Chapter 94: The Viceroy’s Conspiracy

In the palace of Cartagena the viceroy lectured his aide until the man’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion. The room smelled of beeswax, leather bindings, and a faint trace of pipe smoke; moonlight cut pale bars across the flagstones. At last the viceroy sank into a carved chair and began to ask questions.

“So she locked them up?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the aide answered at once. “It appears they will not travel together. Shall we continue sending information to the French?”

The viceroy fixed him with a look that could kill. “Are you an idiot? The plan was for New Granada’s rising genius to die with the British agent. Then the blame would fall on the French and no one would investigate. If they do not travel together and she dies, the fault will land squarely on Spain.”

The aide’s fingers found the edge of the table; he fumbled, then bowed and left on the viceroy’s wave. The soft click of his heels receding sounded loud in the silence.

Only the viceroy and one military adviser remained. The officer shifted, the rustle of his uniform the only sound for a long moment. “I do not understand why you take such petty actions against that youth,” he said.

The viceroy breathed out slowly. “I am not entirely sure myself, but I think he will become the greatest threat to New Granada.” He moved to an archive chest, drew out a folded paper, and tossed it onto the table. The parchment flapped and landed with a soft thud. “Look.”

The officer hesitated—these were not papers for a soldier—but he bent to read. His brow furrowed as the figures swam into focus. “This shows the economy only began to prosper in the last months.”

“Precisely,” the viceroy said. “Right after the appearance of Roman cement.”

The officer blinked. Candlelight gilded the corners of the document. “But isn’t that good? With more wealth we could extract greater taxes for Spain.”

A bitter smile creased the viceroy’s face. “You are naive. The wealth rising is not among the low castes—mestizos or indigenous—but among the middle and upper classes, the elite. After the Bourbon Reforms we already extract more tax from them. Now they can produce more. If we demand still more, they will rebel.”

The officer pursed his lips. “Even so—if they rise, can we not deal with them as we did during the Comuneros? Suppress the trouble as before?”

The viceroy rolled his eyes. “That supposed revolt was only a protest. The Comuneros were neither armed nor ready for war. That made them easy to crush. Now things are different. The elites have seen that change requires war—or nothing at all. Peaceful protest no longer works.”

“So we should prepare for a true revolt, one that includes the elites—and the mestizos?” the officer asked, the candlelight flaring as he shifted.

“Not only them,” the viceroy said, voice growing colder. “Indigenous people, every class—if the whole colony turns against us, even our best troops cannot win an attrition war here. We would be eaten alive.”

The officer swallowed; the metallic tang of fear seemed to hover in the air. “Then we need more men?”

The viceroy barked a mirthless laugh. “And from where? Train them among the mestizos and criollos—the classes most discontent? Do you think they won’t turn their weapons on us? Or bring troops from the peninsula? Spain is stretched thin—more worried about France than colonial stability. We cannot spare soldiers. They are demanding more taxes to pay for the war.”

The officer fell silent; the truth pressed heavy as the night. “But why is that boy so dangerous?” he asked finally.

“Because he is not merely a symbol,” the viceroy said slowly, leaning forward so the candlelight carved hollows into his face. “He is the engine of industry. Roman cement is stronger than lime; once liberals and their followers use it in fortifications and estates, our men will find them far harder to defeat. And the alcohol he produces—aguardiente—worries me.”

“The alcohol? That stuff? I drink it. Why is that a worry?” the officer demanded, more sharply than before.

The viceroy pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled as if tasting a bitter draft. “I asked a correspondent in Spain who understands distilling. He wrote of the sharp, solvent scent in distilleries—sweet when flavored. To make high-quality flavored aguardiente requires a supply of pure alcohol. That is costly and demands different technique. If someone can produce pure alcohol in large quantities, it becomes useful for more than drinking—it is highly flammable. My contact told of an apprentice who left a candle near a cask; the vapour fed the flame, choking smoke filled the room, paint blistered, and the workshop almost burned down. Mass production of pure alcohol can be converted into an incendiary resource. That smell of burning spirit, that sudden heat, the way timber blackens—turns a factory into a weapon.”

The officer paled as if he had smelled the smoke himself. “Why not simply arrest him, then? You are the viceroy—you represent the Crown.”

The viceroy’s eyes hardened. “If he were merely a criollo or a lesser Iberian, I have many means to ruin him. But he is the grandson of the Duke of Lerma. Kill him and the duke will raise hell for honor’s sake. And now he may have a grandfather in the Prussian army. If I execute him without cause, two powerful patrons could make my position untenable.”

Silence pooled in the chamber, only the faint hiss of the candle as a small counterpoint.

“So what will you do, knowing you cannot kill him outright?” the officer asked at last.

A sneer cut the viceroy’s face. “Perhaps I could now. The future is uncertain. For the moment, we wait—until he is free of the British—and then look for opportunity.”

The officer inclined his head. “A good start. I will feed the French a mixture of false and true intelligence to confuse them. If we cannot engineer both deaths, we can at least mislead our enemies. If she dies alone, the British will protest; we must avoid that.”

The viceroy nodded. Through the open casement, the bright moon washed the city in cold silver; shadows lay long across the plaza. He stared toward the inn where Francisco and his father were supposedly confined.

Far from the palace, in the thin sweetness of the night and the salt-slick air by the quay, Francisco prepared to leave

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep