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Chapter 922: The Locomotive Era (Part II)

“Half a year.” Barov said it flatly, as though the syllables themselves might expose some error. “You intend to extend the railway deep into the Barbarian Land — in half a year.” He had seen miracles. He had catalogued them, filed them, tried to budget around them. He widened his eyes regardless. “The Ministry of Construction spent more than six months building the Kingdom Main Street between the Border Area and Longsong Stronghold. That road is less than one-fifth the distance between the forest and Taquila. You’re certain Mr. Karl can accomplish this?”

A murmur passed through the gathered officials. The Kingdom Main Street had been Roland’s first large-scale project after the merger — two thousand workers, half a year, and still condemned by many as a waste of resources at the time. This new railway, by every visible measure, was more ambitious and its window was shorter. A few officials exchanged glances that said what they wouldn’t. Even with Neverwinter’s full labor force committed to the work, the timeline seemed impossible.

Karl Van Bate, Minister of Construction, kept his own counsel. His expression was the expression of a man running numbers inside his head and not liking them.

Roland understood the concern. There were ongoing projects throughout the city; every new commitment strained the same pool of workers and materials. But the comparison to the road was misleading. The road had required high-grade cement, compacted by rollers, laid to standards that needed sustained quality control across every meter. A railway roadbed was different work — simpler preparation, simpler ballast. The track looked complex and wasn’t.

Anna had demonstrated it. One section: half a day. Each joint welded in under ten seconds, bar to track, seamless. No bolts. No hot-metal seaming, no misalignment where sections met. In comparison to any traditional joining method Roland had ever encountered, her work was not just faster — it was better. He’d watched her move down the line, Blackfire touching joint after joint, leaving behind something that looked poured rather than assembled.

He’d stood at the end of that section and made himself admit it: that is as close to perfect as this gets.

The finished rail before the officials was nearly seamless. Invisible thermal-expansion gaps remained — they had to; physics required it — but to the eye the track was one continuous piece. No clatter. No vibration rippling back through the frame with every joint. A passenger on this train would feel nothing the rail network did not want them to feel.

She had done the whole section before lunch.

That was why Roland had given the construction schedule he’d given. Leaf probably needed five days to clear and lay a section of ground. Workers needed ten days to build and pack a roadbed of equivalent length. Anna needed one day to weld. She had time to spare — Maggie could carry her to the site in the morning and back to the castle by noon.

He had chosen not to explain the witches’ roles in detail. The officials knew some of what the witches could do; they didn’t know all of it; that gap did useful work. Beyond Neverwinter, too, there might be additional help available — witches from Sleeping Island, abilities as yet unknown to him. He hadn’t had the chance to ask Tilly. After arriving in the city, he had gone straight to see the wolf girl, and then immediately into the meeting.

While the officials studied the track, Roland turned his attention to the locomotive itself. It looked, he admitted, old-fashioned next to the seamless rail it stood on — an engineering anachronism. The steam locomotive was divided into two sections: a fourth-generation steam engine mated to a transmission assembly at the front, and a coal car behind it. Between them sat the driver’s cab, from which the engineers could manage speed, feed the boiler, and signal with the steam whistle.

The unification war had interrupted development. The prototype was not complete. And yet compared to what would have passed for a first-generation steam locomotive in the world where Roland had grown up, this machine was already ahead. Crankshaft drive instead of flywheel and belt. Mechanical linkage between the wheels on both sides instead of gears — nothing to stick, nothing to shear. His design had been ruthlessly simplified, which was why it still looked like something assembled from components rather than designed from the ground up.

It had no mechanical brake. Stopping required a crew member at the capstan. The driver’s cab was positioned on the connecting beam between fore and aft, which meant whoever sat there would feel every vibration the engine produced. There was no electrical equipment; communication between stations was conducted by whistle or voice.

He had noted every defect during the build. He would address them one by one, the way he had addressed every failure in the first steam engine design. That was not a reason to delay.

“Your Majesty, what’s the cargo capacity?” Kyle Sichi, Minister of Chemical Industry, leaned closer to examine the wheel assembly. “Higher than a concrete boat?”

“Five or six times, at this stage.” Roland let that land before he continued. “With development, it could carry what would currently require a hundred boats.”

Barov swallowed. As City Hall Director, he knew what a hundred concrete boats meant. He knew it in terms of coal tonnage, iron tonnage, supply lines and campaign logistics and everything that had ever bottlenecked on river transport.

A hundred.

“And the speed?” Petrov’s voice was careful, as if he were approaching the question from the side.

“I’ll know more after the first test run. It won’t be slower than a concrete boat.”

In this era, land transport meant horses and wooden wheels on packed earth — slow, punishing, destructive to the vehicles and the cargo alike. River transport was Graycastle’s spine, and the steam-powered paddle steamers had already made that spine stronger than anything the continent had seen. For the officials standing here, a concrete boat was the fastest and most reliable thing that moved goods at scale.

The room went quiet again. A different quiet this time — not skepticism, but the stillness that preceded recalculation.

Roland, watching them, felt something he recognized as satisfaction. Two years ago, this speech would have earned him concerned glances. Perhaps a discreet inquiry about the king’s health. Now they stood in silence and worked to believe it, because they had learned — at some cost to their certainty — that he was usually right.

He wanted to boost morale as the war approached. The train was the most honest way he could do it.

“Your Majesty,” Barov said at last. “A vehicle like this could be the most effective thing we’ve ever shown the public. May we organize the test run as a public demonstration? Let the people of Neverwinter see it for themselves?”

Roland understood immediately what kind of propaganda effect Barov had in mind. The City Hall Director had come a long way from the man who had once preached against every expenditure that didn’t fit in a ledger column. He had learned to guide opinion, to shape mood, to turn a spectacle into a message.

Roland smiled. “As you wish.”

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