Fallen Eagle

4th Week of September, 1460

The sweet tang of pressed grapes and the rugged slopes of the northern mountains were an apt summary of much of Petros’s life.

His story had never been particularly eventful. He had spent a fairly rebellious youth avoiding his father’s expectations wherever he could, only to settle into the same wine trade the old man had dabbled in, as his father had before him. Petros supposed there were worse fates than inheriting a reliable business, even if it lacked the excitement he had once imagined for himself.

It was a simple irony of life that he had always hated the taste of wine.

“Oyo,” he called to his horses, drawing gently on the reins.

The wagon slowed with a protesting creak before the squat manor ahead. A wooden palisade enclosed the house and its outbuildings, the timbers thick enough to discourage the roving bands of thieves and deserters that plagued the northern hills, if not a determined assault.

Petros could understand the caution. It was why he always travelled with company of the armed kind.

“Ho there!” one of the guardsmen at the entrance hailed. “You risk trespass upon the landed estate of Lord Iohannes Sideris. State your business!”

“It is Master Petros!” one of his own guards called back. “Come to collect the autumn batch of jars!”

The declaration prompted a low conversation among the men at the gate. Petros waited without complaint while the horses snorted and shifted beneath their harnesses. Eventually, one of the guards detached himself from the group and hurried toward the inner compound.

“The steward will be with you shortly,” another announced, and he was not lying.

Panagiotis, a former scribe now elevated into the management of the estate, was a thin, willowy man who rarely dawdled. He emerged through the opened gates with quick, narrow strides, robes fluttering around his ankles.

“Master Petros, it is good to see you. We have been expecting you.” He offered a polite smile before turning back toward the compound. “Come with me.”

Petros led his wagons and men inside the fortifications. The horses were unhitched beside a shaded post, where they could nose through a generous heap of hay rather than stand sweating beneath the autumn sun. His guards were offered water, bread, and a bowl of olives, which they accepted with the gratitude of men who had spent half the morning swallowing road dust.

Petros himself was led through the manor and down into a cellar carved deep beneath the ground.

The first thing Petros noticed was that Iohannes had ordered narrow ventilation shafts cut near the ceiling, allowing the damp air to escape without admitting much heat. The earth floor had been covered with packed gravel to keep pooling water from gathering beneath the jars, while stout wooden racks raised each container away from the walls and ground.

He could appreciate the efficiency of the arrangement. He had dealt with House Sideris for many years, and Lord Konstantinos had never been much of a statesman, nor a man inclined to trouble himself over hitching posts, balanced ledgers or proper storage. The sharper man waiting for him in the cool darkness, however, possessed far greater interest in the economic concerns a lord had to worry over.

Unfortunately, the same attention he admired bled over to his negotiations with the man. What had once been a comfortable arrangement of casual overtures and friendly negotiation had become a far more exacting affair, with every stavraton weighed, questioned, and pinched until Petros’s former share grew thinner each season.

Still, Petros had never been one to worry too hard over the smaller margins. He had found over the years that the hassle of extracting every single coin he could from his partners wore on men’s patience and made enemies of some. And it caused headaches to boot.

“Lord Iohannes.” Petros offered a slight bow.

“Master Petros.” Iohannes spared him a restrained smile. “I believe you will wish to examine the batch?”

He gestured toward the jars stacked neatly upon the new racks, each marked with the estate’s seal and arranged by vineyard and pressing date.

“You know me well,” Petros said with a small laugh.

Iohannes answered with the same stern smile he seemed to reserve for occasions of genuine good humour.

Petros had dealt with Iohannes for several years now, ever since he had been appointed acting steward for Lord Konstantinos. They were familiar with this dance by now, and Petros appreciated that familiarity. It spared them the need for empty boasting or theatrical offence whenever a price failed to please.

He began his inspection with the jars themselves.

The cellar air was cool and carried the damp scent of earth, oak, and old wine. Petros ran his palm along the nearest container, checking for beaded moisture, cracked clay, or the dark staining that warned of a slow leak. He crouched to inspect the bottom where mould liked to gather out of sight.

The new racks seemed to have done their work. The jars sat clear of the ground, and remained dry despite the chill below.

