While the tower was a place of heat and noise, the Widow Elms' warehouse in the lower district was a realm of cold, calculated silence. The warehouse was a sprawling labyrinth of stacked wool-bales, hanging tapestries, and the faint, sweet scent of expensive dye. It was the nerve center of the city's shadow economy, and tonight, it served as the theater for Oakhaven's first major diplomatic gamble.
Deacon arrived through a side entrance, his boots silent on the stone floor. He was accompanied by Brandt, whose vibrant merchant's attire seemed to absorb what little light remained in the building. Brandt was in his element here; he navigated the stacks of silk with a predatory grace, his eyes scanning every shadow for potential eavesdroppers.
"The factor from Oryn is already here," Brandt whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustle of a nearby tapestry. "His name is Master Kaelen. He's a middle-manager for the Southern Marches' grain trade. Greedy, cautious, and deeply suspicious of the Church. He's the perfect mark. He wants a way to bypass the tithes, and we're going to give it to him."
They reached a cleared space in the center of the warehouse, illuminated by a dozen thick tallow candles. The Widow Elms sat in a high-backed chair, her face a pale, elegant mask of indifference. Across from her sat Kaelen, a man who looked like he was made of soft curves and expensive furs. He was currently poking at a small, hand-held model of the seed drill with a look of profound skepticism.
"Lord Cassian," the Widow said, her voice a cool, melodic chime. "Master Kaelen was just expressing his doubts that a mere 'wooden box' could do the work of a dozen men."
Deacon stepped into the circle of candlelight, the silver chain of his mantle glinting. He didn't offer a hand or a greeting. He simply stood there, projecting the "Cold Duke" aura he had spent weeks perfecting.
"It's not a box, Master Kaelen," Deacon said, his voice low and resonant. "It's a revolution. My ancestors kept these designs hidden because they knew the power of the grain. To control the harvest is to control the peace. But the Goblins have changed the math. Oakhaven needs allies, and allies need to be fed."
Kaelen looked up, his eyes narrowing. "It looks like a toy. How do I know it won't break the first time it hits a stone in the Oryn clay?"
"Because," Deacon said, gesturing to Brandt, "the contract includes a year of 'Ancestral Maintenance.' My technicians will travel with the machines. If a gear slips, they fix it. If a belt snaps, they replace it. You aren't buying wood and iron; you're buying a guaranteed increase in your personal revenue. And since this bypasses the traditional 'broadcasting' method, the Church has no way to accurately count the seed-to-yield ratio. Your tithe stays the same, while your surplus doubles."
That was the hook. Deacon saw Kaelen's eyes flash with a momentary, naked greed. The prospect of cheating the Church was more enticing to the factor than the prospect of feeding his people. It was a universal human constant that Deacon had banked on.
"I will take five," Kaelen said, his voice trembling slightly. "But only if the delivery is made under the cover of the silk trade. I don't want the Governor's men asking why I'm hauling heavy machinery south."
"Agreed," Brandt said, stepping forward with a roll of parchment. "The Widow will handle the logistics. The price will be paid in refined iron ore and high-grade charcoal. No gold. Gold leaves a trail. Raw materials are just... trade."
The negotiation continued for another hour, a delicate dance of numbers and lies that Deacon watched with a growing sense of detachment. He was successful; he was securing the resources Miller needed to build the next generation of tools. But as he stood in the shadows of the warehouse, he felt a strange, tingling sensation at the back of his neck. It was the scout's instinct, a remnant of a dozen combat tours that told him he was being watched by something more dangerous than a greedy merchant.
He caught Balthasar's eye—Tate was perched on a crossbeam thirty feet above, nearly invisible in his gray rags. Tate gave a subtle, sharp tilt of his head toward the high windows of the warehouse.
Deacon didn't react visibly. He waited for a break in the conversation, then leaned toward the Widow. "A charming evening, Madame. But I believe our guests have arrived."
The Widow's eyes flickered toward the ceiling. She didn't miss a beat. "Is that so? Then perhaps we should move the demonstration to the inner vault."
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the far end of the warehouse groaned as if under a massive weight. The wood didn't splinter, but the iron hinges screamed. A voice, cold and authoritative, cut through the silence.
"By order of the Imperial Governor, this facility is under audit! Open in the name of the Crown!"
Kaelen turned white, his furs suddenly looking far too heavy for him. Brandt moved with the speed of a strike-team leader, sweeping the parchment off the table and into his sleeve. Miller and his men, who had been waiting in the shadows, stepped forward, their hands on the handles of the Seed Drill.
"Valois," Deacon whispered. "He didn't wait for the meeting to end."
"The tunnels," the Widow ordered, her voice no longer a chime but a command. "Master Kaelen, if you wish to live to see your grain, follow my guards. Lord Cassian... I suggest you deal with the messenger. I will not have my silk stained with Imperial blood tonight."
Deacon signaled to Tate. The scout vanished from the rafters, a shadow among shadows. Deacon adjusted his mantle, his face settling into a mask of iron-hard resolve. He wasn't going to fight a battle of blades—not yet. He was going to fight a battle of bureaucracy and "miracles."
"Miller, get that drill behind the false wall. Now," Deacon commanded. "Brandt, get the 'Thunder Claps' ready in the alleyway. If they try to force the inner vault, give them a reason to believe the 'Holy Relic' is still very much active."
As the Imperial soldiers began to batter the door, Deacon stood alone in the center of the candlelight. He felt the rush of adrenaline, the familiar "combat-high" that simplified the world into targets and objectives. He was a Sergeant First Class of the U.S. Army, a Castellan of a fallen house, and a liar of continental proportions. And he was about to show the Empire that Oakhaven was no longer an easy target.