PREVIOUSLY
[The choice was no mere marital whim. In the past, Umza had dedicated much of her time to teaching, making the most of her superior linguistic talents. But a few years ago, when we relocated our residence and the center of certain operations to the ceaseless, bustling Dawn City, she had left teaching behind.
Since then, her immense, vibrant energy seemed to desperately seek an outlet. For the sake of the kingdom's cultural development—and for my own sanity—I needed all that creativity channeled into something constructive.
"You possess the gift of tongues and understand people better than any of my ministers, Umza," I added, offering an encouraging smile. "You shall be the voice that connects the fishermen of the Floating Islands to the artisans in the Muisca mountains... It is time for the kingdom to read its own history, and I want you to write the first page."]
Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Seventh Month (September 1495).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Chuta's Office, Stone Manor.
Umza's jaw dropped entirely, her large, dark eyes fixing upon me with a mixture of absolute disbelief and genuine outrage.
The ensuing silence was almost palpable, broken only by the soft rustle of the sea breeze drifting through my office's high window, fluttering the maps and blueprints draped across my mahogany desk.
Knowing her as I did, I knew perfectly well her indignation did not stem from ignorance.
Umza harbored a deeply rooted habit dating back eight years, to the very moment our lives first intertwined. Even from those distant days in Central City, she possessed an insatiable knack for snooping through my belongings, slipping her curious fingers into my drawers under the eternal guise of "tidying up" or "looking for a specific ink color."
Because of this little vice of hers, she was acutely aware of my most confidential plans. She knew the newspaper was no isolated fancy; she understood my true goal was to bring literacy and news to the populace regarding the dizzying changes sweeping the kingdom, while also offering them a platform to voice their thoughts.
But what truly kept her on edge was the other half of the structural design she had glimpsed in my sketches: the establishment of a unified postal system that would span the territory from end to end.
Wrinkling her nose, Umza leaned forward, resting her palms flat on the edge of the desk.
"Tell me one thing, Chuta," she demanded, a hint of anxiety edging her voice. "Do you honestly expect me to take charge of the blasted postal system, too, and wrangle every messenger crisscrossing the realm?"
Before I could answer, she straightened abruptly, crossing her arms over her chest with unyielding resolve.
"Because if you do, I'm telling you right now: I don't want the post. I refuse to spend my life buried in ink, printing presses, and citizens' grievances. Count me out of the newspaper."
I observed her feigned stiffness, unable to stop a smile from slipping through. Her energy was so boundless that watching her try to maintain a serious demeanor was always an endearing spectacle.
"Peace," I clarified gently, raising my hands in surrender. "I would never ask you to micromanage or shoulder the logistical weight of the entire operation. What I seek from you is not a workshop overseer, but a mind to guide the paper's editorial direction—someone to decide which stories deserve to be told and how to shape our people's identity."
I paused briefly, letting my words soothe her agitation before broaching the subject of the letters.
"As for the post, rest easy... The correspondence system will have someone else entirely dedicated to its management. Besides, it is a project I intend to postpone for a couple of years. We cannot implement an efficient courier network until the kingdom possesses a significantly larger number of horses and established relay stations."
Umza immediately pursed her lips, forming a pout so pronounced it betrayed just how much my insistence weighed upon her. She knew me far too well; she knew that whenever I stood firm on a proposal, I rarely backed down.
"That's why, isn't it?" she grumbled, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. "You made this decision solely because I can speak almost every language and dialect in the region."
My smile widened and I nodded, reveling in her sharp intuition.
"That's cheating!" she exclaimed, feigning a sweet anger as she lightly stomped her foot on the floor. "I just find languages entertaining! I like learning them because it's fun to communicate with anyone and discover how they think. I didn't do it so you could chain me to an office job!"
I rose from my chair, rounded the great wooden desk, and approached her. With a delicate touch, I reached out and stroked her hair, brushing a rebellious lock from her forehead. The contact seemed to soften her defensive posture.
"It is good for you to dedicate that brilliant energy of yours to something momentous, Umza," I told her in a measured tone. "I do not want you to grow bored, nor do I want you to feel your world has shrunk to the walls of this manor."
I looked her squarely in the eyes, opening a myriad of possibilities.
