The scorching midday sun reflected off the calm harbor waters, blinding Lieutenant álvaro for a moment as he disembarked. The Holy City of Santa Maria seethed before him, a human anthill moving at a frenetic pace. The salty air gave way to a complex smell of fresh fish, wet wood, and the sweat of dozens of stevedores. As soon as his boat docked, another was already approaching, eager to take its place at the stone quay. The dockworkers, their muscles taut under tanned skin, shouted in unison as they loaded bundle after bundle into the holds, their hoarse voices lost in the port's constant din.

  By all the saints, álvaro thought, adjusting the sword at his belt beneath his simple cloak, the holy city is truly alive. It doesn't even compare to White Sand, whose wharf seems like a sleeping old man, almost ghostly...

  Leaving the wharf behind, he blended into the crowd flowing toward the market square. The murmur transformed into a vibrant cacophony. The sweet smell of ripe fruit mixed with the heavy aroma of raw leather, the smoke from food stalls, and the cloying odor of honey dripping from a counter. His boots sank slightly into the packed earth, now a carpet of vegetable scraps and straw.

  The people around him wore colorful cotton clothes, clean and well-kept, a clear sign of prosperity. Wooden or silver crosses shone on their necks, and all paths seemed to converge on the imposing cathedral in the background, its light stone rising against the blue sky. álvaro knew it couldn't compare to the grand cathedrals of the Old World, but he couldn't deny its rough, solemn beauty. Without a doubt, he reflected, it is the most beautiful in Brazil.

  The shouts of the vendors cut through the air, each louder than the last, trying to attract the attention of the mass of customers.

  "You there, housewife!" yelled a sweaty man, banging a wooden spoon on a black pot. "Tired of waiting hours for your beans? This pressure cooker right here will solve your life! Cooks in half the time!"

  From a neighboring stall, a shrill voice imposed itself:

  "Cheap and quality clothes! Come and see! Shirts, skirts, everything for the family!"

  A little further on, a more practical vendor announced:

  "Reinforced boots for those who work in the fields! Rain capes so you don't get home soaked!"

  The lieutenant felt his mouth water as he passed a merchant brandishing a small wooden box.

  "Ice cream!" the man shouted. "Chilled with the gem of ice, still frosty! And chocolates, sir? The best in the colony!"

  But it was the last stall that caught his attention.

  "Tools!" announced a robust man with a leather apron. "Tools of the highest quality steel! You won't find their equal on the entire coast!"

  álvaro, disguised as a freeman, approached. The tools gleamed, promising.

  "Are they really steel?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

  "But of course, my good sir!" replied the merchant, wiping his hands on a cloth. "See for yourself with your own eyes."

  He picked up an axe and handed it to the lieutenant. The wooden handle was rough and firm in his hand, but the blade... the blade was cold, smooth, and had a bluish-gray shine under the sunlight, different from the dullness of common iron.

  "This axe here," the vendor continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, "cuts through any wood as if it were butter. Better than any iron one."

  The lieutenant turned the blade over, feeling its perfect, balanced weight. It is steel... excellent quality. Did it come straight from the quilombo?

  "How much?" he inquired, keeping his tone casual.

  "One thousand réis!" announced the merchant with a broad smile.

  One thousand réis? thought álvaro, surprised. For an axe of this quality, it's too cheap. Something doesn't smell right.

  "And... how much would an iron one cost?" he asked, trying to understand the logic.

  The merchant let out a short laugh, almost a spit.

  "Sir, an iron axe would cost more than that, if you can even find one! Everyone is buying up any old iron tools and selling them to the traveling merchants."

  Confusion spread across the lieutenant's face.

  "And what are the merchants buying so much iron for?"

  The man's smile disappeared. His face closed off.

  "Look, my lord," he said, his voice losing its cordiality, "if you're not going to buy anything, please get out of here. Don't interrupt my livelihood."

  Without changing his expression, álvaro took a small bag of coins from inside his tunic and placed it on the counter with a dull thud. The metallic sound made the vendor's eyes light up.

  "Please," said the lieutenant, softly but firmly, "answer my questions."

  The merchant picked up the bag, weighed it in his hand, and dug his fingers in to examine the coins. A new smile, now much more sincere, appeared on his face.

  "But of course, my good sir! Why not?" he said, his voice becoming a conspiratorial whisper. "What you hear around is that the iron is sold to the Mocambo. And rumor has it they have a way... their own way of turning that old iron into first-rate steel."

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  álvaro held his breath. He didn't expect to discover the truth so easily, and so openly.

  How did the governor not know about this? For the trade to be at this volume, they must have been operating for years... or we would have found out. Unless... A hunch chilled his spine. Unless this is very recent.

  "How long have you been selling these steel tools?" he asked, maintaining his calm.

  "Ah, it hasn't even been a full month!" the man replied, pocketing the bag of coins. "Since I live in the city, I started buying from the traveling merchants and reselling here. But get this, I'm already thinking of buying a cart and going straight to the source for the products. Must be much cheaper, you see?"

  Just weeks, thought álvaro, relieved and even more intrigued. That explains the slowness of the information. Here in the Holy City, the trades are more tolerated. To avoid taxes and questions, the sellers hide the origin of the products to escape duties. And the news takes time to reach White Sand.

  "I see..." he murmured. "And is a cart all you need to buy these products?"

  "In the old days, you needed a permit from the Church, a safe conduct pass. But now... now it's a party! Anyone with a cart and capital can trade with them."

  This is my chance, thought the lieutenant. Perhaps I should go directly to the source.

  "Thank you for the information," he said with a nod, before turning and losing himself in the crowd again, his course now set towards the stables.

  It wasn't hard to find a merchant willing to take him to the trading post. An older man with tired eyes and dusty clothes, named Seu Bastos, accepted a few coins for a ride in his cart.

