The morning sun entered at sharp angles through the windows of the Palace of Two Towers, illuminating the dust that still danced in the air as if the previous night's conversation had stirred the very powder of ancient documents. Bento Vidal was at his desk, his eyes red from a sleepless night, but with an expression of renewed determination. Before him, the letter to the Governor-General of the State of Brazil—with a copy for the Overseas Council in Lisbon—awaited only the ink to dry before the official seal. The smell of walnut ink and damp paper filled the space around his writing desk.

  Caetano Velho entered the office without knocking, as was his habit. He brought with him the fresh smell of morning and the sea—he had clearly been at the port. His eyes landed on the nearly finished letter, and a near-smile touched his lips.

  "Good thing I arrived in time," he said, approaching the desk, his leather boots creaking softly on the wooden floor.

  Bento looked up, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

  "In time for what? The letter is almost ready. The Ventania departs at high tide, in two hours." He pointed with the quill toward the window, where the port was visible. "With those new sails and its wind adepts aboard, they say it will make the crossing in record time. Fifteen days, perhaps less, if the winds cooperate and those... specialists do their work."

  Caetano nodded, familiar with the fastest messenger ship of the colonial fleet—an agile brigantine whose crew included half a dozen wind adepts.

  "That's exactly why I came," said Caetano, pulling up a high-backed chair and sitting with his characteristically erect posture. "There is a strategy we must implement immediately, and Lisbon must be informed right away."

  Bento frowned, defensive. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

  "I've already described the weapons, the steel mill, the danger of repeating the history of the Dutch..." His voice carried genuine weariness. "What strategy is still missing, Caetano? What more does Lisbon need to know?"

  Caetano leaned forward, his long, pale fingers interlacing on the polished desk. The morning light highlighted the fine lines on his face, the dark eyes that seemed to calculate every word before speaking it.

  "Letters of Marque and Reprisal, Governor."

  Bento blinked, confused. The quill he held hovered over the paper.

  "Letters of... what? I don't know that term."

  "They are official authorizations," explained Caetano, with a patience that seemed studied, "that allow loyal citizens to organize private militias to attack and plunder enemies of the Crown. In our case, the self-styled Republic."

  Bento opened his mouth to protest, but Caetano raised a hand—a gentle gesture, but one that silenced.

  "Listen first, Bento." His use of the first name was rare and carried a weight of urgency. "While we wait months for Lisbon's response—and more months for the Atlantic crossing with reinforcements, armaments, mercenaries—the Republic grows. Forges more weapons every week. Trains more men. Consolidates its power. We cannot stand still, looking out to sea awaiting help."

  He paused, letting the image settle.

  "The Letters of Marque allow us to mobilize the colonists themselves against the enemy. Immediately. At no cost to the Captaincy's coffers."

  Bento still looked perplexed. He placed the quill in the inkwell, wiping his ink-stained fingers on an already dirty cloth.

  "But... private militias?" he stammered. "Giving licenses for plantation owners to form their own armies? Caetano, you know the danger of that. These men are already too powerful."

  "We are not giving anything," corrected Caetano, his voice firm but calm. "We are selling licenses. For a substantial licensing fee." He paused, his eyes fixed on Bento's. "And we will collect twenty percent on all spoils. Everything they plunder from the Republic."

  Bento fell silent for a moment, processing. Outside, the cry of a fishmonger arrived faintly through the open window.

  "Twenty percent..." he murmured.

  "Imagine," continued Caetano, his fingers drawing invisible circles on the desk, "Albuquerque, Fernandes, Castro... each with his own militia, competing not for political influence here in White Sand, but for wealth in the quilombo. Instead of questioning your authority, they will be busy plundering the Republic. Instead of conspiring against the Crown, they will conspire against each other for the best prey."

  Understanding began to illuminate Bento's face, but also skepticism. He stood up, walked to the window, looking at the Ventania gently swaying in the bay's waters.

  "It's risky," he said, without turning around. "We create small armies loyal to lords, not to the Crown. And what will Lisbon say? Authorizing plunder... it sounds like piracy."

  Caetano also rose, joining him at the window. The two men looked at the ship, a symbol of the connection to a distant metropolis.

  "That's why we need to mention it in the letter," said Caetano, his voice lower now. "Not in detail, but as a provisional emergency measure."

  Bento turned, his eyes narrowing.

  "Tell me exactly what to write."

  "Say that, to contain the rebel advance while help from Lisbon does not arrive, we will authorize loyal militias to attack Republic targets." Caetano spoke with surgical precision. "This will show initiative. Show that we are using all available resources—including the greed of the colonists themselves—to protect the Crown's interests."

  Bento hesitated. He walked back to the desk, his Shadow casting long on the wooden floor.

  "But we haven't officially decided this yet..." he protested, though his voice already carried less conviction. "I don't even know exactly how it would work in practice. These... Letters of Marque. What are the rules? The limits?"

