Power tasted like ash and hollow promises.
A week after the night the crossbows had sung their iron hymn in Weaver's Alley, Tony Stark ruled over a kingdom of mud and whispers. Flea Bottom—or at least the sizeable slice he now controlled—was unnervingly quiet. Too quiet. The silence was not peace but the pregnant pause of uncertainty. The Black Dogs had been swept away; their reign of terror replaced by a subtler fear, aimed now at him—the boy with an old man's eyes—and his silent lieutenants.
The Black Dogs' old headquarters, the Rusty Crab tavern, was unrecognizable. Under Tony's relentless direction the walls had been shored up, floors rebuilt, windows crudely patched. It was no longer a filthy dive; it was a humming operational base. Thirty new recruits—some of Groleau's former men and a few independents drawn by the rumor of change—bustled about under Jem's watchful eye. Jem's authority, cemented by his role in the massacre, was unquestioned. He was the Moucherons' fist: brutal, efficient.
Lira was their shadow. Her green eyes swept every corner and every face, measuring loyalties, scenting out the faintest treachery. Her reputation had been sealed the day she crippled an ex-lieutenant of Groleau with a single bolt to the knee for a mere insolence. She was the hidden blade—swift, cold, merciless.
Beneath this façade of order and industry lay a harsher truth: they were on the brink of ruin. The meager spoils taken from the Black Dogs had evaporated like dew. Paying the men, settling their tax with Valerius, buying materials for repairs, feeding fifty hungry mouths—Tony's coffers were empty. Their old rat-trap trade had been killed by the war and, even in its prime, could never have financed operations at this scale.
Tony sat at the large table in the center of the main room, a map of Flea Bottom spread before him. He knew he was at a tipping point. He had seized power by force, but to keep it he had to offer more than fear. He had to offer prosperity—or at least the hope of a less dark tomorrow. For that, he needed money. A lot of it. Now.
He called his inner council. Jem entered first, massive, a new scar cutting his cheek—a souvenir from the fight. Lira followed, silent, taking her post against the wall. Elara arrived clutching her counting sticks, hands trembling. Finally, Theron the blacksmith came in, wiping his hands on a leather apron—an unusual presence, but Tony had insisted.
"Elara—status," Tony cut in.
The young woman swallowed. "Worse than yesterday, Tony. Three silver coins left, and a handful of coppers. Enough for stale bread tonight. Tomorrow—" She didn't finish.
A low growl rose from Jem's chest. "We can't wait. We levy a tax. We control the streets—let them pay. It's simple."
"The tavern keepers have coin," Lira added. "So do the pawnbrokers. And Mother Ellyn at the brothel—she's been hiding gold for years. We know where to strike."
Tony raised a hand, cutting them off. "I said no. Extortion was Groleau's method. A cycle of fear and resentment. It builds nothing. You can't found a future on the misery you inflict."
"Then what?" Jem exploded, slamming his palm on the table. "We watch our men starve? Let them crawl back to crime because we can't pay? Groleau's dead, but the Skeletons and the River Men are waiting for us to show weakness!"
"We'll show none," Tony replied calmly. "And our men won't starve. We'll have money. Lots of it. But we won't steal it. We'll borrow it. And we'll build a machine that will repay that debt a hundredfold."
He looked to Theron. "Master Theron—bring the schematics."
The blacksmith, who had been watching with keen interest, pulled several rolls of fine parchment from his satchel—a luxury Tony had bought with their last coins—and unfurled them across the table. The drawings were intricate and precise. Not a weapon, but a machine of wood and iron, gears and levers.
Jem and Lira leaned in. Elara forgot to be nervous, eyes fixed on the lines.
"What is it?" Jem squinted at the technical details. "Some sort of new catapult?"
"No," Tony said, a rare smile brushing his lips. "It's a revolution. It'll fund our future. I call it… the Brasseuse."
Jem's mouth twisted into something like a grin, half-mockery, half-unease.
