by Kris Hiatt
“What time should I be here, sir?”
“Not too long after dawn. Can you get up that early?” the smith asked.
“Yes, sir.”
He was so eager, he didn’t catch that the smith said he’d have to ask his mother, not his father. It is disrespectful to not ask the man of the house for the help of his son. That meant the smith knew who he was, and, more importantly, knew his father had died. As clever as he was, he missed it. Not that it would have changed his mind about working for the smith, or about what was to come in the near future. No, looking back on it, he was just upset that he missed the clue.
Treace picked up his travel sack and headed for home. He was thinking how wonderful it sounded to be learning something new and being paid to do it. It might only be pieces, but according to the mathematics work his mother had him do, ten of those silver pieces added up to an onner. If you had ten of those silver onner you had the same as a gold jin. If you had ten jin then you had the same as one kaden, also made of gold, though he had never seen one. He had only seen a jin a few times, but never in his mother’s hands. He didn’t think he would make more than a few pieces, but still, he wondered how many other eleven-year-olds were being paid to learn.
#
As he watched the boy walk off, Jensen wondered if he was making the right decision. He should have known who he was; he looked so much like his father. The boy was sharp; there was no doubt about that. He was also remarkably respectful for a boy of any age, let alone eleven. He was very small, but working the smith would help remedy that. The most pressing problem was that Jensen had to write a letter of request and add his personal commendation to it and get Constable Wren to sign off on it. He had a plan for the last part, however. He didn’t need to get the constable to make a large donation to the College, that part was already done. Orlin had somehow managed to take care of that part himself.
He closed the airways to his forge and closed the doors to keep the hot embers from crackling out and decided to get an early start on his preparations. Even though he didn’t like lying to the boy, he knew it was the best thing to do. He only had a few years to get the boy ready. And given the amount of work that needed to be done, it was going to be difficult. He knew he should have started a year or two ago, but the size of the boy fooled him. If the boy turned out to be half as smart as his father, he would take to the training like a fish in water. He hoped the boy could convince his mother to let him help out at the forge. He remembered being persuasive at that age, so he had high hopes.
Jensen walked into his small but cozy home a short while later and started right away with making preparations for the work he needed to do. It took him only a few minutes to jot down the required materials for the constable’s order; he had been fulfilling that order twice a year every year for the past five. Every one of those five years he did so without any assistance to forge the blades or the shoes. He worked with other specialty shops to make the sword handles, sometimes the pommels. All of the engraving and jewelry work was contracted out to one of the local jewelers. It was nearly impossible to do all the work on your own, but the fabrication of the blades he usually did. It was something he was proud of and he figured it would be difficult for him to let the young lad help him with it, but it had to be done.
The donation to the College was a very large part, but having a trade the brothers could rely on was the key to the plan that Orlin had set in motion. If a member of the College could save the College money by performing work that they would normally have to contract out, it would be looked at in a very positive light. He only had a few years to make the boy a master smith. Jensen knew it couldn’t be done, but he intended to try. He had to, considering he planned on saying so on the boy’s letter of request. He realized something then and found it to be equal parts humorous and daunting. Treace was to be his first apprentice.
After several frustrating attempts at writing the letter of recommendation to the College, and thinking of all the things that had to happen, he began to wonder if he could pull this off. But a promise is a promise. Especially one made to a friend who is now dead. Jensen fully intended on keeping that promise.
Orlin and Jensen had become friends and it was Jensen that Orlin made promise to follow the plan should anything happen to him. He wouldn’t tell him what the plan was, or even what it was about. He just told him that when the time came, Jensen had to do as he was asked.
At the time, Jensen thought Orlin was crazy. Orlin had a wife, why would he want Jensen to agree to that? He knew though; a woman without a man in the house and a young boy to fend for was going to have a tough time of it.
After a courier arrived with a package that contained Orlin’s journal, which included his plan, Jensen wished he had listened. He might have been able to save his friend’s life.
He would have to tell the boy sooner or later, and he probably should have already told the boy’s mother. Orlin’s instructions were very clear, however. He didn’t want his wife involved in any way. She couldn’t know about the plan, the journal, or even what Orlin suspected.
Jenna, Orlin’s widow, worked at the Lumber Inn as a waitress and Jensen saw her often. The Lumber Inn was his usual stop for food. It was between his house and the forge, so it was just easy. He thought about telling her several times. He didn’t though, and after a while he decided it was best if he saw her as little as possible.
What could he say now after these years had passed? Sorry I didn’t stop your husband. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. He had this crazy plan but it didn’t include you, so I couldn’t tell you. I know your house and property are paid for, paid with his life, but I’m sorry for your loss. No, even though he knew the woman had a right to know, he knew it would be more painful than what it was worth.
He decided he would just do what he could for the boy, as promised, and go from there. He knew he couldn’t do anything for Orlin, but maybe he could make it right by the boy. Maybe someday he could tell Jenna, just not now. With that in mind, he worked at the letter for a couple more hours before giving up and going to bed.
