He clamps the brace in the box vice, measures it against the original, and shortens it with the crosscut saw, then rasps and files it smooth. After loosening the vice, he removes the brace and checks it against the cracked original tongue, nodding. Finally, using the brace and bit, he drills the holes for the rivets.
Next comes the welding. First he takes the narrow bar stock and heats it, fullering it down with hammer blows across the anvil horn until it is thin enough to wrap around the cracked tongue. Then he sets the fullered bar in the forge to heat, while he takes the tongue and heats it almost to white-hot before removing it and using the hammer to scarf the contact points and upset the edges where he will wrap the bar stock. Next come several taps to remove the scale, followed by the flux. He sets the tongue back in the forge until both it and the thin iron are white-hot. Both come out, and Dorrin quickly hammers the two together, striking from the inside out with a few light strokes. He sets the welded tongue on the forge bricks to cool to forging heat before completing the shaping.
While the iron cools to cherry red, Dorrin fullers the small bar stock to rivet size, then uses the hot set to cut them, setting both on the forge while he returns to the tongue and uses the flatter to finish smoothing the tongue.
After wiping his forehead, he dips the tongue brace in the slack tank and sets it on the anvil. He heats the first rivet, then drives it through the brace until it flattens against the round-bottomed swage.
Dorrin lifts the ball peen hammer and with four quick offset strokes finishes the top of the first rivet holding the iron of the wagon tongue in place. With the tongs he lifts the second rivet from the forge and slides it into place. A quick stroke flattens the bottom side against the swage, and Dorrin follows up with another set of glancing strokes, first on the top, and then on the bottom.
After setting aside the hammer and tongs, Dorrin carries the heavy tongue out into the corner for finished work and then lugs back in the heavy leather harness, which he lays on the workbench. A heel chain clevis, and two hame line rings need replacing, and that means reworking and riveting the harness as well.
With the cold chisel, he cuts away the old rivets and measures them to get the right rod stock. He sets the stock for the replacement rivets aside, and takes the larger rod he will need to fuller down to forge the hame line rings. According to Yard, weight-bearing rings for carter’s harnesses must always be forged fresh. That may be, reflects Dorrin, why Yard’s work holds up better than Henstaal’s.
“You’re almost as quick as Yarrl.” Vaos’s face is flushed, and sweat runs from his hair.
“Take a break and get some water,” Dorrin orders.
“Thank you, ser.” Vaos does not scamper from the forge heat, but walks toward the comparative cool of the yard.
Dorrin looks at the boy’s back, wondering why he has even agreed to see Vaos’s younger brother. If Rek can pump the bellows, perhaps he can offer to pay part of his upkeep. Dorrin turns to the next harness.
LXXXV
AS THE LAST beam falls in place, Dorrin grins.
“Why are you so cheerful?” asks Pergun. “It’s only the frame for a small barn.” He points toward the large foundation less than fifty cubits away, composed of neatly mortared stone. “You still haven’t told me how you’re going to get the frame up on that.”
“The same way we did this.” Behind Dorrin the rectangular frame stands, even with what will be the doorway to the hayloft squared off in beams.
“Huuhnh?”
“Look. That’s why I build models. You figure it out on a small scale, and then you do it bigger. This crane will work. I can do that. That saves me coins so that I can hire others to do the things that take time-or pay for timber at Hemmil’s extravagant prices.”
“Why do you need a small building at all?”
“For horses.”
“But that one is big enough.”
“Not for a house and a small smithy and a small warehouse. The smithy doesn’t have a foundation. It’s on the other end- the cleared part.”
Pergun spits out away from the stable.
“You want to earn your coppers? Get out that hammer. We need to frame this and get the flooring across the top before we put the roof joists up.”
Pergun lifts the hammer. “For this, I’m spending a free day?”
“You’re lucky you get free days.”
“Does everyone from Recluce work like you do?”
“No… just those of us who got kicked out.”
“You know… all the troopers are scared to death of your friends.”
Dorrin opens the small keg of nails he has forged. “Here. Why?”
“Good nails. You make them?” Pergun slips a handful, more like miniature bridge spikes, into the cloth pouch on his belt.
Dorrin nods.
“Vorban told me the she-cat threw a shortsword through a highwayman.”
“Through him?” Dorrin puts a plank in place, and, in three quick blows, fixes the top in position. “Even for Kadara, that’s hard to believe.”
“He looked over his shoulder when he said it. They still would rather follow the big guy, though. Vorban says that he knows what he’s doing. Most of the officers don’t.” Pergun works on the other side of the door frame, framing the pine planks away from Dorrin.
Before midmorning, the small stable is framed, and Dorrin has Meriwhen and the crane lifting the prejoined roof trusses into place.
“… that’s it… a little lower…” Pergun wipes his forehead. “How did you think of those brackets?”
“It seemed logical.” Dorrin unstraps the leather cradle before moving the crane to the other side of the building.
“Never seen anything go up this fast.” Pergun walks to the other side of the floor, avoiding the square opening. “Better do a ladder here.”
