MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Four days later, Cove Town was graced—if one could call it that—by the arrival of Weston Yarbeth, his sons, and their entourage.
I had summoned Baron Weston to account for the behavior of his men. I could not prove he personally gave the order for them to slip across our border—those men had been tortured to death before I could get a hold of them—but their mutilated bodies returned to my wall were evidence enough that they had crossed it and what they were doing there. However, without the perpetrators to testify, Yarbeth could claim ignorance. What was the word of the villagers of Artanes or my guards against that of a noble?
So this meeting would be a reprimand—no more. But if there was anything I could do to make his visit unpleasant, I would.
From my vantage at the Town Hall window, I watched as his carriage approached. Much to my irritation, it rode smoother than expected. He had fitted it with wood leaf springs—crude compared to the flex bronze or spring steel we had begun producing, but better than nothing. Still, even wooden springs could not fully spare him from the dips and pockets of muck along our half-settled road. The whole carriage bounced like a drunk trying to walk a straight line.
At last, the wheels scraped onto Cove Town’s hard-packed earth. And immediately, the stench hit them.
The main square was thick with the smell of fish being gutted, cleaned, and boiled. Workers hacked away at scales and bone in long, methodical strokes. Brine and blood and seawater steamed together under the noon sun. Every breeze carried it like a punishment.
This was all intentional, of course.
Cove Town looked like a dump this morning—also intentional. I couldn’t hide everything we’d built, but I could present what I needed Yarbeth to see: a pathetic little backwater, hardly worth his interest.
Naturally, I did not meet him myself. Griff greeted the group outside and escorted them toward the Town Hall. The Yarbeth sons looked as if they were entering a pigsty; their lips curled, their eyes narrowed, their noble pride offended that their boots had touched soil unworthy of them.
When they stepped into the hall, they bowed stiffly. I returned the gesture with a simple nod.
“Welcome to Cove Town, Baron Yarbeth,” I said.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” he replied, though his tone suggested the opposite. His gaze flicked across the plain benches, the rough-cut beams overhead, the mismatched lantern sconces. “I thought I had been given a heavy burden when I took over Bicman, but I see there are harder tasks even for a count.”
His insult washed over me like water off a duck's back. The less time he spent here, the better.
“We all serve our kingdom in the manner our king requests,” I said with a sharpened edge. “I remember my duties. The question is—do you?”
Both sons bristled, their faces reddening. The baron’s mouth opened, perhaps to spew another barb—but I cut him off.
“You have been warned repeatedly not to allow your people through the pass.” I leaned forward slightly, “I know it is unlikely you personally gave the order for your men to sneak across the border by bribing one of my guards. Nevertheless, they were your men. Proven to us when their dismembered bodies were returned.”
“What?” Baron Yarbeth barked. His voice echoed against the bare walls. “How could you allow the savages to do such a thing?!”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“Because that is the law,” I said. “We have signed a peace agreement with them. When their warriors approached the wall and cast the bodies down before us, demanding an explanation, I had to spend considerable effort ensuring the situation did not escalate. We do not want war with people who trade gems and crystals to our kingdom. As well as spices.”
“But you do not trade with them,” he said accusingly.
“I have an agreement with Baron Bolter not to interfere with his profits. A trade agreement his house has maintained with the people of Mother’s Mountain for over a century.”
“With the support of the House of Yarbeth,” he pressed, “you would not have to worry about the Bolters.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “My dear baron, your father has made it quite difficult for me to maintain good relations with the House of Yarbeth. Please do not make me recite the list of reasons.”
His jaw tightened.
“I have done what I can to soothe our neighbors. However, since you are the Baron of Bicman now—and it was your men who violated the accord—you will pay reparations of one hundred gold, or equivalent goods, to the Tribe of Artanes.”
“But—”
I raised my hand. “Surely you are familiar with the law. Normally, you would also owe a fine to me for breaking your vassal oath, but since I am feeling generous, we shall forgo that. Besides, what is one hundred gold to the illustrious house of Yarbeth?”
His sons glared daggers at me, but I continued calmly, “This meeting is concluded. I have matters to attend to. There is a fine lodging house to the east if you desire rest. As you can probably tell by the fine aroma, tonight’s meal is fish stew.”
Their faces soured at that, and I did my best to hide a smile.
They bowed stiffly and turned to leave. I let them reach the door before calling out, “Oh—one more thing.”
They paused.
“I have been investigating the disappearance of your missing men. I have not yet found any solid evidence as to what happened. However…” I let my gaze slide to the youngest son. “I did learn that your son was quite insistent in his attempts to bed a woman of Karr.”
Both sons froze.
“Now, I have no interest in what he does in his spare time,” I continued casually. “However, I would remind you it is against the law to force a woman into bed. The punishment for that crime is banishment.”
