CHAPTER 80: PART 80: A NEW BEGINNING PART V

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"You’re thinking...,??" Fizz said finally, from the crook of John’s elbow.

"I am," John said.

"About the capital?"

"About six months," John said. "And about circles. And ranks. And how to make a one look, from a distance, like a four."

Fizz snorted. "We cheat."

"We work," John said, and even he heard the promise there.

"Then we cheat a little," Fizz amended, settling with a theatrical sigh. "Also... the party was good. I forgive you for everything. Especially vanishing my cute fur. I enjoyed the pancakes party."

"It was." Jon replied.

"I ate five hundred and eight pancakes," Fizz said proudly.

"The board says five hundred and six," John said.

Fizz yawned. "Ruel can’t count."

John smiled into the night where no one could see it. "Sleep."

Fizz mumbled something about banners and hats and onions that told the truth for once. John waited until the last conversation in the lane belonged only to crickets, then lifted Fizz, carried him inside, and set him on the softest folded cloak he could find.

The forge smelled of sugar and smoke and something else. It became a quiet place that had decided to stay. John barred the door, crossed the room, and touched the chest again, not for money this time, but for the feeling that came with a lid that fit and a key that worked.

He put Sera’s parchment on the table and placed a mug on it so it would not run away in the night’s air. He traced the word capital

with a fingertip as if it might complain. He looked at his hands and saw a boy who had learned to bury the dead and a man who had learned to build rooms where nobody would drown.

"Six months," he said to the rafters.

The rafters—good, plain, honest wood—said nothing. But they would hold.

Outside, the night obliged and went on. Inside, the last coal blinked, thought about telling a story, and chose to sleep.

(Some information about the ten people who follow John.)

Gael — The steady foreman, an oak-barrel of competence with a warm growl and a craftsman’s patience.

Ruel — Barrel-chested chalk-keeper with a scar and a gruff sense of fairness who trusts numbers grudgingly.

Harn — Long and limber ladle-hand, a quick study who moves like a sapling in a steady wind.

Pekk — Limping ex-miner who treats pain like an unruly dog and solves problems with plain pragmatism.

Bren — Quiet striker whose tempering is precise and whose words arrive only when needed.

Jem — Batter-dreamer with big enthusiasm who believes every pour can be perfect with enough hope.

Jerr — Jem’s precision-minded twin who measures twice, flips once, and counts bubbles like a bookkeeper.

Orna — Sleeve-rolled queen of the flip, strong as fenceposts and fond of daring people to disagree.

Kel — Half of the deadpan tap duo, dry humor and steady pours that never waste a drop.

Doff — The other half of the duo, finishes Kel’s grumbles and keeps the foamy head just right.

Ludo — Ambidextrous heat-reader who can shoe a horse or tame a fire with the same calm hands.

(Back to the story.)

The morning after a feast always tells a different truth than the night that made it. It came with light that was a little too honest and air that was a little too loud. It arrived with the faintest stink of spilled beer, the stubborn sweetness of cooled syrup, and the soft chorus of ten blacksmiths discovering that wooden benches are not pillows.

John rose with the sun and with fewer regrets than he expected. Fizz was already awake, hovering near the rafters like a smug halo, bright eyed and suspiciously energetic for a creature who had eaten the surface area of a small barn.

"Good morning to sensible people," Fizz announced, rolling onto his back midair as if the sky had furniture. "And to drunk current blacksmith / old miners followers. And to benches who did nothing wrong."

Gael sat up on his pallet with the noise an old tree makes when a storm changes its mind. He rubbed his beard and winced in the direction of his own eyebrows. "I am alive," he declared, as if anyone had doubted it. "Bread first. Explanations later."

The forge wore last night’s joy like a cloak with crumbs on it. Plates leaned against barrels. Mugs stood in small triumphant armies. The chalkboard said five hundred and something, because Ruel had attempted to correct the tally twice and then given up with a philosophical grunt.

John opened the shutters wide and let the day come in and fix what it could. He set a kettle on the small stove and patted the chest once for luck. The coins inside did not move. Moran’s gift of trust, such as it was, had made it through the dark.

Fizz drifted down to John’s shoulder and put a paw on it with the solemnity of a coronation. "Today we sweep," he said. "Today we clean pans and consciences. Today we regret nothing."

"We also work," John said. "And we talk to someone who knows how houses keep secrets."

Fizz’s ears perked. "Innkeeper’s wife."

"After the cleaning," John said.

"After I sing a short hangover hymn," Fizz countered.

"No," John said.

Fizz sang anyway, very softly and very sweetly, about brave men who fought a noble battle against mugs and lost with honor. Gael tried to sing with Fizz but failed somewhere around the second verse.

By midmorning, the forge looked like itself again. Tables scrubbed. Pans oiled. The long room aired and re-scented with wood smoke and tea. The men moved as if their limbs were packed with sand and duty, but they moved. Ruel found his boots, thanked them for their service, and put them on with a sigh that seemed unfair to both parties.

John clapped his hands once. "Listen up. Two things today. First, orders. Second, errands. Orna, take Jem and Jerr and finish the gate hinges for the south lane. Ludo, clean the flues. Pekk, sharpen the lot of those sledges the farmers dumped on our doorstep for free. Gael, with me after lunch. We need to price chalk, copper wire, and cut glass. Harn, you are on ladles again, but this time for sand and aggregate. We will cast a steady base for the small array near my table."

"And me," Fizz said, puffing up with expectation.

"You," John said, "will not bother anyone at the gate if you see them. You will not insult the villagers in front of their door. You will not, under any circumstance, add rosemary to the tea and call it an improvement."

Fizz held up a paw. "These are very restrictive conditions."

"You may come with me to the inn," John said.

Fizz snapped his paw down. "Approved."

They worked until the forge sounded like a forge again. Hammers met metal. Files whispered along edges. The bellows breathed. The morning found its comfortable rhythm and then let itself be ignored, which is all a morning ever wants.

When the shadow of the sign outside crept to the mark John liked, he took his coat and a small purse. Fizz took nothing and somehow looked as if he had packed three suitcases of attitude.

"Do not buy silly glass," Gael warned. "We need panes, not peacocks."

"If I come back with peacocks, it will be an accident," John said.

"Peacocks would be majestic," Fizz whispered.

"They would be expensive," John whispered back.

"Ah," Fizz said, conceding the point. "We will get majestic later."

They left by the side door and cut through a lane where laundry lines made a prayer of color. The village knew them now by sight. Some faces nodded; some pretended not to; some kept watching see if the world would be different today.

The inn stood at the bend where the road remembered it used to be a river. Its sign swung from a stout iron bracket: a stag who had obviously won a debate with its antlers. The door opened on a room full of tables that knew stories and a hearth that had seen every kind of winter. It smelled of soup and spilled ale, and behind the counter stood a woman who saw everything as a ledger: what came in, what went out, and what needed to be charged double for the trouble.

"Mara," Fizz said, as if greeting a boss lady.

Mara’s smile was the kind you earn. "Fizz. John. Heard you fed the whole north end and shamed a griddle."

"Allegedly," Fizz said. "We have come to ask for a very boring favor."

"That sounds dangerous," Mara said. "Sit. Talk."

They sat. She poured something that passed for tea and did not apologize for it. John reached into his coat and put three coins on the table. They were not large, but they were respectable, and they told a story a good innkeeper could read.

Mara set one finger on the nearest coin and slid it back toward him by the width of a fingernail. "You need names," she said. "And a mouth that knows how to keep them."