A servant brought forward a wooden cup and drew a small measure from the first jar. Petros held it toward the light spilling through one of the narrow ventilation shafts. The wine was clear, with none of the cloudiness that came from careless settling. He swirled it slowly, watching the thin red film cling to the sides before lifting the cup to smell the fruit in it, then took a careful sip.

The wine slid with difficulty down Petros’s throat, carrying the familiar sourness he had never learned to enjoy. Ironically enough, it was perhaps his aversion to wine that allowed him to detect its finer points. Where other men found pleasure, Petros found bitter flavours that stood out enough to be judged.

He sampled from three more jars, rinsing his mouth with water between each taste.

“It is much sweeter than in years past,” Petros remarked at the end, setting the cup aside. “You can taste the fruit far more intensely, my lord. I know the summer was dry and warm, but this is a remarkable change.”

Perhaps it would not be noticeable to an untrained palate, but winemaking was often a matter of gaining an edge by fractions, and Iohannes understood that.

“I examined the vine structure we were using,” Iohannes said, unable to keep a little satisfaction from his voice. “A noble friend of mine has had greater success by spreading the vines farther apart.”

“That would give them more air and sun,” Petros reasoned. He looked over the rows again, counting almost without thinking. “I do notice, however, that production is lower than in years past. Trouble with mould and birds?”

“The later harvest,” Iohannes confirmed, his pleasure diminishing. “The fruit improved, but we lost part of the crop waiting for it.”

Petros rubbed his thumb along the rim of the cup. He could tell Iohannes was shifting his argument, aiming to sell quality rather than quantity. “Considering the sweetness of the vintage and the prices I have seen in the markets, I can offer at most fifteen hyperpera for the lot.”

He named the figure without trying to drag it needlessly low. Petros disliked excessive haggling. There was no virtue in souring a good arrangement simply to squeeze another coin from a man. The right price, in his view, was one both parties could leave content with, though many of his fellow merchants considered that dangerously charitable.

“Perhaps twenty hyperpera,” Iohannes countered, because he always countered, “since you will be selling to the Genoese at an agreed price.”

“The journey there still takes several days,” Petros replied mildly. “My margins may be predictable, but they will not be large. Nor is guarding the cargo cheap with the roads as they are. Can we meet at eighteen hyperpera?” he tried, knowing he was being generous.

“We can.” Iohannes nodded, knowing it would be rude to press for more. “Though I believe you will soon find the roads less dangerous than before, Master Petros.” He smiled as though he possessed some private knowledge. “Next year, I expect the price will have risen closer to twenty hyperpera.”

“I would hope so, my lord,” Petros said, and meant it.

He would gladly accept thinner margins if it meant travelling without wondering whether every bend in the road hid men with bows and empty stomachs.

Their business concluded, the two men clasped forearms and exchanged the usual courtesies without drawing them out longer than necessary. Iohannes returned to the manor while Panagiotis summoned labourers from the estate yard.

The jars were heaved up to the wagons, one at a time. Petros watched as they were settled across the wagon bed with their weight evenly divided over the axles. Wooden wedges were hammered beneath them, then ropes were looped over the containers and tightened until the load no longer shifted when one of the men threw his shoulder against it.

Once satisfied, Petros thanked the labourers and climbed onto the wagon, eager to be back on the road. As the estate receded behind him, his thoughts drifted toward his wife and daughters.

He pictured the youngest trying to follow her mother through the kitchen, and the eldest pretending she had grown too old to wait by the window whenever he returned.

Petros sighed, though the thought warmed him more than it saddened him.

Such was the life of a wandering merchant.

…

The sun was nearing the horizon when Petros approached the last stop he meant to make that day. Nestled within the folds of an oak-covered hill, the squared edge of pale stone was the only sign from afar that human hands had shaped anything there.

The place was difficult to find unless one already knew what to look for, as was true of many sketes scattered across the Theodoran countryside. Their remoteness was rarely accidental. A monk seeking silence had little reason to build beside a well-travelled road.

The faint scents of juniper and thistle mingled beneath the broader smell of oak leaves warming in the last of the sun. Bushes and low trees lined the narrow dirt path, swaying gently. At first glance, the hillside appeared wild. A closer look revealed the careful hand beneath it. Herbs grew in distinct patches, lined by young fruit trees, while the stones had been cleared from shallow channels and cut to carry rainwater away from the vines.