  As soon as they left the city outskirts, the road revealed its true nature: a potholed and dusty path, flanked by a continuous line of carts. It was like a pulsating vein of commerce, with vehicles coming and going nonstop. Seu Bastos's cart rattled and shook with every pothole, forcing álvaro to hold on tightly to the wooden sides.

  He watched the traffic intently. The carts heading inland were crammed with rusty iron bars, bales of paper. Others transported barrels of cacha?a, which clinked with every jolt, and sacks of sugar.

  Those coming from the opposite direction, from the Mocambo, were loaded with colorful fabrics, steel tools that gleamed in the sun, shiny pots, and more steel bars, clean and straight. Some smaller carts brought ceramic jars and well-sealed wooden boxes. From one of them, a sweet, intense smell of chocolate reached álvaro's nose, making his stomach growl.

  My God, he thought, mentally calculating, how much money must these people have to move all of this...

  As the cart shook, he noticed something different about some vehicles: their wheels weren't made of light wood, but were covered in a black, flexible material that seemed to cushion the path's irregularities.

  "Seu Bastos," he called, pointing, "do you know what that is on the wheels of that cart?"

  The old merchant glanced over and snorted with a hint of envy.

  "That's rubber, young man. Or 'tires,' as some call them. The Mocambo sells them. They say it makes the journey easier on the back. Some richer folks even have steel springs under their carts. Fancy stuff. I'd like one of those; I can't stand feeling every stone on this path anymore."

  "The quilombo... they can make this?" asked álvaro, impressed.

  Seu Bastos let out a laugh.

  "Can they? Let me tell you, kid, every month there's something new! At first, it was just the clothes, very pretty. Then, these rubber things appeared. At the end of last month, it was steel. And now, chocolate. I'm already anxious to see what they'll invent next month. It's a pity..." he added, and his tone became somewhat bitter, "it's a pity I was stubborn and arrived late to the party."

  álvaro, sniffing a story, encouraged him:

  "Why were you late, Seu Bastos?"

  The old man didn't take his eyes off the road, but his voice carried the weight of regret.

  "I was an idiot. I kept insisting on selling salt to the plantation owners in the region. But sugar... sugar isn't worth what it used to be. The colonels are in debt, the land is tired. They barely had enough to buy food, let alone salt. And I, hardheaded, kept waiting for things to get better. Until, after hearing so many rumors about trading with the Mocambo, I decided to take my salt there. On the first trip, I sold everything! Everything I had!" He paused, and a smile of satisfaction softened his features. "Even though I was late, I was lucky. I have my contacts to buy salt cheap, and there weren't many people selling salt to them. These days, I only work for the quilombo. It's no longer worth trekking all over the backlands, with the danger of being robbed by men or... by other things, just for a few pennies." He sighed, thoughtful. "But I confess... I don't know how they buy so much. The quilombo must have hidden gold mines, it must. Like the legends say."

  "And there are no bandits on this route?" inquired álvaro, looking at the thick brush by the roadside.

  Seu Bastos shook his head with conviction.

  "And if there are, with so many people together, what are they going to do?" he laughed. "There's always one merchant or another with one of those magical weapons. A group of thieves wouldn't stand a chance against a whole caravan. Besides, at first, only the Church's exclusive merchants traveled here. What bandit is crazy enough to piss off the Holy Mother Church and draw the fury of the Divine Soldiers down upon themselves?"

  The two continued the journey, talking about the land, the price of goods, and the rumors of the colony, until the forest began to clear and they reached their destination.

  The trading post wasn't a village, but a temporary and noisy encampment. Dozens of stalls and small wattle-and-daub shops spread across a clearing, forming makeshift streets. The air was thick with the smoke of barbecue, the smell of fried food, and the noise of dozens of negotiations happening at once. Some shops, more permanent, were clearly run by the quilombo people, who served with a serene and knowledgeable air. Others belonged to traveling merchants who had set up crude bars to sell cacha?a and food to other traders. Wooden signs offered lodging for those who wanted to stay the night. In álvaro's eyes, that small trading hub was more vibrant and full of life than the very capital of his captaincy, White Sand.

  As he watched the movement, his attention was captured by a scene of impressive organization that contrasted with the market's apparent disorder. Behind the last stalls, where the forest began to yield, a wide strip of land was being radically transformed. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of quilombo people worked in unison, moving with an efficiency that seemed choreographed. The air, already laden with market smells, gained a new component there: the earthy odor of turned soil mixed with the gray, dry dust rising from the material they were handling. The sound was a constant symphony of tools: the rhythmic tap-tap of hammers breaking stone, the metallic screech of shovels against sand, and the dull drag of blocks being set in place.

  Some men, sweaty and with tensed muscles, felled trees with axes that gleamed in the sun.

  Others, right behind them, prepared the bed of the future road, spreading a uniform layer of sand and crushed stone. And the last, the most specialized, knelt to put in place the large, heavy blocks of a smooth, gray artificial stone—concrete—aligning them with millimetric precision. It was an operation of overwhelming scale, stretching towards the heart of the quilombo territory, and it continued happening in parallel with the incessant coming and going of carts being loaded and unloaded.

  He spent hours examining everything, pretending to be an interested buyer. He observed the quality of the steel, the resistance of the fabrics, the bitter, pure taste of the chocolate. It was all of impressive quality.

  At the end of the day, Seu Bastos found him again, grinning from ear to ear—he had sold all his salt for an excellent price. The return trip was quieter, with the lieutenant absorbing everything he had seen.

  Back in the Holy City, álvaro didn't waste a minute. He didn't even change his clothes. He went straight to the docks and boarded the first available boat heading for White Sand.