Icevein: Chapter 29
Hobblefoot smelled the water and mash as soon as he entered the drift, though the workshop was fifty yards farther and they must pass other workshops before first. These lower level workshops smelled far different from those on the upper levels. The upper workshops needed venting due to flame and smoke. Only fireless work was conducted this low. He arrived at the door and pulled it open, not bothering to knock. His assistant and his son Greasegear followed in his wake, carrying their instruments and papers. Oddly enough, they were carrying the paper back to its nascence, for this was the papery.
As he stepped inside, the presses stopped and the workers turned to face him. Hobblefoot might not be their rinlen, strictly speaking, but he was an Owner and a respected engineer. Even in Deep Cut his name was known. He had helped Chargrim to build this papery, and now he was here to expand it. Already, Warmcoat’s cadre had dug and smoothed three times as much space within, making the existing working look oddly small.
Hobblefoot could have designed the machines without ever setting foot inside; he only needed the dimensions, but he wished to see the space. Sometimes, merely standing where the machines would work helped him visualize the build.
The process itself was simple. It required water and pressure, with no flame or smoke, making it a perfect working for a low drift where water was plentiful. The pumps running up the center of the lower levels disposed of excess water, but at least some of it could be put to use.
Every scrap of cloth, every rag, every pair of pants worn to shreds made its way here, traded and bartered by their owners. A series of simple water-driven mallets with iron teeth—not unlike like the water-powered hammers of the smithies in design—pulverized the rags into a watery pulp. The pulp was transferred to a stone pool, and molds were lowered with mesh into the slurry and raised. After drying, the sheets were separated from the molds and stacked tall between felts. The sheets were placed in a great screwpress worked by multiple dwarves. The press squeezed the water from the paper under great pressure. Once released and peeled from the felts, the sheets were carried up to the terraces and dried for days in the open air.
The last phase was the smelliest; the sheets were submerged in a copper tub full of glue derived from boiled sheepskins and rock alum. Learning this step had cost Chargrim a significant bribe to the apprentice of a paper-maker of Deep Cut, but it was key to the process, for at first his brother’s paper drew water from the air and drank the ink. After drying once more, the papers were pounded smooth with yet another water-powered mallet. At last, the sheets were trimmed in a great vice, and the process was complete.
“Go ahead and get back to it,” Hobblefoot told the standing kulhan. They obeyed, although he could feel the difference his presence made. The papery had worked for nearly two decades, now, and his machines had not failed, a testament to his designs.
“Are we sure it is not too much water to double the mallets?” Greasegear asked.
“Look at it,” Hobblefoot said, a note of reproof in his voice. “Would doubling the size of the mallets double the output?”
“No,” came the chastened reply.
“To double the mallets, we would need a greater channel for the water,” said the assistant.
“It can be done,” Hobblefoot acknowledged.
“A bigger press would not serve either,” said Greasegear.
“No. But the pool can be enlarged,” the assistant answered. “Better, a carven pool of soapstone, set in the center so that kulhan can stand on all sides. And the copper bath can be made larger, rather than have two.” Hobblefoot watched the kulhan working, taking in their process, though he knew it well. “And the pool should be set close to the mallets,” the assistant continued. “The pulp should not be carried past the press. See how they dodge.”
That was Hobblefoot’s fault. But he had not had the benefit of watching the workshop function the first time. As he watched, now, the new layout fell into place in his mind. It would require disassembling much of the equipment, but it could be done in a day with enough help. Chargrim could afford to lose some production; they were exporting paper to East Spire now, they made so much of it, and it had grown so plentiful in Glint that some dwarves favored it for cleaning themselves. Why his brother insisted on expanding the production, he wasn’t sure.
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The truth of the matter was, the papery bored him, somewhat. He had designed the great central lift, a five-hundred foot machine that hauled ore and water, capable of running both by steam or water. Hobblefoot’s workshop was full of engines of surpassing interest. These simple presses and water-powered mallets were the toys of children, but if it must be done, it should be done right. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation at Chargrim. He would rather be working on his engines. Delaying the future would only harm them all.
“That’s enough,” he said, turning. “He’ll have enough paper to light his pipe with it.”