Many monasteries specialized in one craft or another. Petros understood why. For all their remoteness and abstinence, men still needed lamp oil, iron tools, salt, and the occasional bolt of cloth that did not itch like sackcloth. In turn, the monasteries offered what they could, and eventually, generation through generation, perfected their chosen craft. Whether it be growing herbs, copying manuscripts, carving icons, or, in this case, producing wine.

Most were largely self-sufficient, but communities like this relied upon merchants such as Petros to bring what the hills could not furnish and carry away what the brothers produced in excess.

Petros had maintained a longstanding arrangement with this particular Skete for a rather obvious reason.

“Brother Zakes,” he called toward a hunched figure draped entirely in black.

The monk continued working slowly at the vine before him. With a small pruning billhook, he clipped away the smaller offshoots threatening to stray from the orderly row stretching across the slope. He inspected each cut with the gravity of a physician deciding whether a patient might live.

Only once he judged the greenery properly corrected did he turn.

“Ah, Petros.” His bald crown dipped in greeting. “My apologies. I was having a disagreement with my friends here, and I thought it best to resolve the matter before sundown.”

“I think it went well, judging by the look of them,” Petros said, allowing his gaze to travel across the hillside.

Sketes like this were often founded in places blessed with remarkable views, though Krypte Ampelos seemed to enjoy more than its proper share. Their vineyard descended in neat green lines along the slope, giving way to dense forest and distant hills turned gold.

“Some days our conversations are fruitful,” Brother Zakes said with a dramatic sigh. “On others, neither side is willing to compromise.”

Petros had long since stopped questioning Zakes’s strange habits. No other skete he knew kept its vines so carefully, which suggested that the arguments served some purpose.

“And what fruit have those conversations produced?” Petros asked. The day had been long, and while he enjoyed the brother’s company, he was eager to reach the heart of his visit before darkness settled over the road.

Brother Zakes’s eyes brightened.

“Ah. Follow me.”

Petros left his wagon with the hired guards and followed the monk up a series of broad steps carved directly into the incline. They passed other brothers dressed in dark robes, each bent over some small duty before evening prayers: carrying split wood to a low-roofed kitchen or tying bundles of sage and thyme beneath a covered awning.

The communal building stood higher on the slope, a plain stone structure with narrow windows and a timber roof darkened by years of rain. A modest chapel lay to one side, occupying the finest point of the entire hillside. Its little apse faced east, where the setting sun caught on a simple wooden cross fixed above the doorway.

What caught his attention, however, was the number of men dressed in work clothes rather than monastic black.

They were digging postholes and hauling dressed timber around the outer edge of the complex. Others stacked loose stone into shallow foundations, marking what appeared to be the beginnings of a proper perimeter wall.

“Undergoing construction?” Petros asked.

In all the years he had visited Krypte Ampelos, he had never seen the brothers undertake any renovation more ambitious than replacing roof tiles or repairing a collapsed terrace. The sight was strange enough on its own, and stranger still given Brother Zakes’s firmly expressed belief that nature was improved chiefly by being left to argue with itself.

“Mandatory orders from Father Thaddeus himself.” Brother Zakes wore a bitter smile as he said it. “Every Skete and religious dwelling north of Suyren is to have fortifications raised around it, along with other ‘siege-defence amenities’ besides.”

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They passed workmen hammering sharpened stakes into the earth. The beginnings of a palisade traced the outer edge of the complex, though a broad stretch of ground had been left bare between the wall and the nearest trees. Petros suspected it was meant to provide a clear field for archers.

“Is that among the ‘necessary amenities’?” Petros asked, looking toward a broad pit being carved into the centre of the complex.

Labourers were facing its walls with pale mortar and lowering baskets of stone into what seemed destined to become a sizeable cistern.

“I would not stretch the definition of necessary quite so far,” Brother Zakes muttered. “They claim the mixture is Roman cement, or near enough to it. I do not believe God would permit such sacrilege against the beauty of this place even if the recipe came from old Roma herself.”

He blew air through his nose and glared at the half-finished basin.

