The Blacksmith

by Howe, Barbara;

  “That’s normal. Nobody gets it right on the first try. If you came up with a sketch and started on it that fast, I doubt it would be good enough.”

  “You’ve got a point. If you’ve got any advice, let me know.”

  “Tell me your opinion of the masterpieces in the Guild Hall.”

  “Not much. Most of them were showing off way too hard. But if that’s what it takes…” I shrugged.

  “What would impress you?”

  “I’d’ve been more impressed if they were useful and pretty at the same time, without shouting about it.”

  “Then the only advice I’ll give you,” he said, “is forget about trying to impress anybody else. Impress yourself.”

  I rode out to the country inn again on Sunday, and made more sketches. When Master Hal asked again on Monday about my ideas, I showed him the best—a three-legged, six-armed lamp stand. Each branch and leg was different, to show off different techniques. It could be used—if somebody wanted to, and the Guild let them—but only an aristo, or someone else with more money than sense, would call it pretty. I couldn’t figure out how to make it look good and still put in a sample of everything I knew.

  But I’d bet franks to farthings Master Hal couldn’t make it. Maybe it would do.

  He didn’t think so. He scowled at it, then started sketching in other branches. “You’re not showing you can do splits. Put one in like this—”

  “I can do splits. See here—”

  “Not enough. They could overlook that.”

  “A little one with a spike through will be harder than the big one you just drew in. And if I have to do all that, it’ll take me a year.”

  He threw up his hands. “I’m just saying, they want to see what you can do, so show them everything.”

  “And if I do, are you sure they won’t turn it down?”

  “How should I know? I told you, no journeyman of mine has ever gotten certified that way.”

  “If you don’t know, then there’s no point in taking your advice.”

  He gave me a dirty look. “Enough of this nonsense. Get back to work.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Sure you didn’t.” He walked away, muttering to himself.

  His oldest apprentice said, so soft I had to bend down to hear him, “The last journeyman who tried gave up after not getting a solid weld for more than two weeks. I dug clinkers out of the firepit every morning.”

  I sucked my teeth. “You’re saying Master Hal poisoned his own forge.”

  The lad shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. He said we’d been sold a load of bad coal, but it seemed funny that the problems only showed in the evening, when the journeyman was working by himself.”

  Master Hal kept giving me dirty looks, and grumbling about the guilds and their frostbitten certificates until everybody in the smithy was sick of hearing him. By Saturday I’d had enough.

  “All week,” I said, “you’ve been saying the certificates are too hard to get, and aren’t worth getting anyway. Make up your mind which it is. If they’re hard to get, that says to me they’re worth something.”

  “Those what have them sure think so,” he said. “Lording it over the rest of us. You act like one, and you haven’t even got the frosted thing.”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Sure of it, aren’t you? I’ve had more of your attitude than I can take. Clear out your tools, and don’t bother coming back on Monday.”

  “No problem. I wasn’t interested in coming back, anyway.”

  The apprentice who had warned me about the clinkers said he was sorry I wouldn’t be back. “You’ve taught me more in three weeks than he has in six months.”

  I said, “I’ll have my own smithy before you set out as a journeyman. If you get as far north as Abertee, come see me. I’ll take you on.”

  On Sunday, I reworked my sketches, without Master Hal’s additions, and grumbled about time slipping away. October was on us already, and a certificate seemed as far out of reach as it had in August. I had no smithy to work in, and even if I’d had one, I couldn’t start a masterpiece from scratch and finish it in time for Yule. That thought made me want to punch somebody, if I could figure out who.

  On Monday, I went searching for a smithy that wasn’t on Master Randall’s list.

  Paul Hammer

  The yard was tidy, the buildings in good repair. A pair of apprentices sparred with quarterstaves, making beginner’s mistakes. My hands itched to grab my staff and show them how it was done.

  In the house, a lass was singing. Smells coming from the kitchen made my mouth water. I caught the master, Paul Hammer, finishing his dinner, and asked if he needed a journeyman. “Hammer’s a good name for a smith, but I guess you’re tired of hearing that.”

  He smiled. “Probably as tired as you are of fools asking how’s the weather up there. The name fits because I come from a long line of smiths, going way back before anybody had to have last names. Why’d you come here?”

  “Because the touchmark with the two crossed hammers kept showing up on gates and fences I liked the looks of. The clerk at the Guildhall said it was yours.” And, when I had asked, the clerk said he had earned a certificate from Master Clive’s father.

  “Your timing couldn’t be better,” Master Paul said. “My best journeyman left at the end of last week, to go work for Master Clive. Let’s see what you can do.”

  I followed him into the smithy. A journeyman and two apprentices banged away on a balcony railing, and another journeyman and apprentice, Master Paul said, were out for the afternoon installing fencing. He showed me his sketches for other jobs he had lined up—gates, fencing, railings. I liked the looks of it all.

  He set me to work on a section of railing, and waved an apprentice over. “Sam, here, can be your striker.”

  About fifteen, and on his way to being tall and broad-shouldered, the lad was still at that stage where his arms and legs had outgrown the rest of him. Maggie might have called him cute, if he hadn’t been sporting a fading purple and green ring around one eye.

