“If I paid you extra, to take on more labor, could you do more?”
A decisive shake of the head. “No, sir. Guild rules.” At Adrian’s expression he went on: “But see here, sir, I like gold and silver as much as the next man, and I like to do something new now and then. What I can do is contract out. There are dozens of mastersmiths in the Brotherhood; not many as good as I am, if I do say so myself, but nearly. And there are plenty of journeymen we could hire away from their regular work, and who could do the simpler parts. Say . . . thirty in three weeks, with as much again every week after that. It’ll go faster once we’re used to it.”
Adrian sighed. “Well, if that’s all that can be done . . .”
the artisan is not being entirely truthful, Center pointed out. An image of his face sprang up, with pointers indicating temperature variations and the dilation of his pupils. mendacity factor of 27%, ±7. i suspect that he is merely establishing an initial bargaining position.
Oh, Adrian thought. He was the son of a merchant, but most of his life had been spent among the Scholars of the Grove. What should I do?
Well, I wasn’t a trader either, Raj’s mental voice said, amused. But I did do a fair bit of dickering with sutlers. I’d suggest you say that’s not enough to make the project worthwhile. He’ll scream and modify his terms; then point out that he and his friends will be able to sell the muskets elsewhere, too . . .
* * *
“What is this, a flowerpot?” the brassfounder said.
“No, it’s a weapon,” Adrian replied, biting back the first words that came to mind. “The one the King has commanded me to build,” he added.
“May the King live forever!” the artisan said, without taking his eyes off the model Adrian had had carved from soft wood.
The Emerald’s hands trembled slightly as he pulled on it. Not enough sleep, he thought to himself as the model split down the middle.
“This is a—” He paused, frustrated. What’s “cross-sectional view” in Islander? he thought.
Lad, there’s no word for it. There’s no word for it in your language either, Raj said.
“—what it would look like if it was cut down the middle?” Adrian said. Have I changed so much in a year?
He shook aside the obscure sense of instability that lay like a lump of cold millet porridge below his breastbone for a moment. The reasonable man did not doubt that he himself was, the School of the Grove taught.
The brassfounder was in a bigger way of business than any of the smiths; he was a merchant, as well as the manager of a workshop. Iron was much more common than copper, vastly more common than tin. You had to have long-distance contacts to deal in bronze. Hence the warehouse attached to his house, and the courtyard with its ruddy tile and fountain, that Islander symbol of status. The man’s turban was of plain cotton, though, and the eyes below it were shrewd and dark.
“Like a tube closed at one end, then,” he said, tracing the model. “You know, this trick might be useful for making preliminary models of castings of many types . . . and the metal outside the tube grows much thicker towards the closed end. What’s this, though?”
“It’s a thin hole going from the outside—this depression—into the tube at the breech end. The closed end,” he added, at the man’s frown.
“Hmmm. Well, with bronze, it would be simpler to drill that afterwards. And what are these little solid tubes at right angles to the main one for?”
“You’ll find out,” Adrian said, smiling slightly.
Good. We don’t want too much getting out too early, and I’d be surprised if some of these people aren’t for sale, Raj said.
Or all of them, Adrian replied.
* * *
“Well, you make pumps with close-fitting pistons, don’t you?” he said.
“Of course, honored sir,” the metalworker said. “By lapping—you use the piston head to do the last little bit of boring out, covering it with naxium—emery is your Emerald word, I think. That will give you a very close fit.”