Boundless Family Upgrades For The Deadbeat Lord

Three days after discovering that Althoff needed a court, Raymond discovered that apparently it also needed to define how heavy a pound was.

The revelation arrived in the Central Market through a shouting match loud enough to pull him away from Ysabel while she explained the latest shop leases.

Two grain merchants stood beside an overturned sack, surrounded by customers and neighboring traders.

One merchant, a thickset man named Bertram, held an iron weight above his head while the other pointed furiously at a balance scale.

”That is not a pound!” the second merchant shouted, snatching another weight from his own stall.

Bertram immediately shoved his weight toward him and snapped, ”I’ve used this weight for fourteen years. My father used weights made from the same standard before me.”

The other merchant slapped his own weight onto the table and replied, ”Then your father cheated people too, because yours is lighter than mine.”

Raymond stopped beside Ysabel and looked between two pieces of iron supposedly representing exactly the same quantity. ”Please tell me one of them is obviously fake.”

Ysabel took both weights, tested them in her hands, and frowned. ”Unfortunately, my Lord, that would make this simpler.”

She ordered one of her Trade Department clerks to fetch their reference scale while Bertram protested that his measurements came from his home village and had always been accepted there.

The second merchant, Hadrin, insisted his weights had been purchased in Valmere and therefore followed proper commercial measures. When the clerk returned, Ysabel weighed both pieces against a third reference kept by the Department.

Bertram’s was light. Hadrin’s was heavy.

Raymond stared at the three supposedly identical measures and asked, ”So which one is actually correct?”

Ysabel’s expression became uncomfortable. ”That depends on which regional standard we decide is correct, my Lord.”

That answer led to an inspection Raymond expected would occupy perhaps an hour. It consumed the afternoon.

Trade Department clerks moved stall by stall through the Central Market, comparing weights, scales, measuring rods, grain scoops, jars, and barrels.

The results were a disaster disguised as tradition. Refugees from different villages had brought slightly different local measures with them. Valmere merchants followed standards common in their town.

Rural traders sometimes used containers inherited through generations and knew quantities by habit rather than precise measurement. Two cloth sellers disagreed about the exact length represented by the same named unit.

Grain measures varied enough that a customer purchasing ten units from different stalls could receive noticeably different amounts while every merchant sincerely claimed to have measured correctly.

Not every discrepancy was innocent. Ysabel stopped at another grain stall, examined a set of beautifully finished iron weights, and handed one to Raymond.

”Feel the bottom, my Lord.”

Raymond turned it over and noticed a thin circular seam. A Trade clerk pried the plate loose, revealing a hollow cavity inside. The merchant went pale.

Raymond looked from the missing iron to the man’s face and asked, ”Let me guess. Another ancient village tradition?”

The merchant swallowed before claiming he had purchased the weights secondhand and never known they were altered.

Ysabel’s expression remained flat as she replied, ”Then you will have no objection to us checking your purchase records and calculating how long these have been used.”

The merchant suddenly looked considerably less enthusiastic about administrative thoroughness.

They found an altered balance scale two rows later. One arm had been subtly shortened so equal-looking loads were not equal at all. Then a clerk inspecting a brewer’s stall noticed something even more creative.

The brewer purchased grain using a large wooden barrel he called a standard measure but sold ale using another barrel bearing the same marked capacity.

The selling barrel was visibly smaller once both were placed together.

Raymond folded his arms and asked, ”You have two standard barrels?”

The brewer wiped sweat from his forehead and insisted, ”They came from different coopers, my Lord.”

Raymond glanced at Ysabel. She measured both before announcing, ”The barrel he uses when buying holds nearly twelve percent more.”

Raymond looked back at the brewer and remarked, ”Remarkable. Your barrels have somehow learned which direction money is moving.”

By evening, confiscated measuring tools covered a table inside the Trade Department. Some represented genuine regional differences.

Others represented fraud. The problem was that customers could not reliably distinguish between them.

A farmer bringing grain from an outer field might sell according to one measure, purchase flour according to another, buy cloth using a third local standard, and never realize how much value disappeared between transactions.

Raymond tapped one of the mismatched weights and said, ”We can’t have every transaction begin with an argument over what the numbers mean.”

Ysabel agreed, explaining that established merchant companies often carried their own calibrated measures precisely because regional differences caused disputes.

”Golden Road can protect itself,” she added, ”because it has experienced clerks and equipment. A farmer selling three sacks of barley cannot.”

Raymond called Mara, Roderic, Alaric, and representatives from Trade and Treasury into the discussion that evening. They kept the solution deliberately practical.

