A Mage Reborn: Legacy of the Fallen Emperor
Chapter 83: Rediscovery

Chapter 83: Chapter 83: Rediscovery

Days had passed.

"Ian! Ian!" Hana called, her voice sharp.

Ian had been lost in a book by the fireplace. He looked up at the sound of his name, his gaze immediately drawn to the letter Hana held out. The design and seal were instantly recognizable. Mereloff.

"Another message from Mereloff?" Ian asked.

"Yes. The servant insisted on a reply right away. He’s waiting downstairs."

"It hasn’t even been a full week," Ian muttered.

Beric stretched, his back cracking loudly as he rose from his spot by the fire. After the chaos he’d caused, he was back to his usual routine, seemingly none the worse for wear. ’What is that man made of?’ Ian wondered.

Ian flicked a glance at Beric as he accepted the letter. Oblivious, Beric hopped down and practically bounced to Ian’s side. "Well? Read it already!"

"Hold your horses. Patience."

The letter was sealed with wax, bearing an unfamiliar crest. The handwriting, too, was new – not the butler’s usual scrawl. This was Mereloff’s own hand. Beric peered impatiently over Ian’s shoulder, but the script was just a blur of black ink on yellowed parchment.

"What’s it say?"

Naturally, Bratz had also suffered break-ins, the thieves targeting the Gulla. It wasn’t unexpected, but given his talk with Countess Mereloff, Ian strongly suspected her involvement.

"What about the messengers?"

"They’re in the kitchen, asking for recipes," Hana whispered.

Beric snorted. "Calling it a worthless weed one moment, and now they can’t get enough. How quickly things change." Ian carefully folded the letter in half and placed it on the table.

"Very well. If they’re willing to meet our price, we’ll sell."

"Shall I prepare the sacks?"

"Yes, but be firm. Tell them a single servant’s ransom is no longer sufficient. Fifty gold coins per sack, minimum. In return, we’ll guarantee a superior grade of Gulla. Explain that with winter fast approaching, our options are limited."

"Understood, Ian."

"I’ll draft a formal letter outlining the terms. Where is Romandro?"

"He stepped out this morning. He should be back shortly."

Ian rifled through the drawer with his left hand, retrieving the notes he and Romandro had compiled on Mereloff. ’What was the recommended quantity for a second trade?’ he mused, flipping through the pages.

Romandro, ever the meticulous reconstruction expert, had already calculated the optimal amount. He’d considered the size of Mereloff’s estate and its overall situation—down to the last detail—to determine their Gulla requirements.

’One hundred sacks: half for planting, and half for the household to consume comfortably during the month-long cultivation period. The planted half should yield enough, in turn, for even distribution amongst the estate’s residents after that time.’

’I wonder... Does anyone in Mereloff even know that Gulla is vulnerable to snow?’

’Likely not,’ he recalled Romandro saying, a hint of cynicism in his tone. ’One would have to care to know such a thing.’

With Romandro’s assessment fresh in his mind, Ian unfolded a clean sheet of parchment and began to draft the formal proposal: 100 sacks of Gulla at fifty gold coins per sack, a grand total of 5,000 gold coins.

"One hundred sacks? That’s a mountain of Gulla! How in the world will we transport it all?"

"This is a one-time, bulk sale, Beric. Once complete, Mereloff will be self-sufficient in Gulla production. And, of course, after winter, Gulla will be plentiful throughout all of Bariel."

"So, since it’s our final deal, shouldn’t we either increase the quantity or hike up the price? We need to make this count, right?"

"Precisely. And knowing Mereloff’s penchant for perceived bargains, he’ll be far more tempted by a large volume at a lower price."

Furthermore, Romandro’s calculations were far from mere guesswork. The proposal rested on a foundation of sound logic. With a bit of subtle persuasion from Countess Mereloff, securing the deal seemed well within reach.

Ian meticulously finalized the proposal and handed it to Hana. "Here."

"Yes, Ian. I’ll see to it immediately."

"And slip the servant a small portion of Gulla for the journey."

Besides the Mereloffs, few likely appreciated Gulla’s exquisite flavor. Once sampled, the craving was undeniable. Hana nodded, grasping his plan, and asked.

"One more thing—are you going to maintain the ban on internal trades?"

"Why?"

"It’s nothing serious, really. But the Mereloff residents keep pressing us to sell them Gulla, and our own people are growing restless. They’re starting to wonder if they should be allowed to sell."

Now that their bellies are full and they’re reasonably secure, they’re looking to line their pockets, not just fill their storehouses. It must be galling to be offered money but unable to accept, especially with spring fast approaching and all the expenses that entails.

"Hmm."

Ian nodded, acknowledging her point. If the Mereloff contract was finalized to his satisfaction, he could likely lift the ban on private trades. That, after all, was the entire point of the restriction.

A cunning smile touched his lips. If he timed it just right, he could really stick it to Mereloff.

"Or," Hana suggested, "what if we only sold roasted Gulla?"

"Roasted Gulla?" Ian repeated, intrigued.

"Yes. Roasting the seeds would render them infertile, making them suitable only for consumption, wouldn’t it?"

A spark of inspiration lit up Ian’s eyes. Hana had just given him a brilliant idea. He smiled, giving her shoulder an appreciative pat. "Excellent. I’ll run this by Romandro the moment he returns."

"Right. I’ll deliver the letter immediately!"

As Hana hurried out, Beric cocked his head, a surprisingly serious expression creasing his features, and asked.

"Say, Ian."

"What?"

"What if Mereloff balks at the price and decides to send soldiers? People do crazy things when they’re desperate for food. Are we looking at another fight if they lose their heads?"

