The salt on the ship was unloaded in no time. The wagons here could carry twice as much cargo as those elsewhere, and they were not only fast but steady, too.
There was a place by the wharf that specialized in buying salt. The workers randomly selected a few barrels, measured out a fixed volume of salt, put it in a conical measuring cylinder, and added water until it had all dissolved.
After the brine had stood still for a moment, the impurities settled at the bottom of the cylinder.
This batch of salt was good quality, Grade One.
Since the barrels were sold separately, it took a little while to pour out and weigh all the salt, then find other containers for it.
As they were signing the contract, the owner pointed to one of its clauses and asked, "What's this Stamp Duty? I haven't heard of it anywhere else."
The broker immediately explained, "It's a kind of transaction tax our Young Master came up with after taking charge. You buy a tax stamp based on a percentage of the amount in the contract and stick it on. If there's a lawsuit, the court will first recognize contracts with tax stamps as evidence."
"If you pay a little extra, the tax office will keep a copy for anywhere from a month to fifty years. Even after that period expires, you can still check the register for the names of both parties, the type and quantity of goods, and the amount paid."
The owner understood at once and praised the idea. "That's a good method. It makes things much easier if you ever have to go to court."
"Sure does," the broker said. "And when it's time to collect our brokerage fee, there's a lot less arguing."
Armand picked up a tax stamp nearby and examined it. It was a small piece of white cotton cloth, printed with a red rose and green vines. The year and month were printed underneath, and it could be pasted onto parchment with glue.
He couldn't help pondering the matter. The Stamp Duty rate wasn't high, but it had a broad base, and merchants were happy to pay it. It brought in a considerable amount each year.
At the thought, he couldn't help growing curious about Frederick.
After selling the salt and barrels, they went to sell the beans.
As they reached the edge of the city, Armand suddenly noticed a lot of children on the grass beside the city wall.
The youngest of them were just over three, and the oldest were nearly ten. Groups of a dozen or so sat in circles on the grass. Each group wore hats of a different color, and an adult was teaching them to recognize things, count, and sing nursery rhymes. The older children were also learning to read and do arithmetic.
Armand asked in surprise, "Whose children are they?"
The broker answered cheerfully, "They're local kids. My little rascal's there too. Look, the one in green, inside the white hat with the red trim."
Armand spotted the little one, who looked about five. He was putting his hands on his head with the other children to imitate rabbit ears, singing, "The little bunnies hop around the grass, their big ears swaying happily to the beat."
A faint smile appeared on his face. "That's rather amusing."
The broker said with a laugh, "A little while ago, Lord Basf opened a new workshop and needed workers, so he decided to hire some women."
"But a lot of the women had to stay home to look after their children. So Lord Basf came up with a solution: he had his fiancée set up this kindergarten, so the women could go out to work instead of staying home with the kids."
"Word got around in just a couple of days. My family talked it over and decided to send our child here, too."
"My wife's a seamstress. She didn't have much work at home while she was looking after the child. Now we pay the kindergarten to take care of the little one, and she can work at a tailor's shop. We'll have several more shiny silver coins a month."
"I drop the child off first thing in the morning, then head to the wharf. My wife picks the little one up after work in the evening, and she buys some Steam Bread on the way home. By the time I get back, the soup's ready and we can eat."
"See that construction site over there? That'll be the kindergarten building. For now, the kids have to make do in a big tent."
"My little rascal won't get to go to the new building, but I hear the Young Master plans to open quite a few schools over the next year or two. Children over six will learn to write, do arithmetic, and things like that."
"If they show promise, they can study magic at Weissenburg University. Those who can't get in can learn a trade at a guild school..."
Armand suddenly realized that beneath the broker's chatter lay a hint of pride and hope for the future.
It wasn't unfamiliar to him. Back when he used to drink with his classmates at military school, bragging and talking about the lives they'd lead, they'd been just as proud and hopeful about the future.