"Tell me, if the newspaper truly displeases you so much, is there something else you would rather do? You could return to the classroom and teach again, or if you wish, I will grant you the funds to start your own merchant enterprise... Whatever your heart desires."
Umza fell silent for a moment, lowering her gaze. In truth, she hadn't considered any concrete alternatives; her life in Dawn City had been comfortable, but devoid of a clear heading since she left teaching. With that physical clinginess so characteristic of her, she took a step forward and wrapped her arms around my torso, hiding her face against my chest.
"And why isn't it enough for you that we have children?" she asked in a spoiled whisper, seeking refuge in my arms.
An expression of subtle irony crossed my face as I embraced her.
If I leave you to your own devices to think only of that, your hyperactive mind will eventually spiral out of control, I thought to myself, though I chose to soften the bluntness of my internal musings.
"You shouldn't think of that as your singular goal," I replied lightly.
Umza pulled back slightly, looking up at me with a touch of renewed indignation.
"It's unfair!" she protested vehemently. "Just because Turey is a year older than us, she gets to actively work on giving you an heir, while you cast me aside."
I felt a sudden rush of heat crawl up my neck and into my cheeks. Despite leading an expanding kingdom and making decisions that altered the destinies of entire continents, blunt discussions regarding intimacy and offspring still caught me off guard, transforming me into an uncharacteristically bashful man.
"I... I don't like speaking of such matters so lightly," I stammered a little, feeling a pang of embarrassment as I averted my gaze. "Besides, if I take precautions and ask for your patience, it is precisely to protect you. The kingdom's medicine is advancing, but the risk remains. I want to be certain you are ready and safe."
Umza drew a breath, her eyes blazing and her mouth open, ready to launch a devastating retort that would prolong the argument for hours. Knowing we were about to enter an endless loop, I decided to interrupt her firmly before she could utter a single syllable.
"The newspaper will begin its structuring and implementation this very year," I declared, regarding her with absolute seriousness. "Over the coming months, we will handle the machinery, the paper, and the writers. You will not have to assume immediate command; you will only take the reins as general director next year. You have time to prepare."
Umza crossed her arms again, maintaining a look of annoyance, though the tension in her shoulders had ebbed considerably. She knew the battle was lost, but I still kept one last card up my sleeve—the ultimate incentive that would shatter any lingering resistance.
I leaned in slightly and added in a confidential, almost conspiratorial tone:
"Besides, think of it this way... If we manage to consolidate the kingdom's cultural and informational stability thanks to your management, it's highly possible your greatest dream will be realized sooner than expected. We will be able to organize the expedition to cross the Waters of Dawn. You will see with your own eyes the lands of Europa Quyca or Guanza Quyca."
The gleam returned instantly to Umza's eyes.
The mere mention of the vast eastern ocean and the 'unknown' kingdoms on the other side of the world was enough for her annoyance to evaporate, replaced by the spark of adventure that always defined her.
The door to my office in Stone Manor clicked shut softly, extinguishing the echo of Umza's light, eager footsteps.
I smiled to myself, leaning back in my carved wooden chair. I had let her go with a vague promise floating in the air; I knew perfectly well her mind was already crossing the Waters of Dawn, devouring imaginary maps.
What she did not suspect was that this coveted opportunity to see the realms of the old world would materialize far sooner than her most optimistic calculations predicted.
I slid my hand across the desk's polished surface, reaching a stack of wax-sealed documents resting to the side. I broke the seal on one of them, relishing the rough texture of the European parchment, so utterly different from the smooth, efficient paper we had developed in the kingdom.
It was the direct response from England. Henry VII himself had taken up the quill to seal the fate of his lineage.
As I read the calligraphic lines, a mix of cynicism and irony tightened my lips. The English monarch had not hesitated for a single second: he immediately agreed that his young daughter should travel to the Great Quyca to live under our roof.
In practical terms, that cunning sovereign had sold her to the highest bidder, trading a princess of his own blood in exchange for securing an economic and military alliance with the emerging technological superpower of the new world.
Nevertheless, Henry VII remained the fox who had unified England after the Wars of the Roses. He would not yield without trying to set his own rules, and in the final paragraph of the document, he planted his grand condition: the free preaching of Christianity must be permitted within the borders of our influence.
