Part 17 (1/2)

That simply didn't make sense. ”What hammer?”

Ranio shook his head and walked away. Furio looked round for Gig, and saw him heaving on a long lever sticking out of what looked appallingly like the backside of a cow. When he got closer, he realised it was a bellows, made from a whole hide with the hair still on. He couldn't recall having seen that either, but it must have taken a lot of time and work to make.

”What, this?” Gig said. ”Here, you take over for a bit. I'm shattered.”

Furio reached up. He was only just able to get his hands on the lever. ”I'll do my best,” he said doubtfully. ”But...”

”We st.i.tched up the hides last night,” Gig went on. ”Ranio forged the nozzle a day or so back. We carry on working, you see, when you've gone home.”

Furio couldn't spare the breath to reply to that. He found he could bring the lever down by hanging from it with his feet off the ground. Pus.h.i.+ng it back up again was backbreaking.

”We made the mould last night, too,” Gig went on. ”And the cupola. Baked them overnight in the embers to get them dry enough for the pour. Stick with it,” he added, ”I'll be back in a minute.”

A minute proved to be a very long time. Each stroke of the lever sent a jet of air into the heart of the fire, which responded with a four-foot-high plume of flame, as though there was a dragon lurking in there somewhere. The base of the clay bell was starting to glow. Furio could see a channel-cast-iron guttering, which he'd last seen on the eaves of the store-leading to a pit. Each time he pulled the lever, a wave of heat washed over him, making his skin tingle.

Gig came back. He had that stone-cold worried look on his face; a very bad sign. He shouted something to Ranio that Furio didn't catch, apparently got a reply, and stepped back out of the way as the hidden dragon let out another spurt of fire. Around him, all the partners seemed to be busy, though Furio had no idea what any of them were doing.

”Right,” Gig shouted suddenly. ”Here we go. Furio, one more pull. The rest of you, stand well back.”

He didn't follow his own advice; the rest of them did, sprinting like lumberjacks out of position when the tree splits. Furio hauled the lever down, let go, dropped to the ground and curled up into a ball, as a surge of hot air, moving fast enough to hit like a punch, swept over his head. As a result, he couldn't see what was going on. But he heard a roar not made by voices, and a terrifying hissing and cracking noise like branches breaking. It sounded as though something had just gone dangerously wrong.

Apparently not. A voice he didn't recognise yelped with pure joy, others joined in. He heard Gig yelling, ”Keep back, it's still hot,” then several more deafening cracks, then a rus.h.i.+ng hiss that drowned out all other sound for three or four heartbeats. Then silence. Feeling extremely foolish, Furio uncurled and opened his eyes.

He couldn't see anyone. Then Gig walked towards the pit, with a long pole in his hands. He poked savagely at something inside the pit. Whatever it was, it delighted him. His face split into an improbably broad grin, and he called out, ”It's all right, it's fine.” There was a chorus of whoops and yells. Apparently, it hadn't been a disaster after all.

They had all sorts of fun and games getting it out of the pit. When they eventually won the battle, the end result proved to be a monstrous grey rectangle, impossibly heavy. At this point Ranio (who appeared to be the hero of the hour) took pity on Furio and explained.

”That's the head,” he said, ”for the drop-hammer. The bit that goes up and down.”

Furio nodded dumbly. What drop-hammer?

”We had to cast it in one shot,” Ranio went on, ”and of course, we hadn't a clue, it was all guesswork, plus something he'd read in his book. I told him, you'll never get it hot enough to pour but, f.u.c.k me, he did.”

Light was beginning to dawn. ”You melted iron?”

Ranio beamed at him.

”That's impossible,” Furio said.

”Yes,” Ranio replied. ”They can't even do that back Home. But he said it says how to do it in the book.”

Furio remembered something he'd been told-he hadn't been listening-about how iron was worked. You heated up ore in a huge furnace, and when the rock was really, really hot, iron dribbled out of a hole in the bottom. But it was filthy, full of bits of rubbish, because no furnace ever made could get it hot enough to flow clean. Then you let the dribbles cool and forge-welded them into lumps big enough to be useful, and the more you worked it, the cleaner it eventually got. But n.o.body could cast iron in a mould.

Gignomai could, apparently.

He walked over and looked at it. A dark grey brick, four feet long, a foot high and wide. It'd have to be pretty clean or it'd shatter; rubbish inside the metal would make it weak. He turned away, and found Gig grinning at him.

”What do you reckon?” Gig said.

”Why didn't you tell me?”

That seemed to take Gig by surprise. ”It's not my fault if you don't take an interest,” he said. ”Anyway, that's that done. Tomorrow we'll pour the anvil. Then it's just a matter of making up the frames, and there's a diagram in the book for that. It was the bellows that swung it; double-action, you get twice the blast, which means eight times the heat.” He stopped, and grinned even wider. ”Come with me,” he said. ”You'll see what I'm on about.”

Gignomai's office was the back of a covered wagon, on the bed of which lay sc.r.a.ps of paper, a steel ruler, sticks of charcoal sharpened to fine points and a book. Gignomai turned a few pages, then held it out to Furio. It made no sense: line drawings, a fantasy in abstract geometry, annotated in brown ink in an alphabet Furio didn't recognise.

”Ah,” he said. ”I see.”

