‘And were you?’ the old man asked. ‘Properly grateful, I mean.’
‘I don’t think our old friend the City Prefect would have approved of my manners,’ the craftsman replied. ‘I can’t say that I behaved terribly well. And no, I wasn’t. On the other hand, I did manage to get out of there without hitting anybody, which was probably just as well. There as an awful lot of professional muscle lounging about in there along with the pen-pushers. I have the feeling that if I’d lost my temper, I’d have left there in a sack.’
‘It didn’t strike me as a particularly friendly place,’ the old man said. ‘So then what did you do?’
‘I wandered down to the harbour, that place where everybody takes their evening stroll, and sold my mailshirt. Got a reasonable price for it, too; enough to buy some tools and have enough left over for the makings of a fine hangover the next morning, which was when I started walking. When I got tired, I stopped, and here I am.’
The old man nodded and lifted a wooden cup to his lips. When he put it down again, the craftsman topped it up from a tall terracotta tub that stood on the floor in a pail of water to keep it cool. ‘And the boy,’ the old man went on. ‘What about him?’
The craftsman laughed. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he said, ‘once we’d reached Scona and I’d made my duty-call on my sister, I’d more or less forgotten about him. Pets, waifs and strays, charity cases – I’ve never had much time for that sort of thing. I’d gladly dump my loose change in some poor devil’s hat if I felt sorry for him, but my rule was always that charity ended at home, and if a stray dog follows me in the street, it’s asking for trouble. No, I reckoned I’d done enough for the kid pulling him out of the bonfire, and the rest was up to him.’ He sighed. ‘No such luck.’
‘No?’
He shook his head. ‘He turned up one morning looking all lost and sorry for himself, and as luck would have it I was trying to put in a gatepost, which is an awkward job to do single-handed; so without thinking I said, “Grab hold of that,” and he held the post while I knocked it in, and then he held the crowbar while I dug the hole for the other post, and then he helped me get the lintel up and held one end while I closed up the dovetails. And then, when the job was done and I realised he’d been helping me and never said a word except, “Like this?” and, “Where d’you want this to go?” I hadn’t got the heart to tell him to get lost, so he’s been here ever since. I’m teaching him the trade, and on balance he’s more help than hindrance. It’s funny, though,’ the craftsman went on with a chuckle. ‘When I’m trying to teach him something and for some reason he just can’t or won’t get it, and I stop and listen to myself, all patient and reasonable to start with and finally losing my temper and bawling the poor kid out – it’s like I’m the kid and I’m listening to my father, back in the long barn at home. And that makes me stop shouting, at any rate. I remember it all too well myself.’
‘Ah,’ the old man said with a grin. ‘The son you never had, then.’
‘Never had and never wanted,’ the craftsman replied with a grunt. ‘Company doesn’t bother me, but it’s never been something I need, the way some people can’t live without it. And give the lad his due, he works hard and tries his best, even if he does chatter away all the time. The hell with it, I’m not complaining.’
‘I can see that,’ the old man said with a smile. ‘If you ask me, you’re beginning to mellow.’
‘I’d rather call it seasoning, like that wood up there. Which is just a way of saying I’m beginning to act my age. One thing about killing people for a living, it kept me from getting middle-aged. This is a different way of life entirely.’
‘Better?’
The craftsman gave that some serious thought before answering. ‘It’s bloody hard work,’ he replied. ‘But yes, much better. I wouldn’t go back now, not if they made me the Emperor and gave me the whole upper city to live in. It’s possible that this is what I’ve always wanted to do; in which case, I must remember to buy young Temrai a large drink next time I see him.’
The old man laughed. ‘I’m sure he had your well-being at heart all along,’ he said.
‘What’s a burnt city among friends so long as you’re happy? Quite.’ The craftsman lifted the plane and slid it across the face of the billet, producing a clean slicing noise. ‘I tend not to think about that side of things very much,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing how much better life can be if you manage to lay off the thinking.’
The old man drank some more, put the cup down and covered it with his hat to stop the sawdust getting in it. ‘Business is good?’ he asked.
‘Can’t complain,’ the craftsman replied. ‘It’s quite remarkable how little these people know about bow-making. I could get technical and bore you rigid, but that’d be unkind, so let’s just say that for a nation who’re supposed to depend for their survival on their skill as archers, the people of Scona don’t know spit about the tools of their trade. The idea that there’s more to a bow than a bent stick and some string has come to them like some divine revelation. In fact,’ he added, stopping to wipe his forehead on his arm, ‘business is a bit too good, as you’d be able to work out for yourself if you took a walk around here looking for a reasonably straight ash tree. Which you won’t,’ he added, ‘because they’re all up there.’ He pointed up at the billets stacked between the rafters. ‘That lot won’t keep me going for very long,’ he continued, ‘and I’ve got an order for six dozen sinew-backed recurves for the military that I’d loose sleep over if I stopped to think about it. If ever you meet anybody whose doctor’s ordered him six weeks of total and utter boredom, send him to me and I’ll put him on carding sinew.’
The old man smiled. ‘That’s a very good sign,’ he said. ‘You must be doing well if you’re grumbling like that. You sound like a farmer complaining of too much rain.’
‘I think they call it reverting to type. There now,’ he said, putting the plane to one side and picking up a pair of calipers, ‘that’s not looking too bad. Let’s see whether we’ve got that…’ he stood up and turned, and just as Machaera was about to see his face, she lifted her head and blinked, and saw Scona across the lagoon, and herring-gulls circling in the snowy air, and a single ship with a blue sail dragging itself across the wind into the arms of Scona harbour.
Now what was all that about? She tried to imagine the library table again, but when she found the image in her mind, all she could see was an untidy heap of brass tubes, some empty, some with the ends of badly rolled books squashed into them. She shut her eyes and did her best to think, but a savage headache had taken hold about an inch behind her eyes, and thinking was like trying to see through thick fog and driving rain. Which of them was I supposed to see? The old man or the man he was talking to? She made an effort to force the pictures back into her mind, but there weren’t enough of them left to get a grip on. Rationalising, it ought to be the old man. When she’d looked into his eyes, it was as if she’d recognised something there; it was like looking at your friend’s grandfather and saying to yourself, Ah, yes, that’s where the nose comes from. She guessed that what she’d seen was some kind of mark or scar left behind after looking at the Principle, just as she’d been doing, the same kind of flare or burn as if she’d looked too long at the sun and it had left a permanent mark visible whenever she closed her eyes. But he hadn’t said anything; he’d just sat there asking questions, so surely it was the other one who was important, the one she’d been given this special privilege of seeing. But he was just some kind of artisan, a worker in wood like her father. How could anything concerning a man like that be of any relevance to the Principle, or the survival of Shastel and the Foundation? A great warrior might just possibly have some significance; conceivably a mighty engineer, destined to design some fabulous new engine of war that could overthrow the enemy at a stroke. But a tradesman – a small-time tradesman, one who was struggling to meet an order for six dozen (six dozen, that’s five twelves are sixty plus twelve makes seventy-two) seventy-two bows – why, the Foundation’s arsenal probably made that many in a single day. If she didn’t know better, she’d be tempted to think that the Principle was making fun of her.