Master Woods laid the first clock wheel on his bench beside Jon's drawing. The pale applewood had been cut cleanly, but the teeth crowded together on one side of the rim. Robb stood on a stool counting them with dried peas from Luwin's lesson basket.
"Twenty-two."
"There is one in your mouth," Jon said.
Robb took the pea from between his teeth and set it on the bench. "Twenty-three. Did Olyver eat the other?"
Olyver looked up from the coffin board he was smoothing. "I had bread, my lord."
Jon turned the wheel against the parchment. Woods was a square, brown-bearded man, pale with sawdust from brow to boots. He had followed the drawing until the last space proved too narrow to cut. His dividers explained why: the worn hinge slipped as soon as Jon lifted them. Jon had seen sound crews spend a day correcting work laid out from one bad level.
"Tighten that," Jon said. "Then we will make a pattern for the teeth. Keep this wheel; I can still use it to try the pinion."
Woods took the dividers to his vice. Jon cleared a place beside Olyver and drew a circle on the parchment. He divided it into quarters, then eighths and twenty-fourths, letting the apprentice make the last few strokes. Olyver bent close enough for his hair to brush Jon's sleeve.
"Leave room at the root," Jon told him. "The tip of the other tooth must pass through here." He drew the mating tooth in its next position and turned the parchment so Olyver could follow it.
The boy traced the gap with a blunt nail. "Then I have been cutting these too narrow, my lord."
"Two of them. Bring the wheel." Jon laid it against the drawing and showed him which. They cut their pattern from a thin scrap of horn, broad enough to rest securely on the wooden rim. Olyver tried it on a fresh blank while Jon watched. When Woods returned, his son was already setting out the teeth.
"There is something else, my lord." Woods brought out his measuring stick and the rule Mikken had sent with the arbor. Laid together, they differed by nearly a finger at the foot.
"Both called a foot," Jon said. "Yet one has given us an arbor too thick for the hole."
Robb bent so low his nose almost touched them. "Mikken's foot is longer."
"Mikken's foot is a great deal longer," Olyver said. "I have seen his boots."
Jon laid the sticks across the drawing. "I will have copies made from Luwin's rod. Use those for the clock parts. Tell Mikken I want him here when he has finished shoeing Father's bay."
Vayon Poole came into the shop with Jon's account beneath his arm. The steward wore dark grey wool, dry above the knees and spattered below them from the street.
"The applewood and tools have taken nearly half your purse, my lord. There are the smith's hours to pay as well."
Jon read the figures. His allowance would have to last another moon; the carpenter's seasoned timber cost far more than the wood stacked by Winterfell's hearths. He put back the larger billet he had been considering. Once he could have ordered a replacement part and had it delivered in a box. Here every failed piece consumed somebody's afternoon.
"Olyver can cut the next blank from that offcut. I will want a price for the frame before you begin it, Master Woods."
Woods inclined his head. "This afternoon, my lord, when I have finished the widow's steps."
Robb offered Poole the wet pea. "You may have this towards the cost."
The steward glanced at the bite in it. "Keep it. You appear to have paid already."
By midmorning the coffin had its lid and the widow's steps stood pegged and clamped while their glue dried. Olyver bored the next wheel blank. Jon held a square beside the bit and stopped him when it began to lean; the apprentice corrected the angle before cutting through the far face.
A man in a patched riding cloak came for the coffin before Mikken arrived. He stood bareheaded inside the door, turning his cap while Woods showed him the handles. Olyver put down the brace and helped carry it to the cart. The man thanked the carpenter twice and went away sitting very straight beside the driver.
Jon moved the wheel blanks onto the shelf to clear the bench. A coffin, a pair of steps, his clock: Woods fitted them all into the same small room. Beneath the bench lay chair legs waiting to be glued and a child's little wooden stool with one foot missing. When Olyver came back, he wiped the rain from his freckled face and reached for the brace without being told.
Robb watched the bow saw with increasing interest. Arthur gave him a loose pine shaving to break instead. When Robb snapped it across his knee with a grunt, the knight handed him another.
Mikken arrived smelling of hot hoof and burnt horn. One corner of his leather apron had scorched stiff against his knee. He laid the iron arbor on the bench and compared the two measuring sticks.
"My rule came from the armoury."
"And mine from the men who built the east granary," Woods said.