“Good point. Need to box off one stall, too. But the roof should come first.” Dorrin resets the crane and puts the cradle around the other truss.
“First man I know who builds a stable for his horse before he builds a roof over his own head.”
“It’s simpler this way. Besides, I can see that I’ll need different brackets-heavier, too-for the main building.”
Pergun shakes his head and waits for the truss to rise to him.
“If I designed some clamps, here,” says Dorrin, half-aloud, “I could do this alone.”
“Light! Don’t you like people? You do everything alone, and you do it better.”
“Of course, I like people. But I can’t afford to pay all of them.”
“There is that.”
“Here it comes.” Dorrin urges Meriwhen forward, and the truss is lifted up to Pergun, who guides it into the brackets. Next come the cross beams, which fit in the notches in the trusses, then the flat planks for the roof.
It is late afternoon when Pergun eases the borrowed wagon away from the framed stable and the foundation of the main building. “You ever stop working, Dorrin?”
“There’s a lot to do,” Dorrin replies from atop the stable where he is installing shakes. “Like you, I can’t take off very often.” *
“You’ll be here till sunset.”
“Probably until the roofs done. The rest I’ll do in bits-until I put up the house and smithy.”
“When will that be?”
“At least a couple of eight-days. I want to get it up before harvest, though. Rylla says there’s a slack time just before that, and I can get some help for not too much.”
The mill hand surveys the ridge. “They’ll have you on the Council in a couple of years.”
“Not me.”
“You make coins, and you don’t have much choice.” Pergun flicks the reins. “Don’t get caught up there after dark.”
“I’ll try not to.” Dorrin frowns at Pergun’s last comment. Does making money limit choices? How much? He continues nailing shakes into place.
LXXXVI
“HE’S GETTING TOTALLY insufferable.” Anya takes a deep swallow.
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“Getting?” Sterol’s fingers touch the edge of the screeing glass.
“All right. He’s always been arrogant. It’s just bothering me more now.” Anya finishes the wine with a full swallow. “He flaunts his power. He said he’ll bring down Axalt singlehandedly. But not until the spring.”
Sterol represses a smile. “Do you think he can?”
She refills her glass. “Of course. Whether it’s wise is another question.”
Sterol walks over to the dining table, where he fills his own glass. “I take it that he’s continuing to hide his plans from you.”
“If he has any.”
“Sarcasm that blunt doesn’t become you. Jeslek has great plans.”
“He’s concerned-not quite worried-about something in Spidlar. Something to do with the Blacks. He’s stewed about it all spring and summer.”
“He’s told you this?”
“Of course not. But I can sense hints of it.”
“What has Fydel told you?”
“You obviously know.” Anya sips from the second glass more slowly.
“Why would Jeslek worry about letters from a poor trader in Jellico? So there must be something in the ironworker that isn’t obvious.”
“You are so brilliant, Sterol.”
“The same Jeslek who would smash a city is tiptoeing around a mere youngster. So who is the youngster?”
“He’s from Recluce,” Anya says, conceding nothing the older man does not already know.
“Does that matter, really?”
“It must, mustn’t it?” She smiles crookedly.
“You know, Anya,” sighs Sterol, “you aren’t nearly so clever as you think. Neither is Fydel. Jeslek may be insufferable, but he’s far from stupid. Neither am I. You don’t want to be High Wizard because you think whoever is will fail in any confrontation with Recluce. So you want to be second behind whichever of us is in control.”
“And if I do?”
“That’s dangerous, too. Not so obviously.” Sterol shrugs. “In any case, if Jeslek is worried about this smith… he bears watching.”
“Are you telling me that just because this… ironworker… has powerful parents across the ocean, Jeslek is being more careful of him than… ?”
“Than you? That’s exactly what I’m saying. If I were Jeslek, I’d try something indirect, or have the young man perish in the fall of Spidlar, but not before. Why risk getting Recluce involved earlier than necessary?”
“It’s not a risk.”
“Anya, dear, anything is a risk. Best you remember that.” Sterol sips from his glass, before responding to the knock on the door. “I believe supper has arrived.”
“It’s about time.”
LXXXVII
“COME ON, GIRL.” Dorrin urges Meriwhen forward, and the harness tightens as the ropes thread through the pulleys and the last of the four frame sections rises into place.
Although the morning is yet cool, with the sun low in the east, his work shirt is stained with sweat, and an occasional fly buzzes toward him. With deft movements, he brushes a back a horsefly, clamps the lines in place, and checks the antique-style crane before releasing the harness tension. Then he walks to the northern post and eases one of the two side stones into place in the hole, then the other. The keyed stones follow. Once the four stones are locked tight in place, he begins to shovel the clay around the outside. After several shovelfuls, he takes the heavy short limb he is using as a tamper and compacts the clay. Then he repeats the process with the other post. With this, all four posts, and the longitudinal beams holding each pair together, are held in place, but he cannot count on their continued stability until both cross beams are raised, and lowered into position.
Raising the cross beam will be tricky. First he must stand on the short triangular ladder to undo the leather cradle, then reposition the crane and fasten the cradle around the shorter beam. After loosening the leather and ropes, Dorrin readjusts his makeshift crane and Meriwhen.
