The fact that there were different kinds of lux was the simple pivot that made Otterness and his peers the most important men in the Mill, and which allowed competition between mills to exist. Had there been only one kind of lux, all would have been simple. Only a single variety of cloth could have been produced, and the Factor would have bought equally from all sixteen mills. But every region where lux was produced experienced different conditions: soil, sunlight, clouds, precipitation, all contributing toward the individual qualities of a region’s lux. Some shone with an opal whiteness. Another kind might exhibit a diamond purity. A third was nearly blue, a fourth celery green, a fifth amethyst, another the faintest of yellows.
Within hundreds of miles of the Mill, there were as many different types of lux produced. From all quarters they funneled into the unduplicated manufactory that was the Mill. The dishwater-colored harvest from Teaford; the ale-colored harvest from Claypool; the silver harvest from Goldenfish; the lilac harvest from Albion Cay; the ginger harvest from Clinkscales; the pewter harvest from Yellow Hedges; the pinkish harvest from Fireflats; the champagne harvest from Shining Rock—each with its gradations of luminance also. The number of blends were astronomical.
There were well over a hundred known luminances. Whale- ford, Emberstone, Sleet, Silent Sea Wine … The catalogue went on and on. A Master Luminary had to be able to instantly recognize each kind without error, so as to spot inadvertent mixes and stop them before they got too far into production. Moreover, the Master Luminary had to know all the standard blendings, and also those poor choices which resulted in muddy or eye-shattering fabric. On top of all this, the Master Luminary had to be a creative experimenter, developing his hunches about what new blends would turn out to be marketable, thus securing one’s mill an inordinate share of the Factor’s patronage. (And even after four centuries of trial and error, all the blends were not known.)
Additionally, the Masters engaged in bidding wars for each region’s crops. They had to be skillful traders as well as perceptive visionaries.
In short, the fortunes of a mill and its village, the day-to-day standard of living of its families, rose and fell with the Master Luminary’s skillful or clumsy decisions.
Otterness was a fine and expert Master. He knew Charley had the potential to be even better. It felt good to think of the mill being left after his death to such a successor.
But first, Otterness reminded himself, we must get past this latest obstacle.
Moving off in search of Charley, Otterness savored the noisy clatter of the belt-driven machines that marched in ranks down the unbroken length of this mill section, and inhaled the ripe smell of the vegetable oil used to lubricate them. He could sense in his bloodstream the harnessed and dedicated power of the Swolebourne far down beneath the Mill, where its constricted currents turned the great wheels that transmitted their power via an intricate system of gears and shafts throughout the building.
Otterness took the time then to issue a brief prayer for heavy snows, so that during spring and summer the Swolebourne would rush even more mightily and much work could be accomplished in a last burst before the Factor arrived in the autumn.
Down in weaving Otterness found Charley watching the warpers thread a loom with a warp of Sleet Nine, which had a tendency to break easily. Here was virtual silence. The looms were the only unpowered machines in the Mill, the process being too delicate and complicated to automate, and much skill being required in the casting of the shuttle and the beating of the woof. No one had ever been able to devise mechanical substitutes for the human weaver’s hand and eye, and Otterness was confident no one ever would. At times, he regarded the looms as a bottleneck in the production process, but always quickly reminded himself that the old ways that had persisted for centuries were undoubtedly the best. If the looms ever could be automated, the quality of the work would probably plunge, and where would the mill and its workers, not to mention Otterness’s reputation, be then?
“Charley,” called Otterness, above the staccato clicking of the myriad flying shuttles, “I need to see you.”
Charley gave a final pointer to the warpers and came up to Otterness. “Yes, sir. What’s on your mind?”
“I prefer not to discuss it here, son. Let’s walk out on the floor.”
