Chương 82: Chapter 79 – Improvements

When Moreen had said he had a clock for sale in his letter, Alric had expected a clock. A nice maybe tasteful thing like a grandfather clock. A cuckoo would have been welcomed. The clock sat on a table where Alric and Hal were inspecting it. The issue with the table is the table was also the clock. The face pointed straight up toward the sky. Which was helpful, provided one intended to stand over it all day. It was also heavy.

The markings on the clock face were arranged in a careful circle that would have made sense if it had been on a wall. Instead it lay there like a bowl, waiting to be read from above. A thick handle jutted from the side, iron and slightly worn, as though it expected to be manhandled rather than used. Alric turned the handle once, slowly. There was resistance, then a steady clicking as something inside took the tension and held it.

"It needs to be cranked," he said, glancing at Hal.

"Every day." Hal leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he tried to follow the movement of the hands.

"Every day?"

"Yes." Alric said with a sigh So if you forget a day, you've lost time. Entirely. He turned the handle again. The clicking continued, then stopped when he released it. The hands remained where they were, unmoved by the effort. Alric frowned at that, then tapped lightly at the edge of the frame with one finger. Wait, if you crank this thing everyday, how do you tell the time when you cranked it?

"How do you actually tell the time?" Alric asked perplexed. Hal blinked at the clock, then back at him.

"I… don't know?"

"Neither does it," Alric said flatly. He leaned over the face, watching the hands as if they might explain themselves under enough scrutiny. They did not. They simply sat there, pointing to something that might have meant something yesterday, or would mean something tomorrow, but did not seem particularly interested in now.

"It's not a clock," he said after a moment.

"Not really." Hal shifted slightly, still looking at it.

"It looks like one."

"It's good at pretending, what it really is, is a timer." Alric replied. He straightened, folding his arms loosely.

"What it actually does is measure how long it's been since you last touched it." Hal's eyes moved back to the handle.

"A timer?"

"Yes," Alric said.

"A very expensive timer." Alric answered missing the real question. Hal opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though unsure which part of that required questioning.

"Still. It will do."

"Right. Look here." Alric crouched slightly beside the table, one hand resting on the edge as he pointed to the markings. Hal leaned in beside him, one hand braced on his knee, the other holding a piece of charcoal that he was not yet using.

"When this hand reaches here," Alric said, tapping one mark, "you write it down. When it reaches the next, you write that down as well." Hal nodded slowly, his eyes tracking the movement of the hand as if it might move faster if he stared hard enough.

"And you need to write it clearly," Alric added, glancing at the charcoal in his hand.

"Not whatever that was yesterday." Hal grimaced slightly.

"It was clear."

"It was… something," Alric said.

"Seren spent ages trying to decide if it said 'two' or 'seven'." Hal looked down at the charcoal, then back at the board they had been using for practice. There were marks on it already, numbers that leaned in uncertain directions, some larger than others as if they had been reconsidered halfway through. He set the charcoal down carefully, then picked it up again.

"I'll fix it," he said.

"You will," Alric replied.

"Because otherwise you'll be guessing when to tip a boiler, and you don't want to guess with nine boilers." Hal nodded again, more firmly this time. Behind them, the sound of boiling water rolled steadily, a low, constant presence that filled the space without quite demanding attention. Jase's voice carried faintly over it, calling something to one of the newer workers, followed by the scrape of wood on stone. Hal glanced over his shoulder briefly, then back to the clock.

"I need to help with that as well," he said.

"I know," Alric replied.

"Which is why this needs to be simple. Also, no more labour remember, you going to be telling other people when to tip." He tapped the face again, then pointed back to the board.

"Write." Hal bent over the board, the charcoal moving slowly this time, more deliberate. The numbers still leaned, but less so. Alric watched for a moment, then straightened and stepped back. In the warehouse yard it felt denser somehow, as though the space had shrunk without warning. Workers moved between the press, the berries and barrels, carrying, lifting, adjusting. The smell of fruit sat heavy, sharp and sweet in equal measure.

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'Henry's hires' as they were called, were clustered near the press section, hands stained dark from crushed berries, their movements still slightly unsure as they worked through tasks that had not yet settled into habit. Mara stood slightly apart from them, arms folded, watching. She said nothing at first, simply tracking movement, her gaze shifting from one worker to another. When she did speak, it was short, precise, and immediately acted on.

"No. That one first." A pause.

"Not like that. Pull together." Another pause. Three people adjusted their grip at once, none of them the ones she was speaking to.

"Yes. Now move." It took a lot of Alric's resolve not to laugh in the situation, he could never undermine her resolve and new found authority, but her posture was so irritated and everyone clearly thought it was their fault. There was no wasted motion in her instructions, but there was something tight in the way she held herself, a restraint that had nothing to do with the work itself. Nearby, the new grain assistant moved more slowly than the others, careful in a way that suggested she was measuring every step.

She kept her head down, one hand resting briefly against her side before she resumed lifting. Alric watched her for a moment, recalling the interview the day before. He recalled her name was Brenna. She had been a washer woman working in the nobles quarter, she had been fired after they discovered she was pregnant, she'd delivered a few months ago and unemployed ever since. She had a steady voice, gave direct answers.

Brenna moved with the steady, unhurried rhythm of someone used to working through a full day without stopping. There was weight to her, not softness but strength, built from lifting, carrying, and standing longer than most would choose to. Her hands were broad and worn, the skin rough from years of scrubbing and hauling, her grip firm on anything she touched. She kept her head down while she worked, not out of shyness but habit, the sort that came from being expected to keep moving rather than speak.

