Standing on the Shoulders of Giants (2)
Next to the forge in Eisengrad sprawled a massive construction site that doubled as a reeking experimental lab. They were raising the factory walls on one side while erecting the production framework on the opposite before the walls were even complete.
“Grody! Hook up those pipes right next to it. Test for steam leaks with soapy water!”
“You crazy bastard of a lord! What the hell—you're shoving in the machinery before everything's even up?!”
Grody's bellow slammed into my back, but I tuned it out and kept at my work. While laborers stacked stones on one wall, nonstop reactions churned out ammonium nitrate for fertilizer under a temporary tent on the other side.
We'd already scraped every last bit of guano from the castle's nooks and crannies. Fortunately, the public toilets and refurbished sewer system—installed as part of the Eisengrad development plan—were finally pulling their weight. The villagers had scratched their heads at why their lord suddenly built clean privies and funneled all the waste into one spot, but hygiene was just a bonus. My real aim was an efficient resource network channeling the whole city's refuse into vast saltpeter fields.
The piles of livestock manure and urine mixed with straw belched a nose-deadening stench, but hey, that was a small price. What chemical plant doesn't stink? The real magic was that foul reek steadily spitting out potassium nitrate for gunpowder.
We refined the nitrate scraped from the saltpeter fields into nitric acid that could dissolve iron, capped the fermenting heaps to trap ammonia, then bubbled the gas through water-filled wooden barrels to make ammonia water. Mix that with nitric acid, and it precipitated pure white crystals. The villagers pinched their noses and fled screaming, but to me, those crystals were worth more than gold—literal nourishment for the earth.
Still, these jury-rigged setups and squeezing waste for every drop had obvious limits. Right now, we were clinging to stinking shit piles, but my endgame loomed high overhead in the empty sky. Someday, I'd build towering high-pressure reactors ripping nitrogen straight from the air to crank out fertilizer. Special steel to withstand hundreds of atmospheres of hellish pressure, precision compressors... The engineering peaks still ahead were dizzying.
But to glimpse that grand future, I first had to secure survival on this barren rock. Fertilizer we could hack from local resources, but mass-producing fulminate primers and brass casings? That demanded bulk mercury and high-purity copper—stuff you couldn't find here if you died twice.
I brushed dust from my coat sleeve and trudged toward the merchant guild branch that had set up shop in town.
The woman waiting there was Roselin, the guild master's eldest daughter and northern branch head, here to blaze new trade routes. The office smelled of fresh furniture wood mingled with fine parchment—a stark, obsessively tidy contrast to the dusty worksite.
She twirled a quill between her slender fingers as she scanned the raw materials list I'd handed over.
“Milord, I'm no charity running a hero discount.”
Beneath hair that shimmered an odd pink in the sunlight, her green eyes flew over the proposal.
“Saltpeter, mercury, copper, zinc—in these quantities? You'd have to empty your coffers twice over.”
She adjusted her gold-rimmed monocle on its chain and rapped the hefty gold bar smack in the middle of her desk.
“Milord, we don't trade on vaporware promises. As you see, this is stamped pure by the Imperial Central Bank.”
The bar's surface bore the empire's eagle emblem alongside intricate magical geometry seals etched deep.
“Top appraisers vouched for it just days ago, mana-tested by the mage tower to boot. We deal only in ironclad value.”
Arrogance gleamed in her jade-green eyes. To her, this wasn't mere gold—it was value guaranteed by the empire's machine. The appraisers and mages had no doubt skimmed the exterior without touching it, declaring it clean.
But the instant I saw it, something felt off. Instead of answering, I stared hard at the oversized bar perched like a trophy on her desk.
“What, first gold you've ever seen?”
“Nah. Trouble is, branch head Roselin, that bar's fake as hell.”
Her eyebrow shot up. She fired back cold as ice, like I'd spat in her tea.
“What an insult. Doubting appraisers and mages now?”
“Magic lies easy. Science? Not so much. That imperial seal's the real blindfold. Mind if I borrow a bowl?”
