The next few days, Arran had spent time understanding the mechanism. He understood the uneven shape of the camshaft was what transformed the circular motion of the waterwheel into a vertical one. He just needed to get a better grasp of the things other than the mechanical force that was needed. During Helio, he decided to go to the merchants' district to find if there were any available books about the subject.
From his home, to get to the nearest merchants' district, he needed to pass by the administrative district. There were four such locations in the outer ring and two in the inner ring. Arran, being a master smith, was wealthy enough to own a house inside the inner ring.
However, he discovered the new books that were being sold were not in the inner ring. Rather, they were distributed by the Press Office through a deal with the Ironbale Merchants. They were the exclusive distributors of the books, and any unsanctioned copies from the other leased presses would be subject to revoking their lease.
Arran walked past a runner and a herald, and on his way toward the district, he heard people talking. Kanzlei normally frequented these parts; even during Helio when work slowed in the castle, there were still things to do.
As he was strolling, he overheard some people talking.
Two men stood near a book vendor's cart. They wore heavy slate-gray overcoats over crisp white shirts. The wool held a sharp, perfect crease. Flat silver disks rested flush against their left collars. A sliver of crimson enamel marked the metal. There wasn't any segregation by clothing in the empire, though Arran had heard it was prominent in Theladon Synodus. However, the Kanzlei did love displaying their medals. These medals were a sign of what "rank" they were in. There was no governing body that actually bestowed this on them, just a consensus from their patriarchs. Silver medals meant that these were Master Scribes.
Arran stopped at the adjacent cart as something caught his interest, but then the scribes started talking.
"I can't believe they are letting tenement settlers enter the castle," the first scribe said. He shook his head and ran a hand over the spine of a book.
"Surely, this can't be true." The second scribe raised his voice above the street noise. He flipped his wax tablet, checking for something. The scribe was probably here to get counts of stalls open for the day.
"It is. I just saw them in the dining halls." The first scribe snorted. "Eating pheasant with the little lord."
The second scribe adjusted his crisp cuffs. "This... this is just some sort of temporary engagement. Surely they are only laborers."
"But roast pheasant for laborers? That's a bit too much."
Arran kept his eyes on the stall, but the conversation took to the side of what interested him. There seemed to be a brewing unrest for these bureaucrats.
"It is hard enough to get inside the inner ring as it is," the second scribe continued. He stepped closer to the cart to let a porter pass. "Maybe... they are for hands? With the castle's restrictions... the servants are already straining."
"The castle servants are sleeping inside the walls." The first scribe lowered his voice. He leaned over the cart. "And ever since the kidnapping incident, they have frozen all hiring. They need new blood in there right now."
Arran continued staring at the cart, pretending that it still caught his interest even though his focus was now mainly on the conversation. The kidnapping incident with Catalyna was known even in the smithing district. The security gates had been locked tight for months. The fact was that common children were allowed on the premises because they weren't considered a threat. Catalyna had spooked the castle. There were rumors that she had bypassed all inspection, and no one noticed she was trueborn.
"Well, these whelps aren't servants," the first scribe said. He dropped his book back onto the vendor's table. It landed with a dull thud. "They are taking over the clerical work in the Press. Well, if you could call it work."
The second scribe tilted his head. He brushed a speck of dust from his crisp white cuff. "What do you mean?"
"The outer ring boys are only working for half a day." The first scribe gestured vaguely toward the castle hill, the thick wool of his sleeve pulling back. "Then they go in seclusion inside the Little Lord's room in the Press Office."
The second scribe frowned. His leather boots scraped against the cobblestones as he shifted his weight. "What are they doing in there?"
"Omniscience knows." The first scribe threw his hands up in a short motion. The flat silver disk on his collar caught the dull light.
"That is ridiculous." The second scribe's jaw set tight. He planted his hands on his hips, pushing his heavy overcoat back. "That is a spit on our faces. The Kanzlei have served our noble masters for generations. And now they are letting tenement scraps inside. This is just..."
"Justus might know, though," the first scribe said. He leaned closer over the vendor's table, keeping his voice near the stacks of vellum.
"The son of the Chief Steward of Rolls?" The second scribe raised an eyebrow, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the passing crowd.
"Yes." The first scribe picked up another text. He tapped the cover with his thumb. "These Literacy Aptitude tests. They are using them to let anyone into the Castle."
"It's just the children, though..."
