Pressa Typographica
Canardia City
At first light, most of the lower staff went about their routine preparations. Nothing seemed amiss at first, until a group of horsemen entered the courtyard. They were not the usual messengers or couriers, but members of the high retinue. Sir Sterling, accompanied by Claire and their people, arrived first, far earlier than customary. They moved directly into the Great Hall and began preparing the staff for a new morning plan, issuing quiet instructions and setting the tone for a day that was already off its usual rhythm.
Sir Omin arrived second with his own crew. Until his arrival, the lower staff were kept deliberately unaware of Lord Lansius’ departure. Only after Sir Omin entered the hall did he make the announcement, delivering it alongside the formal instructions.
It dawned on the castle staff that there would be nothing routine about the day. The order was given for a breakfast fit for the Shogunate members, with barely an hour to prepare it. In the kitchens, the cooks rushed to their stations, muttering curses as they worked, strained by the lack of time and the poor state of preparation. Ingredients were inadequate, and all they could do was bake their finest bread and make their best soup.
Meanwhile, maids and servants hurried through the Great Hall, cleaning the floor and hauling the long tables and ornate chairs into position. Everyone was mustered to make the hall fit to receive the noble guests.
Out in the courtyard, dozens of horsemen and carriages arrived in force, led by Karl and Dame Daniella. Their presence was further proof that this morning was anything but ordinary.
Not long after, under the direction of Sir Sterling and Carla, locked wooden chests and crates of goods were brought out from the castle and loaded. Most of the labor was carried out by military staff from the camp, assisted by squires and men of the garrison.
Slowly, word began to spread through the castle that the Lord was departing to attend to military matters. Because the decision had been urgent and unplanned, it was decided there would be no grand ceremonial farewell, only a simple formality.
Within the next hour, the Shogunate members arrived one by one and were received by Chamberlain Ingrid and Dame Daniella. After brief exchanges, all of them, including Lord Robert, Lady Ella, and the two knights from Three Hills and Galdia, gathered in the Great Hall, where the Lord and Lady formally received them for breakfast.
Sir Michael and Lady Astrid were also present, as they would be joining the Lord and Lady on their travel. Lady Astrid had become Gilly’s wet nurse, and in the event of any emergency, it would fall to her to care for the heir of the Blue and Bronze.
After some lighthearted discussion following breakfast, Lord Lansius formally assigned Lord Robert as administrator of Canardia and Guardian of South Midlandia. Dame Daniella and Armiger Karl were to act as his deputies.
It went unspoken, as it lay outside the matter at hand, that the Shogunate Army in Midlandia would remain under the authority of Sir Harold and Captain Dietrich.
With all arrangements checked, Lord Lansius, his family, and his close retinue boarded the carriages and departed east. Their exit from the city was unhurried. They even passed through the market to purchase snacks, drawing a heavy morning crowd and slowing the streets. Yet because of this, the people of Canardia, though surprised, did not feel alarmed or fearful. There was no sense of panic, and many assumed it was simply a formal visit to attend to affairs elsewhere.
Though the practice was uncommon in Midlandia, the people were familiar with the idea of a traveling court. It was not strange for a lord to visit his other cities or take residence in one of the many castles scattered across his domain.
To them, it was a sign of progress and returning normalcy, proof that the region was healing after years of strife and rebellion.
***
Foothill below the Monastery
Since the previous month, every week more than a dozen men had tried to slip out of the Monastery, disguised as merchants’ porters. The garrison caught them easily, but the agents assigned to screening believed most were innocents attempting to flee. After questioning, brief confinement, and investigation, many were identified as commoners trapped inside by circumstance. Some were undergoing healing. Others had been visiting relatives when the cordon fell.
They paid fines, swore oaths, signed statements declaring no affiliation with the Monastery, and were released.
After that, their numbers rose each time approved merchants were allowed through, bringing basic supplies such as firewood, hay, and medicine. Since no Saint Candidates or confirmed Monastery men were ever caught, it was taken as further proof that conditions inside were growing desperate.
Nothing seemed amiss until the same men were caught at night, attempting to smuggle goods back inside.
Under questioning, their true motive became clear. They were slipping out in order to smuggle supplies. With contracted smugglers caught or maimed against the Lord’s barbed fences, none were willing to challenge the barricade any longer. So the Monastery turned inward. It began sending out its own fanatics, knowing they would be detained, questioned, and eventually released. Once outside, these men banded together, gathered funds through sympathetic donations, and made night runs through the weakest stretches, trying to slip past the barricades with bags packed with goods.
What was intercepted came as a surprise. Not only food, but also delicacies. Smoked fish, salted roe preserved in small jars, dried berries, and honey. Even luxury items such as frankincense, myrrh, and incense.