"Neither will match the other," Jon told them. He had sent for Luwin's old oak stave, brass-capped and dark from years of handling. "We use this one."
Mikken rubbed a black thumb over the brass. "This is shorter than mine."
"Use it for the work you make here," Jon said. "Horseshoes may still be fitted to horses." Woods gave the smallest grunt of laughter.
Jon laid a strip of well-seasoned pearwood against the oak stave. "Cut this true. Mark the full foot, its halves, quarters, and fingers. Mikken gets iron marked from the same rod. When a piece passes from one shop to the other, both men use those."
"Who pays for the new rules?" Mikken asked.
"I do." Jon pointed to the arbor that would not fit. "Credit the iron if you can use it again."
"For a hinge, perhaps." Mikken weighed it in his palm. Poole entered the cost of the two new rules. Luwin came down to reclaim his stave while the craftsmen were marking their copies.
Woods held the pearwood copy edgewise. "This settles length. It does not tell me how loose you want the arbor."
"We fit the bush to a pattern pin," Jon said. "Mikken, make one and keep its shoulders true. Woods fits the softer bush against it until it turns freely without rocking. Keep that pin for replacements."
Mikken examined the arbor. "I can file this one true and save the iron, my lord."
"Do that. Bring it to me before Woods fits the bush."
With the teeth properly spaced, Jon could see the next difficulty: the wheel ran unevenly around its arbor. The edge pressed hard against the pinion on one side and scarcely touched it on the other. He drew a pole lathe on a clean scrap of parchment, with a bed, two iron centres and a treadle beneath a springy ash pole.
"Bore the blank first, then turn its rim about the hole," he told Woods. "The teeth will all stand the same distance from the centre."
Olyver followed the cord with one dusty finger. "It turns back when you lift your foot?"
"Aye. Lift the tool then, and cut on the downstroke." Jon drew the tool rest close beside the blank, where the carpenter's hand could brace it.
Woods studied the low bed Jon had drawn. "May I, my lord?" At Jon's nod he took the charcoal and thickened an upright. "A brace here would keep it from racking, but the treadle needs room."
Jon moved the treadle pin. "Put the brace behind it. That leaves your foot clear."
The carpenter traced the new position, then nodded.
"And what does the bed cost?" Jon asked.
Woods reckoned the timber while Mikken priced the iron centres. They had reached the treadle fittings when Wylla arrived with a covered basket. Rain had darkened the shoulders of her green cloak. She cleared a place for the basket, moved the drawing beyond the reach of the pie dish, and looked at Jon.
"You have an hour before Ser Rodrik expects you. Eat."
The onion pie was still hot. There were two apples, hard white cheese and brown bread spread with bacon fat. Robb reached for the larger apple; Wylla took it first and cut both into pieces.
"I wanted that one," he said.
"You may still have half."
They ate on overturned buckets while glue warmed beside the brazier. Jon's hands smelled of iron and resin. He gave Woods leave to buy the timber, then sat with the warm pie balanced on his knees and listened to Robb describe what he meant to do when Rodrik finally allowed them to fight one another.
Wylla picked a curl of applewood from Jon's dark hair. It had caught around the pale strands at his left temple. He bent his head for her, still chewing, and she rubbed the sawdust from his cheek with her thumb.
Jon finished the last of the onion pie and let Wylla wipe his hands before he followed Arthur to the yard.
* * *
The lathe took four afternoons to build between Winterfell's other orders. Olyver cut the mortises; Woods fitted the bed and braces; Mikken forged the centres from a broken hinge strap. Jon came after lessons to check the work and altered the treadle so a short stroke would still turn the blank well.
On the second evening Jon carried the drawing upstairs with a smear of glue on his cuff. Wylla found him kneeling on his chair, trying to reach the far edge of the parchment without putting his sleeve in the ink. She turned the page for him and brought the lamp closer.
"The bath is ready."
"One line." He drew it, then another to show where the treadle should hang. Wylla waited until he laid down the pen before unfastening his collar.
Later, warm and clean beneath the blankets, he tried the shortened stroke with one foot. His heel nudged the mattress. He could still smell the applewood in his hair. Wylla was sorting his stockings beside the fire when he fell asleep; in the morning the drawing lay flat beneath two books, and she had found the missing button from his cuff.