The first scribe set the text down flat on the wood. "I believe this is just the start."
He leaned against the cart frame. "My son works for the Press Office. Yes, my firstborn, Tallys. He overheard the Little Lord say that he was coming up with more tests."
"Preposterous!" The second scribe hissed. He stepped back from the table. "This is just a way for the Castle to let the tenement filth get what naturally belongs to us."
Arran tightened his grip on the ledger. The leather creaked under his fingers. What naturally belongs to us. The Kanzlei viewed the castle like an inheritance, not a workplace.
"We don't really know yet," the first scribe muttered.
"I don't agree with the tests." The second scribe shook his head. He pointed a stiff, gloved finger at the stack of heavy texts on the cart. "It contradicts how we are taught. It is too simple. They don't discuss the writings of the Scholar Tormund, or the Philosophies of Legrand. The Journeys of Helmund and The Founding of the Empire. How the Council of the Fifty gave rise to the man before the Empire."
A silence persisted.
"I do understand there is a shortage in literate commoners but the way they are teaching them is wrong. We were taught by tutors through apprenticeship. How they are spreading this... knowledge is just not a good way. How can a student learn if their teacher teaches many?"
The first scribe crossed his arms. His face set into a grim line. "We should get word in. With Maester Kestel, or... or with the Lord. This is just wrong. A scribe should be honored by his teacher... that is when we get our medals. This test is just wrong in a lot of ways."
The two men turned and walked down the cobbled street. Their boots struck the stones in sharp, angry steps.
Arran shook his head. There had been a growing change in the castle. The introduction of the ink presses had established a sudden, abrupt change in the economy of Bren. With the introduction of the blast furnace, Bren was even more set on making even more money.
There were just people who didn't want that change to happen. When the blast furnace's existence came to be known, the smithing guild talked to him. They pressured him into divulging the secret of the furnace. They told him that it was for the betterment of the guild. There was a point in time that Arran believed that. But he had seen the Helio classes, and he had started to see that knowledge herded would only cause stagnation.
He was berated by the guildmaster for not trusting his brethren. It was a good thing he had told them that Maester Draffen had been involved and it was his personal project. They backed off then, but he could see the coldness in their eyes.
Arran continued walking toward the merchants' district. He walked three more blocks and came across the massive arched facade of the district's grand market hall.
He stepped through the heavy open archways, and the chill of the street vanished. The sheer scale of the building rivaled the castle keeps. Imperial concrete vaults stretched high overhead, supporting a second and third tier of stone-carved booths and balconies.
There were no massive skylights letting in the winter draft. Instead, the walls were set with clusters of glowing gemlamps. They cast a clean, constant light into every deep corridor and corner stall, illuminating the massive indoor space as brightly as the midday sun.
Arran unbuttoned the top of his thick coat. The floor beneath his boots radiated a deep, even warmth. There was no smell of woodsmoke, no choking coal sulfur, and no soot staining the pristine plaster walls. Deep in the subterranean hypocaust chambers beneath the market, large fire crystals pulsed inside sealed stone vents, pushing pure, smokeless heat through the clay pipes in the walls and floors.
Hundreds of people walked the wide interior avenues. Wealthy merchants and off-duty guards strolled without their heavy winter cloaks, browsing the well-lit booths that sold spices, silk, and polished steel. The echoing hum of commerce bounced off the vaulted ceilings.
Arran navigated the dense crowd, keeping his eyes on the storefronts along the main street. He stopped before a wide, double-fronted shop near the center rotunda. It was distinctly different from the other stalls. A heavy iron sign hung above the door, bearing the crest of Blackfyre; the wood framing was painted in the stark black and crimson of Castle Blackfyre.
It was the newly opened Bren Bookstore. It was state-owned, but the Ironbales held the charter to run it. Arran pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside. He was greeted immediately by the sharp scent of polished rosewood and binding glue. The air felt still and carried a faint perfumed scent, entirely unlike the soot and sweat of the forge.
Arran's heavy boots thumped on the clean floorboards. He looked a bit out of place in the bookstore, his broad shoulders and thick coat at odds with the neat, quiet room. He kept his calloused hands tucked near his belt so he wouldn't brush against anything pristine.
"May I help you, Master..." a voice called out.
Arran stopped. "It's Master Smith Arran von der Schmiedbund."