It became clear that the Monastery had abused the besiegers’ treatment and tried to deceive them.
“All of this must be stopped,” said one of the officers in a red doublet inside the command cabin, where they convened for the midday meeting. The man had well-set features, though a long gash ran from his ear to his cheek, a mark of his service to the Blue and Bronze.
“Naturally,” the vice commander, a knight of Korelia, replied with weight. His tone was heavy as he shared in the blame for the lapse. Despite his noble birth, the men respected him. He had seen his fair share of brawls and fights. His quick sword was feared, and he was rumored never to have lost a duel.
Nearby, one officer, an older squire with a graying mustache, murmured to another as they focused over a section of the map, “If they came from uphill, they would know where the weak points are.”
“To which we will add more layers,” his younger brother in arms answered calmly.
From outside, a Midlandian man-at-arms entered the tent and reported without delay, “Sir, we have identified more of them.”
The vice straightened, drawing a slow breath. He turned to his staff. “Hold the merchants from passing. I doubt the knight commander will allow any passage this time.”
“But what are we going to do with them?” the old squire raised the question.
“Undoubtedly, this will require some finesse,” the vice replied, crossing his arms, his concern plain to see.
Before the first man-at-arms could leave, another entered with urgency. “Sir, the Knight Commander has returned and is currently inspecting the captives.”
Without needing a command, the entire staff stepped outside, knowing the Knight Commander was not the type to make plans inside a tent if he could help it.
...
At the fortified camp gate, the only access through the barricade, a column of a hundred men stood at attention. They watched as the captured men from last night’s smuggling were bound and tied to rough timbers facing the palisade, set in full view of the Monastery on the hill. Worse than smuggling, almost all had been caught before, fleeing under the guise of merchants’ porters. They swore oaths and signed statements declaring that they were nothing but innocents, patients seeking healing, or mere visitors trapped inside its walls. Now, their lies were laid bare.
Nearby, a small crowd of merchants and their dozens of porters were made to watch. They had been preparing to travel to the Monastery to sell firewood, salves, and various other medicines when they were stopped at the gate. Instead of passage, they were gathered and forced to witness the punishment, having been implicated in the matter themselves.
But the crowd did not answer with fear or silence. It stirred. Realizing that the captives, fellow believers of the Living Saint, had been exposed regardless, some began to shout and cheer toward them. Voices rose, chants followed, and loyalties were made clear in the open air.
The merchants turned pale and tried desperately to distance themselves from their own porters. To the guards, many swore they had been deceived. A few even admitted they had taken bribes, claiming they never knew the true purpose of these men beyond escaping the Monastery. They pleaded again and again, until one of the guards finally dragged them away for further investigation.
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Despite being bound and facing the palisade under the midday heat, the captured men, many of them young and idealistic in their belief in a better world under the Living Saint, could not help but grin and smile at the cheers rising behind them.
Emboldened by the noise, many began to chant. Their fervor made them forget their earlier insistence that they were unaffiliated with the Monastery, that it had all been a case of mistaken identity. To them, this was their moment. The Saint had taught them to be useful to the congregations and not to fear bodily sacrifice.
Meanwhile, for the camp garrison, it was clear that fanaticism ran deep. There were no innocents. These were all rebels.
The chants grew, feverish rather than calming, but they would not last.
From a separate line of men guarding inside the camp, a figure in a deep red ochre hood stepped forward, heading toward the nearest prisoner. Four assistants followed close behind, each wearing a dull gray hood. As they reached the captive, they tore open his clothing, exposing his back.
A short distance away, the red hooded man uncoiled what looked like a long leather belt, the strap sliding loose in his hands like a waking serpent.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The chanting broke.
Then, from inside the camp, Sir Harold, the knight commander, approached at a measured pace, flanked by members of his command staff. He stopped at the center of the ground, overseeing the lines of captives and the gathered porters, and addressed them in a hard, carrying voice. “Your petty attempt has been uncovered. Now that we know words and oaths have proven worthless to you, we will speak in a language you understand.”
The red hooded man let his whip hang for a moment, the leather brushing the dirt. He glanced at the knight commander, who answered him with a single, hard stare. He drew his arm back, and the first crack split the air. Then came the second.
The first captive’s body jerked violently against the ropes and rough timber, and he screamed in pain. He begged for forgiveness at once, words tumbling over one another in raw panic. All the teachings he had once clung to now seemed hollow and distant.
