《The King and the subjects》


 The King and the merchant

    The incessant yelling pounded in The King¡¯s skull, a relentless cacophony that clashed against the sanctity of the Golden, Porcelain halls. These hallowed chambers, adorned with wealth beyond imagining, were no place for such discord. Yet, the voices rose, oblivious to the majesty surrounding them.


    The King¡¯s lips curled in a faint smirk. They bicker as if born of the muck, The King mused, reclining in the throne that towered over them all. It was almost amusing, the sight of these supposed lords squabbling like common merchants. But the humor was fleeting, for The King¡¯s patience was not infinite. The room stilled as all eyes turned toward the throne, their whispers silenced under the weight of The King¡¯s unspoken command.


    One voice finally dared to break the silence. "Perhaps we should save our grievances for another time," the speaker began, his tone measured but firm. He turned slowly, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade. "Unless, of course, you¡¯d prefer more work."


    The King watched with cold amusement as the gathered nobles straightened in their seats, their bravado dimming under the suggestion. Ah, The King thought, perhaps I¡¯ve been too indulgent with these wolves. Even the best-trained hounds must be reminded of the lash. Rising slowly, The King¡¯s presence filled the room, a weight as palpable as the jewels embedded in the throne.


    "Yes," The King said, the single word slicing through the tension like a dagger. "I was wondering about that work recently, and it seems some of you are in need of more... responsibility. Especially you, Cartlian."


    The air grew heavier as the nobles turned to the unfortunate vassal. Cartlian, seated halfway down the gilded row, felt their stares pierce him like arrows. He swallowed hard, understanding all too well that The King¡¯s attention was as much a curse as a command. His mind raced for a defense, but he found none.


    The King chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down the spines of those present. "Look how quickly they turn on you," The King murmured, loud enough for only the closest to hear. "Perhaps you ought to make amends, Cartlian."


    The beleaguered vassal stood, his head bowed low. "What must I do to make up for this... mistake, Your Majesty?" he asked, his voice trembling with forced humility.Stolen novel; please report.


    The King¡¯s gaze drifted to the grand portrait that hung above the chamber. The figure depicted was resplendent, cloaked in crimson silk and adorned with jewels that caught the light like captured stars. Every detail declared power and perfection. The Man was draped in the finest red silk, his robes shimmering like fire. Purple jewels adorned every extremity, each piece chosen with precision to amplify the magnificence of his presence. One foot rested confidently on a throne nearly as extravagant as the one in the courthouse, and the shoes¡ªtailored to perfection¡ªboasted an awe-inspiring number of diamonds inset into their polished surface. His face, a masterpiece of aggressive angles and symmetry, could make any lady of any house swoon. His hair, a flowing, leonine mane, framed his visage with a regal wildness. And the crown¡ªso dazzling it seemed to imprison the wealth of the world within its sparkling facets¡ªrested atop his head like a declaration of dominion. Truly, The Man in the painting embodied supremacy, his every detail a proclamation of unmatched status.


    "First," The King said, still staring at the portrait, "you will tell Me the name of this merchant who dares disrupt My plans. Then, you will enact a new plan¡ªone worthy of your position."


    Cartlian hesitated, but only for a moment. He knew hesitation could be as damning as outright defiance. Bowing lower, he said, "Yes, Your Majesty. It may serve You to know that my vault has grown fivefold since the last plan."


    The King turned slowly, fixing Cartlian with a gaze as sharp as steel. "Fivefold? Is that all?" The words were spoken with a serene calm that belied their menace. "Perhaps a larger plan is in order. One that involves every corner of your land¡ªeven the unsavory parts."


    The King¡¯s tone darkened. "It is time to clear out the beggars from your city. Relocate them to a more permanent household. One that may prove... profitable."


    Cartlian¡¯s brow furrowed. The suggestion was unexpected, almost absurd. "Relocate them, Your Majesty?" he asked cautiously. "And then?"


    The King¡¯s lips curved into a cruel smile. "You wonder how to use them, endlessly searching for solutions your small mind cannot grasp. Let Me broaden your horizons. You border the Kingdom of Marianna. Use these beggars as tools¡ªspies, thieves, instruments of chaos."


