema sent ahead of us. “Jellema says any of them are capable.”
“Capable is not enough,” I say, pacing the room. “I need a bloodhound. I need a man who counts copper flakes because he hates the idea of waste. We are pouring sixty thousand gold crowns into this harbor. Every mason, every carpenter, and every supplier in Varpua is going to try to skim the cream off the top.”
I stop at the window. The harbor below is a hive of activity. I can see the rotting pilings of the old pier. It looks like a mouth with missing teeth.
“Who is the first one?” I ask.
“Master Galt,” Kenric reads. “He manages the Wool Guild’s export ledger. Very wealthy.”
“Send him away,” I dismiss immediately.
Kenric blinks. “You haven’t even met him.”
“A wealthy accountant is a thief who hasn’t been caught,” I state. “Or he is too comfortable. I don’t want comfortable. I want hungry. Who is next?”
“Master Olin,” Kenric reads. “Formerly the Chief Customs Inspector for the Port. He was… retired early.”
“Retired why?”
Kenric scans the letter. “Jellema notes: ‘He was removed by the previous Harbor Master for refusing to overlook certain… informal import taxes.’”
I smile. It is the smile of a shark sensing blood in the water.
“He was fired for being honest,” I deduce. “And for annoying powerful men with his rules.”
“It says he lives in the Lower Quarter now. He scrapes by doing audits for small shopkeepers.”
“Bring him in,” I order.
Master Olin is a scarecrow of a man. He wears a coat that has been patched so many times it is mostly thread, but his collar is starched stiff, and his hands are scrubbed pink. He carries a ledger under his arm as if it were a shield.
He does not bow low. He offers a stiff nod.
“Your Highness. My Lord.”
“Sit, Master Olin,” I say, remaining standing.
He sits. He looks at the luxury of the Duke’s study with a critical eye, as if calculating the cost of the drapes.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“Duke Jellema speaks highly of your… attention to detail,” I begin.
“The Duke is a kind man,” Olin says, his voice dry as dust. “But he keeps his own books well enough. Why am I here?”
“I am building a pier,” I say. “A big one. And a breakwater. And warehouses.”
I slide the schematic across the desk. Olin looks at it. He puts on a pair of cracked spectacles. He studies the drawing for a long time.
“You’re using granite for the breakwater base,” he mutters. “Good. Sandstone erodes too fast in the salt spray. But you’ll need iron clamps to hold the blocks, not mortar. Mortar cracks in the freeze.”
He looks up at me.
“The quarrymen in the north will try to sell you ‘Grade B’ stone and charge you for ‘Grade A’. They’ll hide the cracks on the bottom face of the block where the inspector can’t see them.”
I feel a thrill of satisfaction.
“And how would you stop them?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t stop them,” Olin says flatly. “I would weigh every block. Grade A granite has a specific density. If the block is light, it has a fissure inside. I would reject the load and charge them for the delay.”
He taps the paper.
“And the timber. You specify treated oak for the pilings. The lumber yards will try to slip in pine that’s been stained dark. Pine rots in three years. Oak lasts fifty. You have to bore into the core to check the grain.”
I look at Kenric. He is grinning.
“Master Olin,” I say, leaning forward. “Do you know why I am building this pier?”
“To make money,” he says bluntly. “Tariffs. Docking fees. Storage rental.”
“Correct. But I cannot make money if the pier washes away in five years because a contractor bought a new summer home instead of iron clamps.”
I place a heavy bag of gold on the desk. Olin doesn’t look at it. He looks at the ledger in his hands.
“I need a Project Comptroller,” I say. “someone who answers only to me. You will authorize every purchase. You will inspect every delivery. You will sign every paycheck. If a single copper is spent on wine instead of nails, I want to know.”
Olin hesitates. “The guilds… they don’t like me. The Masons, the Carpenters… they call me ‘The Vulture’.”
“Good,” I say. “I don’t want them to like you. I want them to fear you.”
I push the gold toward him.
“This is your salary for the year. Paid in advance. It is five times what you made as a Customs Inspector.”
Olin stares at the bag. His throat works.
“And if I find theft?” he asks quietly. “Real theft? The kind involving the Guild Masters’ nephews?”
“Then you bring it to me,” I promise, my voice dropping to a dangerous purr. “And I will demonstrate that while you are ‘The Vulture’, I am the Dragon. I will burn them out, Olin. Root and branch.”
Olin stands up. He straightens his patched coat. He looks taller.
“I will need a measuring rod,” he says. “And a set of scales. And the authority to fire any man who smells of whiskey before noon.”
“You have it,” I say. “Kenric will write you a letter of authority.”
“I’ll start with the timber contracts,” Olin decides, tucking his ledger under his arm. “I saw a barge of questionable wood coming downriver this morning. I suspect it’s headed for your site.”
He bows, stiffer this time, but with a spark in his eye.
“I will not let them cheat you, Princess.”
“I know you won’t, Master Olin,” I say. “Because if you do, I won’t fire you. I will simply be very… disappointed.”
As he walks out, I turn to Kenric.
“That,” I say, “is the man who will save us twenty thousand gold pieces.”
Kenric laughs. “He looks like he’s about to go to war.”
“He is,” I reply, looking at the construction site below. “Construction is just war with bricks, Kenric. And we just hired our general.”
“Now,” I add, turning from the window. “We have the money watcher. Next, we find the builder. And I want to see this ‘barge of questionable wood’ for myself.”
The interviews for the Master Builder are going poorly.
We are back in Duke Jellema’s study. Master Olin sits at a small side table, his ledger open, a pair of brass scales sitting ominously in front of him. He has taken to his new role as "The Vulture" with frightening speed.
"Next," I call out.
A man in a velvet doublet enters. He unrolls a parchment that is more art than blueprint.