“Let’s go, girl.”
“I know. I know. You’re for riding, not lifting and hauling. But lifting and hauling is what we need to do.”
Finally, the cross beam hangs precariously in the air, just above the brackets and notches that represent Dorrin’s fusion of woodwork and ironwork. Dorrin gets back on the ladder and guides one end into the bracket, loosely tying it down so that the far end is correspondingly higher. Then he eases up on the clamps to lower the beam until it almost touches the bracket top at the far end. Again he moves the ladder and readjusts the cross beam before releasing the clamps. The cross beam locks into place. He has another six cross beams to go before he can bracket the posts between them and the foundation sills.
With a deep breath, he repositions the ladder, undoes the leather cradle, and steps down. He moves Meriwhen, the crane, and the ropes and pulleys, and their anchors to the other end of the foundation, where he sets up for the same effort. After the main cross beams, he must do the smaller frame for the smithy that will stand at the south end of the structure.
It is well after midmorning, and the thunderclouds have begun to form, before the frame is locked in place. He sits down and drinks from the pitcher of water and chews a hunk off the loaf of bread. Despite the intermittent clouds, and the breeze, he is soaked with sweat. So far, he has a foundation and the basic frame for the building that-he hopes-will house him and Liedral.
He wipes his forehead. Then he takes the wheelbarrow and the smaller casks and trundles them over to the stream, where he fills the casks. After pushing the cask-filled wheelbarrow back, he adds the water to the mortar and begins to mix. Mixing the heavy substance by hand is tedious, and he stops a number of times before the cement feels right. With the wheelbarrow he has borrowed from Yarrl, he carts one load to the northern post, and pours and shovels the mortar in between the heavy stones bracing the post. He wheels the barrow back to the battered half-barrel he uses as a mixing tub and refills the barrow.
By noon, he has cemented in place all the posts, and bracketed the sill beams in position, along with most of the posts that fit between the cross beams and sill beams. Meriwhen is tied up and grazes by her recently completed stable, presumably glad that she is not lifting beams.
Actually, raising the frame of the main structure has been the easy part. Designing, measuring, smithing, and assembling the frames and trusses has taken most of the eight-days since midsummer.
Dorrin sits on the front stoop and rests, thinking about the enormous amount of work yet to do before fall, and especially before the winter grips Diev… and all for a place that may be in jeopardy from the White Wizards even before it is truly finished.
Why is he doing it? Why does anyone do anything? There’s always a reason not to do something. After all, he reflects as he walks toward Rylla’s cottage, wiping the sweat that will not stop off his forehead, death is the result of life. So if you’ll die, why bother to live? Or do anything right?
He wonders what his father or Lortren would think-Dorrin considering solid work as a necessary protest against the futility of life and chaos.
He looks back at the clear structure of order he has raised on the ridge. Then he smiles and walks quickly toward the healer’s cottage and garden.
LXXXVIII
DORRIN SURVEYS THE small pool, noting the green scum around the edges. Above the pond, the water flows down the rocky ledge, clear and fresh, from the underground spring. His eyes turn from the rock face nearly twice his height down the browning hillside toward the ridge his framed house and stable share with Rylla’s smaller cottage. Even with the morning shadows, he can see the silver dew across the fall grasses.
The healer has insisted on having the Guild document her sale of the land to Dorrin. “What would ye do if lightning struck me dead?” she had asked. “A dead person doesn’t keep good faith.”
“You won’t die,” Dorrin had protested.
“We all die. Now get that worthless Hasten out here and seal this.”
&n
bsp; Hasten had come, bowing and scraping the whole time.
Dorrin looks back at the near-stagnant pool and laughs softly, ruefully, thinking of how the gray-haired Guild functionary fears a mere healer and sometime smith, as if Dorrin were anything more than a toymaker with dreams. After all, that is all he is. And his head does not ache at the thought. Whhnnnnn…
He swats at the mosquito-and misses. The insects must be hungry to be so active so early in the day. A swarm of the insects gathers around him, so many that his attempts to ward them away are nearly useless. He swats another, pulping it on his neck, and getting his own blood on his fingers. He shakes his head, then takes a deep breath, still trying to wave off the hungry insects, before placing a powder-filled tube in the muddy bank over which the water flows into the winding trickle that feeds the pond below their houses.
After striking the fuse, he retreats past yellowing oak saplings and behind the flaking and crumbling stump of an oak cut for timber years earlier. Crummmpppp…
The charge creates enough of a hole in the bank that the small pond begins to drain immediately. Dorrin picks up his shovel and begins scooping out the muck. Once he cleans out the area, he will divert the water while he installs the stone catch basin and the piping that will lead to his water tank. There is no reason why he cannot have running water in his kitchen, even if it will be cold, but he will have to ensure that the piping and the spring are deep enough not to freeze.
He continues to dig and swat until it is time for a late breakfast-except that it would have been the time he once ate a normal breakfast not too many years before in Extina. How things can change in such a short while!
Magic Engineer Page 33