Tony let the name hang a heartbeat. "Think of the washerwomen. Twelve hours a day, feet in the Blackwater, beating clothes on stones until their backs break, hands eaten by ash. The hardest, most thankless labor in this city. What if we could change that?"
His finger traced the first drawing. "This—this is a rotating drum: a large barrel mounted on a solid axle. Inside, paddles. You fill it with water and laundry and—later—our soap." He moved to the second drawing, showing a pedal assembly linked to the drum by a belt. "Someone sits here and pedals. The drum turns. The paddles lift and drop the laundry again and again. A thousand times more efficient than the washboard, no strain, no fabric shredded. Clothes churned and cleaned in a fraction of the time."
He unrolled a third sheet, revealing a wringer mechanism. "And this—this is the real magic. Two tight wooden rollers and a crank. Feed the wet laundry through; pressure forces the water out. Clothes come out almost dry. No more twisting, no more sore wrists, no two-day waits for drying. And that's the household model—you can't even imagine the scale of the ones for the washer guilds."
He raised his head; his eyes shone with contagious conviction. "Imagine a machine that cuts washing time by ten, that cleans better, wears less, spares the workers' bodies. That's the Brasseuse."
Jem and Lira were mesmerized. They had watched the washerwomen along the riverbanks age before their time. Mechanizing this suffering felt unimaginable—and irresistibly potent.
"But how do we make money?" Lira asked, always practical. "They're as poor as we are. They'll never buy a machine like that."
"Exactly," Tony said. "We won't sell them. We'll rent them. We'll build ten, twenty, fifty Brasseuses—enough to dominate the trade. We'll go to the washer guilds and say: 'Your crew washes fifty sheets a day. With our machine, they'll wash three hundred. Rent it for a fixed monthly fee. Your profits skyrocket; your women will bless you.' They'll accept. Once laundries are hooked, we move on to private households."
Elara's voice trembled with excitement. "If we rent fifty machines—even at a modest fee—that's more than Groleau made in six months. And it's steady—every month."
"Precisely," Tony said. "That's seed capital for step two: the soap. Once they rely on our machines, they'll rely on us. When we offer a soap that cleans faster and better, they'll be our first customers. The Brasseuse is the lever—the lever that will lift this quarter out of misery."
He turned to Theron. "Master Theron—are these plans feasible? Harder than our… previous projects?"
Theron inspected the schematics with a craftsman's eye and nodded slowly. "It's clever, boy. Very clever. But yes—doable. Easier than those crossbows, in a way. Less millimeter precision, more brute strength. Good wood, stout iron axles, a few well-cut gears… We can build them. Faster than the 'Widowmakers.'"
The last obstacle fell away. The machine was possible; the business model shrewd. Only financing remained.
Tony reached for a stack of Credit Notes. "Jem, Lira—tomorrow we visit every merchant, every lender, every tavern owner in this district. Not to threaten, but to explain. We'll show the plans. We'll tell them their investment today guarantees their safety and prosperity tomorrow. We'll hand them these notes. In six months, when the first Brasseuses turn, we begin repayment—with interest."
Jem and Lira exchanged a look. The idea sounded mad—asking for loans from people they could rob, giving them mere scraps of paper in return. But they had watched Tony's madness work: crossbows that changed a fight, certainty that bent circumstance. The fire in his eyes made even the impossible seem possible.
"They'll laugh in our faces," Jem muttered.
"Maybe," Tony admitted. "But they'll pay. Because we're the only law left here, and our terror is still fresh. And deep down—they want to believe. They want to believe something better is possible, even in Flea Bottom. We're not selling them a washing machine; we're selling them hope. And hope has no price."
He rose, decision made. "Theron—gather materials. I'll send funds soon. Jem, Lira—ready the men. Tomorrow we launch the greatest fundraising this quarter has ever seen. Work begins now."
Skepticism still hung in the air, but it was laced with something new—not the energy of destruction, but of construction. The energy of a mad dream carried by a boy who saw factories where others saw only mud.