Chapter 8: Baroness' Mine
It was a dry, crooked afternoon in Nerague that the gang lined up like long shadows on beaten earth. The village was little more than an echo of old promises and dust accumulated on stone steps. And it was there, between the silence of the heat and the dormant suspicion, that the plan took shape.
Goose, his bushy mustache sweating beneath his worn hat, used the tip of a crooked cane to scratch lines on the dusty ground. His hoarse voice had the stubbornness of an old prospector.
- It's here. The ghost vein runs here. We'll plant enough to catch it, shallow enough to be 'discovered' by accident. Kid, your sparkling magic.
- They're compounds with a mineralogical signature, Goose. Not magic. - Adjusting his glasses on the tip of his nose, snorted with the impatience of erudite youth. - Pyrites plated to pass for nuggets and raw wolframite plated to pass the buoyancy density test. The rest is glitter and paint.
Rat, lean and nervous, was gnawing on something that looked like straw in the precarious shade of an old wagon.
- Keep your voices down. Broonie's new bailiff, they say, is a light sleeper and heavy-handed with noisy outsiders. We don't need any attention before the time.
- There. The Imperial Dawn Mine. Discovered in 21 B.C., Before Cinnabar, conveniently sealed by a ducal decree lost in the annals of war. - Myrtle, impassive as ever, sat on a suitcase as if it were a makeshift throne.
- Now rediscovered by me, the 'Baroness Myrtle Resende', the last descendant of a conveniently vague title with no obvious heirs. - In the dim light of dusk, she was finalizing a document in impeccable handwriting and a seal that perfectly imitated the forgotten coat of arms of a duchy that had been extinguished during the war.
- Original exploration concession, fictitious geological records, all dated, stamped and aged with strong tea and smoke. Exquisitely fake.
- Magnificent Baroness Myrtle! I can't wait to see you dressed as such, I just hoped you'd use a name other than your gang name. - Safo arrived.
- Jerk - Myrtle hissed.
- I'll ignore that. I need to pay for the apartment renovation. - He turned to the group.
- I bring news from 'civilization': our net caught three big specimens.
A banker from Franoco, whose bank account is inversely proportional to his scruples;
An industrialist from Sant'Amaranthis, who dreams of having a monopoly even on the stones along the road;
And a nouveau riche from Brenaro, who firmly believes that anything that shines brighter than its neighbor must be pure gold. - He took off his hat in a theatrical bow.
- They are hungry for bait.
The days that followed were a choreography of deception under the punishing Nerague sun. Goose, playing the rough and experienced foreman, led the small excavation at the designated site. He hired a few locals desperate for work, paying them well to dig where he told them to and, most importantly, not to ask questions about the strange 'supervisors'.
While the locals sweated, Rat, with the discretion of a ghost, "accidentally" dropped small nuggets of fake gold bought cheaply in distant markets at strategic points in the disturbed earth. They were shiny bait.
Nearby, under a makeshift awning, Kid conducted his "performance chemistry". Muttering about "Luminescent Precipitate," "Thaumatic Index," and "Spectral Scintillation."
As the dust rose outside, Myrtle worked in the shadows of a rented room in the village's only inn.
Night after night, by lamplight, she consulted old almanacs, selected stamps from her vast collection of forgeries, and practiced signing the names of decades-old officials on weathered paper.
The masterpiece included charters from a deposed regime, letters supposedly written by "Baron Resende," and invented geological reports with convincing jargon.
The final touch of legitimacy came in a carefully orchestrated visit to the village's only clerk, a pale, debt-ridden man.
Under the cold, penetrating gaze of Myrtle, who was absently leafing through a ledger as if searching for irregularities, and with Goose casually present, cleaning his fingernails with a too much practical-looking knife, the clerk felt a shiver.
The debts were heavy, and the implicit suggestion that problems could be... created or solved was enough. He trembled, but stamped and signed where Myrtle indicated, lending the patina of legality to the farce.
The stage was set. Safo orchestrated the arrival of the investors, receiving each one individually, adjusting their performance.
With the banker, he emphasized the legal security of Myrtle's impeccable documents and the potential for quick and discreet returns.
With the industrialist, he spoke of control of resources, regional monopoly, and the advantage of exploiting wealth "off the official records" of the Vermillion Order.
With the nouveau riche Brenarian, he got straight to the point: the bright. It first showed the nuggets strategically planted by Rat ("found accidentally by the workers!"), then demonstrated Kid's "scientific tests," where the common earth shone like liquid gold.
During visits to the "discovery" site, Goose, as the local foreman, would mutter stories about the mine being protected by "earth spirits" or "shadows of the old war," adding a touch of mystery and danger that only heightened the desire for exclusive possession.
Safo, as the hired for "national technical consultant," presented elegant charts and reports full of incomprehensible terms, confirming the "virtually unlimited" potential of the Imperial Dawn.
Twilight was tinging the arid hills of Nerague orange. On the veranda of the inn, with the best view of nothingness, the table was set for the final act. Safo, in his finest attire, her hair combed to an oily sheen, leaned on a silver-topped cane (procured locally).
- Gentlemen, what have you seen today? It is only the surface. The Imperial Dawn has slept beneath these lands since before the war that names our era, forgotten, protected by silence. A sleeping relic.
He opened the folder of forged documents on the table. The banker examined the papers reverently. The industrialist from Sant'Amaranthis was calculating mentally, his eyes fixed on the imaginary horizon full of profits. The Brenarian fidgeted impatiently in his chair.
Goose, in his role as loyal servant of the "Baroness Myrtle," entered and placed a small dark wooden box on the table. He opened it. Seven genuine nuggets, small but undeniably golden, lay on worn velvet.
The final bait.
- What is the estimated length of the main vein? - the industrialist asked matter-of-factly.
- The Baron's diaries, which the noble Baroness inherited, speak of a vein that extends for at least a mile in that direction. - Safo pointed vaguely toward the hills. dark.
— We have mapped only a tiny fraction of the original concession area. And the concession, gentlemen, is exclusive, registered before the current bureaucracies of the Vermillion Order and the Deanery Council. You are entering the first and only investment consortium. After these signatures, the opportunity will be sealed. Absolute exclusivity.
A tense silence fell over the porch. The air was thick with greed.
The Brenarian, with his thick accent, exploded:
— I want in! Ten percent! It's mine! Now!
Safo smiled, slow and predatory.
— Ten percent of the most promising uncatalogued post-war deposit. A testament to your keen vision, sir. My congratulations.
They signed. One after the other, the pen scratching the paper aged by Myrtle, sealing their financial destinies. Three names. Three fortunes being funneled into discreet accounts in distant cities.
The next morning, Nerague woke up to the same dust as always. But at the inn, the room was empty.
The clerk was sweating coldly, fearing both the deceived investors and the shadowy figures who had coerced him.
And there at the abandoned excavation site, where some local workers scratched their heads in confusion as to why their bosses had disappeared, all that remained was a rough wooden sign, stuck crookedly into the disturbed earth:
"IMPERIAL DAWN MINE – Private Property. CLOSED INDETERMINATELY FOR FURTHER GEOLOGICAL STUDIES – Ducal Decree Revived."