"A largely useless skill." She shrugged. "Save on rare occasions."
"Magic!" Arizun breathed. "That was a—a protective spell, or I've never seen one."
"You've never seen one, then," Zeren snorted, rubbing his arm. "'Twas a work spell, and a rather good one." He grinned a brief salute at Eloti.
Eloti gave an eloquent shrug, punctuated with her fan. "It merely seemed appropriate," she said. "I assure you, I've never been a wizard's apprentice."
The others laughed approvingly, trying to imagine the quiet lady of Entori House as a scampering apprentice running errands for some crotchety wizard. Impossible, indeed.
"Back to the mold," Omis insisted. "Plug the top of the log; this will be the last layer."
The rest duly took up bags and buckets again, and went back to the careful pouring of sand and water, the last layer that would fill the box to the top.
"Gods grant," Omis muttered, easing the wooden plug into the top of the bombard shape, "we can get the pouring done today."
Sulun nodded agreement, but kept only the minimum of his attention on the mold. His eyes kept straying to Eloti, calmly fanning herself while she watched the proceedings, and his head filled with wild speculation where all the facts slid into place with a click as neat as the closing of a latch.
Eloti had sorcerous talent. His mistress was, in common parlance, a witch.
No wonder Entori House could survive the malice of Entori's clients, and with no better protection than the drunken house wizard. No wonder this house, outrageously vulnerable to the ill-will of the neighbors, at least, hadn't been disturbed by thieves nor plagued with accidents, even in these bad days. No wonder the lady came and went as she chose, unbothered by cutpurses or worse, virtually unseen. No wonder she remained unmarried. Who would have a she-wizard to wife, save for another wizard who wished to breed talented sons—and family-proud Entori would never let his sister marry below what he considered her proper class.
Yet she could read, and knew how and where to listen, and learned readily. Perhaps she had cozened secrets out of the house wizard, leaving him to forget her in his cups. Perhaps she had learned everything from books and observation alone. In secret, in whatever fashion, she had learned—and practiced. Eloti was the true protector of Entori House, and now of Sulun and his unknowing friends.
Accident. Fate. Pound, pound, pound . . .
"Enough," said Omis. "Pull out."
The others drew away their logs and mallets, and stepped back to let Omis inspect the mold. The tight-packed sand covered the wooden form almost completely, leaving only the bare disk of the plug's top visible. Omis nodded and breathed a long sigh.
"All right," he said. "Now we take out the mold form."
Only Sulun noticed that Eloti began humming softly, a different tune this time, in rhythm with the languid beat of her fan.
Omis tugged carefully, delicately, at the plug. After a seconds resistance it pulled free of the wooden tube, free of the sand, displacing hardly a single grain. Omis sighed again in relief, fitted the jaws of narrow tongs around one of the tube halves, and pulled gently, ever so gently. The wooden half-tube slid quietly out of its bedding, leaving the deep, perfect half circular hole in the packed sand behind it. Omis set the piece aside and reached for the last one with the tongs, careful, utterly careful, whispering prayers to assorted relevant gods.
Eloti's humming purred softly in the air like the sound of drowsy bees in sunlight.
The last piece of the mold slid out smoothly, leaving its shape perfectly molded in the packed sand.
"Perfect!" Omis whispered, tiptoeing away from the mold as if too loud a noise would shatter it.
"Perfect . . ." Sulun echoed, daring a sidelong glance at his mistress.
Eloti sat unchanged, calmly fanning herself, a faint smile resting on her otherwise impassive face.
"Begin the melt," said Omis, very quietly. "And no noise."
The others turned to the forge, gently picking up tools and billets of brass.
Sulun guessed he wouldn't be needed for this part; there was something more important to do. He went into the house, -rummaged through the supplies, and came back with some watered wine and light bread. Very quietly, he took them to Eloti.
"Best to refresh yourself, Mistress," he said, noncommittally. "This will be long and tedious work."
Eloti looked at him for a moment, then thanked him formally and took the food.
Sulun hurried back to the group working at the forge and busied himself with odd tasks: tossing in more charcoal as the fire rose, working the bellows when Zeren's arms tired, helping to pitch brass into the heating crucible, wetting down Omis's gloves between pokings and stirrings. Often he glanced at Eloti, noting that she kept her eyes on the undisturbed mold and could be heard softly humming to herself. Despite the heat of the forge, he shivered.
At close to sundown the brass was ready, flowing like milk, glowing like the sinking sun. Omis ran two thick iron bars through the rows of rings on either side of the crucible, took the end of one bar, and they all lifted together. Carefully, carefully, they walked their glowing burden away from the forge and up to the lip of the mold.
"Gently now, gently," Omis fairly chanted, "Set the forward bar, hold it steady, steady . . . Zeren, lift with me. Lift, lift . . ."
Eloti's humming grew ever so slightly louder.
Slowly the crucible tilted, its spout descending over the deep circular hole in the packed sand. The molten brass touched the edge, slipped into the spout, seemed to pause for an instant, then spilled gracefully into the mold. For a moment everyone saw the glowing stream pooling, with scarcely a splash, at the bottom of the long circular hole. Then clouds of steam boiled up to fog the vision, driven up from the wet sand.
"Keep pouring!" Omis snapped. "Don't change position. Close your eyes if it gets too bad. There, there . . ."
Coughing and blinking in the stifling fog, Sulun watched the shining surface of the molten brass rise in the mold. Upward it crept as the crucible slowly emptied, up to the top of the central column of sand and then over it, up to the surface of the sand mold. There it stopped, a gleaming disk in the sand, while the last drops trickled from the almost upended crucible.
"Perfect!" Omis laughed in relief. "Exactly enough. Gods, I was afraid we'd have too much, have to ease this bucket back down and empty it in a drain ditch. All together now, lift that other rod and pull back. Good, good . . ."
Step by step, with only a little less care than on their advance, they pulled the cooling crucible away from the mold and set it down. The ground steamed where it touched. Everyone else stepped back, and Omis pulled the carrying rods free.
"How long till it cools solid?" Zeren asked, wiping his forehead.
"Tomorrow sometime." Omis pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside. "I'd leave it a full day, just to be safe. So, we'll come back the morning after next to break out the mold and start on the smoothing. I suppose we can spend tomorrow working on another ship's engine for the old—er, the Master." He darted an embarrassed smile at Eloti.
"Should we not celebrate our success?" she almost purred. "I believe a small thank-offering to the gods would be in order."
"A good libation should do," Zeren grinned, starting toward the house. "I brought a few jugs of a very decent wine with me."
"If we wish it heated, we could mull it in yonder crucible." Eloti smiled.
Omis roared with delighted laughter. "Gods, yes! How fitting!"
Fitting indeed, Sulun thought, following Zeren into the house to fetch the cups.