Chapter 9: Forging the Engine of Empire
Chapter 9: Forging the Engine of Empire
281 AC, Month of the Mermaid
Profit was a catalyst. The four hundred golden dragons Alaric had earned from the "Miracle Vintage" were more than just coin; they were proof of concept, the seed from which an empire could grow. In the cutthroat ecosystem of Pentos, wealth was a form of armour, and Alaric intended to forge himself the finest suit imaginable. He spent the next several months not on another daring play, but on something far more important: building the machine.
He formally established his enterprise. He named it, with a touch of dry, Westerosi arrogance, "Blackwood Analytical Services." It had the sound of a dusty, scholarly guild, a name designed to be underestimated. He leased a larger, more secure warehouse in the merchant's district, officially for the storage of "research materials and trade goods." In reality, the ground floor was a legitimate, if small, trading depot managed by Nervo. The upper floors, however, were transformed into the nerve-centre of Alaric's burgeoning intelligence network.
Nervo, his loyalty now absolute after witnessing what he could only describe as his master's sorcery, was promoted from a simple factor to the chief administrator of BAS. His faded orange beard was re-dyed a vibrant, confident hue, and his frayed robes were replaced with the fine linen of a prosperous merchant. His transformation was a deliberate signal to the city's merchant class: Blackwood Analytical Services was a rising power.
"I am not a merchant, Nervo," Alaric explained one morning in his study, a spartan room furnished only with a large teakwood desk, two chairs, and a massive, detailed map of the known world on one wall. "Merchants buy and sell goods. We will buy and sell the most valuable commodity of all: certainty."
He outlined his business model. BAS would not, for now, own ships or large stockpiles of goods. It was too much capital, too much risk. Instead, they would leverage information. They would build a network of sources, analyze the data with a sophistication no one else could match, and create detailed projections—on crop yields, on the outcomes of trade disputes, on the movement of pirate fleets. They would sell these projections to smaller, independent merchants, taking a percentage of the resulting profits. The best, most certain opportunities, they would exploit themselves.
"We need more than just you and I," Alaric continued, his fingers steepled before him. "We need more eyes, more ears. And we need teeth."
This led to the next phase of recruitment. Nervo, using his newfound prestige, hired two junior factors from rival guilds, promising them wealth and opportunity. They were bright, ambitious young men whom Alaric vetted personally, not just for their skill with numbers, but for their discretion and their hidden dissatisfactions with their former masters. They would be his market analysts.
For his "ears," he turned to the city's invisible population. He had Nervo distribute coin to the urchins in the Ragman's Harbor, the dockworkers on the quays, the serving girls in the taverns frequented by sailors and sellswords. He didn't ask for specific information. He simply paid them to listen, to report any unusual ship movements, any strange cargo, any whispered rumour of war or plague. He was building a human sensor net, a web of low-level informants who, individually, knew nothing of value, but whose collective reports, when collated and analysed by Prometheus, painted a detailed picture of the city's secret life.
Finally, he needed "teeth." Pentos was a city of smiles and knives, and an enterprise that generated wealth without the protection of a powerful Magister or a private army was a ripe plum waiting to be plucked. He needed a chief of security.
He found him in a notorious sellsword tavern called The Thirsty Blade. The man was a Westerosi, a disgraced knight from the Stormlands named Ser Damon Flowers. He was a bastard, tall and broad-shouldered, with a broken nose and the weary, cynical eyes of a man who had seen the worst of the world. He had been exiled for wounding his lord's trueborn son in a tourney melee—an accident, he claimed, though no one believed him. He now led a small, hard-bitten company of twenty sellswords known as the "Stormcrows," a mercenary band with a reputation for being reliable, if expensive.
Alaric, again dressed as a simple clerk and flanked by two large hired guards, approached Ser Damon's table. "Ser Damon Flowers? I have a business proposition for you."
Damon looked up from his ale, his eyes appraising the boy before him. "I don't do business with children."
"I am not a child," Alaric said, his voice as cold and hard as iron. "I am an employer. I require the exclusive services of your company. You will act as the security force for my enterprise. You will guard my warehouse, my residence, and myself. You will be well-paid. Five hundred golden dragons a year for your company, and a personal retainer of one hundred for you."
The sellswords at Damon's table fell silent, their eyes widening at the sum. It was more than they could ever hope to make fighting in the Disputed Lands.
Damon's cynical expression didn't change. "That's a lord's ransom. What kind of 'enterprise' is worth that much protection?"
"A profitable one," Alaric replied. "And one that intends to remain profitable. I am not hiring you to fight wars. I am hiring you to be a deterrent. Your reputation for brutality will ensure that no one is foolish enough to mistake my organization for an easy target. You will be the wall behind which I build my empire."
He pushed a small, heavy purse across the table. "Fifty dragons. A sign of good faith. The first month's payment will be made when you and your men report for duty tomorrow at dawn."
Damon picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. He looked at Alaric, at the absolute, unnerving certainty in the boy's gaze. He had served arrogant lords and mad princes, but he had never met anyone like this. It was like talking to an ancient dragon that had taken the form of a child.
"What do they call you, boy?" Damon asked.
"My name is Alaric. And you will address me as Master Alaric."
Damon held his gaze for a long moment, then a slow, hard grin spread across his face. "As you say... Master Alaric. It seems the Stormcrows have found a new perch."
With his machine assembled, it was time for a larger test. The opportunity arose, as he knew it would, from the endless, simmering conflict between the Free Cities. Tyrosh and Myr were once again at each other's throats over a sliver of the Disputed Lands, their fleets clashing in the waters south of the Stepstones.
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A temporary blockade. That was all he needed.
"Nervo," he said, summoning his administrator. "We are going into the dye market."
