Veremond leaned back to get up. “Excuse me, sir. I need to make water.” Veremond took his chance to whisper to Rel as he got up from the table. “Watch out for Deamaathani, sir, he’s getting very friendly. You know what they say about the blues.” He clapped Rel on the shoulder and departed, for the moment.
Deamaathani gave him a long look over his spoon. Rel coloured and, in desperation, plunged back into Jakkar’s conversation.
“You may have something there.” Rel said to Jakkar. “I thought the Morfaan ruins of Perus were impressive, but this...”
“The remains there are ruins, as you say. This is a living building, even if it is used as a barracks. Once mighty, there remains but a pair of Morfaan alive in this world. We have much to learn from their culture’s remains. This place should be one of study. Not this ludicrous social display.”
“We guard the way,” said Rel.
“Your oath? Nonsense. There has been no credible threat from the Black Sands for three hundred years. The modalmen are depleted, the Uncertain Provinces of the sands pinned in place by the webs of iron. It is time we stopped being fearful of the past and investigate it for our betterment,” Jakkar said.
“Jakkar is impatient, he feels he will die before the great age of discovery begins,” said Deamaathani.
“Why don’t you speak with the Morfaan themselves? They are on the Council of Nations.”
“It is a sop to the past. The Morfaan have no power,” said Jakkar. “The two that remain know nothing.”
“You have met them?”
Jakkar nodded. “Twice. In secret, and it was hard to arrange. They are ignorant of the arts of their ancestors. Ceremonial. Adornment. They have the understanding of children.”
“In what way?” asked Rel, genuinely interested in the face of Jakkar’s brusque manner.
“Ask a human child how a glimmer engine works, would he know?”
“I suppose not.”
“Do you?”
Rel waved his hand and pulled a face. “The generalities, yes.”
“The specifics? Could you, goodman”—Deamaathani smiled at Jakkar’s incorrect form of address. Rel suspected it was deliberate. Jakkar went on, waggling his spoon at Rel and spilling the gravy from his stew on the table—“build one?”
“No.”
“And you are the son of the great Gelbion Kressind, brother to Arkadian Vand’s pupil, and an adult to boot. So it is with the Morfaan. Children. I need practicality, pure knowledge!”
“My father says it is our turn now,” said Rel. “Perhaps we should go our own way.
“Ah! That is why we should study the past. Your father would do well to remember what happened to the Morfaan.”
“Nobody knows, surely?”
“They could do things we could not. Their artefacts defy the passage of time. They possessed a civilisation that if we could piece it together, all would see that it dwarfs our own. And yet they are no longer masters of this place. That should tell us all we need to know. This desert before us? Rich in remains. It is my hypothesis that the Black Sands were once, long ago, not a desert at all, but a rich land. We look to Old Maceriya for the centre of the Morfaan civilisation, but that is a remnant, nothing more. The last stronghold, a guttering torch passed on to the Old Maceriyan Empire by a dying people, before their light went out. I theorise that their homeland might have been here, in the sands.”
“The desert is no place to live,” said Veremond, returning to the table.
“Destroyed. In war,” said Jakkar shortly. “Made unfit for life by weaponry and arts we could not comprehend. One must not underestimate the age of this place, nor the power of those who built it. This material, the glass of the Glass Fort. Impossible to cut, break or shape. But you have seen the ruins on the opposite cliff?”
“Yes,” said Rel. He shifted uneasily. “I admit the question has bothered me: what did it?”
“Just so!” said Jakkar, jabbing his spoon again at Rel. “We are children playing in the burned palaces of our fathers. The Morfaan are a warning to us. We should heed it.”
“Against what?” asked Rel. “They are no more.”
“It is not them we should fear,” said Jakkar.
“Then what is your warning against?”
Deamaathani smiled a humourless smile. “Hubris.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Thief Uncovered
“AND HERE. THERE are changes to be made here.” Katriona ran her fingers over a fine pen and ink diagram of the interior of the mill.
“This is a large change to the interior layout of a workshop,” said Demion doubtfully.
“It is. I have been following the work of Thortha Bannda of Iruz. He came to the city last week and I attended his lecture.” Katriona said.
“I had no idea he was here.”
“He has gone now. Most fascinating.” She pointed to a slim book. “His work.”
“You propose to apply it to the mill?”
“I do.”
“All the mill? His is a much smaller enterprise.”
“It is, but he has proven it works, I see no reason why not take his procedures and amplify them in scale.”
Demion cleared his throat in embarrassment. “You will have to apprise me more fully. I am unfamiliar with his thinking.”
Katriona patted his arm. “Of course. Bannda proposes the institution of a line of assembly to quicken the industrial process. As we have it, this assembly of one thing by one worker from beginning to end is not a clever a use of their time.”
“How so?”
“A Tyn or man has to know every step in the process. This requires time to learn. Moving from one set of tools to another takes time. Collecting multiple parts and materials in one place takes time. And if the worker leaves or dies, then training a replacement takes—”
“Time, yes, yes, I see. But what is the alternative?” Demion bent over the diagram.