  "We will decide today," said Caetano firmly, following him. "Immediately after we send the letter. And when Lisbon approves—and it will, because it will be worried about the Quilombola weapons you described—we will already be ahead. With militias formed, the first attacks underway."

  He leaned over the desk, his hands braced on its edge.

  "Think, Governor: if we mention the Letters of Marque in the same letter where we ask for help, it will seem a temporary emergency measure, not a long-term policy. More palatable to distant bureaucrats who have never seen a Quilombo, much less an armed republic."

  Bento sat down heavily, the chair groaning. His eyes scanned the already written words—the descriptions of mosquetes, the name the Quilombolas gave to those weapons that shot faster, of the steel mill that was operating.

  "And there is a second point," continued Caetano, sitting down again. "You mention the Church in the letter, but only in passing. You need to be explicit."

  Bento looked up.

  "Explicit how?"

  "Ask Lisbon to pressure the Holy City of Alba," said Caetano, every word measured. "To force the Popess to sever all ties with the Republic. Severance of relations, excommunication of the leaders, whatever is necessary. A rebel state cannot maintain recognition from the Church. It is a theological and political contradiction that Alba will not tolerate."

  Bento was silent for a long moment. Finally, he picked up the quill again, dipped it in the inkwell, and the black ink glistened in the morning light.

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  "Then dictate the paragraphs to me," he said, his voice resigned but decided.

  Caetano dictated slowly, carefully. The first paragraph, a direct request for Portugal to use its influence in Alba to isolate the Republic religiously. The second, a brief mention of the "extraordinary measures to mobilize loyal private resources" that would be implemented to contain the immediate threat—a formulation vague enough not to commit, but clear enough to obtain tacit approval.

  When Bento finished writing, he dried the ink with fine sand from a small wooden box, blew off the excess, and carefully folded the document. The paper made a satisfying, crisp sound. He took the sealing wax stamp—the coat of arms of the Captaincy of Pernambuco—heated the red wax over a candle, let it drop on the document's fold, and pressed the seal. The smell of hot wax mixed with the other odors of the office.

  "It is done," said Bento, his voice carrying a solemn weight. He called a secretary waiting at the door. "To the captain of the Ventania. He departs with the high tide, and this letter has absolute priority."

  The man took the document with a bow and left quickly, his footsteps echoing in the stone corridor.

  When they were alone again, Caetano walked to the window. Outside, the brigantine anchored in the port could be seen, its white sails already partially unfurled, eager for the wind. Tiny crewmen moved on the deck like ants.

  "Now," said Caetano, turning around, "while the Ventania takes our words to Lisbon, we implement the Letters of Marque. But first, I need to explain better how they will work, for I see you still have doubts."

  Bento nodded, relieved. He poured himself a glass of water from a clay jug, drinking thirstily.

  "Yes," he said, wiping his mouth. "I need to understand this 'licensing plunder' better. It sounds... like the bandeirantes. I remember they became almost an independent power. A state within the state. We need to avoid that repeating here."

  Caetano did not answer immediately. Instead, a slow, proud smile touched his lips—a smile that carried the weight of decades of experience in the backlands. He raised his head slightly, and for the first time in the conversation, Bento saw in him not just the Captain-Major, but the bandeirante who had traversed thousands of leagues of wild territory.

  "I too remember very well, Governor," said Caetano, his voice taking on a different tone, more earthy, as if bringing the smell of backlands dust into the office. "I am part of that history. My father and grandfather were bandeirantes. I myself explored the interior rivers before receiving this commission."

  He stood up, and Bento noticed for the first time how the man's posture changed slightly—less the Portuguese officer, more the frontiersman accustomed to commanding on his own merit.

  "The bandeirantes did not become independent by chance," continued Caetano, walking to the window as if seeing not the rooftops of Recife, but the infinite forests of the interior. "They became independent because the Crown neglected them. Because they fought against Dutch, French, Quilombolas, and rebel Indians with very little support from Lisbon. When a man learns to survive and win without help, he also learns to question why he needs those who did not help him."

  Bento fell silent, feeling the veiled criticism in the words. After all, he himself had led the plantation owners against the Dutch with almost no Portuguese support.

  "That is exactly the point," insisted Bento. "I don't want to create a force that might one day turn against us."

  Caetano turned, and his dark eyes shone with a light Bento had never seen before—the light of one who knew the game of power not from salons, but from trails and night camps.

  "But that is the beauty of the plan, Governor," said Caetano, returning to the desk and resting his hands on the polished wood. "This time, we control the process from the start. The Letters of Marque will be issued by you, revocable by you. The spoils will be taxed by you. And more importantly..." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. "...we keep the plantation owners busy fighting a common enemy, not against colonial authority. And if any of them start getting too powerful?"

  Caetano made a dramatic pause, an almost predatory smile on his lips.