At first, a pang of worry knotted my stomach.
In my previous life, in that distant 21st century, history books painted European evangelization as a 'destructive' tide from the perspective of the locals—a cultural steamroller that wiped away entire identities.
But as I closed my eyes and reviewed my recollections with the absolute clarity of my perfect memory, the panorama shifted considerably. I analyzed the situation with cold, strategic calculation.
England was not the Crown of Castile and Aragon; their coffers were far from inexhaustible, and their guided colonization plan in the north depended entirely on the boundaries that I myself imposed upon them.
Furthermore, they lacked that fervent, desperate mass of faithful and friars willing to cross the ocean out of sheer religious zeal. The Christian envoys would receive no financial backing from their king upon arriving here, and they would walk upon an alien land with empty pockets.
If that weren't enough, our religious structure—patiently designed alongside Simte—possessed an insurmountable advantage: syncretism. We did not destroy local temples or ban the cults of the various regions; we integrated their pantheons under a common light, honoring the cultural identity of every people.
A rigid, foreign, and exclusionary dogma like Christianity would crash head-on into a system that already enjoyed unparalleled love and renown among the common folk. Henry's experiment was dead on arrival. With a resolute smile, I picked up the goose quill and signed my acceptance.
What truly took me by surprise was the haste regarding Margaret. The document specified that preparations were complete; she could travel immediately, without protocolar delays or the usual stalling of European courts.
Thinking of her, a wave of profound empathy tightened my chest. She was merely a child. She would turn six on the 29th of November this very year, 1495. Imagining her terrified, tucked away in a dark ship, crossing an endless ocean to meet an unknown thirteen-year-old "king" on an uncharted continent struck me as an unnecessary cruelty.
"I won't let her travel like cargo," I murmured to the warmth of the room. "I will go fetch her myself."
I ran quick calculations in my head. There were barely more than two months until her birthday. If we set sail soon, the outward journey, the stay at the northern ports, and the return voyage would perfectly align with our New Year festivities and, consequently, my own birthday in March.
As I realized the magnitude of what I was deciding, a tingle of pure, youthful excitement traced down my spine.
To organize a transoceanic expedition, command a deep-draft vessel, and traverse the untamed Ocean of Dawn... That was something I had never done. Not in my gray university routine in the century of technology, nor in these thirteen years of relentless planning in the past. At last, the strategist was ceding a sliver of space to the adventurer.
I forced my heartbeat to steady and returned my attention to mundane matters. I began sorting through detailed reports Simte had sent from the central region—liturgical and logistical specifications for the grand ceremony of the SuaChie new year. The rustle of the local paper produced a rhythmic sound that anchored my concentration, until three firm knocks at the door interrupted my work.
"Enter," I called out, instantly recovering my posture as Leader of the Realm.
An aide of Stone Manor stepped inside with a flawless bow, though his eyes betrayed a slight agitation.
"Leader Chuta, I apologize for interrupting your work. The official envoy of the Wattasid Sultanate has disembarked in Dawn City and requests an urgent audience with you."
I arched an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. The commercial connections we maintained via our transoceanic trident in outposts like Guanzauba City were bearing fruit faster than anticipated, extending our influence toward the shores of North Africa.
"Send him in immediately. I shall receive him in the main council chamber," I ordered, rising to my feet.
Minutes later, I crossed the threshold into the council chamber.
The space was steeped in the scent of the sea and decorated with fine cotton-fiber tapestries dyed in vibrant, regional hues. At the far end, beside the grand window overlooking the city's port, waited the Maghrebi dignitary.
His traditional garments were a spectacle of opulence and pristine care: a fine silk caftan overlaid with sheer linen, topped by a perfectly coiled turban that denoted his high standing within the court of Fez.
Upon hearing my footsteps on the stone floor, the envoy turned swiftly and crossed his arms over his chest, bowing in a profound display of formal respect. Yet, as he straightened, his eyes entirely betrayed his rigid protocol. The man stood petrified for a fraction of a second, his gaze locked onto me.