“As depicted here. A long table, one that runs the length of the workshop. Each worker is responsible for one step and one step alone of the assembly process. That part done, the article is passed to the worker to their right, who completes the next step, and then onto another, who completes a third. Parts and pieces are delivered by others in bulk, all the same type. Each worker therefore requires only one set of tools, they do not need to reconfigure their bench for each task, and do not need to leave their place.”
“All the parts and pieces are delivered separately?”
“Yes.”
“What if they do not fit together?”
“They must be made to fit together. I have here,” she dug under the papers and pulled out a sheaf of paper bound in cheap cardboard, “the most up-to-date rulings of Karsan weights and measures. If we adopt these fully, so that one tenth of an inch is the same whosoever might make a part or piece, we might standardise our components fully.”
“Nobody fully applies those, it takes too much time.”
“The reason they were proposed, my husband, is that they are efficient. Once the initial time is spent, much time will be saved.”
Demion scrutinised the plans again. “The work will be repetitive. I don’t know, Katriona. The assembly workers are among our best. Bored workers can become fractious.”
“That is the beauty of this process. It can be performed by those of limited intellectual capacity. They can be gainfully employed, to our and their mutual benefit. Those of greater ability can train the others, and I also intend to move them periodically from one part of the process to the next, so forestalling boredom. The other processes in the factory will still require great skill; the smelter, the tooling shops, some of the finishing, all that. The lathes, grinders, bores and all else require setting precisely. All these are skilled tasks. The most able could be trained in multiple roles. When this succeeds, we will need to expand our operations, after all. But it is here, at the final stage where the parts are gathered and assembled, laboriously, that we experience a bottleneck. This plan wi
ll remove that, allowing us, I estimate, to increase production three or four times over. Even our most complicated articles, the glimmer engines, can be assembled in this way.”
Demion pulled at his bottom lip.
“There are other benefits. Should an engine we sell to a client fail, a new part, exactly matching the old, can be sent to them. It is an incentive, husband, to buy our manufactures. With greater precision too comes the possibility of finer, more efficient engines. Don’t you see how this will ensure our future prosperity?”
Demion thought a long moment. “Do it,” he said. “Let’s try it. Anything to improve our finances. I think you might be on to something here.”
Katriona’s secretary knocked and popped his head around the door. “Begging your pardon, goodfellow, goodlady, Goodman Holdean’s here.”
“Ah!” said Katriona. “Send him in, Hollivar.”
“Right you are. Shall I have the tea brought in?”
“Please.”
“Are you ambushing me? I feel ambushed. This is going to be very awkward for me.” Demion cracked his knuckles.
“I do not shy away from my duties, nor should you. But I am not attempting to outmanoeuvre you, husband. There is something I must ask Goodman Holdean. We were speaking of finances. Better practice is not the sole answer to those,” she said to Demion. “I believe he can shed some light on that matter.”
Holdean came in, holding his hat respectfully in front of him. His hair had been greased and lay flat in last year’s fashion. He was surprised to see Demion with Katriona.
“Good day, Goodman Holdean,” said Katriona.
“Goodlady, goodfellow.”
“Goodfellow Morthrock and I were discussing my new plans for the factory.”
“Your plans, goodlady?” He looked at them. “I do not recognise the draughtsmanship.”
“It is mine,” she said.
“You drew these?”
“Yes, they are my plans.”
In came Katriona’s secretary bearing a tray with the accoutrements of tea drinking upon it. Demion cleared a space on Katriona’s desk. Hollivar set the tray down and withdrew.
“Tea, Goodman Holdean?”
“Yes, yes I will.” Holdean looked to Demion. “Goodfellow Morthrock, forgive me, but I am not completely certain of your intention. The factory is my responsibility. You yourself appointed me.”
“I did, cousin, but Katriona has some very fine ideas,” said Demion. “We should be open to new ideas.”
“I thought she was looking into the accounts?”
“She was. It has rather gone beyond that now.”
Holdean paled. His hands shook as he drank his tea.
“Goodfellow Morthrock... Demion. My position...?”
“Nothing to worry about man! You and Katriona will have to work together, that is all. You still have my trust.”
Katriona smiled encouragingly. Holdean relaxed visibly. “Well then. Well! That is a relief.”
“You thought your position in peril?”
“I don’t like to say, Goodfellow Morthrock,” he said. He gave a nervous chuckle. “My, oh my!” He took a drink of tea. Katriona did the same.
“I am glad that you are comfortable with Katriona’s appointment. There will be some changes around here, for the better, I am sure of it!”
Holdean obviously wasn’t happy, but he was smart enough not to say.
“You aren’t happy about it, are you, Holdean?” said Katriona.
“Oh no, not at all! It is not right, if you ask me. Women are all well and good, but the female brain is simply not suited for business. Do you know, they are actually smaller than men’s? The seat of intellect being smaller, then surely the intellect must be smaller also.”
“I say there, steady on, Holdean!” spluttered Demion. “That’s my wife you’re talking to.”
Katriona held up her hand.
“Are you taking money from the company, Holdean?”
“Yes I am,” he answered wholeheartedly, although his face displayed utter horror. “I have been since Mester Morthrock appointed me.”