The younger son swallowed hard.
“It is also possible his behavior may have agitated the Shades of Karr,” I added. “I will continue monitoring the situation. In the meantime, please remind those you brought with you to follow the laws of this land. You are no longer in Yarbeth.”
I folded my hands.
“Have a good day.”
I smiled as they left. I know I shouldn't, but I couldn't help myself. Getting under those people's skin was so much better than Draves; it was almost therapeutic.
****
It was a week later, and the room I was in faintly smelled of wet stone and wood polish—signs that Matthew had been working nonstop in his workshop. I stood beside his table, holding his first finished obsidian compact mirror. A carved oak casing with a deep brown varnish practically glowed in the lamplight. The mirror's surface was dark as midnight, swallowing the light like a drop of ink in water, yet somehow still reflecting my figure with impressive clarity.
Matthew hovered nearby, wringing his hands the way he did whenever he hoped for praise but feared disappointment. “If you turn it a bit—there—the light catches just right.”
He wasn’t wrong. The edge gleamed faintly, smooth and perfect. I opened my mouth to compliment him when the workshop door slammed open hard enough to rattle the wall.
A man burst in, panting, cheeks flushed from either exertion or panic. His crisp black uniform marked him as a Pine Ridge guard. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath puffed in quick bursts.
“My lord,” he gasped, “we received a pigeon—a delegation has arrived through the pass.”
I perked up. “Excellent! The Artanes must have finally found the spices I was looking for.” North Cove didn’t grow any spices. We had herbs, sure, but nothing like pepper or cinnamon. I wasn’t expecting miracles from the barren lands beyond the mountains, but a man could dream.
“It is not the Artanes,” he said.
That brought me up short. “Then where are they from?”
“Bolster, my lord. Baron Bolster himself is leading them.”
I nearly dropped the compact. “Oh, crap. A little warning would be nice! Seriously, why does everyone just show up unannounced?”
Matthew stiffened behind me.
“Okay, Matthew—it looks fantastic, truly—but I have to go meet some guests.” I handed the mirror back to him gently and hurried out of the workshop, motioning the guard to follow. Then I stopped.
I know I had promised Emily the first one, but she was already too spoiled. Better keep that thought to myself, though.
"Mathew, may I have that mirror. It would make an excellent trade item for starting negotiations with the baron."
"You, you want to give this to a nobleman?" Mathew squeaked out.
"Hey. I'm a nobleman. And yes, I would give this to the king himself." I said with an encouraging smile.
Mathew blushed and handed me back the mirror. I left with the guard close on my heels
I threw questions at the guard rapid-fire. “How many are there? When will they arrive? Where will they arrive?”
“They are resting at the fort and will continue traveling down the Melnon Road toward us. They are on horseback. Two guards at the pass are escorting them to Cove Town,” he replied between breaths as he kept pace. “There are thirty guards, two scribes—I think—and the baron.”
I stepped outside and tilted my head toward the sky. The clouds were thin, the air clear. “Noon tomorrow at the earliest, then. Still not much time to prepare for hosting a baron—one I actually want to remain friends with at least.”
I ran both hands through my hair. “I guess I shouldn’t have been so eager to carve a real road out of that miserable mountain path. Now I don’t have as much time to prepare.”
The guard tried very hard not to laugh.
“Alright, here’s what I need you to do,” I said, snapping back into command. “Send a pigeon to the people, guiding them—we will meet the delegation in Hillside first. It looks like the delegation will get to use the new homes before our own people do.” I frowned. “Gather as much bedding as possible. I will host the baron at my house in Cove Town. It’s not as nice as the one in Pine Ridge, but it’s respectable enough. Tell Tarrence to send a pigeon to Cove Town so they can prepare.”
“That has already been done, my lord.”
I blinked. “Hmm. Yes, the wall would have sent one to both locations. That makes sense.”
“Shall I send one with your plan?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
The weight of tomorrow pressed down like a cloak. “I need to leave now before it gets too dark. There’s much to prepare—and tomorrow will come all too soon.”
****
By noon the next day, the hours had slipped through my fingers far too quickly.
The town of Hillside was buzzing long before sunrise—voices carrying through the crisp mountain air, hammers tapping, carts creaking along the half finished streets. By the time the sun reached its peak, the entire settlement had arranged itself like a welcoming corridor.
A single road was carved and graveled to North Cove standard—a clean ribbon of crushed stone running straight through the heart of the town. Two wagons wide with walking paths to the side that would one day be sidewalks. Everything else was still little more than sketches of future streets, drawn in dirt and stakes. The first traces of what they would eventually become.
But for having been grass and rocks only weeks earlier, the transformation was nothing short of miraculous.
