Chương 78: Old Martha

Jack had intended to leave for Lord Alaric Vance's fief just after dawn. The sturdy new carriage Giles had purchased was already hitched and waiting in the courtyard. However, the responsibilities of running an expanding territory rarely cared about a lord's schedule. Just as Jack was putting on his coat, Giles hurried into the Great Hall with urgent news.

Two separate parties had arrived at the valley gates simultaneously: the transport carts from the Iron-Route Syndicate to collect the coal, and a private merchant caravan responding to Jack's custom order request. Jack couldn't delegate tasks of this magnitude to Giles or Barnaby. They were capable men, but they were still villagers; negotiating trade margins with seasoned merchants required a ruthless touch they simply didn't possess yet.

"Have the people from Iron-Route Syndicate begin loading the Syndicate's carts immediately," Jack instructed Giles, adjusting his cuffs.

"While they do that, bring the merchant to the meeting room. I will deal with him first." Ten minutes later, Jack sat across from a remarkably unremarkable man.

"Good morning, My Lord. I am Yarun Gatry," the man introduced himself with a polite bow. He wore weather-beaten clothes, looking like a man who spent his life on the road.

"I received word from the guild that you required a custom bulk order during the main autumn caravan." Jack hadn't seen Yarun during the spring merchant visit, but that was standard. Merchants often rotated their routes based on the season.

"That is correct," Jack said, getting straight to the point.

"I have a specific list of materials I need delivered during the autumn caravan since I'm not very sure that these goods will arrive with the merchants naturaly. You know as well as I do how fast the northern passes close up."

"You have the right of it, My Lord," Yarun agreed, pulling a leather-bound ledger and a pencil from his coat.

"If you waited for the main caravan and then asked for a special delivery, the drivers would charge you double just for risking the ice. Ordering now is the smart move. What exactly do you need, and in what quantities?"

"Before we get into the list," Jack interrupted smoothly, resting his hands on the table.

"Let us negotiate the shipping fees. How much extra are you charging for a custom, expedited order?" Jack was painfully aware of his finances. He had a massive amount of gold secured in the castle, but it was all borrowed from Inquisitor Silas Thorne. Every single coin he spent was a coin he had to pay back with interest. He couldn't afford to hemorrhage gold on lazy deals. Yarun tapped his pencil against the ledger.

"Usually, for an off-season haul into the mountains, I charge a flat twenty-five percent premium on the total cost of the goods, plus fifty gold for every extra cart I have to charter."

"That is a highwayman's rate, Yarun," Jack replied without blinking.

"Ten percent premium, and I pay no extra charter fees. You are already making a profit on the goods themselves." Yarun winced, giving a pained chuckle.

"My Lord, be reasonable. The bandit activity—""Bandits do not operate in my territory," Jack cut him off, his voice carrying a cold edge of certainty.

"Any outlaw foolish enough to cross my borders is dealt with permanently. Furthermore, the roads leading up to this valley have been cleared of debris and widened. You won't snap an axle on Frost-Grip land. You are charging me for risks that simply do not exist here." The negotiation kept on.

"I will grant you a flat one hundred gold to cover the two extra carts," Jack countered smoothly.

"But the premium drops to fifteen percent. The volume of goods I am ordering will make this the most lucrative single stop on your entire route. Volume over percentages, Yarun." The merchant chewed the inside of his cheek, doing some mental.

"Eighteen percent, My Lord. I still have guild dues to pay on off-season charters."

"Sixteen percent," Jack stated, his tone leaving no room for further haggling.

"Sixteen percent, the hundred gold for the carts, and I will pay the entire surcharge up front, right now, in solid gold. No promissory notes. No bartering." Yarun stared at the young lord for a moment, clearly surprised by Jack's firm grip on market economics and the promise of immediate, liquid wealth. He smiled a businessman's smile.

"Sixteen percent it is, My Lord. You drive a harder bargain than the city bankers. Let's hear the list." They spent the next half hour ironing out the details. Once the total was calculated, Yarun formally requested the surcharge up front as a security deposit, as agreed. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Jack rang a small bell on the table. The servant outside came in and bowed. Jack asked her to call Karen.

Karen arrived in just minutes, and greeted both men with a polite bow.

"Karen, please go to the treasury," Jack said, handing her a small key. He told her the exact amount of gold required. Karen nodded silently, her face impassive, and left the room. A few minutes later, she returned with a heavy leather pouch, setting it on the table with a heavy thud. Yarun weighed the gold and then counted them, his eyes gleaming slightly, signed the contract, and departed the castle, promising to return with the goods with the caravan.

With the custom order secured, Jack immediately left the castle and walked down the mountain path toward the village's coal storage. The air near the storage sheds was thick with black dust. The laborers from the guild were covered in soot, pushing heavy wheelbarrows back and forth, loading the massive, reinforced guild carts. Standing near the carts, overseeing the process, was the Syndicate's foreman.

