Oliver Interlude - Preventative Measures [Pre Chapter 98]

This is a deleted chapter that is set directly before Chapter 98 - "Excessive Force." It can also be considered Book 3.1

Oliver

Month 1, Day 30, Saturday 11:00 a.m.

Standing at the base of the stairs that led down to the basement of Lord Morrow’s mansion and looking around at the small mountains of boxes, old junk, and dust, Oliver had to admit that perhaps he had bitten off more than he could chew. In fact, his metaphorical jaw was stretched so wide it was painful.

The newly acquired businesses and properties might have been manageable, if not for the people that came with them. Some of those who’d previously worked for the Morrows were openly belligerent and aggressively resistant to Verdant Stag rule. Others were worried about retaining their jobs and looking for reassurance—ideally right from Oliver’s own mouth. Still others were trying to take advantage of the upheaval to get away with things they otherwise couldn’t, or were interested in “renegotiating” their contracts for better terms.

Carrying a box of what he suspected were important documents, plus a few interesting knickknacks that he’d taken from other rooms in the mansion above, Oliver walked through the maze-like piles, trailed by Mr. Huntley, one of the Verdant Stag’s highest-level enforcers. Although Huntley had been injured in the attack on the warehouse, he was, with the help of magical healing, almost recovered from the broken ribs and punctured lung he had sustained, allowing him to accompany Oliver as a bodyguard.

Several of his people were working alongside Lord Morrow’s servants to categorize and clean the place up, and the workers peeked at him as he passed. Some were clearly worried, others just curious. More than one glared openly, not attempting to smother their anger. But none seemed particularly cowed by the featureless, shadow-backed mask he wore. He supposed one had to have a certain amount of gumption to work in Lord Morrow’s house. He only hoped none of them were stupid enough to summon the coppers to try and capture him.

Oliver paused for a moment before a large, complicated machine of geared wheels and rolling plates. His first instinct was that it was meant for an industrial laundry operation, and would squeeze the liquid out of fabric to prepare it for faster drying. Then, with another step and a slightly different angle, he realized it was an old printing press. It didn’t appear to be in working condition, judging by the amount dirt crusted into its inner workings and the fact that there had certainly been a mouse nest in its guts at some point.

Why Lord Morrow had owned, or kept, such a thing was beyond him, but simply judging by the amount of things stuffed into his multiple houses, the man had never thrown anything away in his life. After finding a stuffed goat’s head hidden in a desk drawer tucked away in an unused room, its eyes bulging and stiff pink tongue hanging out grotesquely, Oliver felt he could no longer be surprised.

Coughing a little from all the dust, Oliver stepped forward to meet the wardbreaker he’d hired. “You found a hidden safe?”

The man grinned, his fingers kneading at the battered old hat he held. “It wasn’t that hard, actually. I’d like to say it was my immense skill that revealed the location, but really, it was the fact that the path to it and area around the entrance are slightly less dusty than the rest of the room, worn clean through semi-frequent access. Lord Morrow’s pack-rat habits seem to have bitten him on this one, though I would have discovered it eventually, either way.”

“Well, let’s open it up, shall we?”

Under the wardbreaker’s ministrations, a small section of the wall slid open, revealing a lead-lined closet filled with paperwork, some gold and precious gems, and a black leather notebook held closed by a lock.

“Ah,” Oliver blurted. While the wardbreaker ensured that there were no nasty traps inside, Oliver rustled around in his box, pulling out an ivory cigar case that had been nestled at the back of the bottom drawer in Lord Morrow’s office desk. The interesting thing was the small key lying snugly behind the cigars. Oliver almost laughed aloud.

“Do you want these?” he asked, removing the key and holding the ivory case out toward Huntley. He loathed smoke, no matter how expensive the cigars were.

Huntley took a quick glance, then returned to watching the room and its workers in his professional stance, hands clasped in front of himself. “I don’t smoke. Impairs the cardiovascular performance.”

Oliver shrugged before tossing the case to one of the other workers, who’d perked up at the question.

