The Warring States (The Wave Trilogy) - By Aidan Harte Page 0,54

before Fabbro left, greeting other merchants as he went. The market never failed to lift a black mood; he missed its gladiatorial badinage. By the time he reached Piazza Stella he was jolly again. He stopped beside the third lion and looked up at the empty plinth. Instead of heading back to his palazzo, he abruptly turned right and walked along the Irenicon’s northern bank.

The northeast of town was traditionally the tanners’ quarter. It was under-populated even before the Wave struck; now it was a jumble of squat houses and sudden towers, apparently built overnight with bricks of coal. A dark cloud hung low over these structures and the river was gauzed in smoke. Fabbro covered his mouth using his hood as a scarf, engineer-fashion. Other fire-working trades had been drawn to the area to the point where it had become a kingdom itself; its cantankerous denizens called it Tartarus. Rasenna once had small need of blacksmiths – masons for towers and weavers for flags answered all the requirements of defence and offence – but of late it had become a pilgrimage destination for metal-workers, just as Concord had twenty years ago. Their ranks swelled further when the Hawk’s Company arrived; armourers and sword-makers follow armies as devotedly as whores. These noisy and noisome trades had been herded together so the filth they produced didn’t pass through town. The last few empty spaces were filled with the factories of the engineers.

From a distance the factories were a sight to make Rasenneisi blood run cold; closer up, it was clear that the towers were only chimneys billowing steam. Driving northern winds carried the steam and smoke of the tanners and smiths over the city walls, where the whir of mills and the clatter and putter of paddle-powered contraptions competed with the roaring Irenicon. Before the river was permitted to leave town, it was filtered through a mechanical gauntlet – several rows of variously sized paddles, coupled with belts and chains. To Fabbro this combined assault on the senses was beautiful: Rasenna was growing, and every inch was a victory for common sense, a defeat for the turbulent. He entered the foundry yard whistling.

Jacques’ was covered in the same black grime as all the other foundries, but everyone knew his was the best in Tartarus. Normally it was full of assistants toiling in its inconsistent gloom, illumined by the ash-bitter glare of cinders and heavy, heaving bellows burping the slumbering ovens awake. Today it was empty, but for a small boy leaning at a wooden desk and tapping a set of greaves with a chasing hammer. Standing silently behind the boy was Jacques. The old waxy sheets on the windows were pulled back to let the morning light visit the workshop’s hidden nooks. Red earth was swept up, tongs and chisels stored away. The forge-maestro’s work today required only his hands and the world’s silence.

Despite its thickness, Jacques’ neck was mobile, and he turned and tilted his head as he examined the boy’s work. Fabbro had never seen Jacques without his long-eared leather cap; he assumed it was a protective guard against sparks. His permanent squint was intimidating until one got used to it – the sparks were the reason for that, too.

‘Jacques! Congratulations again on your victory. Yuri took it well.’ As they shook hands Fabbro noticed Jacques’ hands again: they were crossed and crossed again with searing scars. They must have been from when he was a journeyman – all Tartarus knew that Jacques the Hammer could handle metal until it glowed.

Jacques ignored the compliment. ‘Come,’ he said, and Fabbro followed, wondering whose son the boy was. Strange to think he knew so little about someone he’d trusted with so much money. When Jacques appeared outside Rasenna’s walls he’d asked who was king here, and when told that Rasenna had none, he had asked for sanctuary, volunteering only that he was a skilled artisan. Of course, he was a Frank, but did he hail from the Isles or the mainland? His Etrurian might be only functional, but his obvious talent soon won respect. That and his physical stature quickly made him a leader, of sorts: Gonfaloniere of Tartarus, if such a thing could be imagined. Jacques had no ambitions, at least as far as Fabbro knew, other than to be left alone. He liked the big fellow, but theirs was a fifty-per-cent friendship, that awkward bluff relationship that exists between contractor and contracted. When business was done, he would know