The week following the distribution of the first soap bars was marked by a subtle but palpable change on the banks of the Blackwater Rush. The rumble of the Churners was now accompanied by a new phenomenon: lather. Abundant, white, stubborn lather clung to the laundry in the rotating drums and seemed, to the washerwomen's eyes, to devour dirt with an unknown greed.
Besides the washerwomen, Tony had delivered samples to his private clients, his creditors, and other merchants around the city. A silver stag given to the right person, and he created a buzz around the product.
However, the washerwomen's initial reactions were cautious. The women, accustomed to abrasive ash or primitive soaps that ate away at their skin without truly cleaning, turned the bars over and over in their calloused hands. The smell was pleasant, certainly, but its effectiveness remained to be proven.
Maude was the first to try it. Under the skeptical gazes of her companions, she grated a generous amount of soap into the Churner's drum before tossing in a load of particularly soiled sheets. When the washing cycle was finished and the laundry had been run through the wringer, the result left her speechless. Stubborn stains, those that usually required two passes and fierce scrubbing, had vanished. The whites were brighter, the colors more vivid. And the fabric, once nearly dry, felt less rough than usual.
"Well now..." murmured Lyra, the young washerwoman, running a hand over a sheet. "It's... clean. Really clean."
"And my hands," added another woman, examining her palms. "It stings less than the ash. It doesn't burn."
"But," added another woman, "this is soap of a quality never seen before. How will we afford it? It must be expensive."
Her caution immediately cooled the others.
Despite the apprehension about the price, the word about the new soap's effectiveness spread along the river faster than a flood tide. The bars were used sparingly at first, then with growing eagerness as the results became obvious. Tony's soap didn't just clean; it made the work easier, faster, and less painful. It saved rinsing water because it dissolved better. It left a fresh scent on the laundry, an unheard-of luxury.
After four days, the gift packages were empty. A delegation, led by Maude, appeared at the Gnats' HQ. They were no longer suspicious. They were impatient.
"Boy!" Maude called out upon seeing Tony supervising a delivery. "Your soap. Is there any left? We want some. How much does it cost?"
Tony hid a satisfied smile. Phase two of his plan had worked perfectly. "If I have any left? Of course, there's more. For you, the first users of the Churner, the price is... let's say, three coppers a bar. Or a silver piece for a dozen."
The price was ridiculously low compared to the benefits it brought. The women, too stunned, didn't even bargain. They pulled out their meager savings, buying by the dozens.
"Isn't the price too low?" Elara asked hesitantly. "I mean, lower quality lye costs about the same. It's practically a gift at this point."
"You have so much to learn, my young disciple," Tony said sententiously, a smirk on his face.
"Hey, we're almost the same age!" Elara protested with false indignation.
"Wishful thinking. Anyway, moving on. Even if you don't grasp the subtleties yet, the washerwomen get the advantageous price because they use the soap every day on the banks. Everyone notices the clean, fragrant laundry, asks questions, talks about it. It's free advertising. When production peaks, the price for them will be the normal price, and the margin will remain intact. Plus, they'll be the only ones getting such prices at the start."
---
In the afternoon, however, Tony's demeanor changed. The warlord, the budding industrialist, gave way to another facet, the result of a promise he had made to the Gnats and himself: that of the teacher. In a large room at the back of the HQ, cleaned and furnished with rudimentary benches made of planks and crates, about fifteen individuals – his core team included – sat, more or less attentively.
This was "Tony's school." He knew that to build a sustainable future, it wasn't enough to give people jobs; he had to educate the old and new generations, give them the intellectual tools to escape the cycle of poverty and ignorance.
Before them, a large slate hung on the wall. Tony, chalk in hand, traced letters.
"A... B... C... Repeat after me."
A hesitant, ragged chorus answered him. Some children, like Pip and Pock, were fascinated, their eyes shining with curiosity. Others fidgeted, more interested in the fly buzzing near the window or the game of knucklebones they hid under the bench.
Tony displayed surprising patience, a contrast to the relentless rigor he showed in the workshop. He went over the letters, explained the sounds, told simple stories to illustrate his points. Then, he moved on to numbers.
"If one Churner washes 30 sheets in an hour, and there are 8 hours in a workday... how many sheets can be washed? Elara?"
Elara, sitting in the front row, answered without hesitation, proud to show her knowledge. "240 sheets, Tony!"
"Exactly. And if we sell half of those sheets for one copper piece, the other half for two, what will the average selling price be..."
He taught them to read, write, and count. Not just for the sake of knowledge, but for pragmatic reasons. He was training his future foremen, his future accountants, his future engineers. He was giving them the keys to understand and participate in the empire he was building. It was a long-term investment, as crucial as Theron's forge or the soapworks' cauldrons. It was his way of ensuring his revolution wouldn't die with him.
Lira sometimes watched him from the doorway, a mixture of tenderness and perplexity on her face. She saw the child he should have been, patient and pedagogical. And she saw the adult he was, already calculating how to use these young minds for his future plans. Who was he, really? The question remained, more complex than ever.
---
Nightfall, however, brought another facet of the new order into play, far from the makeshift classrooms and humming workshops. Flea Bottom was quieter than it had ever been. Regular patrols by Jem's men, now better equipped and disciplined, deterred most petty crime. But the calm was relative. Pockets of resistance remained, small groups of former Black Hounds or independent thugs who refused to bend to the new rules, who tried to maintain their rackets over the weakest or sabotage material deliveries.
Tony knew that Jem's mere presence wasn't enough. He couldn't afford any disruption to the establishment of his industrial center. The fear of the crossbows faded with time. He needed a more... definitive solution. And a more discreet one. He didn't want his own men, the Gnats he was trying to pull away from chaotic violence, to keep getting their hands dirty more than necessary.
That was why, under the cover of darkness, a small team operated in the darkest alleys. They weren't Gnats. They were three men, silent, clad in dark, worn leather, their gaunt faces and empty eyes betraying a long habituation to violence. They were mercenaries, former soldiers from the rebellion, demobilized, without ties or scruples, discreetly hired by Theron on Tony's orders. They didn't have sophisticated crossbows. Just short blades and an intimate knowledge of the art of killing quietly.
That night, their target was a small group led by one of Groleau's former men, a man named Claw, who had tried to extort Tony's ash collectors. The ambush was swift, brutal, and silent. The mercenaries emerged from the shadows of a dead end. A muffled gurgle, the sound of a body falling heavily onto the uneven cobblestones. In less than a minute, it was over. Four bodies lay in the darkness, their throats slit. The mercenaries quickly searched the corpses, retrieving a few coins, then disappeared as silently as they had appeared.
No one had seen anything, heard anything. The next morning, the bodies would be discovered. Rumors might speak of an internal settling of scores, or of the "ghosts" that hadn't quite vanished. No one would connect it to Tony, the young industrialist teaching children the alphabet in the afternoon.
Later that night, the mercenaries' leader, a nameless man known only as "The Raven," gave a laconic report to Jem in the back courtyard of the HQ.
"It's done. Clean. No more trouble from Claw."
Jem nodded, his face impassive. He relayed the information to Tony, who merely gave another nod before returning to his plans.
This was the price of order. The price of transforming Flea Bottom into an industrial center. Tony built with one hand, providing work, hope, cleanliness. And with the other, he purged, ruthlessly eliminating those who threatened his vision. He knew that peace and prosperity could only flourish on ground cleared of its most stubborn weeds. And he was prepared to use every necessary tool, from soap to steel, to prepare that ground. The merchant of death was never far beneath the engineer's surface.