Beric’s eyes gleamed with a disturbing eagerness. He seemed almost *too* ready for another brawl, his recent injuries apparently forgotten.

"You seem... enthusiastic."

"Me? Scared? I’m quaking in my boots! My heart’s about to burst. Or, should I say... fluttering?" He let out a sarcastic chuckle.

Beric inhaled deeply from his gurut leaf, the smoke curling around him like a contented beast. He resembled nothing so much as a sated predator, completely at his ease.

"Beasts and men, they’re different, aye, but they share one crucial instinct. Care to guess what it is?"

"Can’t say I do."

"They both know, deep in their gut, when to back off. They sense that line, that point of no return. Self-preservation is a powerful force, no matter the species."

"Hahaha! Damn right! With me here? Nobody’s crazy enough to attack. And we’ve still got a detachment of Thousand Thought Warriors! Hahaha!"

Beric took Ian’s words as a personal compliment and erupted in boisterous laughter, kicking the cushion for good measure. He looked utterly pleased with himself, preening like a peacock. Ian decided to let him have his moment...

’I was talking about the Capital, you oaf. The Capital.’

Ian’s true meaning referred to the political machinations of the Imperial Court.

’Attacking us would be playing right into our hands. They saw firsthand the fate of the Derga and Bratz families when the Imperial Army marched in. They’ll be doing everything in their power, consciously or not, to avoid a repeat performance.’

Thud!

The drawer slammed shut with a resounding finality. Ian picked up his book once more, settling back into his chair. He expected a response by late today or, at the latest, tomorrow. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if Mereloff came in person.

A knock at the door.

"Well, well! Look who it is, Ian!"

"Romandro. Welcome back. I heard you were out and about."

"Just picking up a few presents for the wife and little one."

Romandro entered, beaming, his arms overflowing with packages. He still seemed a bit wary of Beric after that little incident the other day; it was almost painful to watch him tiptoe around the warrior.

"Romandro, I’m fine, I told you." Beric sounded exasperated.

"Did I say something to the contrary? Just commenting on your usual... vacant expression."

"What? Seriously? Ian, tell him!"

"You do have a certain... spaced-out look sometimes, Beric."

"Maybe that foul temper of Mereloff’s is drug-induced, too?"

"Unlikely. His wife was eagerly awaiting winter. I suspect she’ll be making her move shortly."

A hallucinogenic anesthetic that slowly takes hold over the course of a month, ultimately leading to death by hyperventilation. Romandro shook his head, a grimace twisting his features.

"Must be the frontier influence. A daring woman, indeed."

"Or a measure of her desperation," Ian countered.

Beric, idly examining Romandro’s gifts, asked, "This sort of thing doesn’t happen in the Capital?"

"The Capital? It’s far worse

"Then why the remark about the frontier?"

The Capital—home to over half the nobility, and a hotbed of scandal. Romandro twirled his beard, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow.

"Though lately, discretion seems to be the preferred approach. Private villas, masquerade balls... that sort of thing. Prince Gale, for instance..."

Gale. The Second Prince’s name, unexpected in this context, hung in the air. Ian gestured for him to elaborate, and Romandro offered a self-conscious smile.

"Force of habit," Romandro said with a wry smile. "In the Imperial Court, one doesn’t even dare breathe his name aloud. Too many spies, too much risk of misinterpretation."

"Understandable."

The Court was a viper’s nest of intrigue, the most fiercely partisan place imaginable. Certainly not a name Romandro, a sworn man of First Prince Mariv, could utter lightly.

"In any case, Prince Gale... when was it? Last year, I believe? He caused quite the bloodbath at a party hosted by Duke Holin’s nephew."

"A bloodbath?" Ian’s voice was sharp with disbelief.

For a prince not in the direct line of succession, cultivating the nobility was paramount. Each lord and lady represented a potential source of power. So why cause such an uproar at a party thrown by the nephew of a disabled duke? The same man who would later stage a rebellion in his insatiable thirst for power? It defied logic.

"He slaughtered every last slave belonging to those who were utterly intoxicated."

"How could he possibly get away with that?"

"He did. And I’m surprised the news hasn’t reached even these remote parts. Word of something like that tends to spread like wildfire."

There are always those insulated from major events, even amidst global upheaval. Ian, in those days, had been one such person. What significance did a change of emperor hold when one was struggling just to survive?

"Naturally, the noble houses were up in arms. Those slaves were considered their property. While drug use was technically illegal, it was a widely accepted practice—an open secret, you might say. More to the point, for the Imperial Family to act against the nobility in such a way was a blatant display of power, a threat."

"How was the situation defused?"

"Money."

"Come again?"

"He bought new slaves to replace every single one he’d killed."

"Fucking lunatic," Beric spat, unimpressed.

Ian, however, remained speechless, his mind grappling with the implications. Romandro, observing Ian’s stunned silence, sighed deeply and offered a faint, knowing smile.

"I have served Prince Mariv faithfully for many years, but Prince Gale... he’s a different breed entirely."

Legally, slaves were mere commodities. Compensation should have sufficed, but the critical point—the masterstroke—was that these slaves were a gift from Gale.

"He’s... a master strategist, in his own twisted way."

"Precisely. After that incident, Prince Gale’s support grew exponentially. Whispers circulated that Wesley, head of the Magic Department, had footed the bill, solidifying Gale’s position considerably."

"But why? Why would that bolster his power? I’d have called him a madman and demanded his head!"

"Beric, be thankful you’re a warrior, not a politician. In the Imperial Court, even the portraits have ears."

"Then explain it like I’m five."

Beric impatiently dug at his ear as Ian, suppressing a sigh, began to unravel the intricate web of political maneuvering. Even a former Emperor like himself had to admit: it was a stroke of breathtaking political genius.