Moon decided waiting was a waste of time.
If he wanted answers, he'd get them himself.
The air grew cooler as he followed the winding path toward the Graypick Mine. By the time he reached the yawning mouth of the tunnel, the morning sun was only a pale streak behind him. Torches bobbed in the half-light as miners hauled buckets of ore to the surface. Pickaxes rang against stone in a steady rhythm.
A murmur rippled through the workers when they spotted him. As he arrived they quickly bowed in greetings as murmurs of 'Good morning, my Lord',rang out putting a halt to their work.
One brawny miner hesitated, then stepped forward and bowed. "My lord."
Moon waved the rest back to their work. "Carry on," he said, motioning the man closer. "I just need a quick word."
The miner shifted uneasily, dust clinging to his sweat-slicked face. "Is there a problem, my lord?"
"No problem. Just curiosity." Moon crouched beside a bucket, running a hand through the pale rubble inside. "Ever come across stone that's chalky—crumbles easy, white or grey?"
The miner scratched his beard. "Aye, down the southern shaft of the big vein. Layer o' soft rock under the harder ore. We toss it aside. No good for smelting."
Limestone. The word slammed into Moon's mind like a bell strike.
That's it. That's the key.
He sprang to his feet. "You've been very helpful—thank you!"
Before the miner could answer, Moon was already striding out of the mine. The cool tunnels gave way to bright daylight, and he broke into a run.
**
The road back to the Prescott estate normally took thirty minutes.
Moon devoured the distance in twenty, lungs burning and coat flapping like a banner in retreat.
He nearly collided with Frank at the gate. The steward jumped back, parchment clutched to his chest.
"My lord! Are you—being chased?"
"Kilns!" Moon panted, grabbing Frank's arm. "We need to build kilns."
"Kilns…?" Frank's brow furrowed.
"Yes, kilns," Moon said, still breathless. "I'll explain inside."
Frank hurried beside him as the guards swung the gates wide.
"My lord, you should have taken the carriage," he said, still baffled.
Moon groaned inwardly. How was I supposed to know this body is such a lightweight?
Aloud he only muttered, "No time for that."
They crossed the inner courtyard, the gravel crunching under their boots. A maid appeared from the side corridor and leaned toward Frank, whispering quickly before scurrying off.
"What's that about?" Moon asked, still catching his breath.
"The tax council is here," Frank replied. "Earlier than you requested."
Of course. Moon rubbed a hand over his face. He'd postponed yesterday's session, meaning the council had decided to ambush him before breakfast.
"Fine," he said with a sigh. "Lead them to the garden pavilion. And tell the kitchen to prepare breakfast for everyone—three extra settings. I'll be down shortly."
Frank gave a sharp nod and hurried off to relay the orders.
Moon climbed the staircase two at a time toward his chambers. He needed a quick wash and a change of clothes before facing a table full of bean-counters.
**
Bradwell Hart sat beside Lady Elva Kimberly beneath the arbor of Ridgewell's inner garden, steam from the teapots curling in the cool morning air. He adjusted his cuffs and leaned toward her.
"Think the new lord will finally grant us an audience today?"
"He must," Elva replied, frown deepening. "This is already the third summons."
Bradwell merely nodded.At last a pair of maids ushered them to a garden table groaning with platters of fruit, pastries, and roasted meats. Even Bradwell, a noble accustomed to generous spreads, blinked at the abundance. Elva only lifted a brow and took a seat.
Footsteps approached. Moon entered with Frank close behind. Both councillors rose and bowed.
"Greetings, my Lord."
"Sit, sit. And call me Moon," their host said easily as he dropped into the chair at the head of the table.
Bradwell and Elva exchanged a wary glance but obeyed.
Moon gestured to the empty chair at his left. "Frank—join us."
"My Lord?"
"Breakfast, together. Don't keep us waiting."
Frank hesitated, then sat. The new lord dug in with relish, but the rest sat stiff as statues.
Moon set down his fork. "Come on. Eat. You don't expect me to finish all this alone, do you? If you don't start, we won't discuss a thing—and I'll be too busy later to meet again."
Bradwell exhaled, broke a roll, and poured tea. "As you wish, my Lord. I am Councillor Bradwell Hart, son of Knight Samwell Hart, keeper of Ridgewell's treasury."
Elva inclined her head. "Lady Elva Kimberly, daughter of Duke Jaime Kimberly, and head of trade."
Moon studied them—Bradwell in his late forties, Elva barely into her twenties—then nodded. "Good to finally meet you both. Sir Bradwell, I was hoping to speak with you later today."
"The monthly accounts are ready," Bradwell said, sliding a neat ledger from his satchel.
"Excellent. We'll review them soon." Moon turned to Elva. "And you, Lady Elva?"
"I'm here to propose opening more trade routes. The emissaries from Willow Town wish to shift from sea to overland transport. Our port is simply too small; it can berth no more than eight ships at once."
Moon tapped the table thoughtfully. "I noticed that this morning. We should consider expanding the harbor."
Bradwell grimaced. "I'm afraid such works must wait until next year, my Lord. Winter approaches in five months, and our priority must be securing food stores."
Moon frowned. "How are the farms?"
Bradwell shifted. "The serfs submit roughly twenty percent of their harvest to the estate. The rest they barter among themselves or trade in the market."
Moon blinked. "They work my land, give me a token share, and trade the rest? And they aren't paid wages?"
"They… are not, my Lord," Bradwell admitted. "That is the custom."
Moon leaned back, incredulous. "So there's no official overseeing agriculture at all?"
All three—Bradwell, Elva, and even Frank—shook their heads.
Moon gave a dry laugh. "Wonderful. Just wonderful."