“And how exactly have you been doing this?” Katriona said pleasantly. She held her tea up to her lips, but did not drink.
“It was very easy,” he said enthusiastically even as his eyes bulged and rolled in panic. “Demion is not at all interested in the business, and I have been able to take his money as easily as if he dropped it in the street! I have been making deals with our suppliers, purchasing goods at normal market rates, but securing receipts for inflated prices and pocketing the difference. And entering into the books that I have been buying far more than I actually have.” He looked helplessly at Demion. He tried to stand.
“Sit down,” said Katriona icily.
Demion’s knuckles whitened on the chair arms and he half rose, but he could not stand. The cords on his neck stood out with the effort, his face reddened.
“There you have it,” said Katriona. “Really, Demion, did you not question where the money was going? Why this profitable industry had become suddenly unprofitable?”
“Is this true?” asked Demion.
“Oh absolutely, Goodfellow Morthrock.” Holdean gritted his teeth to keep the words in. They escaped, somewhat strangled, but sincere and warm. “You are so blind it was almost too easy.”
“By the blazes!” Demion looked from his cousin to his wife. “Why did you confess?”
“That is good tea, isn’t it?” asked Katriona.
“It is delicious, goodlady.”
“It is made with the finest Ocerzerkiyan herbs. And the Waters of Truth.” She flung hers into the pot of the large plant behind her desk.
Demion looked in shock at his tea. “That’s illegal!”
“So is defrauding your employers. All the worse that it is family who are robbed. If one betrays one’s kin, who can one turn to? A sad aphorism, I always felt, and one unfortunately that Goodman Demion here will soon learn the truth of. Now, one final question. Who aided you in this venture?”
Holdean blurted a list of names. Unable to prevent himself from speaking, he said them quickly, but Katriona was ready and noted them all down. Four of Demion’s own employees, including all three accountants, and six more in other firms.
“Thank you very much, Goodman Holdean. That will be all. You are released.”
Holdean let out a cry and fair sprang to his feet. Red-faced, he waved his hat and shouted.
“What are you going to do? Discharge me and I’ll let everyone know that you have Demion on a leash. He’ll be the laughing stock of Karsa.”
“Do so,” said Katriona, “And I will inform everyone of your perfidy. You will be outcast and destitute.”
“We’ll see!” he said. “We’ll see!”
“I think you should be going now, Holdean old boy,” said Demion quietly.
Katriona called through the door. “Hollivar! Have Goodman Holdean escorted from the premises. He is not to stop or speak with anyone.”
“Right you are, goodlady,” called the secretary. Katriona had had three of the factory watchmen standing by. They were in the office in an instant. They grabbed Holdean’s elbows. He tried to shake them off, but they held fast. His hat dropped from his hands and rolled upon the rug. They did not allow him to retrieve it.
“You’ll not get away with this,” said Holdean.
“I think you will agree that I have got away with this, and rather that it is you that did not. Good day, Goodman Holdean. Take him away,” said Katriona.
Holdean did not go quietly. His shouted imprecations echoed down the corridor.
“So sad that men must resort to such crudity when they are confounded,” said Katriona.
“Well, well,” said Demion. “You, you are shaking all over! My dear, sit down!” Demion pulled out a chair for his wife. She sank gratefully into it.
“Such an interview is very bad for the nerves, husband.”
“I thought you unaffected.”
�
��Not so.”
He took her hand. “Did you drink the tea?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will ask you a question.”
“Oh?” she raised her eyebrow, but made no attempt to stop him.
“Do you think you could ever love me?”
She did not answer immediately, but stared deep into his expectant eyes. Hope brimmed in them. “Perhaps,” she said eventually. “Perhaps.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The Revelation
459 PROVED TO be a very cold year in Karsa.
The clouds of the Islands retreated, leaving the sky open to gimlet stars. In the cities, and in Karsa City in particular, their lights were dimmed by the smoke of factories. But these smogs were short lived and the clouds remained away. By late Frozmer, the year’s uncommon rains were a distant memory. The mornings were frosty, the nights cold. The fifth week of the month saw the first snow of the year. It blew in from the southeast in wet flurries that disappeared as soon as they touched the ground. Not unusual in the isles, perhaps, but it caused the old folk to mutter charms against Father Winter, and spit and complain to whoever would listen that it was never this bad in the old days.
No one listened, for they said the same thing every year.
The more provocative broadsheets carried warnings of dire weather to come, foreseen by those magisters who dabbled in meteorology. Snow glimpsed in dreams, ice in nightmares. The patterns of clouds in the guts of dead dracon-birds.
For once, they were right.
Thrice magically warded by Magister Ardovani, Vand’s shipyard was immune to the weather. Rain rattled off the corrugated roof. Weak sunshine failed to warm it. Storms tugged the sheets upon their nails without loosening them. Under this cover the activity on the ship never ceased. Hammers rang from sun-up until well after sundown into nights lit by glimmer lamps and paraffin. Arkadian Vand was forced to disburse the last of his liquid capital in silencing the complaints of the wealthier folk nearby. When he was not raging against their lack of foresight, he said to Trassan that nothing should detract from the great unveiling.
The Iron Ship Page 29