The hidden vault was cleared for access soon enough. “He can’t have been so cliche,” Oliver muttered, but the key did indeed fit in the notebook’s lock. The book fell open with no further resistance or sneaky tricks.

Lord Morrow had been lazy to keep the key in such an accessible spot. To be fair, he probably hadn’t expected to be overthrown and have all his wards broken and his personal things meticulously rifled through.

As Oliver read through the contents, his eyes widened. Suddenly, it made so much sense how the Morrows had been allowed to run so rampant. Lord Morrow had been cleverer and more meticulously competent than Oliver had given him credit for. But no one was infallible. Oliver had to close the book and take a couple deep breaths. He was grateful for his featureless mask, because the wild grin splitting his face from side to side was probably disturbing.

It was a little black book full of blackmail. How cliche.

Oliver had the remaining contents of the vault, along with the other immediately valuable items that hadn’t already been removed, sent back to one of the Verdant Stag’s safe locations with a trusted enforcer.

Before he left, he called for the servants to gather in the entry hall.

Standing halfway down the curved double staircase, Oliver addressed them. “As you likely know, I will be selling this property shortly. There is a good chance that, if you wish it, you will be hired on in your current positions by whoever the buyer is. If not, or if you simply do not wish to continue on here, I encourage you to visit the job center which the Verdant Stag has recently set up. Prospective employees can submit their resumes, and prospective employers can look for the right person. The job center will attempt to find employment for everyone who needs it, according to their preferences and capabilities. I wish you all good fortune.”

The responses were mixed. Most did not seem particularly pleased to have their livelihoods in danger of such disruption, but Oliver didn’t linger to take questions or criticism. With a simple nod, he descended the stairs and exited the house through a side entrance, where  his new carriage waited for him. He could examine Lord Morrow’s paperwork while he rode to the next destination. Since the takeover, the brief carriage rides from one emergency to the next had been his only moments of leisure, if they could be called such.

Oliver stopped outside and took one last look up at the sprawling, ostentatious building. This was only one of Lord Morrow’s houses, the one that he actually lived in with his family when they weren’t staying at their house in the Lilies. Oliver was putting the useless properties up for sale under a series of proxy companies as quickly as possible. The Lilies’ house was a relatively small place and of no particular use to Oliver, but would fetch him about fifteen thousand gold crowns before taxes. This mansion—a manor, really, since it had grounds attached—would fetch about the same price despite the difference in size, because it was in Gilbratha proper, a much less desirable location.

Huntley held the carriage door, looking around for potential danger with a suspicious squint, then joined Oliver inside the carriage.

It pained Oliver to take one of his more capable people away from all the other work that needed attention, but it was a volatile time, and he needed the extra protection. Not everyone would be reasonable about the transfer of power, after all.

As always, it seemed, he was facing a deficit of competent, loyal employees, and lacked the manpower to bring the new people and territory “into the fold” of the Verdant Stag, so to speak.

Oliver’s mask made him firmly Lord Stag instead of Oliver or Lord Dryden. Normally, he wouldn’t move around so openly like this, in broad daylight, but there was simply too much to be done, not enough people to do it all, and every moment that passed needed to bring the Verdant Stag closer to control or things would spiral into chaos.

Through the carriage’s curtained window, which allowed him to see out but did not allow others to see in—a luxury he had appropriated from Lord Morrow—Oliver watched the passing streets of his territory. He quickly grew irritated with what he saw—destitute subjects, lingering signs of the battle and the destruction it had wrought, patrolling coppers—so he returned to examining the black notebook.

Not long after, the carriage arrived at his new alchemist’s workshop, which he’d had to negotiate hard with Lord Lynwood for.

Huntley reached for his battle wand as they entered. It was quite a large workshop, crowded with tables while boxes and crates filled what space near the walls wasn’t lined with shelves of components. The tables were covered with various chemicals arranged on trays and arrayed by function. The walls were grimy, and the wet heat of too many boiling cauldrons filled the air and sunk through their winter jackets. It smelled of burning charcoal and a haphazard mix of noxious fumes.

