[A/N: Hi everyone, I just wanted to ask if you saw the bonus episode. Are all the images there?]
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PREVIOUSLY.
[Edmund was left in awe.
The image formed in his mind with overwhelming clarity: vast expanses of golden fields rippling beneath the north wind, the sound of mills grinding European wheat at the edge of the world. Andean potatoes as a foolproof sustenance for the winter. The news filled him with an optimism he hadn't felt since setting sail from England.
If they managed to make those wild lands bloom with grain and abundant food, these precarious settlements of wood and mud would not merely be a temporary exile. They could become, in the future, the beating heart of a prosperous and powerful empire in New England.
And for the first time, thanks to that agreement, Edmund felt that this vision was truly possible.]
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Half an hour later.
March 18, 1496 (Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, First Month).
Massachusetts Town (Boston, Massachusetts), North Quyca.
Over the preceding half hour, the meeting hall had transformed into an academic lecture room where the young English nobleman was reduced to a mere, awestruck student.
Chaieta, with a fluency that denoted years of study at the Simte Academy, laid out a catalog of flora that left Edmund Howard staring in stunned silence.
They spoke not only of cereals and tubers; the Suaza officer detailed plans for the introduction of fruit trees, explaining how apple and pear trees of European origin could be grafted and thrive in the valleys shielded from the north wind, creating orchards that would secure cider and sustenance during the harsh snowfalls.
Edmund listened to the rhythmic scratching of charcoal against paper as Chaieta drew schematics of terraces and drainage systems. The level of preparation was so obscenely detailed, so meticulously perfect, that a paranoid suspicion began to take root in the Englishman's mind.
"Officer Chaieta, forgive my boldness," Edmund interrupted, narrowing his pale eyes as he leaned back in his chair. "The precision of these reports... is almost unnatural. For a moment, I would dare swear the scouts of the Suaza Kingdom reached this bay decades before us and prepared the land in secret. Is that the truth? Have you been here before?"
Chaieta halted the stroke of his quill. He looked up, his dark eyes reflecting absolute calm, and slowly shook his head.
"It is not a matter of having tread upon this soil previously, Lord Edmund," he replied, his tone devoid of arrogance. "Our kingdom's agricultural science is not based on guesswork, but on comparison. Our experts analyze the soil composition, the air's humidity, and the water's acidity, and then seek their equivalent in the vast records we already possess from other latitudes."
Edmund frowned, genuinely confounded.
"But that does not explain the climate. We have been in this territory for barely more than a month. We have yet to see a full winter or the heat of summer. How can you claim to know the weather of an entire solar year?"
A subtle smile graced Chaieta's lips.
"Because we do not need to wait for the snow to fall to know it is cold, my lord. We simply... ask."
"Ask?"
"Linguistic exchange with the local Algonquin tribes was our very first plowshare," Chaieta explained, gesturing toward the window that overlooked the distant blue hills. "Our dialect tamers sat down with their elders. They described to us, through their own words and myths, the behavior of the weather during each moon of the year: when the rivers freeze, when the frost melts, when the east winds lash the coast... Once those tales were gathered, our scholars compared those cycles with the extreme climates we have already mastered in the south of Great Quyca, and even with the climate data from your own island, England, which your ambassadors and merchants provided us. The sum of those parts gives us the full year."
Edmund was utterly astounded. The Suaza Kingdom's intelligence gathering did not rely on magic, but on a fierce curiosity and an overwhelming scientific method. They listened to the "savages," analyzed their words, and forged them into science.
Curious, and suddenly recalling John Cabot's tales of the colossal Joint Expedition across the Sunset Ocean the previous year, Edmund leaned forward.
"If you are capable of doing this here... on the Joint Expedition to the kingdoms of Asia, did the Suaza Kingdom do the same in those far-flung territories to the west?"
"Certainly," Chaieta confirmed with utter nonchalance, nodding. "Our botanists and agronomists discovered that many of the valuable crops from the Caribá region could thrive marvelously in the tropical climates of Southeast Asia, and vice versa. It is a biological exchange that will be able to redraw the economy of both ends of the earth."
Edmund let out a deep sigh, a long, trembling sound that seemed to deflate the pride of House Howard. The technical superiority of the Suaza was no longer an insult; it was a force of nature. He felt overwhelmed, yet his survival instinct screamed at him to take advantage of the brilliant mind sitting before him.
He decided to change the subject, abandoning botany to wade into the murky waters of politics.
"Officer Chaieta... I shall be frank with you," Edmund said, lowering his voice and glancing toward the door to ensure no one was listening. "The political waters in England are somewhat turbulent. It is highly likely that my crown's supplies will be delayed indefinitely. If you were in my position, in command of Massachusetts Town, with a starving colony and severed from London... what would you do to stabilize the situation?"