At the first trial, Woods took the cutting tool while Olyver worked the treadle. The rest crept beneath the pressure. Jon called a halt and had Woods drive its wedge more firmly before bringing it close to the wood again.
The next cut peeled away a long, pale shaving. Applewood scented the shop. Olyver found a steady pace with his foot, and Woods turned the blank until its rim ran true between the iron points.
Jon took the tool for the last few strokes. He could brace it against the rest, but the handle was too long for him; Woods cut down a spare and fitted the blade to that. With it Jon skimmed a fine curl from the rim. A shaving floated clear of the lathe. Robb picked it from the floor and held it to his upper lip.
"Ser Rodrik," he announced.
"His whiskers are wider," Arthur said from the door.
Robb found a second shaving. By then Olyver had the tool, and Jon stood beside him with the pattern for the teeth. They laid it over the finished circle. This time every space fitted.
Woods waited for Jon to lift the pattern, then ran a thumb around the smooth edge. He glanced at the chair legs beneath his bench.
"I could finish a pair alike on this, my lord."
"With a pattern beside the piece, yes. Try it when we have our wheels." Jon showed him where a longer rest could sit along the bed. "Leave these centres where they are until Olyver has turned the second blank."
The carpenter nodded, still looking at the lathe. He picked up the shortened handle he had made for Jon and turned it in his large hand.
"Have you watched a turner work, my lord?"
"I knew what I wanted the wheel to do."
Woods glanced towards Arthur, then back at Jon. "At your age my father would only let me work the treadle."
Jon took the little tool from him. "Olyver has a good hand. Let him finish the next."
"Aye, my lord." Woods chose another piece of applewood for his son, leaving the chair leg within reach for later.
The clock train grew from there: two applewood wheels, a horn pinion, an iron arbor running in a softer brass bush. Mikken brought the finished pin himself. Woods fitted the bush to it, and Jon turned the assembly under the wheel's weight. It ran freely.
Woods set a slatted screen in front of the movement. Jon hung a small stone from cord wound about the first barrel. Woods supported the weight on one palm while Olyver watched the pinion. Robb stood beside Jon, looking through the slats. A leather sack full of shavings and sand waited below to catch the weight.
"Lower it a little," Jon said. Woods eased his hand down until the cord drew taut.
"Now let it take its own weight."
The wheels spun as Woods lowered his hand clear. Each tooth caught its mate, but the cord began to climb the bare edge of the barrel. Jon stopped the trial before it could slip off. When he turned the frame, one fixing peg moved in its hole.
"Cheeks here to hold the cord," he said, showing Woods the barrel, "and a brace across the frame. The weight is pulling that joint apart."
Mikken tested the arbor and offered to fit iron collars to keep it from shifting sideways. Jon agreed. The train would run; now he needed to govern its speed.
They kept the spare parts in a box beneath the bench. Robb called it the box of enemies and added the crooked first wheel with great satisfaction. Pate the bellman visited a few days later, his arm still bound from the fall at the gate. He carried the cracked rope guide in his good hand.
"Lord Black." Pate inclined his head. "Mikken said you were trying the wheels. May I see?"
Jon showed him the clock train. Pate peered through the screen. "A box of wooden teeth."
"It is not finished. The wheels run, but nothing yet governs how quickly the stone falls," Jon said.
Pate watched the stone settle. "I shall still be ringing by hand for a while, then."
"For a while," Jon said. "What have you brought?"
The bellman held out the guide. "They have lifted the rope clear of this for now. Could it be smoothed before they put it back, my lord?"
Mikken took the piece from him. The guide's mouth was rusted rough, and wet hemp had bitten hard into it. Jon traced the groove. "Bronze would not rust against wet hemp, and the rope would run more freely through it," Jon said.
Mikken examined the worn mouth. "I can smooth this one today, my lord. With grease it should serve."
"A wheel at the turn would spare the rope."
"It would need an axle and a cover against rain," Mikken said. "That will take longer."
"Mend the guide now," Jon said. "Round the mouth, and let Pate have it before the evening bell. We can fit a wheel when the other work allows."
"Before sunset, my lord." Mikken laid it beside his tool roll. Pate thanked Jon and went to see to his apprentice.
The bell rang by Pate's hand that night. It came a little late, but the old man had no need to wrench at the rope.