    Cartlian¡¯s face paled. "Your Majesty," he began carefully, "what if they are discovered? Would that not sour relations with Marianna?"


    The King¡¯s laughter was soft but chilling. "They are beggars, Cartlian. A few nameless souls found in a foreign land? No kingdom would wage war over such trifles. And should Marianna protest, I shall remind our neighbors of this: If they burn cities over beggars, imagine what fury they might unleash should a true transgression arise. Such an overreach would lay bare their ambitions, justifying My wrath and securing our dominion.¡¯"


    Understanding dawned on Cartlian. This was not merely a ploy to disrupt Marianna but a means to ensure its eventual destruction. And if executed well, it would line his own pockets with gold. The gleam of avarice returned to his eyes.


    "I understand now, Your Majesty," Cartlian said, his voice steady. "The name of the merchant was..."

 the merchant and the subjects

    Radiant, unblemished, heavy silver coins lay in the merchant''s hand, their polished surfaces a testament to wealth. Yet, even with their brilliance, he was unceremoniously turned away from a grocer. The clerk barely spared the coins a single glance before dismissing him, his attention more focused on an ornate ledger with gilded edges¡ªa detail that didn¡¯t escape the merchant¡¯s notice. The shelves, though modestly stocked, carried an air of meticulous care. The faint scent of spices, uncommon and undoubtedly expensive, lingered in the air. The merchant did not argue. He simply left, resolving to try his luck elsewhere.


    After several failed attempts, the merchant finally found a grocer with a proper scale¡ªa modest establishment stocked only with essentials. The place lacked the grandeur of others, with no elaborate displays of fresh produce. It suited the merchant just fine; freshness mattered little for goods destined to sit in his caravan for weeks.


    The clerk, a wiry man with a weary demeanor, inspected the coins with meticulous care before nodding. "With these," he said, "you could buy all my stock. Anything specific you¡¯re looking for?"


    The merchant¡¯s gaze swept the shop, assessing its contents with practiced efficiency. His eyes lingered on the sacks of beans. Durable, easy to transport, and in steady demand¡ªan ideal commodity for his purposes. "Beans," he said. "I¡¯ll take your entire stock."


    The clerk tilted his head, calculating. "One sack of beans is worth half a silver coin," he said. "Fair price, I¡¯d say."


    The merchant tilted his head, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the counter. ¡°Half a silver per sack?¡± His tone was even, almost distracted. He let the silence stretch, his face giving nothing away. "That¡¯s steep for beans. The tolls alone would make that unprofitable." He paused again, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. "Three sacks for a silver instead."


    The clerk frowned, the corners of his mouth tightening. "Three for one? That¡¯s barely above cost!"


    The merchant remained motionless, his expression neutral. "Exactly," he said quietly. "No waste, no spoilage. And you get your silver now."Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    The clerk hesitated, glancing back at the sacks of beans stacked neatly against the wall. Finally, he sighed and nodded. "Fine. Three for one."


    The merchant inclined his head, offering no visible sign of triumph. Within the hour, fifteen sacks of beans were loaded onto his caravan. Yet his task was not finished. "Anything else you¡¯d sell at a fair price? Even if I don¡¯t buy your entire stock?" he asked.


    The question caught the clerk off guard. After a moment¡¯s thought, he said, "All my prices are fair. But... if you¡¯re heading to Lord Cartlian¡¯s territory, you might consider grain. My brother lives there¡ªhe says grain prices are sky-high. Every time he visits, he hauls back as much as he can, even with the taxes."


    The merchant¡¯s interest piqued. "How high are we talking?"


    The clerk shrugged. "High enough to make a full cart worth the trip."


    The merchant¡¯s mind raced. A gold mine waiting to be uncovered. He straightened. "I¡¯ll take all your grain," he said decisively. "And perhaps a rope or two."


    The negotiation that followed was harder fought, the clerk pushing back with an intensity that matched the merchant¡¯s resolve. But in the end, the merchant left with a caravan that could make any thief¡¯s heart race¡ªa mixture of beans, grain, and supplies enough to promise a lucrative venture.


