Caldan wilted inside. “I don’t know. Maybe you need more time to study it?” he said dubiously. “The paper should degrade quickly as there is a strong force flowing through it.”
The sorcerer sighed and placed Caldan’s improvised warded box on his desk. “Well, at least you have some talent. I would guess the box won’t last the night.” He scratched his cheek. “How far along were your metallurgy and smith-crafting studies?”
“I don’t have a guide to go on,” said Caldan with an apologetic shrug. “The monks taught what they taught, and they weren’t ones for letting their students look too far ahead. But I can run through some of what I know.”
“Start with what you think the difference between smith-crafting and blacksmithing is.”
Caldan took a deep breath, smiling inwardly, careful not to let it show. The monks had been thorough in teaching the difference between the two, their first lesson in the subjects, which they repeated frequently as students progressed.
“Blacksmithing, or simple smith-craft, as Lucidous refers to it in his text The Complete Forged Metalwork,” — Caldan glanced at the sorcerer, hoping his reference to the famous text would elicit a response, but the man merely grunted — “is essentially forging and shaping iron using a hammer and anvil. It’s more complex than that but not much. Working with heavy hammers, an anvil, tongs, vices and the like to create utensils for day to day use, such as horseshoes, plows, axes. Simple work.” He saw the master nod in agreement. “Smith-crafting uses metallurgy, which relates to the study of extracting metals from different ores, purifying and alloying metals whose properties are different to iron. It uses those metals to create crafted objects, generally using much finer tools, kilns and molds.”
The sorcerer gave him a thoughtful look. “What would you class as a useful object? Isn’t a horseshoe useful?”
Caught off guard, Caldan hesitated before replying. “Yes, of course,” he said slowly, giving himself time to organize his thoughts. “Um… what I meant was that people could be apprenticed as a blacksmith and learn their trade, as working with iron does not require a great deal of innate skill, while metallurgy requires a much deeper knowledge of many different metals and alloys, and their properties. Smith-crafting is more delicate, using molds, wire, inlays. Metallurgy combined with smith-crafting, and further combined with crafting, can create some of the most beautiful and useful objects known.” His voice had gained confidence throughout, and he finished firmly.
The sorcerer frowned. “I expect most apprentices to know as much. It’s good you do.” He cleared his throat. “What percentage of carbon is combined with iron to make steel?” he asked.
“About two percent,” Caldan rattled off. An easy one.
“And how does the carbon make the iron stronger?”
Caldan gave him a puzzled look. “Er… I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.”
The master nodded. “Thought I might ask anyway, in case you had any theories. What gives the reddish tint to rose gold?” he added quickly.
“Copper,” replied Caldan without thinking.
“In what ores would you find platinum?”
“Copper, maybe nickel.”
The sorcerer paused for a moment. “If you were to make a crafting out of gold, how would you strengthen the metal so it wasn’t soft?”
“You could add some rare metals to make it harder, but they would be expensive. More than the gold itself.” He wracked his brain. “I don’t know any other way. Shaping glyphs on the object wouldn’t work, but…”
“It wouldn’t? Why not? Isn’t that how trinkets are crafted?”
“That’s the prevailing theory, but I don’t think it’s correct.”
“Really, and why not? What insights do you have that wiser scholars and sorcerers have not been able to work out themselves?”
Caldan fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Well, you can’t craft a loop into the object to reinforce its hardness to withstand those same forces coursing through it. The crafting would make the object harder, then harder again, then harder — an infinite loop. It would crack or crumble, maybe melt?”
“Indeed, or worse. So how are trinkets made?”
The question took Caldan aback. No one knew how to craft trinkets. The knowledge had been lost long ago. He resisted the urge to reach up and touch the weight of his own trinket, the ring resting heavily against his chest. “I haven’t the foggiest,” he said.
That gained a smile and a nod of agreement from the sorcerer, who remained quiet for a moment, then spoke. “Well, let me know if you have any insights into the subject.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Give me a moment to think.”
Caldan bobbed his head. “Thank you, sir.” He sat patiently while the man took some time to decide his fate.
After what felt like a few minutes, but was probably only one, the sorcerer spoke. “It is plain you know theory well and can improvise on the spot, albeit there was a problem with your paper crafting.”
Caldan opened his mouth to protest but stopped as the man held up a hand. “I know, having the test sprung upon you, the stress… I have heard plenty of excuses before, and they don’t hide the fact it is inherently flawed. I can’t even open it.” He slammed a hand onto the paper box with a thump, and it retained its shape. “Ow!” he exclaimed, shaking his hand.
“That was the point, sir.”
“Well, I have made my decision. I think we can use someone like you, not as an apprentice, though. All the masters have enough apprentices after the last intake, but people with talent pop up occasionally. If you prove you can work hard, there could be an opportunity for you to be taken on. No promises, though.”
Relief swept through Caldan. “Thank you, that’s wonderful!”
“Wages are two coppers a seven day for the first four weeks. If we are satisfied after that and you decide to stay, it’s four coppers a week. Agreed?”
“Yes, agreed… sir.”