Charley nodded assent, and they left the weaveroom. Boys trundled noisy wooden-wheeled hand trucks past them, moving yarn from one part of the mill to another. Otterness thought in passing about all the myriad skills needed to keep the Mill going: carpenters, masons, engineers, machinists, beltwrights, oilers, stoveboys … Sometimes it amazed him that such a complicated extravagant delicate assemblage of people and machines could function for even a single day.
“Charley,” announced Otterness after they had walked a few yards, “I’ve decided. We’re going to devote a full fourth of our production after the Factor leaves this fall to the new Idlenorth and Palefire blend.”
Charley stopped in midstep and turned to face Otterness. “But sir—the Idlenorth is a new breed. We’re not even assured yet of steady supply. What if the growers have a bad year? And the Palefire—my God, that’s one of the trickiest yarns to spin. I know the sample of the blend we ran off was breathtaking. But a quarter of our output— Sir, I just don’t—”
Otterness held up a palm toward Charley to stop the torrent of speech. “I have considered all these issues and others you might not even stumble upon for months. I do not say this to boast, but merely to reassure you that I do not plunge into this without adequate forethought. But it is our only recourse. I do not blame you for not immediately coming to the same conclusion. You are missing part of the equation, one vital fact that forces our hand.”
Otterness resumed walking down the aisle dusted with lint that ran between the twisting machines. Workers looked up with momentary interest, then quickly turned back to their demanding tasks. For a moment, shining motes of lux hovered around Otterness’s head in a chance-formed halo and Charley regarded him with more than a little awe evident on his face. Quickly catching up to the Master Luminary, Charley waited for him to explain.
Instead, Otterness asked a question. “How long have you been working in the Mill, Charley?”
“Why, nearly twenty years, sir.”
Otterness nodded sagely. “You confirm my own memories, which I sometimes doubt. In that case, then, you were probably too young to really notice the lean years we passed through right about then, when the Tarcats started production.”
The naming of the sixteenth mill seemed to trigger some sudden flood of remembrance in Charley, for his face grew distant. “I remember—I remember that period well. And now that you mention it, I do recall some talk about how the new mill would affect us all. But I don’t really remember tough times, no. Always enough food on the table, new clothes when needed.…”
“I take that as a compliment to the way I handled the challenge,” said Otterness. “The Tarcats were diligent and inventive. Their workers had a hungry desire to establish themselves, which we complacent older mills sometimes lose. Three years after the Tarcats started up, they earned ten percent of the Factor’s gold. All other mills earned correspondingly less—some much less, some not so much. And when the dust settled, some of those mills—you can probably name them if you think about it—never recovered their former status. Of course, the Factor compensated somewhat, by buying overall a slightly greater quantity of cloth than before, but not enough to make up for the new mill’s total production. It was as if—I don’t know. As if he were encouraging competition for competition’s sake. Perhaps his buyers grow jaded, and this is the Factor’s method of shaking us up and producing newer, more exotic goods.”
Charley remained silent, and it seemed he was trying to digest all this uncommon and startling information—or rather, this new perspective on old events. Otterness lowered his voice, and Charley had to strain to hear his next words.
“What I am about to tell you must not be bruited about. The common folk wi
ll discover it soon enough anyway. This fall, the Factor is going to bid us start construction on another new mill. He warned us Luminaries last year.”
Charley drew in his breath sharply. Otterness grabbed his arm. “I’m not going to be caught flatfooted this time, anymore than the last. I know the new mill won’t come online for many years. Still, it’s none too early to experiment with new blends. If we can grab the Factor’s attention now, well be more likely to hold it during the rough years. Do you see, Charley? Do you see what we must do?”
Charley regarded the blunt-faced man with a direct and serious gaze that locked their visages—young and old —into a composite like those illusory drawings of vases that suddenly transform beneath one’s attention into two profiles. “I do, Master Otterness. Roland, I do.”
