Bill had been waiting barely ten minutes when John finally came striding down the pier.
"My lord, the cargo's all offloaded. The dock customs officer just checked everything. We have to go pay the duty at the customs house before we can clear the goods."
Bill's face tightened the moment he heard the word tax. "Pay first before we can take our own barrels? How much are they bleeding us for this time?"
"Fifty barrels of small-beer, a hundred kilos each. They're valuing it at a thousand coppers a barrel—fifty thousand total. Customs wants twenty percent, so that's ten thousand coppers."
"Seven bloody hells!" Bill snarled. "They're trying to rob me blind! Is there any way to get it lower?"
John's scarred face twisted with discomfort. "This is my first time here too, my lord. I already tried slipping the officer a little something on the side, but… it didn't work."
Bill stood there grinding his teeth for a long moment, then let out a defeated sigh. "Fine. We'll pay it this once. After what I've seen on these docks, we came to the right place. I'll find ways to make it back later."
John relaxed visibly. He knew how tight-fisted his master could be; he had half-expected Bill to start scheming right there on the pier.
The truth was simple. While he'd been waiting, Bill hadn't just been standing around. He'd been watching everything. The constant flow of people, the clean stone quays, the disciplined squads of soldiers in black surcoats blazoned with the red three-headed dragon—mail gleaming under open helmets, long spears held straight, round shields at the ready. They patrolled in perfect step, eyes sharp. Their mere presence kept the whole waterfront orderly and safe. One look at that kind of order and Bill had swallowed every thought of dodging the tax. You didn't play games with a prince who could keep a port this tight.
A dockhand pointed them toward the tall stone tower they'd passed on the way in—the customs house. Bill took the small slip John handed him, the one listing his cargo and the owed amount, and started walking, grumbling the whole way.
"Greedy bastards… ten thousand coppers for a few barrels of beer…"
But the second he stepped through the wide doors, the scowl vanished. A pleasant, merchant's smile slid into place as he entered the bright, airy hall.
It wasn't grand. The floor was simple gray-brown tiles, clean and even. Tall windows stood open on both sides, letting sunlight flood the room. On the far wall, black-lacquered wooden letters spelled out in the Common Tongue: CUSTOMS HOUSE.
A row of wooden counters ran across the middle, each separated by low partitions. Behind them sat seven or eight clerks. A single chair waited in front of every station—neat, one-on-one service.
Bill spotted an empty seat and dropped into it the moment the previous customer left. The clerk across from him looked up politely.
"What business brings you here today?"
"Paying duty," Bill answered quickly.
The clerk nodded, unsurprised. Most people who walked through these doors came for exactly that.
"Hand me your dock chit. I need to verify the details."
Bill slid the slip across. The man scanned it, made a quick note, then looked up again.
"Fifty barrels of beer, valued at fifty thousand coppers. Standard duty would be twenty percent—ten thousand coppers. However, His Grace Prince Gaemon recently issued a decree reducing tariffs on everyday necessities. Beer now falls under the halved rate, so you only owe five thousand coppers."
Bill's jaw dropped. Then a huge grin split his face. Five thousand instead of ten? That was practically a gift!
He counted out thirteen silver moons—each worth three hundred and ninety-two coppers—and slid them over. The clerk counted carefully, then returned one silver stag and five copper stars as change.
(And yes, Westeros's currency system is every bit as maddening as it sounds. One gold dragon equals thirty silver moons, two hundred and ten silver stags, or eleven thousand seven hundred and sixty coppers. Silver comes in two flavors—moons and stags—with one moon worth seven stags. Copper is even worse: copper stars at the top, then copper bushels, half-bushels, plain coppers, and tiny copper bits—two bits to a copper. The whole mess has lasted thousands of years because every fractured kingdom minted its own coins, and even after Aegon's Conquest no one ever bothered to fix it.)
Bill pocketed the change, still grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery.
"Pleasure doing business," he said cheerfully, and practically skipped out of the hall.
Outside, John was waiting with the first load already on a handcart.
"Only half the tax, my lord?"
"Only half!" Bill laughed, clapping his man on the shoulder. "Our prince just gave us a proper welcome. Let's get these barrels to the warehouse before he changes his mind!"
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