    As the merchant strolled along the line of carts, oxen, and horses, he inspected his caravan with a critical eye. Some carts would need repairs once they reached Roness, the capital of Lord Cartlian¡¯s territory, but for now, they would suffice. Satisfied, he approached the guards gathered near the lead cart.


    Each guard was a study in contrasts¡ªsome clad in threadbare rags, others in chainmail or plated armor. One, a hulking figure with unkempt hair and a grizzled beard, caught the merchant¡¯s eye. He wore a cotton half-sleeve, battered trousers, and scuffed leather shoes that looked a size too small. Despite his unassuming appearance, the merchant knew his value. "Henry," he called, tossing a noisy leather bag.


    Henry caught it deftly, inspecting the contents. His expression darkened. "Why¡¯s there more than usual?" he asked, his voice low and suspicious.


    The merchant¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. "Because I expect a bigger haul¡ªand with it, more danger," he replied.


    Henry¡¯s eyes swept over his fellow guards, who nodded one by one. Only when the last had given their assent did Henry nod solemnly.


    The merchant clapped him on the back. "Glad to have you with us, Captain," he said, his voice steady, devoid of any telltale smile.

 Roness and the subjects

    The caravan crested a low hill, revealing the expanse of Lord Cartlian¡¯s lands stretching toward the horizon. The fields below, once green and bountiful, were a patchwork of dry earth and brittle stalks. What little grew was wilted, the dew of the morning clinging to leaves that seemed too weak to drink it in. A broken toll gate stood at the border, its once-proud archway splintered and sagging. Beside it, a soldier leaned against a post, his armor rusted and his gaze vacant as he waved the caravan through with a muttered demand for coin.


    The merchant handed over the toll without a word, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. The soldier''s belt hung loose on his hips, the leather cracked and frayed, a far cry from the polished steel expected of the kingdom¡¯s forces.


    As the caravan rumbled onward, the merchant observed the land with quiet precision. A boy trudged along the road, leading a skeletal cow with a rope that looked as though it might snap at any moment. In a field, a woman bent low, clawing at the earth with her bare hands, her face streaked with dirt and despair. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional cry of a crow overhead.


    When the sun began to set, the caravan stopped by a small clearing just off the main road. The merchant directed his men to make camp, their wagons forming a loose circle for security. Fires were lit, casting flickering shadows over the desolate landscape. The merchant sat by one of the fires, his meal a modest portion of bread and dried meat. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the outline of a distant village was barely visible against the dimming light.


    A rustling sound broke his thoughts. One of the guards stepped forward, escorting an old man, "He says he¡¯s from the village ahead," the guard explained, "Wants to talk."


    The merchant gestured for the man to sit. The old man hesitated, clutching a worn satchel against his chest. His unkempt hair fell in wiry clumps around his face, framing eyes hollowed by exhaustion. The tattered remains of his clothes hung loosely from his gaunt frame, the once-sturdy leather of his shoes now layered with holes and barely clinging to his feet. His hunger was barely concealed as his gaze flickered between the merchant and the fire. Finally, he settled onto a log, the satchel dropping at his feet with a hollow thud.


    "What brings you out here?" the merchant asked, his tone even, though his gaze lingered on the satchel.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The old man glanced toward the village, then back at the merchant. "Food," he said hoarsely, lifting the satchel to reveal its emptiness. The seams were frayed, its once sturdy leather now brittle with age. "There¡¯s nothing left for us. The land¡¯s gone dry. Taxes keep coming, but there¡¯s no grain to pay them. Folks are leaving¡ªor worse."


    "Worse?" the merchant prompted, watching the old man closely, his bread untouched beside him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire.


    Finally, the old man shifted, his hands tightening around the empty satchel. "Some stay, hoping for a miracle that won¡¯t come. Others take to the roads, begging or stealing just to survive. I¡¯ve seen families torn apart. Fathers leaving for work they¡¯ll never find. Children sold to pay debts."


    The merchant nodded slowly, his gaze calculating. He reached for the bread, tearing off a piece and holding it out. The old man hesitated before taking it, his hands trembling as he bit into the crust, chewing deliberately. The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the fire.