His face reflected absolute disbelief. It was glaringly evident that the whispers in the African ports had not prepared him for reality: standing before him was not the mature, fearsome monarch he had envisioned, but a young boy of thirteen.
His eyes roamed my face with an almost mystical bewilderment, fascinated and unsettled by the uniqueness of my left eye, whose peculiar hue always instilled a blend of reverence and awe in foreigners.
The envoy took a deep breath, parting his lips to articulate a greeting in a labored mix of Castilian and the sailors' lingua franca, searching for the right words to avoid offending the young sovereign of this new world.
Before he could utter a single broken syllable, I took a step forward, offered a serene, hospitable smile, and spoke with complete fluency:
"Azul fellak, amazan n tgelda n Wátas. Marhaban bika di Dawn City. (Peace be upon you, messenger of the Wattasid Kingdom. Welcome to Dawn City.)"
The effect of my words was instantaneous. The dignitary took an imperceptible step back, his pupils blown wide.
His bafflement at my age and my left eye was buried beneath a far greater shock: this native child, on the far side of an uncharted ocean, was welcoming him by impeccably and fluently wielding the Berber tongue of his ancestors.
The silence that followed my greeting lasted scarcely a couple of seconds, but in the tense air of the hall, it seemed to stretch for minutes. The Wattasid dignitary blinked, shaking the stupefaction from his face with the discipline of a true veteran of the Fez court. His chest rose and fell in a deep breath, and the stiffness of his posture dissolved into a bow even more solemn than the first.
"It is an incomparable honor that the sovereign of these distant lands should receive a humble messenger in the tongue of our ancestors," he said, this time speaking through our translator, Suaza, though his tone conveyed a genuine reverence. "I am profoundly grateful for the respect you show my culture, Great Leader."
I nodded softly, gesturing with a fluid wave of my hand for him to take a seat in one of the upholstered chairs facing the long mahogany table.
"Please, be seated," I invited, taking my own place at the head of the table. "And I beg your pardon. Though I know a few phrases and greetings in your native tongue, my vocabulary lacks the depth required to sustain a diplomatic conversation with the natural flow this occasion demands... For the finer nuances, we shall rely on our translator."
The envoy settled in, adjusting the folds of his fine silk caftan. The soft rustle of the fabric released a subtle aroma of spices—cardamom and desert dust—that contrasted sharply with the salty breeze of Dawn City.
"It is more than enough, Great Leader. The disposition of your heart toward us is clear," the dignitary replied, lacing his hands together upon the table. "I come in the name of my lord, the Sultan Muhammad al-Shaykh. He has sent me across this vast ocean with a firm purpose: to establish and elevate the bonds between our realms, so that our relationship transcends mere portside mercantile exchange and becomes a true brotherhood of state to state."
I kept my expression impassive, though inwardly, my mind was calculating at a dizzying speed.
"The Suaza Kingdom shares this very desire," I replied, holding his gaze. "We do not wish to be merely a distant market. We wish to forge with the Wattasid Sultanate ties just as solid and fruitful as those we are already cultivating with your southern neighbors, the Songhai Empire."
The man nodded slowly, though a shadow of hesitation crossed his eyes before he spoke his truth.
"I must confess something to you, Leader Chuta. At first, the Sultanate deliberately limited its contact with your merchant vessels. We harbored the founded fear that your intentions masked ambitions of conquest, akin to those exerted by the Iberian kingdoms upon our shores. However, after hearing the eloquent words of your envoy, Apqua, the Sultan shifted his perspective and decided to open us to this alliance."
I let out a soft laugh, leaning back in my seat. My posture grew more relaxed, but my mind sharpened its diplomatic scalpel.
"Envoy Apqua is a man of exceptional oratory talent, it is true..." I paused intentionally, and my left eye—the very one that had so unsettled him—seemed to gleam under the light pouring through the window. "But let us be frank. Your Sultan's openness is not due solely to the sweet words of our diplomat."
The dignitary raised a brow, visibly surprised by my candor.
"Your true concern is not us," I continued, planting my elbows on the table and leaning forward, closing the distance between us. "Muhammad al-Shaykh's change of heart is a response to the suffocating pressure exerted by Castile and Portugal. They have bolstered their might across the Mediterranean and the Atlantic coast of Africa at an alarming rate, wresting strongholds from your grasp and reducing Wattasid influence to a mere mirage of what it once was. You seek a counterweight, and we are the only weight massive enough on this side of the world."
