Building houses in uniform form and selling them in uniform fashion—
this model had been used for years in Tyne Town.
Vig was thoroughly familiar with the procedure.
Once the construction teams were running smoothly, he began delegating, gradually removing himself from the noisy, hectic worksite.
One day, with a rare moment of leisure, Vig wandered the market.
He had been away from home for more than three months and planned to buy a few items to send back to Tyne Town.
A dozen plain-clothed guards followed behind him.
Dressed like an ordinary townsman, Vig browsed casually, picking out a few trinkets from a street stall.
After paying, just as he turned to leave, the vendor leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile:
"Sir, don't rush off. I've got… other goods."
What now?
Vig scratched the back of his head and played the part of a dimwitted country knight.
The vendor gave him a knowing grin and gestured toward a nearby alley.
"Go in, take the first right, then a left. Third door."
"Got it."
Following the instructions, Vig arrived at the indicated house and pushed open the ajar wooden door.
Inside sat two rough-looking men with cruel expressions.
One stood.
"You here to cause trouble, or to buy?"
Vig answered calmly,
"I hear you've got cheap stock. I want a small keg of wine and a quarter-bolt of blue linen."
The man nodded, ducked through a curtain, and vanished deeper inside.
After a long wait he returned—
a small keg over his left shoulder and a roll of pale blue linen under his arm.
Vig frowned.
"The color isn't deep enough. Trying to pass off seconds?"
"If you don't buy it, someone else will."
The man unfurled the linen—good quality, unblemished—
then pulled the cork from the keg and poured a cup for Vig.
Vig took a sip, swirled it, nodded.
"Bordeaux, no doubt. But aged too long—too much tannin."
The man raised his brows.
"Well look at you. Whose steward are you, then?"
Vig instantly shut down the conversation, acting wary.
He counted out thirty silver pennies, took the goods, and left.
After circling several blocks to ensure he was not followed, he returned to the chancellor's residence in the eastern district and summoned his secretary, Loch.
"There's smuggling in the city. How do we shut it down?"
With the contraband laid plainly before him, Loch had little room to maneuver.
"Seizing contraband falls under Lord Æthelwulf's authority.
Since the crimes occur inside London, Lord Horst must cooperate.
I sincerely advise, sir—notify them, rather than taking action yourself."
Initially, Vig had intended to unleash Utgard and the knights—
smash the den, follow the trail, uproot the entire smuggling network.
But Loch had a point.
Interfering directly in Æthelwulf's and Horst's jurisdictions, without warning, would provoke resentment—especially from the self-important Horst.
Vig rubbed his chin, torn.
"If I let them handle it, someone will leak word, and they'll only catch small fry."
Loch shrugged.
"My lord, that may be for the best. If they did uncover something real… the consequences might be unpredictable."
"You—!"
Vig was furious, but he could only concede.
"Fine. Do as you say."
Events played out exactly as he expected.
Æthelwulf and Horst arrested a handful of nobodies and seized scraps of leftover stock—trash the real smugglers had no use for.
The network took a blow and would be quiet for a while, so Vig shifted his attention to customs inspection, planning to tackle smuggling at its source.
Disguised once more as a commoner, he walked the London docks.
Sunlight glimmered across the Thames like fish scales.
Ship masts rose like a forest.
Laborers bent under heavy bales of wool cloth, creaking the planks of the wharf as they trudged toward the warehouses.
Because its textile industry lagged behind, Britain's chief export was wool.
In Flanders, the wool was spun into cloth and sold across the continent—some even bought back into Britain.
At that moment an Anglo-Saxon clerk was recording an incoming shipment and stamping each bolt of cloth.
"Total: two hundred and eight bolts."
Once the ledger was marked, the clerk accepted two purses from the captain—
one for official tax, one as a private gratuity.
He pocketed the gratuity with practiced ease and carried the ledger into a nearby wooden hut, from which loud voices and the reek of ale spilled out.
Peering through a window, Vig saw three Viking employees inside—each with a girl in his lap.
When the Anglo clerk reported the shipment, one Viking waved him off impatiently, shoved the ledger into a drawer, and dismissed him as an annoyance.
"So careless…"
Vig immediately understood the rot.
Ragnar had feared that Æthelwulf and his Anglo staff might collude—
so he had stuffed the customs office with Vikings instead.
The trouble was that these Vikings were uneducated, lazy, and fond of drink.
So long as no superior investigated them, they dumped all work onto their Anglo counterparts and enjoyed this high-pay, low-effort position.
After finishing his inspection, Vig sought out Æthelwulf and demanded a purge of the useless staff.
"Cough… cough… Chancellor… your advice is sound… cough…"
Æthelwulf looked as frail as ever, hacking violently.
Alarmed, Vig poured him water.
When the old duke recovered enough to speak, he explained:
"You're a clever man.
There must be Vikings in the customs office.
I can't simply dismiss them."
Vig pulled out a sheet covered in notes and calculations.
"Then remove the trash and replace them through examinations.
If they pass, they stay.
If not—they go."
"Examinations?"
Æthelwulf turned the page in disbelief.
His eyes gleamed.
After a long moment he accepted the proposal.
If it worked, he planned to use the same method in Wessex to purge his own dead weight.
Agreement reached, they walked to the palace garden.
Ragnar was watching his fourth son, Ubbe, practice swordsmanship.
Feeling spirited, the king stepped in—knocking down the instructor and five guards in succession.
"His Majesty's skill is unmatched!"
"A true legendary hero!"
Servants and guards fawned as Ragnar wiped sweat with a silk cloth.
He looked at the two visiting ministers.
"Well? What do you think?"
Æthelwulf coughed through his praise.
"Your Majesty's swordsmanship surpasses any knight I know."
Vig said nothing.
"Chancellor?" Ragnar prompted softly.
Still no reply.
The air froze instantly.
—------------------------------
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