House of Ash and Gold

Chapter 15: The Business of Wheat

The scent of parchment and ink always clung to the scribe's tower.

Cael was beginning to like it.

He climbed the narrow stair two at a time, the quiet murmur of voices drifting down toward him. Just short of the landing, he stopped, pressing his palm on the wall to listen.

Two men. Not the scribes, their voices were rougher and sounded like merchants.

"…told you the crop would fail," one said, sharp with irritation. "Frost came too early and the rain too late. They say it's worse in Dorvale, whole fields blackened before harvest."

"And?" the second replied, calmer. "That's why we raise the price. Supply dwindles, price rises. Common sense."

Cael narrowed his eyes.

"Common sense?" the first scoffed. "You say that now, but the merchants' guild is already sniffing around. Two of their men were in Alne last week, promising cheap foreign grain. If they manage to undercut us once, we're finished."

The second man exhaled through his nose before speaking. "If they do bring in foreign grain, we won't stand a chance this year."

The words hung in the air longer than their footsteps, which scraped and faded down the stair. Cael stayed in the shadow as they passed, both cloaked in fox fur, merchant marks stitched at their hems and the sour smell of frustration on them.

When their voices were gone, he let out a breath and finished the climb.

The scribe glanced up as he entered, quill still moving. His face tightened briefly but eased when he saw Cael carried no sword.

"You're early," the scribe said dryly.

"You're awake," Cael shot back.

The old man let the faintest smile curl his mouth.

"Sit. What is it?"

Cael dragged a stool closer and sat. For a moment, he didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the open ledger, neat rows of numbers and names marching down the page.

"I want to understand," he said at last.

"That covers a lot," the scribe replied.

"This," Cael said, nodding at the book. "The numbers. Why, if they bring in foreign grain, we won't stand a chance. Why wheat matters so much to us."

The scribe's quill stilled. He leaned back a little, eyes flicking to Cael's hip.

"Good," he said, dry as ever. "At least the sword hasn't turned you into a complete brute."

Cael shrugged. "Still time."

That earned the faintest smirk. The scribe tapped his quill against his knuckles, eyeing him.

"You're still listening at doors, I see."

"Old habits," Cael said.

"Mm." The scribe shook his head, amused. "And here I thought Edric gave you permission to study like a proper heir."

"He did," Cael said. "Didn't say I had to stop paying attention."

The scribe snorted. "Fair."

He closed the ledger and folded his hands atop it. The candlelight caught the veins in his knuckles.

"Where to begin," he murmured. "You know about the mines."

"Its drying up," Cael said. He rested his elbow on the table. "Everyone knows the yields have been falling for years. Now there's barely enough silver to cover the house's own expenses."

"And the soldiers?"

Cael huffed softly, looking off at the wall.

"Father still clings to the old victories," Cael said. "The banners, the skirmishes, the tourneys, the battles our name was built on. He fought a few himself. And now..." Cael shook his head faintly. "Now he looks at Jorlan and sees the same chance. Like one more battle could fix everything."

The scribe's mouth quirked faintly, though his eyes stayed fixed on Cael.

"And you?" he asked.

Cael's fingers drummed quietly on the wood.

"I think," he said, "none of that keeps the house standing. Not anymore. The king's purse is thin, and the mines can't carry us like they used to. But he still thinks steel will save us."

The scribe snorted, tapping his quill against the table.

"That's because your father still believes this house was built on swords and banners alone. He forgets the wheat, the silver, and the contracts that actually keep it standing."

Cael's lip curled upward, just slightly.

"Which is why I'm here," he said.

The scribe's faint smile deepened a fraction.

He leaned back, finally setting his quill aside, fingers laced over the ledger.

He studied Cael for a moment, then said, "Spoils are fewer these days. The Ridge was once our strength, iron, silver, men hardened by frost. Now…" He gestured vaguely at the ledger. "Now the Ridge is a burden, not a strength."

Cael leaned back too, arms folding across his chest. That much he'd guessed, though no one dared say it so plainly in front of Edric.

"And the wheat?" he asked.

"Farming was the stopgap," the scribe said. "Modest. But a poor harvest cuts deeper than you think."

