“- yields from the apricot orchards vary greatly from year to year. But they vary within set norms. Trees age, die and new ones are planted. Rainfall is better or worse. Insects get a portion of the crop. All of this is expected.”

  “Then there are the more catastrophic changes. Forest fires, raiders and mass theft.”

  A wooden carrying case with diamond-shaped openings, all labeled clearly and all but one hosting a scroll, sat on the table in front of Ethan, while beside him Ermina pointed to sections from the former occupant of that empty opening. It was unrolled between them, the wooden rotuli heavy enough to hold it so without additional weights. On the rough, pounded and woven reed surface, a set short and concise reports lay.

  For one township, each hand-sized entry included a year, hearths, each export crop with its total harvest and beside it the taxes paid. Infrequently, a series of symbols dotted specific crops. A small fly, a rain cloud, a rain cloud with a line through it, a sapling, a flame and a sword.

  50 Years of such for a single hamlet in one scroll. And with a great many other scrolls in the case. It was… daunting.

  “If you look over the past 20 years, and skip past the years tagged for catastrophic losses, you get an idea for normal growth. Here, 15 years back, we can see a new orchard is opened up. Three years later we see the yields start to increase. By five years it levels out at a new normal. Yes?”

  He nodded along. The symbols and hash marks were a bit alien to his eyes, but once explained he could see the patterns she was indicating.

  “Now, look here-” She rolled both scroll ends towards the bottom, where the most recent entries lay.

  It… he leaned forward and looked again. “They’re identical. Each year’s yield…” That didn’t make any sense!

  “Exactly.” She nodded, a pleased smile touching the corner of her mouth.

  “So… They’re lying. Did you send in a new Bailiff?”

  “Ah, ahh. Not quite so fast Lord. The information is suspect, yes. But that does not mean it's felonious. Have the yields gone down?”

  “Well” he glanced down, his mouth moving silently as he summed up the marks. “-less than the best years, but well above the worst.” He finally offered.

  “Better than the previous average.” She offered. “A marked and consistent value above it.”

  “So he’s lying, but not cheating?”

  “You could say that. I, however, would not. If I used either of those terms, I’d have to punish the man. Harshly too. And as you can see from the yields, that would be quite wasteful.”

  “But, he’s not telling you everything!”

  “Which is why I investigated the situation. The new Ealdorman has been saving to dig a spur from the main irrigation line. That would allow for new fields to be opened. In the meantime, he just leveled off the results to, hmm, manage expectations. He sells off the extra in the high years for profit and makes up the difference from the town coffers in the bad. And he’s been good enough at it that everyone has benefited. So no, I won’t call what he’s doing lying. I don’t want to be forced into improvidence.”

  That… huh. He wasn’t sure he approved, but… He scratched at his chin, considering. More taxes were never a bad thing? But to let a subordinate, how did she put it, manage his expectations? That struck him as dangerous.

  “And the lesson is?” He murmured.

  She smiled widely. “Know what to look for, but don’t assume you know what it means. Not all mistakes are enemy action. Not all half-truths are malicious. Humans, in aggregate, are mostly unsuited to absolutes like ‘truth.’ You can ride roughshod over this preference, demanding that all and sundry walk the straight and narrow. But it will lead to mass unhappiness in them and an emptier purse for you. Or you can plan for it, adapt to it, and everyone comes out ahead.”

  “I’m not sure I approve of rewarding poor behavior.”

  “That depends entirely on who is getting the biggest reward. I for one welcome getting rewarded for the predictably human behavior beneath me.”

  That… huh.

  “Is it really such a big ask? To expect accurate reports on a yield?”

  She gave him a pity-laden look. “What is accurate, Lord Ethan? The fish that got away always grows, does it not?”

  “We’re not talking about the fishes in the river. Nor even about those in one’s basket. But about apricots in amphorae and crates.”

  “Ah, a specific product then. Good. Then what about the marginal fruits? Worms, bruises or just didn’t grow right? You can put them into an amphora as well, can you not? They’re even a valid export. Animals, Basics and cheap alcohol aren’t picky. But they certainly aren’t worth as much.”

  “Prime Apricots?”

  “Who decides prime?”

  “Inspect doesn’t leave much room for debate.”