Petros considered the work with more charity. The cistern was undoubtedly ugly, but a reliable store of water would make the Skete harder to starve or burn out during a raid, while the new perimeter would give the brothers and local villagers somewhere defensible to gather.

They left the controlled confusion behind and descended another flight of steps, this one cut beneath the skete’s main complex and barred by heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron straps.

Krypte Ampelos’s cellar was orderly and well stocked. The warm, sweet scent of fresh must drifted down from the press yard above, where grapes were trodden on a shallow stone floor and their juice guided through a narrow channel into a collecting basin. Beneath it lingered the cooler smells of damp earth, fired clay, and old wine.

Great earthen pithoi lined the walls, their swollen bodies sunk deep into the floor to keep the contents cool. A smaller number of wooden casks had been stacked at the far end of the cavern. Petros passed the newly sealed vessels and followed Brother Zakes toward the older jars waiting in the shadows.

The monks of Krypte Ampelos were famed for their sweet wine. They allowed the grapes to ripen heavily beneath the sun before pressing, then sealed the strongest batches away for long seasons. Some rested for over a year until the wine darkened, thickened, and became costly enough that even noble households served it sparingly.

Petros had come for last year’s vintage rather than the new pressing.

Brother Zakes gestured toward a low table surrounded by stools at the centre of the cellar. He added several grains of incense to a small censer filled with glowing charcoal. Thin smoke curled through the air, carrying resin and spice over the sweeter scent of wine, while Petros settled onto the nearest stool.

Brother Zakes was particular about his traditions, and Petros saw little value in rushing a man who was about to hand him excellent wine.

The monk approached the open pithos kept nearest the table, the same jar used for the skete’s weekly liturgy, and carefully drew half a cup. He turned it once beneath the lamplight before presenting it with both hands.

Petros accepted the cup and examined the colour. The wine was dark amber at the edges, clear despite its richness, and carried a mellow fragrance of dried fruit and honey. He took a measured sip.

It was perhaps the only wine he did not begrudge drinking. It possessed the depth he expected from the skete, with nothing stale or musty beneath the perfume.

“It is exquisite, Brother Zakes,” Petros said truthfully.

“The blood of Christ is sweet to the faithful,” the monk intoned, nodding in solemn approval before taking a small sip of his own.

Petros reached beneath his coat and produced the heavy silver purse prepared for the occasion. Brother Zakes accepted it without testing its weight. There was no haggling, no discussion of volume, and no performance over quality. Their arrangement had always rested on trust, with the skete setting aside the agreed vessels and Petros paying the customary sum.

Should he ever take a loss on the bargain, he would bear it with a light enough heart. In all his years purchasing this particular vintage, he had yet to lose a single coin on it.

…

Another day brought another journey.

After a light meal to break his fast, Petros urged the horses out through the gates of the rebuilding Skete. His two guards rode beside the wagon while the workmen behind them returned to their hammering. The horses moved at a slower pace than before, their heads dipping beneath the pull of a wagon laden with dozens of amphorae of wine.

Once they returned to what passed for a road in their grand Principality, Petros’s attention sharpened.

They were at their most vulnerable now. The wagon was heavy, the ground rough, and any attempt to flee would be more likely to break an axle than save them. Cheap tarps had been thrown over the amphoras, faded and patched enough to suggest grain or common pottery beneath. A merchant travelling with glossy horses and a bright-painted wagon might as well announce his profits to hungry men in the hills.

Petros was no stranger to the dangers of the trade. He had survived ambushes before, usually by surrendering everything he carried in exchange for his life. Goods could be purchased again. A slit throat was harder to recover from.

There was irony in planning every journey with the understanding that it might end in disaster. Petros could have poured most of his wealth into a larger venture, tripling his cargo and hiring enough armed men to discourage lesser bandit companies. He had never been tempted. He was a merchant, not a betting man, and in the Principality such wagers usually ended badly.

They had travelled for some time through the oak-dotted countryside when one of his guards raised a hand.

“Riders.”

Petros narrowed his eyes toward the road ahead. An armed contingent had appeared along the rise, dark shapes moving through the morning haze. The easy conversation among his men died. One guard loosened his sword while the other shifted nearer the wagon, both showing unease.