"Yes, what are you looking for, Master Smith?" The clerk was a blonde woman with short hair. She wore a tailored black vest over a crisp white blouse. A small iron pin bearing the merchant house crest rested on her collar. She stood behind a polished oak counter, her clean fingers resting near a stack of identical, perfectly bound books. The spines aligned flawlessly.
She gestured openly toward the room. "This book shop is quite unique. Unlike other merchant shops where texts are locked down and you have to inquire if they have a book or not... you may actually browse our collection like a library."
Arran was baffled at first. He looked past her. Tall wooden shelves lined the walls, packed with exposed spines. Merchants were terrified of their vellum being stolen or ruined by dirty hands. Normally, one had to inquire at a grated window, pay, and then wait for a clerk to retrieve a text from a locked chest.
"Oh." Arran stiffened his posture, trying to stop himself from looking out of place. He cleared his throat.
"Don't worry," the clerk smiled, her hands remaining lightly on the counter. "We know that it might be new for a lot of people. That is why we can assist you for now, and then we can accompany you to the section you want. Was there anything you wanted to browse for in particular?"
Arran shifted his weight. His boots creaked. "Are there... books on, um... smithing? Or waterwheels, or mechanics?"
The clerk did not look confused. Instead, she glanced down at a single, printed sheet taped to her counter. Her finger traced down a column of crisp numbers.
"Applied crafts, building, and mechanics," she read aloud. "That would be Category Six, subsection Two."
She stepped out from behind the counter. "Follow me, please."
Arran followed her heavy, measured steps. As they walked down the main aisle, he noticed small wooden plaques nailed to the end of each tall shelf. They were painted with neat numbers. 400: Languages. 500: Natural Philosophy.
It was a strange, rigid way to organize a room, but he saw merchants navigating the aisles simply by looking at the numbers.
The clerk stopped at the shelf marked 600. She ran her hand along the middle row and pulled out a thin, flexible stack of paper held together by a simple twine binding. It was not a thick, leather-bound tome.
"We do not have comprehensive texts on the subject yet, Master Smith," she said, handing it to him. "The guilds have never submitted their manuals for pressing. However, the Press Office has recently authorized the public sale of these standard folios."
Arran took them stiffly, afraid to bend the paper.
"Please, open them," the clerk smiled, gesturing to the folios in his hands. "You do not need to judge by the title alone. You may read the pages to see if they hold what you need before you buy."
Arran hesitated. In a regular merchant's shop, breaking a seal or opening a text before handing over a purse of silver was grounds for the guards to be called. He carefully untied the twine of the top folio and opened the cover.
Observations on the River Mills of Pharae.
He turned the page. There, printed in stark black ink, was a detailed schematic of a standard undershot waterwheel and the wooden gearing used to turn a heavy millstone. The notes beside it detailed the exact ratios of the timber joints and the depth of the water paddles.
He checked the second folio. It was a collection of architectural notes on aqueduct sluices. The third was a treatise on leverage and counterweights from Rexasticus. If he were to ask a Master Builder to draw these schematics or share this knowledge, it would cost a month's wages and a dozen pints of ale in bribes. The builder guilds hoarded these proportions.
"How much for these?" Arran asked, his voice tightening.
"Five vatts each," the clerk said. "The Press Office sets the rates for copied folios quite low."
Arran stared at the crisp diagrams. Coloring wasn't used, but in texts like these, any color wasn't really needed. A standard handwritten text cost half a fir. An illustrated tome with hand-drawn schematics like this would easily demand three firs from a specialized scribe. Five vatts was barely a fraction of that. The Kanzlei scribes outside were complaining about tenement children learning to read, but looking at these cheap treatises, Arran had a hunch that something much more was in store for the Kanzlei.
If anyone with a handful of silver coins could buy the exact proportions to build a river mill, the days of the guilds hoarding their secrets were already over. He wanted to speak to Lord Ezra about his idea. He had seen that the boy had sway over the Maesters, and Lord Blackfyre even gave an ear to the Little Lord.
Arran browsed the books a bit more. He was only looking to buy just one, but the price was so cheap for Arran he didn't mind this. In fact, knowledge was a scarce resource, and now, with the invention of the ink press, the guild's hold over the people would start to wane.
"I will take all three," Arran said, reaching for his coin pouch.
"Thank you for your patronage, Master Smith. Remember to come back frequently; in the coming days, there will be more books in stock."
Arran nodded at the clerk and made his way out. He had a feeling that there would be an upheaval soon; he just couldn't tell what it was.