  “A well-leveled, crop or food-specific inspect will indeed reveal all. But the number of people with such a leveled skill is not large. And they generally expect a commiserate wage. Far too high of one for a farmer. And even if they could, that would just tell you prime at loading. What about decay in transit? The switching out of amphora with a less quality crop? There is a great deal that can happen along the way.”

  “Then at the other end. A merchant isn’t much of a merchant if he can’t properly assay his purchases.”

  “True, but not all that comes in goes to a merchant. Tax, tithe and sales. Yes, yes, the Reeves will have a skilled Inspect. But they don’t have time to check every amphora and crate. A few at random from every load at best.”

  “Then what about this.” He waved at the scrolls before them. “You must have a pretty good idea of how much damage to expect in transit, what spread of quality to expect and who to expect it from.”

  “We do indeed. But it’s accurate only in aggregate. We know what to expect from a specific hamlet over several years. Not what each orchard and field in that hamlet will produce this year. Even ignoring crop rotation cycles, rain and insects, we just don’t have that degree of detail and accuracy in our records. And what we do record takes a great deal of time, effort and space.”

  “And yet, despite all these difficulties, you reliably make good profits from them. How, if there are so many barriers, can you be so successful?”

  “By finding talented people and keeping an eye on them. But not by trying to enforce specific, and expensive, categorization and standards. Taxes are paid in produce, labor and coin. Year after year, you get to know what to expect from a given location. And you adjust how you value it in turn. Same with labor. Coin is more reliable, but it’s often quite scarce in common hands.”

  “We have a set value we expect from all three. If one area falls short in a given year, then it must be made up in the rest. Allowing them to play games does not harm us, so long as the total measures up.”

  “Now, if they start getting arrogant from ‘getting away with it,’ which does happen occasionally, then you need to stomp on them. Promptly and with a high degree of, shall we say, brutality? Otherwise, chaos descends and everyone is the poorer for it.”

  “What forms does this chaos take?”

  “It varies. A flat reduction in performance due to people quietly dragging their feet is the most difficult to deal with. Often causing frustration in the local knights that ends in mass floggings or heads on sticks. And of course, more unhappiness. Not good for anyone.”

  “The most common is an Ealdorman lining their pockets to an unacceptably large degree. We catch them and they lose a hand. Possibly a head if it is particularly egregious. As you have to be well respected locally to become the Ealdorman in the first place, this can easily lead to worse problems. Pointless and counterproductive problems.”

  “Basic revolts just lead to a lot of dead Basics. Running off to become bandits is much the same. They end up praying on their former neighbors for a time, then get executed.”

  “No, if you stomp on the problem early, and make it very clear why you stomped, and how to prevent such a stomping in the future, then it keeps things smooth. It’s all in how to properly, how did I put it earlier? Manage expectations.”

  Huh.

  _____

  “No. Not like that.” Ethan easily slapped the wooden blade aside.

  “Then how!” Ermina barked. “We’ve been at this for half an hour and I somehow haven’t done it right yet!”

  “Exactly.” Ethan offered with a wry grin, ignoring the promise of future pain in her beautiful hazel eyes. “Because you are trying to fight me.”

  “Is there another point here?” She gestured her own wooden pointed object rather sharply toward his head.

  “Lady Ermina. As talented and hard-working as you are, you do not have a combat class. Your body stat is far behind your mind and I believe the knife skill you are using comes from a stone. Either you haven’t fully leveled it, or it’s only a tier 0 stone as well. In no world, in no shape or form, are you ever going to win a fight with a combatant in the second tier. Certainly not when I’m wearing a full suit of lorica and you are in a dress.”

  She angrily opened her mouth, then with a visible effort of will closed it. Then her eyes too for several moments. When they opened, she asked with an exaggerated degree of equanimity. “Then what are we doing here?”

  “You can’t fight. But you can kill. You can survive. It’s all in your goals and when you choose to act. Your state of mind, rather than skill. It’s a method that I hope you never have to embrace. But if you must, you must do it right.”

  He walked forward obviously, smiling at her confused look. Then darted forward for the last step, his arms snapping out like snakes. Too quickly for her to dodge. Wrapping her in a rather improper hug. He smiled slightly at her squawk of outrage and stiffening form.

