The smithy looked as dilapidated as last time, and I’d learned a few things about his circumstances by asking around the docks.
He'd always kept to himself, turning down offers to join larger groups of craftsmen. He often muttered about how those groups prioritized mass production, dismissing the emphasis on quality he held dear. He’d stood firm in his resolve to produce high-quality work but had suffered several suspicious setbacks. His material orders were misplaced, and his tools were stolen, forcing him to purchase from his competitors if he wanted to work. Faulty tools, and impure ore and ingots, all endeavoured to orchestrate his fall.
The man I found in the smithy, was hunched over a table, clutching the edge with a white-knuckled grip. One hand supported his head, as he breathed laboriously. He looked tense, like a man nearing a breaking point, forced to face a difficult decision.
“I need to do this carefully,” I thought as I approached the smith. “If I come on too strong, or too eager, he’ll get suspicious, but too little, and it won’t convince him. Perhaps a method to make better use of the ores and ingots he has? Less waste, or work required to purify? Something derived from Machelli’s method? He was an expert metalworker in my time, and I do have some of his teachings downloaded to my console.”
The air was thick with the scent of burning coal, the crackle of fire, and the sharp tang of molten metal. The back wall was dominated by the forge itself, blackened by soot, and without embers. The anvil was cracked, and the tools around his workspace were in poor condition. I took in the sights, as I walked toward the man.
The sounds of the city dimmed, though still filtered through the open doorway, contrasting with the silence of the smithy. Nothing was being worked on at the time, and the only sounds were the laboured breathing of the blacksmith himself, and my footfalls.
The man looked up at me, with narrowed eyes, as I approached, but he schooled himself and donned a professional appearance. A mix of hope and suspicion was revealed by my Gift. His clothes bore the stains of soot, sleeves rolled up, exposing sinewy arms sculpted by the forge's labour. Scars and pockmarks dotted his skin, likely from embers, or the odd accident. His hands looked rough and calloused.
He had a rough look, with a scraggly beard, and long hair bound in a tail. It looked like it had been weeks since he last bathed, and the smell confirmed it.
“Welcome,” he said in a booming voice. “Welcome to my smithy, I’m Burgheard. How can I help you?”
I noticed his clenched fist and the scent of cheap alcohol on his breath. He was frustrated and at his wit’s end.
“I’ve passed by here a few times, as I explored the city, and uhh,” I looked at him, and saw sadness, and embarrassment in his eyes. “What’s happened?”
As I asked, I took a closer look at the man and the smithy. Bits of metal, discarded in a box, despite their apparent quality. Scraps collected for recycling, and reuse. Clumps of ore, and coal, though very little, and of poor quality. It painted a picture of a dedicated smith with poor resources.
The bags under the Burgheard’s eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and the smell of alcohol struck me more as a result of depression and sadness than addiction. A man drinking his worries away or drinking to sleep.
His eyes darkened at my words, and I could tell he was growing angry, but he took a deep breath before speaking in a forced calm manner.
“I’ve been struck with misfortune,” he said through gritted teeth, and the table groaned from the pressure his hands exerted on it.. “But, my work will speak for itself. I’m a far better smith than the others, and I provide quality work.”
There was a glint of defiance in his gaze, almost stirring in its refusal to yield, and I raised my hands in a placating gesture.
“From what I can tell, it would seem so, though your tools and the state of your smithy don’t fill me with confidence.”
His eyes darted to said tools, and his expression fell.
“True, haah. My tools were stolen around a week ago, and all I’ve managed to get a hold of is this trash. I’m afraid I’ll have to take back the statement on quality, as I can’t work shit with these tools.”
“Now, don’t be so glum,” I said, smiling, even as my pulse rose. This was risky, but I hoped it would work out. “I’ve heard some things about the other smithies, about how they prefer quantity, but I’m looking for quality, myself.”
His eyes lit up at my words, though I could tell he was suspicious.
“So, what do you want?”
“I want to help you.”
His eyes widened, though quickly narrowed again, and he leaned away from me, releasing the table from his clutches.
“Why? What do you gain from that? And don’t try to tell me it’s out of the goodness of your heart, 'cause that’s bullshit.”
He shook his head, glaring at me, and crossed his arms.
“Fair, fair. I’m looking for an avenue to earn some coin, and influence in the city. I figure helping a struggling craftsman could work in my favour. I’m not going to rob you or force you to make concessions on your craft, but throughout my travels, I’ve learned a thing or two.”
“Like what?”
His suspicion wavered as hope surged. He wasn't sold yet; his scepticism remained. An eyebrow arched, and he looked at me expectantly.
“Like a way to efficiently remove impurities in iron. It should improve your output, and result in a stronger product, without sacrifice.”
