As Arran gazed upon the blast furnace, a sense of awe and wonderment had began to stew in his belly. He had not felt this kind of feeling since his youth. Born to a smithing family, he had no choice but to inherit his father's forge and the generations of knowledge that came with it. Secretly, he had never wanted the life. Metalwork was fine, but he wanted to craft with more than just iron, bronze, copper, or tin.
Age and duty eventually forced him into the trade. He worked until he earned the title of master smith. His family line stretched back to the founding of Bren. The forge was taxing on both the mind and the body. It demanded perfect focus: judging the exact heat of the coals, striking with the right rhythm, and timing the quench without hesitation.
To claim the title, a man needed more than a strong arm. The guild demanded proof of the mind. Arran had to sit for tests in literacy and arithmetic. There was no set standard; a journeyman simply solved whatever the sitting guildmaster decided to ask that day. Arran had been made to calculate the weight of raw ore, the cost of coal, and the expected yield before a single fire was lit.
After the written tests came the anvil. He spent months forging a complete suit of fitted armor and a steel sword. When the guildmasters struck his metal and found no flaws, they finally gave him his mark.
Those numbers and letters had felt like a burden back then. Now, as he stood outside the new blast furnace, they were exactly what he needed. He watched the heavy wooden water wheel turn in the river. The massive axle spun smoothly, storing its kinetic energy in the heavy flywheel Ezra had designed to keep the bellows pumping.
Today, Arran made his rounds at the blast furnace. He issued only an occasional correction. The site moved to a strict rhythm, one task feeding the next. Up top, men tipped carts of ore and limestone into the hopper at set intervals. Down below, the water wheel drove the axle, forcing the bellows to pump a steady pulse of air into the coals. Workers tapped the hearth on the hour. Iron flowed into sand trenches to cool. Men broke the metal into bars and threw them onto wagons bound for the district's forges.
Arran neared the bellows again. He placed a hand on the thick timber frame, feeling the heavy vibration. The mechanism fascinated him.
"Halvork," Arran said.
"Aye?"
"Look at that. You see that? It looks like a man took a potter's disc and mounted it sideways," Arran said, tracing the rotation with a thick finger.
"It is," Halvork nodded. He wiped a streak of soot from his neck. "The way that it can pump bellows without ceasing is very impressive."
Arran leaned in, raising his voice over the groaning timber. "It's not just that. It's the way it regulates the bellows. It's almost too uniform. We don't get changes in intervals. Almost never."
Halvork looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun glare off the river, and nodded.
Arran pointed to where the horizontal spin met the vertical push. "And look how it changes the motion of the wheel. Isn't that interesting?"
Halvork crossed his arms, watching the massive wooden pegs cycle through. "It's called a camshaft, according to the plans."
"Aye," Arran agreed. He tracked the spinning timber with his eyes. The wooden lobe struck the bellows board, forced it down, and slid past. The board rose again with a heavy wheeze. "That it is. But it does much more, yes? It changes how the river applies the push."
Halvork rubbed his own aching shoulder. "Aye. Saves us twenty men on the pumps," he said. "The water never gets tired."
Arran stayed quiet. A wagon rumbled past them, its axles groaning under the weight. He stared at the men loading the rough iron bars. Every one of those bars needed to be reheated, beaten, and folded by his smiths to work out the impurities.
"We have something like this upriver, aye? The one that makes the water rise. The one driven by mules," Arran said, watching the camshaft displace the motion.
Arran slowly rolled his wrist in a circle. "Wonder if we can use this rotation for other things."
Halvork tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Arran tapped his heavy boot against the packed dirt. "I meant that maybe we can use this water wheel for more than just bellows."
"I think they do," Halvork said, dusting off his leather gloves. "There are a few mills that I know of that use a water wheel."
"Aye, but a millstone just turns," Arran said. He pointed back at the camshaft. "This doesn't just turn. The lobe pushes the wood down, and then lets it go."
Arran scratched his jaw, feeling the grit on his skin.
Arran wiped a line of sweat from his brow, his eyes trailing up the massive stone chimney. "You know, Halvork, it is said that the plans for this came from a hidden Maester."
Halvork leaned his shoulder against a wooden post and chuckled. "He isn't that hidden anymore. I just bought the Fundamentals of Arithmetic book from the Ironbale wares in the merchant's district at the South Gate. Maester Faraday's work is widespread now."
Arran crossed his arms, the stiff apron creaking. "I just don't understand why a Maester like that would sell his work." He clicked his tongue.
"You read his notes, aye?" Arran asked, gesturing toward the glowing base of the hearth.
"What little we had on the new firebrick, aye." Halvork patted the solid masonry beside him.
"He just understands much more," Arran murmured. He traced the smooth grain of the wood on the bellows frame.
Halvork kicked a loose clump of dirt into the river. It splashed into the churning water. "Usually men like him—Maesters who have magic baked into their bones—just understand the world a little more than us commoners."
Arran shook his head. He watched a crew of unmagical laborers hoist another heavy cart of raw ore up the ramp. "I don't know about that. Maybe true, but there are nullborns who are pretty smart as well."
"Aye, that is true." Halvork scratched his soot-stained chin. "I heard the one who made the polyspastos is a nullborn."
"That might be speculation, though. We may never know their names," Arran said. His voice barely carried over the sudden roar of the fire as the bellows pumped.
Halvork barked a laugh, slapping his hand against the brickwork. "Ha! But generations will know ours."
