13th of Cylus, 721
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“My retirement,” Glynt repeated. Despite his smirk and his aristocratic poise, a hint of mocking distrust peeked out the corner of his lips. “Enlighten me, Peake Maxos.”
“Do you run your accounts?” Peake asked.
“I used to. Not anymore. Barb does that now.” He pointed back with his thumb. Barb the Barbarian stood at the counter still, still holding that rough wooden surface, and the whole world it was attached to, down lest it floated away. His eyes were as crazed as Peake remembered.
“Since you’re still open for business, that means you’re making profit. Earning well?”
“We’re doing alright,” Glynt replied, disinterested. “Much better than Falcon Company.”
“That’s not true,” Peake remarked. “Were they not ashes, they’d be rolling in coin.”
“No use for nel in the spirit world,” Glynt refrained, wisely so.
Peake took his glass of milk, drank some, then placed it down on his lap. He shook his head, and sighed. “The point being their accounts were looking very good. So much we – no, they – were about to hire ten more mercs. Consider that number.”
Glynt considered in silence. He was a tough sell, for the mockery was yet to fade.
“Let’s get to the point,” Peake said. “I ran their accounts for five trials and found ample opportunity for expansion. That is what I offered them and that’s what they took. They wanted size and influence and that is what they were about to get… before the noose slipped around their necks. That is wealth they had that could secure their future – at least, their financial future. That is wealth they had but hadn’t accounted for. I want to run your accounts and find the wealth you have but have not noticed. That wealth could go to either expansion or your own retirement.” Pause. “Swinging a sword around for hire is not something you can do forever. Don’t you want to make sure you’ve got plenty of coin the day you can’t swing it anymore, or choose not to?”
Glynt paused, took a polite sip of his wine, and regarded Peake with the same skepticism as before. “I’m not sure I care much about that. As I said, we do alright. Let me ask you this: why us? Why not go to, say, a store, a fishing ship or even try for the Circle?”
“Because there’s no opportunity there,” Peake replied. “Because mercenaries rarely care to look at their own accounts, and the fact that they often earn far more but account for very little.” He opened his arms now, waving that glass of milk like a High Priest a golden scepter. “How many stores own a fort and have four swords hired and present in the middle of Cylus? How many have a stocked bar? Few do, and all have an accountant.”
“But we do have an accountant, I told you.”
“What, Crazy-Eyes over there? Is he a mercenary, a bartender or an accountant?” Peake felt slight remorse to have stooped so low as personal attacks. His regret tainted his face. “What are the numbers saying?”
Glynt’s smirk finally quivered, and slowly fell. Were it because of the slight insult or the last question it was unknown. His eyes, level and regal, turned suspicious.
“I’m not here soliciting, Glynt,” Peake said, leaning back. He drained his milk, and left the glass on a small table beside the armchair. “Whether you take my offer or not, I’m not going hungry. You are clearly not going hungry either. If you’re not interested, say the word and we’ll save some time.”
“Let’s say I am interested, Peake Maxos,” he replied, his tone somewhat condescending in Peake’s opinion. The former Baron felt like jumping from the armchair and breaking his neck over this disrespect. “What makes you think I’d hire you and not some other accountant?”
“Seen many mercenary accountants lately?” Peake queried.
“Can’t say I have, no,” the leader replied, with a chuckle. “But Fensalir is a city, and every city has accountants. Why not just hire someone else?”
“Because no one else offers what I do. Accounts are one thing; personnel management is somewhat different.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Mercenaries are complex because their services are not standard. They function not by offering a product as much as a service, but they’re not easily managed. A whorehouse offers services, which is a bed, a drink and a cunt. Mercenaries have many different jobs. Investigations, for example, are long and costly. How costly? It’s not a number you easily get to. Who are you putting up for that job? A mercenary like the Barbarian, for example, does not seem one you would put on it. What is the investigation? Are you looking for a missing dog? Or preventing sabotage? Is tact necessary? Do you need contacts to get it done? All this is money, and money you are wasting. So, you need to charge something from the client, an amount that not only covers those personnel expenses but also makes sure you ensure a profit. If the price is too low, you’re losing money. If the price is too high, you ensure they go some other route, and you get nothing. You get nothing, but taxes come and thus you lose money again. Standing still thus equates losing money, both for you and for your men. Now, you take me, and I’ll manage all that. I’ll wager the costs and the prices, and always make sure you’re winning money instead of losing it.”
