E08 - Ch 38: A Law of Nature

Though it was morning, the shop was darkly lit. The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of cedar and cotton. The first thing I noticed was the loom that dominated half the room. The shelves along the walls were packed tight with neatly stacked bed sheets, pillowcases, thick tablecloths, curtains, and even a handful of plain tunics.

From the back of the shop, a curtain rustled, and a man emerged. His hair was a dusty gray, clipped short, and his shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, exposing surprisingly muscled forearms.

“Good morning, lad,” he said. “Looking for a new shirt?”

I looked down and grinned. My tunic was tightly bound around my body and was stretching at the seams. Sweat and sunlight were always shrinking my shirts. That and my growth.

“You’ve got a point there, sir.” I stepped forward to the counter and held out my hand. “I’m Aelric, a flour merchant.”

The man blinked, momentarily surprised by the direct introduction. But he clasped my hand quickly and firmly.

“Brenn. Weaver, and at your disposal.”

“Thank you, Brenn, I appreciate that,” I said with a nod. “I was hoping to purchase some cloth bags, but perhaps I’d better take a tunic too if you have one in my size.”

The man chuckled, making visible the laugh lines around his eyes. “Of course. I have one that’ll do the job, but first the bags. What size are you looking for?”

“Small. For market shopping.”

He nodded and came around the counter, guiding me toward a shelf where stacks of linen bags sat neatly folded. A small wooden plaque above them read: 40 arcas each.

“How many bags do you have here?” I asked, picking up one and feeling the weight and tight weave of the fabric. It was sturdy, well-crafted, and simple. Perfect for what I had in mind.

“Oh, many. Ten at least,” he said as he flipped through the pile. “But more in my storage. These sell well.”

“These are very fine,” I said with a nod, turning one over to inspect the seams. “How long does it take you to weave one?”

“An hour or so, with some spellcraft,” he said, giving a small shrug as if it was nothing.

“If I buy all ten bags here, would you be willing to sell them to me at twenty arcas each?”

The weaver chuckled again and shook his head. At least he didn’t seem offended by my offer.

“Can’t do that, lad. But let me give you a deal. The best I can do is 30 arcas a bag if you buy ten.”

I scratched my chin thoughtfully, not willing to give up just yet. "How many bags would I have to buy for you to sell them at twenty arcas each?”

He chuckled again softly at my persistence. "I wouldn't sell them for twenty arcas no matter how many you bought," he replied evenly. "I've put too much work into these bags for it to be selling them that cheap."

What he said there was very important, and I’d heard it. My offer wasn’t below his cost. It was that he’d feel he hadn’t earned enough for his labor. Given that, my gut feeling was his cost was 10 arcas, not accounting for time. But what I’d gathered about this world was that time could, in fact, be cut short as long as you had access to arcana to let your spells do more of the work.

"Alright then," I said after a moment's thought. "How about this: I'll buy twenty bags at twenty-three arcas each." With that said, I reached into my pocket, touching my full chit, and with my other hand, I pressed out four hundred and sixty arcas onto the pay tab—setting them down on the counter with an audible tap. “I’d buy that tunic too, but this is all the money I have in the world aside from what I’ve got to pay for the market fee today.”

Brenn was shaking his head, but this time his chuckle was weaker, and his eyes lingered on the sizable chit I’d laid down. “Twenty-seven. That’s the lowest I can go for twenty bags.”

I chuckled now. “Brenn, my offer is everything that I have. I won’t tell anyone what price I bought these bags at. But I can’t pay you more than I’ve got. Let me say this: the deal comes with the added benefit of earning yourself a lifelong customer with plenty of future cloth purchases to make.”

“For 460 arcas, I’ll give you eighteen bags. That’s the best I can do.”

I shook my head. “I prefer the even number. Twenty. It’s got that fine ring to it, doesn’t it? I really would prefer twenty for four hundred, but you’ve talked me into giving you my lunch fare for the next week. How can I take less for all of that?”

For several long moments, Brenn studied me silently as if weighing his options, a battle playing out behind those sharp eyes. Finally, he let out an exasperated sigh followed by another chuckle.

“You know how to drive a bargain, lad,” he said, and his hand was stretched out and open.

***

“Steward Oryan and Kit! Good morning to you both!”

I hopped down from my wagon with a burst of energy and strode forward with my hand already outstretched, clasping theirs vigorously in turn.

