"First—the pawn shop!" Vito jabbed a finger at the deed. "Apprentices and masters pay guild dues. Once your turnover hits a certain number, you hand the taxman the 'ledger tax.' Then every year you renew the pawn license. Oh, and if you stay open after dark? Sorry—'lamp-oil fee'!"
"And don't forget the two taxes no Lys shop ever escapes: 'street maintenance fee' and 'security tax.' Seven Hells, those tax collectors and so-called peace officers only show their faces when it's time to collect. The rest of the year you wouldn't see their asses if they were shitting in your front yard! They lie on some whore's belly raking in coin while I'm out in the rain and wind earning copper scraps. Don't pay? Ha! Then you're 'violating Lys's traditional values of honest labor'!"
"Instead of relying on those black-hearted dogs," Vito patted the heavy crossbow on the rack, "I'd rather trust this beauty. At least it can put a bolt clean through a thief—from mouth to asshole."
"The olive-oil stall is the same story—street fee, security tax, no exceptions."
"Then your oil comes in from the estates. The moment your wagons enter the ten-mile market zone around the city—boom! Taxmen are waiting on the road. Keep those coppers and silvers handy, because that's the 'entry tax.' Seven Hells, some slaves out in the colonies still ask why they never see city walls but their masters still pay 'entry tax' on the road."
Tiberius let out a disbelieving laugh. "You pay to enter the city before you even reach the gates?"
"Don't laugh yet—it gets better!" Vito rubbed his nose with a mocking grin. "When you actually reach the gate, another taxman is waiting. Sees your big wagon? 'Gate tax'—pay up!"
"The dye workshop looks like a golden goose. Dyes and silk do make money, but! Every single vat gets slapped with a ridiculous 'smoke tax' because boiling the dyes pollutes the air. Fine, I'll give them that one—it stinks. Finished dyed silk? Perfect—'luxury tax'! I can live with that too, it sells for a fortune." Vito's spit was flying now. He slammed the table.
"But besides the bloodsucking taxmen, the guilds are waiting! Every apprentice and master in the workshop has to pay guild dues out of their own pocket on top of their wages, or they can't work in the trade!"
Vito saw Tiberius's skeptical look and turned dead serious. "Don't underestimate those monopoly bastards, kid. Their hearts are colder than any sellsword's. Skip the dues, ignore their bullshit rules, and they'll hire thugs to smash your workshop at night, torch the place, and call it a 'labor dispute.'"
"Then there's the 'cleaning tax' to the city government—supposedly for disposing of dye waste. I bet they just dump it in the sea. Cleaning? The only thing they clean is their whores' gold purses!"
Finally he picked up the two light ship deeds. "As for these two rickety oar-sailors? Port registration tax by tonnage, plus 'sea-merchant guild fees.' Skip those and suddenly your ship hits a 'reef,' meets 'pirates,' has an 'accident,' or gets 'left to sink'—pick your poison!"
"You think that's the end? Ha! War with Volantis is coming, so the Lys taxmen are getting creative." Vito dragged the word out with mocking drama.
He started counting on fresh fingers. "Ever heard of the 'hot-spring bath tax'? Yeah—that nice warm pool in your villa. Now you know why your uncle made that face like he'd swallowed a fly when he saw it on the list. Bottomless money pit!"
"Window tax! Count every window, pay by size. That's why half the rich houses in Lys have bricked-up windows. Door tax too—they say more doors means you're richer… does a dog flap count as a door?"
"Oh, right—you sword-swinging mercenaries get an extra 'weapon carry tax' when entering the city!"
Tiberius couldn't stay quiet. "That's insane! We're fighting for Lys! What kind of mercenary doesn't carry a sword?"
"Feel it's unfair? Go argue with the gate captain. See whose logic is sharper—his tongue or your blade." Vito laughed coldly.
"They call it a 'weapon deposit' for 'city safety,' so you'll 'think twice.' Supposedly you get it back when you leave… to this day I've never seen a single copper returned!"
Vito was getting angrier by the second. He snatched a sealed letter off the table and slammed it in front of Tiberius.
"And the worst one yet! Our beloved Lord Lysandro—working so hard for Lys—has just proposed a new bill in the council! 'Special War Tax,' 'Victory Bonds'… sounds noble, right? Really it's just scraping grease off anyone with a full purse before the fighting starts. Rich, landed, factory owners, big slave-holders, ship owners—nobody escapes!"
He grabbed his wine cup, drained it in one gulp, then smashed the empty cup down so hard the inkwell jumped.
"But here's the funny part…" His rage suddenly twisted into a wicked, gleeful smirk. He leaned in close.
"Heh. This knife is cutting every fat sheep in Lys. Guess what? The whole city is in an uproar! Rich merchants, guild masters, ship owners, plantation lords—everyone's screaming. Council sounds like a fish market. They say First Triarch Bambarro's face turned green!"
Vito couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. "Old fox Lysandro is using the war prep as an excuse to fill his own vaults and war chest while stirring the pot. His reputation is sky-high right now and he's got House Haen behind him—this bill might actually pass. When it does… heh, plenty of people will be hurting worse than us!"
Tiberius felt dizzy from the endless list of taxes. Clutching at one last shred of hope, he muttered almost desperately, "Okay… but they can't possibly tax breathing in Lys, right?"
Vito let out a short, sharp bark of laughter—pure mockery. He slowly pulled another thick parchment from the stack, moving with deliberate, ominous calm.