  His lips nearly on her ear, in a soft, gentle voice, he instructed the struggling young lady, “Now, stick that ‘dagger’ into the inside of my thigh.”

  She froze, shocked for a moment, then complied. At point-blank range, the wooden blade slid between the metal-embossed leather lames of his pturgis and towards the top of his right thigh. He blessed his forethought in wearing a codpiece. He cringed despite expecting it as the blade struck into his joint with commendable energy.

  He released her and stepped back. “And now, I am bleeding out. Death at low tiers, less guaranteed at higher, but only if I can stop the bleeding.” Matching deed to word, he slipped a hand down to apply pressure to the purported wound.

  “The armpits work nearly the same.” He lifted his own arm to point. “Scales aren’t flexible enough here, so a patch of hamata or even padded leather offers a vulnerability. Other options are the back of the neck under the tail of the helmet, if they embrace you. Under the chin if your arms are caught between. But in each case, it’s not your reflexes against mine, but rather your patience and ruthlessness.”

  “It must come as a surprise.” He reiterated. “Let them think they’ve won, then strike. Strike once. Strike hard. You likely won’t get another.”

  “So I’m now bleeding like a stuck pig. Now what?”

  “Finish you off?” She offered, stepping forward to poke towards his face. Aggressively so. She was still steaming, apparently. He slapped it aside easily with his armored left hand. All without removing the right from its rather undignified position.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Still not a threat in a fight, Lady.” He waited a moment, then as she began to try again he barked. “RUN!”

  In a fake stumble, clutching himself, he moved towards her, pulling a wooden gladius from his belt. “You have guards for a reason! Men who are trained and willing to defend you. Make an opportunity and run to them!”

  She dodged ahead of him, breathing raggedly as she changed directions, running to where a pair of guards in her father’s colors stood to either side of the garden gate, pretending not to notice what was going on within. Until she reached them, that is, then as one they stepped forward, and drew blades.

  Painted wooden blades, though she could be forgiven for missing that fact, with adrenaline raging. He wasn’t fool enough to pull this stunt without clearing it with her father, and them beforehand.

  He engaged them for a moment. Then several more. Blade darting through the basic strike and response of a gladius duel, his greater stats, they were mid-to-low tier 1’s, compromised by his ‘wound’, but combined with a much higher skill level, sufficient to handle them both. Though not to do so quickly.

  Not unless he was willing to be ruthless. Another opportunity for a lesson. With a grunt and the sound of wood striking flesh he stepped into a blow, letting a wooden blade hammer into his upper arm in exchange for a gut strike. With a twist, he used the man’s folding body as a shield against his partner. “What are you doing standing there?” He barked, allowing his bruised left arm to fall limply at his side while deftly deflecting a brutal little thrust.

  She started, then figured it out. Her head lifed up, revealing the clean lines of her delicate neck. “I REQUIRE ASSISTANCE!” She projected. It couldn’t be called a scream. To undignified no doubt. But it was at least loud. He might have to convince her of the benefits a simpler ‘help’ could bring.

  But she was getting it.

  ____

  “See there.” Ermina gestured below. The view from the small hill was exceptional. Especially with the added height their horses offered. Down below, a small farming hamlet sat a short distance back from a frothing stream he could easily toss a rock across. Not 2 miles to the east, it would join the Silberstrom, but here and now, it provided for both crops and people.

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be seeing, Lady Ermina.” He admitted.

  “Along the river bed, do you see the mess of small green fronds? They’re actually a flower, though I forgive you for not being able to see that from here.”

  “Is that… Papyrus?”

  “Very good. Notice how far up the bank it is growing?”

  “Ah. Flooding then?”

  “Exactly. They’re rarer this far north, but where you see them, flooding is common. So the Hamlet had to be built well back from the water. On higher ground.”

  “And why not this hill then? It would give them a better view to watch for threats.”

  “It’s not a military settlement, Lord Ethan. It’s a hamlet. A hilltop must fight the wind in the winter, and burn more fuel in the doing. Even if winter is not very harsh here. More importantly, they would have to haul the water that much farther. Good water is what makes a settlement possible. The farther away it is, the less successful it will be.”

  “Then… why not dig a berm right next the river?”

  “A dyke? It can be, and frequently is done for cities. In stone, if you don’t want to be constantly rebuilding it. But this is a hamlet. They haven’t the spare labor for such a work.”

