After resting at the tavern for the night, Salomon headed to the market the next day to gather information. Along the way, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a familiar face, soone he felt he had seen sowhere before.
'No, I can't stay in this place any longer.'
Salomon abruptly changed his plans, slipping out of Brest under the cover of darkness and retracing his steps to their initial landing zone. Five nights later, a faint glimr of light flickered across the surface of the sea. The two n rowed a small boat out to make the rendezvous.
"Password?"
The challenge echoed down from the ship's rail. Salomon glanced up to see over a dozen silhouettes brandishing light crossbows, the tallic tips of their quarrels gleaming under the moonlight.
Salomon called back, "The raven circles the oak tree five tis."
With the correct password given, the two n smoothly boarded the brigantine and retreated into the cabin to rest. The gentle rocking of the hull lulled them into such a deep, untroubled slumber that they slept straight through breakfast the following morning.
By mid-morning, Salomon erged and strolled over to the rail. Generous sunlight spilled across the sea, baking the deck until the wooden planks radiated a comforting warmth beneath his boots. The ship rose and fell with a steady, reassuring rhythm against the waves, while the lush, winding coastline of Francia stretched out to their left.
The brigantine did not sail straight back to Jersey. Instead, it cruised along the western coast of Francia on a routine patrol mission.
A rather relaxed atmosphere pervaded the deck. Five sailors huddled in the shade of the quarterdeck, patiently nding a spare lateen sail. Slender needles threaded with linen thread darted nimbly through the thick sailcloth.
Two fourteen-year-old cadet officers leaned against the port side, scanning the receding coastline. Occasionally, they took out paper and pen to log notable landmarks—a church perched high atop a cliff, the charred remains of a fishing village, or a vast, sprawling vineyard.
By relying on these reference points, the ship could accurately pinpoint its location and adjust its course and speed accordingly.
So ti later, the lookout's voice rang out from above, "Two single-masted fishing boats spotted to the southwest!"
Hearing the alert, the first mate took control of the ship's wheel, barking orders for the crew to adjust the rigging and swiftly close the distance on the two Frankish fishing boats.
Realizing they could not escape, the fishing boats halted in the water. A figure hoisted a black pennant high up the mast, its fabric displaying two Norse runes and four digits.
As the brigantine drew near, the crew leveled their loaded light crossbows, aiming down at the fishern from their superior vantage point. Shortly after, a squad of Viking sailors rowed a small boat over to the vessels.
Six fishern occupied the boat, their hold packed with nurous barrels of herring but devoid of contraband. The leading military officer pulled out his notebook. "You haven't paid your taxes for this quarter. Will you settle it now?"
"Here is our tax." The Frankish captain produced two deniers. They were part of Charles the Bald's latest issue of debased currency, containing roughly forty percent less silver than those minted during Charlemagne's reign.
"Not enough!"
With a miserable grimace, the Frankish captain dug out a third silver coin. The officer used a pair of shears to snip off one-third of it before tossing the remaining chunk back to the man.
Following that, the officer drafted a tax receipt detailing the date, location, his own na, and his assigned warship. "Make sure you keep this safe."
The Frankish captain plastered on an obliging smile. "Understood, I know the rules."
The Viking sailors then rowed their small boat toward the second vessel. This one lacked a black pennant. Upon questioning them, the officer learned that the boat had just been built in May and had yet to register with the British Navy.
"Registration fee, plus taxes for this quarter," the officer demanded. After collecting the silver, he handed over a black pennant bearing a unique serial number.
Flipping open his notebook, the officer jotted down the new boat's dinsions, hull type, and the owner's na next to its designated number, then rattled off a litany of procedural warnings. Once their duties concluded, the Vikings rowed back to the brigantine. Salomon leaned against the rail, silently observing the entire exchange.
Francia had completely lost its naval supremacy. As a result, anyti their fishing boats ventured out to sea, they had to register with the British Navy and pay a quarterly tax. Occasionally, these fishern would even peddle intelligence of varying reliability to the Vikings.
The ship continued its patrol, sailing as far south as the northern coastline of Iberia.
On their return voyage, passing by the Garonne Estuary, they encountered a knarr ship flying the banner of the Frankish army. Terrified, the opposing crew imdiately banked hard and fled frantically up the river channel.
The brigantine abandoned any thoughts of pursuit, instead hugging the coastline all the way back to Jersey. After disembarking, Salomon sought out Inspector Blackfish, who oversaw the Breizh branch, to submit his reconnaissance report. It was an objective account of everything he had witnessed, completely free of exaggeration or omission.
Salomon guessed that the intelligence network had at least twenty agents operating within Breizh. If the information he provided was flawed, his superiors would sniff it out in no ti.
Once the debriefing concluded, Inspector Blackfish announced so good news:
The previous year, Salomon had submitted a proposal detailing the use of seaweed fertilizer. Following a limited rollout in the coastal regions, the results had been remarkably effective. The Minister of Agriculture and Education, Kemi Wildfire, was highly pleased and had invited Salomon to take up an official post at the Londinium Central Authority.
"I'd be willing, of course I'd be willing. Breizh is crawling with Frankish knights these days. I couldn't stomach staying here for even one more day."
Salomon eagerly accepted the transfer order. Two days later, he boarded a ship bound for the city he had been yearning for—Londinium.
"Haha, I'm finally back."
Imrsed in the bustling prosperity of the city, Salomon strode down the pier with a sprightly step. Not far away, treadwheel cranes hoisted bundles of beaver pelts, along with far more precious shipnts of fox pelts and bear pelts.
'My old hat was chewed full of holes by moths. It's high ti I bought a new beaver soft hat.'
With Bjorn expanding trade operations in the New World, an increasing volu of furs and animal fats poured into Britain. The sheer supply soon outstripped market demand, driving fur prices down steadily until even the common populace could afford such luxuries.
Salomon had also heard rumors that a portion of these furs was resold to the Moors, who then exported them to Eastern Ro and Italy. Although the two factions remained fiercely hostile, it completely failed to stem the lucrative flow of comrce.
By the sa token, a thriving smuggling network existed between Britain and Francia, funneling highly sought-after commodities like whale oil candles, furs, and paper directly to desperate Frankish nobles.
For instance, when Charles the Bald's young prince was recently baptized at the Saint-Denis Basilica, the ceremony utilized over a hundred whale oil candles sourced from Greenland. The indigenous people there hunted the whales, harvested the blubber, and sold it to Bjorn. The raw fat was then shipped to Britain, rendered into high-quality whale oil candles, and funneled through an elaborate underground supply chain straight into Paris.
On the flip side, British nobles thoroughly enjoyed gorging themselves on white truffles from Northern Italy and fine wine from Francia. Even though the Canary Islands produced a steady supply of wine, the aristocrats felt its flavor lacked authenticity, vastly inferior to the genuine red wine of Bordeaux and Burgundy.
Leaving the bustling docks behind, Salomon followed the main thoroughfare toward the western district. Since his reassignnt involved an interdepartntal transfer, he needed to visit the Departnt of Administrative Affairs to finalize his paperwork.
Fish Street, situated near the Royal Palace, served as the central hub for various administrative headquarters. Salomon wandered around until he located the courtyard at Fish Street No. 2. A three-story stone main keep stood proudly at the front, its austere gray exterior matching the uniform architectural style that dominated the rest of Fish Street.
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