Twenty homes stood completed, their fresh plaster drying in chalky patches beneath the sun. Thirty or forty more frames rose behind them like the skeletons of a growing forest—crossbeams angled like rib cages, rafters waiting for shingles. The scent of sap, sawdust, and wet lime hung heavy on the breeze.
The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk of the lumber mill at the distant river echoed across the hillside. The new kick wheel attached to the mill spun, smoothing the motion of the saw. With it, we were producing lumber nearly twenty percent faster.
And not just the mill. Every rotary device in Bicman now had a kick wheel attached—or was in the process of getting one.
The engineers were already arguing daily—sometimes loudly—over the optimal size, weight, and rotational ratio of each wheel. Sanders told me they were trying to turn my ramblings about inertia into an actual formula. Watching them debate felt like observing a toddler try to reinvent algebra with a stick and a patch of dirt. Genius toddlers, in my opinion.
And I was proud of them.
The people of Hillside wore their best today. Men with freshly scrubbed tunics, women in skirts beaten free of dust, children combed and polished like a small parade of animals. The river downstream had run gray from all the washing done the night before.
As I stepped into place at the head of the main street, I smoothed the front of my coat. My finest outfit—woven on the new Jacquard loom—felt surprisingly soft for cotton. Mostly due to running it through our prototype cotton gin. A piece of equipment that kept stalling and jamming. It seemed to be the bane of the engineer's existence, yet they still kept tinkering with it. Determined to make it work.
The fabric was black, patterned subtly with red thread in geometric arcs. Understated by Earth standards, perhaps, but here, revolutionary.
Edward swore someone could measure its value in gold coins laid side by side across the cloth.
I looked at myself in the polished bronze mirror and nodded. Mother always said: Put your best foot forward. And today, North Cove needed to look its best.
A distant horn echoed from the northern bend.
The caravan approached. Let the show begin.
Their horses appeared first—a disciplined line of thirty riders, armor polished, spears upright. Banners of House Bolster rippled crimson and blue in the mountain breeze. Behind them rumbled two wagons carrying supplies and scribes.
I noticed they were using stirrups and smiled. That certainly spread quickly.
Then came Baron Bolster himself—broad-shouldered, gray-streaked hair cut short, riding a bay gelding that looked as expensive as a small house.
Baron Bolster rode at the head of his entourage, dressed in well-worn traveling leathers overlaid with a cloak of deep forest green. Dust from the ride clung to its hem, but the cloak couldn’t hide the bearing of a man accustomed to command. As he swung down from his horse, his eyes moved with a keen, calculating sharpness—measuring the town the way my engineers measured the details of a well designed system. He didn’t share the stone-faced severity of Draves or Malcomp, but there was a constant alertness in him, a readiness coiled beneath the calm surface.
Beside him sat a boy—no older than thirteen, maybe fourteen—holding himself with practiced neutrality. The set of his jaw tried to mimic noble detachment, but his eyes betrayed him. They roamed over the skeletal village with unguarded curiosity, darting from timber frames to the rows of drying plaster like a child watching a stage being built for a grand play.
The rest of the party had no such restraint. A young woman in her twenties—her dark hair braided back neatly—turned her head this way and that, openly fascinated. Her gaze lingered on the uniform half-timber structures rising along the main road. Thanks to our new production methods, every building wore wood shingles instead of the usual thatch. To an outsider, Hillside must have looked less like a frontier village and more like the beginning of a modern town—a miniature city in the making.
Hooves thudded against gravel as all the riders dismounted at once. A man with a stern face, thin lips, and the sash of a steward stepped forward. His bow was deep enough to honor a king.
“Count Bicman,” he announced, voice crisp, “may I introduce Baron William Bolster, his son—the young lord William the Second—and their honored party.”
I inclined my head with a warm smile. “Baron Bolster. Young master William. Welcome to North Cove. We have prepared a meal in your honor. Additionally, a warm pool has been arranged should you wish to bathe and refresh yourselves after your journey.”
A flicker of surprise cracked through the baron’s composed expression.
“Your generosity is most kind,” he said. “A bath in warm water would be most appreciated.”
“The residents of Hillside have not yet moved in,” I continued. “You and your party may settle into any of these homes for the afternoon.”
This earned me an entire wave of raised eyebrows—from the baron, his steward, the younger noble, even their guards. Offering such accommodations to the nobles and higher ranks in the party was understandable, but for those accompanying them was unusual, to say the least.
“Please take your time,” I said, gesturing toward the new structures. “Once you are rested, I have arranged a setting for our first meal. My steward Edward will show you the way.”
Edward stepped forward with a courteous bow, and the guests began to follow him toward the eastern row—straight toward the foundation of my new house.
I allowed myself a small smile.
