Chapter 38: The Dwarves’ Waterwheel

Joan Vida was not the sort of young man that Master Dwarf admired. Joan was not one to mingle easily with his peers, laughing boisterously over mugs of ale. This thin, solitary boy never joined the militia drills; it was even rumored that he devoted himself to the study of magic. All these were traits the dwarf found distasteful. If not for the fact that Joan was the grandson of the respected old hunter Guillaume Tell, Flint Ironforge would never have condescended to meet with this little mage in person.

Flint Ironforge coughed heavily again, betraying a hint of impatience.

Joan seemed to awaken from a dream, his gaze drifting away from the dwarf’s impressive beard to the pair of powerful arms crossed over his chest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Flint.”

“Good afternoon, my boy. Surely you haven’t come all this way just to greet me?” The dwarf’s face was stern.

Joan was prepared for this. He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, folded into a neat square, and handed it over.

The dwarf unfolded it and recognized it as the reward notice he’d posted yesterday on the town square’s bulletin board. Joan had copied the entire notice, his penmanship quite elegant.

“That’s right, this is the reward notice I posted, meant to catch the scoundrel who’s been sabotaging my waterwheel. This makes the third time, child, can you believe it? In just one week I’ve had to repair the waterwheel three times, and each time, that same night, some vile knave comes and breaks it again—it’s blatant criminality! By Moradin’s Hammer, I swear I’ll never forgive this wretch!”

The dwarf’s thunderous rage made Joan uneasy, and for a moment he was tempted to flee. But he forced himself to remain, facing Flint’s fury. Just as Flint was prejudiced against Joan, Joan himself had little fondness for the irascible, stubborn dwarf. If he weren’t absolutely desperate, he’d never subject himself to the old one’s arrogance.

Just yesterday, in the Great Marsh, Joan and the gray-pouched beast Grey had gotten themselves into trouble for accidentally killing a lizardman shaman. To escape the tribe’s vengeance, Joan had led Grey on a nighttime flight from the marsh. Once home, he hid Grey in a cabin in the woods behind his house, resolving not to return to the Lizard Marsh until the pursuit had blown over. Staying away from the marsh meant he couldn’t gather leeches or herbs—an income stream he’d worked hard to establish had dried up, a cruel blow for someone in desperate need of tuition money.

It was already mid-February; less than two months remained before Leyden Academy’s term began, and Joan still hadn’t scraped together the fees. With the marsh off limits, he racked his brains for other ways to earn money. That morning, he’d chanced upon a notice in the town square: Flint Ironforge was offering a reward for clues or capture of the culprit who was sabotaging his forge’s water-powered system—fifty gold ducats for solid leads, a hundred for catching the perpetrator alive!

The generous bounty seized Joan’s attention at once. He hurried to the forge, determined to claim the task before anyone else could.

“Mr. Flint, do you have any more detailed clues about the waterwheel’s sabotage?” Joan asked.

“If I had clues, would I bother spending money on a reward?” the old dwarf retorted, giving Joan a sharp look. Stroking his beard, his tone softened slightly: “I haven’t identified the culprit, but I’m convinced this is no childish prank. Someone’s either seeking revenge, or I have a rival who’s hired someone to do this.”

“Revenge… Mr. Flint, do you have enemies in town?” Joan asked, curiosity piqued.

“Enemies? Not exactly, but people I’ve offended? Far too many to recall,” the dwarf replied with a shrug and a hint of pride. “You’ve seen it yourself—business has gone well these years, and I’ve some influence in the council and militia. Inevitably, I’ve crossed a few people, in public and private matters both. I always act with integrity, and if that’s earned me the resentment or revenge of some petty scoundrel, well, I’m hardly surprised.”

Joan had heard much the same about the dwarf’s reputation. Flint Ironforge was, by all accounts, an upright and generous gentleman, even zealous in his pursuit of justice. Yet he only ever emphasized his own righteousness, never acknowledging his pride or stubborn conservatism. For a man of his temperament, making enemies was almost unavoidable.

“Mr. Flint, you mentioned ‘rival’ just now—who exactly do you mean?”

“Ah! You’ve hit the heart of the matter, young one.” The dwarf wagged a thick finger. “Most people would shy away from discussing such sensitive matters before outsiders, but I don’t care—I have nothing to hide.”

Joan nodded, eager for the dwarf to continue.

“You probably know that every two years, this town holds an election. All the councilors vote for a new mayor. Our esteemed Mr. Tindale has been elected mayor for three terms running, and to be fair, he’s done a decent job. He seems to think his record entitles him to another term, but I disagree.”

The old dwarf clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly.

“If someone sits in the mayor’s seat for six years, people start to think that chair was made for him alone. That’s not healthy, my boy. Someone else might do even better than Mr. Tindale, don’t you agree?”

“It’s possible,” Joan replied diplomatically, though he added silently, “Or possibly much worse.”

“The Mayor of Delin isn’t a hereditary king. The name Tindale bears no royal crest. I believe someone should challenge his authority. I said so in the council, and most councilors agreed. Some even suggested I run against him. I hadn’t intended to, but their encouragement was hard to refuse.” Flint shrugged, sighing. “Such is politics—once power is at stake, even old friends fall out. Tindale is a good man, but I think he’s grown addicted to authority. Even as he shakes my hand and welcomes a contest with a forced smile, I can see the rift between us growing wider… Ah, I wish things hadn’t come to this.”

“So you suspect Mr. Tindale hired someone to sabotage your forge’s waterwheel—as a warning, to force you out of the mayoral race?” Joan ventured.