“Oh man, that guy is, like, an
orc,
” he muttered to himself.
“What say?” one of the apprentices said.
There were four other men in the smithy with him, two of Isketerol’s Tartessians and two Iraiina who’d sworn service with Walker. Not counting the poor bastard in the collar working the bellows, of course. He and the men learning from him were communicating fairly well now, in bits and pieces of each other’s languages, despite the way Walker kept sending him new ones. Eventually you got across what you needed to, and teaching helped take his mind off the general shittiness of the situation. The smithy was warm and close inside, well lit by the glow of the big charcoal hearth as well, despite the rainy dimness outside. He turned back to the forge, explaining:
“Like, this is cast iron, man,” he said, taking a piece that had originally been in the
Eagle
’s ballast out of the forge and laying it on an anvil. “It won’t forge like the wrought stuff we’ve been working—it’s too brittle.”
He demonstrated with a blow of his hammer. The iron split, showing gray at its heart.
“You gotta get the carbon out. So y’ heat, sorta stir the puddle of melted stuff around, y’ hammer to get the slag out, and heat again.”
“Eventually,” he went on, “it gets to be, you know,
wrought
iron. Then you can work it like we’ve been doing, or harden it up again to steel. Like, you need a rilly
big
hearth for a finery, not just a forge like this—this is just to give you an idea.”
He picked out a piece farther along and bent it into a curl shape with a few skilled blows. Each of the others duplicated the process under his critical eye.
“This
cast iron,
” one of the Tartessians said, “it is the same as will come from the
blast furnace
when it is finished?”
“Yeah, man, right on. You got it.”
The twelve-foot-high fieldstone furnace was nearly complete, and there was ore and limestone and charcoal in abundance; mineral deposits didn’t change, and they had the Ordnance Survey maps. They did need cylinder bellows and water-powered draft, though, which was taking a while. Judging from the way things had gone with other stuff, they’d have to fiddle around a good long while to get it to work really right—there were lots of little things the books never mentioned. Meanwhile they stockpiled materials.
“That little sucker will put out a thousand pounds a day, and then—”
“Good work, John,” a voice said from the entryway.
Martins turned, gritting his teeth. Walker was standing there, holding the reins of his quarterhorse stallion. “Bastard here needs a shoe on his left fore. Kicking again.”
Martins grunted wordlessly and took a blank from a rack on the wall and flipped it into the forge to heat. Then he took up pincers and rasp and walked around to the left side of the horse. Walker gripped the bridle more tightly—Bastard was well named and found the bent-over rump of a blacksmith an irresistible temptation, teeth-wise—and Martins pulled up the left forefoot, gripping it between his knees. He took the pincers and began drawing the nails on the loose shoe.
Behind him Walker spoke to one of the Tartessians: “You learn?”
“I learn a great deal, lord! Already we can do many of the simpler tasks. In some ways this iron is easier to work than bronze. A great pity it’s so difficult to cast, but it works well beneath the hammer. The
blast furnace
”—he used the English phrase—“goes well too, soon it will be ready, and we learn how to find the ores of iron. There is much of it back home, I think.”
The hoof hissed as the hot iron touched it, and the glowing shoe gave a
shuffffff
as it was quenched in a bucket of water after he’d tapped the final adjustment; he drove the nails home that held it in place, and crimped them. Both the Iraiina apprentices could already do that much, but it didn’t hurt to show them again. He hated the thought of anyone messing this up and hurting a horse’s feet.
“Be seeing you, John,” Walker said, swinging into the saddle. “Promised Daurthunnicar I’d bring Bastard over to cover some of his mares.” He slapped his mount’s neck. “Now that the locals’ve seen what he can do, he’s in stallion heaven.”
“Aren’t we all, boss?” laughed one of the three riding escort; it was Rodriguez, the ex-Coast Guardsman.
The four horses clattered across the cobbles and then their passage turned to the softer thudding of hooves on dirt.
Martins stared sullenly after them. It was bad enough when Walker was around, but much as he hated to admit it, it was worse when the renegade was gone. Some of the things that Hong woman did . . . his eyes slid away from the big two-story log house across the courtyard. Of course, he’d thought about running.