  “It would also waste a natural resource. A flood plane is very fertile. The best place for many crops. For that matter, papyrus itself is a valuable resource. The young shoots are edible, you can weave it into shoes, rafts and roofing. This close to the baronial keep, and its administration center, the mature plants can even be sold for scroll making. All from a crop that requires little active cultivation.”

  Her eyes caught the light for a moment as she smiled at the township below.

  And Ethan? He found himself smiling along with her.

  ____

  “-not that one!” Only high stat reactions and an outstretched hand kept the tower of crates from collapsing on top of them. Ethan coughed lightly, trying not to sneeze on the dust particles as he restacked the offending tower.

  Ermina leaned in, bending at the waist in a most pleasing manner to laboriously read the faded label. “This one. I think.”

  He glanced dubiously at the stack, then backward at a pile of similar crates, opened, checked, then discarded. These rejects were stacked beside the table in the center of the dimly lit cellar. A small oil lamp beside them, fighting valiantly if somewhat impotently against the cloying darkness.

  It was beginning to feel like a fool’s errand. But he couldn’t just blow off her offer of help. With a shrug, he carefully lifted down the crates stacked above it. Each weighing a measly 80 pounds, a difficult task for a Basic, but well within his capabilities.

  It didn’t take him long to place her most recent candidate in front of the lamp. A quick tap with a pry bar released the wooden pegs and he lifted the lid free.

  “Yes, this is it!”

  Ethan looked over her shoulder, trying to hide his skepticism as she carefully removed a set of dusty hides from the box. Peaking to see what they’d been packed about. Only to see yet more hides.

  No. Not hides.

  Velum.

  She carefully blew, stripping a thin layer of dust and revealing faded ink in a simple, jagged series of lines. An artistic style he’d not seen before. It was minimalistic in the extreme, and yet it captured a certain something.

  A Cave bear, clearly recognizable in its rough outline, upheld claws shown by four simple, bold lines. A few simple, jagged curves, the hint of an eye, of fangs and yet he could feel the power, the savagery and certain stubborn immutability. Here it was, and it would not be moved.

  Below and to the right, a mountain lion, its shoulders crusted with earth and stone, while a fuselage of earthen missiles struck a fleeing buck, its massive set of antlers arcing with a tether of lightning.

  “Are they serious?” And yet, he found his own voice lowered, as if to refrain from spooking them.

  “Partially at least. Artists will exaggerate.” She muttered dubiously. “But few have the creativity for wholesale fabrication. Records say this one survived three hunting expeditions into the Atlerest Mountains before a mangled leg led him to this path. Not the type for rootless imagination.”

  She moved the first velum to the side and blew again to reveal a new image. Simple black lines shaped a mountain peak with a hint of a snowstorm blowing over it. And on top of it, shaggy fur shown with but a few hash marks, massively muscled flanks hinted at with a few curves and the barest impression of a man beside to give it scale. It had to be eight to ten feet high at the shoulders. Two sharp, jutting, straight horns crowned its raised head. Somewhere between a goat and a deer, though with deeper, round eyes that somehow spoke of wisdom.

  Ermina blew again to reveal even more faded runes in the northern style. “Oreamnos Rex. The Aetherhorn. The king of the high places. The climber of… peaks?” She offered, leaning closer for a second glance, then nodding. He glanced dubiously at the reversed maybe text. It wasn’t an oft-written language and he was scarcely a scholar, but there was little more than a few scribbles here. Even before it faded. He wasn’t going to call her on it, but that had to be a good bit of guesswork involved. “Uhum.” He offered non-comitally.

  She turned away with a light, embarrassed cough, but continued on. “-bringers of luck. Offer no harm, lest the.. mountain I think? Lest the mountain take you.”

  “Beautiful creature. If it’s not too exaggerated.” Ethan offered and meant it. The one image stood proudly across an entire piece of expensive vellum. While a set of apex predators and prey shared one between them.

  “What else?”

  Ermina turned a hide over and he leaned closer, watching an excited face and beautifully clear eyes as much or more than new images revealed.

  ___

  “Keep your elbow up. I know it feels awkward, but you can hurt yourself if you don’t.” Ethan leaned against Ermina’s back, lightly adjusting her recalcitrant appendage. “No, no. Don’t lock your other elbow. You’re not pulling against a brace, but stretching it between your hands.”

