Count Mereloff glared down at the table, his brow furrowed in displeasure. A small, worn pouch lay open, revealing the plump Gula seeds within. Barely fifty of the things, all told.
"Fifteen gold coins for these?" he muttered, his voice laced with disbelief.
The Count's mind, ever a ledger, began to tally the cost. Was it worth it?
Clark, like Rien, had been bought from a slave caravan passing through his lands. Strong, young slaves were a precious find, and he'd paid a hefty fifteen gold for the man.
Slaves depreciated over time; the Gula, however, was a long-term investment, and a far better one at that. Especially with famine on the horizon.
"They claimed they wouldn't sell for less than fifty coins a bag. But, citing humanitarian concerns" — the steward's voice dripped with sarcasm — "they offered us this pittance to, shall we say, tide us over."
"Preposterous."