A wash of affection swept through Otterness at Charley’s use of his first name. How different it sounded out of his mouth than off Alan’s lips of late.…
“Now, secrecy is paramount regarding this decision, Charley. You and I are the only ones who know of this. Were the other mills to discover our plans, we would lose all advantage. I do not want this to turn into another debacle like the Sandcrab mess. How the other Luminaries ever discovered our schemes for that mix, I still cannot say.”
“Nor no more I,” interjected Charley hurriedly.
“I’m not blaming you, son, for the leak. Too many wagging tongues knew about that game strategy. The tattler could have been any of a dozen, in whose numbers you’re definitely not included. But I’m just speaking aloud my own fears.”
Charley nodded in understanding.
Otterness clapped a hand on Charley’s shoulder then, saying, “But enough of such dire talk, son. We’ll be discussing this issue oft enough in the years to come. Let’s speak of more pleasant things. How are your wife and son lately?”
Libby Straw, from the Swift Sparrow village, a member of one of the Valley’s oldest families, had become Charley’s bride five years ago, and had come to live in the Blue Devil village.
“Fine, sir,” replied Charley, though he still seemed ruminative. “Both healthy and fit, the one still beautiful and the other still a red-faced squaller.”
“And your mother and sister?”
“Also hale. Floy I saw just last week, when she came over from the Tarcats for the quilting bee.”
“She is happy there, then?”
“Yes, although even after all these years she still misses Blue Devil ways at times.”
“It was a shame, the way she was plunged headlong into that match. Your father was never the same after it. But I’m glad to hear she’s matured into it.”
“Oh, she has. She even deigns to speak to me now.”
The men shared a chuckle then at the folly of women. They walked on unspeaking … After a time, Otterness broke the silence, rather timorously for one usually so confident.
“And your brother, Alan—does he ever speak confidentially to you about his feelings toward me?”
Charley looked gloomy. “Alan keeps his own counsel, I’m afraid. Mother continues to coddle him, and his lack of a job has not improved his character. No, sir, I cannot report anything on Alan’s inner thoughts.”
Otterness tried to put some unfelt joviality into his voice. “So be it. I’ll have to muddle along on my own with the young rascal.”
The men reached the rear lamplit staircase and began to climb. Charley spoke.
“Sir, might there not be another way to improve production, in order to meet the new competition? I am thinking of certain modifications in the machinery, and perhaps even in our method of power. I have heard Tarrytown rumors about steam—”
Otterness recoiled visibly. To hear such talk from his protégé was perhaps the most disturbing thing that could have happened at this crucial juncture in the Mill’s existence. He wondered suddenly if young Cairncross could have inherited any of his father’s wild-eyed cynicism. Best to probe gently around the roots of this heresy and then yank it up for good.
“What you are advocating, Charley,” Otterness said slowly, “is the first step on a very slippery slope. If we begin to tamper with our time-honored methods of production—which the Factor has endorsed implicitly by his continued visits—then we risk all. Consider the upheaval in Mill hierarchies and procedures which new devices would bring, not to mention the radical alterations in village life. Do you wish to precipitate such things?”
Charley said nothing for a minute, then said—with what Otterness took for sincere conviction—”No, sir. No, I do not. Please forget I ever proposed such a foolish step.”
“It’s not your father who’s filling your head with such ideas, is it? I know he’s been especially bitter since the probation incident.”
Charley leapt to his father’s defense. “No, sir, he’s not been preaching those things anymore. And as for the probation—he admits that losing two month’s work was only fair for what he did. I don’t know what came over him, sir, actually to light his pipe in the Mill. God, I like my smokeweed as much as the next man, but to think of what could happen in this oil-soaked warren if a single spark should land in the wrong place— He’s promised me personally never to do such a thing again, sir. He was only tired and unthinking, is what it was.”
Otterness softened his tone. “I understand, Charley. We all make mistakes. I have nothing personal against your father, you understand. It’s only that occasionally … Well, you know what I mean.”
“It’s all right, sir. No offense taken. You’ve got the welfare of the whole Mill at heart, I know.”