“Excellent to see your friendly faces after a long morning ride. How are you two doing today?”

Kit smiled at me. “I am well, sir, and—”

He stopped short at the sharp sidelong glance from Oryan for speaking out of turn.

“The market is doing well,” Oryan replied, tone clipped and formal.

“Of course it is,” I said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder with a grin. “I’ve got to commend you, Oryan. I had an excellent time yesterday. Everything was so orderly—no pushing and shoving like you see at some other markets.”

Oryan gave a dignified sniff. “We wouldn’t allow any of that here. You sell at other markets?”

I smiled, the image of Black Friday sales crowds flashing briefly through my mind. “Ah, not in Greytown. I only intend to sell here, especially after the day I had.”

I reached into the basket beside the wagon seat and lifted a small wrapped parcel.

“By the way, did you enjoy Nymet’s Honey Cake last time? I’ve got some more if you’d like some.”

“Ah yes, it was quite good,” Oryan admitted, eyes immediately drawn to the leaf-wrapped treat. “Who is Nymet?”

“My master baker, of course.” I handed him the package, which he took without hesitation. “I don’t have the setup to sell it just yet, but I hope to bring these cakes as a product to your market soon.”

He nodded, already unwrapping the leaf and taking a bite. I couldn’t blame him. Those things were addictive. I had to stop myself from tasting too many of the samples on the ride over.

“A full day today, I presume?” he asked, chewing.

“That’s right,” I said, placing the market fee on the pay tab. “I got up bright and early to make it here. Can’t wait to get going.”

Oryan gave a curt nod and turned to Kit. “Any stall on the main line not taken is fine.”

I waved them off and followed Kit with my wagon, the wheels creaking as we moved along. He led me to a stall even better positioned than yesterday’s. It was close to the main thoroughfare and shaded by a row of colorful tarps. I thanked him warmly and passed him a wrapped honey cake.

He accepted with the brightest smile I’d seen yet on the kid, and I guessed it was rare for him to get freebies from the market sellers. I grinned back at him and told him I’d bring more next time. Good, earnest kid that one.

Then I began unloading. I carried each bag of flour off the wagon and arranged the samples with care. Once everything was laid out, I wiped down the chalkboard signs and wrote the new prices:

“Hand-Harvested Flour: 20 arcas.”

“Hearty Coarse Flour: 18 arcas per litra. Buy 5 litras for 60 arcas!”

I had raised the prices of my coarse flour slightly to make the bulk deal more attractive, but they were still within the range of what others were selling in the market.

I knew I could have offered my flour at even cheaper prices because I wasn’t a trader who’d bought the wheat from farmers. I owned the wheat myself, and my profit as a farmer was baked into the wheat’s base price. But I needed to see if I could sell the way a merchant would and be successful at it.

The problem was selling flour at 16 to 18 arcas was just too time-consuming. That’s why my deal offered the flour at cheaper prices but in bulk.

The old village barter before Trader Lorek had come in and ruined everything was 6 arcas per litra of harvest. But to be safe, I put the cost at 7 arcas. Then, with a 20% cost for milling for coarse flour, it brought the price to 8.6 arcas. That was the base cost of the coarse flour, not including my time and effort spent transporting the wheat. So, that way, even at an average price of 12 arcas a litra, I was making an okay margin if I were a merchant who had to buy the flour from the farmers.

Next was my fine flour, which followed the same concept.

"Fine-Fine Flour: 30 arcas per litra. Buy 5 litras for 90 arcas!"

Fine flour had about a 40% milling cost, which brought it to a cost of 10 arcas per litra of flour. Even selling the fine flour at 18 arcas per litra on average, I was still making a huge profit, which was expected. Better margins are typical for a more luxurious product given the lower demand.

My total flour cost for the coarse flour was 43 arcas, which meant I’d make a 17 arca profit for the bulk deal. For the fine flour deal, the profit was 40 arcas, but I knew fewer people would take that deal.

Then I took up the final signboard for the linen bags. I’d bought the bags to make sure people could take advantage of the deal and avoid any chance of losing customers because they hadn’t brought enough bags.

At first, I considered selling the bags at cost or even at a small loss to encourage people, but then true inspiration hit me right in the noggin, and a big stupid grin as wide as the Mississippi spread over my face.

I took up my chalk and wrote the final deal on the signboard.

"Linen bag: 50 arcas per bag. Limited Amount."