“And so you want to, basically, take the crown and wear it yourself.”
“If that’s what you want, I can,” Peake confessed. “Then again, it’s your company and thus your image and your men. That’s your side of the business. Piracy, for example, works similarly. There’s the captain and owner of the ship, and then there’s the accountant or quartermaster. Piracy is a business unless you’re a bloodthirsty cunt looking for mindless slaughter. And even then, you must ensure you’ve got the coin for repairs, supplies and for paying the crew. Not much of a bloodthirsty pirate if you’re rowing a broken boat, drinking sea water and eating your own shit. Mercenaries are similar, but they have much ample opportunity to work within the law, and thus ensuring you can earn retirement through the business instead of hoarding treasure in some forgotten hole inland.”
“Within the law, you say? Mercenaries are not very popular now. You know why.”
“Unless you plan a Three Sisters of your own, popularity doesn’t matter. What matters is that there are plenty of people willing to hire them because nobody else offers what they do. What you do.”
“The military does what we do for free.”
“You pay them in taxes, and yet you exist and you’ve got a warm fort and four swords for hire present this moment.”
Glynt regarded Peake, half intrigued, half skeptical, and half amused. He was no accountant, and so his mathematics were not very sound even in his expressions. “So how would you go about it?”
“I’d do the same thing I did for the Falcons. I’d take a look at your expenses and your incomes and figure the profit or the loss. I’d then make adjustments, with your permission or your blessing, however you want to do it, and ensure a plus for the books. I’d then make profiles on your personnel, figure out their strengths and weaknesses, and either choose to invest time and money into polishing their skillset or recommend their dismissal.”
“Firing our own people?” Glynt replied with a scoff. “My men don’t like you already.”
“I work for you, but also for them. Let me ask you this: do you pay your men in wages or shares?”
“Shares.”
“What about the tax? Is it per job or per fortnight?”
Glynt doubted. “Per job.”
“Good. Then they’ll love me soon enough, because those that end up working here will make plenty of money for themselves, as well as the tax you and the Company gets. If they’re useless, you can keep them so long as you add a fortnight tax.”
“Double taxes? Nobody will go for that.”
“Double taxes that amount the same, if calculated properly by someone like me. That way, you earn your part and they pay the same so long as they skillsets match what the company offers. That way, you can keep everyone, but at the end of the day it’s an expense you don’t really need and it will only hurt your profit. It’s much better to set a commission per job than a mixed one. Is the tax a fixed amount or a percentage?”
“I’m not comfortable telling you that,” Glynt remarked.
“That’s fine. They both have their advantages and drawbacks.” Peake reached into his belt and extracted a cigar. “Mind if I smoke?”
Glynt made a disinterested gesture of approval. He pulled out a decorated, small, quaint pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. Peake bit the end of his cigar, spat it far into the fireplace, and with the help of some matches, he lit up. A thick, smelly grey smoke left his maws and interlaced in his bearded features, tainting the sweat-smelling hall with the reek of his bad habit.
“Let me take a look at your books, and you’ll be fully convinced soon enough,” Peake declared.
Glynt scoffed again. “And you’ll do this out of the kindness of your heart, Peake Maxos?”
“No,” Peake replied, blowing some smoke. “Even for this little test I’m charging you, Glynt.” Spoken like a true mercenary.
Glynt laughed at the honesty. His was a hearty laugh, polite and honest. He seemed more an aristocrat than a sell-sword, and Peake wondered about his origins.
“Barb, bring me my wine, a glass of milk for mister Maxos, and the books, please.”
