I returned to the forge, where the two boys, who had taken to their apprenticeship with a growing pride, were busy filling orders and completing such chores as I routinely assign. Gort, as instructed, worked on my new project. I had decided to try to make a bicycle of some sort. I have never been very comfortable with bikes since I got my growth, but I wagered it would be a popular item here, where all but wizards went shanks-mare.

I had been frustrated by the need for a proper gear-chain, which would have been very time consuming to hand forge, if not impossible. Then I remembered some old pictures of antique bikes with enormous front wheels connected directly to the pedal crank. This brought to mind a child's trike as well, and after a little sketching, I felt something might be done. The result, a two-wheeler, with the larger wheel in front. The crank directly drove the oversize front wheel as is common with tricycles, but fitted with a simple ratchet clutch, so that it could idle while the bike coasted.

The frame consisted largely of a light, very tough wood available locally. The wheels were flat forged wagon bands with cone-shaped hubs to substitute for spokes. It looked more like a chopper motorcycle than a bicycle, with a high seat to allow good leg leverage, but after several changes to the crank length, frame and seating position, it seemed to function well enough, even on mild grades, though it would require walking up many of the surrounding hills. The carpenter, in exchange for a significant fund of my iron markers, provided the wooden frames.

I had worked with Gort to make a small stock of the metal components. The woodworker finally delivered an additional six frames, so I put Gort to assembling the bikes, and 'adjusting' them.

The adjustments were by brute strength, and amounted to slightly re-bending things so they lined up on the hand-fashioned and somewhat variable wood structures. An open box, fitted behind the driver seat, completed the units.

The result, a very stable, if slow, ride that handled the dirt trails reasonably well, and could carry a bushel sized load of cargo. They used bushings instead of bearings, which required constant greasing, but were still better than nothing. The prototype drew curious stares from the boys when I wheeled it out of the shop for testing.

They crowded around, handling it, trying to divine its purpose. They were amazed when I mounted it, and with a few false starts (it had been a while), managed to pedal it around the open area fronting the forge. Its practical turning radius was less than I had hoped for, but functional.

Both boys immediately wanted to try it out, and soon I had two very scraped up and confused apprentices. However, with perseverance, both were riding within a short time, and strongly suggesting I should make more. With Gort's persistent effort, I now had seven total, so I relieved one of the apprentices at the Forges' counter and had him ride around in front, to see what effect it would have on the customers. In less than two hours, I had only the prototype, two sad helpers, and a significant mound of iron markers. I set Gort to forming another stock of bike components and strode off to find the carpenter.

***

It was a cluttered day.

Behind the keep, Sir Connor's men sat at the open-air trenchers, shouting and laughing, pressing around the half-barrel of "small ale" that had been provided. This drink had been thrust on me several times since coming here. I hated it. But the water here, unfiltered and questionable, did not come from a tap, so the beverage served a real need.

Made from the first, and most starch laden boil of grain and water, the primary wort fermented to a reasonably strong ale. The used grain, strained from that wort, was reboiled, making a far weaker mixture, that when in turn fermented, produced the "small ale" sometimes called "small beer", a vaguely beery tasting beverage of far less alcoholic content but at least safe to drink.

I suppose one could get a buzz off it if a huge quantity were downed, but it would take a heroic effort. To avoid it, I had taken to keeping a supply of boiled water at the forge. The clanging and banging from the forge echoed behind me, while sharp bellows from the carpenter's stall foretold of extra duties for some unlucky apprentice. Dimanda appeared from around the far side of the stall, a stick of a girl in tow, who looked barely ten years old, and short for that age.

There were a few small cottages, one to two room affairs that barely qualified as such, behind the carpenters shop and my forge, on the stream's opposite side. Not many, for the keep's staff was small. The girl probably came from one of those.

"William! This is Bree. Treste, her mother, tends to the brewing vats here." The girl sidled behind Dimanda's full hips and peeked up at me shyly with big brown eyes. "Bree is very good with her hands, but not useful to her mother at the brewing. I thought maybe you might find some use for her about the forge. What do you think?"

