Fresh money, extorted under the guise of a forced loan, sat in an iron chest under Jem's constant watch. It wasn't a fortune, but it was a start—a breath of oxygen in the failing lungs of their fledgling realm. Tony hadn't wasted a second. As soon as the last reluctant "investors" left headquarters, he unrolled the plans for the "Washer" again—not to convince now, but to execute.
The first step was the most critical and the most delicate: acquiring the materials. The money they now had could buy wood and iron, yes, but not discretion. A child placing large orders would draw either ridicule or predators. Besides, the scale of the purchases risked attracting unwanted attention from Valerius or rival gangs. Tony needed a credible, discreet intermediary.
That was where Theron became the cornerstone of the operation. The blacksmith was a known and respected face on Steel Street and at the docks, and his expertise was indispensable.
"I can't go myself, nor send Jem or Lira," Tony explained during a nighttime meeting in the forge. "A child or well-known figures from Fleabottom trying to buy that much specific material? We'd be cheated or we'd set off an alarm. You, Master Theron, you're a smith. You know what to buy, where to buy it, and no one will blink if you increase your usual orders a bit. You're our best asset to get the quality we need without wasting our limited funds and without revealing the scale of our project."
Tony handed him a heavy purse and a precise list. Not just "wood," but "oak beams, kiln-dried, at least two inches thick, free of nasty knots, for the main frames; iron bars—test the quality, I don't want brittle junk…"
Theron spent the next three days visiting his usual suppliers, using his expertise to pick the best lots and haggling hard over every piece of copper, covering his purchases with fake orders for his own forge. Materials arrived at the smithy on quiet carts at night, then were moved piece by piece to the old Black Dogs' den by silent teams led by Jem.
Meanwhile, Tony turned the place into a true workshop. He drove out the last occupants of adjacent rooms and laid out work zones with an industrial logic that left his lieutenants puzzled. "Here, raw wood storage," he said, pointing to a courtyard once littered with filth. "There, the cutting shop. Jem, your strongest men will be here." He then indicated the main hall. "Assembly. Each crew will have its station. And in the back, near the old kitchen, Theron will set up an auxiliary forge for metal parts."
Setting up the production line was the first cultural shock. Tony didn't merely ask for work—he demanded method.
"No, Flick! Not like that!" His voice, though calm, cracked like a whip. Flick, who'd been sawing an oak beam like he was felling a tree, stopped dead, his face flushed.
"What now? I'm cutting it, aren't I?" "You're mangling it," Tony replied. He stepped forward and picked up a piece of chalk. "I asked for a straight cut. Look at your line. It veers almost an inch along the length. This piece will bear the weight of a drum full of water. If the assembly isn't perfect, the structure will vibrate, wear prematurely, and fail. Start again. Follow the line. Slowly."
Flick muttered a curse but obeyed, under Jem's dark stare. That was the new rule. Approximation was no longer tolerated. Tony's technical rigor was absolute, almost manic. He checked every cut with a square he'd made, measured every drilled hole with an improvised compass. Materials were precious; time was short. Waste was a crime.
Training proved a constant challenge. The Midges were street kids, used to improvisation, to make-do, to botched work done in haste. The old Black Dogs were thugs whose only skill was violence; the few skilled craftsmen were too proud to listen without grumbling. Making them understand the importance of a right angle, a precise joint, and an ordered workflow was heresy. "Why do we have to sand that damned roller for hours?" complained a former Black Dog, his tattooed hands blistered. "It's just a piece of wood!"
It was Kael—Tony's quiet foreman for precision work—who answered, his voice barely audible but weighted by the authority of his skill. "Because if it isn't perfectly smooth, it will catch the clothes. It will tear them. And the machine will be useless."
Tony introduced tools to make up for the lack of skill. He created cutting templates from hard wood—stencils to guide saws and ensure repeatable shapes. He devised assembly jigs, frames that held pieces in place while workers fixed them, guaranteeing perfect angles. He turned craftsmanship into a simple industrial process, broken down into tasks so elementary that even the clumsiest could take part. But he demanded those simple tasks be executed with absolute perfection.
Building the first prototype of the "Washer," model "Washerwoman"—a machine designed to be sturdy and handle large loads of laundry—took a week of relentless labor from sunrise to late night.
Day 1 and 2: The Skeleton and the Core. Jem's crew focused on the main frame. The heavy oak beams, cut with new precision under Tony's direct supervision, were joined using mortise-and-tenon joints—techniques Tony had to teach to men who only knew nails and crude pegs. It was slower, harder work, but Tony insisted: "No nails here. The machine's vibrations would pop them in a month. We build to last." The result was a massive frame, rock-solid, almost incongruous in the hovel that housed it. Meanwhile, another team assembled the drum. Pine staves, carefully fitted, were held by iron hoops Theron had forged and riveted. The trickiest part was fitting the internal paddles—the boards that would agitate the laundry. Tony personally checked the angle and solidity of each one.
Day 3 and 4: The Mechanics. This belonged to Theron and Kael. In the auxiliary forge, Theron cast and forged iron axles, cranks, and bearing supports. His work was rougher than the crossbows, but just as essential. Kael focused on carving yew gears. It was the most complex piece, the component that would transfer power from the treadle to the drum. He worked with monastic concentration, shaping and polishing each tooth by hand until the fit was perfect. Tony oversaw the treadle's fabrication—a simple but sturdy structure—and above all the drive belt. Lacking mastery of complex chains, he chose a wide band of thick leather, specially treated by a tanner who'd joined their cause and reinforced with rivets. Finding the right tension was a headache.
Day 5: The Spinner. Kael's team assembled the spinner. Two yew rollers, polished like ivory, were mounted on a separate frame. The challenge was allowing adjustable pressure. Tony designed a simple system with wooden wedges and pressure screws forged by Theron. The crank and small gears that enabled the rollers to rotate in opposite directions were installed with clockmaker precision.
Day 6: Final Assembly and Modularity. This was the most intense day. All teams converged to assemble the components. The heavy drum was hauled and set onto its axles within the main frame. The treadle was fixed, the leather belt tightened. The spinner was bolted to the end of the frame. Tony had designed the machine modularly. The main frame came apart into several sections, joined by large bolts forged by Theron. The drum could be removed. The spinner was a separate unit. That was essential. "This machine is huge," he told Jem, who marveled at the assembly's complexity. "We'll never carry it intact through the alleys. We must be able to disassemble it into three or four parts, deliver it to the customer, and reassemble it on site in under an hour." That logistical constraint had driven much of the design.
Day 7: Finishing Touches and Waiting. The machine stood there—massive, almost monstrous in the workshop's main hall. It was raw, functional, without ornament. The "finishers" spent the day sanding away splinters, oiling axles with tallow, checking every rivet and bolt. The smell of fresh-cut wood and oil mingled with the usual stench of the air.
By evening, Fleabottom's first "Washer" was ready. It sat in the middle of the shop, silent, awaiting its baptism. The workers, exhausted but proud, looked at it with a mix of fatigue and disbelief. They had built it with their own hands under the direction of a child who demanded the impossible. Tony stood apart, watching not the machine but the faces of his men. He saw the fatigue, yes, but he also saw a new light. The light of those who have achieved something—who have turned raw material into a tangible creation. It was the first spark of his industrial revolution. Tomorrow they would put it to the test. Tomorrow they would know if his reckless bet would pay off.