Petros’s stomach tightened, though he kept his hands loose around the reins. His greatest defence had always been how entirely unremarkable he appeared. Here, slowed by wine and with nowhere nearby to hide it, even a handful of riders could strip him bare before noon.

Then he noticed the banner that flew high above the horsemen.

Bandits did not announce themselves with standards or ride in formation along the middle of an open road. As the distance narrowed, more details emerged: decent horses, matching shields, good mail, and weapons too costly for starving hillmen.

A red cross upon a white field flew above them, the standard of Genoa.

“Hide, Master Petros,” one of his guards urged, already looking toward the trees. Any soldier of Theodoro knew to run from men armed with fine plate and red crosses.

“That will not be necessary,” Petros said.

The riders approached at a measured canter rather than gathering speed for a charge. Their weapons remained sheathed, and the man at their head made no effort to spread his troop across the road.

“I do not believe they are our enemies.”

Both guards looked at him as though he had mistaken armed Italians for travelling priests. Petros met their concern with a calm stare until, reluctantly, they settled back into place. Trusting armed strangers was rarely wise, but fleeing from men who had not threatened you could turn a peaceful encounter into a hunt.

There were eight riders in all. Each wore mail beneath a riding cloak, while their leader had a polished breastplate over his padded coat. They slowed a short distance from the wagon and drew into a loose half-circle.

The leader studied Petros before speaking in Italian.

“Non allarmatevi, amici.”

“Do not be alarmed, friends,” one of the soldiers translated into Greek.

Petros noted the man’s Roman features and easy command of the language. Genoa had occupied parts of the peninsula for close to two centuries, long enough to recruit local provincials into their garrison ranks.

“Hail, friends,” Petros called back, seeing no reason to begin rudely.

“We are patrolling the region under the terms agreed between our two august states,” the Greek-speaking soldier continued his translation. “Genoese patrols will henceforth travel this road and several other principal routes through Theodoro. Any bandit activity is to be reported to the nearest Theodoran or Genoese military outpost.”

The soldier paused while his commander’s eyes moved from Petros to the covered wagon.

“We will now ask you several questions.”

So, Petros was being questioned on suspicion of smuggling.

He almost found the thought amusing. The Principality had never shown much interest in such matters beyond Mangup and Kalamita, where customs men could at least be relied upon to appear whenever there was coin to collect. In the countryside, a merchant might carry half a village beneath his tarps without anyone official troubling to ask where it had come from.

In a way, Petros was glad they were finally doing more.

“Where have you come from?”

Two of the Genoese dismounted while the soldier spoke. They moved toward Petros’s wagon and pulled back the worn tarp, revealing the orderly rows of amphorae beneath.

“The northern Sideris estate and the Skete of Krypte Ampelos,” Petros replied as one leaned close to inspect the seals while the other checked the ropes and wedges holding the load in place.

“And where are you headed?”

“Suyren.” He had nothing to hide, which made honesty pleasantly simple.

“What cargo are you carrying?”

The answer was obvious from the sweet scent that wafted up. One of the younger men breathed in more deeply than duty required.

“Wine,” Petros said. “You are welcome to a taste, should you wish.” He knew how these encounters tended to work.

The Genoese leader held Petros’s gaze while the offer was translated. His expression remained stern, though his eyes shifted briefly toward the jars.

“A small taste, master, if you would be so kind,” the soldier translated his commander’s curt nod.

Petros reached beneath the driver’s bench and produced a little glazed jar he kept wrapped in cloth. He had filled it at Krypte Ampelos before leaving exactly for moments such as this.

The jar passed first to the commander, who took a careful sip before handing it to the man beside him. Surprise moved through the group in small ways, followed by approving murmurs in Italian.

“We have tasted many fine vintages in our homeland,” the leader said through his translator, “and this is fine indeed. Petros, was it?”

“Yes, sir.” Petros bowed with suitable humility.

He had offered the best wine for a reason. A merchant’s name travelled more easily than his wagon, and sometimes reached a market before he did.

“I shall remember it. Everything appears to be in order. Safe travels.”

“To you as well.”

The Genoese remounted and continued along the road, their banner disappearing around a bend between the trees. Petros released a quiet breath.