Arran smiled at that. He looked down at his own calloused hands. They were the first people who actually had their names written on a patent. Halvork, Arran, Draffen, and by some miracle, Maester Faraday. Somehow, through Draffen's persistence, a 'Michael James Faraday' was registered. Through sheer bureaucratic sorcery that Arran didn't understand, they made a legal person whose name could be claimed. If someone ever wanted to push the claim that they were Michael James Faraday, then they would be proclaimed the owner of the name through a series of verification tests.
"Also," Halvork continued, "I bet that the Maester is disconnected from noble matters. If one can free himself of a noble house, then one can leisure well."
Arran chuckled. "Leisure well enough to understand different subjects?"
"Aye, time and coin are all that it takes. What else is there to do?" Halvork said. "Maesters of their caliber do not get tempted by women or hard drink."
"Aye. If one has something that gives him weight in the eyes of men, isn't that more than enough to keep your trade? To go through your day knowing that your work will go to hands that need them," Arran mused.
"You are aware of the commoner sculptor in Rexasticus, are you not?" asked Halvork.
"The one that makes a likeness of the Imperial family and the Primarchs," Arran nodded.
"Well, the Master Sculptor can also paint, sculpt, and make complex contraptions," Halvork said. "In their trade, it is but natural to be able to do many things and understand their relationships in order to improve upon their work."
Arran tilted his head slightly, giving the idea more thought.
"It is said that the paints he uses for some hues cannot be replicated by others. And that is why his craft is sought after by many."
Arran stared at the foremen. Heat radiated from the sand trenches, blurring the air. He and Halvork were there just to oversee if something went wrong. But more and more, with each passing day, Arran had less to do. He crossed his arms again over his chest.
"You know, Halvork," Arran said. "This job with the blast furnace pays well. But we don't have much to do except stroll around."
"Aye. Never thought I'd be this bored while making as much iron in an hour as a regular smithy makes in a month," Halvork chuckled.
"You mentioned that you bought that book. Fundamentals of Arithmetic," Arran asked.
"I did," Halvork nodded.
"It should have cost a modest amount of coin."
"Not as much as you would think," Halvork answered. "If you compared it to other texts of import, it would be a fifth of the original price. I suspect it is because of the new contraption the Castle has."
"Oh, they are that cheap?" Arran's eyes widened.
"I heard they even give a lower price if you are acquainted with anyone in the castle."
"You mean the Maesters?"
"Aye, and the Little Lord. They would have to verify it, though."
"Then I might buy one. Why didn't you get the lower price, then?"
"I didn't bother to wait long enough for that." Halvork patted the leather pouch on his belt. "I had enough coin in my purse too."
Arran shook his head at the statement. Halvork was never one to care for money if he didn't need to.
"Also, did you know that this book is what they use in the Helio classes? They sell these to the merchants as well."
"Oh?"
"Yes, my son has this same book. I actually bought it for myself so that I didn't have to borrow his," Halvork snickered. "My boy also says that there is a new batch of books coming."
Arran stared blankly at Halvork for a beat. The steady roar of the furnace filled the silence.
"I heard Lord Ezra goes to those gatherings," Halvork added. "Best get acquainted with our future Lord soon as well. I would like to think my children getting to know the Lord would help them immensely. I mean, look at what he did here with us."
Arran rubbed the bridge of his nose. He recalled the first time he had met the boy. He sincerely thought that he was wasting his time back then.
"Aye," Arran nodded. He couldn't really relate to Halvork. He didn't have a wife nor a child yet, even though he was in his forties.
Halvork cleared his throat awkwardly, realizing he had forgotten Arran didn't have a child of his own. "Anyway, best to ask Lord Ezra himself."
"There is a rumor going around that he's actually the one running the Press Office."
"That isn't theory. That is truth," Arran said, chuckling. He had seen the boy. While Ezra had an impact on making the whole blast furnace, Arran couldn't say the boy actually built it himself. He had some comments on the kiln, he didn't have too much of a hand in the making. However, he was the one who prepared the bricks. It was definitely more than someone his age should have known—or someone older, for that matter.
"Actually, I have been hearing that Lord Ezra has Maester Faraday as a tutor."
"A secret tutor? How did Blackfyre come across his person?"
"Some say it was during the Anticourt attack."
"Possible," Arran nodded. "Anticourt was a hub of different people that came from different places. Some of them didn't leave a proper trail."
"So if Maester Faraday is Lord Ezra's tutor..." Arran continued.
"Then, do you think we can ask Maester Faraday through the boy?"
Halvork stopped and contemplated. "Perhaps. But I think we need to ask Lord Ezra first. Besides, I think he was going to visit soon."
Arran eyed the water wheel and the bellows. He turned toward a newly built space just next to the blast furnace. It was a good thing the smithies were near the furnace, so the barrows didn't need to go far. This specific structure had been repurposed into a private smithy. Arran used it as an office, and sometimes he would fire up the kiln to forge something on his own.
He walked to the doorway and picked up a cold iron rod from a barrel.
"Halvork."
"Yes?"
"Do you think we can make something that does what the water wheel does, but for hammers?"
"What?"
"I... I never really thought about it. I am a kilnmaster, after all," Halvork chuckled. "Do you think it's workable, though?"
"I think so. I mean, look at the bellows. We just don't have the coin to test something like that."
"I think I can draft a starting concept," Arran voiced. He tapped the iron rod against his heavy palm. "If we get a few carpenters or craftsmen... then maybe we can make it work. If it works, then..."
"I think it is a great idea. If we talk to Maester Draffen about it, I think he would consider it."
Arran shook his head. "I think it would be better to talk to Lord Ezra about this, though."
"What? Why?"
"I just have a hunch," Arran said. He turned back to watch the heavy, rhythmic drop of the bellows. "That there is more to Lord Ezra's connection with this blast furnace than Maester Draffen would like us to know."