  It wasn’t my business.

  I heard myself say, “How’d you get that black eye?”

  The lad’s face closed up, and he mumbled something.

  “Speak up, lad.”

  “None of your frostbitten business.” That, anyway, wasn’t mumbled.

  I held up a hand. “Sorry. Being friendly, that’s all. Forget I said anything.” I made a few lame jokes, and he got less surly, but not talkative.

  Master Paul’s smithy lay across the square from the boarding house. I wandered through a maze of narrow streets and old houses, and had to make do on the scraps the other boarders had left from supper. The next morning I had just left the boarding house when the apprentice cut across the street ahead of me.

  I caught up. “Hey, Sam, I guess you live nearby.”

  His face closed tight. “Yes sir, my mum runs one of the women-only boarding houses. Well, except for my dad and me. We live there, too.” He scuffed along with his head down.

  “You know your way around, then. The fastest way to the smithy must be across the square, but that’s too open. I walked three times as far last night going around the duke’s palace. If you’re not cutting across, I’ll follow you.”

  His head came up, the sullen look replaced by a grin. “Fine, since you’re not calling me a coward for going around. The safest is past the Earth Guildhall at the other end. The trees and bushes block sight of the Water Guild.”

  “Lead on, then.”

  He loosened up as we skirted the square, talking about the rich merch­ants and aristos owning the fancy houses we passed on the way. Past the Earth Guildhall, the smaller houses weren’t kept up as well. The fellow ahead of us would have looked out of place even if the sunlight glancing off his yellow silk suit hadn
’t made my eyes water.

  I nudged Sam. “Who’s the peacock?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve wondered that, too. He’s got five of those coats, in different colours. I told my mum about him, and she said Master Paul would have to work six months to earn enough for just one suit like that, and that was without paying room and board.”

  I whistled. “Have you seen him anywhere else?”

  “Just between here and the wharves. He goes in and out of one of those houses like he lives there.”

  “Not likely, dressed like that. I’d guess he’s got a wife in one of the fancier houses, and a girlfriend tucked away down here, out of sight. Although I’m surprised he doesn’t slink in and out the back door.”

  “Why bother? His rich friends wouldn’t see him leave.”

  “Not good for his girlfriend. Her neighbours would gossip.”

  “Why would an aristo care? Her problem, not his. They treat women—commoners, anyway—like dirt.”

  “Aye, they do.” We followed him a quarter-mile, before turning towards the smithy.

  We reached Master Paul’s house and heard him through an open wind­ow, talking to his wife. Sam’s face closed tight again.

  I said, “Something wrong?”

  “Glenn may be there already.”

  “Glenn?”

  “The other journeyman.”

  A man wearing a scowl stepped out of the smithy as I reached it. A hefty fellow, his nose was level with my collarbone. His head snapped up, and he backed a step. The scowl deepened, his face got red, and he stepped forward, leading with his chin. “You must be the new journeyman.”

  “Aye. Duncan Archer.” I held out my hand.

  He crossed his arms. “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m the ranking journeyman. You take orders from me when Master Paul’s not around.”

  “You get something straight. I take orders from the master because he pays me. I take orders from aristos because I have to. I don’t take orders from anybody else who hasn’t earned my respect.”

  We glared at each other. He was a brawny fellow, with upper arms the size of hams—big even for a smith. I’d seen him at the Three Horseshoes, with the smith I’d called a cheat. If he stuck his chin out any further, it would run into my fist and break.

  Master Paul called “Good morning.” The journeyman backed down. “I see you’ve met Glenn,” the master said.

  The journeyman held out his hand. “Glenn Hoskins.” We gripped, and he tried to break my fingers. Master Paul ducked on into the smithy with Sam on his heels. I let go. Glenn couldn’t quite hide flexing his aching hand.

  I ducked into the smithy, kept my mouth shut and my eyes open for the rest of the day, and watched Master Paul parcel out work one item at a time. Whenever somebody finished one job, he had to ask what to work on next. If Master Paul was talking to a customer, or had stepped out of the smithy, Glenn gave the orders instead.

  He wasn’t going to get a chance to give me orders. Master Paul was pleased enough with what I’d done, that when, at the end of the day, I rattled off a list of things I wanted to work on tomorrow, he said that was fine with him.

  We walked out of the smithy with Glenn glaring after me, and Sam smirk­ing. Once out of earshot, I said, “Glenn gave you that black eye, I’d guess.”

  Sam mumbled something I took as a yes.

  “What did Master Paul say when you told him?… What was that? Speak up.”

  “I didn’t, and he didn’t ask. Master Paul doesn’t know what’s going on, because Glenn behaves himself as long as he’s in earshot. I complained to Steve—the journeyman that just left—about Glenn, and he told me to stand up for myself, and not let anybody push me around.”

  I scratched my chin. “Holding your own against the other apprentices is one thing. But it’s not fair when the fellow beating you up outranks you, or outweighs you by several stone.”

  “What do I do, then?”

  “Good question. Master Paul should be keeping a better eye on his smithy. He ought to know he won’t get good work out of you lads if you’re spending your time looking over your shoulders, wondering when you’re going to get hit next.”