Shit, I think about it all the time, man. This is, like, totally Mordor here. That dude’s head is in a truly fucked-up place.
But he’d seen others who ran brought back with hounds, flogged . . . and once, crucified.
He
might make it, especially if he could steal a horse, but Barbs certainly couldn’t. She wasn’t the outdoor type, and their natural-method contraceptives had failed, badly. At least Walker didn’t have him in an iron collar or chained up at night. Not yet. Plus there wasn’t anywhere to run when you thought about it. From what he’d seen most of the locals were every bit as ferocious as Walker, just less systematic. He’d heard the Earth Folk were more mellow, sort of laid-back, but they lived a long way away to the west.
Barbara came out of his own smaller cabin and banged a spoon against the bottom of a frying pan. “Time to break for lunch,” Martins said gratefully. “C’mon, you guys.”
“Well, I’ll admit that you’re a pretty good pool player, but nobody could make
that
shot,” Cofflin grumbled. “Besides, don’t you have to go baste that turkey again or something?”
The basement recreation room of Guard House was dominated by the billiard table; the other end of the room held only a set of well-used weights and some Nautilus machines, both brought in since the Event. The oil lantern over their heads provided more than enough light, and it was no more than medium chilly, something everyone had gotten used to since the beginning of their first winter without central heating.
Marian Alston grinned like a shark as she chalked her cue and pulled back the sleeves of her sweater.
Got him,
she thought. Not a bad player, but you needed killer instinct for pool. Good to have someone to shoot with, though. You could really relax over this game, and it bored Swindapa like an auger
.
Although there are some drawbacks to hanging out with straights. Wouldn’t understand the turkey-baster jokes, for instance.
“Know, Oh Cofflin, that my state of karmic spiritual enlightenment puts me beyond all need for your praise. Yet not beyond need for your beer. Extra bottle on this shot? Thirty-seven up and with anothah three I win.”
“Well . . . all right.”
Smack
. The white caromed off a cushion, kissed one ball, then tickled the twelve. It spun on the edge of the pocket, wavered, and settled again.
“Damn! If you hadn’t reminded me about the turkey, I’d have done it,” she swore.
The smell from upstairs was getting better and better, mingling with the lingering aroma of the baking she’d done earlier in the day.
“All right, then, I’ll
split
that beer with you.” He ambled over to the cooler and took out a bottle, part of the Cofflins’ contribution to the Christmas quasi-potluck dinner. “One good thing about this weather is you can get the beer really
cold.
”
“Amen.” She looked at her watch. “I will have to go look at that turkey—”
“Marian.” Martha’s voice. “You’d better come up, I think.”
“Oh, hell.”
She laid the cue down and took the stairs at a bounding run. The other early arrivals—Martha and the Arnsteins, Sandy Rapczewicz and Doc Coleman—had been sitting in the kitchen, for the warmth and to nibble. Swindapa was standing by the black-iron stove, long spoon still clutched in one hand, tears streaking down her face in slow trickles.
“Hey, honeypie, it’s all right, I’m here,” Alston said softly, reaching for her. “ ’Sall right, sweetheart. There, there, Marian’s here, sugar.”
Swindapa dropped the spoon and gripped her convulsively. Alston made a waving gesture toward the stove with her free arm and led the Fiernan out into the vacant sunroom. They sat on one of the sofas, and the tears became racking sobs. Outside snow fell in huge soft flakes, batting at the windows like slithery cold kitten-paws.
“I miss my mother! I want my family!” The words trailed off into unpronounceable Fiernan consonants, gasped out into the hollow of her shoulder between sputtering heaves of grief.
And this time of year is a big family feast over there, too,
Alston thought, making a low humming in her throat and rocking the other, stroking her back through the check shirt.
Fiernan don’t leave home, at least not the women.
From what Swindapa had said, a girl usually just moved elsewhere in the greathouse and built a hearth of her own when she started having babies, staying in the same huge extended family all her life. The other’s misery wrung at her; she buried her face in the silky hair and crooned.
After a while the tight grip around her chest relaxed and the sobs faded into sniffles. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, wiping her companion’s face and smiling wryly as she remembered the screaming Valkyrie figure who’d stood over her on the shore of the Coatzacoalcos. After another while of silence, Swindapa sighed and blew her nose.
