Chapter 3 - Getting the Band Back Together
“Here, look at this, Silas. What do you make of all that?”
Silas looked up to see what Marna was pointing to. They were walking down Potter's Row, one of the many small streets that honeycombed the craftsman's quarter. Near a squat kiln, a few open crates were stuffed with clay jars, plates, bowls and other vessels; all nestled in beds of straw. Several stacks of sealed crates were piled up nearby, and looked as though they had been sitting for a while.
“I'd say Josh the Potter has goods that needed to be shipped yesterday.”
Marna nodded. “I'd say the same. Shall we?”
The pair crossed the small dooryard and went into the shop. Josh was an old client of theirs, and a good one. He regularly needed his goods sent out to various inns, taverns and public houses around the County, and was known for good quality earthenware at reasonable prices. But in the weeks following Silas and Clyde's disaster on the road, Josh was just one of many old customers that had fallen abruptly and stonily quiet. Silas and Marna had been making the rounds and trying to drum up business, but... Well, things weren't looking good.
The shop was brightly lit, with the rear sliding doors thrown open to admit plenty of sunlight and air. Shelves were stacked with more examples of the potter's trade, and the man himself was sitting down at his wheel, throwing what might have been an urn, or a vase, or . . . something. Silas didn't really spend much time learning the finer points of vessel trivia. Josh looked up with a smile when he heard their footsteps enter the shop, but it faded a bit when he recognized the couple.
“Silas! Marna! Haven't seen you in a dog's age!” Josh stood up, wiping his hands on his apron. “Need some new dishes? Got a great set of bowls with a new style of glaze just come out the kiln yesterday that you might like the look of.”
“Josh, wonderful to see you,” Marna beamed, striding forward to shake his hand. “Silas and I were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by to see how business is doing.”
Josh reached out to shake Silas' hand as well; a worried look on his face. Silas kept his peace – Marna knew people, Silas knew numbers. And the numbers in this shop did not look promising; not if all the stock sitting out in crates and stacked up on the shelves was any indication.
“Well, it's a slow time of year, Marna. You know how it goes, there's those months where I swear nobody breaks a plate in all of Arthos.”
“Mm, I can't imagine. We were worried when we hadn't gotten any orders for your tavern shipments, at least. Can't imagine they could go a day without losing a batch of mugs, let alone a month.”
Josh grimaced, and looked down at his feet. “Aye . . . you're not far wrong there. Look, let me get you both some tea, and I'll explain what I can.”
Silas and Marna exchanged a look – this was new. They leaned against the counter while Josh bustled about the shop's small fireplace, pouring water from a kettle into a set of simple clay cups. Fragrant steam wafted up as he set the tray down on the counter, along with a small bowl of sugar.
“Thank you, Josh,” said Marna as she picked up a cup. “Now do tell. We're all ears.”
“Truth of the matter is . . . Ah, damn it all. You know I always respected both of you, and Clyde too. You never done me wrong, none of the Richforts. But I got to be able to do business in this town, and you know what that means. More to the point, *who* that means.”
“Frekkeson,” Silas growled.
Josh cocked a finger at Silas. “Got it in one. And Frekkeson's got the contract for my shipments as of about a month ago. So whether I like it or not, I just don't have any business for you.”
Marna set down her cup of tea with a sigh.“Josh, how long have we known each other? Ten, fifteen years?”
Silas picked up his cup and pretended to sip at it. He was too nervous to enjoy the tea anyway, but he needed something to do with his hands beside wring them or wrap them around Josh the Potter's throat. Not that it was really Josh's fault, dammit.
“It's not about that, Marna. I just... I can't give you any work. Not now, not tomorrow, not next week.”
Marna, usually the unflappable one, threw her hands up in frustration. “What the hell, Josh? You've got shipments stacking up to the roof, and you're turning us away? What has that bastard done to you?”
“More than my shop is worth to cross that man, Marna.” Josh rose to his feet, and Marna and Silas followed suit. “I'm really sorry, both of you. But I have to ask you to leave.”
Silas clenched his teeth and turned to go. “We're used to it. Thanks for the tea.” He took Marna's hand in his, and they left the shop together.
“Fucking son of a WHORE!”
Silas winced as Marna launched into a new rant on Frekkeson's ancestors, sexual habits, barnyard escapades, and the Qin only knew what else. Clyde often claimed that he'd learned most of his dockside vocabulary by sitting outside whenever Silas and Marna fought, and Silas didn't doubt it for a second. If words could kill and the son of a bitch had been in the room, Glen would have been a greasy smear on the floor.
The couple had been going over the accounts all afternoon. The table was a mess; with slates, books and scrolls scattered everywhere. The scene at Josh the Potter's shop had been one of their last hopes, and the situation was looking grim. Richfort Traders had been a successful company under their father, Darius Richfort, and things had continued to be good under the brothers up until the incident a month ago. Silas had managed to buy back a wagon and team, and food was still on the table most nights, but not a solitary contract had come in. The coffers were draining rapidly, and all three of them knew that hard times were about to get far harder if things didn't change.
A key rattled in the front door, and Marna halted mid-tirade as Clyde shouldered the door open with a broad grin on his face.
“Marna, if my little brother hadn't snapped you up, I'd marry you today. I don't know any woman who's ever called someone a 'shit-eating mule fucker' before, and it just melts my heart.”