  Sam’s sullen look faded. Maybe all he needed was somebody to listen. Maybe he didn’t notice I hadn’t given him much of an answer.

  A few days later the peacock stepped out of his gate as we walked by. I hailed him. “Good morning, sir. Are you heading down to the wharves?”

  “Good morning to you, too, sir. I am indeed. And you?”

  “We’re headed towards Paul Hammer’s smithy, about halfway down.” I held out my hand. “Duncan Archer, journeyman blacksmith, and this is Sam Jackson, apprentice.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Archer, Mr Jackson. Richard Collins, purv­eyor of luxury fabrics—silks, damasks, and the like.”

  “Aha. That explains the fancy silk suit.”

  “Certainly. I have an image to maintain. If I didn’t look prosperous, I would scare away my clientele.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the shabby house. Clothes didn’t mean much to me. I’d put my money in a comfortable home.

  He smiled. “If I were in another line of business, I wouldn’t dress as splendidly, I assure you. It’s a good thing my clients don’t see my house. I can’t afford to keep up the image both in my shop and at home.”

  “I thought you’d be making a handsome profit dealing in luxury goods.”

  He made a face. “Who do you think my customers are?”

  “Rich merchants and aristos, I’d guess.”

  “Exactly. If I could force the aristocrats to pay what they owe me, I would be quite well off.”

  “Huh. I guess you can’t refuse to do business with them.”

  “Not if I want to continue to live in this city.” He shrugged. “My paying customers are primarily merchants of other luxury goods, who also struggle to make ends meet. Someday soon we may all go bankrupt together.”

  I started on the base for my lamp stand, spending an hour or two in the smithy by myself, several nights a week. Glenn hung back one day until Master Paul left, to ask what I was doing.

  “Working on a masterpiece, to get certified faster.”

  He frowned. “What makes you think you can get certified at all?”

  I didn’t bother answering.

  “My name’s near the top of the list,” he said. “In another month or two I’ll be working for one of the swordsmiths, and can stop kissing up to this idiot. I’ll be certified before you are, even if you work your arse off on this piece of junk.” He nodded at my sketches. “That what you’re making?”

  “Aye.”

  He picked them up and leaned close to the firepit. I blocked him. “You’ll not go throwing them in the fire.”

  He scowled and flipped through the pages. “You sure got a high opinion of yourself. Someday, somebody’s going to take you down a notch.”

  “Maybe. But it won’t be you.”

  He flung burning papers in my face. I should’ve known he had a bit of fire magic; many smiths do. The bastard was gone before I had stamped out the flames, and finished the sketches’ ruin myself, but his laugh echoed in my ears. I patched up my burns with an ache in my soul. Every smithy I’d worked in before Blacksburg had been a little piece of home. I’d never expected to feel homesick even in a smithy.

  Belling the Cat

  When I started, I did a poor job of planning the lamp stand, and would’ve had a devil of a time fitting some parts together, or adding some doodad without breaking something I’d already done. Now, after drawing the thing as a whole, I drew each leg and each arm by itself, thinking through every detail, and numbering every split, every upset, every bend, every weld, to remember what order to do them in.

  After a week of that, I’d had as much as I could stand for a while, and went bac
k to working on the base, although the drawings weren’t finished. Glenn kept snickering at me, and telling Jack he’d be surprised if it was half done in two years.

  The days were getting shorter, and the gloom hanging over the city seeped into me and sapped my spirits. I ought to have been spending every evening in the smithy working on that masterpiece, to get it done and go home, but I couldn’t find the enthusiasm to keep at it. I couldn’t even get up any enthusiasm to grab my quarterstaff and spar with the apprentices.

  Early in November, when the greengrocer’s daughter Annie suggested listening to a preacher who had been drawing big crowds, it seemed like a good excuse to spend time away from the smithy. I changed my mind after hearing him talk. Reverend Angus was a rabble-rouser—a fine talker who spouted a lot of nonsense while sounding like he was preaching the gospel truth. The worst of the nonsense was his opinion that the root of our problems wasn’t the aristos, but the magic guilds and the four Offices. I agreed with him about the Water Guild, but his rants about the other magic guilds raised my hackles.

  “Getting rid of the Frost Maiden sounds like a good idea,” I said on the way back. “I guess you wouldn’t like that, but—”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Annie said. “She scares me, too. Being a woman doesn’t mean much. She’s not doing anything for her common sisters these days.”

  “How’s that? She keeps the aristos from treating every pretty lass like a whore.”

  “Does she? Nobody’s heard of one getting his privates frozen off in ages—”

  “Aye, that’s so, but—”

  “And they get what they want. Maybe not by dragging a girl away by the hair, kicking and screaming, but they’re doing something nasty. I bet they’re using magic to make the girls think they agreed to it, so they won’t complain to the Frost Maiden.”

  “But—”

  “I know what I’m talking about. Until a couple of months ago, my cousin wouldn’t have given the duke’s nephew the time of day. Now she’s hiding in his attic, crying her eyes out, but won’t hear of complaining to the Water Guild.”