Before she could reply, I grabbed two identical glass bowls from a shelf and filled them brimful from the water pitcher nearby. The surfaces trembled right at the edge, ready to spill.
“Every material has its own density—how packed it is. Pure gold's heavy for its size. Same weight takes way less space than lighter metals.”
Roselin watched my antics with deep suspicion. I fished a pouch of high-purity gold coins from my pocket and tossed it her way.
“Branch head, you balance the scale yourself. Your precious bar on one side, my coins on the other—dead level.”
She snorted and took the pouch.
“No clue what fool's errand this is, but fine. I'll prove your weird formula wrong with my own hands.”
Her long fingers dropped coins onto the scale pan one by one—clink, clink—adjusting with a merchant's precision. At last, the beam hung perfectly level, no tilt. She shot me a smug grin.
“There—exact same weight. Your move?”
I dunked the gold coins one by one into the first bowl. Water overflowed onto the wooden base.
“If that bar's real gold, it should match the coins exactly. Same density.”
I locked eyes with her a beat, then gingerly slid her bar into the second bowl.
Whoosh! It happened in a flash. The second bowl displaced far more water than the first, a waterfall flooding the wooden base and soaking the desk. Dripping echoed in the stunned silence.
“...! Why so much more overflow? The weights were identical!”
“Same weight, way more water? Means the bar's bulkier than pure gold. They stuffed it with lighter lead to fake the heft, bloating the size.”
Roselin bolted up in horror. The bowl around her bar was a puddle now. I jabbed the spill with her quill for the kill shot.
“The con artist's imperial seal was brilliant misdirection. Greenlight this deal, hand over the goods, and your guild becomes the scammers' punchline—bankrupt.”
Color drained from her face. The seal meant nothing now; she whipped out a dagger and gouged the stamp's heart. A razor-thin gold shell flaked off weakly, revealing dull, dark gray lead beneath.
“...Impossible.”
Her hand trembled on the bar, shame and terror warring. This payment—staked on her guild's fate—was just a lead brick. Worse than a loss; it was ruin.
I didn't let the moment slip. From my pocket came a small glass vial, which I set on the table: our factory's first pure ammonium nitrate crystals.
“Buy the future instead of getting fleeced. Branch head Roselin, this is soil magic—the white gold that ends mankind's hunger.”
The clear vial caught sunlight, crystals sparkling like diamonds. A lively glow worlds apart from the lead's ashen deadness that had crushed her moments ago.
She eyed the vial suspiciously.
“...Looks like white salt lumps. How's this worth more than fake gold?”
“You know why the empire's vast southern breadbaskets shrink yields yearly. Why they must let fields lie fallow every three years, rotting the soil.”
Her eyes flickered. As a merchant, how could she not? Soil fertility was finite; reviving barren land took years and mountains of manure. It ruled imperial food prices.
“This powder is the nutrients the earth craves. No fallow fields, no manure hunts. Just sprinkle, and the land spits out bumper crops like it's blessed.”
Roselin lifted the vial, entranced. She was born to the trade—instinct pierced the food revolution this heralded, the capital tsunami to follow.
“These crystals double yields at least. Real wealth your guild's fake-gold scam couldn't touch.”
“Hoh... No fallow? Southern landowners would shower gold for a handful.”
I added flatly to her dazed stare.
“Still doubt me? Dust some on the guild's backyard flowerbed. Few days, your gardener'll scream 'witchcraft.'”
My confidence sharpened her gaze. She tucked the vial safe and switched back to cool branch-head mode.
“Alright, Lord Kyle. I'll stake the guild on your bizarre but crystal-clear show. But remember—I'm no charity. I'm a merchant.”
She extended a hand across the desk, nailing the point.
“If your 'science' is real, I'll gladly back the new world you build. But if it's bluff? Your whole domain goes on the block.”
I nodded lightly and stood.
“Mercury arrives, you'll know you chose right.”
The deal was sealed. Eisengrad's lifeline supply route was open.