Oliver gave the room and the alchemists within a thorough look, then made for the door to the office at the side, frowning deeply. On the surface, mostly for paperwork purposes, it was a normal alchemical workshop. In truth, it was the source of most of the Morrows’ addictive concoctions, the ones they sold to the poor and desperate, or the rich and foolish.

Oliver had sent one of the solicitors who used to work for Lord Morrow, but who hadn’t signed any long-term loyalty contracts with the man, to audit the workshop and ensure they were complying with his new orders. He had done the same for all the businesses that seemed most likely to do harm if they attempted to take advantage of the upheaval. The solicitor was just as loyal to Oliver as he would be to anyone who was paying him, which was loyal enough for the moment.

Oliver was aware of the less-than-friendly gazes from the alchemists and their helpers as he and Huntley passed by, but he walked as if he were supremely confident, showing no hint of weakness.

In the back office, Mr. Hambrick was hunched over the commandeered desk, carefully recording numbers in a complex ledger. He looked up as Oliver and Huntley entered, standing quickly and giving Oliver a bow. “I assume you got my report?”

“The workers are unhappy with my new restrictions on what concoctions the workshop is allowed to produce. I heard there are whispers of a strike?”

Hambrick nodded, shuffling to a different page in his ledger book. “The alchemists are paid based on a percentage of the estimated resell value of their goods. The bans on certain concoctions and lowered production limits on others have cut their paychecks by quite a bit, and no one is happy.”

“What happens if we let them strike?” Oliver asked, taking the ledger and looking through it.

Hambrick shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I wouldn’t recommend that, sir. Where there is demand, there will be supply, whether it comes from us or not. And skilled replacements might be difficult to find on short notice. Higher-level alchemists don’t just grow on trees.”

“These substances kill people, Mr. Hambrick,” Oliver said, his voice hard as he looked up from the ledger.

Hambrick hesitated, but overcame whatever discomfort he felt and motioned for Oliver to follow him out of the office, into the workshop proper.

Huntley let out a small sigh at this, no doubt deeming it an unnecessary security risk, but followed obediently enough.

“Lord Stag, I hope you won’t take offense to this, but while your intentions might be noble, simply discontinuing production will not fix the problem. Even if our own alchemists strictly abide by the law and stop production of these particular addictive or dangerous concoctions, there is still a market. Without the quality assurance that came from the Morrow suppliers, you will simply be driving the very people you are trying to save to desperation, and perhaps to more dangerous sources. This does nothing but place the danger in someone else’s hands, and the earnings along with it. Addiction isn’t something you can simply ban.”

Oliver sighed as they passed a woman stirring a bubbling cauldron of thick brown liquid. “I understand your point. I am simply putting a slapdash bandage over the festering wound. It needs to be lanced and cleared from the bottom up instead.”

Hambrick was silent for a few long moments, then hesitantly asked, “You’ll make it all illegal within your territory?”

Oliver almost snorted. “And how would I enforce that? Even if I could, would it actually fix the underlying problem?”

Hambrick stared at him silently.

“Why do people use these concoctions in the first place? Why is there a market for them?”

Another pause, then, “Because they make people feel good?”

“More or less, yes. But people aren’t stupid. They understand, maybe not fully, but they are aware of the side effects and long-term downsides of taking things like Quintessence of Quicksilver, Angel Dust, or Blitz. They might make excuses, but I believe the real reason that addiction is so rampant is that people have no hope.”

Oliver waved his arm to encompass the whole workshop. “Places like this make coin off the despair our population is feeling. When people have no hope for their futures or the futures of their children, no reason to believe that things can get better, then even if they know these addictive concoctions will make things even worse, they may not believe that things can actually get worse. At that point, temporary joy or pleasure can seem worth it. Especially when so many of those around you are doing it, too. Addiction, like suicide, is a disease of despair.”

“A disease you want to lance and cleanse from the root. By getting rid of the despair behind addiction?” Hambrick wasn’t slow on the uptake, Oliver was pleased to note, but the man sounded skeptical.

Oliver sighed. “I won’t pretend I have all the answers. It’s a complex, multilayered problem that will surely take a lot of time and resources to improve. But just because I don’t have the perfect solution won’t deter me from starting, from trying.”

