The "Thunder-Tubes" had secured the valley, and the "Oakhaven Wage" had secured the labor. But as Alaric watched the Merchant Guild's scribes meticulously copying his licensing agreement, he realized his empire was built on a foundation of sand.
"They are the only ones who can read the contract, Kaelen," Alaric said, watching the quill feathers dance in the solar. "The villagers follow my orders because I have the bread and the fire. But if I die, or if the Duke offers them more bread, they have no record of their rights. They have no Code of Law they can actually understand."
In the 21st century, information was a commodity so abundant it was ignored. In the 11th century, it was a holy relic guarded by the Church and the Ivory Towers of distant universities.
"I need a Gutenberg Press," Alaric muttered, sketching a screw-press mechanism on a piece of scrap vellum. "But first, I need the type."
---
The challenge wasn't the press itself, a modified wine press would suffice. The challenge was the Movable Type. Alaric spent a week in the forge with Old Tom, experimenting with an alloy of lead, tin, and antimony.
"It has to expand slightly as it cools, Tom," Alaric explained, pouring the molten silvery liquid into tiny hand-molds. "It needs to fill every corner of the letter 'A' so the edge is sharp. If the ink bleeds, the commoner won't be able to distinguish a '5' from an '8' in the ledgers."
By the tenth day, they had a wooden case filled with thousands of tiny metal characters. Alaric didn't choose Latin, the language of the elite. He chose the Vernacular, the common tongue of the valley.
---
The first "Book of Oakhaven" was not a Bible. It was a Technical Manual and Labor Code. It laid out the "Rights of the Gear-Turner" and basic instructions for sanitation and crop rotation.
But the smell of ink soon attracted a different kind of predator.
Bishop Valerius, a man whose robes cost more than a dozen Oakhaven cottages, arrived at the castle gate with a retinue of silent monks. He didn't look at the smoke, he looked at the black-stained fingers of the village children who were helping Alaric arrange the type.
"Lord Alaric," the Bishop said, his voice like velvet over a blade. "I am told you are giving the 'Word' to those who have not the soul to carry it. To give a peasant a book is to give a blind man a torch, he will only burn down the house."
"I'm not giving them the Word of God, Excellency," Alaric replied, standing before his press. "I'm giving them the Word of the Fact. I'm teaching them that if they wash their hands before touching a wound, the 'Demons of Rot' don't enter. Is that heresy?"
"It is the subversion of the Divine Order," the Bishop countered. "The Church interprets the world. You seek to let the commoner interpret the gear. If they can read your manuals, they will soon ask to read the Scriptures. And then, Alaric, where will your 'Order' be?"
---
Alaric looked at the Bishop, then at Harl, the woodsman who was staring at a printed page with a look of profound, terrified hunger. Harl couldn't read yet, but he knew that the black marks on the paper were the "Secret of the Young Lord."
"Excellency," Alaric said, picking up a freshly printed sheet. "The Duke has the steel. The Guild has the gold. But the people... they have the Numbers. I can either teach them to read the law, or I can let them remain in the dark until they decide to burn your cathedrals for warmth."
Alaric handed the sheet to the Bishop. It was a list of the Church's own land-holdings in the valley, cross-referenced with the new agricultural yields. It showed, in indisputable ink, that the Church's tithes were based on outdated "scratch-plow" math.
"I am adjusting the tithe to reflect the new reality," Alaric whispered. "Join the Oakhaven Education Board, and the Church remains the shepherd of the soul. Oppose it, and I will print a pamphlet explaining exactly how much gold is hidden in your cellar while the village children die of the summer flux."
The Bishop's face went pale. He looked at the press, the machine that could multiply a thought a thousand times over in a single day. He realized that the "Thunder-Tube" wasn't the most dangerous thing Alaric had built.
It was the Information Loop.
"Kaelen," Alaric said as the Bishop retreated into his carriage. "Double the guard on the Print-House. And start the first class tonight. We start with the alphabet. We end with Calculus."