"Special Offer: Buy both flour deals and get a free bag!"

I stepped back and admired my handiwork. It was a beautiful deal. Many customers would already be happy to get a bulk discount, but now they could easily take another fifty arcas off their payment.

Will this work?

I was surprised by the voice. Since I’d climbed the world tree, I hadn’t felt the boy speak to me. It seemed we had become far more aligned, although he still had his doubts.

Yeah, it’ll work, I thought, because there’s a law of nature that is sure to persist in this world even if the others have changed.

What law is that?

Everybody loves discounts.

I realized then that there was a man standing on the other side of the market path who’d been staring at me oddly as I wrote my signs. He was squinting as if he was having trouble understanding them. But upon checking them again, everything seemed clear and all right to me.

“Hello, sir!” I called out to him, holding up the platter of samples. “Would you be interested in a honey cake?”

He wandered over, still squinting at the signs. “Am I reading this correctly? Five litras for sixty arcas?”

“That is correct, sir. It is a special promotion I’m running.”

“What’s the catch?” he asked, crossing his arms as if expecting some kind of scam.

“No catch, sir, other than you’ll need to buy five litras all at once.”

“But that’s 12 arcas per litra…”

“You are correct.”

He stared at me, calculating. “I could buy five litras from you, then sell them at 14 arcas each in this very market and turn a profit.”

“You certainly could, sir,” I said.

“And your fine flour is just as outrageous. At eighteen arcas a litra, that’s what I’d normally pay for coarse flour. Is there something wrong with the flour? About to expire perhaps?”

“Sir, I assure you this is the finest wheat flour you can buy,” I said, gently tapping the cloth-covered sack beside me. “It is recently milled and grown from a farm not four hours from here. But if you feel uncomfortable buying such a large quantity, you’re more than welcome to buy a single litra first to test the quality before coming back to purchase more.”

The man frowned, glancing between the sacks and me. He reached forward slowly, dipping two fingers into the open bag of coarse flour. He rubbed the flour dust between his thumb and forefinger, his face unreadable. Then he brought his hand up to his nose and took in the scent. After a pause, he reached for one of the honey cakes on the tray and bit into it without asking, chewing slowly. His eyes narrowed, then relaxed. Finally, he shrugged with a sigh.

“Alright, I’ll take both deals, I suppose. But if there’s something wrong with this flour, I’ll be reporting you to the authorities.”

“Report away, I will be here every day for the next month!” I said, my grin unfazed. My hands moved quickly, scooping the coarse flour into the sturdy cloth bag he handed me.

Then he passed me a second bag, older and worn, but I reached for one of my own from the table and scooped the fine flour into it.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“This is the free bag you get for taking both deals,” I said plainly, tying it off and placing it on the counter.

He blinked. “You’re jesting. Another fifty arcas you’re just giving away?”

Only then did I realize he hadn’t even seen the third sign.

“It’s a limited-time deal, sir. Do tell your friends.”

He seemed unable to keep his mouth closed for a solid spell before pressing the sizable chit against the pay tab. A hundred and fifty arcas transferred. I watched him as he gathered his goods and turned down the aisle, his boots clunking against the cobblestone. He gave me a glance backward, and I gave him a wave.

Then he was gone and around a corner, and the market was quiet again. It was still fairly early in the morning, and there weren’t many shoppers out. I called out to a couple of passersby, but so did the other merchants nearby.

Finally, a young woman stopped before my stall, her gaze seeming to snag on my sign. She had sharp eyes under a tangle of dark curls. I offered her a sample of Nymet’s honey cakes. She took one and thanked me politely, but didn’t lift her eyes from the sign. A wrinkle formed between her brows. Then, without a word, her attention drifted to the second sign beside it.

At last, she looked up at me. “There’s nothing wrong with this flour, is there?”

“No, of course not,” I said. Jesus, was everyone going to ask me that?

“It’s not stolen?”

I laughed. “I farmed it myself.”

Her expression softened a little. “Then you’re really selling five litras of coarse flour and five litras of fine flour for a hundred arcas?”

“Ah, no, the price is 150 arcas.”

“Yes, but the bag costs 50 arcas alone, and I can see it’s a fine bag.” She tugged the seams of one between her fingers, inspecting the stitching. “Which means the value of the flour is a hundred arcas. That's enough to cover my family for the whole month.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. Can I get the order started for you?”

