Slave Trade

Ron took the letter, read it carefully, then silently set it back on the table, his fingertips pressing lightly against the paper.

"The time and place are clearly written. I thought he was just a little rat, but there's more to this. I'm starting to regret not sparing his life back then."

He looked up at Erwin, a trace of gravity in his eyes. "Where did you find it?"

"The bandit leader's bedroom." Erwin adjusted his glasses.

"There was a hidden compartment beneath the desk. I pried it open and found these letters inside. There was also this."

He pulled a small leather pouch from his coat, its open mouth stuffed full.

Ron took it and pinched out a coin, flipping it over his knuckles. The gold coin spun into the air before he caught it, cool against his palm.

The front bore Nilfgaard's sun emblem. It was newly minted, as if it had just left the mint.

"Florin." Ron raised a brow.

"Several hundred of them," Erwin added, his low voice seemingly holding something back.

"Ha. A bandit den hiding so much Nilfgaardian currency? Don't tell me they saved it up themselves."

"Oh, right. I also searched the bandit leader's body. That dagger he carried was standard-issue Nilfgaardian military gear.

"The buckle on his belt was also the kind uniformly issued by the army. He wasn't a deserter at all. He was a black glove deliberately removed from military rolls to do dirty work for someone."

Ron tossed the coin back into the pouch with a soft clink.

"Is there anything in the letters that can identify the other party?"

Erwin shook his head.

"No. I examined every letter and item repeatedly. The writer was very cautious—no signature, no closing, and the meeting points for the various transactions were all different."

"Also, I studied the writing. The standard military correspondence format, sentence habits, choice of words, and his familiarity with the slave trade process.

"I suspect he's a Nilfgaardian military officer, and not a low-ranking one. But exactly who he is is hard to say."

Ron did not respond. After a brief silence, he asked something else.

"Why would the army get involved in selling slaves?"

Erwin seemed to have been waiting for that question. He cleared his throat, tucked the wooden board beneath his arm again, and freed both hands to gesture.

"Nilfgaard's fundamental purpose in waging war is different from the Northern Kingdoms' petty skirmishes. The North fights for plunder, territory, reparations, ransom. Once the fighting is over, that's it.

"Nilfgaardians wage war despite long supply lines and domestic opposition. They aren't here to take a stroll and leave.

"They want to completely occupy our land. Nilfgaard has a practiced and efficient process for war, one that turns land conquered by its army into imperial provinces, into colonies.

"War is also a business, and it requires enormous financial backing. Merchant guilds, trading companies, and great nobles are the investors.

"Land in occupied regions is sold cheaply to nobles, merchants, and trading companies. These people are both investors and the main force behind colonization. They build estates, develop mines, establish workshops, and create trade routes."

He raised one finger, thin and bony at the knuckle.

"All of that needs people. A great many people. Hire workers? Too expensive. Nilfgaard has clearly done the math: capturing people in the North and shipping them south costs only a third as much as hiring laborers. Throw them into the mines and work them to death. No wages, no compensation. When they're used up, capture another batch."

He raised another finger and pushed up his glasses.

"So the slave trade isn't some small side business for a few officers to make extra money. It's part of Nilfgaard's foreign wars, and frontline officers are the main force involved in it.

"But military discipline restrains them, and government orders keep pressure on them. They don't dare show their faces directly, so every war zone needs to keep a few deserters, bandits, and local toughs as their agents.

"They handle the capturing, transportation, and laundering of money, while the officers provide protection and equipment. The one we killed was Velen's black glove."

Erwin's voice dropped, so low it seemed forced from his chest, laden with resentment that had been bottled up for a long time.

"These Nilfgaardians always have 'civilized people' on their lips. The legitimate empire, the light of civilization—they always think Northerners are uncivilized savages.

"I don't think they're any better. They put on a veneer of civilization, come to other people's land to burn, murder, and plunder, seize civilians for the slave trade. Don't be fooled by their solemn act."

Ron did not answer. He merely nodded lightly, the movement barely noticeable.

Erwin drew a deep breath and brought his voice back to a normal tone.

"The immediate problem is that when the contact reaches the meeting place and finds no one waiting, he'll grow suspicious if enough time passes. He'll probably send someone to investigate. We have two options."

He raised one finger and held it in the air.

"Go to the meeting place and take them out. According to the letter, this handover isn't just about money.

"The ship coming for the meeting also brought a batch of equipment—longswords, shields, chainmail, all kinds of bows and crossbows. They're exactly what we lack most right now.

"Take them and use them for our own troops. Arm ourselves. The people behind this are constrained by military discipline, and they're engaged in something as shady as slave trading. They can't openly send regular troops to retaliate. A few private soldiers or bandits won't pose much of a threat to us."

His finger hung in the air for a moment before slowly lowering.

"The second option."

He did not continue.

Ron looked into his eyes. He did not urge him on. He simply watched him.

"Say it," Ron said.

Erwin was silent for a long while.

"If you don't want to go up against the Nilfgaardian military, I understand. Then we move. Take everyone and find somewhere else to settle."

After those words fell, the room went quiet.

From outside the window came Karl's distant commands as he drilled the recruits, mixed with the clanging of iron.

Ron stood.

The chair legs scraped across the floor with a brief rasp. He walked over to Erwin, placed a hand on his shoulder, and let it rest there on Erwin's frail frame.

Erwin's shoulder visibly sank, but this time, he did not dodge.

"How could that do?" Ron's voice carried a smile as the corner of his mouth lifted.

"They came all this way, bringing us equipment and money. If we don't show them some hospitality, wouldn't that be terribly rude?"

He turned toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped and glanced back over his shoulder.

"Erwin, you know the location from the letter. You'll lead the way."

"I'll gather the men."

His footsteps descended the stairs, one step at a time, growing fainter and farther away.

Erwin remained where he was. He pushed up his glasses, and the single lens slipped crookedly on his nose before settling straight again.

Then he lowered his head and looked at the pouch of Florins and the spread of open letters on the table.

He drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

"Savages," he muttered softly, as though speaking only to himself. "We're the savages."

He gathered up the letters, tucked them into the wooden board, then turned and hurried after him.