The smithy occupied the lower story of a house near the docks, with the quarters of the smith's two wives, his children, the two apprentices and the three slaves to the rear, on the other side of the courtyard. It held a large circular brick hearth built up to about waist height, the bellows behind that, and a variety of anvils. The front entrance could be closed by a grillwork that was now hauled up, a little like a portcullis; the walls held workbenches, racked tools, vises and clamps, and more anvils of different shapes and sizes. It was ferociously hot-the smith wore only a rag-twist loincloth under his leather apron and gloves, and the slave working the bellows less than that. The smells were of hot oil from the quenching bath, burning charcoal, scorched metal, sweat.
"Interesting, the Lame One curse me if it isn't," the smith said. "This tube you want, now, it's to be sixty inches long?"
"Sixty inches long, and an inch and a quarter on the inside. I thought you could twist the bar around an iron mandrel, red-hot, and then hammer-weld it."
"Hmmm."
The smith went over to a workbench and brought back a sword. It was nearly complete except for the fitting of the hilt and guard; a curved weapon with a flared tip, more than a yard long, the type of slashing-scimitar that the Royal bodyguards carried. Adrian whistled admiration as he peered more closely at the metal; it had the rippled pattern work of a blade made from rods of iron and steel twisted together, heated, hammered, doubled back, hammered again. . and repeated time after time until there were thousands of laminations in the metal.
"Look," the smith said.
He braced the point of the blade against the floor, placed his foot against it, and heaved. Muscle stood out like cable under the wet brown skin of his massive, ropy arms and broad shoulders. The blade bent nearly double. . and then sprang back with a quivering whine when he released it.
"That's good steel," Adrian said sincerely; tough and flexible both.
The smith gave him a quizzical look, out of a face that looked as if it had been pounded from rough iron itself, with one of the sledges that stood all around the big room.
"You're not the common run of fine Emerald gentlemen," he said. "Never a one of them I've met who thought how a thing was made."
Adrian smiled. "I have unusual friends," he said. "Can you do what I ask?"
"Oh, certainly: Lame One be my witness. The thing is, friend, it'll take time. Three weeks to make a good sword blade-not counting grinding, polishing, and fitting; I contract those out. I'm not one for fine work with brass and ivory, anyway. . say the same for one of these. . what was the word?"
"Arquebus barrels," Adrian said helpfully.
"One of these tubes, then. And it'll cost what a good sword blade does, too."
"If I paid you extra, to take on more labor, could you do more?"
A decisive shake of the head. "No, sir. Guild rules." At Adrian's expression he went on: "But see here, sir, I like gold and silver as much as the next man, and I like to do something new now and then. What I can do is contract out. There are dozens of mastersmiths in the Brotherhood; not many as good as I am, if I do say so myself, but nearly. And there are plenty of journeymen we could hire away from their regular work, and who could do the simpler parts. Say. . thirty in three weeks, with as much again every week after that. It'll go faster once we're used to it."
Adrian sighed. "Well, if that's all that can be done. ."
the artisan is not being entirely truthful, Center pointed out. An image of his face sprang up, with pointers indicating temperature variations and the dilation of his pupils. mendacity factor of 27 %, ±7. i suspect that he is merely establishing an initial bargaining position.
Oh, Adrian thought. He was the son of a merchant, but most of his life had been spent among the Scholars of the Grove. What should I do?
Well, I wasn't a trader either, Raj's mental voice said, amused. But I did do a fair bit of dickering with sutlers. I'd suggest you say that's not enough to make the project worthwhile. He'll scream and modify his terms; then point out that he and his friends will be able to sell the muskets elsewhere, too. .
* * *
"What is this, a flowerpot?" the brassfounder said.
"No, it's a weapon," Adrian replied, biting back the first words that came to mind. "The one the King has commanded me to build," he added.
"May the King live forever!" the artisan said, without taking his eyes off the model Adrian had had carved from soft wood.
The Emerald's hands trembled slightly as he pulled on it. Not enough sleep, he thought to himself as the model split down the middle.
"This is a-" He paused, frustrated. What's "cross-sectional view" in Islander? he thought.
Lad, there's no word for it. There's no word for it in your language either, Raj said.
"— what it would look like if it was cut down the middle?" Adrian said. Have I changed so much in a year?
He shook aside the obscure sense of instability that lay like a lump of cold millet porridge below his breastbone for a moment. The reasonable man did not doubt that he himself was, the School of the Grove taught.
The brassfounder was in a bigger way of business than any of the smiths; he was a merchant, as well as the manager of a workshop. Iron was much more common than copper, vastly more common than tin. You had to have long-distance contacts to deal in bronze. Hence the warehouse attached to his house, and the courtyard with its ruddy tile and fountain, that Islander symbol of status. The man's turban was of plain cotton, though, and the eyes below it were shrewd and dark.
"Like a tube closed at one end, then," he said, tracing the model. "You know, this trick might be useful for making preliminary models of castings of many types. . and the metal outside the tube grows much thicker towards the closed end. What's this, though?"
"It's a thin hole going from the outside-this depression-into the tube at the breech end. The closed end," he added, at the man's frown.
"Hmmm. Well, with bronze, it would be simpler to drill that afterwards. And what are these little solid tubes at right angles to the main one for?"
"You'll find out," Adrian said, smiling slightly.
Good. We don't want too much getting out too early, and I'd be surprised if some of these people aren't for sale, Raj said.
Or all of them, Adrian replied.
* * *
"Well, you make pumps with close-fitting pistons, don't you?" he said.
"Of course, honored sir," the metalworker said. "By lapping-you use the piston head to do the last little bit of boring out, covering it with naxium-emery is your Emerald word, I think. That will give you a very close fit."
"Well, then, that's how we'll make this engine work," he said, forcing cheerfulness into his voice.
"Yes, but I really don't think it can be done with iron," the metalworker replied. "Iron is too hard-and too hard to cast, honored sir. By the Sun God, I speak the truth."
Adrian sighed and let his head drop into his hands. My back hurts, he thought; he was never, never going to get used to sitting cross-legged on cushions.
"All right," he said. "We'll start off by using bronze for the pistons. We want two, to begin with, six inches in bore and four feet long. But the piston rods will have to be made of iron-wrought iron."