Marna rolled her eyes. “You're incorrigible, Clyde.”
“Nah, we're in Chernsburg,” he said with a wink. “Never heard of Corrigible, they got any work there for us?”
“So, Clyde!” Silas broke in with false cheer, as Marna's eyes narrowed alarmingly. “What news from the town?”
“Glad you asked, little brother!” Clyde pushed past the couple toward the kitchen, clearly immune to the death glare being administered by Marna. “Might have a few folks that are in the same boat as us. Seems Frekkeson's been pushing a lot of folks out of work, and some of the tradesmen are beginning to set up a bit of a stink about it. Aha!” He pulled down a tankard and bent to fill it from the barrel of ale in the corner. After a few seconds of fidgeting with the tap, he turned around with a frown.
“Empty for a week now, dear brother. Can't afford to get it refilled.” Silas smirked. “There's water in the cistern.”
Clyde's lip curled and he put the tankard back on the shelf. “Trying to poison me, eh? No thanks.” He pulled his ever-reliable flask out of his hip pocket and took a swig. “Ah, much better.”
Marna tapped her foot. “So, folks in the same boat? Care to elaborate?”
“Right you are, Marna. So these other traders are out there, you know the gents. Robertson, DeLeon, Bray, some others. Talked to all of ‘em here and there over the past day or so, and they all tell the same story. Frekkeson's forcing out anyone who won't carry only his contracts and pay his royalties. And anybody who tries to strike out on their own gets a cold shoulder from clients, or a few lads rearranging his face in a dark alley somewhere.”
“So?” asked Silas dryly. “The man's got this town in an iron grip. Inkcharm's a pragmatist, he isn't going to do anything to get rid of the one guy in town who manages the bulk of all of the commerce. Frekkeson can blacklist anyone he likes, as long as the money keeps flowing up to the Count.”
“Ah, but there's the rub, Silas. Money *isn't* flowing; at least not like it used to. Dunno who's generating all of Glen's profits these days, but a lot of the local economy is starting to go to shit. Even Grand Forge is having trouble getting their goods out to market.”
Silas was stunned. The Grand Forge? If there were a more powerful guild in the County, Silas would eat his hat. There wasn't much in life that didn't bear the stamp of the Grand Forge in some shape or form – their smiths were well-known for their craftsmanship, and recently other professions had begun to ply their trade under the Grand Forge roof. Weavers, carpenters, jewelers; the list grew every year. And if they were having trouble getting their product out . . .
“Clyde, who's the man in charge of Grand Forge these days?”
“Man? Hah!” Clyde slapped the table, sending several pages flying. “Shows what you know, little brother. The Grand Master these days is none other than Catherine Armstrong. Cat to her friends. And she didn't get the surname by being a wilting violet, neither.”
Marna nodded. “I know Cat, sure. But Grand Forge is massive. They need more than just a company with two nags and a beaten old wagon. Not to mention the deposits they charge in order to take a shipment – we can't afford to take a contract even if we had the equipment to move that kind of cargo.”
“Wagons and money...” Silas mused, as he looked at Clyde. “Seems to me that you wouldn't still be grinning like an idiot if you didn't have something in mind.”
“Not bad, Silas. Knew you could tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind is southerly. Now, it just so happens that some of our comrades in the trade business who are also out of work are meeting at the local watering hole in about an hour. Seems that they want to talk to you about an excess of wagons and some spare coinage in their companies. They want back in business, and they are fed up with Frekkeson telling them what they can and can't do in this town. Care for a drink, my fellow Richforts?”
Silas felt the first real smile in weeks stretch across his face, and turned to see its twin on Marna's. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to his side, winking at Clyde. “Why not. We're getting sick of water, anyway.”
Several hours later, the debate was winding down to an end. The Richforts, along with representatives from several other local trading companies were upstairs in a private room at the Crown and Stag. Discussions had been lively, and a handful of people had left in less than good humor.
A piece of parchment lay in the center of the table, it's lower half covered in the various seals and signatures of the remaining party. The top half was filled in with Silas' neat copperplate script, and it outlined the basic framework of a new trade guild. In simple terms, all of the members contributed something to the guild, whether it was horses, wagons, funds, or manpower. In return, the guild would be able to compete for larger contracts, and the members would get a cut of the profits. Nobody was completely happy with it, but it beat the hell out of starving. Every member could cast a vote in decisions, but as the founding company of the guild, Richfort Traders was given the chairmanship and could make a final decision in the case of a tie.
Silas was tired, but happy. As he looked around the room, he saw similar expressions on the faces of all the other men, and Marna as well. Word had been sent to Grand Forge, and the guild's first contract was due to start on the morrow. No one knew how Frekkeson would react, but the general consensus was “the hell with that fat bastard”.
Clyde rose unsteadily to his feet, tankard raised high. “Gennelmen! And Marna, o' course. We may not be out of the woods yet, but we're a damned sight closer than we were this morning, 'm I right?” A cheer went up around the table. “Damn right! Let's hear it then! To money! To trade! To the guild!”
Twelve hands hoisted up mugs and glasses, and their cheer shook the ceiling of the common room downstairs:
“To the Richfort Trade Alliance!”