    "You¡¯ve given me much to think about," the merchant said at last, his tone neutral. "Tell me this¡ªwhat of Lord Cartlian? What does he do as the land withers?"


    The old man¡¯s laugh was bitter, short. "Cartlian¡¯s no better than the drought. Squeezes us dry and moves on to the next village. We¡¯re just numbers to him, not people. His men come, take what little we have, and call it tax collection."


    The merchant leaned back, studying the old man carefully. The silence hung between them before the old man spoke again, his voice low. "The roads are worse than the fields," he said grimly. "Bandits have taken to them¡ªhungry folk with nothing left to lose. They¡¯ll strip a wagon bare, coin or no coin. Cartlian¡¯s men don¡¯t bother chasing them; they¡¯re just as desperate."


    He paused, his fingers brushing over the frayed satchel. "Grain¡¯s the only thing left worth trading. Sells high in the south, even higher if you can slip past Cartlian¡¯s taxes. His men take their cut at every turn." The old man¡¯s voice grew quieter, almost bitter. "You¡¯ll need more than bread to get by here, merchant."


    The merchant said nothing for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, with a nod, he reached into his pack and handed the old man another piece of bread. "For the road," he said simply.


    The old man hesitated, then took it with a quiet "Thank you." As he shuffled away into the night, the merchant leaned back, the firelight casting sharp shadows across his face. Around him, the guards settled in for the night, their weapons close at hand. The merchant¡¯s gaze drifted back toward the horizon, where the faint outline of the village remained. The world here was broken, he thought. But even in broken things, there was value¡ªif one knew where to look.

 Lord Cartlian and the servants

    Birds chirped softly, creating a symphony of grace and peace. A sliver of light peeked through velvet drapes, its glow falling on the unblemished face of Lord Cartlian. The rhythmic knock on his door was soft yet deliberate. Moments later, the door opened, revealing a servant, dressed head to toe in azure garments, polished shoes reflecting the grandeur of his station. Bowing deeply, the servant¡¯s voice barely rose above a whisper, announcing the beginning of the day¡¯s routine.


    Cartlian stirred, one eyelid opening lazily, then the other, as though savoring every moment of his waking ritual. His limbs moved deliberately, each stretch practiced to perfection, before his legs swung down to meet the cold floor.


    The servant waited in poised silence, offering suggestions for the morning¡¯s indulgences. Cartlian gave a slight nod, the selections pleasing enough, though he barely acknowledged the servant¡¯s words. Cartlian gestured for the servant to begin the preparations. With a polished bow, he retreated, leaving Cartlian to rise.


    Cartlian stood bare and regal, crossing the room with deliberate grace. He approached the window, his steps soft on the marble floor, and drew back the velvet drapes. The morning light spilled into the room, illuminating the courtyard below. His subjects bustled about, heads bowed, their movements hurried and mechanical. He smirked, letting his hands rest on his hips as he surveyed them.


    ¡°Pathetic,¡± he murmured, watching as one or two dared glance upward, only to avert their eyes just as quickly. After a moment, he turned away from the window and walked to his robes, draped meticulously over a carved wooden rack. The fabric hummed with quality, its weight and texture a testament to Marianna¡¯s artisans. Once dressed, he entered his bathing chamber, a haven of opulence


    The chamber was shrouded in steam, the air thick with warmth. The centerpiece was a tub, carved from marble and gilded with gold, its surface adorned with intricate patterns of flowers and vines. Cartlian approached, dipping his hands into the perfectly tempered water. He splashed his face, holding the cool liquid against his skin for a moment. As it dripped away, he caught his reflection in the water¡ªand for an instant, his face twisted with anger. He clenched his fists, his body trembling with a rage he could not name. Finally, he wiped his face clean with a towel, banishing the expression along with the water.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Feeling satisfied with his routine, Cartlian made his way to the dining hall, striding through corridors adorned with gold, porcelain, and velvet. He paid no mind to the grand paintings and sculptures lining his path, his focus fixed ahead. Arriving at the hall, he opened the doors to reveal a nonsensically large dining table. At its head, his seat of power awaited him.