Otterness felt relieved. “That’s just it, Charley. We’re all only partially cognizant of the real nature of things, you know. And I feel that my perception of reality is just a little more valid and complete than your father’s. It’s the big view, Charley, that you and I share. That is why the workers trust us to guide the affairs of the mill. And that’s also why we can’t seek after new ways, Charley. Because we don’t know enough. Don’t you think that the Factor—with his vastly superior knowledge—couldn’t lift us up out of our traditions if he chose? But since he doesn’t so choose, then we must have the best life we’re fit for. It all comes down to trust in the end. Either we trust the Factor’s decisions, and the workers trust ours, or everything collapses.”
“I see,” said Charley.
Otterness thought of a last image to persuade Charley, one that he frequently resorted to when doubtful himself. “We’re all just bricks, Charley. Just bricks in the Mill. And we can have no greater idea of the whole grand plan than a brick has of the immensity it forms a part of.”
Charley seemed struck by some personal resonance in Otterness’s trope. “Just bricks,” he muttered. “Just bricks.”
When they reached the office again, Pickering had it cozily hot. Dismissing the stoveboy to insure absolute secrecy, the Master Luminary and his Apprentice set about outlining the transition to the new blend. The hours passed in intense absorption for the two men. The final bell tolled, sending all the regular workers home, and still the pair toiled on. At last, closer to midnight than to sunset, they broke up their labor for the evening.
Outside the Mill they walked together across the crunchy snowfield, silent in their individual thoughts. Among the quiet snow-shrouded houses they parted, Charley to join his family, Otterness to greet an empty home.
Looking up for the first time only when he stood on the stoop of his house, Otterness was startled to see a light on inside his rooms. With his heart pounding, he opened the unlocked door and stepped inside.
Alan Cairncross was a slim young man with blond hair and thin lips. At age twenty-five, he still had hardly any cause to shave daily. Unadept at ballgames, he excelled at the annual spring morris dances. Even walking through the village, he carried himself with unusual grace. Slouched now in Otterness’s favorite chair, he retained this allure.
Otterness’s mouth was dry. Memories rose to plague him. The first time he had seen Alan, at a dinner at Char
ley’s house, some six years ago. Summer nights spent lying together outdoors on the meadowed Valley slopes. Winter nights like this one by a roaring fire. Old. He was getting too old. Old men had too many memories.
“Alan, it’s so good to see you again. Will you have a drink? I could easily mull some ale.…”
Alan straightened up. “No, thank you, Roland. I’m not here to stay the night. I just wanted to talk a bit. How is everything with you? How’s work?”
Seating himself across from Alan, Otterness found himself beginning to babble like an adolescent. Alan listened attentively. Then, for some reason, he reached out to grab Otterness’s hand. The Master responded by squeezing the other’s upper thigh.
“Roland, stop, I cannot continue with this deception.”
Otterness’s heart crumbled inside him, like a brick powdered by a sledgehammer. In a blinding instant he knew what Alan was about to say. But he had to hear it from the young man himself. “What—what do you mean?”
“For the last two years I’ve been a spy, a serpent in your bosom. The Scorpions have paid me handsomely to learn of your plans in advance. Actually, it was not them alone. Others too. That’s why I’ve been so cool to you lately. I’ve hated myself every moment we’ve been together. I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Otterness surprised his hands together again, rubbing, squeezing. Alan’s neck was so thin.…
He forced them apart. Maybe if he had blurted out the latest scheme. But he had not. Thank the Factor for small favors, however ironic.
“Why?” he managed to ask.
Alan shrugged. “I could say it was the money. That was what I thought at first myself. But I realize now that it was because you loved the Mill more than you loved me.”
Otterness tried to deny the charge. But he could not.
“And you could never reconcile yourself to that status, if it had to be?”
“How can my answer matter, after what I’ve done?”
“Just tell me.”
“I —I don’t know. I could try to understand.”
Strange Trades Page 38
