Vol 6, Chapter 17

"What filth. And how do you live side by side with this?" my grandfather muttered, gazing at the Black Forest from the height of a griffon's flight.

Rounded tendrils twined tightly together in a grotesque embrace, stretching for kilometers ahead, filling the entire space between two mountain ridges. From afar it looked as if some colossal fisherman had dropped a clump of worms into the gorge after soaking them in ink.

"We got used to it. People adapt to anything. Besides, we have the Wall. Every twentieth piece of artillery remains here." I waved a hand toward the concrete structure bristling with cannons and turned back to my grandfather.

No reaction. A stone face.

"Fairly tall," he conceded grudgingly.

Ha, "fairly." It stood no lower than the Capital's Wall. And certainly wider—the gun casemates demanded a lot of space.

"Well, thanks for that," I snorted. "And what do you think of the city itself?"

"City? I see only endless warehouses and foundries. Where's a single house? Nothing but stone boxes raised by an earth mage."

"Those are the houses."

"No, those are not houses. Clear at a glance that no architects worked on them."

"There was one."

"Now it makes sense where such monotony of form comes from." My grandfather sniffed disdainfully.

I shrugged. No one had ever noticed artistic leanings in him. No doubt he was just being contrary for my sake. Houses existed, houses were moderately warm… Especially once we launched the boiler rooms. What was there to complain about? A lack of bas-reliefs and other embellishments? Pfft.

"Why is the Castle of the Ravens still in ruins?" he asked, watching the wreckage drift by below.

"Now it's an excellent playground. All the local children play there. How could I rob them of such entertainment?" I half-joked, which made him grimace.

"What a disgrace for their House… Tsk. And for you as well. Where do you live, then? In one of those boxes?" he muttered.

"I live at work, at work…"

It hadn't occurred to me where I'd put him up for lodging. Should I settle him in one of those 'boxes'? Hopefully he wouldn't have a fit from the cramped space… But alas, spacious quarters in the area were simply nonexistent. Even the former laboratory, furnished lavishly enough to match his taste, consisted of rather compact chambers. Underground, there was no room for excess.

The griffon banked, neatly avoiding plumes of black smoke and white steam rising from dozens of pipes, then landed on the street, frightening passersby and leaving long claw gouges across the concrete pavement.

"We've arrived… or rather, landed. Sir Falcon, how long will it take you to bring your family?"

"Four days, maybe five. I don't want to be noticed, so I'll have to fly at night."

"Good. Safe flight. And as for you, honored ancestor, we're going on an inspection. I'd advise covering your ears—it's a bit noisy inside."

***

The roar of steam machines hammered the ears even here, in the packing shop set some distance from the main production floor. Along the long conveyor belt flowed swords, one after another. Workers standing on either side grabbed them and stacked them into straw-lined wooden crates. Defective blades landed with a clatter into a separate box beneath the belt. Some would be remelted, some passed to the smiths. A white-haired inspector counted them carefully and made notes.

Filled crates were nailed shut and loaded into a wagon waiting by the gate. The driver whipped the horses, and another shipment rolled out to the buyer.

At the neighboring conveyor things were far less lively. Only two workers carefully inspected muskets, cocking the hammers, inserting probes into touch holes, examining barrels, then packing them for shipment or setting aside those needing rework.

Alas, muskets on the belt were dozens of times fewer than swords.

Turning, I noticed my grandfather staring without blinking at the neat ranks of blades gliding before him. Yes, it was mesmerizing.

The former Count gave a slight shudder, shaking off his trance, and wrenched a sword from a worker's hands. He tested the edge, the balance, pinched the rubber-wrapped hilt with bony fingers.

"Trash," he declared, then added, "Though it will do for peasants."

"Glad you approve. Now put it back. Those swords are already paid for, and our partners are the sort who keep very close count. I'd rather not have misunderstandings over such trifles."

"Who are you selling them to? Demons? There are so many here even a demon would lose count!"

Ignoring Astarot's whisper, who immediately wanted to enlighten me on exactly how many swords were around, I nodded toward the white-haired inspector.

"You could say that."

My grandfather stared for several seconds at the Hardan sent by Avram.

"Have you lost your mind, Randall? Selling them weapons? Tsk! They'll resell them to the First Duke the very next moment!"

"Weapons, Karl, are made there," I replied coldly, pointing at the conveyor from which muskets rolled off. "And this, this isn't a weapon. It's gold, which allows me to make real weapons. I'm not going to compete with the First Duke over who can hand out more blades to peasants. I need my people alive, and to keep them that way I need gold, not useless swords."

I did have a few thoughts about why the Hardans needed so many weapons, but I wasn't ready to share them with my grandfather yet. To calm him down, though, I added:

"And besides, let's just say that reselling weapons will come back to bite them. Trust me."

"They're Hardans. Offer them triple the price and they'll sell you even the rope they're to be hanged with," he snorted, but was interrupted by a piercing whistle echoing through the shop.

"What's that? An alarm?" he looked around.