The sorcerer eyed him thoughtfully then held a hand out. “My name is Master Garren. Welcome to the Sorcerers’ Guild.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vasile tugged at the tight, starched white collar he was forced to wear while adjudicating and looked out from his desk over the multitude of heads waiting patiently, and impatiently, for a magistrate to review their complaints. The magistrates’ chambers were large enough to hold several hundred petitioners; however, their high ceilings and hard stone walls meant any noise was amplified, and after a day of constant clamor he never failed to develop a headache. Mostly unwashed bodies baking in the hot room left the atmosphere fuggy and rank.
Long benches had been set up in rows for people to sit on, but they were overcrowded, and some of the less fussy petitioners had chosen to sit on the floor with their backs resting against the wall.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes for a few moments then beckoned one of the servants over. A bead of sweat trailed from his forehead to the tip of his nose. He wiped it off.
“Could I have some more water, please?”
The young girl nodded and hurried off to the kitchens. He would have preferred a cold glass of wine, but drinking on the job wasn’t allowed, unfortunately. He clasped his hands tightly on his lap under his desk to stop them shaking. Yes… a nice cool refreshing wine, with beads of condensation on the outside of the glass. Perfect. He licked his lips.
The servant returned with a mug of water, which he took before dismissing her with a wave of his hand. A few gulps later he felt marginally better, although the constant din had not abated, and his head still ached.
Vasile steeled himself and picked up his assignment sheet for the day. He had seen six cases already and it was only midmorning. He knew any of the other magistrates would have been hard-pressed to see more than three or four.
Nodding to an attendant, he indicated he was ready for the next petitioner. The man, with a thin guard in tow, consulted his list and wandered off in
to the crowd.
A thin guard? Weren’t they supposed to be burly or big? He frowned and let the thought trail off.
The attendant returned moments later with two rough-looking men. Farmer types, by the look of their dusty and patched homespun clothes. Both were large men, formed from hard work. The shorter one clutched a worn cloth hat, wringing it like the neck of a chicken he wanted for his supper. They both shuffled closer. The tall farmer looked angry, while the one with the hat fidgeted nervously.
Vasile groaned. Perhaps this dispute was over a missing chicken. What other fascinating cases would come before him today?
“State your case,” the attendant intoned.
The shorter farmer’s eyes darted from Vasile, who he had been staring at, to the attendant and back again. He gave his hat an extra hard twist.
“To you?” he asked the attendant.
“No, to me,” Vasile said in an exasperated tone.
“Oh, sorry, Sir Magistrate. Um…” He trailed off. “Well, one of my cows gone missin’.”
Cows, not chickens. Close, though. Maybe he could have roast chicken for supper tonight. With a start, he dragged his attention back to the case.
“And?”
“Well, like, it gone missin’, and I couldn’t find it nowhere.”
Vasile blinked.
“I looked and looked, but she ain’t nowhere to be found. Then, a few days later, I heard about Shale here, how he’s bragging in town to all about how he’s slaughtered one of his cows since he has too many and been eating like a king, and will be for weeks, and salting meat ready for winter. So I said to myself, that’s funny, funny odd, you know, since I don’t reckon no one in their right mind would do that so early afore the season changed and…”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Vasile. “You are accusing Shale here of stealing your cow and slaughtering it for meat.”
The shorter farmer shifted his weight from foot to foot, all the while staring at the floor. “I reckon I am.”
“That ain’t true!” exclaimed Shale, the alleged cow thief. “It was one of mine, old and sick. She wasn’t gonna last so I made use of her, like any of us would’ve done. How you gonna show the good magistrate here it was yours and not mine?”
The other farmer’s hat looked like it was going to break apart in his hands, but he straightened and didn’t back down. “We all of us know what you’re like, Shale. Don’t think we don’t know!”
Vasile held up a hand and the guard stepped forward. The two farmers hushed and glared at each other, red faced.
“Shale,” Vasile asked steadily, “did you steal the cow, and did you slaughter it?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
Vasile took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Shale, look at me.” He waited until the tall farmer looked him in the eye. “This is a place where the truth is paramount.”
“Para – what?” said Shale.
“Of utmost importance.”
“Oh…”
“I am going to ask you again, did you steal the cow?”
“No, sir. Like I said afore, I didn’t.”
Vasile sat back in his padded chair and shifted his aching legs. “Well, good Shale, let me tell you something. I don’t believe you.” Shale’s jaw dropped, and the shorter farmer’s eyes widened. “In fact, I believe this other man here is right.”
“No, sir, it ain’t so.”
“It is so.” He turned to the other farmer. “How much was the cow worth?”
For a few moments the farmer couldn’t speak, then managed, “Thank you, good Magistrate, thank you.”
Vasile waved his thanks away. “How much?”
“Could maybe’ve gotten two gold ducats for her, if I’d’ve wanted to sell her.”
“Fine. I hereby convict Shale of stealing property and the destruction of said property. Shale, you are to pay compensation to… whatever your name is, of two gold ducats, and a further two as a fine payable to the attendant.”