It seemed the Principality was truly working toward making the northern roads safer. Regular patrols would help merchants like him more than any promise of favourable tariffs. Wine earned little profit when bandits drank it for free.

Still, for all its benefits, Petros couldn’t help but wonder about the cost.

…

“We wait here,” Petros called.

A small, derelict barn stood some distance from the main road, half concealed behind a low rise and a line of neglected trees; its roof sagged near the middle. To anyone passing along, it looked abandoned.

Petros’s guards did not question the order. He preferred hiring men who spoke little and followed instructions well, and both had accompanied him on such runs before. They knew why he had chosen the otherwise unremarkable place.

The barn was not empty.

Another merchant had already claimed the shade within. Armed men moved between carts, checking ropes and rearranging cargo of a different sort from Petros’s own. Bundles of spun wool were tied beneath rough cloth, while sacks of hardy grain sat beside baskets of late vegetables likely purchased from villages along the road.

Supervising the work was a finely dressed man wearing a broad-rimmed hat of wool felt. He was feeding handfuls of fodder to his animals while directing his porters with the distracted authority of someone accustomed to having his complaints obeyed.

“Leo,” Petros called.

The man turned, his broad face immediately breaking into a smile.

“Ah, Petros. You’re finally here. I thought I would die from waiting.”

He crossed the barn and clasped Petros’s hand warmly.

“The others have not arrived?” Petros asked, looking past him.

Their group was composed of four or five merchants who worked the usual northern routes and met here before continuing together. Travelling in company made them slower and noisier, but it also made them considerably less appealing to men waiting beside the road with knives.

“Probably bogged down by this blasted heat,” Leo complained. He drew a white cotton handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped the sweat from his forehead with great offence. “I swear the sun grows brighter every year. September has no business being this hot.”

Petros glanced over Leo’s layered vestments, embroidered waistcoat, and heavy felt hat. His friend made the same complaint every autumn, yet had apparently never considered removing any of the fabrics responsible for half his suffering.

“We will settle in and wait, then,” Petros said, half to Leo and half to his own men.

His guards led the wagon deeper into the barn and began claiming an open corner for the cargo. Petros left them to it and eased himself down upon an empty crate, grateful to take the weight off his legs.

“How has the trade been?” he asked.

“Poorer than last year,” Leo muttered, his good humour darkening as he looked toward his wagons.

Unlike Petros, who preferred a small crew and a quiet appearance, Leo usually travelled with an retinue of nearly a dozen men and half as many carts. His business dealt in common goods sold in greater bulk and for narrower margins.

That meant larger wagons, more guards, more mouths to feed, and more opportunities for something to go wrong.

Petros could see that Leo’s carts were lighter than in previous years. Several sacks had been spread across the wagon beds to make the load appear fuller, an old merchant’s trick that fooled no true man belonging to the trade.

“A poor harvest, then?” Petros asked with a sigh.

It would hardly have surprised him. War had broken out during the planting season, bandits had roamed the countryside, and whole villages had abandoned their homes before the harvest. There were few better recipes for empty fields and hungry markets.

“No,” Leo said. “It is worse than that.”

Petros leaned closer. “What happened?”

“The peasants have decided they are merchants all of a sudden,” Leo declared, sweat darkening his collar. “The harvest was nearly the same as last year thanks to some strange new device the Lord devised for collecting grain. It allowed them to gather more wheat with fewer hands, so the fields did not go completely untended.” He pressed one hand dramatically to his chest. “With fewer people and almost the same amount of grain, one would think there would be more to sell to poor Leo, but no. They refused to sell me anything beyond a small portion of their surplus. I hear they are even paying fewer obligations to the Church and their lords. They should be throwing grain at my feet and begging me to buy it!”

Petros’s brows rose.

He could understand Leo’s frustration. Villages rarely held back produce when a trusted merchant arrived with coin in hand. Grain stored poorly could spoil, attract vermin, or disappear into the hands of soldiers and tax collectors. Selling early was usually the safer choice.

“What do you think has caused it?” Petros asked.

“They say they are saving everything for the market fair our good lord intends to hold next week.” Leo’s hands rose as his agitation gathered strength. “Apparently, the officials measuring the land have been telling every village that they are forbidden to sell their produce until Market Day, when they are to pay their dues and sell the remainder openly.”