  "Well, I am a bandeirante, Governor. I know how these militias work. I know their weaknesses, their rivalries. If Albuquerque gets too ambitious, we redirect Fernandes against him. If Fernandes creates a small personal army, we revoke his license and offer a reward for his capture—to the very militias he helped create."

  Bento looked at Caetano with renewed respect—and a hint of fear. The man was not just proposing a military strategy. He was proposing a system of control where the greed of others would be used to keep them in check.

  "You are talking of playing them against each other," said Bento, slowly.

  "I am talking of managing ambitions," corrected Caetano, sitting down again with an elegance that strangely contrasted with his backlands words. "The bandeirantes became independent because no one managed them. We will manage. And when the Republic finally falls... well, the Letters of Marque can be revoked. The militias, disarmed. The most problematic men... dealt with as they became problematic."

  The coldness of the last sentence hung in the air. Bento understood what was not being said: if necessary, they would use the militias themselves to eliminate their most ambitious leaders.

  "You make it sound easy," said Bento.

  "It is not easy," admitted Caetano. "But it is possible. And I, Governor, am the ideal person to manage this. I know the mindset of these men because I am one of them. I know the sert?o because I have lived in it. And I know the Quilombos because I fought them for twenty years before this Republic appeared."

  He raised a finger, as if pointing to an invisible map.

  "We give them a common enemy, yes. But we also give them rules, limits, fees. And above all, we give them the illusion of autonomy while keeping the reins firmly held. That is how you control ambitious men: by giving them an enemy to hate and a prize to covet, while you hold the key to the treasure."

  Bento ran a hand over his face, absorbing the depth of the strategy. Outside, a sailor's shout came faintly—the Ventania preparing to depart. Caetano was not just lending his experience as a bandeirante—he was transforming that experience into a refined system of colonial control.

  "And if they realize the game?" asked Bento.

  Caetano smiled again, a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  "They will not realize. They will be too busy competing among themselves for the Quilombo's spoils. Steel, gems, machines... and recaptured slaves, for which they will receive an additional bounty per head." He paused, his tone becoming practical. "And if any do realize... well, I am a bandeirante, Governor. I know how to make people disappear in the sert?o."

  The silence that followed was heavy. Bento looked at the man before him and saw, finally, the perfect combination for the problem they faced: a bandeirante who understood both power in the backlands and politics in the colony.

  "Then we start with Albuquerque," said Bento finally.

  "We start with Albuquerque," confirmed Caetano, the smile giving way to his usual professional expression. "He is the richest, the most ambitious, and still holds a grudge for losing lands to the Quilombo's advance in Aqua's time. We offer the first letter with a discount on the fee. He will be our example."

  Bento nodded. His decision was made.

  "I will summon him for tomorrow. And you, Caetano, will prepare the documents for the Letters of Marque. With all the rules, fees, conditions."

  "I already have a draft," said Caetano, standing up. "Based on the licenses the English use in the Caribbean, but adapted to our... specific needs."

  He walked to the door but stopped before leaving.

  "There is one more thing, Governor. The Quilombolas themselves."

  Bento looked up.

  "What about them?"

  "My previous attacks," said Caetano, his voice low, "created a division between those who want peace and those who want war. With these militias attacking constantly, with more deaths, more families destroyed... that division will grow. Some will begin to question Carlos. To question if the Republic is worth so much blood."

  He made a significant pause.

  "We do not conquer by force alone, Bento. We conquer by despair. We show them that the freedom they so proclaim has a price in blood they may not wish to pay."

  And with that, Caetano left, his boots echoing in the palace corridors.

  Bento was left alone. He looked out the window once more. The Ventania was now moving, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Its sails were completely full, billowed by a wind that seemed to come from nowhere—the work of the adepts, certainly. The ship glided through the bay like an arrow, heading toward the eastern horizon.

  He looked at the portrait on the wall—himself, younger, alongside other plantation owners, all brandishing weapons. Heroes of the Pernambucan Restoration. Men who fought for their land, for their freedom from the Dutch.

  Now, he prepared to use those same men—their ambition, their power, their experience in fighting without help—as weapons against another dream of freedom. The irony was so heavy it almost hurt.

  Meanwhile, on the horizon, the Ventania diminished, a white dot against the blue of sea and sky, carrying warnings, requests, and strategies. And in the governor's office, a new war was beginning to be born—not of regular armies, but of greedy militias; not for glory, but for profit; not merely to destroy an enemy, but to corrupt the very idea it represented.

  Bento poured himself a sip of cacha?a from the bottle he kept in the drawer. The liquid burned his throat, familiar and comforting.

  Letters of Marque, he thought, looking at the glass. Requests to Alba. Threats of weapons. And a republic that dares to dream.

  He drank the rest in one gulp, feeling the fire descend to his stomach. Outside, the Ventania disappeared over the horizon, carrying his words to Lisbon. And to the west, under the same sun, the new republic continued its forging—of steel, of dreams, and now, unknowingly, of its own siege.