#
After arriving home and unceremoniously dropping his travel sack on the floor of the small house, Treace quickly found his mother reading at the table. He was about to tell her about the smith, but his mother looked up and noticed the tear in his pants and more than likely the wound under it.
“Oh, Treace, are you okay?” His mother asked with obvious concern on her face. She moved closer to inspect his knee. “You boys play so rough sometimes.”
“I’m okay, mother, honestly,” he lied. He didn’t like lying to her, but he found it was better to lie and save her the heartache.
His back hurt horribly, but he knew there was nothing to be done other than take the time to let it heal so he didn’t see any use in making her feel worse than she already did.
“It looks worse than it is, and besides, playing rough with them makes me fit in better.” He wasn’t about to tell her that all the times he arrived home with scrapes and bruises he was beat up on the street. No, it was better to have her think he had friends and was playing. He didn’t feel like he was really lying. He thought of it as hiding the truth.
After hearing him say he was okay and seeing the scrape had already stopped bleeding, she relented and told him to wash up for dinner.
“After I wash, can I ask you a few things, mother?” Treace asked. He could see her tighten up a bit at the notion.
“Oh, what about?” She asked.
He knew she was expecting him to ask more questions about his father. He had been more curious in the past few years, but she always tensed up and became quiet. She didn’t want to talk about it. If Treace asked too insistently she would tell him the few bits she told him before and then retreat to her room and cry.
“I just wanted to ask you about learning something new, that’s all,” Treace said in what he hoped sounded like an upbeat tone.
“Well, wash up first,” she said.
>
He had worked on ways in which to convince his mother to let him work with the smith while he was walking home. He perfected them and thought of all her possible responses and arguments against the idea while he bathed. After he ran the last of them through his mind he dried himself off and put on a new change of clothes. He put on a plain pair of black trousers and a beige shirt that was once white. Some colors, such as a purple and deep red were expensive and Treace knew his mother didn’t have much money, especially not to waste buying clothing with extravagant colors. He left his room to talk to his mother about working with the smith.
After the conversation was over, he wasn’t sure if he should be disappointed or pleased; she gave in right away. He was prepared to argue, and almost did since he expected her to say no. He didn’t know what to think when she simply said yes. He wondered if she gave in so easily because she was thankful that he didn’t ask about his father. His father used to say it was good to have luck on your side, so Treace didn’t question it.
#
He awoke well before dawn, the excitement of learning something new too much to keep him asleep. He had gone to bed early, read his hidden story, and drifted off to sleep. His mother was already awake and had made them breakfast that consisted of some left over biscuits and fresh gravy.
He ate more than his body wanted knowing that he would need the energy later. After breakfast he took the twenty minute walk to the smith to start his first day of work. More accurately, though he didn’t know it at the time, he was starting what would be the first day of a great many in his true education.
Chapter 2
At first he was nothing more than a messenger or a fetcher, but in less than a year of working with Jensen in the smithy, Treace had already become a decent blacksmith. He could make a horseshoe in his sleep. He could churn out more nails per day than Jensen himself, both made of iron, and he was just beginning to learn to make a proper sword blade from steel.
He was working on a blade for a short sword just before Jensen sent him on another errand. The tang of the sword was giving him a bit of a hard time, like it did most new smiths, but he was determined to get it down and knew it was only a matter of time before he perfected it.
He was only slightly annoyed that Jensen interrupted his work on the forge. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind helping Jensen out, especially since he owed a great deal to the man. Thanks to Jensen, Treace had some silver to help out his mother, which she refused at first, then finally accepted at his pleading. He was annoyed simply because the errands kept him from working the forge and creating useful items out of chunks of iron and steel, something he had come to enjoy. Especially so if those items were swords.
As any good smith will tell you, you can’t do it all by yourself, so Treace was either delivering blades to be engraved to the jeweler or he was picking up handles from the woodworker or leatherworker. He delivered nails to various people; by now he looked at them as his nails as Jensen no longer made them, only Treace did. The worst of the errands, by far, was taking the hand cart and picking up more iron or coal from one of the warehouses near the docks. Iron was worse than coal because the cart was loaded with several hundred pounds of material and it took him over an hour to navigate the city and return to Jensen’s forge, which was on the eastern edge of the city. By the time he completed the task, his muscles were sore and he was exhausted.
Luckily, he wasn’t picking up more iron this time; he was picking up wooden handles from the mill, which was on the southern part of the city by the river. It was a slightly longer trip, but he didn’t need to use the cart; he could simply put the handles in his pack. It was a beautiful day with pleasant temperatures and while he didn’t want to be away from the forge for too long, he couldn’t help but admit that he needed the fresh air. Besides, he thought, Jensen will probably have a cool drink and a sugar snack waiting for him when he returned. More often than not, that was the case. Jensen would tell him stories of his youth while Treace snacked and cooled off with his drink in hand. He figured there was more than one reason to get back to the forge.