“What is your plan, then?”

Oliver didn’t answer immediately, but continued touring through the rest of the workshop, taking note of the people, and the state of their workstations. Then he looked through the ledger in greater detail, noting the simple dossiers Hambrick had drawn up on all the workers, as well as potential threats and competitors. He thought over the problem.

He had read a few studies on the issue, and while he didn’t consider himself an expert on the subject, he had some opinions and a few ideas that might not be perfect but should certainly improve on the current status quo. While the more harmful concoctions were already illegal, the coppers didn’t actively pursue the issue unless it began affecting the wealthier areas. Occasionally they would bust some of the larger suppliers or distributors, but it was rare, and certainly didn’t keep the substances off the streets. Mostly, it was used as an additional arrest charge if they happened to come across concoction abuse in progress. Criminalizing those who used illegal concoctions didn’t take away their impetus to do so, only drove them to do it more secretly and placed an additional barrier to recovery.

Finally, when they were back in the office, Oliver spoke. “We’re going to implement a multi-pronged approach. Since simply attempting to force people to stop cold-turkey might either kill them or drive them to desperation, we will be continuing minimal production of the most harmful substances. At twenty percent of standard capacity, with all doses at eighty percent strength. This potency reduction, as well as reduced dosage amounts, should be clearly marked. It will be your job to ensure these standards are met.”

Hambrick nodded, taking notes, but the tightness of his mouth showed clearly that he thought Oliver was making a mistake.

“All income made from harmful substances, past the percentage that goes to the alchemists and distributors, will go towards a new rehabilitation facility.”

“Rehabilitation facility?” Hambrick echoed.

“A kind of healing clinic specifically for substance addiction, but the patients will be admitted for longer stays, and there will be specialized staff meant to help them with both their physical and mental addiction. The idea is to prepare people to return to normal, productive lives so they never return to substance abuse. Street level dealers will be paid significant bonuses if they can get anyone already addicted to a more harmful substance to sign into the facility. Upon successfully completing rehabilitation for the first time, people will receive a small stipend for a short time as they get a job and get back on their feet. I think it’s best if that payment come in stages and requires the patients to submit to testing to ensure they haven’t relapsed.”

“You’re going to pay people to stay clean? Is twenty percent production going to make enough to cover all that? And what about the complaints of the alchemists? This is a token concession, at most.”

“It is only a token concession. I haven’t changed my mind, I’m just going about reaching my goal in what I hope is a more realistic way. I don’t want to profit off of harmful or addictive concoctions. The rehabilitation facility is going to require some powerful healing potions, and the Verdant Stag is understocked already. The alchemists who wish to stay with me can make up for their lost income by brewing those. The facility should employ a shaman or other specialists that focus on mind-healing, and we will also need to set up an audit team to calculate the effectiveness of our efforts and the impact on the community around us. As for the exact numbers of what we’re producing and paying, things might have to be adjusted slightly once we can gauge the initial response with actual data.”

“You are funding the reduction of your market with any proceeds from that market. It’s not going to be sustainable.”

“That’s rather the point. I’m trying to eliminate demand. If I have to pay a little extra to do so, I’m willing. I want to solve this problem. Making these concoctions illegal and trying to police that is a losing game from the very beginning. As you said, where there is demand, there will be supply. This method might actually be cheaper in the long run. And if nothing else, it will make me look good. Don’t underestimate the power of the proper reputation.”

Hambrick gave a half-amused huff.

Oliver continued, tapping his finger thoughtfully on the edge of the desk. “When those people are put to work in productive positions, the long-term benefit will make up for it. For these alchemists, the demand for powerful healing potions is going to wear off once most of those who need them have to pay for it themselves. Long-term, I’m hoping to shift the focus of this workshop toward creating affordable, useful concoctions in bulk.” It was what the Verdant Stag was already doing on a much smaller scale, and the demand was obviously there. While the profit was relatively small on each concoction, they could make more by increasing the volume of sales. For the more common items, it wasn’t as if the components were that rare or difficult to get, after all.

“Do you have any specific focus in mind?” Hambrick asked.

