Free Memory by K. J. Parker

said. ‘Dunno why you had to go all that way when we’d already settled it here. Still, that’s that sorted.’
    Poldarn wanted to point out that the trip hadn’t been his idea, but he couldn’t face the effort of putting it into words. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘First load should be with us by the end of next month. The bloke said they’re rushed off their feet, but he was lying. I think they were glad of the business.’
    â€˜You bet. Who wants charcoal round here, except us? Probably we could’ve got it cheaper if you’d sweated ’em a bit, but it’s all settled now, so never mind. Good trip?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Get yourself together, and get down to the shop. The Vestoer job’s all done, bar scouring and polishing, so you’d better get a move on.’
    Poldarn nodded, and reached for his boots. His head hurt, but there wasn’t any point in mentioning that.
    Besides lifting things and hauling on ropes and shovelling wet clay into buckets when the need arose, Poldarn’s main job at the bell foundry was the forge work, making brackets and mountings and clappers; none of which could be made and fitted until everything else had been done, by which time the job was usually a month or so late. Somehow matters had so resolved themselves that every late delivery was officially his fault, and he didn’t mind that particularly, nor the fact that he was always having to do difficult and delicate work in a hurry. Just this once, however, he’d have preferred it otherwise. He wasn’t really in the right frame of mind for concentrating on precision work. But he hauled himself to his feet nevertheless. There was some bread in the crock, but it had gone a funny shade of green, and the water in the jug had flies and stuff floating in it. Skip breakfast, he thought, and I can wash my face in the slack tub when I get there. He tied on his leather apron and shoved through the door into the yard.
    As usual, the yard gave no indication that thirty or so men worked there, or that there was anybody around the place at all. To Poldarn’s left and in front of him were the abnormally tall timber-framed sheds, with high lintels and curved doors, where the carpenters made patterns and jigs, and where the half-finished bells were ground, polished and accoutered; away to the right was the muddy wilderness of casting pits and furnace cupolas. He was halfway across before anybody else appeared: an old man and three boys, hauling sand up from the river in wheelbarrows. He didn’t recognise them, and if they knew him they didn’t show it. He reached the forge, unlatched the heavy door and went inside.
    It was, of course, dark in the forge; shutters closed and bolted, no light other than the splinter of sun from the doorway. On his way he grabbed a sack of charcoal, which he heaped around the little pile of kindling he’d left there a few days ago. For once, the tinderbox was where he’d left it, and the kindling caught quite easily. He hadn’t had much trouble getting a fire started, not since the night at Ciartanstead when he’d murdered Eyvind.
    As Poldarn drew in the coals with the rake, he tried to clear his mind of all extraneous concerns. Making the clapper for a bell involved careful thought. Both the length and the weight had to be exactly right, or the note would be false. He could either draw the thing down in one piece from a thick bar and swage the round bulb that actually made contact with the bell, or else he could use thinner stock and forge-weld bands around it to form the bulb. Quicker the second way, less heavy work, but considerably trickier, because of the weld. Because he was always in a hurry, he always ended up doing it the second way, and this time looked like no exception. A pity, but there it was.
    If only Halder could see me now, he thought; his grandfather had kept on at him to learn the trade (relearn it,