His eyes narrowed, and I could practically hear the gears grinding in his mind, but I believed I had him, I just needed to provide a last, little push.
“I've got some acquaintances at the docks. Considering your inventory, I could likely procure materials to aid you.”
He looked at me, still uncertain, sceptical, but he soon sighed in resignation.
“I-” he hesitated. His face went through a series of emotions, and clasped and unclasped his hands, before sighing deeply and shaking his head. “I’m in no position to refuse honest aid, but I’ve had it with schemers, and tricksters. I’ll pay for the materials if you provide them, and any decent tools, but you’ll get nothing from me for the methods until I can determine if they work, or are worth a damn.”
I closed my eyes in thought, feeling relief at making progress. I had to leave an impression, to secure a partnership. He had to want me around, to continue providing aid. As his craft improved, and his standing followed, so would mine, and he’d be open for more. I had to ensure his gains outweighed any fear or allegiance to the church.
I had to be cautious, and not draw too much attention, especially from the church, but it was doable.
“Very well, but do not attempt to renege on your end,” I warn him. “I’ll give you some tips, to prove the veracity of my claim, and when you find that they work, then we’ll discuss any future exchanges. As I said, I have no interest in robbing you or tricking you, but I refused to be taken advantage of myself.”
“That’s fair,” the blacksmith, Burgheard, looked, and sounded relieved, and I noticed a pep in his step, as he gestured me toward his forge and anvil. “So, let’s get to it.”
My eyes widened in a sudden realisation.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Oh my!” I said. “Please forgive me! I forgot to introduce myself properly. My name is Jace, son of Rour’ketch. Strange names, I know, but it is what it is.”
“Hmph,” Burgheard grunted. “I never paid much mind to that stuff, but I did find it strange. I always preferred the quiet, and solitary work, which is what drew me to the smithy in the first place. Hammering metal on an anvil ensures no conversation takes place. Hah!”
His eagerness was endearing, in a way, and I finally noticed the joy he seemed to take in his work. I provided him with a method to remove impurities from iron while strengthening the end product. Something I believed to be within reason.
Burgheard looked sceptical, but excited to learn.
It didn’t take long to explain the little I intended to give him, and I bid him farewell to work on the rest of my promise; the tools, and materials.
The trip back to the docks was uneventful, though it gave me time to consider the future.
If I got Burgheard on my side, and if he proved capable, that could neatly set me up for introducing more, and more advanced tech, though a callous thought entered my mind.
“And, if the advances draw attention, I have a shield,” I thought. “The initial suspicion will fall on Burgheard, and if I…”
I shook those cruel thoughts from my mind. That was not who I wanted to be or become.
I turned my thoughts to planning my conversation with Sæwine, the harbormaster. He’d be the one I had to convince, in order to get the materials I promised Burgheard.
I found Sæwine at his usual station, overseeing, and managing the harbour, fiddling with the tools of his trade. He looked up at me with a smirk when I approached.
“Well,” he said jovially. “Didn’t think I’d see you so soon, Jace! What brings you back here? Need more work?”
“Ha!” I responded, smiling. “No, I’m afraid I’m not back for more work. Not yet, at least. No, I’m looking for a source of blacksmith material, ores or ingots, and the like. I’d like some tools as well.”
“Blacksmithing? What do you need that stuff for? Thinking about trying for the Smith’s guild?”
He arched an eyebrow, and I noticed him tense, and he stopped fiddling around with his tools.
“Nothing like that. I’ve encountered an opportunity, and I’d like to seize it. Might provide me with some stable income in the city. You know where I can find what I need?”
“Well, yes, of course, I know. I know everything that goes on around here. Just, let me think.”
Sæwine rubbed his hands through his beard, as he thought, before nodding.
“A ship came in this morning, not one you worked on, that carried some ore, and one of the warehouses should hold a bunch of tools, ready for transfer elsewhere. The only issue is, how are you going to pay for it?”
His eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed.
“Well, that’s where I hoped you could help me out some more,” I said. “You see, I’m trying to get a foothold in the city, but I currently lack funds. Is there any way for you to help? Do you know anyone who could? I know we haven’t known each other for long, but I believe I’ve proven myself trustworthy, and reliable in our dealings.”
“Hahh, you have, but you’re asking a lot, you know. Ores and ingots aren’t cheap, neither are the tools.”
He shook his head, though he didn’t dismiss me out-of-hand.
“I won’t need much, only enough to get started, basically.”
I lowered my head and adopted a pleading expression.
“Well… Damn it, fine! I’ll go out on a limb for you, but if you screw me over, you’ll have the combined strength of the dockworkers and guards on your neck.”