* * *
While the new clock frame was being fitted, Jon turned his attention to the lower-yard pump. Its worn piston leaked so badly that Harwin had to work the handle several times before water reached the spout. Jon sketched a leather cup that would press against the bore as the piston rose, with a valve below to hold the water and a leather flap through the piston to let it pass on the downstroke. His father had kept an old hand pump working long after buying a powered one for the farm. Jon could still remember the worn leather spread across the kitchen newspaper. He had no newspaper here, but the principle was simple enough to show the saddler.
He had Woods make a short elm barrel for a trial at the shop door. After the wood had soaked, the saddler felt inside it and found the ridge where the two auger holes met. Woods scraped that smooth while Jon and the saddler fitted the leather to a wooden backing disc. They left a narrow lip free to press against the wet bore.
Two days later Robb worked the handle and Jon held a clay jug beneath the spout. Pate stopped at the shop door to watch. The first pull brought nothing. The second produced a hollow gulp. On the fourth, a few drops of brown water reached the jug.
Woods stopped a small leak at the join with flax and pitch. On the next pull a thin stream reached Jon's jug. Robb heaved harder at the handle; the leather cup folded over its backing and the water stopped.
Jon bent to look down the bore just as Robb gave another pull. A spurt struck him across the chin and soaked the front of his tunic.
Robb stared. Then his mouth twitched.
"Not another stroke," Jon said, wiping his face.
"I had stopped."
That was enough to make Jon laugh too. He set the jug down and drew out the piston. The unsupported edge of the leather had turned inside out. Woods cut a wider backing disc at Jon's direction, and the saddler trimmed the lip until it flexed without folding.
This time the stream filled the jug and went on flowing.
Jon raised his hand before the jug brimmed over. Robb stopped, and Arthur put a bucket beneath the spout for the next trial.
"That is enough to wash in," Robb said.
"You may begin with the bench." Jon gave him the rag. Pate held his free hand under the little stream while the bucket filled; water ran over his knuckles without his having to lift a full pail. He flexed them, looking from the spout to the handle, then asked Woods how soon he might see it working at the well.
They left the pump standing in the rain barrel overnight. By morning the elm had swollen enough that Robb needed both hands to work the handle.
Woods scraped the swollen bore once more. Jon left the pump working beside the rain barrel so they could see whether it tightened again before making one for the well.
When Poole brought the week's account, Wylla was mending Jon's tunic beside the hearth. The steward put the bill on the bench without comment. Jon crossed the Myrish glass from his own order; the new frame and ironwork had left too little for it.
"Horn will do for the face," he said. "Have it cut when we know the size."
Wylla folded the mended tunic. Robb held up the discarded pump leather and peered through it at his brother. Jon took it away before he could fit it over his head.
The clock still needed its escapement. Jon drew the toothed crown and the upright bar that would rock against it, catching one tooth as it released another. A crosspiece bearing small lead weights would govern the beat. He remembered seeing such movements opened in museums; getting the clearances right with hand-filed iron took much of the next week.
Mikken forged the crown. Olyver cut a wooden pallet bar for the first trials, and Jon fitted it in the frame. At first it locked. He shaved the contact face, adjusted the bar and raised the small weight again.
Tok—tok. Tok—tok.
Robb stopped swinging his legs beneath the stool. The little bar rocked from side to side. For twenty-seven beats the wheel advanced a tooth at a time; then the sound grew uneven and stopped.
"That is the longest yet," Olyver said.
Jon leaned close without touching it. The lower pallet had shifted on the bar; its edge now caught the crown instead of releasing it. He lowered the weight, returned the pallet to the position he had marked and tightened the little wedge.
"Put a pin through this joint," he told Woods. "The pallet must not turn on the bar."
The carpenter fetched his small drill. When the joint was pinned, Jon raised the weight again and let the others listen. The uneven wooden knock was a poor sound beside Pate's bell outside, but it was the sound he had come to the shop to make.
Robb tried to imitate it all the way back to the keep.
That night Jon began a small book with the blank leaves Luwin had given him for drawings. He wrote in English, slowly, keeping the lines clear despite his cramped hand. Beneath a sketch of the clock he set down the tools needed to make another, then the forge and waterwheel he would build when he could afford them. Against the forge he wrote the first expense: a smith whose time he could command. Mikken had Winterfell's work to do. He put the book in a locked casket beneath his clothes and kept the key himself.