After leaving the town hall, they began talking again.
"What happened? You seem a little stressed," Catalina asked, noticing Francisco’s low mood.
"It’s the construction ti," sighed Francisco. "I didn’t think it would take so long. It seems I still lack so common knowledge." His face turned somber.
Catalina chuckled. "I never thought the mighty Francisco would be defeated by ti," she teased.
"That’s right. You know, after seeing those images of the future, I always subconsciously thought building sothing wouldn’t take that long. But while speaking with the mayor, I rembered how long li takes to dry. I imdiately did the calculations, and a building like that would take one to two years. It’s frustrating. I wonder how long it took them to build structures like those." Francisco furrowed his brows, rembering the tall buildings he had seen in his visions.
Catalina, seeing his frustration, began to think. "Maybe, just like with the alembic, they had machines to make li dry faster?" she suggested, puzzled.
Francisco shook his head. "Mm, I don’t think so. What dries li isn’t water but air, so it would have to be another kind of li." Suddenly his eyes lit up. "That’s it! Another type of li—no, a new material. In the future, they can build those structures not because of a machine that speeds up li drying, but because they must have invented another material. That would also explain why their buildings were gray. I never paid much attention to the color or texture, thinking it was just a stylistic choice. But now I’m convinced they discovered sothing stronger, sothing that dries faster. I need to experint. But for that, I’ll need servants and a proper place to test it." He covered his face with his hand, both anxious and excited.
"It seems the purse will dry up again," Catalina said with a smile. To her, an empty purse was better than seeing Francisco tense. After all, it was her father-in-law job to make the money.
"Let’s go to the estate—we need to start experinting as soon as possible!" Francisco exclaid, grabbing Catalina’s hand and rushing toward their carriage. But before they could go far, a servant stopped them.
"My apologies, Mr Francisco, for interrupting, but my master wishes to speak with you," said the servant, his face solemn.
"May I ask who your master is?" Francisco asked warily.
"Antonio, leader of the slave branch here in Villa dellín," replied the servant.
"Oh, very well. We’ll follow you," Francisco said, already suspecting what the eting would be about.
"Before that, I would recomnd that you leave your... partner outside," the servant added carefully. Unsure how to refer to a stiza, he chose a neutral tone. He neither despised their relationship nor showed approval.
"She is my personal assistant, and I trust her with my life. I don’t see any problem," Francisco replied firmly.
"This matter isn’t so simple, sir. The conversation concerns not only you but also my master. He cannot allow anyone else to hear what he has to say. I hope you understand." The servant bowed slightly.
Francisco was about to retort, but Catalina stopped him. "Don’t worry, I understand—and so should you. You may trust with your life, but you can’t expect Antonio to do the sa," she reproached gently.
Francisco sighed. "You’re right. Sorry, Mr...?" he asked the servant.
"You may call Camilo. I work directly under Antonio," he answered, a little surprised at how much influence Catalina had over Francisco’s decisions. It seems the Góz family is far more liberal than people say, Camilo thought.
"Yes, sorry, Mr. Camilo. You may guide to Antonio," Francisco said.
"Of course. Please, follow ."
Camilo led him into the slave-trading house, up to a floor Francisco had never visited before. It was an office, complete with a fine desk, comfortable chair, ornants, paintings, and a large window. Behind the desk, Antonio stood, looking outside. Francisco entered and sat in one of the visitor’s chairs.
"You may have heard from your father about us slave traders. We are ruthless—with those inside our circle and those outside. The reason is simple: the money we make surpasses that of many nobles and even royal officials. You could say most of the royal family’s purse cos from us. But being the crown’s purse cos with strings attached—we cannot take sides, whether with the royal faction, the religious faction, or even the liberals. Do you know why?"
Francisco thought for a mont. "Because if you take sides, the royal family loses control of their purse, and soone could use it to force the crown into decisions against the interests of the other factions. But... I don’t know why the liberals also enjoy that neutrality."
"Smart. You’re half right. The other half is this: we remain neutral with the liberals because of money. Liberals are usually wealthy people angry about royal taxes. They think if New Granada becos independent, they’ll pay less. But ironically, they are also the main buyers of slaves. With all their industries, they need workers, yet they don’t fully trust servants or free laborers. So they buy slaves, while preaching that everyone should have equal rights." Antonio chuckled, amused by the hypocrisy. "That’s why we are ruthless—recognizing neither family nor friend. I tell you this so you understand: we share this information not because we’re allies, but because we owe you for handing over those fools and staying silent."
"I understand," Francisco nodded.
"Good. Let be clear: we don’t have conclusive evidence. Soone who can bribe mbers of our organization usually knows how to cover their tracks. But what we discovered was this: a priest from a town near Lake Maracaibo ca here asking for donations. While here, he spoke with the priest of Villa dellín, and suddenly bribed our n to investigate your estate—looking for soone wounded, or soone resembling this." He slid a drawing across the desk—Oscar’s face sketched on it. "Like the innkeeper of that now-abandoned inn," Antonio added, studying Francisco’s eyes but finding nothing.
"Of course, we also learned that the priest here in Villa dellín had ties with certain families—your cousins, the Góz de Castro. So we both know where this may have co from. But there is no solid proof. The priest was later killed outside Antioquía while returning ho with so money. Officials say it was a robbery. Bandits, it seems, learned he was carrying donations, courtesy of our ever-empathetic Villa dellín priest. Convenient, isn’t it?"
Francisco sneered. "What a coincidence."
Antonio sneered back. "Exactly. On another note, our company has had so issues with slave inventory. So, we told the Góz deCastro family that—for now—we cannot sell them any more slaves."
Antonio chuckled and handed Francisco another paper. When Francisco read it, his eyes widened. It described a slave and his community:
Chiala Mwene. Descendant of an ancient family of forge masters who once served the Kingdom of Ndongo. Their clan worked with iron, copper, bronze, and ceremonial artifacts. During a war with their neighbors, rival factions betrayed them and sold them to the Portuguese. The Portuguese intended to present them to their viceroy, but after the Treaty of El Pardo, they transferred the village to Spain to nd relations. The Spanish crown showed little interest and allowed the slave traders to handle them.
"This is..." Francisco stuttered, unable to finish.
"This is paynt—for the traitors and for your silence. With this village in your hands, we owe you nothing," Antonio replied.
Francisco felt a wave of relief. With a community of blacksmiths, he could accelerate many plans. "Thank you. And don’t worry—we won’t say a word."
"Of course we believe you," Antonio said with a thin smile. "After all, if you take the paynt and then betray us... well, let’s just say our inventory problems may extend to your house as well."
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