I looked at the girl a little baffled. I wasn't about to deny Dimanda anything, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of any possible use for the child around the forge, and doubted the brisk boys I had been training would treat her well if I did. I assumed Dimanda had been unable to find work for the girl elsewhere. Still..."What can she do?"

Dimanda nudged her forward, and the girl thrust a handful of small objects at me. One, a small rose flower of sun-dried clay. Every petal beautifully detailed. The other item proved to be a hand formed cup, with a relief around it of Ivy done with impressive skill. This piece had been fired, or at least burnt black in someone's fire-pit, though unglazed. I smiled at the girl, who tentatively smiled back."You made these yourself?"

"Yes--of river-clay, sir."

Dimanda's eyes pleaded with me. "You mentioned when we last talked about making a pottery kiln. You said..."

"Yes, and I intend to. But it is not built yet. Tell you what, if she wants, have her come around this evening, and I can show her how to make some pour forms. When we smelt copper, we will go through a lot of those. I suppose we could have her build up a stock. I could give her an iron marker every two days for that. Later, when I can get around to the kiln, we'll see. She certainly has the skill. Will that do for you, Bree?"

The girl's smile brightened, and she nodded. Importantly, so did Dimanda. "It's settled then."

I yearned to stay and talk further to Dimanda, but needed to see the carpenter on forge business. So we parted, for now.

Seth, the elderly carpenter, emerged from the front of the woodworker's shanty in a state of irritation. His hands flapped against the front of his thin apron causing a cloud of sawdust to bloom and drift off in the light breeze. Rail thin and white haired, Seth's chiseled bony features rested atop a long ropy neck. His watery blue eyes squinted up at my approach."Be your day goin' better'n mine, William. What brings you 'round this time o'day? How didst those frames work out for ye?"

"Very well, and thanks for the effort, Seth." His rustic accent came through, even in translation. While many of the common folk spoke with less formality, Seth obviously had roots in a different district than this one. "In fact, I came by to order more..."

Seth's face pinched inward even more than usual, if possible, and he shook his head. "Naw, no time, no time. I need to plank out the logs as came in this mornin' and set em' out to season. No time for carve work now. Come inside. There is sommat to discuss fer accounts. I've tea, if you like."

I followed the tradesman into the shop, and the old worker swept wood-dust off a bench top with one gnarled hand and pointed to a half completed chair with the other. I am, if I may say so, skilled in the art of dealing with suppliers, and obviously Seth needed something from me.

I seated myself, and waited patiently as he hustled around, magically procuring a brace of cups and a steaming copper teapot. He picked a small sack off the floor and chucked it onto the table. It clanked as it settled. Then he seated himself across from me, and pushed the bag next to my cup.

"These were taken in by me from the townsfolk an' farmers as trade last few days, alongside those markers you gave against the frames. It all comes to about sixty hours of forge labor, my reckoning." I eyed the bag speculatively but said nothing, waiting on Seth. "I'll be needing spikes and such, and more O' these here." A copper splitting wedge appeared out from his apron, joining the bag on the table.

No issue there. The hills around the keep were veined in malachite, and stocks of copper were up, although eventually I would need to smelt more. Bree would be helping to prepare for that.

I had put this off, as I needed to speak to Chord about assigning workers to mine out more ore than waited in the wooden bins beside the forge. Smelting is a dull business, which would preoccupy my furnace, once started. I had planned to build a separate smelter later in the season when there would be less demand on the forge. "Consider it done. Have one of your boys run a list of your needs up to the Forge, and we'll get started on it right away." The gnarled Artisan grunted, but still seemed unsettled. "What else do you have in mind, Seth? You seem agitated today."

The Carpenter sat and fiddled with his teacup for a second. I use the term "tea" advisedly. The stuff amounted to a hot, bitter herbal concoction, with no caffeine in it whatever. "I have to admit, William, these tokens of yours be a blessing. I am doing work from town and country I'd been obliged to turn away afore now. Mark me, I'm not always in a position ta' do trades. Some as come fer' work offering goods I've no need of, nor ha' the time to trade away for those as I do. I don't like to keep track O' what's owed , and tis' rare, ken ye, that a trade be exact, or truly fair. The folk here bouts trust Chord, an' are right willin' ta' accept his smithy markers on balance, as am I. But the markers round' about run out quick, and at times I still has ta' trade or turn work away. The trouble is, there's not enough markers about, and the scarcity is makin' folks tight with em'."

