Chapter 109: A Walk Trough London

Once outside, Francisco asked one of the aides to find him a translator. The payment wasn’t too expensive, and soon he was finally able to enjoy walking through London—the beating heart of European commerce. The translator’s name was Rodrigo.

“Young sir,” Rodrigo began as they strolled down the busy street, “this must be your first time in London, right? Judging by your age, I’d say so.”

Francisco nodded. “That’s right. My trip here was more coincidence than plan. I was supposed to go to Hanover, but some things happened, and we ended up here instead.”

Rodrigo smiled knowingly. “I’ve heard a bit about that. Don’t worry, London can be dangerous, but only in certain areas—mostly the poorer slums.”

Francisco frowned slightly. “There are slums here as well? Isn’t this supposed to be the richest city on the planet?”

Rodrigo chuckled. “Being a rich city doesn’t mean everyone in it is rich. From what you’re saying, I’d guess you’re from the colonies, right?”

Francisco smiled faintly. “Yes. I’m from New Granada. I was born in Spain to maintain my Iberian status, but I was raised in the colonies.”

Rodrigo nodded. “I know quite a few people who do the same. Though it’s risky—many families are strict about preserving that status back in New Granada.”

As they continued walking, Francisco once again noticed a workshop with smoke rising from its chimney. He pointed toward it and asked, “Tell me, do they use chimneys in these workshops just to keep out the cold?”

Rodrigo chuckled. “Do you really think those workshop owners—men who see nothing but coins in their eyes—would spend money just to keep their workers warm?”

Francisco frowned, thoughtful. “Wouldn’t they?”

Rodrigo shook his head. “Of course not. I’ve heard a bit about it—it’s something called a steam machine, or something like that. Honestly, there isn’t even a proper word for it in Spanish yet. It’s a kind of engine that some workshops are starting to use instead of water.”

Francisco raised an eyebrow. “So that machine can replace the waterwheel?”

Rodrigo nodded. “It seems so. The British guard that invention closely. A few agents have tried to obtain one, but it’s almost impossible—for now. And truth be told, most courts in Europe don’t pay much attention to it. They think it’s just replacing water, and since every nation has rivers, they see it as unnecessary.”

Francisco nodded slowly, thinking. “So it’s impossible to buy one, I suppose?”

“That’s right,” Rodrigo said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t even dream of it—at least not until their patent expires. Maybe in eight years or so.”

Francisco sighed but forced himself to ignore the workshop, continuing his walk beside the translator through the bustling streets of London.

Rodrigo gestured toward a cleaner, more elegant district. “This,” he said with a touch of pride, “is where money and power reside. The air’s a little cleaner, the streets are wider, and the architecture—magnificent. You see these new Georgian squares? Rows of brick and stucco mansions, all designed with perfect neoclassical precision. The houses look solemn, reserved—projecting calm wealth.”

They passed through the broad streets of Westminster and Mayfair, watching aristocrats and ladies in bright silks and powdered wigs ride past in carriages, ignoring the crowds below.

“The buildings here,” Rodrigo continued, “like Parliament and the great houses, are where politics and power truly live.”

Francisco gazed in awe. “This place is incredible… Where does the Prime Minister receive visitors?” he asked curiously.

Rodrigo, slightly surprised by the question, led him down a quieter street. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sober-looking residence, “is Number 10 Downing Street—the Prime Minister’s home. He usually receives visitors here. For formal meetings, though, they use the Palace of Westminster. But we can’t go inside.”

Francisco nodded. “So this is where I’ll be meeting him…” he murmured, studying the dark façade of the house. It was smaller than he expected, but its simplicity carried authority. After memorizing every detail of the place, he followed Rodrigo again, listening as the translator continued explaining the history and curiosities of London.

Walking and talking, they soon reached another part of the city. Rodrigo’s tone turned serious.”This place,” he said quietly, “is the East End—the poorest and most dangerous area of London. My advice? Don’t go that way unless you want to end up in the streets without a coin or a coat.”

Francisco frowned. “That dangerous?”

Rodrigo nodded. “That’s right. Even the watchmen avoid entering unless they go in groups. Unless you have an army, it’s best to stay as far away as possible.”

Francisco looked down the street. Dozens of children in rags rummaged through refuse, searching for scraps of food. A few rough men with daggers at their belts were beating another poor soul—probably a debtor—near the entrance of an alley. The sight gave Francisco chills; he didn’t even want to imagine what lay deeper inside.

“Let’s go,” he said, turning away. “I don’t want to spend too much time here.”

Rodrigo nodded in understanding.

As they walked, Francisco asked, “Aren’t there any universities in London?”

Rodrigo thought for a moment. “Not that I know of. There are only two in all of Great Britain—Oxford and Cambridge—but both are outside the city.”

Francisco frowned, curious. “For a capital, you’d think there’d be at least one here.”

Rodrigo shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, young sir. I’m not the king.”

Francisco chuckled softly. They spent the rest of the day walking. London, he thought, was like a great machine—working tirelessly from dawn to dusk. Everyone moved quickly, as if racing against time itself.

After a long silence, Francisco said, “We look out of place here.”

Rodrigo nodded with a faint smile. “I understand that feeling. The British walk fast, think fast, live fast. We, on the other hand, are too accustomed to walking slowly, taking our time.”

Francisco’s expression darkened slightly. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” he murmured.

Rodrigo said nothing. They continued in silence until they reached the inn. Two of Francisco’s servants were outside, smoking cigars.

Francisco paid Rodrigo and said, “Thank you. I hope you can come again tomorrow morning—I may need your help.”

Rodrigo’s eyes brightened. “Don’t worry, young sir. I’ll be here early.”

Francisco watched him disappear into the crowd. The city, so grand and proud just hours before, now felt heavier—less impressive, almost cruel. After one last look at the direction Rodrigo had gone, he shook his head and went back inside the inn.

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