He explained his plan. Tyrosh was the world's primary source of a unique, vibrant purple dye made from a rare species of sea snail. It was a luxury good, highly prized by the nobility of Westeros and the Magisters of the Free Cities. A blockade, even one lasting only a few weeks, would cause the price to skyrocket.
"We will use one-third of our capital," Alaric instructed, his voice low and intense. "You and your factors will quietly buy up all the existing stock of Tyroshi dye currently in Pentos. Store it in the new warehouse. Ser Damon's men will guard it. At the same time, I want you to short-sell futures on Lysene pleasure barges."
Nervo frowned. "Pleasure barges, master? What do they have to do with dye?"
"When the price of Tyroshi dye becomes prohibitive, the Magisters and other wealthy patrons will temporarily curtail their spending on other luxuries. They will cancel trips, postpone the commissioning of new pleasure craft. The market for Lysene barges will see a brief but sharp decline. We will profit from both the rise and the fall."
It was a complex, multi-layered play that required perfect timing and absolute secrecy. Nervo, his faith in his master now unshakeable, set to work. The Stormcrows, bored with guard duty, welcomed the sense of purpose. For a week, BAS was a whirlwind of quiet, intense activity.
Then, they waited. The tension in the warehouse was thick enough to taste. If Alaric's prediction was wrong, he would be ruined.
On the ninth day, a trading galley limped into port, its sails peppered with holes from crossbow bolts. The news spread through the city like fire: the Tyroshi fleet had engaged the Myrmen. The port of Tyrosh was sealed.
The dye market exploded. Merchants who had been selling the purple dye for ten silver stags a vial were now demanding fifty. Alaric waited three days, letting the panic peak, before he slowly began to sell his own stockpile, doubling his investment. At the same time, the market for Lysene luxury goods slumped, and his short positions paid off handsomely.
When the blockade was lifted two weeks later and the prices returned to normal, Blackwood Analytical Services was richer by two thousand golden dragons. Alaric had taken a significant risk and had been rewarded with a fortune.
His success did not go unnoticed. A few days later, a silk-draped litter, carried by eight massive, bronze-skinned slaves and guarded by soldiers in ornate silver armour, arrived at his warehouse. An emissary in the colours of Magister Presto—the man whose vineyard Alaric had saved—emerged and presented him with a perfumed scroll. Master Alaric was invited to dine with the Magister that evening.
The manse of Presto was a palace of pink marble and terracotta tile, its gardens filled with fountains that tinkled with scented water and trees heavy with strange, exotic fruits. Female slaves with eyes of startling violet served him wine in cups of chased silver, their collars a fine golden filigree. The decadence was breathtaking, a world away from the dour, practical austerity of a Westerosi keep.
Magister Presto was a fat, jovial man with a forked beard dyed a brilliant blue. He greeted Alaric with a wide, effusive smile, but his small, intelligent eyes were sharp and assessing.
"Master Alaric!" he boomed, embracing him in a cloud of perfume. "The miracle worker! The boy wonder! First you save my vintage, and now I hear you have conquered the dye market. You have the gift of Midas, it seems!"
They dined on roasted peacock, honey-spiced locusts, and fish baked in clay. The conversation was light, but beneath the pleasantries, it was a delicate dance of probe and parry.
"You must tell me your secret, my boy," Presto said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Some say you are a sorcerer. That you commune with spirits to predict the future."
Alaric took a slow sip of wine. "I am a scholar, Magister. I do not commune with spirits. I study patterns. The world is a great machine, full of intricate, interlocking gears. Most men only see their own small part of it. I have learned to see the entire mechanism."
"A fascinating philosophy," Presto mused. "And a profitable one, it seems. A man with your... foresight... could become very powerful in this city. But Pentos can also be a dangerous place for one who rises too quickly. You have wealth, but you have no powerful friends. No one to shield you from the envy of... less successful men."
Here it was. The offer.
"Perhaps I have not yet sought such friends," Alaric said carefully.
"Then allow me to be the first," Presto said with a broad smile. "I am a man of... simple tastes. I enjoy my wine, my gardens, my comforts. I have no ambition to be the Prince, a most unhealthy position. But I do wish to protect what I have. A partnership, perhaps. Your... insights... in exchange for my protection and my connections within the city. Together, we could both become much, much richer."
Alaric had his patron. A lesser Magister, to be sure, but one who was grateful, ambitious in his own way, and well-connected. It was the perfect alliance.
"I believe such a partnership could be mutually beneficial, Magister," Alaric agreed.
The deal was sealed over a final cup of wine. Alaric left the manse late that night, walking through the warm, perfumed air of the Pentoshi evening. He had his machine, he had his capital, and now he had his political shield. Phase two was proceeding ahead of schedule.
When he returned to his residence, Nervo was waiting for him, his face pale with excitement. "Master! A raven. From the Citadel."
Alaric took the small scroll. The seal was a simple blob of wax, unmarked. The handwriting was Pate's neat, careful script.
Master Alaric, the note began. I hope this finds you well. There is great news from Westeros, all the maesters are talking of it. Lord Whent is to host a Great Tourney at his castle of Harrenhal, to rival any held by the Kings themselves. The prizes are said to be magnificent. The King himself may attend. It is to be held this year. Everyone who is anyone will be there.
Alaric stood frozen in his study, the scroll clutched in his hand. Harrenhal.
Prometheus, silent until now, spoke in his mind, its voice cold and clear. <
He walked over to the great map on his wall. He looked at the familiar, sprawling shape of Westeros, a world away across the Narrow Sea. The game he was playing in Pentos, the accumulation of wealth and power, suddenly felt like a child's pastime. The real game, the Great Game, the one for kingdoms and thrones, was about to begin. He had thought he had years. Now, he knew he had months. The clock was ticking.