A Grand Cooperation

Cassius looked down at him. "Never again." "Envoy of the Church of Waukeen, remember this: put away those petty tricks of yours. I am not one of those gullible human lords." "Yes... Your Majesty," Sherwin replied, still visibly ill at ease. And so, Cassius effortlessly seized control of the conversation, setting the course for the partnership's future. "The Empire has already drafted a comprehensive proposal, sufficient to secure a win-win outcome for both parties," Cassius said. However, he had already lost interest in this envoy from the Church of Waukeen and was growing rather impatient—greedy merchants were truly tedious to the extreme. With that, the red dragon reclined lazily back upon the Iron Throne and shot a glance at Trump, who stood waiting at his side. Trump caught the cue at once. Reaching into his robes, he produced a thick stack of project proposals along with a parchment contract. "The Empire and the Church of Waukeen shall cooperate on the basis of equality and goodwill, adhering to commercial principles of good faith, mutual benefit, and common development..." Sherwin pricked up his ears and listened for a long while. It was nothing but empty platitudes—enough to bore him to tears—yet beneath the grandiloquent rhetoric, he finally picked out the crucial points. "The Empire possesses a massive volume of goods ready for dumping, while the Church of Waukeen maintains temples spanning the entire Feanso Continent. Both parties complement each other's strengths, sharing a solid foundation for cooperation and common interests..." "The Empire shall partner with the Church of Waukeen to establish the 'Imperial South Continent Company.' The Cinder Empire will supply the merchandise, while the Church of Waukeen provides distribution channels and trade hubs..." "In this venture, the Church of Waukeen shall receive a percentage of the commission, while the Empire must retain dominant control." Sherwin frowned slightly and could not help asking, "A joint trading company? You wish to sell your goods to the south?" "Indeed," Trump replied with a nod. Even so, Trump could already read the skepticism in Sherwin's eyes, kept in check only by the presence of the red dragon. Sherwin's doubts were certainly understandable—the Great Anzetta Waste was remote and desolate, long barren of magical advancement, whereas the south was rich, vibrant, and far more prosperous. How could goods from Anzeta ever sell in the south? Trump tapped his staff lightly against the floor. Amid a ripple of distorted space, he pulled an item from the void. Sherwin adjusted his spectacles and finally got a clear look. It was a woolen sweater—bearing no trace of enchantment, merely a garment woven from ordinary wool yarn, its craftsmanship not even particularly fine. *These Anzeta barbarians haven't seen anything of the world... Do they really treasure something like this as a masterpiece?* The Waukeenar devotee thought with utter disdain, though out of wariness toward the red dragon, he buried that instinctive scorn deep within his heart. Trump smiled and said, "Take a guess—how much does it cost?" "Twenty silver coins?" Sherwin replied offhandedly. As a follower of Waukeen, Sherwin knew the prices of various commodities like the back of his hand, confident he could not be mistaken. Yet Trump merely shook his head. "Fifteen silver coins?" "Ten silver coins?" Sherwin finally cast aside his inner contempt, his eyes widening in disbelief. Ten silver coins was already the wholesale price in the famous textile metropolises of the south. Nowhere across the Feanso Continent could one find a lower rate; any cheaper, and it would be sold at a loss. Trump merely raised five thick fingers and wagged them in the air. "Th-that's impossible!" Sherwin could not help crying out. Trump said calmly, "Nothing is impossible. The Empire's price for this woolen sweater is five silver coins—with room for further reductions." "Furthermore, with the Empire's current capacity, assuming raw materials remain plentiful, we can produce seven million such sweaters in a single year. And once industrial construction across the territories is complete, that figure is projected to multiply tenfold at least." "H-how did you accomplish this?" Sherwin asked, stunned. He knew full well that in the production of such sweaters, the most vital factor was not the wool, but the skilled artisans who earned their living spinning and weaving it. Yet the Empire's prices were dirt cheap, and their output so staggering. He racked his brains and still could not fathom how it was done. Magic? Impossible. The cost of magic was vastly higher than hiring artisans. Even though magic flourished in the south and people had long grown accustomed to it, it was still far from being applied to serve the common populace. Yet even the most skilled artisan could knit at most three or four sweaters a day. Could the Cinder Empire have captured hundreds of thousands of craftsmen and forced them to toil day and night without rest? The notion crept into Sherwin's mind, absurd even to himself. Trump tossed the sweater casually onto the floor and said in a steady tone, "You do not need to know how the Empire does it." "All you need to do is assist us in selling these goods and take your share of the profits. For your Church of Waukeen, nothing could be simpler. That is your line of work, after all, isn't it?" "O-of course." A greedy glint flared in Sherwin's eyes, as if he were beholding a mountain of gold. The profits at stake were astronomical. If the Cinder Empire's goods were truly this cheap, shipping them to the south would trigger an absolute buying frenzy. And if the Empire's production capacity could truly reach such terrifying volumes, as Trump claimed, their sweaters flooding the market would inevitably bankrupt the wool workshops across the continent. Yet at the same time, this trade would generate millions of gold coins in profit each year. With so much gold, even the scrapings that slipped through the cracks would be enough to line his pockets to bursting. "Who is your supreme authority?" Trump's voice cut through Sherwin's gold-drenched reverie. "Th-that would be me, my lord," Sherwin replied, his voice trembling with sheer excitement. Trump waved a hand in disdain. "I mean the leader of your entire Church of Waukeen, not of this delegation. Someone like you... is not qualified to sign a contract with me or decide the direction of our future partnership." "Reporting to you, my lord, it is Holycoin Tiona Ludwig." Only then did Sherwin sober up, realizing he was merely an envoy and possessed no authority to decide a matter of such magnitude. He had not yet been completely blinded by gold. The faith of Waukeen across the entire Feanso Continent was a unified system, presided over by an archbishop bearing the title of Holycoin. The current Holycoin and mortal voice of the goddess, Tiona Ludwig, tended to the faith from the Golden Tower—a colossal cathedral overlooking the Free Trade Federation. A confident grin spread across Trump's hideous face. "Very well. Go back and tell her that there is a commercial venture worth tens of millions of gold coins right here. Ask her... if she wants to sign." "Yes, my lord." Suppressing his surging excitement, Sherwin bowed with the utmost deference. Such was the allure of gold. A partnership—both magnificent and notorious—was about to begin. It would bring the splendor of free trade, and with it, the bankruptcy of countless souls. *** After the delegation from the Church of Waukeen hurried away, another brief conversation took place within the empty palace. "Trump, you understand what I require, don't you?" "Naturally, Master. These mercenary Waukeenar can never be trusted; their greed can never be sated." "We merely need their influence in the south..." "Once the company has established a firm foothold there, we will cast them aside and replace all the personnel with our own." "Very good. You understand completely." Even as the ogre denounced the hateful greed of the Church of Waukeen, he remained completely oblivious to the fact that he was the greediest and stingiest of them all—unwilling to share even a single drop of broth with an outsider.