“Hm.” Valir still tried to get the device to do something but gave up when his fork-induced prodding didn’t have any effect.
However the mechanism worked, it was clear that the tension of the spring was spent. Without opening up the ball, the details would elude him, but Kraghtol guessed the mechanics were there to ignite something on the inside, which in turn produced the tear-inducing smoke.
“I don’t think it was an assassin or a kidnaper, though,” Kraghtol said. “I imagine you could fill this thing with more dangerous stuff than just smoke. Poison. The ones in your house had poisoned daggers, and I’m sure there are unhealthy substances to breathe in, too. I would have been an easy target in those tunnels if some poison had knocked me out.”
“Right. That’s not a weapon. But I still don’t knowwhatit is exactly. My father had me memorizing all the common armaments of Wardenreach, but I’ve never even heard of something like that.”
“We should ask someone.”
With that, Kraghtol grabbed the contraption and carefully put it on the counter, under the innkeeper’s nose. He was a man, as Kraghtol easily noticed. Every adult male dwarf Kraghtol had met so far wore a long beard in a variety of different styles. After the three weeks ship passage, Kraghtol had grown a wild and full beard he had gladly shaved off the first chance he had. The Dwarven beards, like the curly brown one in front of him, were nothing like that. Just like here, they often reached their owners’ chests, if not going all the way down to their waists. Kraghtol imagined how much work it must have been to care for and style them each day, and was glad that he only had to shave away a dense coat of stubble every morning.
“Excuse me, sir, could you tell me what this is? And possibly where I can find more like it?”
The innkeeper mumbled something in Dwarvish — a very common habit, as they had found out — and scrutinized the object from every side without picking it up.
“Looks like some kind of machinery,” he finally shared his less-than-helpful results. “But nothing I would recognize. And I should know; my second-oldest cousin from my ma’s side is a pump maker.”
“Paint me surprised,” chimed Valir from the side. Another thing they had learned during their stay in Bronzebreak was that Dwarven family trees were almost as labyrinthine as their city. Sometimes itseemed that any two dwarves were either related to each other or in feuding families.
Thankfully, the innkeeper didn’t catch the mockery, and sounded proud when he elaborated.
“Why yes. When people see cogwheels, they always think of locks and clocks. But that’s trollshit, I tell you. Pumps are the real mechanical marvel here. Doesn’t matter if you want water out of the mining shafts or in your home, you need one of these pumps. If you ask me, there’s no better way for a mechanic to spend his time than making pumps.”
“Fascinating,” Valir said with a voice expressing the exact opposite. “Would your cousin know anything about this device, then?”
The dwarf glared at the noble, slowly catching on to his tone.
“No. Didn’t you listen? That thing’s got nothing to do with a pump. Go ask your guild if you want to know more.”
Kraghtol noticed Valir opening his mouth again and his eyes gleaming with mischief, so he quickly grabbed the device and ushered Valir outside, thanking the innkeeper over his shoulder.
“Let’s not go to the guild,” he said dryly. “And why did he call it ‘your’ guild, anyway?”
“You really should have spent more time in lecturer Merress course instead of the student laboratories. It was easily my favorite class. The guilds were originally a human idea, around the time of unification. Given how long dwarves live, they surely have passed down some old prejudices towards them from that time, even though nowadays people of every race can climb any guild ranks. I even believe the Guild of Crafts — which is surely what he is referring to — has more dwarvesamong its ranks than humans or elves. But I agree. You might want to avoid confrontation with the officials.”
So, they added the mysterious device as a third item to their list of topics to ask around about, with similar success. One friendly mechanic, who specialized in mining pulleys, even offered to look up the design in her book of patterns, which took more than an hour to yield no result whatsoever. The ‘book’ in question was written in the traditional Dwarven scripture of stonescript, which apparently was just a fancy way of saying ‘chiseled into a stack of granite slabs’. Stacked on each other, the ‘pages’ of this book were half as tall as their owner, and must have weighed over 200 kilograms. The latter wasn’t even much of an estimate, since Kraghtol offered to help the mechanic retrieve the book from storage, only a few of the large pages at a time.
When Valir asked her why she didn’t use a paper-bound book for that, the mechanic was quick to explain.
“It’s a book abouttraditions. You wouldn’t want to write down words that are meant for eternity on something as short-lived aspaper, wouldn’t you?”
Valir had no witty response to that for once.
“In any case, there’s nothing about it in the book,” she said and carried back the first pages to the storage, prompting Kraghtol to help her immediately.
“Is everything you craft from that book?” Suddenly, the granite slabs didn’t seem so extensive anymore, and even though he couldn’t read the Dwarven script, Kraghtol couldn’t believe it to cover all mechanical things that might be useful.
“Yes. There are, of course, unique books for each craft. The pump makers have an entire addendum to the traditions of mechanics, for example. But yes. If it’s not in the book, it has no tradition; and if it has no tradition, you don’t need it. Simple as that.”
Suddenly, the half-orc felt reminded of the conversation about recipes he had with Marla, Months ago, and the same uncomfortable chill went down his spine. More magic disenchanted. He couldn’t help but continue asking.
“What if someone were to build something new? Something that isn’t in the book of patterns?”
The mechanic stopped and stared at him from below.
“They’d lose all credibility with their peers, that’s for sure. How are you supposed to trust someone to execute their craft flawlessly if they can’t even follow the traditions?”
“So, nobody ever does it?”