Chaieta observed him in silence for a couple of seconds. The Englishman's vulnerability was evident, but the young Suaza officer showed neither pity nor compassion, only calculating pragmatism.
"To answer that, my lord, I must first ask you two questions," Chaieta replied, interlacing his fingers over the table. "First: Do you possess absolute control over the vessels John Cabot brought yesterday? And second: Are you willing to be... flexible with the English crown's bureaucracy and tariff laws?"
Edmund did not hesitate for a heartbeat. King Henry VII had 'abandoned' him to his fate on a frozen continent to wage his own wars of succession. Blind loyalty was a luxury he could no longer afford.
"The great initial carrack and the four caravels of the first voyage are under my permanent command, granted by decree," Edmund answered, his eyes gleaming with a dark resolve. "The rest of the new fleet will soon depart for London. And as for flexibility... let us just say that English bureaucracy has no jurisdiction when my men's stomachs are empty. Pretend I am the king of this city."
Chaieta nodded in approval. He took a blank sheet of paper, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and drew a triangle on the parchment.
"Then, if you wish for Massachusetts Town to survive and impose its own hegemony, it must forge an uninterrupted cycle of wealth. I recommend the following:
First, forget diplomatic gifts. Go to Captain Quemuen and request a 'royal' loan from the Suaza embassy's coffers. Tangible gold or silver. Use that capital to buy from the local chiefs all the exotic pelts, fine woods, and regional resources that lack value here, but are a scarce luxury in Europe.
Second, fill the holds of your four caravels and send them to the ports of England or Flanders. Sell those goods for their weight in gold to the European nobility.
Third, with the exorbitant profits, do not purchase weapons for Henry VII. Purchase items that fascinate the local Algonquin tribes—glassware, beads, tools—but above all, acquire goods desperately sought by the Suaza ports: European seeds, robust breeding livestock, books, treatises on art and science, even artists and artisans.
Fourth, ensure your ships do not return directly here, but rather make port first in Dawn City or Guanzauba City. Sell those high-value European goods in our tax-free ports. With those final profits, purchase from Suaza all the cement, iron, medicine, and food this colony needs, and bring them back to Massachusetts."
The silence that followed the explanation was tomb-like. Chaieta rested his quill on the table, waiting.
Edmund Howard kept his gaze fixed on the ink triangle. His mind, trained at court to obey, had just been violently dragged into global commerce.
Henry VII had sent him as a mere colonial administrator, a warden of a wooden palisade at the edge of the world. They had granted him permission to trade on behalf of the crown, yes, but always acting as an intermediary for London.
But what Chaieta had just drawn was not a survival plan. It was the roadmap for forging an independent mercantile empire. By utilizing the ships, the Suaza loan, and foreign markets in this circular fashion, the capital would never return to Henry VII's coffers; it would be reinvested, multiplied, and kept entirely within Massachusetts Town.
Edmund suddenly realized that, without the Suaza officer ever explicitly mentioning it, this scheme granted him the power to shape his own internal economy, mint his own currency of exchange, and, eventually, raise his own private army fueled by prosperity.
The English nobleman looked up. His hands were no longer trembling. The anguish of having been 'abandoned' by his king had been replaced by a burning ambition, a fever of independence that scorched through his veins. He would not just be a forgotten Lord in the snow; he would be the absolute master of the north of this continent.
One month later.April 20, 1496 (Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, Second Month).
One month. Thirty days of feverish activity had been enough for the seed of ambition planted by Chaieta to begin bearing its first fruits in Massachusetts Town, and to Edmund's surprise, those fruits turned out to be, quite literally, exceedingly sweet.
The English nobleman stood before the smoking communal kitchens, breathing in a thick, sugary air that managed to mask the harbor's perpetual scent of saltpeter.
Before him, the Suaza cooks—men of enviable culinary practicality—stirred the contents of massive iron cauldrons. Inside, a thick, dark jam bubbled away.
Over the past few weeks, small groups of envoys from the local Algonquin tribes had begun emerging from the forests, drawn by the echo of commerce.
They brought not only thick pelts, uncut precious stones, and a rustic yet fascinating copper and gold metallurgy, but also baskets overflowing with wild berries: deep blue blueberries, intense strawberries, and tart raspberries.
Edmund, whose mind now operated under the cold logic of mercantilism, had instantly analyzed their value.
Fresh fruit would rot in the ship holds, but boiled with sugar and sealed in clay jars under the Suaza's expertise, those preserves became an imperishable luxury, perfect for the tables of European nobility or as anti-scorbutic rations for ship crews.
"Magnificent," Edmund murmured, tasting a drop of the purple confection with the tip of a wooden spoon. The flavor burst across his palate. "Jar everything the locals bring. We shall pay them with minor iron tools."
