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jargonautical · 18 days

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Somewhere To Be / A chapter at a time

The Smith

IT’S STANDING ROOM only at today’s guest lecture, hinting at either a popular topic or compulsory attendance. Possibly both. The Archchancellor himself is at the lectern, and beside him is a blonde giant of a man Mainder hasn’t seen in a very long time. According to the schedule this is one Dr Tor Sónnarson, expert in prehistoric metalworking and jewellery making techniques, flown down from Reykjavik after the discovery of the second brooch. Sónnarson isn’t the name Mainder knows him by, but this isn’t the time - nor the venue, and most definitely not the company - to remind him of that.

He quickly spots Mainder taking up a relaxed slouch against the wall at the back, nursing a cup of scalding hotel coffee, and a grin lights up his face. Fortunately this coincides perfectly with the tail end of the Archchancellor’s introduction.

“… and I’m delighted to introduce our guest Doctor Sónnarson. I’m sure you’ll all join me in giving him a warm welcome.”

So saying he pointedly raises his hands and leads the applause while Sónnarson lumbers to his feet.

“That is indeed a warm welcome.” His English is impeccable, precise if faintly accented. “I am not a man given to long speeches, so I will simply say that I am very excited to join you all on this project, and I look forward to talking to you all individually in due course.”

He beams at the room in general and takes the lectern to more applause, possibly for the sentiment of his speech but equally likely for its commendable brevity.

“I understand you have been wondering why you are finding so many of this style of brooch. If we include the splendid specimen from the Vernon collection which is claimed to be the brooch of the famous ‘moon princess’ of local folklore, that would make three. A treasure trove!”

There’s a ripple of uncertain laughter; after all, you’re not supposed to laugh at the speaker unless you can be absolutely certain they’re intentionally cracking a joke. Maybe he only meant to be enthusiastic?

“Ah, you are allowed to laugh.” he advises with a knowing nod. “I mean to be sarcastic, and now I will tell you why.”

Relieved smiles at this - damn him, for all his diffidence the smith always did know how to have the punters eating out of his hand. It doesn’t hurt that he’s put together like the gods saved all the best bits for last, tall and broad-shouldered with pale blond hair sweeping back off his forehead like some Icelandic hero from the sagas. Girls used to practically fall at his feet.

Maybe they still do, a horrible thought in the present context. Evie is down there at the end of the second row, leaning like him against the wall and turned back to scan the crowd. Looking for someone? Himself, possibly - a brief warming of her expression lets him know she sees him, but then she’s all solemn attention as the lecture begins in earnest.

The first slide is a simple drawing, a diagram really, of a typical fibula-style brooch. “Of course this style is very common,” he’s saying, “very common for the period - think of it as being the equivalent of coat buttons for our era. This is how we hold our clothes together, nothing more, and if one day archaeologists dig up Saville Row I am sure they will be very excited by the ritual significance of the tailor’s shop and the many buttons sacrificed there to the minor deities of Finance!”

He twinkles with delight at his foolish joke, twinkles directly at Evie as it happens, and expands his chest pridefully when she grins back. Mainder will have to give him a warning. She’s off limits, he’ll have to tell him, because …

Because why? She doesn’t belong to him. She’s an adult, by mudside standards anyway. She can do as she pleases. He’ll warn him off anyway. If it would be inappropriate for Mainder to pursue her, the same goes for him. There are rules, aren’t there, about relationships in the workplace? That ought to cover it.

“You are very lucky indeed to have discovered so many such beautiful examples.”

His slides advance to show the two recent finds. The contrast between the magnificent red, amber and gold piece against the mud-coloured and pitted bronze is shocking now they’re side by side. Garnets versus pebbles, silver flames versus empty channels.

“I hope to examine them more closely later, but from what I see here I can tell you that you are looking at, how should I put it, a Versace next to a Walmart.”

Blank looks greet him.

“You do not have Versace here?”

“We don’t have Walmart. Primark, maybe?” Evie volunteers, and he bows slightly in gratitude for the clarification.

“I see. What you would have then, is your cheapest clothing store of reasonable quality. Where you may buy something that is similar to whatever Versace was showing on the catwalk five years ago, but of course in much cheaper materials and a much poorer fit.”

Confused faces clear, smiles of understanding dawn, and he smiles happily at Evie again.

“There, we have an analogy - thank you, miss. This is the same thing. A fine lord may command a beautiful bespoke piece in the colours of his choosing, using the most expensive materials he can afford. He wears it, the lower levels of the feudal nobility observe, and a fashion is born. They ask their craftsmen to make them something similar.”

The slide advances again, showing just the bronze and agate version now.

“And so this is the next step. Lords and ladies bring the fashion home and any skilled metalworker may observe the design, how cleverly it fits its purpose - for holding the cloak together, you see? Perfectly designed.”