    Servants buzzed around the room, their movements precise and hurried. Each was dressed impeccably, their clothing spotless and their demeanor subdued. As Cartlian took his seat, they rushed to present his meal: bacon, toast, and a glass of wine. The dishes were arranged with meticulous care, and the aromas wafting up from the plates hinted at perfection.


    Cartlian lifted a hand, and the servants dispersed immediately, leaving him to eat in peace. But today, one servant lingered. She stood just inside the doorway, her chin down, her eyes darting nervously. Her jacket was torn and frayed, her shoes caked with dirt and nearly falling apart.


    Cartlian¡¯s gaze sharpened as the servant lingered in the doorway. He studied her¡ªthe torn jacket, the dirt-streaked shoes, the trembling hands clutching at her sides. She didn¡¯t dare meet his eyes, her chin dipping lower with each passing second. Cartlian¡¯s irritation simmered as he considered the breach in protocol: servants never stayed unbidden.


    She began speaking, her voice low and hesitant, words spilling in uneven waves. Cartlian didn¡¯t look directly at her but listened, his face a mask of restrained irritation. Grain, beans, rebellion, a merchant who had arrived unannounced. Demands. Insolence! Each word sharpened his focus, each pause driving his anger higher. A merchant daring to question his dominion, his authority.


    The servant¡¯s hurried explanation ended, her trembling more pronounced now. Cartlian¡¯s mind raced, piecing together the picture. A merchant¡ªa nameless wanderer¡ªhad arrived with audacious demands and seditious whispers. The audacity of it all!


    With a sharp motion, he waved her away. Her hasty exit only barely held together by the thread of propriety. The door clicked shut, leaving Cartlian alone.


    Then his fury erupted. His fist slammed into the table, rattling his untouched plate and glass. Again and again, he pounded the wood, his rage unrelenting. Plates shattered; wine spilled in a crimson pool across the surface. His knuckles burned, but he didn¡¯t stop until the table bore the full weight of his anger.


    Finally, he stilled, his breath ragged, his body trembling with exertion. His stomach growled, but he paid it no mind. Only one thought consumed him: Who sent this merchant?

 Plight and the subjects

    A bustle of activity roared throughout the square. Merchants haggled and yelled, their voices clashing as carts rumbled over uneven cobblestones. The crowd surged and swirled, creating a cacophony of life. Amid the chaos, the merchant lay in a sunlit room above the square, the morning light streaming through the window. He stirred, his gaze drifting to the woman beside him. Her green eyes, flecked with gold, fluttered open, meeting his with a soft smile. Loose curls framed her face, cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. Her skin, smooth and glowing in the morning light, held a warmth that contrasted with the sharp edges of her expression. A faint scent of lavender clung to her, mingling with the lingering aroma of rose petals scattered around the room. She shifted slightly, her slender form draped in sheets that hinted at a poise and confidence carefully honed.


    ¡°You¡¯re already awake,¡± she murmured, her voice hushed and languid.


    The merchant returned her smile, his eyes lingering on her features. ¡°How could I not be, with such beauty beside me?¡± His tone carried an effortless charm, but it softened as he sighed. ¡°Still, there¡¯s work to be done.¡±


    Her smile faded slightly as she shifted away, rising from the bed with deliberate grace. She lingered at the edge, her fingers brushing the sheets as though caught in a moment of indecision. Finally, she turned to him, her expression soft yet resolute. ¡°Take me with you,¡± she said quietly, her voice wavering but hopeful. ¡°There¡¯s nothing for me here. I could travel by your side, help you in whatever way you need.¡±


    The merchant studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. ¡°The road is no place for someone like you,¡± he said at last, his tone gentle but firm. ¡°You belong where beauty and grace are appreciated, not among the dust and dangers of my trade.¡±


    Her lips tightened, and she stood, crossing the room with deliberate movements. Pulling her robe around her shoulders, she let out a bitter laugh. ¡°Be careful in Roness,¡± she said, her voice low and cautious. ¡°Lord Cartlian won¡¯t let you sell your wares without taxing half of it.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s brow furrowed, curiosity flickering in his eyes. ¡°If things are as dire as you say, why not incite a rebellion? Surely the people¡¯s voice, unified in defiance, would force his hand to change.¡±


