Chapter 60 60: a long feud

------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Erntzeit 25th ,2488 IC "Von Kesselheim... von Kesselheim... von Kesselheim... aha, here it is," I murmured as I carefully turned the pages of the family background book. The spine creaked like old bones, and the dust tickled my nose. "Apparently, the Kesselheims were the former rulers of Reinsfeld back when this land was nothing but mud, oaks, and barefoot peasants. This was during the time of Magnus the Pious. There were local conflicts over control of the territory, and my family, still commoners then, supported the right side. Since nobody wanted this hole with no castle or navigable rivers, it was handed over to us as a prize. My ancestor achieved what many landless nobles dream of: becoming someone." I flipped through a few more pages, looking for more details. "And yes, we kicked them out. Drove them off like rats," I said with an ironic smile. "Two generations later, my grandfather had to deal with them too. They tried to take back what they had lost. Four great-uncles and a bunch of distant relatives died, but we won. Again." I continued reading, my brow furrowed. "And my father... of course, they never knew when to give up. As soon as he sat on the baron's throne, another attempt. This time he personally slit the throats of two of the Kesselheim leader's sons. Four more of my uncles and three cousins died. That's why I have no family. Because of those bastards." I closed the book hard and left it on the oak desk. "The problem is, where are they getting the gold? Every time they think they can bite, they come back. Who's funding them? Who gives them weapons, men, and hope?" I searched for more references. "Nothing. Just note after note about how persistent they are. They're there, waiting for me to die. And the worst part is... if they kill me, they win. I have no legal heir. My brother is disinherited. My mother is locked away in a Shallyan temple in Altdorf. There's no one left." That was when I heard the footsteps. The metallic sound of a wheelbarrow screeching over the stone floor echoed in. Rutger appeared, sweaty and tense, pushing it. On top of it, a reinforced chest. "My lord," said Rutger, bowing his head. "These are the profits from the trip." He stopped and opened the chest. Golden coins gleamed under the candlelight. "I sold the pigment for 7,000 crowns," he began listing. "The soap for 1,000, the paper for 2,000, and some steel tools for 400. After subtracting my share... a little over ten thousand crowns net." I watched his expression: tense, uneasy, jaw slightly clenched. "Something happened?" I asked in a neutral tone. "You look nervous." Rutger lowered his gaze and replied: "Mages from the Gold College stopped me while I was offering the paper at the university and colleges in Altdorf. They confiscated part of the pigment... and forced me to sell it to them. Though I admit, they paid more than usual." I frowned. "They forced you?" I asked, now more serious. "Yes, my lord," he answered. "They bombarded me with questions. Wanted to know where we got it from. They've been searching for it for weeks. Desperate to buy it directly from the producer. I told them we bought it from a Bretonnian merchant... to raise the price a little more." I leaned my elbow on the desk and ran a hand down my face. Of course... the pigment. It draws the Winds of Chamon. The elf had already mentioned it—useful in enchanting rituals. If an elven spellcaster was interested, why wouldn't the gold alchemists be? "And did they believe you?" I finally asked. "Yes," said Rutger. "Though I tried to negotiate, they wouldn't offer any more gold." I nodded slowly and took a sip of water from the goblet. I set the glass down and looked at him with a frown. "Wait... those bastards didn't give you lead coins, did they? They're more than capable of that," I said, narrowing my eyes. Rutger's eyes widened immediately, clearly caught off guard. "No... no... I didn't think of that... I..." he stammered, visibly shaken. "Relax," I said, raising my hand calmly. "It's not that serious. If there's anything strange with the gold, we'll sue the College. Defrauding a noble is a serious crime—they'd be stripped of their robes. But next time, take the gold to a priest of Sigmar and ask if he senses any magic in it. Understood?" Rutger nodded several times, still tense. Then I looked at him again, my face serious. "By the way, Rutger... do you know any nobles named Kesselheim?" "Yes," he answered without hesitation. "They have several workshops in Altdorf and lots of farmland on the outskirts. Do you want me to try doing business with them?" I stared at him in silence for a few seconds. "What's their main business?" "Jewelry. And exclusive wines for noble circles," said Rutger. "They're quite wealthy. If you've found something in the mines that might interest a jeweler, I could—" "No," I interrupted immediately. "Try not to get too close to them. Or bad things might happen to you." My voice dropped in tone, and each word carried weight. "They are mortal enemies of my family. They're already sharpening their fangs, I've no doubt. I wouldn't be surprised if they were behind my father's death. So be careful." Rutger swallowed and nodded before quietly leaving to start loading goods onto the wagons. Once I was alone, I approached the chest and took a few coins. I ran my fingers over the gold, then closed my eyes. I let my power flow gently, scanning the pieces carefully. I felt no magical disturbance, no trace of illusion. Real gold. I let out a relieved sigh. "That was close. If those bastards from the Gold College had paid me with enchanted lead..." I shut the