“Here now!” shouted Shale. “That ain’t fair. I ain’t done nothin’.” His eyes shifted to everyone around him, Vasile, the guard, the attendant. “It’s true!” His hand clenched into fists.
“You, Shale, are a liar,” Vasile stated firmly. He nodded to the guard and attendant, who escorted him to a side room. Shale struggled initially but less and less as they moved away, as he came to terms with being caught. The shorter farmer still stood there, looking at a loss as to what to do now. Probably stunned his case was over so quickly and that he would be compensated.
“You can follow them. They will make sure you get your ducats.”
The man nodded his thanks and turned to leave, then stopped and turned back to face Vasile.
“Please, sir, if I may?”
“Yes?”
“What… I mean, how did you know?”
Vasile reached for his mug and took another gulp of water. “We deal in truth here. In this place, truth becomes evident. Let your family, your village know.” That will do for him, thought Vasile.
The farmer nodded. “I will. Thank you, sir.” He turned his back and followed the others to collect his gold.
And so the day passed for Vasile, case after case, petition after petition, each one more or less as stupid or sordid as the rest. After weeks and weeks of the same stories day in and day out, Vasile found himself worn-out by the monotony of it all, numb to the people who came looking for justice at the magistrate’s hand. He couldn’t remember the faces of the last few petitioners. Even the face of the grateful farmer with the missing cow had faded to a fuzzy blur in his memory. It was no wonder most magistrates only worked a few days a week, citing other responsibilities.
It was the sentencing that grated on Vasile the most. His discretion was extremely limited in most cases as there was a standard list of punishments for crimes and misdemeanors, according to the emperor’s laws. Sometimes he wished the penalties were not so harsh. Giving a man with a family dependent on him a year’s hard labor in a work gang for stealing a loaf of bread was, in his opinion, far too unforgiving. But the empire’s laws were inflexible, and the emperor himself decreed the punishments as just, may he live forever. Who was Vasile to disagree? Work gangs were required all over the empire to build the emperor’s projects, from roads to dams and fortifications, and the emperor’s palaces.
He drew himself up from a slouch. His buttocks had gone numb and his legs ached. Twisting his hips from side to side, he tried to work some feeling into them with little success.
The light in the vaulted room had dimmed substantially during the last case he had seen, and he was looking forward to heading to his favorite tavern for a drink or two, or more if he felt like it, which he usually did.
His attendant broke his thoughts. “Last up for the day,” the man droned with a voice already weary. “William Voltain and his case against the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern, represented by Luphildern Quiss, one of their head traders.”
Vasile groaned inwardly. Any case involving nobles and one of the major trading houses was likely to be complex, tedious and fraught with intricate issues. The ache in his head throbbed harder, and he debated postponing the case until morning. No, best to at least hear the initial complaint and get some of the preliminaries out of the way.
Once again, two men approached his desk flanked by the attendant and the thin guard. Both were dressed in fine quality clothes, tailored to fit their frames. He guessed the one with extra lace at the sleeves and throat to be the noble William, and the gold buttons on his purple vest confirmed his guess. The other one must be the representative of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern: nondescript brown hair, fair skinned, a trifle thin but unremarkable.
William fidgeted, straightening his clothes and brushing specks of dust from his sleeves, while the trader stood relaxed and calm.
“State your case,” the attendant said in a bored tone.
“Ahem.” The noble cleared his throat nervously. “My name is William Voltain of the House of V
oltain.” He paused as if expecting a response from Vasile. When none was forthcoming, he gave a slight frown then continued. “I am presenting myself before you as a representative of the House Voltain in a matter of utmost importance.” Again a pause.
“Pray continue,” said Vasile.
“It concerns a warehouse property of substantial size on the dock front, by its very dimensions and location on Cuttlefish Street facing the docks, quite valuable to whoever is in possession of the title. My grievance with the company is based on certain inalienable facts about the events leading up to their purchase of said warehouse, on the eve of when my own deal to secure purchase of the property was to be concluded.” William became noticeably distressed as his speech went on and stopped to raise a handkerchief to his mouth, as if to cover his distaste.
“Furthermore, it has come to my attention that the use to which the warehouse has been put, while not illegal, certainly raises doubts as to the decency and integrity of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern.”
As William uttered these words, the company’s representative looked sharply at him and stared intensely for a few heartbeats before resuming his previous casual attitude.
“What use has the warehouse been put to?” asked Vasile.
“Um… I am not sure, but rumors have reached my ears of furtive comings and goings at all hours of the night, and I myself have seen a covered wagon entering the property in the small hours of the morning.”
Vasile clicked his tongue in annoyance. “What you are saying is that you have no idea. You have seen a wagon entering the warehouse? Are not warehouses for storing goods?”
William looked perplexed. “But surely you can see such activity is suspicious?”
“Actually, no, sir. I deal in truths and evidence. Do you have proof anything untoward is occurring there?”
“Not proof exactly… Suspicions.”
“I cannot entertain suspicions without credible proof, so obtain some or dispense with allegations of impropriety for the duration of this case. Am I clear?”
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 17