Gig laughed. ”Of course you don't,” he said. ”That's the old language. Stesichorus' Instruments, Instruments, from Father's library. This is one of only six surviving copies. I don't suppose anybody's read it for five hundred years, except me.” from Father's library. This is one of only six surviving copies. I don't suppose anybody's read it for five hundred years, except me.”

”But it worked,” Furio said.

”Well, of course,” Gig replied. ”They knew what they were talking about, back then.” He sat down on the tailgate, suddenly exhausted, as though all the strength had been emptied out of him. ”There's a popular fallacy,” he said, ”known as progress. People honestly believe that as time pa.s.ses, we get smarter and better. Bulls.h.i.+t,” he said, with a snapped-off laugh. ”Six hundred years ago they were doing stuff we wouldn't dream of trying now. And then people back Home, who should know better, tell you that Stesichorus is all nonsense, because he talks about doing stuff that simply can't be done. But n.o.body's tried, not for centuries.”

”Except you.”

Gignomai shrugged. ”It's one of the advantages of being exiled to the last place G.o.d made,” he replied. ”Deprived of the advantages of a decent education but with access to the old books, I did the unthinkable and read them a.s.suming them to be true. Back home I'd have had professors telling me it was all drivel. Different world, you see. Just like the old savage said.”

It took Furio a moment to realise he'd heard that last bit right. ”You mean the old man we talked to?”

Gignomai nodded. ”The more I think about it,” he said, ”the more I'm inclined to believe his people have got it more or less right. Not literally, of course,” he added, as Furio's face went defensively blank. ”But they're a d.a.m.n sight closer to the truth than we are. There really are different worlds, and they exist side by side, and the trick is, being able to move from one to another. Like Stesichorus,” he went on (he was talking to himself). ”Like the old man said-someone from the past, long since dead, everybody ignores him because they know he isn't really there, but he knows how to pour iron, and it worked. Or my lot.” He looked up, and his face changed. He smiled. ”Ignore me,” he said, ”I'm drivelling. The thing is, we did it. We made the hammer.” His smile was warm and happy, but it made Furio's skin itch. ”If we can do that, we can do any b.l.o.o.d.y thing.”

After considerable internal debate and soul-searching, Marzo drove to the Tabletop in the donkey cart. He'd been torn between that and one of Ra.s.so's horses. The donkey cart was his, therefore his loss if it got wrecked or stolen. On the other hand, he always suffered agonies the day after riding horseback.

He crossed the river at Long Ford and drove up the far bank to the place where Luso's men had been seen to disappear on previous occasions. n.o.body had ever dared get in close enough to see exactly where they went when they melted away into the rock. He drove up and down a few times but couldn't see anything. He was making a fool of himself. He got down, tethered the donkey to the stump of a tree, sat down on the ground and waited.

He must have fallen asleep. He was woken up by the toe of a boot digging in his back. He looked up, and saw a young man, tall and skinny, standing over him.

”Scarpedino,” he said. ”So this is where you've got to.”

Scarpedino Heddo, the boy who'd disappeared at roughly the same time the murder took place. Now why would a bright young man, heir to a good farm, take it into his head to run away and join up with the met'Oc?

”Got lost?” Scarpedino said.

”Not at all.” Marzo tried to make himself sound polite. ”I'd like a word with Lusomai met'Oc, if that's possible.”

”You want to talk to the boss.” Scarpedino grinned at him. ”No chance.”

”No offence,” Marzo said, through a frozen-solid smile, ”but that's not for you to say, surely.”

”Listen.” Scarpedino knelt down and put his face an inch or so from Marzo's, but he didn't lower his voice. ”We've got no quarrel, you and me. You p.i.s.s off back to town while you still can, all right? You go bothering Master Lusomai, you may not get the chance.”

Marzo fought to keep his voice from breaking, and narrowly won. ”I wonder what Master Lusomai's going to think when he finds out you believe he needs protecting from the likes of me. Maybe he'll be touched by your concern. Or maybe not.”

Scarpedino stood up and performed the most expressive shrug Marzo had ever seen. ”Your choice,” he said. ”Don't blame me.” He nodded to whoever was standing behind Marzo's back, and darkness fell, rough and quick. It smelt of stale cheese and bread mould, and Marzo guessed the other guard had shoved his lunch bag over his head. Strong fingers dug into his shoulder. He allowed himself to be guided by them, onto his feet, then stumbling forward. He hoped someone would remember to feed the donkey, but he wasn't confident about it.

He had a great opportunity, but he didn't manage to learn the art of walking blindfold. He kept banging into things, stumbling, getting hauled upright and shoved along. It didn't help that they were walking uphill rather faster than he'd have chosen. Marzo disapproved of uphill at the best of times, and this wasn't one of them. He tried to calculate the distance, but since he had no idea how far he was going, it was a futile exercise. After a while he gave up asking for a chance to stop and rest, because he couldn't spare the breath. The pain was mostly in his chest and the calves of his legs, but not exclusively so.

After a very long time, a pressure on his shoulder brought him to a halt, which made him happier than he could ever remember being. He wanted to sink down and go to sleep, but the grip of the fingers kept him perfectly still and upright. He heard knuckles banging on a door, then muttering, a lot of it, then silence. He stood and waited for a long time. It was so much better than walking.

The fingers moved him on at last, not far this time. Then another stop, and a downward pressure that folded him neatly at the waist. He hoped there'd be a chair. There was. Then he felt the bag being pulled off over his face, and the world flooded with light.