“I feel better now,” she said, smiling, cuddling with a mercurial change of mood.
Didn’t apologize for crying, either, or say thanks,
Alston noted. An American would have. At least she’d learned to use a handkerchief instead of her fingers.
Well, the fact that you love someone doesn’t make them more like you.
Her mouth quirked. She’d always—well, ever since Jolene left—had dreams about the ideal Significant Other. Someone black, of course. About her own age, and with similar interests, just enough difference to be interesting. . . .
And here I’m settled down with a blond bukra teenager from 1250 B.C. who prays to the Woman in the Moon,
she thought. Well, you had to work at any relationship worth having.
“Glad you do feel better, ’dapa,” she said tenderly.
They went back into the kitchen. Sandy Rapczewicz had the oven door open and was standing over the turkey with baster in one hand and spoon in the other, looking irresolute. “I have the deck there, Ms. Rapczewicz,” Alston said. “It’s nearly ready, anyway.”
“Thanks, Skipper,” the XO muttered. She was still a little tender about the face, but the bones were knitting well, the rather lumpy Slavic countenance unaltered.
“The secret to a really
good
turkey,” Alston went on easily, “is keeping the flesh moist—’specially with these lean wild ones.”
The bird weighed about twenty pounds, the upper limit with the woods-caught types from the mainland the island was rearing now. She prodded a fork into the joint between drumstick and body. The juice ran clear. “Right, let’s take it out and let it stand for a little while. Now everyone but volunteers out of the kitchen—this is the tricky part.”
Getting everything to the table at the same time and neither overcooked nor cold was
difficult
.
“I feel as if I were mutilating my eldest son,” Miskelefol said dolefully. “And this climate! It’s bad enough in summertime. In winter the damp would rot the testicles off a Sardinian.”
“You’ve seen what the
Yare
—the
Eager
—can do,” Isketerol said cheerfully. A Tartessian crew was training on her, under the supervision of Walker’s men. “Think what this will be capable of. And it keeps the men busy over winter.”
Both men peered out the door of the hut. They had broken up the hulls of the
Wave Treader
and the
Foam Hunter
for their wood, and put up improvised stocks to hold the frame of another ship. One about two-thirds the
Yare’
s size, considerably shorter but broader in the beam. Back home on the Middle Sea, a ship’s hull went up first, with the boards fitted to each other tongue-and-groove, and the frame put in later as strengthening. The Eagle People method was to build the frame first, cut the planks straight, and then nail them on, twisting them as necessary. It was just as strong, and much easier . . . once you were used to it. The sailors practically had to be driven to it, full of mutterings about bad luck. Not to mention doubts that caulking would hold out the water, even when they’d seen with their own eyes.
The other cause of delay had been the need for iron smithwork. Isketerol looked out from the edge of his hut and smiled as the distinctive
clang
. . .
clang
came from another hut closer to the beach. Now he had two men of his own skilled in the ironsmith’s art, at least the beginnings of it, and they were teaching others. And they’d helped with every stage of setting up the
blast furnace
, learning that mystery as well.
“When the
Sea Wolf
is finished, we’ll load her with a cargo of sixty tons of
iron
, cousin,” he said. He slapped the younger man on the back. “Then we’ll sail her and
Yare
into Tartessos town and be richer than the king. You saw what tools and armor made of iron can do.”
Turn a bronze spearpoint as if it were made of lead, for starters.
Everyone will pay high at first
, he thought.
But the price will come down
. No matter. He’d charge high prices to have his smiths teach the skills to begin with, and meanwhile sell widely.
And then . . . who knew what he’d do then?
The turkey was a skeleton, and the mashed potatoes, peas, squash, and carrots mostly memories—cherished memories, because vegetables were a strictly rationed luxury this winter, doled out in grudging lots to hold off scurvy. The pumpkin pie tasted a little odd with honey as the sweetener, but lacked nothing but whipped cream otherwise—milk was still worth its weight in gold, almost literally. Sandy Rapczewicz looked down at her plate for a second. Then she looked out of the corners of her eyes at Coleman, who nodded; Alston could see her gathering herself for an announcement.