IBSECP 12

Chapter 12

“Ahem. Still, the deficit isn’t that large.”

Esben cleared his throat, as if caught revealing something shameful.

He wasn’t lying—the deficit really wasn’t severe.

“It’s only been a year since the war ended. You could say we’re still in recovery. Especially, the textile industry is growing. We’ve even signed a new contract with the Marquessate of Rochen…”

Esben continued explaining the ledgers as though trying to justify the numbers.

I listened to his explanation, but my mind was racing.

The textile industry.

Yes.

Up until the early days of the marriage, the Wilhelm Territory had heavily relied on its abundant timber resources to run a thriving textile business.

In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that the profits from the textile and iron industries alone funded the entire estate.

Even before becoming part of the Kainen Empire, the Wilhelm Territory had always been barren.

A land where even grass barely grew, let alone trees.

Try planting crops, and they’d be struck by frost. Try raising cattle or pigs, and there wouldn’t be enough grain left to feed the people.

However, thanks to the lakes and marshes scattered throughout the land, freshwater fish were abundant. These became the staple food source, allowing forests to be preserved.

The Wilhelm Territory is so harsh that, in winter, there are days when the sun doesn’t rise at all.

Here, people feared freezing to death more than starving. Firewood was as essential as food.

It was easier to cultivate pine and birch trees than try to grow crops on the wasteland.

And so, this unusual system had continued over time.

In most parts of the Empire, people exchanged harvested tomatoes, potatoes, and wheat for cloth and iron. But here, it was the opposite.

They exchanged cloth and iron for food.

And they paid a high price.

Esben’s explanation only confirmed what I already knew.

“But it looks like textile prices are falling, aren’t they?”

At my question, Esben let out another awkward cough.

“Well, the population in the North has declined. There’s a limit to how much rope, clothing, or rags are needed. And…”

“The trade with the South has all but ended.”

A political issue.

It had been a year since the war.

Valther’s schemes to weaken the North were slowly coming to fruition.

The population of the North was decreasing. Southern nobles were hesitant to trade with the North.

As a result, demand for Northern textiles dropped, causing prices to fall. Meanwhile, the prices of oats and potatoes were rising.

With fewer people in the territory, production had plummeted. Trade routes were disrupted by the war, and merchants had begun raising food prices.

“But things will improve soon. The Marquessate of Rochen has agreed to purchase textiles in bulk. And in return, we plan to buy food from Rochen at a fairly low price, to prepare for the winter.”

Rochen. Rochen.

That damn Rochen again.

Well, it made sense. Within the Empire, trading with Wilhelm was avoided. The Marquessate of Rochen, in the Kingdom of Millene, was the only viable alternative.

That’s exactly the problem.

The Marquessate of Rochen, in league with Valther, would soon show its true colors. As dependency on their trade grew, they would begin buying Wilhelm’s exports for dirt cheap, while selling their low-quality crops at a high price.

With no other territories willing to trade, Wilhelm would have no choice but to accept the terms—just to avoid starvation.

Even the freshwater fish that the people rely on would become scarce in the coming winter, with the lakes freezing over.

It was a perfect storm of disasters.

In other words, Esben’s optimism, while seemingly reasonable, would turn out to be utterly misguided.

“You still need to study more, don’t you?”

Esben asked politely.

He must’ve thought I was struggling to understand the ledgers, since I was silently staring at them.

But my mind was focused entirely on how to change the course of this looming disaster.

If I leave it like this, everything will unfold as it did the first time.

The Graham I would create would be a fine sword.

Amin Wilhelm, despite turning into a drunk, was still the Empire’s finest sword master.

That wouldn’t change.

But wars weren’t won with just a sword and a swordsman.

Wars are won with money.

You must feed, clothe, and house your soldiers in warmth if you want them to fight.

What had brought down Wilhelm Castle in Diana Isla’s lifetime?

Exploitative trade deals that robbed them of firewood, and the starving, emaciated people who no longer had the strength to defend their land.

It has to be different this time.

Because I’m not Diana Isla anymore.

I’m Diana—and I’m here now.

“How much is the budget allocated for purchasing food from Rochen?”

“Fifty thousand Duren.”

Not a generous amount by any means.

Even at a low price, it seemed no one saw the point in stockpiling potatoes.

They must be relying on the freshwater fish.

“How much was the dowry I brought?”

Ironically, half of my dowry had come from Valther.

He’d given it to the Marquess of Isla under the guise of a wedding gift—but it was really hush money, to keep the Marquess from sabotaging a marriage he clearly disapproved of.

“One hundred thousand Duren.”

How stingy.

The Isla territory was much more fertile than Wilhelm’s.

Clearly, Diana Isla’s father didn’t think highly of his son-in-law.

I frowned and asked another question.

“How much is allocated for my personal upkeep?”

“About thirty thousand Duren a year…”

Esben trailed off.

I’d expected a smaller amount, given that the North lacked a social scene, but this was less than half of what noblewomen in the South received.

Perhaps fearing I would complain about the paltry amount, Esben quickly added:

“If you’d like to request an increase―”

“How much land could we irrigate if we bought iron ore and hired skilled blacksmiths with that money?”

“…Pardon?”

Esben’s calm demeanor cracked.

He cleared his throat again, then asked me with a confused expression.

“What… did you say just now?”

“I said irrigation.”

There was too much water in this land.

Snow, lakes, ice, swamps.

If it were me—the daughter of the Empire’s greatest blacksmith—I would fill this land with fire.

“From now on, the Wilhelm Territory must grow real crops.”