The Foundry Zone, Early Morning
While Director Leif was a true believer in the religion of precision, many of the older, stubborn freelance smiths men who had hammered iron since they were tall enough to hold a tong were resisting. They felt the "Go/No-Go Gauge" was an insult to their artistry.
"It fits if you push it hard enough!" one bearded smith yelled, trying to jam a misshapen bolt into the testing plate with a mallet.
"If you have to hammer it, it is trash!" Leif screamed back, looking ready to commit violence.
Ragnar stood at the edge of the tent, watching the standoff. The efficiency of the factory was stalling because these traditionalists refused to scrap their "almost good" work.
It was time to play the Trump Card.
Ragnar didn't threaten them with the King's anger. He threatened them with the Market.
He signaled to Aethelwulf "The Weasel," who was lurking near the wagons, eating a stolen turnip. Aethelwulf nodded and stepped onto a crate.
"Attention, metal-bangers!" The Weasel announced, his voice reedy but carrying well.
The smiths stopped arguing to look at the scrawny merchant. "I have just returned from the Mercian border," Aethelwulf lied smoothly. "My buyers love the new 'Standard' bolts. They pay double for anything with the 'Ragnar Mark' of precision."
A murmur went through the crowd. Double?
"However," Aethelwulf sighed dramatically, picking up a rejected, lumpy bolt from the dirt. "They will not pay a single copper penny for this... artistic interpretation. In fact, if I bring them this garbage, they promised to cut off my ears. And since I like my ears, I will only load wagons with bolts that pass the Hole."
He looked at the smiths. "So, you can make unique, beautiful trash that sits here and rusts. Or you can make boring, identical bolts that pass the Hole, and I will fill your pockets with silver before sunset."
The effect was instantaneous. It was a domino effect of greed. The smith who had been arguing immediately threw his "artistic" bolt into the scrap pile and grabbed the testing plate.
"I love the hole!" the smith declared, his eyes shining with the promise of wealth. "The hole is my friend!"
Ragnar smiled. He had successfully weaponized capitalism against tradition.
An hour later, Ragnar sat at his desk a flat plank resting on two barrels.
Gyda was writing in the ledger with a quill that looked like it had survived a war.
"Director," Gyda said without looking up. "The Weasel needs instructions for the second shipment to Mercia. The first batch of skillets sold out. Now they want weapons."
"Excellent," Ragnar nodded. "Vinod... I mean, Gyda, tell the Weasel to meet the demand. But pricing is key."
He leaned back, channeling the spirit of a discount retailer from his past life.
"Price them at 70% of the market value," Ragnar instructed.
Gyda paused. "That is... very low. We could get more."
"We are not looking for profit margin, Princess. We are looking for market saturation," Ragnar explained. "If our brittle iron swords are the cheapest thing on the market, every peasant rebel and minor lord in Mercia will buy them. We create jobs for our smiths, we clear our inventory of bad iron, and we arm our enemies with weapons that will shatter the moment they hit a Viking shield."
"A win-win," Gyda murmured, a dark smile playing on her lips. "For us."
"Also," Ragnar added, tapping the table. "Tell Leif to change the mold design. I want the hilts to look Frankish. Or maybe West Saxon."
"Why?"
"Because when those swords break and the Mercians die, I want them to blame the Franks, or their own King's smiths. I don't want them blaming the 'Nice Viking Traders from the North.' We need to keep the brand reputation clean until the invasion starts."
Gyda looked at him with a mix of horror and admiration. "You are a serpent, Ragnar. A serpent with a Abacus."
"I'm just a businessman," Ragnar shrugged.
He reached for a piece of vellum to sketch a new design for a "repeating crossbow" trigger he had been dreaming about.
He shuffled through the stack of sheepskins on his desk.
Drawing of a wheelbarrow.
Drawing of a rugby formation.
Drawing of a blast furnace nozzle.
"Gyda," Ragnar asked, frowning. "Where is the clean vellum?"
"You used it," Gyda pointed to the pile.
"All of it?"
"Ragnar," Gyda put down her quill. "Do you know how many sheep had to die for your doodles? You consume a flock every week. We are out of skin."
Ragnar looked at the crumpled ball of vellum he had used to wipe grease off a gear earlier. He felt a sudden pang of guilt, not for the sheep, but for the budget.
"How much does a sheet cost?"
"Five silver pieces," Gyda recited from memory. "And we have to import it from the monasteries. The monks are starting to ask why heathens need so much writing material."
Ragnar froze. Five silver pieces. He was literally throwing money into the trash.
In the 21st century, paper was trash. You blew your nose in it. Here, it was a luxury good.
"This is unsustainable," Ragnar muttered. "I cannot run an industrial empire on the backs of dead sheep. The bureaucracy will bankrupt us before the war does."