As he walked through the city he took note of all the children playing in and around the streets. While many of them were within a few years of his age, now almost twelve, he didn’t feel he was missing out on anything. In fact, he thought he was far above playing simple kid’s games. He had learned to forge at the age of eleven. His studies at home surpassed that of most sixteen-year-olds. He was sure he was far above playing silly games. He was invited to join several games but he declined, he had work to do.
He passed one of the jewelers Jensen used to engrave hilts and sword blades and gave the proprietor a quick wave. The jeweler also polished finished swords, something he was quite good at. He was standing in his doorway leaning heavily on one of the doorjambs. He had a walking stick near at hand. Gil produced a toothy but genuine smile and waved back.
Mr. Gilrend, who everyone called Gil, was a man of about fifty years and every one of those years showed on his face. His thin body fared little better and he walked with a pronounced limp. He once told Treace that he was thrown from a horse and had broken his leg. The leg never set right and caused the limp.
Treace continued on, working his way past the docks and the warehouse where he would pick up iron, waving at all the busy people as he passed. He eventually came to Coldwater River where the mill sat. He took a deep breath and smiled as the aroma of sawdust and river water filled his nose.
The mill only operated a few days a week now, but it used to operate near round the clock when the city of Kadenton, far to the south, was being constructed. Today was one of the days that the mill stood silent. There were still a few workers moving about the mill, most likely oiling the machinery or performing minor repairs. He’d still find Mr. Lavare in the woodworker’s shop hard at work; he always was. Even on the days the large saws stood silent, the smaller shop set slightly off the main section of the mill would be busy. Mr. Lavare worked mostly alone and performed most of the fine work on any project the mill needed him to. He had a few assistants to help out, mostly to carry and lift the wood so he could focus on the detail work.
He could see the double doors of the workshop open as he approached. Mr. Lavare was hunched over one of his workbenches working dutifully on some chunk of wood or another.
“Hello Mr. Lavare,” Treace said and climbed the few stairs to reach the workshop.
“Good day, young man,” he replied without turning from his work. “I’ll be done with this in just a few minutes.”
“Can I watch you finish?” Treace had asked this question many times and he always got the same response. Today was no exception.
“You got eyes don’t ya?”
Treace walked up next to the woodworker and pulled up a stool. He watched the last handle for one of his swords being sanded and drilled. Fine sawdust flew up his nose and he sneezed.
“Bless you, son. You’ll get used to it sooner or later.”
Treace doubted that. He had sneezed every time he watched. He wondered how many hours he would have to work in and around the mill for his nose to get used to the sawdust.
He looked around at all the tools the woodworker had available to him. Various saws and drills were resting in hangers on nearly every wall. Most of them looked very much alike to Treace, but he figured each one had its purpose. In the opposite corner of the room from where the woodworker was currently working was a lathing table. There were at least a dozen little tools in a holder next to the lathe. He had seen Mr. Lavare use them a few times. The lathe looked like delicate work.
“You can go fetch the rest of them if you like,” Mr. Lavare pointed to the bin just off to his left. “By the time you load ‘em in your pack, I’ll be done.”
He hopped down off the stool, it was a tall stool and he couldn’t reach the ground with his feet, and un-shouldered his pack.
He had just finished placing the last handle from the bin in his pack when the woodworker surprised him.
“Catch!” the woodworker said loudly and tossed the last of the handles toward Treace.
His aim was true and Treace snatched the handle out of the air just before it would have bounced off his head.
“Good catch. You sure got quick hands,” Mr. Lavare said with a chuckle.
Treace gave him a broad smile and offered his thanks as he tied his pack closed and started making his way back toward Jensen’s smithy.
He planned on going left on the road and over the Spiral Bridge again and then head north, past the docks and skirt the eastern lakeshore. It was a lovely spring day and the sun warmed the side of his face and he felt like taking his time returning to the forge.
The mountains soared overhead to the north and to the west, and he could see the tops of the range to the south, only the east, where he was now facing, wasn’t protected by a mountain range. Snow still covered the highest peaks to the north, but he knew they would soon be gone as spring was on in full.
As he walked over the bridge, something he had done many times before, he admired the beautiful stonework and wondered why he had never noticed it before. Most of the city was constructed of wood, the dominant resource in the area, but this was one of less than a dozen structures that had been constructed of block. The blocks were mostly rectangle, but there were intricate designs throughout the whole walkway that were centered with an inward spiraling circle that ended perfectly without having to cut a single block. It took up nearly the entire width of the bridge.
Once he got past the concentrated buildings of the town he saw several birds flitting about the branches of the hardwoods. He even caught a glimpse of a deer as it bounded away from the road. Most of this side of the lake was lightly wooded and the town had not yet begun to expand this far north.