His tone grew harsh at the end, and he pointed a thick finger in my face, as he spoke the last sentence.
“Completely fair.”
I nodded and gave a grateful, relieved smile.
“I’ll lend you the coin, but I expect a return, and soon.”
“I promise, it will be worth your while, and it won’t take long.”
Sæwine looked at me, in silence, for several seconds, then nodded, and turned into a nearby building, where he gathered a couple of guys to fetch the items I required.
A little while later, they returned with two crates of ore, coal and iron, and some ingots, along with a small casket for the tools.
“They’ll load the stuff on a cart, and you’ll return the cart immediately, got it?”
“Of course, thank you, Sæwine, truly. I am deeply grateful to you.”
I bowed my head and gave him a genuine smile. I saw him quirk his brow, as he looked at me, but I turned to the dockworkers and thanked them for their help.
With that, I mounted the cart and set off back to the smithy. Just over an hour had passed since I left, which left Burgheard stunned. I don’t think he’d expected me to deliver so quickly, and in fact, neither had I.
The glint of anticipation in Burgheard’s eyes felt infectious, and I was eager to see the result of my aid. Would he be able to incorporate it efficiently? Would he be able to make improvements of his own, now that I had given him a push?
I helped him carry the crates into the smithy and left to return the cart.
We’d agreed to give Burgheard a couple of days to work on the improvements, so I decided to take some time to explore the other side of the river, which I’d dubbed the religious district due to the spires, and the cathedral I saw.
I had to walk for a while, toward the noble district before I found a passing over the river. A tall, stone bridge spanned the river, providing clearance for the ships to pass beneath. The bridge was filled with people, mostly the more well-off citizens, but there was the odd beggar who sat by the railing. The sounds of the river flowing, the bustle from the docks, which could be heard even here, and the chatter of people created a pleasant atmosphere on the bridge, and I found myself walking slowly, and taking it all in.
The bridge was decorated with statues, and reliefs, depicting various important figures in the city, and one of them immediately drew my attention. The surroundings appeared to mute, colours dulled, and the sounds faded into a distant murmur.
“That’s!” I thought, my head reeling in disbelief. “That’s Officer Reaves!”
The statue in front of me held the likeness of Officer Reaves, the military commander on the ship I was on. He was in charge of the weapons, and boarding parties, while Commander Clare had oversight of the whole ship.
“How is this possible?” I thought.
My head reeled from the shock before I started to consider the more likely truth, that it was only a resemblance, not an actual statue of Officer Reaves.
“Impressive isn’t he?” asked a voice, like a quiet rasp, from behind me.
I turned to see a slight man in drab clothes. His skin was pale as if he rarely saw the sun, and he carried a cylindrical case that I assumed held a scroll or something. He stood slightly hunched, with deep wrinkles on his face.
“His name is forgotten, but he apparently held the city against the Anglo-Saxons for several years, before he mysteriously disappeared,” the man spoke with reverence.
“We do not know what happened to him, but there are some among the braver scholars who believe the church was involved.”
He looked around, cautiously, before he leaned closer, and continued.
“They’ve maintained a significant presence in the city ever since. All we truly know of this man is his skill with warfare and his genius. A lot of the improvements to the city’s defence, along with governing the city, and surroundings came from him.”
He adopted a longing look, as he gazed at the statue with a dreamy expression.
“Ahh, how I wish I could have spoken to him, to pick his mind for the knowledge he must have possessed.”
I looked at the man, and at the statue, in stunned silence, not knowing how to react to this information, before the man spoke up again.
“Ah forgive me, I get excited about these things. My name is John, I consider myself a scholar of the past. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to carry on, do seek me out at the House of Learning, if you would like to learn more.”
The man, John, left in a hurry, leaving me in a daze. The information was revelatory. Officer Reaves had lived here, in the past, and influenced the development of the city. Did that mean that other survivors from the Excelsior, our vessel, had survived the Black Hole, and ended up here? My mind was abuzz with thoughts, ideas, and plans, but I pushed them back.
I tried to refocus my thoughts on more productive matters, but I found myself returning to Officer Reaves. Dazed, thoughts swimming without focus, I wandered through the city, paying my surroundings no heed until, long after darkness fell, I found myself back at the Gull. Rather than return to my exploration, I decided to head to bed, perhaps some sleep would bring clarity.
Sleep takes me, almost as soon as I hit the bed, though it is not peaceful.
Stars, bright stars in the absolute darkness of the void, almost blinding in their radiance.
Blinking out, disappearing, never to be seen again.
Eternity passes, in utter silence.
Some stars blink out, some shoot away, leaving trails in their wake.
Three converge, and fall.
Three Gifts, Three Lives, One Fate.