A morning fog sat firmly on the rough paths, an exhalation of mother earth. Ethan sat beside that broken watchtower on a low rise and gazed out over Lowlands Edge: the clustered shacks, crumbling fences, and mire-stained pathways of the town. The name was strangely appropriate and rather tragic-strangers at the very edge of this world, barely scraping by.
He put his canvas down on a flat boulder and weighed it with stones, charcoal in hand.
A grid of roads. A marketplace. Working quarters for artisans, laborers, and farmers. A brook meandering along the southern boundary, emptying into a wide irrigation basin. In his vision, at the center stood a town hall that also served as a refuge from catastrophe. The picture was forming so fast. His pragmatic mind in design and architecture would not come to rest.
Boots traversed behind him on the earth.
Milord, came the rough voice.
Turning around, Ethan beheld a brickmaker; the one the steward had spoken of as Master Halward, accompanied by two apprentices both caked with clay and dirt.
Do you know how cement is produced? Ethan inquired plainly.
I need cement, he muttered under his breath.
"Milord?" questioned Master Halward, the hunched brickmaker who had come in from outside.
"Cement. Or something that sets like stone. Lime, ash, clay; anything we can work upon."
He crouched and drew a very rudimentary rotary kiln in the dust of the paving. "We will require limestone, kilns, water management, and workers who will be trained to keep the heat constant."
The brickmaker remained wide-eyed.
"Something like that?"
Not... yet. But we can try to make it. We have lime from the hills, ash from the kilns, and plenty of clay.
Now Ethan was spinning in his own thoughts. Stable surfaces are necessities to build roads. Better housing needs mortar. Nothing will thrive without proper sewage.
Ethan began drawing the shape of a rudimentary rotary kiln-a vertical kiln in which it was possible to burn limestone and other minerals at high temperatures. "Lime is what we need. From that comes quicklime. Slake it with water, and if you have volcanic ash-top with pozzolan. With that, you add sand. With that, you get mortar: hard and weather-resistant."
Halward blinked.
We don't have pozzolan, Ethan continued, but we'll look for alternatives. Crushed brick, clay, maybe some plant ash. Basically, let's just start. I want something better than mud and branches.
Once again, the old man simply nodded. We can have a go at it. There is limestone in the east cliffs.
Well, then, said Ethan, have it quarried. A simple kiln shall be constructed by tomorrow. I will work on the venting.
Later in the day, Ethan took a walk through the east quarter-early fields, now overgrowth, and gully swamp. Talking with farmers and elders were those who remembered those days when the fields were buzzing.
Land floods every Rainmoon, said one. No drainage. Seeds rot.
Ethan stood silently. Then he pointed to the raised ridges around the field. We'll make canals. Dig deep, line with gravel and clay. Also drain runoff. If we can control the flow, we can resow the whole tract.
The old men exchanged glances with their faces full of astonishment.
You'd. farm? questioned another.
No. You will. But I'll prepare the land for you.
That same evening Ethan was back to the half-collapsed edifice that functioned as a town hall. Upon a wooden table lay heaps of drawings: foundations, bridge arches, and now the draft plans of the worker barracks. A pair of little bare feet came in, placing a bowl of scorching barley soup.
Thanks, Ethan muttered without raising his head.
The boy lingered for a bit, glancing at the drawings.
What's that?
"The future."
Ethan sipped the soup, never taking his eyes off the plans. Outside, voices could be heard, bright ones. Stories were spreading forth. A new strange lord knew about stone that hardened like rock, that knew of roads that did't disintegrate to soup when it rained, and of waterways that could again give life to dying lands.
He dipped his quill into ink and wrote one word in the corner of the canvas:
"Hope."
And then he thought, silently: Brick by brick. we'll rise.