Rewrite That Witch
CH223 · Rewrite
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Chapter 223: Premeditation

Theo had been in the inn for six days, waiting.

King’s City had split itself in two. A towering inner wall divided the city’s worlds — noble quarter and outer districts — and the gates between them had become checkpoints where every person, regardless of rank or wealth, passed through a small stone room and submitted to inspection. Fever, flush, dark spots: any sign of infection and you did not enter. Those already inside could leave, but only in the daytime. When the sun went down, the gates closed, and anyone caught outside spent the night among the sick.

None of it was working. Yesterday he had heard rumors that nobles inside the inner city had fallen ill. Without the Church’s recent release of Holy Elixir, he suspected the aristocracy would have already begun to flee.

On the sixth day, Margaret’s Chamber of Commerce sent word that a letter had arrived. He went immediately — across the city, through the side gate the guards still recognized him through, down into the basement of a tailor shop where the Chamber of Commerce had its agreed-upon meeting place. Margaret was already there, seated at a low table with a pot of ice water before her that exhaled a steady cold breath into the room’s damp heat. Theo arrived sweating, sat cross-legged on the opposite side, and let the cold hit his face.

“His Highness asked me to give you this.” She handed him a sheepskin envelope. The wax seal was intact.

He opened it at once. The letter was brief: the operation plan, the army’s departure date, and his specific tasks. He read it twice, folded it, pocketed it. “Did His Highness ask anything else of you?”

“Only that I forward the letter. Express delivery carries extra charges — I’ve already noted it in the account.”

“Ahem. Right.” He cleared his throat. “His Highness wants the refugees transported to Border Town as quickly as possible. All of them, without pause. He’s asking for as many ships as you can arrange — not just the two existing fleets.”

Margaret’s brow went up. “Including the ones who are already infected?”

“He has a cure.”

“For the demonic plague.” She held that for a moment. “I see. That would explain the first transport — those refugees were already infected when they boarded, weren’t they? The disease hadn’t broken out yet. And the crew came back unharmed.”

“Yes.”

“He’s remarkable,” she said, and sounded as though she meant it. “Even the Church hasn’t produced an antidote this quickly.” A pause. “How many days for the full boarding? A week?”

Theo held up three fingers.

The silence after that was complete.

“Impossible.” She shook her head — slowly at first, then with conviction. “Even if half the refugees have died, there are still five thousand people out there. Three days means nearly a hundred ships. If I halt all other operations entirely, I might reach that number — but the losses would be thousands of gold royals. Even with a steam engine thrown in for free, it wouldn’t cover it. I’m afraid I have to refuse.”

“If the refugees sit on deck rather than lying in cabins, a ship carries twice as many,” Theo said. “And Hogg’s ore carriers — open the hatches, a single ship takes two hundred people easily. No comfort configurations needed. He keeps several in Silver City.”

“He does.” Margaret’s voice was careful, calculating. “And with that arithmetic, perhaps fifty ships would be enough rather than a hundred. But it’s still not a good deal.”

Theo knew it wasn’t. Fifty ships converging on one canal dock, the coordination alone consuming weeks of effort, the charter costs coming out of pocket — and the harvest at the end of it all not coming close to accounting for the work. He had one card remaining.

At the end of the letter, His Highness had added a single line in a hand slightly different from the rest, smaller and almost casual: If Margaret doesn’t want to help, tell her that Lightning is also coming.

Theo had puzzled over it for days. Lightning was a child — cheerful, improbably reckless, gifted in the air. He could not imagine what thread ran between her and a woman like Margaret. But His Highness had written the line with the ease of someone who already knew the answer, so Theo opened his mouth and used it.

“There’s a reason it must be three days,” he said. “What His Highness is doing is walking into a tiger’s den to take its food. Linger too long and the Church will find us. And Lightning is with the group.” He kept his voice level. “If they discover a witch in our ranks, it could become dangerous for her.”

“What did you just say?” Margaret’s voice went up a full register. “Lightning is coming here?”

“The letter says so.” Theo assembled his most guileless expression. “Early warning, guiding the troops. We’re inside the New King’s territory — the reconnaissance is valuable.”

The merchant was quiet for exactly the length of time it took to make a decision she’d already made. Then she stood up, crossed to the desk at the side of the room, and picked up her pen.

“I’ll manage it. When do you need the vessels?”

“Four days, assuming no delays on the river.”

“I’ll do everything I can.” She was already writing. “One condition: tell me where your troops will be positioned. If they need to enter the city, I’ll need to arrange accommodation.”

That trick is genuinely useful. “That should be easy enough.” He waited until she’d finished the first line. “And one more thing I’ll need from you.”

She didn’t look up. “Speak.”

“A convoy of carts carrying wine barrels. As many as you can arrange. But not filled with wine — river water, or well water. Either will serve.”

The pen stopped.

“River water,” Margaret said.

“His Highness covers the cost.” He smiled at the top of her head. “Rest assured.”

What he didn’t say — what he turned over in his mind as she returned to writing — was the shape of the problem he hadn’t fully solved. Lily’s ability worked on ordinary water as its raw material. Moving treated water from the army’s camp into the city and delivering it to the sick meant discretion and volume simultaneously. A man with water bags drew attention and moved slowly. A man driving a loaded cart was a tradesman, anonymous, one of dozens passing through every morning.

He would carry the water himself. That was the plan. He only needed the barrels large enough.

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