Chapter 182: Steel-pointed Tool

In Medellín and the surrounding valleys, something strange began to happen.

The tool market simply… stopped.

stalls that had once echoed from dawn until dusk with the ringing of hammers now stood quiet. Shutters remained half-closed even after sunrise, and merchants who normally shouted prices into the streets suddenly found excuses to avoid customers. Some shops flatly refused to sell, especially those with known ties to the Cádiz Company. Others—independent sellers who had always prided themselves on neutrality—claimed they had nothing left at all, swearing that their inventories had been emptied overnight.

Between whispered conversations and cautious glances, a rumor spread like smoke through the alleys: someone was buying tools in bulk, clearing entire stores and leaving nothing behind.

Carlos listened in silence as the reports were laid before him. The smell of oil and hot metal still lingered in his office from the workshops below, but his expression darkened.

“So,” he said at last, fingers tapping slowly against the wooden table, “it seems the Crown has decided to lend Chavarriaga a hand.”

He exhaled through his nose, half amused, half wary.

“This isn’t the sort of idea a man like him would come up with on his own. Someone who has spent his entire life exploiting others from a position of comfort would have reacted with force—closed roads, seized workshops, sent armed men. Not this.” His eyes narrowed. “This reeks of Spanish advice.”

The aide nodded. “They’re trying to strangle us quietly.”

“Fortunately,” Carlos replied calmly, “we planned for exactly this.”

He straightened. “Begin selling the tools immediately. Open the warehouses today. But place a strict limit on purchases per person. If they start buying in large batches, they’ll bleed us dry. We don’t have enough steel for that—not with weapons production already stretched thin.”

The aide hesitated, then offered, “Then why not sell only to those who qualify for our loans? We already require applicants to state their trade, their residence, and provide two recommendations from citizens of Medellín. That way, we can be certain the tools go to those who truly need them—not agents of San Lorenzo or the Crown.”

Carlos considered this, then nodded. “Do it. That gives us control without appearing restrictive.”

After a brief pause, he added, “Increase patrols as well. I’ve received word that the group in Santa Fe has assembled new troops. The last attack was only a probe. They lost cavalry, but now they’re preparing something larger.”

The aide nodded, but unease flickered across his face. “And the Spanish Crown, sir? Right now, we’re balanced on a knife’s edge. If the fanatics attack while the Spanish intervene… we could lose more than we gain.”

Carlos frowned, then shook his head slowly. “I doubt it. In Antioquia, we are clearly the weaker party. That’s precisely why the fanatics are eager to destroy us.”

He leaned forward. “If the Spanish choose to deal with us instead of crushing Santa Fe, they’ll only worsen their own situation. They would be forcing the fanatics to concentrate their entire strength against the viceroyal army. It would be foolish—even by their standards.”

Still, after a moment’s thought, he added, “But caution never hurts. Send scouts to the frontiers. If a large Spanish force moves, I want to know before they cross the rivers.”

That same weekend, new rumors began circulating through Medellín.

They claimed that the Gómez family’s talk of loans had been nothing more than theater—a ploy to gain prestige. According to the whispers, Carlos was deliberately hoarding tools, using his former influence within the Cádiz Company to pressure merchants into refusing sales. The loans, people said, were never meant to be honored.

Those with sharper minds sensed something amiss. The story didn’t quite align with what they saw in the workshops, or with the steady wages still being paid. But the average citizen did not dwell on such inconsistencies. To them, the logic was simple: if a promise was made and not fulfilled, then someone had lied.

Resentment began to simmer.

Then, on Monday morning, as church bells echoed across the plaza and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the streets, a new shop opened its doors in Medellín.

It stood beneath a familiar banner.

One of the Chavarriaga family’s Storehouses—long dormant in the city—had reopened this times under the cabildo and Gomez family seal

“tools! We are open to sell tools!”

The loud announcement cut through the plaza like a blade. Conversations faltered. Footsteps slowed. A few heads turned instinctively toward the source of the voice.

“What?” someone muttered.

The shopkeeper stood beneath the newly hung sign, his posture straight, his voice confident. The words alone were enough to stir curiosity—and disbelief.

“Wait,” a man whispered to his companion. “Isn’t that one of the Gómez estate servants? Didn’t he used to work in their warehouse?”

“Yes,” another replied. “My neighbor tried to set him up with his daughter. Thought it would be a good match, considering how well those people live. But he refused—said something about wanting to marry for love.”

“I heard that too,” a woman added quietly. “They say most of the Gómez servants were orphans, raised under their ideas. Always talking about love, merit, dignity… strange things.” She frowned. “But what’s he doing here? Is he really selling tools?”