chest and stood in front of it, rubbing my face. "Damn it. Now I have to be wary even of the Empire's spellcasters. If one skilled enough gets close to my objects and sees what they really are... I'm screwed." I turned to the window, breathing deeply. The air smelled of soil and harvest. I forced myself to calm down. "Alright... breathe. I've got enough gold to pay wages, cover Otto's increased contract, and still have some left over. If the harvest yields as I expect, I could make another twenty, maybe thirty thousand crowns. A good year for my coffers." I smiled faintly, crossing my arms. "We just need to process everything properly. That'll be enough to finance another military campaign in the Grey Mountains... or maybe find a new target where I can test my forces." The real problem was figuring out how to strike back at the damned Kesselheims. Being in Altdorf, any move had to be handled with extreme care. If I were caught attempting an assassination or the kidnapping of one of their notables —who surely had friends among the city's noble circles and judges— I'd find myself trapped in a legal nightmare with no escape. A costly, slow trial where my chances of winning would be slim. Meanwhile, they could move freely, hidden behind favors and legal masks. And of course, they'd never send a pawn stupid enough to carry any evidence that could implicate them. The most sensible option would be to provoke them. Force a fight outside the village, away from witnesses. In open ground, turning their armor into bubbling steel would be enough to resolve the matter quickly. Maybe a couple of minor witch hunters would show up, an official investigation, but nothing I couldn't handle with a few favors, donations to the Temple of Sigmar, and a convincing performance. "I could send someone to burn down their granaries... yes, something that hurts," I murmured, calculating the timing. I slapped my face lightly a couple of times to clear my head. "All right. I can't dream of keeping a large army if I don't have the means to sustain it. So... let's get to work," I told myself, forcing a smile. I decided to use the momentum to take care of something more productive. I descended the castle hill accompanied by several of my men. It hadn't been long since the protests, and there could still be vermin snooping around —Kesselheim spies, agitators, or idiots looking to become martyrs. And as long as I was in the village, I couldn't use my magic carelessly: the priest of Sigmar had a sharp sensitivity. If he sensed magic flowing in the middle of the street, he'd start asking questions. We finally arrived at the carpenter's workshop. The looms were waiting for me. At last. About forty of them, ready to be moved. With this, I could begin standardizing the uniforms of my soldiers. So far, we had only managed to outfit them uniformly in chainmail —which was already more than most Imperial troops could say. But plate armor... plate armor was still a luxury, and production was busy with other priorities. For now, the focus had to stay on the muskets. Train a large reserve, mass-produce them, and have them ready as backup. If one day I needed to arm the populace in a matter of hours, I could. If I wanted to sell them, I'd have buyers. I took the looms to one of the new workshops Otto had built in the Reinsfeld industrial zone. The building had just been finished in time. With the help of my men, we began installing the machines inside. It didn't take long before the machinery was ready. Only one thing was missing: hands to make it work. Someone to turn flax into fabric, and maybe some of the cotton brought to me from Araby. Though cotton, damn it, is useless in winter. If it gets wet, there's no way to dry it in time, and you end up with a pile of corpses coughing blood. This time I decided to keep one of the promises I made to the townsfolk: to give hiring preference to Reiklanders. The problem was, most of them were still busy with the harvest. But since it was nearly finished, people were becoming available. It didn't take long to gather around a hundred and twenty villagers willing to work in textile production, and another eighty who agreed to take on the sewing. A new, large industry I had funded with a not-insignificant investment. It had to work. No matter what. But there was a small issue: no one had the slightest idea what they were doing. I had an enthusiastic workforce, willing to work for two shillings a day, but completely ignorant of the trade. So, as if I didn't already have enough on my plate, I had to teach them personally how the looms worked —just as the carpenter had explained to me—, how to treat the flax, how to prepare the cotton so it wouldn't jam the spinner, how to spin, how to stretch the thread, and how to produce fabric that didn't look like it came from a grain sack. A complete production chain, step by step, to ensure consistency. And most importantly, to dye all that clothing with my blue pigment. I want all my men wearing that blue. By the Winds of Chamon. Because if that damned pigment truly draws the Wind of Metal, as the elf, Hieronymus, and my own experiences producing it all claimed, then there's no reason not to use it. An army wrapped in a cloud of magic winds makes it easier for me to cast spells. And if anyone asks, I'll just say it's my favorite color. So I spent hours —whole hours— working with the peasants. Teaching them a clear sequence: how to process flax, how to clean and stretch the cotton, how to feed the loom. Then I moved on to the sewing team. I showed them which pieces I needed in bulk: tunics, durable trousers, thick cloaks for winter. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------