The administrative wing of the Darsha estate had been mellow in the past few weeks. Too mellow.
The clerks murmured to one another in the corridors, rubbing their heads in dismay at the manner in which in the gods' names their young master could complete fifty ledgers in one night with handwriting as immaculate as temple calligraphy. The letters sent out to other lords and ladies were so uniform that they appeared to have been copied by the same monk—only no monk living could work at such speed.
Suspicion fermented.
And Lord Basanna sniffed it. Not the parchment, not the ink. Money.
Sharath sat at his desk, tapping mechanically on the keys of his enchanted typewriter. 🐧NeuroBoop buzzed smugly within his head.
Look at you. An entire bureaucracy in one man. Quills are relics, calligraphy instructors out on their ears, ink merchants weeping in their soup. Indeed, the revolution starts right at your desk.
Sharath disregarded the sarcasm, pumping in another sheet of paper. The keys glowed softly, filled with a quiet magical hum, and out came another crisply neat page.
"Quick," he muttered. "Smooth. Clean. If I'd had this three months ago, I wouldn't have been overwhelmed by those petitions."
Yes, but where's the humor? Paper cuts, ink blots, smudged signatures… gone. You've deprived historians of centuries of laughter.
Just as Sharath was done impressing his seal on the letter, the door swung open. Lord Basanna stepped in without a knock—of course he did—and his keen merchant eyes raked over the desk.
"What," the old man spoke slowly, "is this?"
Sharath stiffened, half-hiding the typewriter under a scroll. "Just paperwork."
Basanna's eyes contracted. "Paperwork doesn't hum.
The young count let out a deep sigh. He should have known he couldn't keep it secret from his grandfather forever. With a slow, almost religious motion, he pushed aside the scroll and uncovered the machine.
The typewriter shone in lamplight, its rune-embossed keys throbbing like a heart. The printer beside it was a neat pile of newly printed documents pouring out of its tray.
For a change, Lord Basanna was stuck for words. Then his nostrils widened. His lips twitched.
"I smell…" he whispered closer, "…profit."
Sharath groaned and sat back in his chair. "Of course that's your first thought."
Basanna's eyes sparkled like a hawk catching sight of game. "Boy, do you realize what this means? We could replace scribes, swamp markets with papers, charge nobles for copies of every law, every contract. The guilds would—"
"No," Sharath interrupted, cutting.
The old man blinked. "No?"
Sharath leaned in, a low voice. "It is too early. Mass-produce it, and havoc shall ensue. Nobles will fight for control. Guilds will riot. All kingdoms will attempt to pilfer the design. It's not ready for civilization."
Oh look at you, 🐧NeuroBoop said in a snide purr. The secret keeper, solo genius safeguarding civilization from his own genius. So pitiful. Should I play violin sad music?
Basanna crossed his arms. "You'd deny us a fortune?"
"I'd deny us a war," Sharath replied flatly. "But—" his eyes sharpened, and a small grin tugged at his lips—"that doesn't mean we can't use it."
The old man tilted his head. "Go on."
Not as a commercial item," Sharath replied, rising and pacing. "As a tool. Information is the true gold. Imagine this: a newspaper. A market of information. Articles, updates, analysis. Not gossip or rumor from the taverns—real news. Made quickly, delivered efficiently. My printer makes it possible."
Basanna's jaw dropped. "A newspaper?
"Yes." Sharath's hands swept through the air as if painting the vision. "First within the Darsha estate. Then my territory. Then across the empire. We'll control the narrative, provide proper knowledge, shape public opinion. Every noble craves influence—information will give us more than gold ever could."
Basanna's eyes glittered. "Boy… that's even better."
The next weeks became a storm of activity.
Sharath converted part of his lab into what he referred to as the Editorial Room. Tables were arranged, scribes employed—not to type by hand, but to accumulate reports, write analysis, and argue over which stories should count.
He secretly tested the printer, printing up sheaves of test articles. The paper was economical, the ink enchanted, the print startlingly clean.
"First issue," he grumbled one evening, shoveling parchment into the machine. "Darsha Estate Gazette."
Snappy title, 🐧NeuroBoop joked. Very imaginative. Why not "Sharath's Daily Sarcasm Digest" instead?
Sharath ignored him, as the first front page emerged. Wolf sightings on trade roads. Crop yield updates. Notice about public baths under repair.
It wasn't exciting, but it was practical.
The initial hundred copies were quietly slipped into the possession of estate administrators and village elders. Within a matter of hours, the estate was abuzz with rumors. Taverns were crowded with individuals reading aloud off of the sheets, arguing about articles, even disputing which messenger was quoted most prominently.
Within three days, peasants were insisting on copies for themselves. Within five, rumors circulated that other nobles had caught on to the tidy, uniform script.
Lord Basanna chuckled, leaning back in his chair as another stack of freshly printed sheets arrived. "It's begun," he said with satisfaction. "You've invented an empire of words."
Sharath only frowned. "Yes. But it must stay quiet. The moment they realize how these are made, we'll lose control."
Oh don't worry, 🐧NeuroBoop said with theatrical flair. What could possibly go wrong?
Chaos, naturally, followed.
Villagers abused the initial copies, gluing them as wallpaper, filling shoes, or ripping them into firewood. One man attempted to peddle his copy as "the original" for ten silver pieces.
When Lady Ishvari caught her cook wrapping fish with a Gazette page, she stormed into Sharath's office in anger. "Is this your intellect for? To wrap fish?"
Sharath pinched his nose. "At least it's spreading."
Meanwhile, Basanna's eyes never ceased to sparkle with that merchant's greed. "With advertising, boy, do you have any idea how much we could make? Every tailor, every blacksmith, every tavern will pay to see their names published here."
But Sharath shook his head. "First, stability. First, credibility. Money can wait."
Basanna winced as if stabbed in the chest. "You wound me."
By the end of the month, however, credibility had arrived.
Merchants started carrying Gazettes on merchant negotiations, referring to crop predictions. Guards utilized them for patrol coordinations, verifying wolf sighting reports. Even peasants became interested, reading aloud by the light of torches in taverns in order to remain current with estate policies.
And at the heart of it all sat Sharath, smiling weakly as he put in yet another stack of paper into the printer.
Not a commodity. Not yet. But a tool. An empire of knowledge, controlled by him and him alone.
Ah, 🐧NeuroBoop whispered smugly, and so ends your new title: Sharath Virayan Darsha, Lord of Quills, Master of Rumors, Breaker of Secrets.
Sharath grinned. "Better than being buried in scrolls."