The concrete floor and foundation walls had finished curing two days ago, and we had decided this was the perfect opportunity to test the hydrophobic additive. The drains had been sealed, and water rerouted from the river through wooden canals we had been shifting around for various construction projects. Workers had been pouring boiling water and adding heated stones throughout the morning. By now, the entire pool would be pleasantly warm to the touch—if everything had gone correctly.
As the Bolster delegation made their way toward their unexpected bathing chambers, I slipped away to inspect our meal preparations.
The folding chairs we made for events in Bicman were such a hit that the carpenters took the liberty of prototyping a folding table as well. The craftsmen were still baffled that something so simple—hinges, locking braces, a bit of clever weight distribution—could create such an easy-to-store piece of furniture.
The way they admired it, you would think I’d reinvented ice cream.
Which, honestly, was still high on my to-do list.
*****
We timed it perfectly.
Just as Baron Bolster’s party stepped into the clearing, my workers unfolded the new tables and chairs in one smooth, practiced motion. Hinges clicked, legs snapped into place, tabletops thudded softly against the packed earth. A few of Bolster’s guards slowed, staring as if witnessing sorcery rather than simple engineering.
I hid my smirk behind a polite expression. Their reactions were everything I hoped for.
“You are looking much more refreshed, Baron Bolster,” I said as I strode toward him. “Please, join me for a meal.”
Bolster cut quite the figure now. He wore a deep-blue outfit trimmed with muted silver thread, a crisp white shirt beneath it. His black boots gleamed —clearly polished with care after his bath. Around his neck, the white scarf marking his noble rank was pristine.
His son, William the Second, matched him in quality if not severity. The boy’s outfit was equally fine, but his face held no practiced stoicism. Curiosity danced in his eyes with every glance—at the buildings, the clearing, the furniture, the people. He looked as if he were holding himself back from running around and poking everything like a child at a festival.
Finally, he couldn’t contain it.
“Lord Bicman,” he said, excitement peeking through his respectful tone, “may I ask a question?”
His father remained impassive—but notably, he did not silence him. That alone pleased me more than I let show.
“Of course,” I said, adopting the gravitas of a wise sage about to impart timeless truths. “All progress begins with questioning. Only fools remain silent out of fear or embarrassment. Your willingness to ask shows you are no fool.”
The boy beamed at the praise.
“What are the posts with names on them?” he asked, pointing subtly toward the edge of the clearing where the first street markers stood. “I have seen named streets in the City of Bolter, but this is…” He hesitated, as if afraid to offend.
I chuckled warmly. “You have a good eye for detail, young man. And a sharp mind. You wonder why a village with no residents yet would already have street signs. You also wonder why signs are posted when many people cannot read. And perhaps you wonder why build a city when there are not enough people to fill one.”
He nodded, relieved that I’d voiced the questions aloud.
“It is not the present I am preparing for,” I said. “It is the future.”
We walked slowly toward the tables as I continued.
“This village lies less than ten kilometers from the cove—excuse me, about six Falmoren marks.” I raised a hand preemptively. “A kilometer is the measurement we use in North Cove. One kilometer is roughly one and three-quarters of a mark.”
Bolster looked impressed at my ease with numbers. His steward glanced sharply at me, muttering something under his breath. The scribes looked at each other with smiles that, if I was not mistaken, were from excitement, not mockery. Has the measurement system reached Bolster?
“Since this will become the main trading hub of the North,” I continued, “it will grow quickly. We have plans laid out for expansion over the next ten years—roads, housing, trade stalls, halls for both entertainment and learning.” I gestured toward the new construction. “These street signs are not for the present—they are for the thousands who will come.”
William the Second frowned thoughtfully. “But, my lord… if many cannot read…”
“Another excellent question,” I said with a flourish.
The baron’s eyebrows rose.
“I have a goal,” I declared. “Within five years, every citizen of North Cove will be able to read basic words.”
Bolster finally spoke. “To what end, my lord?”
“To spread knowledge,” I said simply. “Questions lead to progress. I encourage my people to ask questions and to seek answers. And when they find answers, they write them down so others may learn.”
I gestured to the tables and chairs—now neatly arranged and already drawing admiring glances.
“Take these, for example. I asked: Can a chair fold to be stored easily? My carpenters answered—and then asked a question of their own: What else can we fold? The answer is before you.”
The baron laid a thoughtful hand on the back of one of the folding chairs, running his fingers along the smooth joints.
“The more people ask questions,” I said, “the faster our civilization progresses. And the faster we progress, the wealthier we become.”
I, Edward, pulled out a chair for me, and the steward did the same for his charges. “Now, let us use these fine tables as intended—before the food goes cold.”
The baron sat, still visibly processing everything he’d seen.
I could see an ally in the making. And the future of North Cove—of all the North—felt closer than ever.