Tiberius stared at the land deed with Jules's name written across the top and nearly cried.
Finally. After walking every damn tightrope in this world, he'd actually carved out some real property!
"Kid, you think just getting the deed and coughing up that gut-punching transfer and registration tax is the end of it? Hah!" Vito tossed the quill down and looked at the beaming Tiberius with pure contempt. "Look at you, all proud of yourself. Pathetic."
"Listen up, kid, and try not to let your jaw hit the floor. You're about to meet Lys's specialty: tax collectors. Or as I like to call them—bloodsucking vampires. Take your pick."
Vito started counting on his fingers.
"First, the estates! Those one hundred and twenty slaves? Every single one gets hit with the 'mouth tax.' Don't even think about dodging it—every breathing body counts unless you can prove they'll be dead tomorrow. And you pay it every year. That's the big one."
"Then there's the land tax. Yeah, every acre registered in the city books gets taxed by size and quality. But in reality you still slip the bastards a 'favor,' otherwise they'll look at a pile of rocks and swamp and swear it's prime wheat-growing soil with 'high development potential.' I once saw a taxman register a muddy riverbank as 'underdeveloped fertile wetland.' Open your eyes and lie through your teeth—that's their motto!"
"Livestock gets taxed too! Oxen, horses, mules, donkeys—every working animal, per head. Supposedly based on their teeth and condition… but if you don't grease the collector's palm, your half-dead mule that can barely walk gets listed as 'prime breeding stock in its peak years.' Tax doubles overnight!"
"Oh, you think you'll just raise pigs, sheep, chickens, ducks, geese for meat and wool? Ha! There's a special 'herd tax' for large-scale livestock. If you go over the legal limit, sorry—pay up!"
"Fish ponds and streams? Over a certain size, taxed. They don't care if it's a crystal-clear koi pond or a mosquito-infested mudhole that only grows leeches!"
"Roads! Yes, the road right outside your gate! Lys tax law says every estate must keep all cart-worthy roads within a certain radius raised one foot high, paved with gravel or packed earth. Plus, you're responsible for planting trees and digging drainage ditches along the main roads to 'ensure smooth passage.' Mandatory, kid. They call it 'beautification.' Another fat bill. Then you pay the 'road maintenance tax'—even though you'll end up paying for the labor, stones, and work yourself. Miss one payment and they'll literally dig up the junction to the main road and cut you off. Not one copper less!"
"Mill tax? Oh yeah. Even if you just grind your own flour, you pay the city every year or they'll send men to tear the mill down. Hilarious, right? We built it, we bought the stones, we cut the timber, we own the slaves and the animals—but we still pay the city every year. Refuse? They have the legal right to demolish it as an 'illegal structure'!"
Tiberius couldn't stay quiet. "Wait, Vito—that doesn't match the 'free citizens' rights' Lys keeps bragging about. It's our own property… the mill, the roads…"
"Free citizens? Rights?" Vito rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "They'll slap you with 'obstructing the free market' so fast your head spins. I still don't understand how our shitty little road and our creaky old mill have anything to do with the 'free market' in the city center. If that market is so fragile it needs to suck blood from our broken road and grain mill, it deserves to collapse!"
Vito was picking up speed now, spit flying like crossbow bolts. "And don't get me started on selling farm products—like wine. You want to make and sell wine? Fine. Buy the wine-selling license. It's rare as dragon eggs and costs a fortune. No connections? Good luck selling a single drop. Then there's the wine-production tax—calculated by the number of copper stills on the estate. Seven Hells, even Westerosi lords don't go prying up floorboards in peasant huts looking for home-brew kettles. These bastards are greedier than any knight!"
"Forge tax! Same deal—per forge, whether it's a proper blacksmith's or a little mud stove for patching pots. Want to make a few hoes and sickles for the slaves? Pay up!"
"Forestry tax—if you sell timber, it's 'commercial activity,' pay up! Fur tax—sell hides, pay up! Oil-press tax—per machine! Who the hell in Lys doesn't grow olives and flax?!"
"Loom tax—same thing! Even the broken ones in the slave huts count, though they 'graciously' discount them by a quarter. Pfft—some lord's 'mercy.' Hearth tax—every smoky little fire pit in the slave barracks gets counted. Building tax—that's why your uncle wants to tear down half the slave shacks first. No choice but to build new ones… and pay tax on them too!"
"And that's not even the end!" Vito was waving both hands now, running out of fingers. "Every year when the taxmen come to 'measure' the land, update the registers, and write our pitiful harvest into the city books, you pay a 'scribing fee.' Plus a special 'parchment fee' just for them!"
"You think that's all? Ha! We're just getting started!" Vito's voice rose. "That new house your uncle got in the city, plus this villa outside the walls? Foundation tax! Wall tax—by height and length! You build a wall to keep out thieves and the first thief through the gate is the taxman. They steal better than any cutpurse!"
"That's just the countryside estates. The city properties? The taxes there are even worse!"
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