The tension that had suffocated the settlement weeks ago seemed to have dissolved with the arrival of spring. The town's stabilization was due not only to the trade deals, but to a silent lifeline: an immense surplus shipment sent by the Suaza Kingdom.
Officially, the supplies were designated exclusively for their own citizens, but through a discreet diplomacy that Edmund silently appreciated, the rations of grain, dried meat, and medicine ended up being distributed equitably among everyone.
That caloric respite allowed the architectural miracle to be completed.
As he walked back through the cobbled streets, Edmund surveyed his domain with pride. The 321 Englishmen and 75 Suaza who made up the permanent population no longer slept at the mercy of the wind.
Solid communal longhouses had been erected, elongated wooden structures sealed with pitch, capable of comfortably housing ten people or two entire families. The roar of the sawmills was ceaseless, the harbor warehouses were beginning to fill, and the administrative buildings operated with an incipient bureaucracy.
Even his own residence was finished.
Though the original blueprints spoke of a "mansion," the reality imposed by resources had reduced it to a cabin; nonetheless, it was an enormous, warm, and highly inviting cabin, reinforced with double walls to withstand not just the spring rain, but the future snowfalls that, as he now knew, would paralyze the earth.
Upon reaching the center of town, his gaze inevitably drifted toward the Suaza Embassy.
The primarily circular colossus of cement and iron already stood tall and immovable, mocking the Englishmen's pine cabins. Edmund crossed his arms, suppressing a twinge of envy at that fortress-like solidity.
It is undoubtedly sturdy, he consoled himself haughtily, but its geometry is crude; it lacks the elegance of European vaults and right angles. Too... bizarre for my taste.
Furthermore, Edmund had come out ahead in the territorial division. Quemuen, following the plans modified by Chaieta, had relocated the bulk of the Suaza forces to the north of the river (Charles River, Boston), ceding the old southern camps and dwellings to the English.
Edmund was ecstatic with that acquisition of free infrastructure.
The cement embassy in the south would remain mostly empty for at least a year, waiting for Dawn City to send a titular ambassador. Meanwhile, Quemuen had left the brilliant Chaieta as acting ambassador, a decision that deeply pleased Edmund, for the young officer was the linchpin of his blooming economy.
In the distance, on the northern banks of the Charles River, Edmund could make out the smoke from the new Suaza forges.
On those lands recently ceded by England—or rather, by him—the Suaza experts had already established new camps, raised their own warehouses, and were sinking plows into the earth for the first great harvest of wheat and oats.
Not wanting to be left behind, Edmund had ordered his own men to replicate the effort on the south side. Dozens of Englishmen, sweating under the spring sun, cursed as they felled the last trees and tore out the deep roots with makeshift oxen, prepping the cleared soil for a test planting under Chaieta's strict technical guidance. The goal was to have immense fields ready to sow by autumn or the following spring.
Suddenly, the sharp, prolonged blast of a signal horn echoed from the harbor, pulling Edmund from his agricultural reveries.
The nobleman spun on his heels and walked briskly toward the docks. The salty wind whipped his cloak as he squinted toward the maritime horizon. It was not the imposing carrack, nor one of the ships sent to London by obligation. It was one of his agile caravels, but it looked strange, almost alien.
As the vessel cut through the gray waves toward the stone pier, Edmund could appreciate the brilliant naval modification the Suaza engineers had implemented: the English caravel's mizzenmast no longer bore a traditional square sail.
In its place, an immense triangular lateen sail pulled taut against the wind, allowing the ship to tack and sail at close angles with a speed that London's engineering had yet to fully master.
It had returned.
Edmund's heart pounded heavily. That modified caravel was the centerpiece of his daring gamble.
It had sailed to the far south, crossing the tropics to the Caribá region, the maritime heart of the Suaza Kingdom. Its mission had not been to return to the cold, demanding shores of England, but to request the massive loan of royal gold, negotiate extra supplies, and inform the Suaza ports of the lucrative trade routes Massachusetts Town was ready to open.
Seeing the sailors on deck, bronzed by the southern sun and waving their arms, and noting how deep the ship's waterline sank under the weight of its cargo, Edmund broke into a smile that lit up his face. The first cycle of the mercantile plan had concluded with resounding success.
Two months later.
June 19, 1496 (Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month).
On the relentless clock of colonization, sixty days could mean the difference between starvation and prosperity. For Massachusetts Town, those two months elapsed since the return of the modified caravel had transformed the settlement into a melting pot that would have been incomprehensible—even scandalous—to any conservative lord back in London.
From the window of his spacious, thick-logged pine cabin, Edmund Howard watched the comings and goings along the packed-dirt streets. The early summer heat already permeated the air, bringing with it the scent of hot resin, freshly baked bread, and the unmistakable aroma of damp sawdust.