The Highlodes arrived, accompanied by a cadre of Ridge Wardens returning to Glint for the springtime. The ürsi were dispersed and hunted out of the Gold River Range, and the time of safety had arrived. The maple syrup and sugar-making was a month past. The first pack trains had already arrived, though not as many as in years past; the ürsi threat lingered longer and longer through the winter, and traders were wary.
The fields along the river were already planted with squash, radishes, turnips, hill-smoke, and many another crop. Even barley grew in dense squares sectioned out in the silt. Newly shorn ewes grazed with their lambs on the green slopes above, and cauldrons steamed above fires where the goatherd wifs boiled the fleeces to separate the lanolin.
Despite the arrival of the Highlodes, Chargrim did not sit in judgment for arbitration. At first, Peridot supposed the delay was due to Rightauger’s rhundal just days away. Her brother would be thirty years, and Onyx had begun preparing the rhundaela feast for her eldest son. Her gait swayed as her belly continued to swell. Peridot and Iolite kept busy in preparations, as their mother held fast to her stubborn refusal to hire out the labor of their hold, though she did accept the assistance of the wifs and gilna of the Owners Drift. Peridot was grateful for the bustling and convivial help.
Chargrim kept busy and out of the way during the preparations, even going above stone to survey the labors of the goatherds and gardeners. Rightauger was hardly seen, spending much of his time with his friend, Tinsnips, who had already had his rhundal. Despite the added labor for Peridot, she was glad for Rightauger, and glad for herself. She hoped that with Rightauger properly a dwarf, some of the tension would leave their hold. What conversations her brother and father may have had, she did not know, but she hoped there would be peace.
The feast itself lasted for three days, with singing and dancing. Chargrim presented Rightauger with a hammer. It was one of the common gifts for a father to give a son upon rhundal—a square-faced hammer, useful for driving wedges or for smithing. This one was made of fine steel, polished to a sheen, but there was no flourish or decoration. Peridot watched Rightauger’s face as he received it, but he showed little emotion. Chargrim could have given his son a hammer of gold—indeed, Thrushbeard had given his son a gold-plated axe—but though theirs was the richest hold in the mountain, the Irik-Rhûl did not make a show of it.
Before the hundreds of dwarves gathered, Chargrim lifted a flagon of honey mead with both hands and intoned the words of a son’s rhundal:
“This day you are a dwarf.
Today your hands are hale.
They must keep the courage of your kind.
They must guard the gilna and gilke.
They must hollow your hold.
Today, they bear the blessings of your forebeards.”
To this all drank, and many another toast and blessing was proffered. Her father drank more than Peridot was used to seeing, and his face flushed red. When he stood to go relieve himself, he nearly stumbled, and he did not hide his limp so well as usual. Onyx sat next to Rightauger, her face aglow. She wore no veil for this gathering, and Peridot did not know if she had ever seen her mother smile so much. Even rarer were the tears that Onyx wiped away.
But the rhundal feast ended, and still Rightauger did not take up an apprenticeship. A week after the feast, Peridot walked out of the workshop to find Rightauger sitting upon a cushion, polishing the head of a bearded war-axe. It was filigreed in gold, with studs of silver on its darkened haft. She gaped at it. Had her father purchased Rightauger such a weapon?
“Uncle Sledgefist,” Rightauger said, seeing the question in her expression. He held the axe gently, circling the cloth over the steel.
Their uncle had not come to Glint for the rhundal feast. Sledgefist had not returned to Glint in many years, instead staying at Sledge Rock year-round. Peridot did not understand all the reasons for his avoidance, but she knew her mother did not care for his wif.
Their life returned to something of a normal rhythm, with Peridot assisting her mother in the workshop, helping to care for the gilke, and keeping the hold. Still, there was no arbitration. It was not until over three weeks after the arrival of the Highlodes that Chargrim made the announcement. The whole family sat at table. It was a rare occurrence of late.
“Tomorrow, there will be no labors,” he said, looking across the table at Onyx. “I have requested all the Owners be present.” Chargrim glanced at Peridot. “You may come as well.” Next he looked at Rightauger. “And you, if you wish.”
Rightauger nodded.
“Iolite, you will keep the gilke,” Onyx said. Iolite nodded, her mouth twitching toward a frown. Peridot knew it was not because she would miss the arbitration, but because the gilke would keep her from labor in the workshop. Peridot could not sympathize with Iolite; she was too eager for the Judgment Hall.