That was ominous news. "What do you mean?"

Their beginin' ta' try ta' bargain fer' a premium fer' their use. Makes it harder ta' get me price. Soon be needin' ta' pass some O' that loss on ta' you, if I continues to take em' in."

I could see where this was going, and launched into my spiel about Forge hour limitations and the marker quantities, but Seth cut me off with a wave of his hand. "Chord's made this all plain afore, and said I should talk to you. See here, what if I threw in with ya, so's the marks were based both on my shop's time and yours? Couldn't ya then see clear to makin' more? The shops O' the village are tradin' em' as goods, without even askin'. It's not fair they be limited to the forge time alone, when so many dasn't even reach the Forge ta' be reclaimed. The more folk comes ta' me with em' stead a chickens and such, the easier it is fer' me ta' take orders. What do you think?"

On consideration, I couldn't see why not. We talked about the relative value of the carpenter's time versus the forge's, and hammered out an agreement to make more tokens. These would include the addition of a saw's image. While crude, the disks were safe enough from forgery, given the scarcity of proper metal working tools. Mine turned out to be the only working forge this side of the district capital, where arms and armor were a market. I put this down to the lack of horses. Farrier work and wagoneering provided much of the common income that spurred the spread of blacksmithing, save for the rare traveling tinker's repair efforts, and thin hammered pots.

The new strike I could easily add to the current token's impression, and quickly affix onto the old ones as they were turned in. Seth's face smoothed out a little when I said so, and nodded. "As fer yer frames, come out back, as there is sommat I would show ye."

I rose and followed the man out the shop rear where a pyramidal pile of peeled logs loomed. "We have 'em piled here, and then move 'em to the Vee Braces, where we split 'em down the center. T'is nasty hard work, but when done, we knows what logs'll do for timber and which are to soft or center rotted for aught but fire wood. See now." He waved his arm toward two stacks of split wood, one of half logs, cleanly split, the other of hacked trunks with rotted cores, or poorly split examples. "The farmers and your boys make short work of the dross and cart it off ta feed their fires. The toth'er pile we split again, pulling free two flat boards an' two quarter rounds, as take the contour of the logs. The rounds make good fencing and such, as is, and the boards go on ta' be shaved square an' stacked to season out."

I nodded. While my thoughts hadn't been on where the carpenter's supplies came from, it didn't surprised me to hear that there were no sawmills, and that this whole process fell to the woodworker and his apprentices directly.

"This is why I can't run up yer' order just now. This all takes time, unless..." the watery eyes screwed intently into my own, "you can find a way to speed the process up. I ha' been keeping my eyes on you, William. You're a right smart tinker. I saw those riding machines ye made wheelin' around affront the forge. Seems to me a man such as you might find a way to lighten my chores. If so, why, it'ud free me time to do more of those frames for ye. What do you think?"

We returned to the bench and our cooling tea. "Are there any grain mills around here?" I asked. Seth tossed the contents of his cup to the floor, and poured new tea from the warm kettle. "Milling's done at the farms. Most grind it out in a large stone basin with a great fluted granite pestle they push round about with a pair of heavy poles. But I ken what yer asking after. There's a mill up at Corbell, on the Nolgate River. The farmers there run it. Well, tinker it as much as run it. Still, 'tis a sight to see an it is a' work. The river pushes a wheel with big flat spokes around in the current, and that powers it. Has a big wheel-stone rolling around a stone track and grinds the grist. Big wood pegs push 'tothers on the shaft of it, to make it roll round. Spend as much time pound'in in new pegs as grind'in flour, but it's a sight to see. Corbell services most of the central fief, t'is too much milling work to be all done by hand, the crops large as they are there. So the water mill is necessary, if a pain in the arse."

