Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 486: A Call for Help

“What about the salt industry?”

There were rich ore deposits throughout the Western Region, so the primacy of mining in Longsong Stronghold was no surprise. But this was the first mention of salt, and Roland had no particular knowledge of local specialties here. In his thinking, salt production belonged to coastal cities.

“Stronghold, the Elk Family, and the Honeysuckle Family each control a salt well,” Barov said, stroking his mustache. “The three wells are very close to one another—essentially on the boundary lines between their domains. I’m told that civil wars in the Western Region over those few hundred square feet of ground went on for fifty years, roughly two centuries ago.”

Roland considered that. The three nobilities who had settled that conflict presumably became the decisive winners. “What’s the output?”

“Beyond supplying the Western Region, the salt also reaches Fallen Dragon Ridge, Redwater City, and the smaller villages along the route.” Barov leafed through his notebook. “It accounts for roughly fifteen percent of Stronghold’s income.”

“Only fifteen? Salt prices are not low.”

“The difficulty is extraction.” Barov shook his head. “I know a nobleman in Silver City who owns a salt well barely the diameter of a man’s head—too small even for a cask. The brine method: pour water in, let the salt dissolve, scoop it back out with a bamboo stick. His family has been working that well since his grandfather’s day. Now it’s as deep as a belfry in King’s City.”

A brine extraction operation. The constraint was depth; dig it like a water well and the walls collapse. But the process could be improved. Lotus could raise the salt bed by force; a steam pump could draw the brine mechanically. Either approach would be far more efficient than a bamboo stick.

An adequate salt supply would benefit everyone. The crude salt his subjects used now was bitter and full of impurities—food could be made healthier and genuinely better tasting. The commercial gains would follow.

“I see.” Roland nodded with satisfaction. “You can go. Don’t forget recruitment—the Month of Demons has just passed and many refugees haven’t yet returned to their crops. The timing for enrollment is good.”

“I had the same thought, Your Highness.” Barov placed his hand on his chest. “The new emissary delegation departs soon. I expect they’ll bring in more than last year.”

After the chief minister left, Roland turned back to the question of Stronghold’s resources. He had barely begun sorting his notes when a knock came at the window.

A gray falcon clung to the iron grille, a folded note secured to its leg.

Nightingale opened the window and freed the bird.

The letter was from Petrov Hull in Longsong.

Roland read it through once and found himself smiling. After Nightingale had returned to Border Town with him, the fight against organized crime in Longsong had stalled. Reports kept arriving from the general population—most of them unverifiable, many invented for the cash reward. Fewer than half of the former Rats had accepted the offer of legitimate employment. The new Minister of Justice, Rene Medde, was working himself ragged and still could not contain the Black Street forces. If nothing changed, public safety would continue to erode.

At the end of the letter, Petrov formally requested assistance with personnel and methods. What he actually wanted, Roland understood, was Nightingale and Vader.

He handed the letter over. Nightingale read it in a glance and said, “They can’t hold Stronghold on their own anymore.”

“Ragingfire was a creature of wartime—a man who understood mass violence among the civilian population, not the slow, systematic work of dismantling criminal networks.” Roland set the letter down. “As I expected. Breaking the Rats will take time and relapse and sustained pressure. But once the structure is in place and people have a real alternative to the gangs, it becomes self-reinforcing. That’s true for people and cities both.”

“You want me to go?”

“Longsong and Border Town are one city now. Don’t let them think of themselves as separate.” He shrugged. “I said at the expansion meeting that one day a person should be able to have breakfast in the Border Area and be at work in Longsong half an hour later. You are the head of the Security Bureau. Traveling between the two areas to supervise is exactly your function.”

“If I go, who protects you?” She shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’ll be no danger. You’re a thorn in Timothy’s side and in the church’s side both—and I am the only thing that stops an assassin witch.”

He wanted to point out the God’s Stone of Retaliation, but he recognized that wasn’t what she was afraid of. “Listen to me—”

“You can’t ask me to promise anything,” she cut in. “Wendy and Scroll would both say the same. You are the most important person in the Witch Union—”

“I’ll go with you.”

The words stopped her completely. She choked, turned her head aside to hide whatever her face was doing. “I… suppose I’m the only one who can really help them.”

Roland covered a laugh. “Take Summer with you. It’s time she got some practice.”

Sylvie and Soraya should come too—identification systems, mine surveys, possibly the City Hall groundwork. He made a note. I wonder how the nobility’s retraining in Longsong is proceeding.

Three days later, Roland boarded the river steamer with the witches and the Longsong nobility.

Standing on the deck, watching the brown water roll past under the coal-gray sky, he sighed. The cement paddle steamer was solidly built—and slow. The cinder from the coal scattered into the deck seams with every hour of travel. Even at this pace, reaching Longsong in a single day was not possible. Time was money, and this speed was still inadequate for what he needed. He had already begun sketching plans for an exclusive high-speed vessel; now seemed the right moment to move that project forward.

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