Drawing Cards in the Middle Ages to Rise in Ranks

Eira Port is truly prosperous.

All kinds of exotic birds and beasts, rare treasures, dazzling to behold.

The city's wealth reminds old Hassan of the times he visited Damascus in his youth.

Though small in scale, it clearly already shows signs of flourishing, no wonder ports like Aqaba have become deserted.

Cinnamon, cloves, pepper, cardamom, gems, high-quality horses, and silk goods from India; Nubian slaves, frankincense, myrrh from Ethiopia; locally produced refined plate armor, fermented grape juice, white paper, and theological books.

Merchants at their respective stalls display their goods, while more upscale valuables are typically sold in nearby commercial houses.

On the streets, fully armed patrols maintain order.

The bulletin board has three large lines of text written in various languages.

Thieves lose a hand, fraudsters lose their tongue, tax evaders have their property confiscated and are exiled to hard labor in Sinai.

In Alexandria Port, spices, gems, and other valuables are subject to a quarter heavy tax.

And at Eira Port, the tax officer named Mueller has also raised this figure to a quarter, calling it the luxury tax.

As for the import tax on grains, it's been lowered to ten percent.

But even at a quarter, spice merchants can still earn a substantial profit, definitely not enough to switch to being grain merchants, just a matter of earning a bit less.

This series of heavy taxes is also the reason why by the time spices reach Europe, their prices have multiplied dozens of times.

Because each place takes a tax cut, and every transaction demands a markup.

Within the port, densely packed white sails await berthing access.

Some city-state merchants from the Apennine Peninsula have also gathered here, preparing to act as middlemen, ready to purchase spices and directly transport them back via the Mediterranean route.

The goods old Hassan and his group brought were quickly sold at a suitable price.

The price offered by the buyers was very fair, and they were easy to talk to, providing weighty Dinar Silver Coins.

Old Hassan's son and the tribe members were all smiles.

Yet his face showed little joy, as he proved himself deceived.

Eira Port is a paradise, where the faces of those who have settled seem to reflect light.

That is the glow of hope for the future.

The local lord, that Count Losa, is certainly not a butcher.

Old Hassan once again harbored the idea he had during his conversation with the traveler, of relocating the entire tribe.

"Father, let's go to the tavern for some fun."

Watching the lively tavern, old Hassan initially thought to reprimand them since he's a devoted Fire Worshiper, how could he touch alcohol, the tool of demons?

But then he recalled the devout and sacred face of the imam, his heart simmered with some resentment.

"Go ahead."

"After such a hard journey, everyone deserves a break."

The tribe members, puzzled at first, soon cheered loudly.

The atmosphere in the tavern was very lively.

Many gathered, passionately playing a card game called "Gwent Card."

The young men under old Hassan's hand, though they barely understood it, quickly became engrossed.

The tavern door opened.

Old Hassan again saw those armored cavalrymen with wings, this time, as they were in the same tavern, and because they were closer, he could see more clearly.

Those wings, it turned out, were merely decorations, likely composed of swan or crane feathers affixed together.

The armor they wore looked like a solid steel plate covered with a garment, seemingly impenetrable.

These winged cavalry politely ordered a few drinks from the bartender, sat on barrels beside the bar and chatted softly, drank up, then politely bid farewell to the bartender and left the tavern.

Someone remarked, "The Count's winged cavalry are the most virtuous knights I've ever seen!"

"What kind of knights are they?"

A knight wearing a cloak with a hunting dog crest retorted indignantly, drinking a cup of alcohol.

Compared to the barren Sinai Territory, many knights with land there prefer residing at Eira Port.

"They're just cavalry, showing off and parading around all day, utterly ridiculous."

The knight's face was sour.

He had been unsatisfied for a long time because Losa favored appointing former heretics as officials rather than valuing them, the knights.

This was a common issue.

With more knights seeking allegiance with Losa, few were assigned high positions.

This naturally stirred dissatisfaction among some.

But Losa paid it no mind, as he wasn't lacking in knight loyalties; should they be displeased, they could leave.

If anyone broke the law, they'd be executed or exiled according to regulations.

The prestige and degree of authority Losa had in his territory far surpassed what outsiders could imagine.

Old Hassan and the tribe members drank, quickly feeling tipsy.

Suddenly, he instinctively reached for his pocket, his expression drastically changed—his money bag was gone.

"Stop drinking!"

"Quickly check if the money bag is left anywhere!"

The group, initially tipsy, was instantly sobered by cold sweat.

The bartender remarked, "If you lost something, you can go find the winged cavalry."

"Oh, by the way, did you pay taxes?"

Old Hassan nodded quickly, "Of course, we paid at the port when selling goods."

"Then it's fine, the winged cavalry are obliged to protect your personal and property safety, go find them."

Old Hassan, partly doubting but holding onto a sliver of hope, found the winged cavalry patrolling the street.

"Stolen?"

The winged cavalry's face changed slightly, chuckled, "Alright, we've noted it, I'll solve this case promptly."

Old Hassan hesitated, then was reassured by the winged cavalry's advice, "For now, don't leave Eira Port; the thief is likely an outsider, having just been to the tavern, the scope isn't large. You should get your money back soon."

"Good, thank you."

Old Hassan promptly bowed.

The group lost their spirits for enjoyment, found a random inn, and crowded into a room to wait.

Later in the evening.

Someone knocked on the door.

The winged cavalry seen earlier during the day, escorting a sorrowful young Bedouin boy, arrived at the inn.

Thud.

The heavy money bag was tossed by the winged cavalry, "Count it up, does the amount match?"

Old Hassan hurriedly opened the money bag, counted it roughly, and it was spot on.

"Yes, sir."

The winged cavalry smiled broadly, "Glad to hear the amount matches, come to the square tomorrow morning to witness justice, the young lad committed theft and must lose an arm."

Old Hassan's expression chilled, yet he felt a hint of satisfaction.

That money was the salvation of my entire tribe, you damned little brat!

"Yes, we'll definitely be there."

He then took out a handful of silver coins from the money bag, intending to give them to the winged cavalry.

The visitor quickly gestured dismissively, "That's unnecessary, it's our duty, your gratitude isn't needed—accepting bribes would also mean losing an arm."

Old Hassan was slightly astounded.

"Good night, everyone."

The winged cavalry waved.

"Could I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

The winged cavalry paused slightly, replied, "Just call me Ulm."

"Thank you once again, Mr. Ulm."

"You're welcome."

Watching the winged cavalry's silhouette retreating into the distance, old Hassan hesitated, then suddenly rushed forward.

"Mr. Ulm, my tribe and I wish to relocate and settle at Eira Port..."