Ice Vapor Goddess

Chapter 71 Salon (Part 1)

In the luxurious residential area on the sixth basement level, a house has been transformed into an elegant aristocratic salon.

The owner, Count Augures, proudly proclaimed that he had been granted a second residence in recognition of his outstanding contributions to Speyside, thus sparing them from the misfortune of living in the salon on the second basement level, surrounded by poverty and vulgarity.

Arrogant gentlemen and ladies gathered here, their manners elegant, yet carrying an undisguised relaxedness and disdain, their postures seemingly all drawn from the same manual called "The Body Language of the Victor".

On the long table in the center of the salon were silver fruit platters and exquisite cake towers. The family crests inlaid around the platters looked very old, but they were just new items ordered from the Lundinian artisans' workshop last year.

Some people show guests newly acquired shops, dividend certificates, or profits from industrial zones; these cold papers and silverwares are more reliable proof of identity than any ancestral portrait.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” Mrs. Bradstone lamented. “The old aristocracy has finally fallen with their frozen castles and fields, and we—stand at the center of the era.”

People responded with a nonchalant smile and reserved applause.

This place is home to almost all of Speyside’s administrators, all of whom hold noble titles, but none of them can trace their lineage back fifty years—including Sir Wade Taylor, who once proudly recounted his family history on the radio.

After the War of Glory, the old aristocracy, along with the false king Charles, suffered a heavy blow. As the end came, the connections, bloodlines, and lands that sustained their noble lives all left them.

“Before the apocalypse—” Count Augures smiled as he held up his wine glass, “a certain count once proudly boasted to me that every summer he would agonize over which of his twelve estates to vacation at, mentioning that two-thirds of the members of parliament could trace their ancestry back to him.”

"But what about now? That day he warned me not to build too many factories in Speyside because the fumes from the machines would pollute the air here."

I replied to him, 'Your Excellency, the air belongs to God, but the wealth of Cospese already belongs to us.'"

The crowd erupted in applause that sounded almost like a victory!
But some people complained: "I heard that a couple of days ago someone was protesting in front of a factory in District 1, saying that their children were so hungry that they had to rummage through the garbage dump for grains of wheat."

Mrs. Bradstone covered her hands and exclaimed, "My God! If they had spent their time doing the books and looking for investors instead of rummaging through the trash, they might be sitting on the sofa right now!"

Everyone burst into laughter again.

At this moment, Lord Black, holding a glass of sherry, said with feigned wisdom, “Don’t blame them. Their poor heads have never been filled with accounting books or can’t read commercial contracts—they don’t know that industry is God’s new gospel, and factories are our churches.”

"Is that worker a believer?" someone joked.

“No, they were sacrificial sheep,” the lord replied slowly, eliciting a few soft chuckles and a few feigned condemnations of “Oh, how outrageous.”

On the other side of the hall, Helena, a young lady by the piano, covered her mouth with a handkerchief and chuckled: "I heard that the Lancaster family still prays every night, hoping that the gods will bless their name to continue to be noble."

"Lancaster? I heard that when Drake Lancaster went to church to pray, there wasn't even a place to sit; the whole church was burned for the poor!"

People burst into laughter again, as if they could see the embarrassing situation of the heir to the century-old family.

“By the way—” Count Augures raised his glass, “how is the church doing?”

"They went out yesterday morning, making quite a commotion," someone said.

“I heard there was a train accident earlier, so they probably went back to get supplies,” Mrs. Bradstone said. They had been asked to meet the church members near the train station, but unfortunately, they were met with the extreme cold and impending doom. “The governor is still unconscious; this is one of their few chances to leave,” Lord Black said slowly, like a strategist.

Count Augures glanced at Wade Taylor sitting in the corner, and seeing that he was just drinking alone in silence, he looked away.

“The church’s recent actions are very strange,” he said.

Most of those who had heard the story nodded in agreement, while a smaller group listened with curiosity to the count's narration.

“Bishop Delland praised the common people on the radio, but never mentioned us who silently supported Speyside. He bought people’s hearts, deceived the believers, and even took away Sir William’s land.”

People looked at William Howard and saw his ashen face.

“Yes! That cruel bastard!” William slammed his wine glass on the table in anger. “He sent knights to force me to make a deal, saying that I bought the land for ten pounds, and buying it back for twenty pounds was already a good deal. But that fool never considered that the favor I gave him was priceless! Let him go to see God!”

People were filled with righteous indignation, and several women held handkerchiefs and shed tears.

“Not only that,” Count Augures said gravely, “that abbess—his accomplice—is setting up a new textile factory in Industrial District 13, and she claims she will use the latest ventilation systems and protective gear, offer high wages, provide masks for employees, and offer compensation for injuries.”

"My God!" someone shouted; it was the one who owned the textile factory. "Has she gone mad! That doesn't make any money at all!"

"Can we stop her?" another textile factory manager asked worriedly.

“It’s a great pity,” Earl Augures said sadly. “The one who sold her the land was the Marquess of Lancaster, who is not one of us.”

People were silent.

Someone then suggested, "Perhaps we could charge her more in fees?"

Mrs. Bradstone immediately began to calculate, her hands, gloved in long black silk gloves, fiddling with the small brass counting tube.

“She has ten thousand pounds with her,” said Earl Augures. “She doesn’t need the money.”

"Where did she get the money?" Mrs. Bradstone froze, asking incredulously.

“The reserves of the Speyside branch of the Bank of Florence,” the Count said.

“...That’s too cruel,” Lord Black said slowly. “To murder a respected banker for wealth.”

People nodded in agreement, as if they had accepted Lord Black's conjecture.

The textile factory owner looked distressed: "What are we going to do? Those rich people don't respect us hard-working people at all! Our efforts seem like a joke, and the rules we painstakingly maintained are broken by her with money... Now all the workers have gone to her... You won't have an easy time either!"

He took a big gulp of his drink, his anger rising, and suddenly began to berate the people around him: "Just you wait! You all act like it's none of your business now, but once the workers like the treatment she offers, they'll strike and cause trouble every day! None of you will make any money!"

(End of this chapter)