    She laughed again, but this time there was no humor in it. ¡°Talk like that will get you killed,¡± she said, her voice trembling slightly. ¡°And rebellion? Don¡¯t even think of it.¡± She turned to gather her things, her movements sharp and deliberate. Before leaving, she glanced back at him, her expression conflicted. ¡°You¡¯re a clever man, merchant, but cleverness won¡¯t save you from his wrath.¡± With that, she slipped out of the room.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    The merchant sat in silence for a moment, his thoughts churning. Rebellion. The word hung in the air like smoke, bitter and intoxicating. He sighed, rising from the bed and dressing carefully, his gaze lingering on the scattered rose petals in the room. ¡°Far too many to be romantic,¡± he muttered to himself.


    Descending the stairs, he walked through the dimly lit hall, the murmur of voices and faint laughter growing louder. A lounge filled with women came into view, their smiles warm and inviting as they beckoned to him. Some reached for his hand, but he brushed past them, his focus unwavering.


    Outside, the square buzzed with life. The merchant moved through the crowd, the noise and chaos a familiar backdrop to his thoughts. At the caravan, he began his inspection, carefully examining each wagon. He tested the wheels, prodded at the weight distribution, and scrutinized the repairs completed overnight. Satisfied, he made his way to the back, where his guards gathered in a loose circle.


    Henry noticed him first, grinning broadly. ¡°How were the women of Roness, your highness?¡± he teased, giving an exaggerated bow.


    The merchant smirked, his tone casual. ¡°Tanya was lovely. She even offered to join the caravan¡ªuntil I mentioned rebellion.¡±


    The words landed heavily among the guards, their expressions shifting from amusement to unease. Henry was the first to speak. ¡°You mean to incite a rebellion?¡±


    The group erupted into a heated debate, voices overlapping as they argued. The merchant let them vent their frustrations before finally raising a hand. ¡°I¡¯m willing to pay more,¡± he said evenly, ¡°and you are free to leave. But if you believe this land needs healing, I ask that you protect me.¡±


    Silence fell, the tension palpable. Henry glanced at each of his comrades, waiting for their nods of approval. Most agreed without hesitation, but one did not. Tarrel, clad in plated armor that gleamed in the sunlight, stood with a resolute expression.


    ¡°I wish to put forth an argument,¡± Tarrel said, his voice steady. ¡°But I will not leave.¡±


    Henry nodded, giving him the floor. Tarrel took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the group. ¡°As all of you have noticed, there¡¯s something off about this territory¡ªthis city. You can see a man in velvet eating grain and meat beside another who lives on rat soup in the streets.¡± He paused, his tone growing heavier. ¡°I don¡¯t wish these people to suffer, but there¡¯s no point in trying to dethrone a noble. Even if we succeed, he¡¯ll just be replaced by another mongrel. Please, reconsider.¡±


    A wave of unease washed over the group. Tarrel¡¯s words carried weight, his knowledge of noble games undeniable. Henry turned to the merchant, seeking guidance.


    The merchant¡¯s expression hardened. ¡°You are right,¡± he said, his voice calm but resolute. ¡°There is no point in dethroning him. But a rebellion doesn¡¯t have to happen for there to be power in it.¡±


    He met Tarrel¡¯s gaze, unwavering. ¡°All we must do is incite the people to talk of rebellion. That will be enough to secure an audience with the Lord. Once we have that, I can convince him to stop this madness.¡±


    Tarrel tilted his head back, his gaze fixed on the sky as though seeking solace. Finally, he looked at Henry and gave a single nod. The group exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of hope and trepidation.


    They turned to the merchant, waiting for his approval. But he simply stood there, his face unreadable, a swirl of emotions lurking behind his eyes. He thought to himself, Didn¡¯t think we¡¯d get this far.

 Rumors and the subjects

    Voices shouted over each other, wood clattered against wood, and darkness reigned outside the chaotic glow of candles. Where there was talking, there was drinking; where there was drinking, there were cheers. The merchant walked confidently through the late-night cacophony, his newly purchased shoes sticking to the ale-soaked floor with every step.


