Chapter 39: The Riverside Workshop

"I never said anything like that!" Flint flatly denied Joan’s speculation, then quickly shifted the topic. "But then again, we can’t rule out the possibility, can we?"

Joan nodded, though inwardly he was unconvinced. If Mayor Tyndall truly wanted to force Flint out of the race, he wouldn’t have chosen such an inflammatory approach—such tactics would only provoke the old dwarf’s stubbornness, driving him to throw himself into the election with even greater resolve.

"I don’t think a little boy can be of much help, yet everyone says Joan Vida, grandson of Tyle, is the brightest child in town. Since that’s the case, you might as well come with me."

"Where to?" Joan matched the dwarf’s stride.

"I’ll take you to the scene of the crime, young man. Perhaps your cleverness will prove useful."

"I hope so, Mr. Flint."

Joan followed the dwarf out of the smithy. Just beyond the gate flowed the Derlin River. As winter gave way to spring, the melting ice and snow caused the water level to rise, the swift current scouring the banks and providing a steady, costless source of power for the mills and factories lining its shores.

Flint’s forge workshop was situated right on the riverbank. Guided by the dwarf, Joan entered the spacious workshop and examined the new machine tool Flint had designed and built himself. The contraption was both massive and complex. Flint Ironanvil boasted that this machine could replace at least ten blacksmiths. In addition to the prominent row of parallel automatic forging hammers, the machine performed a host of other fine processes: cutting, grinding, milling, planing, and shaving. Such a behemoth required a tremendous source of power, supplied by the enormous waterwheel turning on the river’s edge.

Joan had been fascinated by mechanical devices since childhood, half out of curiosity, half out of a desire to understand the case. Accompanied by the dwarf, he scrutinized the transmission apparatus between waterwheel and machine, intent on deciphering how the river’s energy was carried across ten feet to the workshop and set the complicated mechanism in motion—enabling it to replace the artisan’s skilled hands in crafting delicate tools and weapons.

Ordinarily, the forge would echo with noise from dawn to dusk, the hammering of steel resounding throughout the town. Today, however, an unusual silence reigned. The drive system’s core components—the worm gear and the crank-slider—had been thoroughly destroyed, leaving the old dwarf fuming with rage.

With the machinery out of commission, Flint had given the workers a day off, keeping only one apprentice named Tom to help him replace the ruined parts.

Tom was a young dwarf, both Flint’s apprentice and his nephew, who looked like a version of Flint fifty years younger. Unlike his already distinguished uncle, Tom was far less concerned with appearances, but his love for ale was, if anything, even greater.

"Tom, come meet our young friend here—this is Joan, old Tyle’s grandson," Flint called to Tom, who was busy replacing the crank-slider.

Tom glanced over his shoulder, raising an oil-stained hand in greeting. "I’ve heard of you, Mr. Vida. Maybe I should call you 'Master Mage.'"

Joan blushed, mumbling an awkward good afternoon.

"Tom, how much longer until the drive system is fixed?" Flint inquired.

"I doubt we’ll finish before nightfall. Dammit, looks like I’ll be working late again," Tom grumbled.

"If you’d had a few less mugs of ale at lunch, you wouldn’t be so behind," Flint scolded.

"Uncle, you know me! I’d rather work late than skip a drink—it’s my only pleasure," Tom protested.

"You useless brat, one day you’ll drown in a barrel," Flint snapped, glaring at his nephew. He pulled out a gilded pocket watch, glanced at the time, then turned to Joan. "It’s getting late. I have to attend Mrs. Francis’s birthday dinner. I’ll leave you and Tom in charge. Judging by past patterns, the culprit usually strikes after midnight. Be careful. Here’s a gold coin—buy yourselves some supper."

Joan accepted the coin from the generous dwarf, thinking that his efforts today had not been in vain.

Shortly after Flint departed, night fell completely.

Joan didn’t spend the gold coin. Instead, he ran home to enjoy the dinner Conti had prepared, then headed into the backwoods to visit Grey. Grey was faring well in his refuge, sleeping in the cabin by day and patrolling the forest with Jamie by night. Recently, they had even caught a wild boar that had wandered into the orchard, feasting heartily. Perhaps influenced by Jamie, little Mira the tree spirit no longer avoided Grey. With Mira, Jamie, and nightly visits from Joan and Conti, Grey found little cause for loneliness in his new surroundings.

Remembering his evening responsibilities, Joan briefly recounted Flint Ironanvil’s troubles to Conti before leaving the woods and hurrying back to the riverside factory.

Just as Flint had predicted, his dear nephew Tom didn’t return from the tavern until well past midnight. A drunken, excitable dwarf is perhaps the most exasperating creature in the world. Tom insisted on regaling Joan with every crude joke he’d heard at the tavern, making it impossible for Joan to concentrate on his spellbook. He yearned to sew the fellow’s mouth shut.

After two hours of Tom’s self-amused chattering, weariness finally overtook him. With a cavernous yawn, he grabbed Joan’s shoulder, swayed unsteadily to his feet, and asked if Joan wanted to join him for a piss by the river.

"I’ll pass," Joan replied curtly.

Tom gave a couple of foolish chuckles and staggered out of the workshop, leaving the door wide open.

Joan let out a sigh of relief, grateful to be rid of the chatterbox. He turned a few pages of his spellbook, but when Tom didn’t return for quite some time, Joan began to wonder: how long could it take to relieve oneself? Could Tom have collapsed drunk by the river?

With a sigh, Joan closed his book and was about to go search for Tom when a faint singing drifted in from outside. At first, he thought it was Tom, but soon realized the song was clear and melodious, nothing a coarse dwarf could manage—and the language wasn’t the common tongue or Dwarvish, but more akin to the fae speech Mira used.

Puzzled, Joan suddenly heard heavy footsteps outside, and the scrape of metal against the ground. The uncanny sounds, woven with that dreamlike singing, conjured a chill of fear. Joan shivered, drew his dagger from his belt, and crept quietly toward the door.