The sea wind carried a damp, briny tang as it battered the gravel beaches of northern Golden Thread Province.
Several gray-backed gulls circled the mastheads, letting out shrill cries.
"Urgh-"
Hans braced himself against a barnacle-covered piling on the pier and vomited the last of his stomach acid into the sea. His face was waxen, his legs as heavy as lead, but his right hand tightly guarded the oilcloth bundle against his chest.
Inside were the "operating manual" and the protective charm Miri had given him.
The docks bustled with voices.
Over a thousand "consultants" from Minas Tirith were lining up to disembark. Every face wore the same sickly pallor as his, yet a fire called ambition burned in their eyes.
Crates filled the freight yard in the distance, and a burly figure stood atop the tallest stack.
Golden Whistle brandished a battleaxe, surrounded below by well-dressed country gentlemen, knights, and owners of small and medium-sized ranches.
"...Did you think this stuff just fell out of the sky?"
Golden Whistle's booming voice drowned out the waves, spittle flying everywhere. "To secure this shipment of 'miracle medicine' and technicians for you, I smashed two of the Count's desks! I told Lord Veylin that Golden Thread Province's sheep needed to produce more, and its men couldn't be allowed to starve! That's how I wrestled these treasures back for you!"
"Wise indeed, my lord Baron!"
"Long live the Highland Family!"
The ranchers below flushed with excitement and doffed their hats in salute. They knew nothing of the truth, only that their lord had dared pound the table before the coldhearted "White Tower Count" for their sake.
Hans wiped the grime from the corner of his mouth. Listening to those words, he felt no urge to laugh.
Important men had their ways of surviving,