Paul's eyes were burning, the morning sun was saying hello in its own special manner. He felt as though he weighed a ton and sluggishly sat up in the straw-filled bed. Today was going to be a busy day once again. Garrett was at a table when Paul found him. The elf was taking slabs of meat, patting an excessive amount of salt on them, then stuffing the salty meat into a pot that sat on the table.
"What are you up to this morning Garrett?"
"Salted pork. When the winter comes, we'll need as much food preserved as possible. That, and it's tax day. You may want to be scarce for today Paul, the tax collectors don't mind roughing someone up for a few coins."
"How often do they come to collect?"
"They come through once a month, near the end of it usually, but the baron can impose a tax whenever he likes."
"Anytime he feels like it?"
"Aye, he is the landowner after all."
"You don't see how that's wrong?"
"Nay? He owns the land Paul, if we don't pay then he has full rights to kill or drive us out. It's always been like that."
Paul understood to a point, Garrett was making sure that his family could have a roof over their heads.
"Ah. Say, would you happen to know where I could get my hands on a journal or some paper?"
"Aye, I keep a ledger in case someone doesn't pay up."
"You can read and write huh?"
Garrett chuckled, "Nay Paul, but no one else in the village can either, so a scribble works just as well. I have a spare. Always good to keep a spare. Though I'll have to ask for compensation. I'll need another for whenever a merchant happens to travel by."
"How much?"
"Hmm, how much do you have?"
"About that… I haven't been able to make any money yet…"
"Well then, looks like you'll have to labor for it, I'll find something for you to do."
"Anything to write with? Or will that cost me too?"
"Nay, I'll give you my quill, only used it once."
Garrett got up, walked behind the bar, and retrieved the aforementioned journal and quill. It was bound in some rough leather that was dyed red, and it was only slightly larger than Paul's hand. He took it and turned it over before opening it. On the first page was a multitude of carefully placed scribbles, and as he riffled through the book he found that the only page that had been used was the first.
"This is perfect, thanks! However, I'll need some ink too..."
"Well, you'll have to make your own then. take some soot or charcoal from a fire, then take some sap and boil it in water. Once it's boiled, take the soot and put it in the pot."
"So you know how to make ink, but not how to read or write?"
"Aye, ink can be used for more than writing."
"Fair enough."
Paul walked over to the fireplace and nudged out a suitable piece of charcoal with a metal rod that had been propped against the wall. It was a thicker piece. Not much of a tip on the end, but it was the best he could manage for the time being. After it had cooled enough, Paul took it and placed it in his pocket before saying goodbye to Garrett.
Paul found a suitable spot in the shade, sat down, and concentrated on a thought he had been mulling over for a while. The charcoal worked well enough. It was no pencil and he couldn't sketch in fine detail, but this wasn't important. All he needed was to record his thoughts in a general sense for now. Pistons, that was what he needed. A way to make a piston that wouldn't leak. He reasoned that if he were to make a mold, then he could test the design and perfect it from there. The design itself was nothing fancy, just a wide ceramic bowl to hold live coals, and what looked like a pot with a spout that stuck out of the side. Fitting a piston head into that spout would be the hard part. If it was slightly too big it would get stuck, if it was too small then the steam would leak out and the piston wouldn't move. Paul doubted they would have precision machine tools, so it would have to be done by hand. Another problem was condensing the steam without having to spray water into the cylinder. He could have a valve so that the steam could exit the cylinder and condense. Though that would require a thin, long, and bendy tube. That would not be easy to make in a forge. Paul's head hurt. It was all very confusing. Thankfully, he had the journal to keep track of the design and its possible flaws. He put the journal down on his lap and leaned his head against the tree which was shading him. It was a beautiful day. A few clouds lazily sailed across the azure sky. After taking in the scene for a moment, he stood up and started off toward Dallin's smithy.
The familiar sounds came once more, it seemed the elf was always in the smithy. How he could stand the constant heat and the ringing sound of a hammer was beyond Paul.
As he approached the smith took notice, much unlike the previous times.
"About time you showed up. I want to work on that knife some more." Said the elf.
Dallin put the metal he was working on into the water barrel. The barrel steamed and hissed and when it's fit was done he laid the metal out on a bench. He then looked around abit, having apparently lost track of the blade they had worked on. Paul took this opportunity to talk.
"Say, Dallin, can I ask you a personal question?"
"Perhaps. Ask and I'll tell you if I want to answer or not."
"Alright, what happened to your ears?"
Dallin paused. "Ah, that. When you serve the king, you'll find that it involves a fair bit of combat. Long ears and long hair make for great handles. So it's better to cut your ears short and live, than to keep them and die in some field far away from home."
"Wouldn't that affect your hearing?"
"Not by much, anyways. Armies are loud, and when they clash it can be deafening. If you think the sound of a hammer and anvil is loud, you've never seen a battlefield."
"No, I haven't."
"Good, it's no place for a youngun such as yourself. Too many elves go off to die for some king or lord. They should be home, helping their families, not off on some adventure to kill some orcs over the mountains."
"I see, so you served the King then?"
"Yes boy, I served. I killed and burned his Majesty's enemies. Young elves think too highly of lords and Kings, they don't understand that a King will abandon them once they can no longer walk, or take up a spear to hold the line."
The conversation died after this, Paul no longer felt like asking questions.
Dallin was finally able to locate the metal they had begun working on, and beckoned Paul to his side.
* * *
It took Paul a full two hours to clean the first side of the blade, but now that this side was free of imperfections, it had a dark grey shine to it. He put down the knife and file for a moment, his arms were exhausted. He looked over to Dallin, who had just quenched whatever it was he had been working on. After pulling it out of the barrel, Paul saw that it was a long and sturdy looking blade. Dallin inspected the length of it, then flipped it and looked over it again. Seeming satisfied with the work, he walked over to Paul and sat next to him. He laid the blade across his lap before grabbing one of the files, and carefully started to put an edge on the blade.
Dallin cleared his throat, a clear sign to listen to what he's about to say. "I wouldn't ask anyone about their ears again, many elves would rather forget what they've done in the name of the King, you understand?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you."
"Nay boy, I don't mind. I've learned to forgive meself, I canny say the same for most though."
"I think I understand, I'll remember that."
"I think you should go, I would like some time with me thoughts. I'll take care of your work, come back tomorrow and we'll finish it."
He didn't argue, He got up and bid Dallin farewell before walking off toward the village.