To make his point he advances to the next slide where a sallow young man stares awkwardly just off-camera as if trying not to laugh. He’s wearing a swathe of bright red fabric over his T-shirt and jeans, with a replica of a simple one-piece brooch in thick bronze wire gathering the material at one shoulder and holding it in place. Behind him the outlines of ugly concrete buildings and a patch of tragically uncared-for lawn suggest the photo was captured in haste at Sónnarson’s home institution, with an unlucky student co-opted as the model. His next words confirm it.

“My thanks to my lovely assistant Klaus for modelling for this picture.” Sónnarson intones with another twinkle. “And also my apologies to him for having him wear red, which is most definitely not his colour.”

This raises a roar of laughter at poor Klaus’s expense, but presumably it’s okay since he’s not here to endure it. Sónnarson flicks back to the previous slide.

“And so these clever metalworkers make many more now in the most basic materials. For bronze, there will be scraps remaining from making larger pieces - weapons, torcs, drinking vessels. Agate and quartz may easily be found in the riverbed if you are prepared to sift the gravel for them. What we would call, an easy profit.”

He beams at his clever analogy, regarding his audience’s obvious approval with pride.

“I will be happy to say more about the specific techniques after I have seen them more closely, perhaps a little talk at the end of the week?”

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THE HOTEL’S RESTAURANT is a safely anonymous venue, with the busy clatter of cutlery against plates and other diners’ conversations to mask what these two have to say to each other. In any case who would question the two experts, the local historian and the distinguished specialist, sitting down over lunch to compare theories?

Mainder isn’t astonished to see the smith occupying this new role. His wily friend has apparently been hiding in plain sight for the last few decades, literally writing the book on early Romano-British metalworking techniques. Which makes perfect sense once you know that he personally invented most of them.

“So you haven’t seen the brooches in person yet? I was pretty sure the jewelled one is one of yours.”

“It may be.” Smidur rumbles. “I think it was a young miskin with a commission for his master. Such a long time ago! If this is the same then I recall he said, ‘as fine as you please, and you may be sure he will pay well if he’s satisfied’. So I did, and so he did, and I heard no more.”

The waitress bustles up at that moment to deliver the list of today’s specials followed by the other, slightly longer, list of things they’ve run out of. Smidur listens attentively, leaning forward and giving her a look of deep approval until she starts to blush and fidget, before solemnly announcing that he believes he’ll try the salmon. Mainder settles for the same and she disappears off to the kitchen to place their order.

“And when were you going to tell me you’d come into town?”

“Right after this, I promise you.” Smidur barks a laugh, throwing his head back and making nearby patrons turn to stare briefly. “I knew you would not be far away. This is still your place, yes?”

Mainder meets the jibe with a gleam of challenge in his eye. “Yes. This is still my place.”

He endured some teasing from them all back in the day for being here so often, for taking an interest in the folk that lived here, but he never regretted the time spent. It needed done, he would argue. If you break a system (and that’s what destroying the Vernons effectively was, bringing all their feudal plans, however benign, to dust) then you have to be ready to make good any damage down the line. The Queen would have her way, but she wouldn’t see innocent folk suffer either - and as long as she approved, he was in the clear. He could never seem to make them appreciate that crucial point. Or perhaps they did, and they simply didn’t place the same weight on it that he did.

Anyway Smidur has already shifted to his next thought.

“The girl at the side, the clever one, what are your thoughts? I think I saw her looking for you in the lecture.”

Trust him to notice.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘thoughts’.” Mainder deflects.

“Perhaps I should say, intentions. Is she yours?”

“Not exactly.”

Mainder isn’t ready to be having this conversation, not until he’s resolved the same question in his own mind. But that cautious non-answer isn’t what Smidur is digging for, and they both know it.

“‘Not exactly’, what is that? It is a yes-or-no question, my friend. Do you lay claim?”

The formal language, the old language, gives Mainder pause. Technically he could, since he saw her first; and if he did then Smidur would have to back off gracefully and without question.

It’s not that simple though. Living among the people here for so long has changed him, changed how he sees them. They’re not animals to be branded. Anyway even if he laid claim with all formality, would it make a difference to her? What if his handsome friend suits her taste better?

He can’t explain, and chooses to ignore, the twist in his gut at that idea.

“She’s just a child. Between you and me I’m not sure she even likes me.”

Smidur leans back and ostentatiously makes a show of looking right and left at the people around them.

“My friend, from where we stand they are all children. It seems to me that you have been here too long.”

Mainder shifts uncomfortably under the truth of that statement. Both of those statements.

“If you say so.” he responds at last. “Take my advice and watch your step around her.”

And I’ll be watching your step for you, just in case, he mentally adds.

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