"They're calling the duty healer. No doubt some rookie stuck his fingers where he shouldn't, and now they're short of a few. Speaking of which, if you want to help instead of whining, find me more healers. Mine are working themselves to the bone, no matter how many duties I offload onto the ungifted. Unfortunately, some things, like regrowing a leg, only a professional can do, and I can count those on the fingers of a machinist's hand."

"You think they grow on trees? If you have several, we're already lucky. Many Houses don't even have that."

"I don't care where they grow. You've got good relations with the guild… at least better than mine. Find more. Buy them off other Houses if you must. I need at least one specialist per city, and a few more with the army. Thanks to those Hardans you despise so much, we can afford it."

"So be it, I'll send a few letters and make inquiries. But first, I'd like to walk through and see the smiths." Grandfather cast a thoughtful look toward the direction where more and more swords kept arriving.

"Go ahead, you can even get as far as the smelters, just don't get close to the converters. We don't have fire mages on site right now to extinguish the flames if something goes wrong. And in general…" I beckoned a worker and asked him briefly to make sure the old man didn't stick his hands where they didn't belong. "This fellow will show you everything."

Without waiting for my grandfather to set off on his extended tour, I grabbed one of the rejected muskets and headed into the next building. For now, quiet and seemingly dead.

Gears scattered across the workshop floor hinted things weren't going well. The furnaces were cold. Twisted, discarded casings rolled underfoot. A few former knights played cards, while a sour-faced Klaus mage-sculptor tried to shape a claw according to the schematic set before him.

Pit was deeper inside, drilling his gaze into a column from which claw-like arms stuck out in every direction. Some had been embodied in metal, others remained only wooden prototypes. The top of the column was crowned with an ornament of glassy crystals.

"Any improvements since my last visit?"

"Yes and no," he answered thoughtfully, without taking his eyes off the column.

"And what's this heresy?" I tapped a mechanical limb.

"An attempt to solve old problems, but it's created new ones. I thought a golem could help reject unsuitable blanks, but alas, my knowledge wasn't enough. I fought with it for more than a week, but its vision still doesn't work. I need to visit the Capital Library to understand where I went wrong."

"There's no time for that."

"I know. Perhaps just replace it with workers? Rework the equipment, add machines. I think we could reach acceptable production volumes that way."

"Turn the future factory into a manufactory? No. Even ten manufactories can't compete with a rotary line once we set it up."

"The defect rate is about seventy percent, and that's without even having implemented all stages. We need control. If the golem won't work, then we need people."

"What if we add intermediate cut-offs, and break the drawing process into stages as well?" I suggested, picking up a torn casing from the floor. Judging by its condition, something had definitely gone wrong with it.

For a moment Pit's eyes lit up.

"We could try."

"Not now. Another time. Gather the gunsmiths, we have a new task."

*******************************************************


◆ Reikland, Karl Condor's POV. ◆

The drum clicked into place. I checked the alignment one last time and cocked the hammer. Click! The striker hit the empty nipple of the match tube.

"This is roughly what we need to achieve. Any questions?"

Pit raised his hand.

"A month ago you said you didn't want to produce such rifles, since right after the very first shot the next one would still have to be fired blind because of the powder smoke. Has that problem disappeared?"

Wincing, I admitted:

"No. But it will be resolved with the switch to a new grade of powder. However, we should design the whole construction with a much greater safety margin right away. The new grades will have a much faster burn rate, which means far greater stress on the metal."

"Wait, how do you know that if we haven't received or tested them yet?" Pit asked the obvious question.

Damn it, he's giving me away in front of everyone!"

"I've already tested laboratory samples," I lied as convincingly as possible, doing my best not to show how much the question caught me off guard.

"Again without me…" he grumbled.

I spread my hands. Someone in the workshop chuckled quietly.

"So, what I expect from all of you are proposals and designs on how to modernize an ordinary musket into a revolver with the least labor cost. Everyone who contributes will not only get gold, but… well, it'll make production easier for you yourselves, heh. So do your best."

"Aren't you the one who'll be doing it?" one of the masters nearby asked in puzzlement.

"Mr. Selbori and I will consolidate your ideas and approve the final version, as well as prepare some of the machines to test those ideas in off-hours. Yes, yes, the plan still has to be fulfilled, and to keep everyone from chasing hypothetical gold… for these days both output bonuses and penalties for missing quotas are tripled."

Applause broke out. Oh, I could already feel it, healers were going to have a rough week.

I noticed my grandfather among the masters, returning from his inspection of the industrial zone. I gestured for him to come over, but he waved me off.

"I'll go into the city. Clear my head," he said quietly and left.

Fair enough. Anyone unaccustomed would feel faint in this suffocating atmosphere of steam and metal, smoke and oil. Still, time to get back to work.

"Pit, can you handle one more task?"

"Well, actually I wanted to work on enchanting the machines."

"?"

"Calculations show that if we enchant the cutters, their wear could be reduced threefold. I even summoned a specialist from the Capital."

"That's worthwhile. I approve," I nodded. "But what about one of those projects we discussed? It won't take much. The two of us could finish it quickly. And if your men help too…"

"You say that about everything," he sighed. "Which project exactly?"

"The train."