When she did glance up, it was quick and direct, the type to avoid talking. She glanced over to where Alric was watching her, immediately she seemed to shudder internally, lowered her head further than before and moved away. Alric looked away with a complicated expression. The barrel shifted. It was a small movement, barely a hand's width, but it was enough. Henry adjusted his grip immediately, his brother mirroring the motion on the other side.

Between them, the heavy berry wine barrel rolled slightly, its weight resisting every correction.

"Careful," Henry muttered, more to the barrel than to his brother. They had it tilted now, balanced on its edge, the wood creaking softly under the strain. One more push and it would settle into place. One slip and it would not. Alric stopped where he was, watching. The effort was controlled. Measured. Neither of them was rushing. They knew exactly what they were doing. That did not make it safe. Henry shifted again, his foot sliding half an inch before catching.

The barrel lurched in response, just enough to change its center. Both men froze. For a moment, nothing moved. Then, slowly, together, they corrected it, easing the weight back into something manageable. The barrel settled with a dull thud. Henry exhaled. Alric did not. He turned and walked out immediately seeing an idea and a need. The wagonwright's yard smelled of cut wood and oil.

The craftsman looked up as Alric approached, wiping his hands on a cloth that was competing with the one Stromni used, this one however had a headstart on its journey to dark brown. It was winning, though not in a way that suggested success.

"I need wheels," Alric said glancing around the yard. The wagon yard was a churned stretch of packed earth, rutted deep where wheels had worn the same paths over and over. Half-built carts leaned against one another in uneven rows, their frames bare, spokes exposed like ribs. Others stood complete, shafts resting low, waiting for teams that weren't there yet. The air carried a thick mix of smells. Fresh-cut wood, sharp and clean where beams had been split that morning.

Old timber, damp and sour where it had soaked up rain and mud. Pitch and resin hung heavy near the workbenches, sticky and sweet, clinging to the back of the throat. Somewhere beneath it all was the dull, familiar scent of animals, leather, and old straw ground into the dirt. Tools lay where they had last been used. A hammer half-buried in shavings. A wheel propped against a post, still smelling of sap. The man nodded once.

"For a wagon?" The question carried the faint hope that it would be a normal request.

"Uh..." Alric paused.

"Hand cart?" he asked"Smaller." Alric said awkwardly. The hope faded. The man's brow creased slightly.

"How small?" Alric held his hands apart, indicating the width.

"Two of them." The craftsman looked at the space between his hands, then back at him.

"…Right. You paying upfront friend?" Alric nodded, he did not ask further. Stromni listened without interrupting, which was unusual enough to be noticeable.

"A frame," Alric said, gesturing with both hands.

"Metal. It needs to hold a barrel here." He curved his hands to demonstrate.

"Not flat. It has to sit in it." Stromni squinted at the shape, then at Alric. Stromni let out a deep sigh, he snatched up a piece of paper and handed it to Alric with an expectant look. Alric grinned, taking the charcoal and drawing it.

"And I want it to move."

"Why not just use a handcart?" Stromni asked this with the tone of a man already expecting the answer to be unsatisfactory but was also used to Alric-isms.

"It's too difficult to use inside, also these help the barrel get on" He scratched at his beard, considering.

"You're making a cart. A weird cart?"

"Not quite, it will make sense when its finished.." Stromni's mouth twitched slightly.

"Right." he turned toward the forge.

"I'll make your not-cart." It worked. Not well. Not cleanly. But it worked. The frame held the barrel in place, the curved supports gripping the wood just enough to stop it rolling free. The wheels turned under the weight, though not without complaint, the whole thing resisting direction like a stubborn animal. Beneath the frame were two long pieces of barstock. In Alric's old world, this would have been called a nose trolley Henry pushed it forward, slowly, his hands firm on the frame. The barrel moved. No tilt.

No balancing. No moment where everything depended on a single misstep. It simply moved. He stopped after a few paces, looking down at it.

"…That's better," he said. There was no excitement in it. No grin. Just a quiet release of something that had been held too tightly for too long. He looked up at Alric.

"Thank you." Alric nodded once. It was already not enough. The wheels caught slightly on uneven stone, the wood flexing more than he liked. The frame held, but the movement was not smooth. It could be smoother. He stood beside it, one hand resting on the edge, already seeing where it failed.

"Wood won't last," Alric said with a sigh. Henry glanced at the wheel.

"It works fine though?"

"It works," Alric agreed.

"For now." He straightened.

"I'll have them remade."

"Eh?"

"Steel core. Wood outside." Henry nodded slowly, as if that made sense. Perhaps it did. Alric turned as Vale approached. Vale was eyeing out the new barrel trolley as it Henry rolled away with it, carrying a wide grin.

"The two buildings, next to us" he said still eyeing out the nose trolley.

"They're occupied."

"Of course they are. I could have told you that." Alric said looking over to Vale"They won't leave unless… well, they might," Vale added, "for the right price." Alric exhaled slowly, he glanced toward the entrance of the warehouse. Lessa was hanging up grain, being followed by the cats. He turned his attention away, it didn't do to stare at Lessa for long.

"How long if we don't pay?" Alric asked Vale shrugged.

"Years maybe?" Alric closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them again.

"Just pay them." Vale nodded once, as if that had always been the answer.

"You'll need both," he said.

"One for storage--" Alric frowned slightly.

"We only need one." Vale shook his head.

"No. You need two. One for empty casks, one for fermentation. You're also going to need the extra staff quarters, you know this." Alric looked at him for a moment, then sighed.

"Fine." Vale's expression did not change, but there was a quiet satisfaction in the way he inclined his head. Alric glanced back at Henry, who was loading the trolley frame with a barrel to take to the cellar. Maybe he should make some for casks too? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that Vale cared more about empty casks than he did. Probably. He could not decide if that was reassuring or not.