    As he reached the bar, a drink slid toward him, its golden liquid catching the flickering light. The man who offered it stood out amidst the rabble, his clothes finer than most, though slightly disheveled. His scruffy beard curled around a face framed by long blonde hair, and his dark green eyes seemed to pierce straight through the merchant¡¯s thoughts.


    ¡°Done with your inspection, guardsman?¡± the man asked, his tone laced with mockery.


    The merchant smirked, gesturing toward the pouch hanging heavily from the man¡¯s chair. ¡°If I were a guardsman, you¡¯d owe me half of that purse.¡±


    For a moment, the man said nothing, his gaze unwavering as if drinking in every secret the merchant carried. Then he chuckled, the sound rough but infectious. ¡°Fair enough. Name¡¯s Herman. I take it you¡¯re the merchant everyone¡¯s whispering about¡ªthe one ¡®inciting rebellion.¡¯¡± He mimed air quotes, his tone dripping with sarcasm.


    The merchant glanced around, his eyes darting over the crowd before leaning in slightly. ¡°You''ve got quite the pair on you.¡±


    Herman erupted into laughter, clapping the merchant on the back. ¡°Someone¡¯s got to have them! Been trying to stir up this rebellion for ages. About time someone with brains showed up to carry the load.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s expression tightened briefly, his thoughts racing, but he quickly masked it with a wry grin. ¡°Perhaps we should talk somewhere less crowded?¡±


    Herman grinned back, raising his nearly empty cup. ¡°Not before finishing this.¡± He downed the drink in one long gulp and slapped the bar with gusto. ¡°Bryan, put it on my tab!¡±


    Bryan, the barkeep, glanced over at the two men and raised an eyebrow. ¡°Your tab¡¯s big enough to buy the whole bar, Herman. Maybe your merchant friend can cover this one.¡±


    Herman turned to the merchant with a mock-disappointed expression, sliding the half-full cup toward him. ¡°You heard the man. Finish that, and we¡¯ll talk.¡±


    The merchant hesitated but raised the cup, taking long gulps until he was forced to lower it, coughing slightly. Herman grabbed the cup and drained the last of it, laughing as he slammed it down on the bar. ¡°Not bad. You¡¯ve got spirit. Let¡¯s go.¡±


    As they moved toward the door, their eyes scanned the room. The crowd was a mix of leather-clad men and poorly dressed laborers. The former stood out, their postures stiff and their eyes sharp. For a brief moment, the merchant locked eyes with one of them, the tension palpable. Herman¡¯s hand drifted casually to the pommel of his sword, a silent warning. The man in leather smirked before turning back to his drink, his laughter low and unsettling.


    Once outside, the cold night air bit through their clothes, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the bar. The merchant gestured for Herman to follow, and they walked through the empty streets, their breaths forming clouds in the frosty air. The flapping of bird wings echoed faintly, the only other sound in the stillness.


    They reached the caravan, where a single guard sat slumped against a wagon, snoring softly. His makeshift leather armor was an assortment of mismatched hides and pelts, stitched together from game they had hunted on the road. The antlers of a stag were faintly embossed on one shoulder, while patches of fur still clung to parts of the crude chest piece. His sword, however, gleamed with care and precision, a stark contrast to his rugged armor. As the merchant and Herman approached, the guard stirred, one eye cracking open to assess them before grunting softly and letting it close again, his grip tightening briefly on the hilt of his weapon before settling back into his slumber. The merchant climbed atop a cart, making space for himself and Herman to sit.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Herman let out a long sigh as he settled in, his usual jovial expression giving way to a rare seriousness. ¡°So, what¡¯s on your mind, merchant?¡±


    The merchant leaned forward, his voice low. ¡°Were those men in the bar Lord Cartlian¡¯s?¡±


    Herman laughed, though it lacked his usual mirth. ¡°No, bounty hunters. Cartlian¡¯s too proud to send his men into a place like that.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°So, he knows about the rebellion?¡±


    Herman¡¯s gaze turned sharp, he hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the weight of his words. After a pause that seemed to stretch endlessly, he finally said, ¡°I have a last name.¡±


    Confusion flickered across the merchant¡¯s face. ¡°What are you the Lord of, then?¡±


    Herman threw his head back, laughing loudly. ¡°I am the Lord of the bottom of the cup, the Lord of love and dandelions. But if you must know, my last name is Roness.¡±


    The merchant froze, the weight of the revelation crashing down on him like a landslide. His breath hitched as the name echoed in his mind, unraveling the pieces of the puzzle he hadn¡¯t known he was solving.