"Why not?" He cleared his throat and began reading in the exact nasal, official voice of a tax collector:
"'Whereas certain workshops—particularly dye works, metal smelting, lime kilns, glass blowing, etc.—emit smoke, dust, and peculiar odors during production that may adversely affect the air quality of Lys, and in order to safeguard the health and well-being of all citizens, demonstrate the benevolent care of the city administration, and fund necessary purification and monitoring efforts, the following tax is hereby levied—Air Purification Tax!' How about that, Tiberius?"
He dropped the official tone instantly, voice dripping with contempt. "Ptooey! See, kid? Breathing? Pretty damn close! Taxing the air because it 'may cause adverse effects'! And how exactly do they plan to 'purify' this stinking mess of fish guts and spice reek? Hire Myrish mages to summon wind? Have Braavosi dancers fan the smoke into the sea with their silk scarves? Stuff it into whores' stockings? Who knows! They collect the money first and stuff it in their own vaults!"
Tiberius's throat felt dry. He swallowed hard. "What about… water?"
Vito had clearly been waiting for that one. He pulled out another sheet with practiced ease.
"Listen!" Same pompous voice: "'Whereas certain workshops—dye works, olive-oil presses, tanneries, smelters, etc.—discharge wastewater and residue containing harmful substances into rivers or groundwater, and in order to protect the long-term cleanliness and safety of Lys's water sources, prevent public health risks, and cover supervision and treatment costs, the following tax is hereby levied—Water Source Cleaning and Maintenance Tax!'"
He tossed the paper aside. "In plain speak: water-cleaning tax. Doesn't matter if you use city water or not—if you run a workshop and produce (or they think you produce) wastewater, you pay!"
"Oh, and we're not done!" Vito reached under the table and pulled out a fat, cowhide-bound book that looked heavy enough to kill a man. Tiberius's eyes filled with pure despair.
"Lys Legal Code, kid." Vito grinned. "Cost me a hundred gold… but I paid in 'iron coin,' so the old 'ironborn tradition' came in handy for once."
"Waterworks tax—yeah, kid, every well in the Lys region? Pay to use it. The famous terracotta pipe system Lys is so proud of? Also taxed."
Tiberius slumped back in his chair, hands over his face, voice muffled and defeated. "So… Vito… just tell me straight. Is there anything we don't have to pay tax on? There has to be something! We're not even Lyseni!"
Vito raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the rare sight of the unflappable "Lightning Kid" looking completely broken.
He pretended to think for a moment, then flipped to another page with theatrical slowness.
"Hmm… how about this?" His tone mixed mockery and dark amusement.
"'Lys Citizen Honor Tax'… sounds impressive, right? But," he snorted, "this one we don't have to worry about. It's only for people with full Lys citizen status—the so-called 'free men.' The price they pay for enjoying the 'glorious light of Lys.'"
"As for us sword-swinging foreign sellswords? We haven't earned that 'honor'… yet."
"Oh, wait—" Vito suddenly remembered something and flipped again. "Although we're not citizens, as long-term foreign residents we do pay the 'residence tax'!"
"Black and white, right here!" He read in his rough voice: "'Any non-Lys citizen residing continuously for more than ninety days within Lys and its territories, and possessing a fixed dwelling, shall be deemed a long-term foreign resident and must annually purchase a Residence Permit to enjoy the protection and high-quality services of the Lys city-state…'"
He looked up at Tiberius's stunned face and grinned. "See? Ninety continuous days, and we have a permanent camp—perfect fit!"
He switched back to the pompous official tone: "'Gratitude to all who contribute to Lys's prosperity and enjoy the safety and order provided by the city-state…' Ptooey! Plain speak: another excuse to fleece us. You pay to breathe, pay to drink water, pay to stand on the damn ground!"
"Anything else?" Tiberius felt the room spinning.
"Oh, plenty!" Vito gave that you're still so young smirk again.
"Cough—foreign property tax… just got houses, estates, and villas, right? Here comes the tax! I bet they wrote this one specifically for newly rich outsiders like us. Time to let the city 'share' in your sudden wealth. After all, you earned it under the 'protection of glorious Lys'—what's a little cut?!"
He didn't give Tiberius time to recover. "And non-citizen military service substitution tax: according to the City Defense and Conscription Act, all able-bodied free men residing in Lys must participate in defense during war or emergency…"
He paused dramatically, face twisted in absurd disbelief.
"But! We—the White Company—signed a contract in black and white to fight for Lys! Yet this law says we foreign mercenaries can't even stand on the walls—afraid we'll 'cause trouble'! Want to 'fulfill this glorious duty'? Fine—pay up! Even though we drill every day for exactly this! My life is on the line in the field and now they tell me it's a right I have to buy? Brilliant!"
"Oh, almost forgot—the wartime special profits tax!" Vito pointed at another clause. "The council believes that during war some people may obtain 'excessive' profits, so a tax must be collected in advance… to prevent us from 'earning too much' and to keep us 'humble and vigilant'!"
By the end Tiberius finally understood why capitalism had its advantages.
This feudal system was designed from day one to eat people alive and pick their bones clean.
"Cough, kid, don't panic too much! These last few ridiculous ones only exist on paper. When real war comes the city won't dare collect them…" Vito coughed lightly.
"Why?"
"Idiot. If they actually tried to charge us sword-for-hire bastards a 'military service substitution tax' or a 'special profits tax' because we might make money, who the hell would defend Lys and the triarchs' pretty boys and dancing girls? The taxmen?!"
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