Althoff would establish official territorial standards for weight, length, and volume. Roderic would produce durable master weights from carefully measured metal.

Mara’s people would prepare standardized measuring rods, while approved containers would establish reference volumes for grain, liquids, and other bulk goods.

The master references would remain secured under the Administration, with working copies issued to Trade inspectors and the Central Market.

”And merchants don’t have to throw away every scale they own,” Raymond said as Ysabel drafted the regulations. ”If their equipment measures correctly against our standard, stamp it as inspected.”

Ysabel nodded and added, ”Periodic reinspection as well. Scales wear. Containers change. Some will undoubtedly change with assistance.”

Penalties required more argument. Raymond refused to treat every inaccurate village measure as deliberate fraud when no unified standard had existed before.

Merchants would receive a transition period to have equipment checked and corrected. After that, accidental discrepancies discovered during inspection required correction before continued use.

Deliberate manipulation was different. A hollowed weight, altered scale, false container, or knowingly fraudulent measure meant restitution to identifiable victims where practical, a substantial fine, and possible suspension of the merchant’s business license.

Repeated offenses could mean license revocation and prosecution before the new Magistrate Court.

Alaric looked at the growing regulations and observed, ”The court has not opened and we are already finding work for it.” Raymond sighed. ”At this rate, the magistrate is going to resign before we hire one.”

The following morning introduced another problem before the measurement regulations were even posted.

A Golden Road clerk arrived at the Trade Department carrying six Gold Coins that looked perfectly ordinary until Seraphine’s people had tested them.

Two had been clipped carefully around their edges, reducing their actual gold content. One contained noticeably less precious metal than its markings suggested. Another was a plated counterfeit with a cheaper core beneath a convincing exterior.

The remaining two were foreign coins accepted by a local shopkeeper at full Solarian value even though nobody involved had known their proper exchange value.

Raymond turned one counterfeit between his fingers and asked Ysabel, ”How many of these are circulating?”

Ysabel shook her head. ”We don’t know yet, my Lord. Probably not many, but trade volume is increasing. More merchants means more coinage from more places.”

They inspected Treasury procedures next. Experienced clerks already weighed suspicious high-value payments, but ordinary market traders lacked equipment and expertise.

A convincing false coin could pass through five hands before anyone noticed. Worse, whoever finally discovered it often had no way to prove which customer had originally introduced it.

Raymond had no intention of forcing every baker and cobbler to become a metallurgist, so the solution followed the same principle as standardized measures.

Treasury and Trade would establish official coin-testing points in the Central Market. Merchants could bring suspicious currency for weighing and examination.

Standard reference weights would help detect clipping or underweight coins, while Roderic’s people would provide simple testing methods for questionable metal.

Common foreign currencies would gradually receive posted reference values as Althoff encountered them, rather than allowing individual traders to invent exchange rates.

When the regulations were announced, the market reaction ranged from approval to loud irritation.

Honest merchants liked the possibility of proving their measures were legitimate. Customers liked it considerably more.

Several traders complained about inspections and licensing requirements until Ysabel reminded them that standardized measures also protected sellers from customers falsely accusing them of cheating.

Bertram, whose inherited grain weight had started the entire affair, brought his complete set voluntarily. After calibration, he paid to have corrected replacements made rather than risk another argument.

Hadrin discovered that his supposedly superior Valmere weights were not perfectly aligned with the new Althoff standard either.

Raymond considered that outcome satisfying enough to prevent either man from becoming unbearably smug.

Two days later, Roderic delivered the first finished reference set to the Central Market. The weights were simple solid metal pieces produced in graduated sizes, each checked against the Administration’s master set.

An official stamp had been struck into every approved piece: the Althoff crest above its designated value.

Beside them came standardized measuring rods and reference containers for common dry and liquid quantities.

Trade inspectors immediately began calibrating merchant equipment, placing matching inspection stamps on scales and measures that passed.

Those that failed were corrected, replaced, or removed from commercial use.

Raymond watched a grain seller place an officially stamped weight onto one side of his balance while a customer watched from the other. Neither knew the other personally.

The farmer supplying the grain came from a village that had not existed within Althoff’s administration months earlier, while the buyer was a merchant who had arrived from outside the territory only that week.

Yet both could look at the same stamped piece of iron and agree what it represented without trusting each other’s word.

That, Raymond realized, was what the market actually needed.

Trade between neighbors could survive on reputation. Trade between thousands of strangers needed something stronger.

By sunset, the first complete set of officially stamped Althoff standard weights sat beneath the Central Market’s inspection counter, and for the first time in the territory, a pound weighed the same no matter who was holding the scale.