The murmurs thickened, curiosity pulling people closer like a slow tide. Finally, one man stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back.

“Sir,” he asked cautiously, “is it true that you’re selling tools? I heard such tools only come from Spain.”

The shopkeeper maintained his smile, calm and practiced. “You are correct, young man. tools are a monopoly of the royal family so they usually only come from spain.” He paused deliberately. “That is why we sell only to those who apply for the loan offered by the Gómez family Bank”

The crowd leaned in.

“There have been… unfortunate rumors about our house,” he continued evenly. “So our patriarch decided not to rely on imports. Instead, he ordered the tools to be made locally. However, our production is limited. We cannot supply the entire city at once. These restrictions exist to ensure that those who purchase are truly those who need them.”

A few nods followed, though doubt lingered.

“But isn’t that forbidden by the Crown?” the man pressed, suspicion creeping into his voice.

For a brief moment, the shopkeeper swallowed. Then he answered carefully.

“Because we are in the middle of a war, the Gómez family chose necessity over comfort. We produce our own tools.” He gestured toward the interior of the shop. “Thanks to the knowledge of a group of Africans—men my master saved from slavery—we learned to make something called steel. We cannot yet forge entire tools from it, but the tips are steel. Stronger. More durable.”

The crowd stirred, voices rising over one another.

“So they are using steel,” someone muttered.

“Steel?” another scoffed. “Aren’t Africans backward? How could they make steel when even we don’t have such techniques here?”

“You’re all fools, repeating whatever suits you.”

A Black man stepped forward, drawn by the whispers. His voice was firm, edged with restrained anger.

“Africa holds many civilizations. Many crafts. Yes, there are tribes that do not work steel—but that does not mean we are ignorant or primitive.”

A mestizo man sneered openly. “Then why were you sold to this place?”

The man let out a slow breath. “Because we are not united. Some nations prefer to wage war on their neighbors and sell their own people rather than build something greater together.”

Silence spread through the plaza.

More than a few listeners thought of the fighting in Antioquia, of neighbors turning on neighbors. Uneasily, several crossed themselves, as if religion were the only chain keeping them from doing the same.

Two large stones were dragged to the entrance of the shop and placed on the ground. A pickaxe was set beside them.

“If anyone wishes to test the tool,” the shopkeeper announced, “you are welcome to do so.”

A man stained black with coal dust stepped forward. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve worked in the mines for years. If you allow it, I can judge the quality.”

He was broad and weathered, a small cart strapped to his back, likely carrying coal into the city. When he extended his hands, they were mapped with thick, yellowed calluses, deep lines carved by years of gripping iron handles. His palms looked less like flesh than cured leather.

He inhaled, lifted the pickaxe, and struck.

Crack.

The sound rang sharper than expected. A fissure split the stone, deeper than anyone anticipated. The miner froze, then pulled the pickaxe free and stared at the tip.

Not a dent. Not a bend.

“Hiss…” He looked up sharply. “Sir—how much does this pickaxe cost?”

The shopkeeper smiled. “We sell pickaxes only to allied elite families and to ordinary citizens who receive a loan from our bank. That way, we ensure the tools reach those who truly need them.”

The miner grinned. “I understand, sir. My family trades with the Gómez estate—we supply coal and iron for your furnaces. If you could tell me the price, I can explain it to my kin.”

“Of course,” the shopkeeper replied. “One peso per tool. You may take a loan from the bank and repay it within a year. If the year passes, a two-percent annual interest applies. If you repay early, there is no interest at all.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“Wait—how much is two percent of a peso?” someone asked loudly. “Does anyone here even know how to calculate that?”

“I do!” a small boy piped up. He took a scrap of paper the shopkeeper handed him and began scribbling furiously. “It’s… about five maravedíes.”

His father smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Don’t speak nonsense, boy. That’s far too little.”

“I followed the steps they taught us in school,” the child muttered stubbornly.

The father glared, but the shopkeeper raised a hand. “Easy, sir. The boy is correct. It comes to roughly five and a half maravedíes for the entire year.”

The plaza erupted.

“The boy’s right?”

“Hiss—doesn’t that mean I’d pay barely the price of a pouch of tobacco for a whole year?”

“Yearly?” another voice cried. “Not monthly?”

The shopkeeper nodded, his smile calm and deliberate. “Yearly. The Gómez family does not intend to profit from these loans. The purpose is simple: to allow people to own their tools and build a better future with their own hands.”

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