“But you know the reeves personally, do you not?” Petros asked.

Like him, Leo built most of his trade through cultivated relationships. A village headman was more likely to trust a merchant he had shared bread with for ten years than a distant official armed with a seal and a parchment.

“And that is the only reason I secured what little I did.” Leo slashed a hand toward the wagons.

The haul remained considerable despite his complaints. His carts carried more grain than some villages would see in a season, which suggested the Lord’s command was not being followed with perfect obedience.

“But with this chartering business, there are councils now, and appeals, and all manner of nonsense meant to reward anyone willing to denounce his superiors for breaking the law. If a reeve is caught selling grain early, the whole village might lose its reduced taxes or its right to purchase land. They are frightened to go behind the Lord’s back.”

Leo stared at Petros as though expecting him to share the full weight of the outrage.

“Can you believe it? The little lord is conspiring against us honest merchants!”

Petros rubbed at his beard, hiding the beginnings of a smile.

It did sound troublesome for men accustomed to buying grain before villagers had any clear idea what it might fetch elsewhere. Still, holding produce for a proper market could earn the peasants a better price, especially if several buyers were forced to compete in the same place.

Petros was not certain that counted as a conspiracy.

It seemed closer to business.

Petros had to admire the ingenuity of the arrangement.

Only now did he understand that the new system had been designed to make the villages police themselves. A reeve might be willing to overlook an early sale for an old friend, but he would think twice if any villager could appeal above his head and have him indicted lest the village lose its reduced taxes or newly purchased land. It was far more effective than placing a dozen guardsmen in every little hamlet, and considerably cheaper besides.

“Does he mean to use the fair to levy taxes on every transaction?” Petros murmured.

He rested a hand against his chin, trying to follow the underlying economics of the decision. Grain purchased directly from villages had always been difficult to monitor. The transactions were technically subject to dues, yet few merchants travelled all the way to Suyren afterward to declare every sack honestly. Those who bothered usually reported rather less than they had bought, while the officials responsible for collecting the difference lacked the men, records, and determination to prove otherwise.

“To rob us blind, more like,” Leo said with fresh outrage. “Now we are forced to attend this blasted fair whether we wish to or not.”

By forcing most of the trade into one market, the young lord could watch the goods change hands, collect what the Crown was owed, and make the merchants bear the trouble of bringing themselves before him.

He was changing the whole arrangement without needing to chase anyone down.

Petros gave a quiet laugh.

“Oh, you find this amusing?” Leo glared at him. “Just because you deal with nobles instead of common peasants, do not think this will leave you untouched. Once lords discover a new way to take coin, they rarely keep it to one sort of merchant.”

Petros rose from the crate and placed an arm around Leo’s shoulder before the man could work himself into a proper tirade.

“You see all the ways our old business is shrinking,” he said gently, “but you have blinded yourself to the new possibilities opening in front of us, my friend.”

Leo’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What possibilities?”

“This market fair, for one.” Petros gestured toward the half-filled wagons. “By forcing the villages to attend, the lord also forces us merchants to follow them. That gathers buyers, sellers, and goods in Suyren on the same day.”

Leo still looked unconvinced, so Petros continued.

“Before this, where did we meet to sell the greater part of our stock?” Petros asked.

“Mangup.” Leo grunted out.

“And there we competed with merchants from across the Principality, along with the southern houses whose warehouses, agents, and purses are all larger than ours.”

“Like little whores without enough coin for paint, screaming for attention among courtesans drenched in perfume,” Leo agreed.

“In Suyren, there will be fewer of those courtesans,” Petros said. “We can purchase from several villages at once and sell goods in useful quantities without being crowded aside by every wealthy company from the south. Who do you think will be the large fish in that smaller pond?”

Leo’s expression changed by degrees. The familiar gleam of a merchant discovering profit surged in all at once.

“And the tariffs are said to be almost nothing,” he breathed. “Nothing like the extortion in the capital.”

“Exactly.”

Petros could see what the young lord was attempting. Suyren had always been a poor northern holding, a place merchants passed through only when the road demanded it. Now something was being planted there, though what it might become, and where the young lord intended to stop, Petros could not say.

But he was curious enough to look forward to finding out.