That revelation made things simpler for me, and I explained my plans for harnessing the small waterfall behind the Forge. I pulled a piece of charcoal from my pocket and used it to sketch out a rough plan for a power shave plane to surface his lumber. I could make the plane, which would be mounted to a flat surface upon which he could lay his split wood, and a belt-powered roller could push the boards over it, peeling and refining their surface as it operated. Seth looked at the drawing, pulling at his chin, and brought up safety and operational considerations not addressed by the rough sketch. I responded, showed him how kickback, lifting, and other oddities could be managed.

I also broached the possibility of making a circular saw large enough to deal efficiently with the timber, noting that such a saw would not be quick or easy to make. Seth sat back with a sigh. "Ah, such stuff as dreams are made of, William, but I can see as what this would mean, no mistake. Still, there are several months of skilled work to see this come to pass, and," he waved toward the logs piled behind the shop, "nothing here as will make all of that disappear anon."

I bit back the urge to note that much of the skilled work would be mine. Seth would have to make the wheel and cradle, and most of the table structures. I had in mind several other shop tools that could be powered from the stream, and gaining his support for the waterwheel itself would be important when I went to Chord with the idea. I knew the carrot of future production couldn't nail down his help by itself.

"I could lend you Gort. He can move and split your logs easily, and I can manage without him for a few days, to catch you up. What do you think?"

A grin cracked across Seth's face, and he stood and shook my hand. "Done! Ye come by with yer Golem, and I will help you to show him what needs doing. Then I can set my lads to carving out yer frames right away. Tell me when ya go afore Chord and we'll get the mage to agree to the waterwheel. I can see we will need to clear more land soon, to take advantage of all this. I knew I could count on ya."

That being settled, I left to retrace my way back to the Forge. The day turned to long shadows by the time I had finished business at the forge and with the Carpenter. The Duke's men had quieted down, many sleeping on the trencher, or passed out, others quietly gaming with each other, for what stakes I couldn't imagine. The carpenter's apprentices were sitting in front of his shop, finishing up a meal of fowl and weak beer. The sight of Gort jerking along behind me caused a general halt in mastication, but no comment. The thing had been working in plain sight for weeks now, and people had become used to seeing it about.

I knocked on the entrance lintel and helloed.

"About time!" Seth's thin visage appeared at the door, and he motioned me in. "Bring it out back, and I'll get the thing started on the logs."

We walked Gort through the process a few times, and Seth grunted to see the clay figure drive his wedges 'barehanded' into the thick trunks, straight down the center of each one. Then it reached into the opened crack and pulled the logs apart like a diner opening clams. It took several logs before Seth felt satisfied Gort could tell the difference between good timber and bad, and sort the slit trunks appropriately. By then, the sun had completely set, and since Gort made no appreciable racket parting the lumber, as it didn't use a maul in the splitting, we left it to work through the night. For some reason, Gort didn't need good light, or any at all, to work by. I left with a promise that at least some of the needed bicycle frames would be delivered tomorrow afternoon.

I noted that bright candlelight made yellow holes of the keep's high windows, and wondered if Chord and Sir Connor had gotten around to settling accounts yet. I was too tired to be very curious, at the moment.

Something tickled at the back of my mind. Bree! I had completely forgot about my promise to Dimanda. I lurched around behind the forge to see the girl forlornly waiting near the clay pit. Arms wrapped around her thin form, head downcast.

"I am sorry, Bree. I got caught up with the carpenter and forgot. I'll pay you for your wait."

Gazing briefly at the moon, I gauged it light enough to show her what needed doing. "Just a moment, let me get my form."

I retreated to the forge and found the mold, just a wood frame and a block the size of the copper melt it would make, with a dowel in its center to form the pour hole. I returned and showed Bree how to pack the form, press in the melt hollow with the block, and a second one to complete the pour mold. I watched as she repeated the process flawlessly, then sent her home with an iron token and instructed her to return tomorrow to begin the work.

Exhausted, I happily fell onto my pallet, still worried as to the result of Chord's conversations with his Duke's agent and what, if anything, it might mean for me. Oddly, the sense of wood splintering between my fingers, of life coursing between Gort, the sword, and myself played on in the back of my drowsing mind. As I descended into slumber, the leering face of Chord's pit-demon flowed, pulling at me.