  “Inhale and hold your breath for a second. Now, as you let it out, pull your hands apart. You’re not just using your biceps, but all the muscles in your back. That’s it, now hold that breath and … release!”

  The arrow flew from the string down range and completely missed the target. “I think I’d prefer a javelin. At least I’m good at darts.”

  “You can carry a lot more arrows than javelins, and while the latter often hit harder, the former have more range.”

  “Then why do your highest-tier men use pilum?”

  “Free hands mostly. It only takes one to throw a pilum while the other holds onto their lance. But Skill limits apply to. Pilum are spears, lances are spears. One fairly specific skill can stretch to cover both. Bows are a completely different beast.”

  “I don’t have a bow skill. Does that make this exercise worthless?” She pulled another arrow from the ground and repeated the steps he’d shown here. Breath, stance and timing. Missing again, but much closer this time.

  “Never. You don’t need a skill to shoot for entertainment. Nor to hunt or defend yourself. Oh, skills make everything more effective, but man is mortal. Even with a high body stat, enough unskilled arrows will bring him down.”

  “How much more effective? YES!” Her next arrow dug into the target. The very edge of the target but still on it.

  “Very good! Keep that up. Learn how the bow reacts and adjust to match. The Bow Skill, like most skills, affects the durability of the weapon and the mobility with which you wield it. It’s often better to consider that as control for ranged weapons. Finer control means, with the knowledge and skill to know where to aim, that you can be more accurate. Like with stats in general, it offers greater potential, but you have to work to take advantage of it.”

  “Not power?” Her next shot missed, but not by much

  “Not directly. But… With a body rank in the 20’s do you think I could snap that twig-“ he tapped the bow stave, “-in half by accident?”

  “Yes? Ahhh!” She nodded. “A more durable bow means a stronger draw weight, which means a more powerful arrow.”

  “Exactly. And the arrow is also more durable, more likely to pierce armor instead of shattering on impact- Very nice! ” Another arrow stood out, almost in the outermost scored ring this time. An improvement.

  “Hmmm.” Her next shot hit as well, though at the outer edge again. But the two after it were legitimate, scorable hits.

  Ethan nodded then reached forward and pulled the bow from her hand. “Don’t overdo it. You haven’t built up the muscles needed.”

  “I hadn’t thought I was out of shape.” She offered, a light touch of red crossing her cheeks as Ethan carefully massaged her upper biceps and shoulders.

  “You’re not. You are a very fine shape of a woman.” He smiled slightly as the red grew. “But you just did the equivalent of 10 reps at 50 pounds each. With muscles you don’t normally use. Now imagine firing 10 shots per minute for 5 to 10 minutes straight. With a much heavier bow. That’s a minimum standard for an archer in battle. Can you imagine it?”

  She grunted, looking at the weapon with new respect.

  “It takes time to build a bowman up to a useful state. Both in levels, stats, skills and skill. All of it takes a great deal of repetition and effort.”

  “I’m familiar with the concept, My Lord.”

  “Am I that, My Lady? Your lord?”

  She was silent for a moment; red having crept across her cheeks and down her neck in a tide that his eyes had a hard time not following. At last she leaned back into him. “I’m still going to make you work for it.” She muttered, somewhat gruffly.

  He laughed softly. “I believe you will! But like the bow, it’s well worth the effort.”

  “We’ll see, My Lord. We shall have to see.”

  Overhead, an old man watched them through an arrow slit window, grinning widely.

  ____

  Ethan looked to the side with a slight smile as he marched down the flower-strewn aisle to the sound of harp and flute. He found that he wasn't unhappy with his choice.

  No, more than that. He was quite lucky. It wasn't the bardic romance of song and tale. Common interest, opportunity and admiration had united to give them a solid foundation for a union. Where they went from here was up to them.

  No, not just them. While marriage was between the two, it was not immune to outside influence.

  The arch of swords overhead spoke of those who would defend it. The flowers beneath their feet a symbol of how effort and kindness could make the road softer, while the altar at the end of the road spoke of the Gods and the final judgment that would come in time.

  In time. he mused, as they walked ever closer.

  What indeed would time bring?