CH250 · Rewrite
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Chapter 250: End of Midsummer

The second month of summer drew to a close, and Border Town moved toward the third and hottest month with the particular reluctance of a place that had no good options. Roland spent as much time as possible in the castle.

He had put Margaret’s saltpeter to work. A bucket of it, with a kettle half-submerged, sat in nearly every room — the endothermic reaction cooling the surrounding air enough to matter, producing ice water as a side effect. It was the closest thing to a cooling system available. Without it, sitting at the office desk would have meant spending the entire day in his own sweat.

With the exception of Anna, Roland had told the other witches to stop working. The heat was a reasonable excuse, though it was not entirely the reason — they had earned a rest, and he wanted them to take it. Most of them had gathered on the first floor, playing Gwent, comparing abilities, talking in the particular easy way of people who have come to trust a space. He could hear it when he passed the stairs.

Anna was a different matter. She did not mind the heat. Roland had understood for some time that her fire didn’t come from outside her — it came from somewhere that summer and winter couldn’t reach. Red-hot ingots she held directly in her hands. Standing at a forge in the afternoon sun, producing steel, she would not sweat. The heat that paralyzed everyone else was simply not a language she spoke.

In acknowledgment of this — and because he wanted to, which was its own sufficient reason — Roland had recently been making ice cream. The recipe was elementary: egg yolk, butter, milk, and syrup, stirred and cooled with saltpeter. A classical type from another era, translated into this one with some difficulty. Anna was extraordinarily fond of it. Each time he watched her take a careful small bite, her lake-blue eyes narrowing with pleasure into thin lines, he felt something settle in his chest that had no name for it but did not require one.

Reading the monthly City Hall reports was another pleasure of the summer, though of a different kind.

Border Town’s population had nearly doubled, approaching eighteen thousand people. The monthly serfs transferred from Longsong Stronghold would push it past twenty thousand within the year. By population alone, the town now stood in the same territory as Redwater City, Valencia, and King’s City — though its physical footprint remained smaller, and the quality of the population had not grown as fast as the numbers.

More than a thousand native residents had still not received an education. The Eastern Region refugees were further behind still; it would take at least another year before they could complete basic schooling and graduate. Karl van Bate’s original college had produced fewer than a hundred trained students — significant for what it represented, less so against a population now approaching twenty thousand.

Perhaps the education program for the Eastern refugees should come before the housing program, Roland thought. Starting earlier has no downside.

The industrial district was performing well.

After more than six months of construction, three factories now operated: two steam engine plants and a bullet processing facility. The first steam engine plant had grown from ten blacksmiths at its founding to a hundred workers, most of them native residents — apprentices becoming craftsmen, craftsmen becoming the foundation of the next apprentice cohort. That was the pattern he wanted to see replicated.

The second plant was staffed by artisans from the Crescent Moon Bay Caravan. One month in, they already had a rough working familiarity with the machine tools. Their early yield was poor, but their performance against the first plant’s opening month was clearly better — skilled tradespeople adapting to new equipment rather than starting from scratch. Under the terms of their contract, all produced steam engines belonged to Roland. Together the two plants could now produce eight to ten engines a month, which remained the town’s primary revenue source.

The bullet factory operated under military control from the moment of its establishment. Armed sentries at the entrance, patrols around the perimeter, soldiers handling the production themselves. After a week of trial runs, it had moved into sustained mass production of the new cartridge design.

Full mechanical production was not achievable with current capacity — primer, powder, and warhead all required manual filling and compaction. The mechanical core of the line was two stamping machines. One pressed copper stock into cartridge cases. The second pressed primers into position. From there: soldiers distributed mercury fulminate between two thin paper layers, sealed the edges, pressed the assembly into the base of the cartridge, loaded and compacted the black powder, seated the projectile. Forty workers, most of them soldiers, producing more than five hundred rounds a day. Roland intended to formalize that team as the factory’s permanent operating staff.

Next on the list: a soap factory, a perfume factory. The former had direct military-industrial value; the latter might open a new revenue channel. The bicycle factory could wait until the Kingdom Avenue approached completion — there was no point in outrunning the infrastructure that would make the product useful.

“Your Highness.” Nightingale’s voice came from the doorway. “Maggie and Lightning are here.”

Both girls came in from behind her and stopped at the desk, looking up at him with the attentive expressions of people who have been summoned and are not sure whether it is good news.

“Were you looking for us?” Lightning asked.

“Tomorrow begins the final month of summer.” Roland pulled a sealed envelope from the drawer — his reply to Tilly, carefully drafted — and placed it in front of Maggie. “When you return to the Fjord, bring this to her.”

Maggie stared at the envelope for a moment, as though she had somehow forgotten what month it was. Then she picked it up carefully and put it in her bag. “No problem, goo!”

Roland suspected she had entirely forgotten that her monthly return was scheduled for tomorrow. The thought that the town’s appeal could have this effect on someone as generally purposeful as Maggie was quietly satisfying, and he kept his expression neutral.

“I didn’t even realize tomorrow was the beginning of the month,” Lightning said, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “So we won’t see each other for a long time?”

“Tilly’s plan to clear the Fjord churches delayed me last time,” Maggie said, her silver hair — nearly floor-length now — swaying as she turned. “This time I’ll be back as soon as I can. Wait for me and we’ll go explore the eagle nest together — goo!”

“That’s a promise,” Lightning said, with the flat resignation of someone who has decided to hold people to their words.

“You have your own assignment before Maggie returns.” Roland spread the regional map that Lightning had previously drawn across the desk and pointed to the southern terrain. “You remember the shoal near the mountains?”

“Roughly here.” Lightning pointed.

“Fly back to it and take Maggie with you this time. Plant marker flags on both sides of the shallow beach and at the mountain junction. Mark the precise location on this map.” He looked at Maggie. “If Tilly agrees to send witches, you’ll lead the sailboat to that shoal. I’ll be waiting at the top of the mountain.”

Lightning tilted her head. “You’re sending witches? New sisters coming to Border Town?”

“I don’t know yet,” Roland said. “It depends on Tilly’s answer.” He considered the letter in Maggie’s bag, and what he knew of Tilly, and what he hoped she had come to understand about what he was trying to build here. “But I have a feeling she’ll agree.”

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