After listening to Casani's account, Duke Rabon's face suddenly darkened.

He stood up, walked to the broad window, and looked at the Saint's Grandson sitting upright on the high seat. "This Saint's Grandson really does trust his people, doesn't he, daring to let these people hold wealth in their hands."

A short farmer sitting on a noble throne—how ridiculous, how absurd.

Yet this farmer not only defeated King Leia and won a victory that shocked the world, he also enjoyed prestige and renown at home on a scale that was hard to even imagine.

Duke Rabon was sure their Falan Kingdom was definitely stronger than the Holy Alliance. Last year Falan's fiscal revenue reached as high as 4.8 million gold pounds, and they had nearly 120,000 in their Standing Army.

But he wasn't sure the Falan commoners lived better than those in the Holy Alliance.

If the Falan commoners learned what things were like here, the immigration wave heading for the frontier might very well turn into an immigration wave heading for the Thousand River Valley instead.

"He's already let these people hold power; what's money in comparison?" Casani followed behind Duke Rabon, likewise gazing at the Saint's Grandson.

Only now did Duke Rabon turn his attention back to the report that was being read aloud.

By this time Qianqian had sat down because her throat was hoarse; she'd been replaced by the loud-voiced Madlan, who was now reading.

Compared with the relatively serious Qianqian, Madlan's language was much livelier.

"…Speaking of tariffs, our Holy Alliance's tariff revenue this year is very gratifying—altogether 203,000 gold pounds."

Rabon nodded slightly; that tariff revenue still looked quite normal.

Business is business—especially doing business with the Falan. Once import volumes go up, tariff revenues naturally follow.

Besides, the Holy Alliance had its spice and sugar trade.

"Of course, our Holy Alliance's main export products are still our four main legions." Shaking the report in his hand, Madlan said in a clear voice, "Sugar, spices, grain, and woolens. These four items have export values as high as 1.4 million gold pounds, yielding 96,000 gold pounds in tariff revenue."

The surrounding abbots and cardinals immediately chimed in: "Guided by the Pope's blessing, ably governed by the First Minister."

The representatives on the dais, especially those hailing from Black Snake Bay, all raised their heads with shared pride.

The sugar was made from brown sugar in the sugar workshops of Langsande County, while the spices were grown on plantations in their Black Snake Bay.

Especially those plantations in Black Snake Bay: in four years they'd seen an explosive increase of nearly a hundred thousand Falan immigrants—otherwise how could spice exports be so high?

How many shareholders and shipowners had made their fortunes off the profits of the spice trade?

If they still had some misgivings about exporting grain, then the export of sugar and spices had the representatives all clapping in approval.

The representative system in the Thousand River Valley was newly established; the representatives all held lofty beliefs about the institution and the people they represented.

They had yet to develop the bad habits of later ages; they praised what deserved praise and criticized what deserved criticism.

Listening to these jaw-dropping figures, Alexei suddenly turned and asked Gloev, "What's our Bear Castle Territory's annual tariff revenue?"

"Our Bear Castle Territory has a long history of commercial development, with a very rich variety of merchants."

Alexei frowned and asked Teomir beside him, "Then how long will it take for our export volume to reach this level?"

"Our commercial plan aims to raise product quality during the process of adjusting toll posts, and to form a sound tax system."

"Then how much commercial tax revenue in total did Bear Castle Territory have last year?"

"Don't say it, don't say it…" Gloev lightly patted Alexei's shoulder, his tone almost pleading.

But Alexei was stubborn by nature and wouldn't let it go. He put down the juice in his hand. "You're the man in charge of caravans in Bear Castle Territory—don't you have any opinion?"

"…"

"......"

".........Our Bear Castle Territory has a very long commercial history…"

While Alexei's side was already feeling the flames licking his brows, Duke Rabon likewise felt rage rushing to his head.

On the beautiful white paper produced in the Golden Horn Bay Holy Throne City was a series of messy arithmetic lines.

Duke Rabon's hair was disheveled; his pen-holding hand trembled slightly, while Casani lowered his head, the corner of his mouth showing a faint, bitter smile.

So His Lordship had noticed after all.

"On their exports of sugar and spices to us, and on grain and woolens exported to Leia, the Holy Alliance only charges less than ten percent tariff."

Grinding his teeth, Duke Rabon slammed his palm down on the sheet covered in equations before him. "Yet on our daily sundries, high-end furniture, and glass, they charge an average tariff of twelve and a half percent.

Tobacco, high-grade fabrics, porcelain and silk—they charge an average tariff as high as twenty-two and a half percent!

I was wondering where the remaining 107,000 gold pounds of tariff revenue came from—so that's where."

No wonder Duke Rabon was furious. It had always been Falan that played the game of high tariffs on imports and low tariffs on exports.

On a high-end fabric exported from Falan, the export tariff (what Falan called "merchant's tax") was only five percent, but the Holy Alliance's import tariff was actually twenty-five percent.

Multiplying the import tariff fivefold made high-end fabrics extremely expensive inside the Holy Alliance.

Glass was the same story: from a three-percent tariff, it turned into twenty percent once it got to the Holy Alliance—an almost sevenfold jump, making the retail price exorbitant.

This was forcing the rich inside the Holy Alliance to buy the Holy Alliance's own glass products and invest in the Holy Alliance's own glass workshops. No wonder Horn had used glassmaking techniques to trade with King Jiji?

So this was what he'd been waiting for!

And in the end, the Thousand River Valley that had crawled out of this cesspit had smeared shit all over Falan's face—is this a joke?

If it were any other country, Falan would already be dispatching legions to cause trouble on the border. The royal family was being far too lenient with the Thousand River Valley, weren't they?

Could it really be, as the rumors said, that His Highness Charles VIII and this farmer Horn had something going on?

"I remember the South Thousand River Valley Free Trade Agreement stipulates that tariffs on both sides are to be equal, unified, and mutually coordinated, right?"

"Yes, and we also levy heavy tariffs on their high-end furniture and high-grade fabrics…"

"Equal my ass!" Duke Rabon paced circles in front of the table. "If the tariffs were jointly negotiated, how did we end up with something this outrageous?

Our exports should be lightly taxed and theirs heavily taxed, that's how it should be! Who signed that treaty? He ought to be dragged out and beheaded!"

Casani's smile grew even more bitter. "The treaty was initiated by His Excellency the Prime Minister, who sent a special negotiating team…"

Inwardly he prayed hard that His Lordship wouldn't keep digging; the water here was far too deep.

He had already hinted earlier: the profits of the Spice Company, and the huge influx of immigrants into the plantations of Black Snake Bay.

But Duke Rabon still hadn't caught on.

His Majesty the King had deliberately transferred Duke Rabon back from the frontier, bringing this "clean" vassal who'd been far from royal politics back into the fold.

He'd even specifically ordered that Rabon attend this work report and write his impressions afterward.

It was so that, once he returned, he would hear certain things and say certain things himself.

Other nobles understood what they should and shouldn't know, and naturally avoided the topic.

But Rabon had been away from the kingdom's politics for too long and didn't know this crucial point.

Some issues are fine as long as they're never weighed; once you put them on the scale, not even a thousand pounds will hold them down.

When great men clash and a single drop of blood is spilled, it's enough to drown a little ant like him. He still wanted a couple more years of life.

"I'm asking you: who signed it?"

In the end, the question was asked.

Casani took a deep breath, his face as long as a funeral, and said, "It was Baron Blot—Baron Blot Lakin."