The Builder (The Young Ancients)

by Power, P. S.

  “I...”

  The kid started as Tor waited patiently, then just didn't speak for nearly half a minute. All that meditation, he realized, had been good for something other than field building after all. He could wait without difficulty now. Great. Well, one thing he could be certain of, life would make him wait for things. It was a handy skill to have, if a little boring.

  “I've never washed my own clothes before... At home we have servants that do it. I never even gave it a second thought, I mean, you put clothes in water and rubbed them on a board, how hard could it be? But no matter how hard I rub, I can't get the clothes clean and...” Pointing as if blaming the water or the tub he grimaced. “I can't make it frothy! What am I doing wrong?”

  The words were so plaintive that Tor had to fight back a smile. It wouldn't do to make the kid feel bad, especially if his family had been the kind that could afford servants. Magical creatures those, that he hadn't even believed really existed until he'd come to school here. The closest thing Tor's family had to servants had been... him and his older sister Terlee. So instead of mocking the poor kid, he decided to actually take a few seconds to be helpful.

  “Well, you're not doing it wrong really, but some wash powder would help a lot. You can buy it at the school store, just ask at the counter and the man there will make sure you get the right kind. It looks like you're doing browns and under things today? So, you can just borrow some of mine until you get your own. You need a special kind if you're going to wash silk, velvet or nice materials like that. Again, you get it at the store, unless you don't have any money, and then you very politely beg it from your friends that do.” Tor smiled at the thought. He could afford to be a little generous with this particular washing powder, since Rolph had paid for it. He didn't feel too bad about doing it either, first because his roomie would have done the same thing without hesitation, and second because Tor had just washed half a week's clothes for him. It seemed a fair enough trade.

  The kid looked down, as if expecting a reprimand for being stupid, which either said something about his expectations in regards to schooling here, or his upbringing. A lot of the rich kids had situations like that. Everything had been done for them all their lives, but they were treated harshly almost at random and not knowing how to do something basic could be punished pretty severely or so he'd heard. That they wouldn't, possibly even weren't allowed, to have a clue about some things, like cooking or washing clothing, didn't seem to matter. When the time came for them to know, they'd better. Or else.

  Tor showed the boy how to use the light brown powder, scrubbing the material together to get at bad stains and how to use the friction on the board to do the rest. After a few minutes the boy was doing a decent job on his own, so Tor moved to the drying lines and draped the wet material over without using the wringer first. Avoiding wringing was half the point after all. It always seemed to take longer than the washing itself, and was his least favorite part of the whole process. It wasn't hard; it just bugged him for some reason, and always had.

  It took him about ten minutes to hang up everything on the line and to bring one of the low folding tables, slightly green colored faded pine wood, to set the sigil on. After Tor took pains to make sure it wasn't under any of the wet stuff, he hit the top of the paint, and stepped back. For the first ten seconds nothing much happened, there was dripping, but there already had been some of that, it was sopping wet, so of course it dripped. He held his breath and felt his heart start to pound. Had he screwed it up somehow? Even a tiny mistake could potentially make all the work he'd done be wasted time. Nearly thirty hours in deep focus carefully building the energy pattern for this. Not good if it didn't work...

  Then, all at once, water suddenly ripped out of the cloth, making a huge splash on the hard packed bare earth below. Nothing splashed back up at least, so he wouldn't have to rewash any of it. Yay. He moved forward and tapped the black lines again to turn the field off and then moved to feel the clothing. It was, obviously, dry. He knew that. What he didn't know was if he'd managed to strip it so bare of water that it would turn to dust when touched. Poking a pair of brown pants carefully he tested to see if he had to buy a bunch of new clothes. Or more to the point leave school in shame, because he only had five coppers to his name right now. Nowhere near enough for new clothes.

  It was perfect. Totally dry in an instant, leaving the clothing soft and pliable, not even as stiff as it would be from sun drying.

  A bubbling feeling of joy rose inside him. Yes! True, drying clothes faster wouldn't win a war or even get him a girlfriend or something impossible like that, but it would get him a good grade in his novel building class. He knew that it would take more than just one solid build for him to do that, being the youngest person in the class by several years, but this was a good start. A very good one.

  His glee turned to dread when he turned to find Dorgal Sorvee picking up the wooden plate with the sigil on it. The black haired boy had swarthy skin and hadn't ever worn a student's browns, opting for tan colored silks instead. His father was a wealthy manufacturer, and something like the local mayor where he'd come from. That was fine really, a lot of the rich kids didn't wear regular browns, they weren't that comfortable and apparently if you could afford silk, none of the teachers wanted to risk alienating you by telling you to go put on heavy canvas instead. Who could blame them? You don't poke a bear with a stick, and you don't challenge the rich and powerful. Everyone knew that.

  Dorgal however wasn't just a rich merchant kid, having branched out on his own into personal areas of endeavor. He was also an accomplished bully. His parents would be so proud of him, no doubt.

  Being rich there wasn't much someone like Tor could do about it either. Sure, he could offer to fight the boy, or call him names... and find himself out of the school the next morning, if not going off to jail. From the way the dickhead held the drying sigil it was obvious to Tor that he wouldn't be getting it back easily.

