Because she knew that this was only the beginning.
There was a fucked stupid smile plastered on her face. And it was because of the successful test of the nude beach and definitely not from the pleasure she was receiving and was going to receive the entire day.
…
A Year Later I
Mager stood on the docks with his ledger under one arm, squinting at the crates stacked on the deck of the merchant ship. The smell of saltwater mixed with the stench of tar and rope, a smell he was long used to.
"Two hundred barrels," the shipmaster muttered beside him, scratching at his greasy beard. "Packed tight, bound proper."
Mager grunted, dipping his quill in ink. "Two hundred's what's listed. We'll see if the numbers match." He pried open one barrel, checked the seal of wax stamped with the Eastern Empire's crest — the three-headed dragon — and dug into the straw stuffing. Inside, neat rows of small, paper-wrapped bundles filled the space. Condoms. The kind the Dothraki called sheaths, but to the foreign merchants they were "Eastern marvels." Either way, they sold fast, faster than grain sometimes.
"Quality looks right," Mager said, tapping the side of the barrel. He moved to the next. Opened. Checked. Wrote down the count. The work was dull, but it was steady. He'd once trained to be Unsullied, a boy with a spear in his hands and a master's stick on his back. Now he checked rubber and wax seals. He liked this life better.
When the barrels were tallied, he moved on to packaging. Ropes tight. Tar to seal the lids from sea damp. "If one barrel leaks, it's your head, not mine," Mager told the shipmaster.
"Aye, aye. We know the rules."
Finally, he walked along the deck, checking the planks and sails. The hull was sturdy, though the wood had been patched. "She'll make it to Yunkai," Mager muttered, signing his name to the ledger and stamping the ship's manifest with the red mark of approval. The master bowed and barked orders to his crew to prepare for casting off.
With the job done, Mager tucked the ledger under his arm and made his way back toward his office. By then, the dockside bells rang — midday. The start of lunch hour. His stomach growled loud enough that the guards nearby laughed.
"Shut it," Mager muttered, giving them a mock glare.
He veered off toward the state-owned canteen at the corner of the north pier. The place smelled of oil and smoke, cheap wine, and meat. Inside, men and women in rough work clothes crowded at the long tables. The queue moved fast. When Mager's turn came, a serving woman slapped down a tray: fried rice piled high, a pork cutlet crisp and golden, a slab of turkey steak with pepper sauce, and a bowl of thin broth. For a single copper. The Empire made sure no one went hungry.
He found a seat near the window, digging into the rice first. He was halfway through when a voice came.
"Mind if I sit?"
Mager looked up. The man was broad-shouldered, sandy-haired, not Ghiscari by the look of him. His accent was foreign.
"Suit yourself," Mager said, mouth full.
The man sat with a tray of the same meal. He offered a hand. "Name's Bard. Carpenter. From Pentos."
Mager shook it briefly. "Mager. Dock inspector."
Bard cut into his steak, chewed, then let out a low whistle. "Gods, food's better than I thought. Heard Astapor used to be a shithole."
"It was," Mager said flatly. "Now it's less of one." He scooped more rice into his mouth.
Bard smirked. "Came looking for work. Heard folk say this city's got factories for everything. Figured a man who knows wood can find a place. Maybe wagons, barrels, ships. Anything."
Mager leaned back. "You heard right. Rubber plant's running day and night. Condoms, tires for carts. Big money in that. Brick and tile factory's even bigger. Half the city's families eat off that work. And there's smaller shops too — barrels, steel fittings, packing crates. Hell, some foreigners are setting up smithies. Never thought I'd see Pentoshi and Braavosi folk standing in the same line for day-wages."
Bard chuckled. "Sounds crowded."
"Crowded's one word. Land prices shot through the roof. Villages popping up outside the walls 'cause new folk can't pay for a roof inside. Still, most try to squeeze in. You get schools and healers inside the city. Don't get that out there."
"Schools?" Bard raised a brow.
"Aye," Mager said. He tore into his cutlet, grease running down his fingers. "Kids and grown folk both. You can't get factory work unless you're literate now. If you can't read numbers, you don't get to touch the machines. For skilled men who can't read, there's classes after hours. Free."
Bard snorted. "Free? Nothing's free."
"It is here. Empress wants it that way. Same with doctors. That's what they call healers now. Some trained in Meereen. Got proper schools. Stitched me up once, when a crate split my hand. No charms, no bleeding leeches. Just thread, clean bandage. Healed better than I'd thought."
Bard leaned on his elbow. "Sounds like paradise compared to Pentos. There, a man breaks his hand, he's out on the street. No coin, no food."
Mager grunted. "Paradise? Don't fool yourself. Work's hard, hours are long. You slack, you're out. But it's fair. You work, you eat. That's more than I had when I was a boy."
Bard chewed thoughtfully. "So, where does a man start? I've built hulls, wagons, and houses. But I've got no coin to grease my hands, if that's what you're going to say."
Mager shook his head. "Not needed here. Go to the employment office. North district. Register your name. They'll match you with what's open. Might be factory work. Might be repair gangs. If you're good, you'll climb."
Bard blinked. "That easy?"
"That easy. This ain't the old world. Masters don't own you. State owns the work. Pay's steady. Just don't think you'll get rich unless you're running the place. But you won't starve either."
They ate in silence for a moment, the clatter of dishes and murmur of voices filling the room. Bard finally spoke again. "And the people? They really trust this… empire of hers?"
Mager shrugged. "Folk don't think about empire. They think about full bellies and safe beds. A year ago, Astapor was dying. Now the docks are busy, the forges are loud, the streets are lit at night. People remember that. That's enough."
Bard nodded slowly, finishing his soup. "Guess I'll head north after this. Thanks."
Mager waved a hand, already focused back on his meal. "Do what you like. Just don't waste time. Work waits for no one."
When his tray was empty, he stood, stretched his stiff shoulders, and picked up his ledger again. Another ship would be in by afternoon. More barrels. More checks. Same routine. But for the first time in years, routine felt like life, not survival.
…
Next chapter: A Year Later II
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