The transition from deep winter to early spring in the Northern Range was not a gentle awakening; it was a violent upheaval. As the temperature rose just above freezing, the massive accumulation of snow on the peaks began to liquefy, sending torrents of meltwater down the basalt cliffs. This was the "Great Wash," and for the Grand Western Canal, it was a structural nightmare. The earth, once frozen solid as granite, turned into a treacherous slurry of mud and clay that put immense lateral pressure on the canal's masonry.
Deacon stood at Lock 14, his boots sinking into the saturated ground. The rhythmic thrum of the geothermal pumps was nearly drowned out by the roar of the runoff. Beside him, Miller pointed to a section of the western bank where the stone blocks had begun to bow outward, a spiderweb of cracks spreading across the mortar.
"The saturation is liquefying the embankment," Miller shouted over the noise. "Traditional lime mortar can't set in this humidity, and the pressure from the saturated soil is pushing the walls into the channel. If that section goes, the entire upper tier of the canal will wash out into the salt marshes."
Deacon knelt by the crack, feeling the vibration of the water behind the stone. He knew that simple masonry wouldn't hold. He needed something that could cure underwater and provide the tensile strength that stone lacked. He needed to introduce the Empire to reinforced concrete.
"We aren't going to rebuild with stone," Deacon said, standing up and wiping mud from his duster. "We're going to cast a new lining. We'll use a mixture of volcanic ash from the Oakhaven pits, crushed limestone, and iron-slag. But the secret is the skeleton. We're going to weave a grid of wrought-iron rods into the forms before we pour the slurry."
The implementation was a gritty, around-the-clock battle. While the laborers fought to drain the saturated earth behind the walls, the foundries worked at maximum capacity to draw miles of iron rebar. The Oakhaven cement was a messy, caustic substance that burned the skin of the workers, requiring them to wear heavy grease and leather aprons. It was a race against the rising water—if the forms were swamped before the concrete reached its initial set, weeks of work would be washed away.
As the first sections of the reinforced wall were being poured, a new carriage arrived at the Oakhaven gates, bearing the sigil of the Imperial Treasury. Out stepped Auditor Thorne, a man who looked as though he had been carved from the very bureaucracy he served. He carried a stack of ledgers and a portable weighing scale.
"Lord Cassian," Thorne said, his voice as dry as the parchment he carried. "The Imperial Minister of Finance has noted your winter rations program with great interest. Since Oakhaven is now providing for the Sun-Guard, your estate is being reclassified from a frontier outpost to an industrial hub. This carries a mandatory ten percent production tax on all foodstuffs, fresh or preserved."
Julian stepped forward, his face pale with fury. "We are already giving eighty percent of our harvest to the army at cost! You want to tax the remaining twenty percent that feeds our own people?"
"The law makes no distinction for charity, Lord Julian," Thorne replied, opening his ledger. "Every pound of tubers grown in that Glass-House has a value. Every gallon of geothermal steam used to heat the soil has a value. The Empire will have its due, or the Charter will be revoked for financial delinquency."
Deacon watched the Auditor from the canal bank, his mind calculating the sheer weight of the reinforced concrete they were pouring. He saw the gritty realism of their situation: they were being crushed by the very success they had engineered. The more they innovated, the more the Empire sought to harvest the fruits of that innovation.
"Taxation requires a precise measurement of output, Auditor," Deacon said, walking up the muddy bank. "And as you can see, our output is currently being used to prevent the Emperor's canal from collapsing into the sea. If you want your ten percent, you can help the men haul the iron rebar. Otherwise, you can wait until the Great Wash is over and we see what's left of the harvest."
Thorne looked at the swirling mud, the caustic concrete, and the exhausted men working in the rain. He didn't move. "I shall wait in the guest villa. But the ledgers will be filled, Lord Cassian. One way or another."
The struggle for the canal's survival lasted for two weeks. Deacon and his crews lived in the mud, casting one section of reinforced concrete at a time. They discovered the hard way that concrete generated its own heat as it cured, which, combined with the geothermal steam, created a humid microclimate that allowed them to work even during the late-spring frosts.
By the time the Great Wash subsided, the canal stood. The new reinforced walls were grey, unlovely, and industrial, but they were unyielding. They didn't just hold the water; they held the mountain back.
As the sun finally broke through the spring clouds, Deacon stood atop the newly cast Lock 14. He looked toward the Glass-House, then at the Auditor's carriage waiting in the distance. They had survived the winter and the thaw, but the financial and political bill was coming due. Oakhaven was no longer a secret; it was a target.
"The concrete is set," Miller said, leaning on a shovel, his face caked in grey dust. "But the Auditor is still here, David. He's been counting the crates."
"Let him count," Deacon said. "We've proven we can build a wall that the mountain can't break. Now, we're going to prove we can build a system the Auditor can't touch. We're moving to the next phase, Miller. We're going to build the Oakhaven Clearing House—our own bank, backed by our own iron and our own wheat. If the Empire wants to tax us, they're going to have to do it in a currency we control."