When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

#728 - Sugar smuggling in Dawn Island

While the garrison of Pebble Wasteland still struggled in ice, snow, and cold, if one looked west, past the forests and hills of the Thorns Garden, reaching the banks of the Nauan River, it was already spring.

The Norri Mountains north of the Thorns Garden and the Pebble Wasteland squeezed out a roaring corridor between the Furnace Plateau, which was the territory of Bear Fort.

Winds from the Ice Sea crossed the strait but could not enter the vast plains of the Lya Kingdom and the Fran Kingdom, instead roaring through the Roaring Corridor with ice and snow.

Meanwhile, sea breezes from the Zeeland Sea and the Emerald Sea freely carried warm currents, repeatedly blowing across the golden plains of this fertile land.

The people of Dawn Island had barely donned their winter clothes before changing back into cheap, Fran-branded ready-made garments from Thousand River Valley.

These rough and simple but inexpensive ready-made clothes were favored by a large number of middle and lower-class citizens and artisans.

They wanted to wear clothes that were cheap and durable, yet distinguishable from those of ordinary farmers.

Thus, they naturally became sought-after goods in the market, as well as commodities strongly resisted by the guilds.

This was especially true in the largest city of Dawn Island, Fort Virginia.

Everywhere, posted city ordinances displayed the tailors' guild, the hatters' guild, and the white sugar trade association's hatred and contempt for "inferior counterfeit" ready-made clothing.

But economic laws never change because of personal wishes.

The reed marshes of the Nauan River's tributary swayed in the spring breeze.

The withered yellow reeds, not yet recovered from winter, convulsed in the twilight, and the sour smell of fermenting humus was pierced by a strange, rusty iron scent.

A flat-bottomed barge slowly emerged from the reeds, its oars soaked in river water scraping against the rib-like planks, the shoulder blades of the twelve rowers rising and falling like waves.

Behind the reeds, however, pairs of eyes watched closely.

One-eyed Viscount Lavelle turned his head and whispered to the people behind him, "They're here. Outer sentries, stay alert. Report any suspicious individuals."

"Rest assured." Seven or eight ragged vagrants scurried from the reeds, bending low.

Using a cane engraved with a blurred noble coat of arms to part the reeds, the barge had slowly docked, and a man in a short velvet cloak stood at the bow, signaling to Lavelle.

"Long time no see, Viscount." The cloaked man took off his hat and twirled it twice.

The one-eyed man before him was a former viscount of Lya, or rather, a bankrupt viscount.

In fact, the title of viscount did not exist among traditional landed nobles; they only had the three ranks of duke, earl, and baron.

Viscount was always a courtier position granted to dukes, equivalent to a hereditary official title.

A powerful viscount could suppress an earl, while a weak viscount might not even be as good as a knight.

However, Viscount Lavelle, as a former manor viscount, helped the dukes of Dawn Island manage their manors and palaces in Windmill Land.

But since the opening of Windmill Land, local grain prices plummeted, and commodity prices soared, and all five of Viscount Lavelle's father's manors went bankrupt.

Thus, Viscount Lavelle's house moved from the inner city of Fort Virginia to the outer city, living by colluding with robber knights to plunder and loot.

But his title as viscount still remained in the Noble Heraldry Institute, so the cloaked man still had to call him Viscount.

Viscount Lavelle was not so polite, leading a dozen private soldiers and vagrants, he dashed in front of the cloaked man: "The goods?"

The cloaked man smiled indifferently and stepped aside.

A lame teenager darted out of the cabin, carrying a pottery jar and staggering, accidentally bumping into a ship nail.

From the cracked gap, white sugar frost poured onto the springboard like a waterfall, making Lavelle's heart ache.

He raised his chin, and immediately a vagrant lunged forward, greedily sticking out his tongue to lick the sugar frost on the deck.

"How is it?"

"Hiss, ooh, ooh, ooh." The gaunt vagrant rolled his eyes, convulsing all over, before finally exhaling a refreshing breath, "Very pure."

Lavelle nodded, his greasy beard shaking up and down: "What else?"

Before the cloaked man could speak, another boatman walked out carrying a package of ready-made clothes, the bundled package stained with indigo dye.

The cloaked man drew a skinning knife, and the burlap sack of ready-made clothes slipped down like a molting snake under the knife.

The indigo dye glowed with a phosphorescent light in the twilight, and thirty shoddy knight's jackets unfolded.

The collar, which should have been sewn with silver thread, was covered with centipede-like coarse linen thread, and the rose on the left lapel looked like a cornflower.

"Latest style." The cloaked man picked up one and shook it, "A beggar from Thousand River Valley can wear it to sneak into a lord's wedding, but the guild masters of Dawn Island will burn down an entire warehouse for it."

Lavelle was an expert in this area. He reached out and felt it, knowing that it was high-quality Thousand River Valley Class Cloth, plentiful and cheap.

"How is it? Are you satisfied?" The cloaked man's cloak trembled when he smiled, "If you are satisfied, can I inspect the money?"

"This is damaging our Lya people's guilds." Viscount Lavelle stared at the cloaked man with a complex expression, "Another Fran conspiracy."

"You can't say that. Didn't the Lya people get to wear cheap and well-fitting clothes? Didn't you make a fortune from it?"

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Viscount Lavelle's face immediately became tangled. From the perspective of his Lya noble status, he absolutely despised what he was doing.

Thousand River Valley produced cheap white sugar and ready-made clothes, and the Fran people did not consume them themselves, but instead transported them to Lya from the Nauan River to sell.

These cheap fabrics, paper, white sugar, and ready-made clothes became popular in Lya within three months.

And various guilds, city halls, and the Lya Royal Court issued banning decrees.

But a locally produced garment could buy two or three garments from Thousand River Valley, and everyone knew what to do.

Perhaps in the face of the invasion of Thousand River Valley garments, these guilds even made rare concessions, allowing tailors to supplement their household income.

Of course, sewing two garments for sale was supplementing the household income, but sewing three meant you were a Thousand River Valley short-hair.

"Viscount, according to the time, the patrol is coming soon." Before Lavelle could hesitate to a result, the vagrant beside him reminded him.

There was no chance to hesitate. Viscount Lavelle sighed lightly and took out a bag of gold pounds: "Half the money. After you unload the goods, I'll give you the other half."

"We believe in your credit." The cloaked man pressed down his hat, and the boatmen began to unload.

Lavelle whispered, and thirty steps away, sixteen packhorses were snorting as they were dragged out of the mud.

The white sugar was squeezed, making a crisp sound like snow breaking pine branches, and the saddlebags were gradually bulging with sharp-edged lumps of ready-made clothes.

When the last garment was pressed onto the horse's back, the Nauan River was about to enter the night, which was the best cover for smugglers.

"Happy cooperation." The cloaked man proactively extended his hand.

Viscount Lavelle also extended his right hand, missing a little finger: "Happy cooperation."

When the iron finger stall was about to touch the cloaked man's silver ring.

An unusual sound rang in everyone's ears: "Chih!"

The sound of the crossbow bolt piercing the body was like tearing a piece of oiled silk.

On the other side, the blood blossoms that burst from the cloaked man's neck were more gorgeous than mink velvet, and his attempt to cover the wound happened to push the silver ring into the broken blood vessel.

"The patrol, it's the patrol!"