Oliver lifted his hands as if offering the other man an invisible platter. “Items that a poor to middle class family could afford to keep stocked. Lifestyle potions, like moonlight sizzle, things that will artificially heat or cool their surroundings, cleansing concoctions to reduce sickness and food spoilage. Perhaps even cheap cosmetic concoctions.” Siobhan had suggested selling water-breathing potions to the fishermen who worked the Charybdis Gulf, and while it had seemed interesting but non-vital at the time, it suddenly gave him an idea. “I want to push for magic to be accessible, to more firmly enter the lives of the poor and the middle class. We could also provide emergency kits to various professions. Something set up to deal with the kinds of accidents or crises they might logically face. The kits might even be something they would wear on a bandolier or utility belt, with clearly marked potions. Construction teams might need healing potions that could deal with rapid bleeding or crushed limbs. Maybe a potion of feather-fall for those working in high places with precarious footing. A potion to provide temporary air to someone whose been trapped in a trench collapse. I heard that suffocation from a digging collapse is one of the leading causes of death among construction and mining crews across the nation. If each member was outfitted with an emergency kit, lives could be saved. A life is worth a lot more than a few concoctions! We’d just need to find a way to market it to our target audience.”

Oliver stopped himself, as sometimes his excitement tended to get the better of him, but Hambrick seemed to have been infected by Oliver’s enthusiasm. “That’s…actually not a bad idea, if you can get the concoctions at a reasonable price. The thirty percent magic tax might cut into your margins on the household concoctions, unless you could find a way to avoid that—which I am certainly not advocating, as your solicitor. The emergency kits would provide a much higher margin. We might even be able to get employers to buy them in bulk.”

Hambrick sat down and began to scribble rapidly on a loose piece of paper. “The problem is getting them to be widely adopted. New ideas take some time to catch on, if you don’t provide them with a little boost. To make it possible, we’re going to have to do a lot more than simply produce the product. We’ll need a marketing team to introduce the ideas, communicate the benefits, and create a sense of ‘need’ in the consumers. I would also recommend you consider consistent branding across the household and consumer item line. Something that fits your target audience, allows immediate recognition of quality and price… You should set up at least one different company to handle the operation, maybe more. This isn’t something you can, or should, handle solely under the umbrella of the Verdant Stag, at least not on paper. Too many potential problems with the law…” Hambrick continued on, his voice growing quieter as he seemed to forget Oliver was still in the room, his scribbled ideas almost illegible.

“Since you seem to have a lot of ideas, perhaps you’d be interested in taking the lead on that project? It would be a full-time job, I imagine, leaving you little time for legal clients or managing things here.”

Hambrick snapped back to attention like a dog eyeing a juicy steak, but seemed reluctant despite the gleam in his eyes. “The compensation would need to be high enough to make such a change worth it. I would want a base salary plus bonuses based on performance. And a title—Chief Officer of Sales and Marketing, perhaps? And a staff—a literate staff of attractive men and women who aren’t afraid to approach people and are willing to be trained in sales techniques. The company will need an initial operations budget—enough for branding as well as production.”

“That all seems reasonable. But the majority of your income will be from bonuses, not the base salary.”

“Would you be willing to put pressure on employers within Verdant Stag territory to ensure the safety of their workers?”

Oliver nodded slowly as he considered it. “It would depend on the type of pressure. I’m sure there are things we could do outside of outright threats.”

“Of course. Resorting to threats and blackmail is illegal,” Hambrick replied immediately, his expression completely innocent. “I would never counsel you to do something illegal.”

Oliver blinked slowly behind his mask, remembering their conversation of half an hour ago concerning illegal concoctions. “Right. Why don’t you work up a more solid plan, then come by the Verdant Stag to pitch it to me in a week or two? If you can impress me, you’ll be hired. You might want to consider finding a replacement for your position here, because you won’t be able to do as much hands-on work as the Chief Officer of Sales and Marketing of a new alchemy company. Talk to Katerin’s assistant to set up the meeting.”

“I am going to make us both very rich men, Lord Stag.”

Oliver grinned, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “I’m counting on it.”

Author Note:

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