He had never truly been a believer. He had been there for advancement, drawn by the chance to climb the Monastery’s ranks, already crowded with men seeking easy money for little work. He had even taken part in the rebellion at the Lord’s side, embezzling whatever funds he could seize, even coin meant to arm, clothe, or feed the rebels. In his mind, the Lord should have sung praises for him, since he had stolen from the enemy’s coffers and left the rebel army to rot.
Not that he could ever admit any of it aloud in front of his fellows. Even as he pleaded for mercy, his voice breaking and cracking, the reply came in the form of another crack.
He screamed again. His body jolted, his knees gave way, and his upper body sagged, held only by wrists bound to the palisade.
"Please, no more!"
Yet the whip cracked again.
The punishment did not stop.
The whip lacked the sharpened tips used on beasts, yet it was still brutal against bare skin. When oaths were broken, mercy was voided, leaving only cruelty and pain as remedies.
...
Sir Harold
Soon, the day slid into late afternoon. Sir Harold and his staff remained seated on chairs by the gate, overseeing the punishment in full view. Of the dozen captives, almost all had fainted. The stench of blood and urine hung heavy in the air. He did not care. He knew the Monastery was watching.
One of his scouts had reported a repeated glint, likely the reflection of an optical device trained on their position. Sir Harold meant to send a message in return. They burned the seized incense openly in the breeze, letting the smoke drift where it could be seen. The confiscated stores of dried berries and salted sturgeon roe were distributed to the staff and officers and eaten in the open.
“What do they call this?” the officer in a red doublet asked between mouthfuls of the black roe.
“Caviare,” the vice answered.
"It tastes foul like salted fish gut,” the officer muttered, and a few men chuckled openly.
“Keep eating,” Sir Harold said, biting into a heel of crunchy bread spread with cream, a slice of cheese pressed atop it, caviare smeared thick. He had been offered the stuff more than once and, though he never liked it, had grown accustomed to swallowing it.
“Imagine those Monastery men watching and seething,” the vice said, rallying the staff.
There were low laughs and crooked grins, and several reached for another spoonful out of spite alone.
As they chewed through their unfamiliar meal, riders galloped in from the rear of the camp. Sir Harold and his staff turned as one. They saw a dashing knight in gaudy red-painted armor riding in alongside a blond woman, escorted by the camp's men. More surprising still was a half-breed charging toward them on all fours like a mad beast.
The beast kin skidded to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dust, then straightened himself and snapped to attention.
“A message for our lovely Sir Harold from our lovely sister Francisca.” He stumbled over the words, the lovely clearly meant for Francisca alone, not Harold.
The staff burst into chuckles, shoulders shaking. A few even spat their caviare onto the ground as they laughed.
The beast kin was a large one, known to them as Big Ben.
“So,” Sir Harold said dryly, “is this reinforcement, a change of command, or supervision?”
“Reinforcement,” Big Ben replied, his eyes already drifting toward the open jar of caviare.
“Reinforcement...” the Knight Commander muttered.
“You seem displeased,” the half-kin said, ever playful.
“Yes,” Sir Harold replied flatly. “With what I have, I am ready for war. I do not need reinforcements. I need the order to assault.” His voice hardened. “Tell the Lord I want the order. If he fears killing innocents or Saint Candidates, then tell him to forbid it outright. I can find ways not to kill them. But this waiting,” he spat the word, “it is insufferable.”
He drew a breath, anger barely leashed. “Fuck, I wish he told me to remove that hill, I swear by the Ancients I would start shoving it down right now. It would be better than waiting.”
Hearing that, Big Ben merely smirked, baring his broad canine fangs. He stepped aside, clearing the line of sight to reveal what the rest of the reinforcements truly were.
Only then did Sir Harold see them. Columns of war ducks, mounted and riding proudly in a straight column. The entire camp stared in stunned silence. It felt like a legend made flesh. The companion of old heroes, now paraded in force, a full cavalry in its own right.
“What a magnificent reinforcement,” the vice muttered, rising to get a better look. Others followed without a word.
“What kind of destruction could they bring?” another officer breathed, not caring that the assault was against a fortified hill, where heavy cavalry would be of little use.
Yet even Sir Harold broke into a thin smile. He rose from his seat and gave Big Ben a firm pat on the back. “Forgive my impatience,” he said. “Yes. This kind of destruction is exactly what I want.”
***
Lansius
After a detour to visit the maker of the Pressa Typographica, Lansius’ convoy headed south toward Ornietia, stopping at their manors during midday and evening rests. His visit to the workshop caused a great commotion, but the result itself was a bit underwhelming for Lansius. The press was still in its early stage, no better than woodblock printing. Each page still had to be carved as a whole into a block of wood.
The intention was to lay a base image that scribes or manuscript artisans would later finish by adding color, intricate designs, borders, and miniature paintings. In effect, it was a method for producing illuminated manuscripts.