But they were all nobles. His father was the King's trusted minister, his godfather was the Marshal of Gaul, and the other students' families were just as rich and powerful. They all had bright futures ahead of them.
But what about this broker? For an ordinary man like him, with no strength, no wealth, and no status, what would a bright future look like? And what did he have to be proud of?
Armand couldn't understand.
The caravan carrying chickpeas soon arrived at a mill by the river. The broker went over to fetch the mill manager and negotiate with the owner. After inspecting the goods, they weighed them and signed the contract.
Another broker took the unloaded wagons away, and Armand and the others headed toward the nearby Yelena Trading Company.
Armand paid particular attention to the waterwheels along the way and noticed that they were turning remarkably fast.
It was nearly noon, and the weather was hot. Everyone had worked up a sweat.
"Yelena Trading Company" was its popular name. The sign above the entrance read "Yelena Sugar Refinery," and bore the emblem of a white rabbit.
The place looked rather makeshift. The buildings had only just been put up, and many more were still under construction.
It was bustling with activity. Wagons coming and going filled the road, and people had to direct traffic.
The building beside the entrance amazed Armand. The row of wooden houses had no walls facing the street. Behind them, by the river, stood several waterwheels. Inside, there were only pillars and lots of tables and chairs, with plenty of people eating and chatting. At the end nearest the sugar refinery was a counter, with steam rising behind it.
None of that was the main attraction. What really stood out was the fan driven by a waterwheel on the wall. It blew across a curtain of water, sending cool breezes through the summer heat.
After Armand and the others sat down, the broker called over a sales representative from the sugar refinery and ordered several servings of "Ice Crystal."
"What's this?" Armand asked, looking at the chilled, frosty dessert. He'd never seen anything like it.
After Frederick tried jelly, he'd gone on to make a chilled dessert from agar. Small pieces of agar mixed with frozen malt syrup had become Weissenburg's most popular summer treat.
The broker said, "It's so hot out. This Ice Crystal cools you down and quenches your thirst. It's something good the Young Master invented."
Armand pointed to the sugar refinery's sales representative sitting across from them and asked, "Then why doesn't he have any?"
The representative smiled and shook his head. "We have a rule against eating things offered by customers."
Armand nodded and scooped up a little with his spoon.
It was cold and sweet, with an unusual but pleasant texture. He'd never eaten anything so interesting, not even at the Royal Palace.
Before they'd finished the Ice Crystal, the deal to trade chickpea flour for Weissen Syrup had already been settled. They would collect the goods in three days.
The broker paid the fee and was just about to leave when Armand said, "I'd like to have a look at the steel this afternoon. Take me to see it."
"Of course!" The broker grinned from ear to ear. The steel business was a big deal, and the brokerage fee would be substantial.
He immediately went to fetch lunch for them, serving his customers the most expensive kind of salted, high-quality Steam Bread and pork knuckles stewed with sauerkraut. In front of himself, he set the cheapest bran-and-grain Steam Bread, with sauerkraut on the side.
The guests from the Kingdom of Gaul spent ten minutes or so examining the steamed buns before slicing them up and eating them as they would bread.
Armand glanced at the price list hanging on a pillar and couldn't help asking the broker, "You've made a decent amount today. Why are you still eating the cheapest kind?"
The broker replied with a smile, "My little rascal's teacher at the kindergarten says the kid's pretty bright. We've decided to save some money. If the child really does well, we'll send them to Weissenburg University. Tuition there isn't cheap."
Armand thought the man was efficient, capable, and talkative, so he decided to give him a hand. "When the time comes, you can come find me in Barris City. I think Baron Weissen will accept a letter of recommendation from me."
The broker was taken aback, then shook his head. "The Young Master said Weissenburg University doesn't care about recommendation letters or anything like that. They only look at exam scores."
Armand couldn't understand.
But he did understand one thing: why this man was so hopeful about the future.
Before you continue