The envoy's body immediately went taut. His spine snapped straight as if struck by an iron rod. The naive astonishment he had displayed upon entering vanished entirely, replaced by the calculating gaze of a true statesman who has just recognized an equal.
"The rumors circulating through the ports across the ocean concerning your inscrutable wisdom are absolutely true," he admitted, his voice grave and solemn. "You are no child playing at rulership, Leader Chuta. You are right. We, the kingdoms of North Africa, have lost the grace and the power we earned centuries ago."
The envoy let out a weary sigh, as though bearing the entire weight of the Islamic decline in the Maghreb upon his shoulders.
"We have fragmented into disparate kingdoms, taifas, and sultanates. While we divided ourselves, the world marched on, and we have been left dangerously behind. Today, the noose tightens around us from both sides: the threat no longer comes solely from the other side of the western Mediterranean with the Christian kings, but also from the east... The rising Ottoman Empire and the Mamluk Sultanate are advancing, and they will not hesitate to devour us if we show weakness."
The starkness of his diagnosis was perfect. He had laid his cards upon the table, exposing his nation's soft underbelly. It was time to draw my own red lines before expectations could overflow.
I raised a hand, preempting any direct military plea before it could even form on his lips.
"Listen to me closely, messenger. I value your sincerity, but there is a fundamental principle that governs our nation: the Suaza Kingdom never meddles directly in the wars of others. We will not send our fleets to bombard the Andalusian coasts, nor will we deploy our jaguar battalions to the sands of the Maghreb. We support our allies so that they may prosper and defend themselves, yes, but we never fight another man's war. Your blood and your land are your own responsibility."
The dignitary nodded firmly, without betraying a shred of disappointment. Evidently, the spy network of the Fez court had already warned him of our strict doctrine of non-intervention.
"We are fully aware of your code of conduct, Great Leader, and we respect it. We have not come to ask for armies." He paused, and his eyes darkened with a mixture of ambition and desperate need. "What I have come to ask is if the rumors are true. Is it true that you could provide us with the key knowledge we need to survive? I speak of the blueprints for constructing vessels capable of challenging the Portuguese caravels... and the secret of your firearms."
The weight of history hung on those words. To hand over military technology to a cornered sultanate was to shift the balance of power across the entire Eurasian region. But, from the very beginning, that had been exactly my objective.
I offered a cold, calculating, and entirely mercantile smile.
"Indeed, we can do this. Our engineers can guide you in the construction of ships, and our armories can teach you the principles of the fire that shatters walls," I replied, letting silence fill the room for a fleeting moment before delivering the final blow. "But you must understand that in the Suaza Kingdom, charity is not a state policy. All knowledge has a price, and the exchange will always be made for something of equal value. What is the Sultan willing to sacrifice to buy his survival?"
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I'd like to mention that Chuta will have his first child soon. I don't know if it will be this year (14) or next, but it will be soon.
I know that with our contemporary mindset and the values currently upheld, it feels strange to read that the protagonist has a child at 14 or 16, but it wasn't unusual back then. Although I must say it's not common either.
Second, I'd like to mention that I've always thought of the newspaper as something necessary, and while there were mentions in previous chapters, there was never anything formal.
Only now will it really be used. Furthermore, the literacy rate is really starting to rise, and it will acquire a real use for the kingdom, or rather, for Chuta.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, there's a small slip-up from Umza, and young Chuta is already getting down to business. As I said before, there won't be any +18 scenes, at least not until Chuta is 16 or 17.
I also remind you that Umza and Nyia are two years older than Chuta, while Turey is three years older.
Second, this chapter shows something one of you mentioned: colonization in Africa.
The truth is that Chuta will be somewhat selfish in this regard, and he will guide the powers, in this case European ones, to conquer or control other territories.
But it won't only be in Africa, but also in Asia and Oceania.
What Chuta will do is the same thing he mentions to the sultanate's messenger: he will give them the knowledge and technologies to face these problems.
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Read my other novels.
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You can find them on my profile.]