Valos walked down the main street of his town, and every step echoed with a throbbing pain in his temple. Yesterday's... no, *that guy's* drunken rampage from the day before had left visible traces. He stopped in front of the familiar sign of "The Merry Troll," or rather, what was left of it — the sign hung crookedly.
«A great start to a quiet life in the manor,» he thought with bitter irony. «Trashed the only decent tavern in the area.»
Corvus walked behind him, his white hair and red doublet the only bright spot against the backdrop of the dreary street. His face was stone.
The tavern door was propped up with a board. Without a second thought, Valos put his shoulder to it. With a crash and a cloud of dust, the door fell inward.
Inside was devastation. The owner, fat Bartholomew, with a plaster on his forehead and his arm in a cast, crawled out from behind the counter in fear. Seeing Valos, he turned even paler.
— M-Master Valos! I... I've already cleaned everything up! — he stammered.
— Quiet, Bart, — Valos cut him off, curiously examining a dent in the counter, apparently left by someone's head. — Count the losses. Tables, chairs, dishes, broken windows... The customer I threw out the window, is he still alive?
— A-Alive, sir! He's gone back to his hometown!
— Good... And you I threw out... — Valos glanced him over. Two weeks of incapacitation, moral damages, lost profit.
He took a tightly stuffed purse from his green doublet and threw it onto the counter with a loud thud.
— Here's three times more than the tables, chairs, and everything I broke are worth. Hire workers, buy new chairs and a table, sturdier ones. And order yourself a new sign.
Bartholomew stared at the purse. His fear gave way to shock, and then to joyful bewilderment.
— Master... I... I don't know what to say!
— Don't say anything. Just next time I come, it should be clean and bright in here, and your best wine should be on the table. *For free.* That'll be my share in your restored business. Deal?
— Y-yes, Master Valos! Of course!
Stepping outside, Valos felt dozens of eyes on him. News of his deed had already spread through the neighborhood.
«Good. Let them know that quarreling with me is expensive, but making peace is profitable.»
— Corvus, — he turned to his bodyguard. — Next stop — the bakery. We'll buy up all their fresh bread.
Corvus nodded silently. He had watched as Valos calculated the losses, assessed the risks, and invested the money not in ostentatious charity, but in restoring an asset and buying loyalty.
At the bakery, Valos acted with the same efficiency. He didn't hand out bread with a benefactor's saccharine smile. He placed a sack of loaves in the middle of the poorest quarter and announced, looking at the gathered crowd of hungry and poor people:
— Take it. Free today. We'll see about tomorrow. Remember who you owe your warm meal to. Maybe one day I'll ask something of you too. It's always useful when people owe you one.
The people greedily grabbed the bread, but in their eyes, besides gratitude, there was also fear and respect for this strange, almost demonic generosity.
«Investments in loyalty... and in future cheap labor. Fools see a handout, but I see a network of debts. Not bad at all for a start.»
Corvus walked beside him, and in his usually impassive eyes, a complex storm raged. He saw cynicism, calculation, and greed. But through them, for the first time, he glimpsed the shadow of what he could become.