On the other side of the city, Carlos went to the Gobernación — the palace where the viceroy usually stayed when he was in Cartagena. The building was handsome in a military sort of way, its whitewashed walls and Andalusian arches of lime standing two stories around a shaded central patio. Spanish soldiers stood at constant watch; just outside the palace lay the Plaza de la Aduana, imposing and noisy with merchants and port business.
As Carlos reached the door, a soldier stepped forward."Stop. What is your business here?" the man demanded.
Carlos produced his credentials. "I've come to present a type of cement I'm preparing to sell in Cartagena, if the viceroy will permit it."
The soldier raised an eyebrow. "Wait here." He called for another guard and ushered. Carlos lit a cigar and began to puff while waiting; since Francisco had taken an interest in industry and commerce, the old habit of smoking had returned whenever work or stress rose.
He watched the plaza while he smoked: slave traders barked out prices nearby, soldiers clustered at corners like granite sentinels, and the air carried a mix of tar, coffee steam, and salt. When his cigar was finished he tossed it to the stone and the guard returned.
"Sir Carlos, the viceroy will see you. Please follow me."
Inside, the palace felt like a barracks and an office fused into one. Ezpeleta was a soldier by training, so officers filled the corridors alongside clerks and bureaucrats. Tension sat in the room like a stifling heat; people spoke in clipped tones, as if someone could be condemned at any moment. Carlos's face grew solemn. This was not merely ceremony — the viceroy was upset.
As they neared the viceroy's office, uproar spilled from within. Someone shouted, furious and raw: "Those bastards make fortunes from contraband! With officers like these, the empire will fall. Investigate and arrest any customs official involved!"
"Yes, Father. I will see to it," came the respectful reply.The young man stepped out, and upon reaching the door, noticed Carlos. His expression flickered—first surprise, then something more complicated—but he quickly composed himself and extended a hand.
"A pleasure to meet you, Don Carlos. I've heard of your son and the remarkable material he created. Word of it has already reached the mainland."
Carlos blinked. "Already on the mainland?"
The man, who introduced himself as Fermín Ezpeleta y Enrile, smiled. "Partly because of my father's contacts—and partly because of yours."
Carlos took the offered hand. "Carlos Gómez. We are a branch family now; it might be better not to use my father's name publicly."
Fermín laughed lightly. "I doubt your father would mind. He'd be ecstatic if your son bore the family name; there's some reputation now in Spain because of your family."
Carlos's smile faded. "That could be… problematic."
Fermín's brow tightened. It was unusual to hear someone worry about having favor in Spain; the man's reaction made him suspicious. In a colder voice he asked, "Does he wish to return to Spain?"
Carlos answered carefully, "No. It's not that. Francisco is half German. It's better for him to keep a low profile. The Church is not lenient with people from Protestant lands."
Fermín relaxed a fraction but did not drop his scrutiny. "The Church has far less power than it once did. They wouldn't dare interfere with someone protected by the Crown."
Feeling the weight of his gaze, Carlos replied evenly, "I know the Church wouldn't dare oppose the Crown's will. The problem is, I'm not certain the Crown is willing to protect him—especially now, with these rumors about the Church aligning itself with the liberals."
At that, Fermín's face darkened. "So it has spread." He spat the words. "Those traitors in the Church forget who protects them. We will deal with them when the time comes. We count on the bishop's support."
Carlos said calmly, "I hope you succeed—but before that, I must look after my son. I wouldn't want him caught and killed in the struggle between these two factions. I imagine your father feels the same." He smiled faintly.
Fermín fell silent. He understood all too well—his own father had forbidden him from diving too deeply into the political mire. After a moment, he asked, almost defensively, "Isn't that… a lack of patriotism?"
Carlos shook his head. "No. It's the love of a father." Then, after a pause, he added with quiet conviction, "Still, I support your mission. For Spain."
Fermín smiled faintly, though with less enthusiasm. "For Spain," he said, and awkwardly took his leave.
The rumor of the Church aligning with the liberals had struck a heavy blow to Spain's stability—and to the Viceroy's control over New Granada. Some pure-blooded Spaniards, once loyal to the Crown, were now quietly drifting toward the liberal cause, a shift that threatened the very foundation of imperial rule. The worst part was the lack of solid evidence; whispers and suspicions were all anyone had. Yet the Church, instead of aiding the investigation, seemed intent on shielding the traitors. It infuriated the Viceroy, though even his authority could not challenge the Church without undeniable proof.
A page then appeared at the door. "Señor Carlos? The viceroy will see you now."
Carlos took a deep breath and stepped through the door. The future of their cement enterprise might very well depend on the Viceroy's decision. If Ezpeleta chose to protect the material, even the Crown would find it difficult to interfere. But if he refused, they could face serious trouble—perhaps even be forced to surrender the formula to the royal authorities.
Fortunately, Catalina had already secured both the supply and monopoly of puzolana within New Granada. He'd heard rumors that someone in the Captaincy of Venezuela had tried to obtain some as well, but their quality was reportedly poor. The greater concern was Quito. Even if they managed to purchase from there, its governor—Luis Antonio de Borja—had proven shrewd. He had declared all remaining deposits government property.
Carlos couldn't help but smirk slightly. Not an idiot, that one. With Ezpeleta's ongoing crusade against corruption, if De Borja had bought the deposits under his own or his family's name, he'd likely be rotting in prison by now. But by acquiring them under the name of the government, even Ezpeleta would find it difficult to touch him.
Carlos walked down the marble corridor with a steady step, the weight of commerce and politics heavy on his shoulders.