He stood up and paced the small tent.
"We need paper," he said. "Real paper. Cellulose. Wood pulp."
Gyda looked confused. "You want to write on wood?"
"Not wood," Ragnar waved his hands. "Processed wood. The Chinese invented it centuries ago. The Arabs have it. We are stuck in the dark ages using skin."
He visualized the process. Mash up wood fiber or old rags. Bleach it. Press it flat. Dry it. It was simple chemistry and mechanics. He had the water wheel. He had the press. He just needed the infrastructure.
"I need to build a Paper Mill," Ragnar decided. "It will revolutionize communication. Blueprints for everyone! Propaganda leaflets dropped from... well, thrown by heavy men!"
"And how much will this 'Paper Mill' cost?" Gyda asked, acting as the voice of financial reason.
"Three thousand silver pieces to set up the water rollers and the drying racks," Ragnar estimated.
Gyda opened the Royal Ledger. She didn't even need to look.
"We have two hundred silver pieces in the discretionary fund," she said flatly. "The rest is tied up in the 'Iron Tithe' repayment plan."
Ragnar deflated. He had the idea. He had the tech. He was broke.
"Who has money?" Ragnar asked. "Real money. Not tied to the King's hoard."
Gyda thought for a moment. "Your father."
"Ulf?" Ragnar scoffed. "He's a warrior. He spends his money on axes and ale."
"No," Gyda corrected. "Ulf is a Chieftain. Before he came here, he raided the coast of Frisia for ten years. He has a personal chest that he buries under his tent. Everyone knows about Ulf's chest."
Ragnar blinked. His father was holding out on him.
"Vinod... sorry, Gyda," Ragnar said, grabbing his cloak. "Hold the fort. I'm going to make a pitch to the Board."
Ulf was polishing his helmet when Ragnar entered. The older man looked tired but happy. The success of the "Siege Ball" league had made him popular among the men again.
"Ragnar!" Ulf boomed. "Come to check on the troops? They are ready to bite the walls!"
"I am here for business, Father," Ragnar said, sitting on a stool.
He didn't waste time. He launched into the "Paper Pitch." He explained how expensive vellum was. He explained how a Paper Mill could produce cheap writing material not just for the army, but for export.
"Imagine," Ragnar said, his hands moving animatedly. "Every monastery in England needs to write bibles. We sell them the paper. We become the suppliers of the Word of God. We take their gold, and they thank us for it."
Ulf listened, scratching his beard. He didn't understand "cellulose," but he understood "taking gold from monks."
"But," Ragnar paused for effect, "I need seed money. The King's funds are dry."
Ulf narrowed his eyes. "You want my Frisian Gold."
"It's an investment," Ragnar promised. "I will give you 10% equity in the Northumbrian Paper Company."
Ulf sighed. He stood up and walked to the corner of the tent. He pulled back a rug and started digging in the dirt with a dagger.
"You are a strange son," Ulf grunted, pulling up a heavy, iron-bound chest. "Most sons ask for a sword. Or a ship. You ask for money to make... mushy wood sheets."
He opened the chest. It was filled with silver arm rings, Frankish coins, and a few gold chalices.
"Take it," Ulf said, shoving a handful of silver toward Ragnar. "But Ragnar..."
"Yes, Father?"
"If this 'Paper' turns out to be useless," Ulf warned, pointing a calloused finger, "you will write me a very long apology on the expensive sheepskin."
"Deal," Ragnar grinned, scooping the silver into a pouch.
Later That Day
An Imperial Edict was posted in the camp square.
"PROCLAMATION OF THE PAPER MILL"
Ragnar stood before the gathered Builders.
"We have conquered iron!" Ragnar shouted. "We have conquered gravity! Now, we conquer the written word!"
He held up a piece of rough, greyish prototype paper he had made in a bucket earlier. It was ugly. It smelled like wet socks.
"This," Ragnar declared, "is the future of the Empire. No more dead sheep! We will turn our old rags and the bark of the trees into knowledge!"
The men cheered, mostly because Bjorn was cheering, and they didn't want to be the only ones silent.
"What is he talking about?" Sven asked Erik.
"I think he wants us to write letters to our mothers," Erik shrugged.
"I can't write," Sven said.
"That," Erik smiled, looking at the Academy tent, "is probably next on his list."
Ragnar walked back to his tent, the silver heavy in his belt. He had the funding. He had the tech.
Now, he just needed to teach five thousand Vikings how to read so they could buy his paper.
"One problem at a time," Ragnar muttered, entering his tent. "First, we take York. Then, we teach them the alphabet."
"Gyda!" Ragnar called out. "Get the Weasel! I have a new product for the export list!"