"Master Valerius," he introduces himself with a flourish. "Architect to the nobility. I envision a pier with marble columns, Your Highness. Statues of sea nymphs holding lanterns. A promenade that rivals the gardens of the capital."
"And the foundation?" Master Olin asks, not looking up from his calculations.
"Ah, standard piles," Valerius waves a hand. "But the aesthetic..."
"The sea does not care about aesthetics, Master Valerius," I interrupt. "The sea cares about physics. If I put marble statues on a wooden pier in the Northern Sea, they will be at the bottom of the harbor by next winter. Get out."
Valerius sputters and leaves.
"Next."
The next man is sweaty. He is cheap.
"I can do it for forty thousand," he promises, wringing his hands. "I know a quarry that sells stone at a discount. We can mix the mortar with... local sand."
Olin slams his hand on the table. It sounds like a gunshot.
"Beach sand?" Olin barks. "You want to mix mortar with salt-laden beach sand? It will crumble before the ribbon is cut. You are a fraud, sir. Leave before I have the guards audit your pockets."
The man flees.
I look at Kenric. "Are there any competent men in this city, or are they all sketching fantasies or planning grand larceny?"
"There is one more," Kenric says, checking the list. "Torvald. He isn't an architect. He's a... well, the list says 'Master of Heavy Works'."
"Send him in."
Torvald does not bow. He is a bear of a man, smelling of tar, wet wool, and old sweat. His hands are the size of shovels, and his face looks like it has been chiseled out of the very granite I intend to buy.
He walks in, looks at me, looks at Kenric, and then glares at Olin.
"I know you," Torvald growls at the accountant. "You're the Customs Inspector who made me unload a barge of timber three times because the manifest was off by two logs."
"It was off by four logs," Olin corrects, cleaning his spectacles. "And they were the wrong grade of spruce."
Torvald grunts. He throws a roll of paper on the desk. It hits with a heavy thud.
"There's your pier," he says.
I unroll it. It is ugly. There are no statues. There are no promenades. It is a drawing of massive interlocking stones, iron-shod pilings, and a breakwater angle that looks wrong.
"The angle is off," I say, pointing to the breakwater. "The current plans show a forty-five-degree sweep."
"The current plans were drawn by a man who sits in a tower in Dobile," Torvald spits. "If you build it at forty-five degrees, the winter swells will hit it broadside and crack the spine in two years. I pitched it at thirty degrees. It deflects the wave energy rather than absorbing it.
I look at the drawing. It makes sense. It is efficient.
"And the materials?" Olin asks. "Granite?"
"Basalt for the core," Torvald says. "Granite for the facing. And I don't want mortar. I want lead-poured iron clamps."
"Lead-poured?" Olin whistles. "That is expensive."
"Do you want it cheap, or do you want it standing?" Torvald challenges. He looks at me. "I heard the Fey Princess has deep pockets. If you're counting coppers, hire the guy with the beach sand. If you want a pier that will outlive your grandchildren, you hire me. And you pay for the lead."
I study him. He is rude. He is abrasive. And he hates Olin, which means they will watch each other like hawks.
"I heard there is a barge of questionable timber coming downriver," I say casually. "Pine stained to look like oak."
The king has taken the bait - hook, line and forest.
The Princess receives Jan’s report and smiles the way a cat does when it hears a mouse sneeze.
Oskar has:
- forced entry (drunkenly),
- triggered Clause 11 (almost),
- and — most importantly —signed the Emergency Liquidity contract.
Loan amount: 3,000 goldInterest: 40%Collateral: THE ROYAL FOREST
Oskar thinks he bought one night of gambling. He actually sold a national biome.
Brilliant.
The guards are loyal, just not to who he thinks they're loyal to.
Kenric asks how the guards were persuaded to stand down.
The Princess:
“I house them. I clothe them. Their children sleep in my beds.”
Ah YES — the ancient truth:
Kings earn respect.Landlords earn obedience.
Oskar gives orders.The Princess gives mortgages.
Guess who wins?
The courier arrives breathless with Jan’s report.
The Princess:
“Tell Jan to keep the ledger open. He’ll be back for the other two thousand.”
She’s not predicting. She’s calculating.
Master Olin aka The Vulture
Let me tell you: I adore this man.
He shuffles in looking like a scarecrow wearing a tax code, and within minutes he’s:
- identifying fraud,
- explaining granite density metrics,
- and insulting the entire construction industry.
He’s perfect.
He’s also so honest he was fired for it, which makes him priceless.
The Princess hires him instantly, pays him five times his old salary, and promises to burn anyone who tries to cheat him.
I nearly applauded.
Torvald the Human Battering Ram
Torvald arrives like an avalanche in human form:
- rude,
- massive,
- experienced,
- allergic to corruption,
- and openly hostile to Master Olin.
A perfect pairing.
His pier design is ugly, functional, and blatantly correct.The Princess recognizes physical competence when she sees it.
Within three sentences, he’s correcting established plans and casually insulting other architects.
I love him. I fear him. I would trust him with any structural integrity except, perhaps, my feelings.
Olin: “The Vulture” — watches every copper.
Torvald: “The Boulder” — builds structures that survive the apocalypse.
The Princess: “The Dragon” — will incinerate anyone who crosses them.
Construction? Complete.
Theft? Unlikely.
Panic? Guaranteed.
Chapter 127 was an utter triumph:
- A king digging his own grave (with interest).
- A bank tightening its hold around Centis like ivy around a crumbling wall.
- Two new characters so competent they should be declared national treasures.
- And a Princess orchestrating everything with the precision of a thousand?year chess master.
Bring me the next disaster, my lovely chronicler. Ashenleaf is READY.
Have you ever renovated a house or paid to have someone do it? Let me know in the comments...