CH252 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 252: New Round of Purchases

As Lord of the Western Region, Roland had no need to work the needle himself. A rough sketch on paper, a conversation with the castle tailor, and the thing would be handled.

He had never actually handled a bra — not in his former life, not in this one — but years of advertising, television, and films had furnished him with sufficient working knowledge of their basic architecture. He settled on the most commonly seen design: shoulder-strap style, fastened at the back with three copper hooks spaced to allow the wearer several gradations of adjustment. For material, he chose silk and first-rate cotton, both breathable and comfortable to the eye. The tailor was old but her hands were certain, and after Roland explained the garment’s function — support without constriction, practical rather than architectural — she grasped the concept at once. She brought in the castle maids for measurements, divided the results into several size grades, each adjustable within its range, and produced twenty finished pieces within two days. The workmanship was meticulous.

The contrast with the era’s existing solution could not have been sharper. The corset, which had long served as this world’s approximation of the same function, was not designed for the wearer’s comfort. It was designed to compress the waist to its absolute minimum and thrust the bust upward, reshaping the body into the narrow-waisted hourglass demanded by aristocratic dress. The effect was architectural precision at the cost of circulation. In serious cases it caused fainting. The bra, by contrast, supported without constricting — it was made for the body moving through the world, not the body arranged for display.

He was still planning how to present the gift when the caravan from King’s City arrived at Border Town’s pier.

He heard the news before he saw the ships. Smaller fleet than usual. Far smaller — the kind of gap that turned a dock noisy with arrival into something quiet and half-empty. Roland went down to meet them.

“Your Highness, here we are again.” Margaret’s smile was intact, but her forehead gleamed with perspiration she wiped away at once. “A small fleet this time, I’m afraid. If it isn’t too much trouble — could we move this conversation inside? It’s unbearable out here.”

“I feel the same,” Hogg muttered under his breath. “A Graycastle man through and through, and this heat is going to kill me. If I didn’t need to be here for the first steamer, I wouldn’t leave the house.”

They moved into the castle hall. The cool air struck them the moment they stepped through the doors, and Hogg stopped, drew a long slow breath, and said with relief, “Thank God this wonderful thing exists. To think it comes from manure — I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it made with my own eyes.” He spotted the pitcher of ice water. “Your Highness, may I —?”

“Of course.” Roland settled into the lord’s seat. “What happened to the saltpeter?”

The contract called for three shipfuls per month. One had arrived.

Margaret folded her hands on the table. “The King’s City Alchemy Association has been buying up all available saltpeter. They’re offering low prices, but they have the backing of Prime Minister Marquis Wyke — nobody refuses, because refusal isn’t really an option. I believe the order came from Timothy himself. He is, by all accounts, furious.”

“Timothy?” Roland frowned. “Isn’t he still marching south?”

“He is.” She nodded. “From what I understand — and Theo may have already told you this — he left King’s City with a considerable force, men and horses and full supply wagons. Garcia seems to be the target. Shortly after his departure, the Alchemy Association began its purchases.”

Roland considered this. The intelligence from Theo had come in pieces, each one landing a step behind events, but the picture it assembled was coherent. Timothy had been gathering the rats — the Border Town term for his press-ganged addict-soldiers — and Roland had asked Petrov to reinforce Longsong Stronghold accordingly. The follow-up letter had revised the threat: not northward, but south. This was now confirmed.

The rats were not suited for sustained combat. They had no discipline, no training, no loyalty to anything except the next dose. Their only viable use was the method Timothy had apparently settled on: addict them, point them at something, let them break themselves against it. A crude tactic, but one that consumed human lives rather than men-at-arms, and Timothy had a great deal of western and central Graycastle behind him — enough to absorb losses that would have shattered a smaller ruler.

And why was the Alchemy Association suddenly bulk-purchasing saltpeter? Snow Powder was their product, had always been their product — ceremonial, unreliable, more likely to scorch the operator than reach a target. But if someone had supplied them with the correct proportions — or if they had arrived at them through experiment —

Roland pushed the thought aside. The industrial production of three acids and two alkalis was already underway. The path to a far more advanced form of gunpowder was already laid out before him. Whatever the Alchemy Association managed to produce with their saltpeter, it would not be enough to change the balance once his own manufacturing came online.

“Can you guarantee three ships next month?”

Margaret’s expression shifted, apologetic but honest. “I can’t. I worked very hard to bring this one ship through Silver City, and summer demand for saltpeter is severe. I’ll do what I can, but I won’t make a promise I can’t keep. Outside of summer, the three-ship supply is reliable.”

“Understood.” Roland took a sip of ice water. “Do the best you can. As for the rest of our time together — I have a new request.”

“Oh?” The tension in her shoulders eased perceptibly. “What is it? More ore?”

“Washing stones. The kind used for laundry — muddy white, shaped like a wafer or a pillar, gives off a soapy feeling when soaked in water. Common enough in the capital’s inns.”

Margaret looked at him with the expression she reserved for moments when Roland confirmed her deepest suspicions about how his mind worked. “You have a mine in your territory,” she said, “and still everything you want to buy is minerals. I genuinely don’t know what to make of you. Well — it’s a common material, the price should be reasonable. What do you need it for?”

“To make washing clothes easier,” he said, and smiled.

The washing stone — natural soda, sodium bicarbonate as its primary component — had surfaced from a corner of the fourth prince’s memories. He had not known why the former occupant of this body had catalogued it, but Roland was grateful now. Its decontaminating strength was excellent; combined with plant ash and pancreas grease it was among the most effective cleaning agents the old world had produced without a chemistry laboratory. And without an ion-exchange membrane, extracting sodium hydroxide through the electrolysis of saltwater was painfully inefficient. Edible salt was too expensive for bulk industrial use.

But natural soda, converted through heating and concentration, produced caustic soda — and with enough caustic soda he could begin manufacturing soap at scale. Soap at scale meant something else as well.

Glycerin, he thought. A byproduct. Not nothing.

The path from washing stones to one of the nineteenth century’s most versatile industrial chemicals was longer than it looked, but it began here — with an old merchant woman who thought he had a peculiar mind and a good sense of humor about it.

Discussion

Suggest a change