The Proposition
“But by selling your raw wool to the Simbelese brokers, you leave most of the profit laying on the table for the dyers and the weavers guild. What the Aggregate needs here is a complete vertical operation—sheep, dye manufacture, spinning combine, weaving, and manufacture and then our merchants and ships can clothe the peoples of the Long Sea and extract the entire profit from the end users. Isn’t it obvious and self-evident!?” exclaimed the skinny but royally clothed teen cripple in a final crescendo of logic.
The blank faces of most representatives of the Benthian Wool Aggregate said it all. Martyk, the oldest of the group and its unofficial leader, however, had heard enough. “But you know the dyes needed to compete in the market are to be found only in Simbelin, and that there is no more closely guarded secret in all of Simbelin than the formulas for those dyes. You could sooner access the maps of the many portals of Ranoc’s Tower than get your hands on the secrets of the Simbelese Dyers Guild. We are shepherds, not magicians, we know sheep and the shearing, not the ways of the vat, wheel, and loom. Look at yourself, young popinjay, in your fashionable court garb in the latest cuts and frills and colors, you would not be caught dead in the locally crafted dross available to those of lesser means, you are a walking advertisement for the Simbelese monopolists”. The leader of the Aggregate concluded his remarks and began to rise along with his more silent fellows from the plain wooden table in the backroom of the wool warehouse in the docks district of Larrae.
The teen smiled and seemed flattered by the compliments on his dress. “Martyk, you like?”, he asked, awkwardly twirling with his staff in hand to show off the long tails in back which fluttered behind as he spun. “That’s great—because I made these here in Larrae, with wool I purchased at this very warehouse, spun into yarn by my own hand, dyed in my own bathtub, and woven on the loom in my bedroom. I must confess, I had some help with the tailoring. This is merely a copy of a Simbelese original from the House of Dontre, purchased three weeks ago from Hillbottle Clothiers for nearly 200 crowns.“ Reaching into the well-worn Haversack on the table next to him, he pulled out the original outfit and held it up for inspection and comparison. “Can you tell the difference?”
Martyk and his grizzled fellows crowded around the youth, rubbing their fingers across the materials of both the original and the copy, pulling him closer to the small lone window to get a look at the colors in the natural light. “It’s good, Martyk”, said one member who sheep farmed 300 acres below the Castle of the Star in central Benth. “I can’t tell the difference in the feel—and I’ll swear the colors are BETTER in the copy—look at the sheen on that purple and the blood red on the sleeve”.
After everyone had gotten a feel and a look, and satisfied themselves that the copy was at least as high quality as the original, everyone returned to their seats. Martyk looked at the boy appraisingly, and said “My young prince, you are not the first to buy smuggled dye out of Simbelin, but unless you manage to get a wagonload, there is just no commercial application to this idea.”
“That is the beauty of my idea”, beamed the now smug looking Simon Bale. “I did not buy this dye—I MADE it!” And reaching into the bad, he pulled out a handful of small blocks of sharp color, each stamped with Simon’s personal seal of a stylized loom. “And I can make more.”
The group of rough shepherds exploded in talk all at once at that. “Young Simon”, warned the grizzled Martyk, “you have just made yourself some powerful enemies, Duke Melicter at the head of the list. You know he get a tithe of all profits from the whole of the Simbelese textile trade for his “protection”, not to mention the Hillbottles and the textile guilds of Simbelin.”
Simon sighed resignedly and said “that rival merchants would be offended is inevitable whenever a monopoly is threatened is inevitable. As for Duke Melicter…. I’m afraid that die was already cast four years ago and he was already no friend of me or mine. Perhaps in this way though I’ll acquire the means to…well..no matter, let’s talk terms!”
--by Kelly
The blank faces of most representatives of the Benthian Wool Aggregate said it all. Martyk, the oldest of the group and its unofficial leader, however, had heard enough. “But you know the dyes needed to compete in the market are to be found only in Simbelin, and that there is no more closely guarded secret in all of Simbelin than the formulas for those dyes. You could sooner access the maps of the many portals of Ranoc’s Tower than get your hands on the secrets of the Simbelese Dyers Guild. We are shepherds, not magicians, we know sheep and the shearing, not the ways of the vat, wheel, and loom. Look at yourself, young popinjay, in your fashionable court garb in the latest cuts and frills and colors, you would not be caught dead in the locally crafted dross available to those of lesser means, you are a walking advertisement for the Simbelese monopolists”. The leader of the Aggregate concluded his remarks and began to rise along with his more silent fellows from the plain wooden table in the backroom of the wool warehouse in the docks district of Larrae.
The teen smiled and seemed flattered by the compliments on his dress. “Martyk, you like?”, he asked, awkwardly twirling with his staff in hand to show off the long tails in back which fluttered behind as he spun. “That’s great—because I made these here in Larrae, with wool I purchased at this very warehouse, spun into yarn by my own hand, dyed in my own bathtub, and woven on the loom in my bedroom. I must confess, I had some help with the tailoring. This is merely a copy of a Simbelese original from the House of Dontre, purchased three weeks ago from Hillbottle Clothiers for nearly 200 crowns.“ Reaching into the well-worn Haversack on the table next to him, he pulled out the original outfit and held it up for inspection and comparison. “Can you tell the difference?”
Martyk and his grizzled fellows crowded around the youth, rubbing their fingers across the materials of both the original and the copy, pulling him closer to the small lone window to get a look at the colors in the natural light. “It’s good, Martyk”, said one member who sheep farmed 300 acres below the Castle of the Star in central Benth. “I can’t tell the difference in the feel—and I’ll swear the colors are BETTER in the copy—look at the sheen on that purple and the blood red on the sleeve”.
After everyone had gotten a feel and a look, and satisfied themselves that the copy was at least as high quality as the original, everyone returned to their seats. Martyk looked at the boy appraisingly, and said “My young prince, you are not the first to buy smuggled dye out of Simbelin, but unless you manage to get a wagonload, there is just no commercial application to this idea.”
“That is the beauty of my idea”, beamed the now smug looking Simon Bale. “I did not buy this dye—I MADE it!” And reaching into the bad, he pulled out a handful of small blocks of sharp color, each stamped with Simon’s personal seal of a stylized loom. “And I can make more.”
The group of rough shepherds exploded in talk all at once at that. “Young Simon”, warned the grizzled Martyk, “you have just made yourself some powerful enemies, Duke Melicter at the head of the list. You know he get a tithe of all profits from the whole of the Simbelese textile trade for his “protection”, not to mention the Hillbottles and the textile guilds of Simbelin.”
Simon sighed resignedly and said “that rival merchants would be offended is inevitable whenever a monopoly is threatened is inevitable. As for Duke Melicter…. I’m afraid that die was already cast four years ago and he was already no friend of me or mine. Perhaps in this way though I’ll acquire the means to…well..no matter, let’s talk terms!”
--by Kelly
posted by Abram | 5:57 PM
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