“I don’t have enough on me, but I live in town. I’ll be right back.” She turned abruptly and ran. I watched her go, feeling oddly perplexed.

An older woman appeared next. She’d been drawn in by the free samples that the previous woman had been eating, and she came up and tried a piece.

“Tell me your recipe,” she said, taking another. I didn’t mind.

“Unfortunately, the recipe is so secret that I have yet to gain it for myself. It’s owned by the revered Master Baker Nymet, you see. But I can tell you it’s made with the Fine-Fine flour here, which has a special deal going right. You could save a lot of arcas if you take the bulk deal.”

“No, I’ll just take a litra,” she said, withdrawing a leather pouch from her purse.

“That’ll be 30 arcas.”

She seemed to notice the sign then. “Can’t you sell me just one litra for 20 arcas?”

“I’m afraid not. I can only offer the discount if you buy extra.”

Her lips tightened, and she hesitated, the pouch clutched in her hand pausing in mid-air before heading back into her purse. It was always interesting to see how people measured value. Despite 30 arcas being a fair price in this market, the flour had suddenly seemed worth less in her eyes simply because a deal made the cost per litra lower.

I opened my mouth, ready to use just the right words to shift her thinking, when a group of four men arrived, chatting amongst themselves with the energy of people who had just made a discovery. One of them was the man I had sold to earlier.

“Is the deal still going?” asked the friend to his left, his voice carrying excitement.

“Yes, it is,” I confirmed.

“I’ll take the deal,” said the man.

“Me too!”

“And one for me! Actually, I’ll take two!”

The old woman’s purse now paused again, her hand holding it still tucked in her purse. She was watching with surprise as the men eagerly made their orders.

Then the young woman from earlier returned, breathless. “I’m back!” she called, pushing her way through the men. “I was here first! The free bag is still available, isn’t it?”

“Yes, no problem,” I assured her. “More than enough for everyone here.”

“I’ll take the deal as well,” the old woman said, her tone suddenly urgent, as if the value had multiplied now that others wanted it.

Now six people crowded around my modest stall, voices overlapping with excitement. Others began to notice and trickled over, curious about the commotion. Soon more began asking for the deal as I loaded bags and took payments as fast as I could.

“Form a line if you want the deal!” I called out. “It’ll be first come, first served by whoever's in line!” I glanced at a man who’d been waiting, now moving to the back. “No, you’re okay, I’ve got your order next!”

It dawned on me why I’d thought of Black Friday earlier. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d feared how this market might respond to my style of promotions. But everything was orderly, although rushed. I moved as quickly as my hands allowed, scooping the flour, tying sacks tight, checking the arca count on the payments. One man I served didn’t even seem to know what he had gotten in line for. When it came to his turn, he blinked at me and then decided to try a litra of the Hand-Harvested Flour.

But most customers had their eyes fixed on the deal. Time passed in a blur, and before I knew it, I’d reached for the next free bag after serving a woman with ornate bracelets, but my hand met the empty countertop. I blinked.

They were gone.

I had sold out of the special bags.

How long had I been selling for? It couldn’t have been more than a chant—no more than an hour.

It felt as if a thousand thoughts and emotions were hitting me at once. But above it all, I knew that my deal had worked.

I quickly ran the math in my head again. I’d put my merchant wheat cost at 7 arcas a litra. After the cost of milling, my total cost for coarse flour was 43 arcas and for and fine flour it was 50 arcas. So 93 arcas for flour. That, plus the cost of 23 arcas per bag, put the total cost of the deal to me at 116 arcas. The deal price that the customers paid was 150 arcas, which meant my merchant profit was 34 arcas per deal.

34 arcas might seem like not a lot when I could earn 40 arcas of profit on the fine flour deal alone. But most people wouldn’t have taken the fine flour deal because most of my customers don’t usually consume fine flour. They would have taken the coarse flour deal instead, which only earned 17 arcas each. But now that the bags had run out, I could still sell the fine flour deal without the free bag. The only difference was, thanks to combining the deal, I was now the talk of the market.

I felt a sudden surge of joy that came from the boy in me. Despite all the merchant calculations going on in my head, he’d focused on the reality of the situation.

All the wheat I’d sold here had been harvested by me, my father, and my mother. I hadn’t needed to pay anyone for the cost.

In the span of a single hour, I’d earned my family over 2600 arcas.