The Hall of Petitions was a masterpiece of intimidating architecture. Designed as a perfect semicircle of tiered white marble, it forced any petitioner to stand at the lowest point, literally looking up at the "Sun-Throne" and the gathered council of the Empire's elite. The air was thick with the smell of expensive incense, a deliberate tactic to mask the industrial odors of the city.
Deacon stood at the center of the floor. Beside him, Julian looked like a man walking toward a gallows, despite his impeccable silver-and-charcoal silks. Behind them, two Oakhaven porters carried a small, shrouded crate.
The gallery was packed. On the left sat the High Lords, their faces masks of boredom. On the right sat the Silver Circle, led by Grand Master Belasco. He was an elderly man with a beard like spun glass, wearing robes that shimmered with the iridescent oils of alchemical mastery.
"Lord Deacon of House Cassian," the High Steward announced, his voice echoing. "You have requested a priority petition regarding the energy security of the Capital. The Floor of the Sun recognizes you. Be brief. The Grand Master has a lecture on 'The Purity of Essence' scheduled for the afternoon bells."
Belasco leaned forward, a condescending smile playing on his lips. "The North has always been vocal about its 'needs,' Lord Cassian. But coal is a matter of Earth-Magic and Guild-Law. I fail to see what a... frontier administrator... could possibly contribute to the discourse."
Deacon didn't bow. He didn't even look at the Steward. He looked directly at Belasco. "I'm not here to talk about magic, Grand Master. I'm here to talk about a crime."
A murmur rippled through the gallery. Julian closed his eyes, his knuckles white.
"The 'shortage' of anthracite in the Sinks is a fabrication," Deacon continued, his voice steady and projecting with military clarity. "I personally inspected the Black-Gate Depot four hours ago. Your Guild is selling 'Slag-Mix'—a fifty-fifty blend of bituminous coal and shale—at the price of pure anthracite. You are claiming the mines are haunted, but your warehouses in the River District are currently holding twelve thousand tons of high-grade fuel."
Belasco's smile vanished. He stood up, his robes flared. "Insolence! You dare accuse the Silver Circle of hoarding? Our records are audited by the High Church itself!"
"Records can be forged. Chemistry cannot," Deacon said. He signaled to his porters. They pulled the shroud from the crate, revealing a brass-bound device that looked like a miniature forge, equipped with a series of glass beakers and a vertical copper chimney.
"This is a Calorimeter-Condenser," Deacon explained, ignoring the baffled looks from the Lords. "It's a device designed to measure the thermal output and impurities of a fuel source. Simple mechanics. Simple logic."
Deacon pulled two samples of coal from his pocket. "The sample on the left is what the Silver Circle is selling to your independent smiths today. The sample on the right is what I brought from the Oryn mines in Oakhaven."
He dropped both into the separate chambers of the device and engaged a flint-strike. Within seconds, the glass tubes began to cloud.
"Grand Master, your 'Pure Anthracite' is producing a thick, yellow-black smoke—sulfur and moisture from unrefined peat," Deacon pointed out as the yellow vapor filled the left tube. "The thermal needle is barely moving. But the Oakhaven sample..."
The right tube remained clear, and the copper chimney began to glow a dull red as the thermal needle spiked.
"Oakhaven coal burns at nearly twice the temperature with zero sulfur discharge," Deacon said, turning to the High Lords. "If you continue to buy from the Silver Circle, your forge-fires will fail, your bronze will become brittle, and your city will choke on its own soot. The Grand Master isn't selling you energy. He's selling you a slow death for a high profit."
Belasco slammed his staff onto the marble floor. "A parlor trick! A deceptive arrangement of glass and air!"
"It's not a trick, it's a measurement," Deacon countered. He stepped closer to the Council. "And I have a proposal. Oakhaven can supply the Capital with ten thousand tons of high-grade anthracite by the first frost—at half the Guild's current price. All I require is the Royal Charter for the Independent Mining Union and the right to use the River Docks for direct Oakhaven transport."
The Hall erupted. The Lords were whispering urgently. For the first time, the Silver Circle looked not like a guild of scholars, but like a pack of cornered wolves.
"This is an outrage!" Belasco screamed. "The energy of the Capital belongs to the Alchemists!"
"The energy of the Capital belongs to whoever can keep the lights on," Deacon said. He looked up toward the veiled balcony where the Empress watched in silence. "I've shown you the data, Your Majesty. Now, do you want to stay in the dark, or do you want to move into the Iron Age?"