  He sighed.

  Life had been easier at home. Sure there had been a couple of bullies at the village school, but being the baker's kid meant that he had five brothers to help him out in a fight if it came to it, more than anyone else's family by far and a certain amount of prestige. His family wasn't wealthy, but they did alright, always having enough food to eat and a good roof over their heads. Some of the villagers didn't always have that. The bullies had largely left him alone even if they did think he was a little strange.

  Here, people like Dorgal could get away with murder, practically at least, so they did whenever they felt like it. The boy's face held a snotty and malicious grin as he got ready to tap the sigil and activate it.

  “What have we here? Some kind of present for me?” The boy, nearly a man in truth, meaning he should know better than to activate an unknown bit of magic, started to do just that. Moron. For a second Tor almost hoped it would backfire and strip the guy of all his body's water. It wouldn't of course; he'd built in safeguards against that. Still, Tor reflected, he could dream.

  A low rumbling chuckle came from behind Tor, making him spin, ready to fight if he had too. He didn't want to be kicked out, but he didn't want to die for some wealthy person's amusement either. When he turned he had to look up to see who stood there. And up. Standing over seven feet tall, a wall of blond muscle hulked a little closer to him. A light colored head on top of a deep red silk shirt. After a few seconds Tor figured out who it was.

  Count Thomson.

  Freaking hell. The guy wasn't just a giant, but one of Kolb's best fighters. If he decided to beat Tor to death, not only could he get away with it – legally even since he was a Count – but there was nothing the much smaller Tor could do to even slow him down, much less stop him. Even running away could be against the law if the man claimed he was under arrest for something.

  Instead of grabbing him, or opening with a devastating backhand blow, the large noble carefully stepped around him and moved gracefully to the low table.

  “Hmmm
,” he said softly, his voice rumbling. “What do we have here? I saw the splashing a bit ago, so decided to come see for myself. Some kind of water removal system? Fascinating.”

  The giant actually seemed interested and took the wooden square from the very surprised bully gently, then turned to speak to Tor directly as if Dorgal wasn't even there.

  “Wood and paint? So, is this something you made yourself?”

  “Yeah, it's for my novel build class, this is the first test, but so far it looks like its working. I need to test it again, but...” He pointed to the dry clothes on the rack with a shrug. “That will probably have to wait a few days. Everything I own is clean.”

  The young Count chuckled again and looked around, finally pointing at the younger boy Tor had been helping earlier. “He has some wet clothing; perhaps he'd be willing to let you use that for your test, now that success seems likely at least?”

  That, Tor had to admit, did seem like a good idea. Not something he'd have thought of himself, mainly because he didn't like to ask other people for favors, but hey, if a Count suggested it, who was he to say no? Clearing his throat he asked the boy if it would be alright. It was clear that the kid had been watching all along anyway, so it didn't take a lot of explanation.

  “Sure!” He said, bringing the heaping basket of wet, not just damp, but sodden clothing over to hang up on the line. It would normally be a bad idea to skip wringing them out first, at least by hand, but it was perfect for this. After a second Tor started to help out, knowing that it would speed things up. Help almost always did. The Count shocked them both by helping to hang things over the white rope line himself a moment later. It wasn't every day that a Count helped you do your laundry after all. What would be next? The King coming over for an afternoon snack? The giant looked at the low table and moved it closer to the line, but then looked at Tor, checking to see if he'd gotten it close enough.

  “That should do... Actually, let's move the table back a bit. I don't want to risk splashing water on the paint yet. It hasn't had a lot of time to set.” The Count picked up the table and moved it about four feet back. The younger boy looked a little anxious, but waited out of the way. Pointing at the younger student Tor nodded his head.

  “Give the plate a single tap please...” It was actually an important factor. It was just possible, doing this, that he'd built something that would only work for him. He doubted that was the case, he'd been careful, but everything had to be tested. The boy didn't hesitate, activating the field with a single deft thump of one finger, as if he'd been doing such things all his life.

  Being from a wealthy family, maybe he had? Tor had only seen a handful of field devices before coming to school, all of them tools around the village. The majority of devices were tools. Only the wealthiest had anything else in the main. Trying to copy those was what got him noticed for the scholarship in the first place. At least he thought it was that. He'd never really been sure how it had happened. A scholarship recruiter just passing through an out of the way tiny village and finding the baker's kid making a cutter? Not very likely. Maybe it was fate or someone in the village having told someone else, and the word spreading to the right ears?

  The whole process repeated itself, only with applause this time, as people had come to look at what the Count, who stood out quite a bit, being so brightly clad and huge, had been doing. Even Dorgal grudgingly applauded.

  The dark haired bully couldn't resist getting a barb in though. Of course. Making fun of Tor in front of a large group of people would probably make it even better for someone like him. As he started to speak, Tor made himself relax and just listen calmly, as if he cared what the idiot had to say. He even managed an interested and polite expression. Fake, but if the bastard wanted real politeness he'd have to start with some of his own for a while.