Initially, the town's demographics had been overwhelmingly English: four subjects of the crown for every Suaza citizen. Three hundred and twenty-one against seventy-five. However, the human landscape in the streets had changed drastically. Now, the eye was constantly met by copper skin, leather tunics adorned with intricate beadwork, and heavy copper necklaces gleaming in the sun.
They were members of the local Algonquin tribes.
Drawn by the metallic clang of iron tools, the shimmer of polished gemstones, and the promise of steady supplies, dozens of native families had requested permission to settle on the outskirts and within the town itself.
Edmund, far from turning them away with the usual European paranoia, had thrown the doors wide open. The total population had skyrocketed to five hundred and fifty permanent residents—a formidable workforce that had injected an unprecedented vitality into the endeavor.
The majority of these new residents crossed over to the north each morning, to the Suaza 'district' across the river, lured by curiosity and coin.
There, amidst the hum of saws and the heat of the forges, they helped fell the immense forests, built workshops, and toiled in the budding crop fields that the foreign agronomists had laid out with their terrifying mathematical precision.
Nevertheless, a fair portion of the locals had also begun to migrate toward the English zone, south of the river.
Edmund smiled to himself, remembering how he had achieved such integration.
Chaieta and the Suaza used logic, science, and technical exchange to win over the natives; but Edmund had resorted to one of the oldest and most effective weapons of European diplomacy: boundless hospitality.
Weeks ago, in an effort to maintain and legitimize English customs in that corner of the world, Edmund had organized a monumental banquet for the region's tribal leaders.
The memory still made his mouth water.
Upon long oak tables set outdoors, he had served a culinary amalgamation never seen before: succulent, Yorkshire-style venison roasts, but glazed with exotic red spices brought from the Caribá region; dense wheat loaves paired with those sublime wild berry jams they had devised; and, of course, an inexhaustible torrent of liquor.
Strong English ale had mingled with potent Suaza distillates in the goblets of the native chiefs.
The evening had been a resounding success. Amidst deep laughter, guttural songs, and incomprehensible yet sincere toasts, the cultural barrier had cracked. Enthused by the generosity and palate of that pale lord, the leaders had ordered the dispatch of a friendly workforce and, even more valuably, had lent out their own agricultural experts—seasoned men and women who knew the whims of that land better than any foreigner—to work shoulder to shoulder with the English.
Edmund tore his gaze from the window and returned to his heavy desk.
Several folios covered in Chaieta's impeccable, millimeter-perfect calligraphy rested on the wood. They were yield reports and projections for the autumn. The young Suaza officer was recommending specific crop rotations and adjustments to the fish salting process.
He is a calculating genius, Edmund thought, dipping his quill to sign his approval in the margin.
Suddenly, the morning silence of his cabin was ripped apart by a deep, guttural sound that reverberated against the wooden walls.
Hooooo... Hooooo... Hooooo... Hooooo.
Edmund stopped his quill a millimeter above the parchment. A drop of black ink fell, staining the page, but he did not care.
He counted the blasts in his head. Four. The pattern established at the harbor was unmistakable: four ships had just been sighted approaching the bay.
A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine. He leapt to his feet, the wooden chair scraping harshly against the floor, and sprinted toward the balcony that directly overlooked the sea.
He rested both hands on the railing, squinting against the sun's glare on the waves. There they were. Crossing the narrow entrance of the bay, square sails billowing with the Dawn wind, rose the immense and majestic silhouette of John Cabot's Carrack. And behind it, flanking it like loyal escorts, three English caravels sliced through the sea foam, heavy and steady.
Edmund let out a long, trembling breath. The tension that had coiled at the base of his neck over the last few weeks—a hard knot of anxiety brought on by the fleet's delay—dissolved like ice in boiling water. The nobleman's shoulders dropped, relaxed for the first time in a very long while.
They had arrived.
Though the delay had made him fear pirate ambushes, storms, or a political whim of Henry VII himself, the majestic procession of ships before him was the irrefutable proof of his victory.
Those dark wooden hulls brought more than just supplies and manufactured goods from London or Flanders; they brought something far more vital. They brought new colonists. They brought fresh blood to feed the machinery of his fledgling territory.
Under the morning sun, as the harbor cannons fired welcome salvos that sent the seagulls flying in frantic circles, Edmund Howard knew with absolute certainty that the survival of Massachusetts Town was no longer a prayer, but an undeniable fact. His city was real, and now, it was truly sustainable.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support.
First, I want to let you know that the next two chapters are already scheduled, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to upload these notes.
This is because there's a severe storm hitting where I live; it's been going on for a week now, and the rain has barely stopped. I'm constantly dealing with leaks, fixing the roof, and even digging channels to divert the rivers that are starting to overflow.
The chapters after this will have to wait, since even my PC is damp most of the time, and I don't want to use it until it's dry and clean.
If everything goes well, the chapters and notes will continue as usual. This is just a heads-up.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]