Giles had thoughtfully provided the man with a wooden chair, and he stood up hastily as Jack approached, bowing deeply.

"My Lord," the foreman greeted him, wiping sweat and soot from his brow. Jack nodded in return, assessing the situation. Thanks to the spatial rings he had purchased in the west, the mining efficiency had skyrocketed. The miners no longer wasted hours hauling rocks up the tunnels; just one person simply loaded the rings, walked out, and dumped the coal. Because of this, the villagers had been forced to build a second storage shed just to hold the surplus.

"We brought fourteen carts, My Lord," the foreman explained, looking at the massive pile of remaining coal.

"We assumed it would be enough, but… it seems you've greatly exceeded expectations. We've emptied your first shed and filled our carts, but you still have nearly a full shed remaining."

"It isn't a problem," Jack said calmly.

"It won't spoil. When is the Syndicate scheduled to return?" The foreman did the mental calculations.

"We can make another rotation in three or four months, right before the winter locks the roads. I will have to speak with my superiors, but considering this output, how many carts should we bring next time? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-five will be sufficient," Jack confirmed. Even with twenty-five carts, Jack knew they could easily meet the quota. He was planning to divert some of his workforce to other construction projects soon, so keeping a large stockpile of coal in reserve was like a buffer. After checking the loaded carts twice, the foreman returned with the official guild receipt and a heavy, reinforced lockbox containing the payment. Jack broke the wax seal and checked the ledger.

For the fourteen carts of high grade coal, the Iron-Route Syndicate paid him twenty-eight thousand, five hundred Gold. It was a staggering amount of money indeed, but a little less than what Jack had expected. Jack knew he was taking a slight loss by making the guild handle the transport—as per the contract he had signed in the city—but the volume made it worthwhile. Yet, as Jack looked at the gold, he didn't feel rich. It's a start, he thought pragmatically.

But it's not enough to pay off Silas's loan, not by a long shot. He would need to execute his other, far more lucrative plans before the end of the year if he truly wanted to break free from his financial leash. With the business finally concluded, Jack told Giles to unhitch the carriage horses. The trip to Alaric Vance's fief would have to wait until tomorrow. But just as Jack turned to head back to the castle, Giles approached him again. The villager's face was drawn, and his eyes were hollow.

"My Lord," Giles said, his voice quiet and thick with emotion.

"It's Old Martha. She just passed away." Jack stopped in his tracks, the weight of the gold box in his hands suddenly feeling trivial. Old Martha had been bedridden ever since Jack returned from the west. It wasn't an illness or a plague; it was simply the unavoidable toll of old age. Her body was giving out. Jack had assigned two women to care for her around the clock, and he had visited her twice himself.

She used to be a skilled healer, a woman who had once possessed a trace of magic before her core had withered away over the decades. More importantly to Jack, she was the one who had stayed by his bedside, treating him when he had first arrived in this world coughing up blood. She had saved his life. When her condition worsened, Jack and Karen had both tried to persuade her to take herbal medicines or even send for an alchemist, but she had stubbornly refused.

She claimed it was her time, and she didn't want unnatural interference delaying her rest. Jack walked with Giles to Martha's cabin. The entire village seemed to have gathered outside. The women were weeping openly, and the men stood with their heads bowed in deep respect. Jack stepped inside, accompanied by Karen, to pay his final respects to the woman who had welcomed him into this harsh world. The funeral took place the next afternoon.

The traditions of the northern commoners differed greatly from the lavish burials of the Frost-Grip nobility. They did not bury their dead. Instead, they returned them to the sky and the earth. Two of the elder village women washed Martha's body and dressed her in clean clothes. They carried her on a wooden stretcher down to the banks of the rushing river, where a large pyre of dry timber had been constructed. The atmosphere was incredibly solemn.

The only sounds were the rushing water and the quiet sobbing of the villagers. Jack stood at the front of the crowd, leaning heavily on his cane. He watched as Giles stepped forward with a torch and lit the base of the pyre. The dry wood caught quickly, sending thick plumes of smoke up toward the gray afternoon sky. It took several hours for the fire to reduce the wood to ash.

As the hours dragged on, the heat grew intense, and many of the villagers, including Jack, eventually stepped back toward the tree line to seek shade and rest their legs. But Karen did not move. Jack watched her from a distance. The maid stood entirely still, just a few paces from the roaring flames. The intense heat flushed her pale skin red, but she didn't flinch.

She simply stared into the heart of the fire, her eyes unblinking, watching the flames consume the body until there was nothing left but glowing embers. When the fire finally died down to gray ash, Giles and Barnaby carefully scooped the remains into a simple, unadorned clay pot. They carried it to a quiet grove near the riverbank, burying it alongside the remains of generations of villagers who had lived, worked, and died in the freezing valley.