Cael tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Because hungry peasants riot?"

"Because hungry peasants sell themselves cheap to anyone who feeds them," the scribe corrected. "The guild takes them, the fields go untended, and the taxes dry up. Without tenants to work the land and pay the rents, you can't even meet your dues to the crown. That's how a house collapses."

"Starving nobles make cheap allies," Cael murmured.

The scribe inclined his head once in agreement.

Cael drummed his fingers on the table, his thoughts circling back to the merchants' voices on the stairs, back to the frostbitten fields he'd ridden past last week. This wasn't just winter.

It was bigger than that.

"What stops us from undercutting them?" he asked suddenly. "If we bought up grain before the guild moved?"

The scribe looked at him for a long moment, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"You're thinking like a merchant."

"I'm thinking like someone tired of watching this house bleed."

That drew a proper smirk out of the old man.

"Not bad," he murmured. "But you'd need contracts. And coin."

Cael nodded toward the ledger.

"Then teach me."

For a moment, the scribe just watched him. Then he opened the book again with a sigh.

"All right," he said. "But don't waste my time."

...

The hours slipped by once they began.

Cael learned how to read contracts and spot the traps, clauses buried paragraphs' deep that could ruin a man before the ink dried.

He learned about advance rates (futures), gambling now on what wheat would cost the next spring, betting the harvest would fail and prices would rise.

He learned how the guild bent their own rules and how to catch them at it.

Most of all, he learned to think in margins.

"How much is a peasant worth?" the scribe asked him at one point.

Cael hesitated. "…three crowns?"

The scribe snorted softly. "If they brought in three crowns at once, we'd all be kings."

He leaned back, gaze sharp.

"A peasant's worth is his yield. If he can keep a family of five fed and deliver ten sacks of grain to the keep each year, that's maybe half a crown a year if the weather's kind and his children don't die. A little more if his wife spins cloth in winter. But if famine halves his yield, he's a liability."

"That's cold," Cael said.

"That's arithmetic boy, and arithmetic doesn't care how you feel about it."

It made cruel sense. But sense all the same.

The more he listened, the more clearly he saw it: how easily a house could crumble when no one watched the ledgers.

One bad harvest, one guild squeeze, one rival pressing too hard and the whole thing cracked.

When they paused to drink, Cael rubbed his eyes.

"You still look unconvinced," the scribe said.

"I'm convinced," Cael said slowly. "Just… angry."

"Why?"

"That no one explained it before."

"Most heirs don't care," the scribe said. "They care about banners and swords. The ones who care about ledgers are the ones who survive."

That fit.

Everything the Veil had shown him so far, the glint of potential in Tarren, the faint threads of possibility in the yard. This felt like the same thing, just another kind of battlefield.

One where you fought with coin instead of steel.

And House Varissen was already losing.

...

Later, at dusk, he stood on the balcony watching carts rattle through the gates below.

*He remembered a merchant's words:

Famine makes and unmakes fortunes.

That quiet thrill sparked again, the same one he'd felt when he first saw threads trailing from a blade in the yard.

The shimmer was here too, not in steel but in contracts and coin.

Opportunities... Weaknesses...

Waiting to be struck.

He let himself imagine it. Turning those faint glimmers into something solid, seizing them before they vanished.

If no one else would, he would.

...

The next morning, he was already at the scribe's desk before dawn.

"You're early," the old man said.

"You told me not to waste your time," Cael replied.

The scribe raised a brow, faint respect in his eyes.

So they began again.

By week's end, Cael could draft a simple contract, estimate a yield from a few numbers, and most satisfying, spot where a rival had overreached on paper.

"You're not bad at this," the scribe said one afternoon.

"I'm not good yet," Cael replied.

"But you will be."

"Yes," Cael murmured. "I will."

...

On the eve of House Drevane's arrival, Cael stood alone on the balcony. Below, another cart of wheat clattered through the gates.

Already he could see how the guild would twist the famine. Driving up prices and starving out the smaller houses.

But now he could see how to fight it.

Tomorrow, the Drevane heiress would arrive, and no doubt she'd come with her own ambitions.

And he would be ready.