It would undoubtedly make a page faster, yes, but it was not what Lansius was seeking.
Thus, he ordered his Office of Works to work alongside the inventor to pursue a different kind of press, one modeled after the Gutenberg design. Lansius instructed that each letter of the alphabet be cast as its own metal piece, working like a stamp. As many of these pieces as needed would then be arranged so that each pressing produced a complete page. Errors could be corrected without carving a new block, simply by replacing the faulty metal letter.
That also meant changes and alterations could be made with ease.
He further instructed that work be done to ensure each press could produce a complete page without requiring additional finishing by hand. What Lansius wanted was not the ridiculously expensive illuminated manuscript, useful only to nobles who wished to appear learned and wealthy, but reading material that could be produced as cheaply as possible.
Aside from books, Lansius intended to mass-produce pamphlets for his people, allowing him to communicate policy and instruction directly. He also planned documents for officials and basic annual calendars meant for common households.
Of course, it would take time, but since the talent was present and the funding was all but secured, it would likely require only several seasons to complete. Thus, he needed only patience.
Lansius shared a carriage with Sir Omin, who still had many matters to discuss before winter.
Despite improvements in message exchange through the use of optical telegraphy, messages to Korelia still needed to travel by hawk. There were limits to how much could be sent, as well as the speed of exchange.
To make this arrangement work, Lansius was accompanied only by Sir Omin and Margo in his carriage. Meanwhile, Audrey and Gilly traveled with Tanya, Mother, and Carla in a different carriage.
The first matter they discussed was the public library, closely related to the printing press they had just visited.
At present, libraries in many cities usually existed within castles and had little use beyond serving officials or visiting intellectuals. Even when libraries were set within the city itself, they were accessible only to nobles and the wealthy. They functioned more like menageries of books or rare illuminated manuscripts rather than places of learning. Such libraries were built as status symbols, allowing a House to present itself as not only wealthy, but also educated.
Ironically, the owners rarely read the books themselves. As with a menagerie, only the caretakers tended what lay inside, while the owner cared mainly to display the collection and boast of its rarity to guests.
But that would soon change. The library in Canardia would be opened to the public, with books gathered from every corner of Midlandia. Unlike when he first opened the library in Korelia, Midlandia was far richer, and Lansius had access to books seized from confiscated estates and manors, volumes the nobles had rarely read. Even he was overwhelmed by the sheer number of books and manuscripts found, and he relied on his army of scribes to organize them and select titles for Canardia’s library.
“The public library will be open in the spring. We have renovated one wing to allow anyone literate to read, and we will post guards to deter opportunistic thieves,” Sir Omin reported.
“Should be of little threat,” Lansius remarked. Most of the materials were not decorated pieces. “There is nothing of value inside, only the text.”
“Even when they are not illuminated manuscripts, pages from a book are still valuable, My Lord. Without supervision, someone could tear out a few pages and sell them in the market.”
Lansius nodded. Unfortunately, that was the situation he faced, where each page was still prized. After all, in this era, copying required time and effort, and that meant money. Meanwhile, in his own world, no thief would bother with books.
Thieves do not read, and readers do not steal...
Lansius vowed in his heart that he would make that world a reality.
Sir Omin, watching his expression, suggested, “Since my Lord cares deeply about this, it might be beneficial to consult Sir Reginald.”
Lansius straightened, suddenly attentive. Despite Reginald’s past contribution, which had saved him from the rebels’ hidden column, he still bore grudges over an earlier assassination attempt that had cost him loyal guards. “And why do you suggest this?”
“He knows Midlandia’s educated class well. You may also be interested to learn that the screw press was originally funded by him and his peers. It was first designed to provide learning materials for the School of Commoners before the war began. Since most of the sponsors were gone, the inventor shifted toward illuminated manuscripts to recoup the cost, even going so far as to visit the Monastery looking for sponsors.”
Lansius inhaled and turned inward as he heard that. He was more than surprised. He was humbled. Even without his guidance, the inventors of this world continued to strive toward a better future. It was a quiet reminder that, even here, he stood upon the shoulders of giants.
He was not alone. Bright minds existed in every era. They needed only a gentle hand to guide them and the coin to fund their work.
***
* Lansius’ line about books and thieves is based on a famous saying associated with Baghdad’s book market on Al-Mutanabbi Street: “The reader does not steal, and the thief does not read.” The saying is often used to explain why booksellers leave books outside overnight. A similar line is also linked to Mohamed Aziz, the longtime bookseller in Rabat, Morocco: “Those who cannot read do not steal books, and those who can read are not thieves.”
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