He paced the length of the room, bony fingers laced tightly behind his back. Young Lord Ferrum's arguments kept intruding, unwelcome but persistent, like stubborn weeds in a meticulously cultivated garden.
Reducing transport costs… He couldn't deny the logic. Raw logs were monstrously heavy, awkward things. Paying coin to haul bark, sap, and unusable knots across leagues… it was inefficient. He pictured the barges, laden low, struggling against the river currents. Processed lumber would be lighter, more compact.
He shook his head, trying to banish the thought. The upfront investment in sawmills! The risk!
Higher value product… Another irritatingly valid point. Finished planks, beams… they commanded better prices than raw logs. Everyone knew that. But the hassle… the management…
And niche markets? Fine furniture? Musical instruments? Wands? Master Elmsworth scoffed internally. Catering to the whims of fussy artisans and hedge wizards? Unreliable! Unpredictable! Far better to deal with the solid, dependable bulk orders from the Guilds, even if the price wasn't… spectacular.
He stopped pacing, staring again at his pristine equation. The bedrock felt… slightly less solid than it had this morning.
Where had Ferrum learned such things? The boy had always been… adequate. Distracted, certainly. Respectful, yes, but lacking any real spark of insight. Until today. Today, he'd spoken with a calm confidence, a logical clarity that was utterly baffling. It wasn't the hesitant guessing of a student trying to impress; it was the assured pronouncement of someone who knew.
A flicker of unease, cold and unfamiliar, snaked through Master Elmsworth. Had he become complacent? Had generations of established Ferrum practice blinded him, blinded them all, to more efficient, more profitable methods?
He pushed the unsettling thought away. No. Impossible. It was youthful arrogance, a flight of fancy. Impractical dreaming.
Yet…
He found himself drifting towards the tall, locked cabinet where the detailed Whisperwood ledgers were stored. Not the summarized reports for the Duke, but the thick, dusty volumes detailing every cartload, every transport cost, every minor expenditure over the last fifty years.
"Merely to confirm the foolishness," he mumbled under his breath, fiddling with the key. "To gather concrete data to refute these… radical notions."
He wasn't curious. Not really. He was simply being thorough. Diligent. Proving the boy wrong for his own pedagogical satisfaction.
He pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume, its pages brittle with age, and carried it back to the table. Blowing a cloud of dust from the cover, he opened it, the scent of decay mingling with the beeswax polish. Perhaps a quick look at the transportation figures from the last decade wouldn't hurt. Just to be sure.
Arch Duke Roy Ferrum sat behind his immense mahogany desk, a bastion of order amidst swirling currents of political intrigue and economic management. Documents lay before him in neat stacks, his quill scratching methodically across a parchment detailing grain tariffs. The only sounds in the imposing study were the quill's whisper and the distant ticking of a large, ornate clock.
A soft, almost imperceptible rap on the door broke the silence.
"Enter," Roy commanded without looking up.
The door opened smoothly, and Ken Park entered. He moved with a silent grace that belied his solid frame, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Dressed in the immaculate dark livery of the Duke's personal service, his face was an unreadable mask of professional composure. He stopped a respectful distance from the desk and waited, utterly still.
Roy finished the line he was writing, carefully dotted the final punctuation mark, then set his quill down with deliberate precision. He finally looked up, his dark eyes sharp and assessing, fixing on his retainer.
"Report," Roy said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Ken Park inclined his head slightly, a bare acknowledgment. His voice, when he spoke, was as devoid of emotion as his expression – a clear, level monotone delivering facts.
"At approximately 10:17 AM, local time," Ken began, "while escorting Young Lord Lloyd Ferrum to his scheduled tutelage with Master Elmsworth, we proceeded via Weaver's Alley."
He paused, allowing the information to register.
"Observed three individuals, identified as local undesirables, engaged in the harassment of two female students. Verbal intimidation and physical obstruction were employed."
Roy's hand, reaching for another document, stilled. His gaze remained locked on Ken.
"Young Lord Ferrum deviated from our path and approached the group," Ken continued seamlessly. "Upon reaching the primary aggressor, Young Lord Ferrum administered a single, open-handed strike to the individual's left cheek."
Roy's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. A strike? Publicly?
"Following the physical correction," Ken went on, his tone unchanging, "Young Lord Ferrum delivered a verbal reprimand concerning social decorum, the ramifications of their actions, and the inherent foolishness of performing said actions in the presence of Ducal household members."
A flicker of something – disbelief? Annoyance? – crossed Roy's stern features before being instantly suppressed.