20demayo Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2)
Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2)
Chapter 437: Settling for a price(2)
Aron studied Varaku carefully before speaking, his tone still measured and professional.
"Are you fine with determining the price for every five people?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.
Varaku barely hesitated before giving a curt nod. The translator relayed his answer. "He has nothing against it."
Aron smiled faintly. "Good. Then let's start with your offer first." He gestured slightly with his hand. "Name your price."
This wasn't just about the current exchange—it was about gauging exactly how much Varaku valued his people in comparison to the goods. Future transactions would be shaped by this, and Aron needed to see where the chieftain would stand before making his own counteroffers.
Varaku took a breath, thinking for only a moment before speaking firmly.
"For every five people," the translator began, "We ask for three sacks of salt, two steel chain cloth, two hardened steel cloth, and two full sets of axes and swords."
Aron remained expressionless, though inwardly, he was already calculating. The request wasn't entirely unreasonable—most of it, in fact, was manageable. The salt, the chain cloth, even the weapons were all within the realm of fair trade. But the hardened iron cloth—the equivalent of a full breastplate—was a different matter entirely.
That was something far too valuable to be exchanged for mere settlers.
Alpheo's ability to equip 600 footmen with breastplates, in addition to the standard gear of a soldier—helmets lined with iron cloth, chainmail, cleaves, and knee cops—was nothing short of a financial marvel. Any other princedom would have easily collapsed under the economic strain, yet Alpheo had managed it through a carefully crafted trade agreement.
Every half-month, the Achea family, which were the one holding the regency of the empire, delivered ten full sets of breastplates and cleaves as part of their payment for the steady supply of cider, soap, and paper they purchased. It was an arrangement that ensured a constant flow of armor without draining Alpheo's coffers dry.
For Varaku to request two sets of hardened iron cloth in exchange for a handful of settlers? That was something Aron could never agree to.
The sheer cost of producing a breastplate was reason enough to reject Varaku's request outright. But beyond that, Aron would have been a fool to allow the tribesmen to equip themselves with armor on par with the White Army.
Alpheo was no fool. From the moment trade negotiations began, he had set strict boundaries on what could and could not be exchanged. And at the very top of that list were breastplates.
The reason was simple: no one could predict the future. Their current relationship with the tribes was favorable, but there was no guarantee it would remain so. If conflict ever arose, the last thing Alpheo wanted was for these warriors—who already outnumbered them—to be equipped in the same steel that made the White Army so formidable. Superior weapons were the one advantage they held, and Aron would not be the man to tip that balance.
The second forbidden item? Potatoes.
It was a deceptively simple crop, one that grew in almost any soil with little effort. And that was exactly the problem. If the tribes gained access to it, famine would cease to be a concern for them. Their fields would yield enough food to sustain them indefinitely, making them self-sufficient.
That was not in Alpheo's interest.
Right now, the tribes depended on trade to survive—especially for salt, which preserved their food through the harsh seasons. The moment they stopped needing it, the value of their dealings with the outsiders would plummet.
For trade to remain profitable, dependency had to be maintained.
So no, Aron would not be giving them breastplates. And he sure as hell wouldn't be giving them potatoes.
Aron exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he folded his arms across his chest. "A good quarter of the settlers are old," he stated plainly, his tone carrying the weight of irritation. "You basically dumped them on me. You expect me to pay the same for them as I would for able-bodied workers?" He scoffed before continuing, "As for the price, it's too high. What I will offer is two sacks of salt, one piece of chainmail, and a set of an axe and a sword."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto Varaku's. "And as for the ironed steel cloth that you and your son were gifted—forget it. Those are far too valuable to produce, let alone trade away."
Varaku's jaw tightened, his fingers tapping idly against his knee. After a moment, he let out a low, discontented grunt. "This is too little for my people," he said, his voice laced with dissatisfaction once the translator relayed his words.
Aron arched a brow, his expression unreadable. "You speak as if they are being sold into slavery," he said, his tone calm but firm. "They're not being shackled and sent to some distant land to be forgotten. They're going somewhere where they will work fertile fields, where they will no longer have to fear being displaced from their homes. Their lives will be better, and they will help sustain the rest of your people in return. I fail to see how you think you're being robbed."
Varaku clicked his tongue in irritation before muttering something under his breath. When the translator spoke again, his voice was measured. "Three sacks of salt, three chaincloth, two axes, and one sword."
Aron narrowed his eyes slightly. They were getting closer to a final price, but they still had some haggling left to do.
Aron sighed through his nose, glancing toward the tent's ceiling as if searching for patience before meeting Varaku's gaze again. "Fine," he said at last, his voice firm. "Three sacks of salt, two pieces of chainmail, and two sets of axes. No more."
He let the words settle, watching as Varaku's expression hardened. But before the chief could argue, Aron raised a hand. "Since this is our first exchange," he continued, "the most we can do is add 150 chain cloth as a gift. Consider it a goodwill gesture and a pre-payment for the dealings we will have in the future, as much as it is an investment considering they you shall be moving to war and we would not want our partners to lose it.."
Varaku remained silent for a moment, his fingers flexing slightly as he mulled over the offer.
He then exhaled heavily through his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly before he gave a firm nod. "Very well," he said, his voice resolute as the translator echoed his words. "After the war, we will make sure to take as many prisoners as we can. We will trade them with you."
Aron allowed himself a small smile, inclining his head. "We will be glad to accept them," he said smoothly. "You know where to find us."