Rectangular gray houses loomed overhead. Gray paving stretched beneath his feet. Perhaps this was how the Commonwealth looked, though Karl had never been there.

Everything seemed wrought by earth mages.

Passersby openly carried swords, already familiar to the former Count. In the wild lands, lords often looked the other way at such things, but here even women walked belted with blades. Unthinkable. Muttering to himself, he marched street after street. How did the locals manage not to lose their way?

Each wide, capital-style avenue looked like another. Only numbered plaques gave a vague sense of direction. Occasionally carved signboards revealed a shop rather than an ordinary house.

Tired of walking, Karl turned toward one of them. Large, albeit fake, gemstones above the entrance caught his eye immediately.

Stepping inside, he realized he was mistaken. This wasn't a jeweler's shop. It was a tavern.

The eyes of those present fixed instantly on his rich attire.

"Friend, this place is for miners only," the tavern keeper said from behind the counter.

An old miner seated nearby objected.

"Let him in, it's obvious he's a stranger. He won't bother us long."

After a moment's hesitation, the tavern keeper nodded, which sparked irritation in the aristocrat. How could they even consider not letting him in? Tsk!

Clicking his tongue, he sat beside the old man.

"What shall we bring his lordship?"

"Wine."

"No wine. Ale."

Karl grimaced but gestured for it to be brought. He needed to wet his throat anyway… and perhaps clear his head.

In his mind still thundered the pounding of giant hammers, each mighty blow turning a lump of red-hot steel into a sword blank. Bon-bon-bon—as if an experienced baker stamped out pies. A skilled sculptor could, with a single touch, turn a formless lump of steel into a blade. But even he could not do it without pause, hour after hour, day after day. If that factory kept working, in ten or twenty years it would arm every subject of the kingdom, including infants. Madness. Sheer madness…

"Your ale, sir," the tavern keeper placed a clay mug before him.

Karl took a sip. Filth. But what else could he expect of a plebeian drink?

The tavern keeper extended his hand. Hm, payment was expected? Tsk. Outrageous.

The former Count reached to his belt and realized he had no money. All his gold had gone to pay for the core. In that case…

"You should be grateful that a noble even drinks your swill," Karl sneered, pushing the mug away.

A grumble of discontent rose in the hall.

"Quiet," the old miner calmed his comrades with a sharp glance. "Don't you recognize the colors? I'll treat. Let's drink to Lord Condor, to the lesser evil!"

"To the Lord!" mugs were raised around him.

Reluctantly, the former Count followed suit. The ale was vile, but one had to drink for the House.

"What brings Count Condor to our city?" the old man asked slyly.

"Not your business, miner," Karl slurred slightly, shocked by his impertinence.

"You're right. Not my business anymore," the old man chuckled quietly and drank.

A strange tavern. Strange people.

The door opened and a young man in miner's garb rushed in, but at his belt hung a sword.

"All the mages were summoned to the Lord, so the drill won't be fixed until tomorrow. Today we rest."

One by one, the workers rose from their seats and dispersed. Others, conversely, ordered more ale.

The youth came to the counter and sat beside the old man.

"Not going home, Tal?"

"I'll come later. Won't interfere with you and your wife spending time together," the old man smirked, then added, "Besides, I'd like to have another look at our Lord's grandfather."

"Do I look like some exotic beast to be stared at, peasant?" Karl flared instantly.

"No. An ordinary aristocrat. I'm disappointed. I expected something… different," the old man shook his head and laid silver on the counter. "Bring some chicken, please."

"One moment," the tavern keeper replied and vanished into the back room.

"Well, as they teach us in school, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Maybe that's why he's so ordinary? To balance our Lord?" the youth smiled.

These plebeians were simply mocking him.

"Why does a miner need a sword? Fancied yourself a warrior?" the former Count tried to shame him.

"They were cheap, I couldn't resist," the young man spread his hands and smiled sheepishly.

"Good thing you don't think yourself a warrior. Not just anyone should carry a sword. Return it to the merchant, let it go to someone worthy."

"A warrior doesn't have to wear a sword," the old man interjected.

The aristocrat studied him closely. Lean, sinewy. A kindred spirit—this man had clearly been in battle. A warrior.

"A warrior who lays aside his sword is no longer a warrior," the former Count pressed, but the old man shook his head again, hiding his steel gaze.

"No. A warrior is not obliged to fight every battle."

"The First Duke will soon attack to destroy our County. If you are a warrior, why don't you defend it?"

"That is a battle of lords. Not my battle," the old man shrugged.

For a moment the former Count froze, unable to comprehend the words.

"Coward's talk! A subject is bound to lay down his life for his lord if needed."

"We are bound only to the One. Any war only multiplies the dead, however just it may seem. If aristocrats listened to God, they wouldn't start so many conflicts over nothing."

"Your words won't stop the First Duke's troops from burning this city."

"Concrete doesn't burn, my lord… But if he tries, everyone will rise against him, including me. However, I won't support your grandson's conquests. Even the lesser evil is still evil."

Karl turned away. He would not respond further, not at the cost of his dignity.

The grandson had gathered followers in his own image. These people were just as mad as he was.

And how did he expect to win a war with such as them?