  “So, your future career as a washer woman's all set Tor! Now all we have to do is get you a gray skirt and a bandanna for your pretty hair.” The tone was biting and surly, even if the words themselves could have been construed as just being playful if they came from someone else. It was the kind of thing Dorg excelled at. A kind of genius really, being a jerk without ever really being too overtly offensive. Not where other ears than Tor's could hear at least. He didn't get the laugh expected from the gathering crowd for some reason. In fact, a few of the people walking over to examine the now dried clothes stared at him as if he'd just cussed in public. One, a pretty girl with deep brown, almost black, curly hair in ringlets kind of glared at Dorgal.

  “Seriously? And you from a manufacturing family? You can't see how big a field like this could be? Are you stupid or something?” The girl, who looked about seventeen or eighteen turned to Tor and smiled winningly. She was lean, and a little hard, so probably one of the warrior or “special school” students. Assassins or something. No one really knew what they did at the special school, at least no one that would speak to him about it. People talked, but rumors were usually wrong, so Tor didn't bother following them particularly. The girl looked at the clothes and nodded to her friend.

  “Sara, what do you think your mother would be willing to pay for this?”

  The girl next to her wasn't as cute as the brown haired girl, but made up for it by looking happy and bright eyed. Of course Tor tended to like dark hair on women, so maybe it wasn't fair to say she wasn't as pretty, just in a blond way. A lot of people would probably think she was, he decided. She sounded smart at least. Even at school a lot of the girls affected being dumber than they were to attract boys. That these two didn't seem to bother with that already won points in his book. Not that they'd care overly about that.

  Tor knew his opinion probably wouldn't matter to them any more than the guy that ran the store that sold school supplies. Less even, since pencils and ink had established value already. He noticed that both wore blacks, like his own clothes, except not brown, heavily worn and oft washed. Since they'd never been out kicking his behind on the practice field with Kolb that lent more than a bit of credit to the idea that they were special school. Pure scholars didn't have as much wear on their clothing in the knees and elbows, most of it coming in the seat of the pants. His own had both.

  Sara looked at the clothing and then him, tilting her head just a little. It was cute, which he instantly decided to hold against her. Attractive women were trouble. If you let yourself become interested at least.

  “What are the design parameters? How much can each field do, how often? What's the expected time to failure for each unit?”

  The questions were good ones, too good to be casual really. He knew the answers, at least in theory, and tried to present them that way, explaining that these were the very first tests.

  “But, if all goes well, any cloth or fibrous material within a twenty foot radius will dry in approximately the time you saw here, about fifteen seconds or so. It’s field driven, energy wise, so the work energy comes from the water and the ambient temperature, the heat in the air, meaning there's no particular recharge time needed. As to how well the field will hold up... That depends on the materials used, of course, metal or stone will hold a field a lot longer than wood, and who put it in place matters too. My personal fields normally last for several years when put in metal, so far at least, but that can vary from person to person. I'm kind of new to doing it, obviously. Some of the best can last decades or even longer. Average is about a year or so...” He gave a lift of the shoulders that wasn't really a shrug.

  Sara, strawberry blond with slightly tan skin, considered what he said closely then looked at the humble wooden plate.

  “In wood we could get five golds for it, assuming it would last a year. In metal twice that. In stone... Well, that's harder to work with, but would probably bring in twenty to thirty golds apiece. It would have to be vetted first, being new and you still being a student. Worth doing. My guess is that we could sell these on the open market faster than they could be made at those prices. Even selling the template you should be able to bring in a hal
f gold for each one that goes out on the market. That would probably be your best bet, especially if you have any other ideas like this to work on. It would leave you free to do things other than make copies.”

  The girl blushed and suddenly stepped back, making the dark haired girl laugh.

  “Don't worry Sara, Tor won't bite. I have that on good authority. Speaking of which...”

  Tor looked over his shoulder in the direction that the dark haired girl stared and saw Rolph, red haired and nearly as big as Count Thomson walking over with a purpose, probably expecting to have to save Tor from a beating. Nice of him really, since Tor could do without those whenever possible. As he got closer Tor looked up at him with a smile and pointed at the clothes just now being taken off the line by the brown haired boy.

  “Worked.” He said, smiling. “Twice.” He held up two fingers just to make the point clear.

  Rolph slapped him on the back and then looked at the others standing around with a bit of hesitation. After a few seconds he spoke, softly.

  “Tovey,” he said, looking at the Count. “Everything alright here?”

  There was no menace in the tone at all, but it didn't sound scared either. If Tor had remembered who'd been standing there himself he'd have been scared. The work, as it often did, had proved too distracting for that. He'd simply forgotten to be afraid, which was probably a sign that he was secretly a moron. Who forgets to be afraid?

  Soon to be dead people, that's who.

  The Count smiled and put his hand out to shake with Rolph, a movement that came naturally it seemed, even though a Count wouldn't do that as a rule. They went in for bowing and such. “Not at all. I just saw the first experiment and had to come see what was going on. It really is fascinating to see the water just... leave like that. We need to secure some of these for our mothers before everyone else has them first I think.”

  The girl with the dark hair moved in front of Rolph and backed towards Tor protectively hands out to the side as if to prevent his friend from grabbing him to carry off... or something.