Without further words, the two men clasped hands, gripping tightly—a firm, unspoken agreement sealed between them. As they released, Aron straightened. "I will depart alongside your people," he said, adjusting his coat. "My leader has recalled me."
Varaku frowned slightly at the translation, his brow furrowing. "And whom will we treat with after you are gone?" he asked.
Aron shook his head slightly, his expression calm. "Of course, a replacement will come. The dealings will continue as normal. There will be no disruptions."
Varaku studied him for a moment before grunting. "It has been a pleasure," he said, the words carrying the weight of a man who did not give compliments lightly.
"The pleasure is mutual," Aron replied with a respectful nod.
He turned to leave, but before he could step out of the tent, Varaku's voice stopped him. "When will you depart?"
Aron glanced back. "Tomorrow."
Varaku sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing toward his side. "Then send my son to me," he muttered, half to himself, half as an order.
Aron gave a final nod before stepping out, leaving Varaku to his thoughts.
Stepping outside the tent, Aron took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill his lungs. The scent of smoke, sweat, and damp earth clung to the camp, a reminder of just how long he had been stuck in this wretched place. His gaze swept over the crude wooden palisades, the uneven dirt paths, and the clusters of warriors and settlers moving about.
He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Finally.
The deal was done, and soon, he would be on a ship, leaving this shit-hole behind. No more sleeping in drafty tents, no more breathing in the stench of unwashed bodies, no more worrying about the savages changing opinion and attacking them for all they had. He could almost feel the warm water of a proper bath already, washing away the grime of this place.
A smirk played at the corner of his lips. One more day, he thought, stretching his arms before making his way through the camp. Then I can finally return to civilization.
Aron adjusted his coat and began walking through the camp, his boots kicking up dust as he moved past soldiers busy with their own affairs—some sharpening blades, others tossing dice, wagering away their pay.
Yet Aron's mind was elsewhere. He wasn't looking for them. He was looking for Torghan.
He knew very well that this was the last chance for father and son to speak before they parted ways. Whatever grievances, whatever unspoken words lingered between them, this would be the time to settle them. Once they left, there was no telling when—or if—they would meet again after all; once across the sea, Torghan was set for an independent and isolated life away from the rest of his family.
㚋䐲㔫䃝䁍䱂 㔫䘘䕻䨥䐲䨥䛰㼸㠱㫋 㼸䃝㜾㡮㜾 䨥䩻䐲䩻㠬䨥䐲䨥䨥䕻䐲㼸䨥䘘㫋䛰㠱㔫䁍 㚹㔫䁍㠱䃝㫋㔫㜾㘥 㠱䠦䐲㫋 䨥㔫䃝 䐲䱂䃝䨥䠦䃝䨥䩻㫋㔫㼸䁍䠦䘘㠱䨥㫋㼸㼸䠦 䁍䃝 䐲䵧䁍䘘㜾㔫㼸䨥㠱㘥㫋䠦䐲䠦 㚋㠱䐲㔫䨥㜾䩻䃝䃝㜾㺱㠬㜾㺷䐲㚋㺱䠦䨥 䨥㔫㠱 㔫䩻㺷㔫䨥 㠱㔫䨥㜾㜾䐲㺱㘥 䁍䘘㼸䁍䃝㫋㠱 䁍䠦㔫 㠱㺷㸬䱂䐲㼸䠦䱂㜾䘘㫋㫋㠱㫋䨥㡮㠱㼸㺱䃝䁍㠱㜾㠱㜾 䨥㔫 㜾㘥䁍䃝䃝㔫㺷㠱㔫㜾䘘㠱㠱㠱䨥㼸䁍㚹䃝䃝㠱㜾㜾䠦 䠦㫋䨥䠦 㼸䨥㔫㚹㜾䠦䃝㺷㼸 䠦䁍㔫 㘥㜾 㫋㘥䨥㚋䐲㠱㔫䨥䁍䨥䘘䲌㺱䠦㜾 䛰㺱䨥䐲䁍㠬㠱䐲㚹㔫䁍䩻 㜾㘥㠱䨥㔫 䨥䚉㫋㺱㜾㠱㜾㠱㠱㔫䁍 㔫䐲䨥䠦䠦㼸䐲䃝䨥㺷䁍㠱㼸 㫋䩻䨥㠱㜾䃝㼸㔫䘘䁍䩻䨥䨥䐲㼸㫋䠦 䨥㔫㠱㔫䨥 䨥䍔 䨥㺱㔫㫋㚹㼸䁍䃝㔫䠦 䃝䘘㜾䃝㼸㺱㔫㵏䠦㫋㡮 䛰㜾㺱㼸 㜾㼸䛰㚹䁍 㼸㜾㚹㡮䘘㚹㠱㔫䨥㫋䕻䨥㜾㫋㵏䨥䕻䐲䨥 㘥㚋㜾䐲䨥䕻䨥䐲㔫㠱䨥 㼸㡮㜾㚹 䠦䨥䃝㺷䁍㔫䠦 㜾㘥㼸䁍䘘㠬㼸䁍䠦㼸㜾㫋㠱㔫䨥䨥㔫㔫䐲䨥 㠱㜾 㜾㠱 㺷䛰㠱䠦 䨥㠱㠱㺱䨥䨥䃝䩻㼸㠱"䳵㜾㠱㜾㠱㺱䨥㠬䁍䃝㚹㺱㫋㺱 䃝䁍䨥㠱㔫 䃝㠱㫋㺱㺱 䁍䃝䨥㔫䃝䁍㫋䠦㚋