Chapter 61: Margins II

The following morning, Joe ran the batch himself. Or tried to.

The first lesson was immediate. Controlling a production room was not the same as controlling a pot.

“Thinner.”

The worker cutting root slices looked down.

“They're the same as yesterday.”

“That is the problem.”

“How thin?”

Joe showed her. She cut three pieces.

The first was too thin. The second is nearly correct. The third thicker.

Joe stopped himself from taking the knife.

If he personally prepared everything, he would learn nothing about making the process repeatable.

“Use this.”

He found two flat pieces of scrap wood from beside the wrapping station and set them on either side of the root.

The worker stared at him.

Joe stared back.

“Temporary.”

She tried again.

Better.

Not perfect.

Better.

At the stove, Joe marked the proper pot position with chalk.

He changed when the leaves entered.

He reduced flame before transferring the concentrate instead of after.

He changed the filtering cloth fold.

He had the workers press the residue a second time.

He separated the second extraction rather than mixing it immediately.

Some changes worked.

Some created new problems.

The double pressing slowed the filtering station enough so that the concentrate cooled too much. The smaller root slices extracted more evenly but made preparation slower.

One worker misunderstood his timing instruction and added a secondary herb too early.

Joe caught it, but not before it altered the smell.

By midday, he was no longer thinking of the batch as medicine.

It was a system. A badly synchronized one.

When the final product cooled, the workers counted it.

“Seventy-eight.”

Joe waited.

“Seventy-nine.”

Another good packet.

“Eighty.”

The worker examined the next.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Low.”

They finished with eighty-one full-quality packets.

Eleven weaker.

Eight effectively lost.

Better.

Not miraculous.

Edwin looked at the piles.

“Six more.”

Joe nodded.

His head felt strangely full.

The moment the batch was complete, the experiential payoff settled.

Not information from nowhere.

Experience.

The equivalent of repeating that production process repeatedly.

He understood where workers lost time. Which changes had mattered. Which changes merely shifted waste from one stage to another.

The chalk position on the stove had helped less than expected. The filtering sequence helped more.

The thinner root cut would become worthwhile only if preparation could be standardized faster.

The second extraction contained enough useful material to matter but combining it directly would lower consistency.

Could it be used in low-grade packets instead?

Joe looked toward the waste basin.

Yesterday, he saw garbage. Now he saw several separate product streams.

Edwin watched his face.

“You learned something.”

Joe glanced at him.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

Joe thought about that.

“Enough that I want another batch.”

Edwin looked at the piles again.

Then toward the ingredient shelves.

“You are paying for it.”

Joe sighed.

“Fine.”

Mira leaned against the desk.

“Your cultivation money?”

Joe nodded.

“My cultivation money.”

--------

The second batch was not six packets better.

It was eleven.

Ninety-two of the hundred theoretical portions became commercially usable. Eighty-six met Edwin's normal full-quality standard. Six could sell as low grade.

Joe stood over the trays after sunset while the workers cleaned.

Edwin calculated twice.

Mira calculated once.

“Cost?” Joe asked.

“Thirty-one and a little.”

“Revenue?”

“Just under fifty-three.”

“Profit?”

“A little over twenty-one.”

Yesterday's standard batch had earned roughly thirteen.

Joe looked at Edwin.

Edwin looked back.

Neither spoke immediately.

The room smelled of cooling herbs and wet wood from the street outside.

Finally, Edwin said, “If I buy this process from you, how much?”

Joe had expected the question.

“No.”

Edwin's eyes narrowed.

“No?”

“I don't want to sell it.”

“You sold me the earlier production rights.”

“That's why I know I don't want to sell this one.”

Mira looked interested.

Edwin tapped the abacus once.

“What do you want?”

“A share.”

“Of?”

“The increased profit.”

“How much?”

Joe had been thinking about that since the first batch.

“Thirty-five percent of net profit on any medicine line where I materially improve the formula or production process.”

Edwin laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

“That is not a small share.”

“No.”

“The building is mine.”

“Yes.”

“The workers are mine.”

“They probably disagree with the phrasing.”

One of the workers washing utensils looked over.

Edwin ignored her.

“The ingredients are purchased through my contracts. The customers are mine. The risk is mine.”

“And yesterday you made thirteen silverlings.”

Edwin stopped. Joe continued.

“If we improve this batch to twenty-eight or thirty in profit, you keep sixty-five percent.”

“After paying you.”

“Yes.”

“That leaves me eighteen or nineteen.”

“More than thirteen.”

Mira's eyes moved between them.

Edwin looked at his daughter.

She did not help him.

After a while he said, “Twenty-five.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Thirty-five.”

“You negotiate like a door.”

Joe considered that.

“Doors move.”

“Not yours.”

Mira covered her mouth with one hand.

Edwin gave her a look.

Then he returned to Joe.

“Thirty. And if a product fails, you share the loss.”

“Thirty-five and I don't charge for the first three process trials.”

Edwin's eyes sharpened.

That mattered.

Raw ingredients for experimentation were expensive.

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Thirty-three.”

Joe thought about it.

Edwin saw him thinking and immediately added, “And access to my purchasing price for your personal cultivation ingredients, within reason.”

Joe stopped thinking.

“Thirty-three.”

Edwin smiled slightly.

“Thought so.”

Joe had expected to be annoyed. Instead, he found himself calculating what wholesale herb pricing would save over a year. Possibly more than the missing two percent.

Edwin reached for a clean sheet.

Mira pulled the ink toward him before he asked.

The contract took half an hour.

Not a magical one.

Just paper.

Joe read every line anyway.

By the time he stepped outside, the sky had gone fully dark. Meltwater ran along the edges of the blackstone street, reflecting lantern light from the shops.

Simon had been waiting beneath the awning opposite the medicine hall with two paper-wrapped meat buns.

He tossed one to Joe.

“What did you sell?”

“Nothing.”

Simon looked toward Edwin's windows.

“That took seven hours.”

“I bought cheaper herbs.”

Simon stared at him.

Joe bit into the bun.

“And part of the profit.”

Simon took two seconds.

“How much?”

“Not enough yet.”

Simon grinned.

“That means enough eventually.”

Joe kept walking.

Simon followed.

Behind them, the medicine hall's windows glowed warm against the wet spring street.

For the first time since turning sixteen, Joe looked at Blackwood not only as a place that consumed resources.

It might be able to produce them.