    ¡°Roness,¡± he repeated under his breath, the word almost reverent. His hands tightened on his knees, his mind spiraling through a storm of implications and strategies. He blinked, the realization carving a sharp line across his expression.


    Leaning forward, his voice steadied with purpose, he asked, ¡°What of becoming the true Lord of Roness?¡±


    Herman¡¯s smile faded as he clasped his hands, his eyes distant. ¡°If you help me dethrone my uncle, it could be¡­ profitable for you.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s voice carried conviction. ¡°It would give legitimacy to my efforts and bring justice to these people. You would be a righteous Lord.¡±


    Herman raised an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯d trust me over my uncle? He¡¯s not perfect, but he¡¯s not a bad Lord either.¡±


    The merchant chuckled darkly. ¡°If lording over suffering were a skill, your uncle would be the best Lord in the land.¡±


    For the first time that night, Herman looked genuinely moved. ¡°If you give me the throne, I¡¯ll make you my vassal. Maybe even Minister of Finance.¡±


    The merchant¡¯s shock was evident, but he composed himself quickly. ¡°It would be an honor, provided my caravan is offered positions as well.¡±


    Herman let the words hang in the air for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the merchant. ¡°If your guards are as skilled as you say, I¡¯d offer them positions on the spot."


    As if reminded by his own words, Herman glanced at the slumbering guard. His eyes sharpened with curiosity, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ¡°That one there? Woke up the moment we got close. Didn¡¯t even need to open his eyes to know we were coming¡ªhis hand was already on his sword.¡± He chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°That¡¯s the kind of skill nobles pay fortunes for.¡±


    Turning back to the merchant, he leaned in slightly, his tone playful yet serious. ¡°I¡¯ll be honest, if they¡¯re all like that, I¡¯d offer them positions on the spot. We could use instincts like those.¡±


    The merchant nodded, his tonemeasured. ¡°Good with swords, though manners might be lacking.


    Herman finally collected his jaw from the floor. ¡°Yes, it¡¯d make sense if they put their everything into learning the sword that they wouldn¡¯t know how to clean.¡±


    The merchant laughed again. ¡°No, we do have some good cooks though, if you¡¯d be willing to take them as well.¡±


    ¡°Of course, if they are willing and able,¡± Herman said.


    Feeling secure about his and his comrades¡¯ positions, the merchant asked, ¡°Just in case things don¡¯t go the way I believe they¡¯re going to go, how many do you have?¡±


    Herman seemed lost in thought for a short while before saying, ¡°We have twenty knights, and a few squires. Everybody else are just rumor spreaders we picked up off the street.¡±


    The merchant shifted around a few more times while muttering to himself about what they could do. After some time, his eyes seemed to return to the world of the living. He began, ¡°We¡¯ll double our efforts in spreading rumors, but this time, we will let the people know of your existence and that I have pledged my loyalty.¡± He paused. ¡°Once this is done, we will let the people know of a day. A day that everyone will surround the palace¡ªour own troops included¡ªdemanding an audience with Lord Cartlian.¡± Pausing again, he pointed towards the two of them. ¡°Only then will we go in and demand he abdicate the throne. If he refuses, we only need to use a little bit of this.¡±


    A vile perfume lit up the entire cart, its ooze seeping from a black liquid spewing a green fog into the lid. Herman began to gag before gathering his wits and looking up at the merchant. ¡°This¡­ will¡­ definitely¡­ work,¡± he spat out in between coughs. The merchant put the vile liquid back into his shirt. ¡°Perhaps, I ought to instate you as the minister of internal affairs,¡± Herman let out breathfully. ¡°Should I even ask why a merchant carries around so much putrid poison?¡±


    The merchant let out a short laugh. ¡°It¡¯s usually reserved for myself. You never know what might happen on the road.¡±