Jaffry Sutz’s ship relieved of its ore and Jaffry himself loaded with dreams of gold, Cadmus found himself light afoot heading into his afternoon meetings. What good was a miser’s fortune? There was a war to win in Korr, and the rebellion was poised on the fulcrum of disaster. The sooner he had a functioning world-ripper, the sooner Erefan’s forces would be safe. The realization that he could supplement his copper supply with silver, perhaps even lightsteel or other uncommon conductors, was a key worry hammered into a solution. Even the prospect of being cooped up in his office for much of the day couldn’t dampen his spirits—until the first appointment arrived.
The appointment book was filled with a motley cast of unlikely runesmiths. Beside the list of names and times were annotations as to the qualifications of each: a metal sculptor, a silversmith, three printing engravers, a scribe, two mechanics, and three twinborn who’d seen runes on a daily basis, one of whom worked on dynamos as an assistant cableman.
Cadmus’s interviews were scheduled in alphabetical order. The first man was Ronley Briarford, the silversmith. He had a craftsman’s handshake, firm and rough, an honest worker’s grip. When questioned about his qualifications, Briarford produced a sheet of silver and filigree tooling. Before Cadmus’s eyes, the silversmith carved his best approximation of the runes on Grandle’s instruction page. Cadmus had seen the runes on Kezudkan’s dynamo and knew that Grandle’s engravings wouldn’t be functional, but they were a fair copy of what the man had seen. By the time Cadmus called an end to the interview, he knew he had at least one candidate who might carve working runes once he was shown a proper drawing of them.
The second interviewee was a mechanic from his rifleworks by the name of Abe Dakinshi. He was a Takalishman older than Cadmus by a dozen years, who had been working on firearms since before Errol Company was founded. He was a trigger specialist, capable of fashioning any part of a gun but selected to work on the painstaking details of the smallest, most finicky pieces. He used an awl and an old piece of steel to scratch his sample runes. Cadmus had known the man for years, and kept up an amiable chat to stave off the cringe-worthy sight of the man’s carving. By the end of half an hour, the man had butchered a handful of runes and caught Cadmus up on the health and tidings of his family.
A twinborn named Frent and a printing engraver by the name of Vander Heckleston failed to impress Cadmus in the least. He complimented them on their willingness to take on a new assignment, but cut their interviews well short.
Still behind schedule from Abe Dakinshi’s interview, Cadmus was tempted to cut the scribe from his roster of potential recruits. A steady hand was admirable, but pen and ink were a long shout from working with metal. A moment’s internal debate resolved that he should meet the man, just to be thorough.
When Erund Hinterdale sat down across the desk from him, Cadmus found himself intrigued. The scribe was tall and slender, the sort of build that few can maintain while working a manual trade. When Cadmus offered his hand across the desk, the scribe’s grip was iron-strong, though his skin was smooth as a prince’s. What struck Cadmus was the man’s ease. Even Abe Dakinshi, who had worked for Cadmus since Tinker’s Island was founded, seemed on edge in his interview. Erund Hinterdale lounged in his seat, respectful, attentive, but clearly nonplussed.
“You’ve heard what that job entails, I imagine, Mr. Hinterdale,” Cadmus said. It was a statement that left room for interpreting it as a question.
“Erund, if you don’t mind, Mr. Errol,” Erund replied. “And yes, I’ve heard a stray rumor or two.”
“I’m going to show you a series of patterns, and then you will copy them as best you can. What medium will you use?” Though Cadmus knew the answer, he had
The appointment book was filled with a motley cast of unlikely runesmiths. Beside the list of names and times were annotations as to the qualifications of each: a metal sculptor, a silversmith, three printing engravers, a scribe, two mechanics, and three twinborn who’d seen runes on a daily basis, one of whom worked on dynamos as an assistant cableman.
Cadmus’s interviews were scheduled in alphabetical order. The first man was Ronley Briarford, the silversmith. He had a craftsman’s handshake, firm and rough, an honest worker’s grip. When questioned about his qualifications, Briarford produced a sheet of silver and filigree tooling. Before Cadmus’s eyes, the silversmith carved his best approximation of the runes on Grandle’s instruction page. Cadmus had seen the runes on Kezudkan’s dynamo and knew that Grandle’s engravings wouldn’t be functional, but they were a fair copy of what the man had seen. By the time Cadmus called an end to the interview, he knew he had at least one candidate who might carve working runes once he was shown a proper drawing of them.
The second interviewee was a mechanic from his rifleworks by the name of Abe Dakinshi. He was a Takalishman older than Cadmus by a dozen years, who had been working on firearms since before Errol Company was founded. He was a trigger specialist, capable of fashioning any part of a gun but selected to work on the painstaking details of the smallest, most finicky pieces. He used an awl and an old piece of steel to scratch his sample runes. Cadmus had known the man for years, and kept up an amiable chat to stave off the cringe-worthy sight of the man’s carving. By the end of half an hour, the man had butchered a handful of runes and caught Cadmus up on the health and tidings of his family.
A twinborn named Frent and a printing engraver by the name of Vander Heckleston failed to impress Cadmus in the least. He complimented them on their willingness to take on a new assignment, but cut their interviews well short.
Still behind schedule from Abe Dakinshi’s interview, Cadmus was tempted to cut the scribe from his roster of potential recruits. A steady hand was admirable, but pen and ink were a long shout from working with metal. A moment’s internal debate resolved that he should meet the man, just to be thorough.
When Erund Hinterdale sat down across the desk from him, Cadmus found himself intrigued. The scribe was tall and slender, the sort of build that few can maintain while working a manual trade. When Cadmus offered his hand across the desk, the scribe’s grip was iron-strong, though his skin was smooth as a prince’s. What struck Cadmus was the man’s ease. Even Abe Dakinshi, who had worked for Cadmus since Tinker’s Island was founded, seemed on edge in his interview. Erund Hinterdale lounged in his seat, respectful, attentive, but clearly nonplussed.
“You’ve heard what that job entails, I imagine, Mr. Hinterdale,” Cadmus said. It was a statement that left room for interpreting it as a question.
“Erund, if you don’t mind, Mr. Errol,” Erund replied. “And yes, I’ve heard a stray rumor or two.”
“I’m going to show you a series of patterns, and then you will copy them as best you can. What medium will you use?” Though Cadmus knew the answer, he had
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