Emissary by Uvatha the Horseman

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The Shipyard

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Chapter 15 - The Shipyard

In the hours before dawn, he gave up trying to sleep. He considered his options. He could be a servant in someone else's house, at least it would let him sleep indoors. But he didn't think his father's friends would engage him to answer their door or tend their horses.

Perhaps his mother's people would take him in. His father had pointed out the path that led to her village. He thought he could find it again. He was strong enough for farm work, and he could teach the younger children to read, but it was winter, there would be no work for a farmhand until spring.

He needed to find work right away. Tomorrow, he would go down to the docks and stand in line with the other day laborers for a chance to unload cargo or hammer ribs onto the frame of a ship.

He got up and put on his oldest clothes, the leggings with the hole in the knee and a frayed shirt. He added a second shirt for warmth. Anything he could wear was something he didn't have to pack.

The moon was low on the horizon, and the patch of light had moved to the far edge of the hayloft. He brought his satchel over to it, and took everything out, his books, some essays he'd saved, and the box holding his pens and ink. He set them aside. Most of the books were thick and heavy. The satchel weighed almost nothing without them.

He packed a single change of clothes. There was still some room left. History of Númenor went back in the satchel, and Diplomacy, his best subjects. The satchel was so full, he wasn't sure he could close it. He'd have to leave his other books behind. Sindarin, that was easy. He wanted to take Astronomy and Coastal Geography, but there wasn't room. He tried to decide whether to keep his essays.

He was about to buckle the flap closed when he knelt on something hard. He dug it out from under the straw. A river rock, his painted crab. The last thing he needed was to carry a rock around all day. He put it on the pile of things to be abandoned, but his fingers wouldn't let it go. He tucked it in the satchel, wrapped in a shirt so the paint wouldn't get chipped.

Everything else would have to be left behind. There was no room for his father's clothes, not even the brown tunic with gold embroidery he'd worn to the Yule banquet. He'd hide them in the far corner of the loft, deep in the straw where they wouldn't be found, or worse, thrown away.

It was still dark. Before anyone came to take care of the horses, He slipped out by a side door that couldn't be seen from the main building and disappeared down the street.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Urzahil left the city by the Main Gate. The sky was midnight blue, not even beginning to get pale in the east. He took the path that wrapped around the city walls down to the waterfront. It was longer than the route through the city and out the Seaward Gate, but there was less chance of being seen, although he couldn't imagine that anyone he knew would be awake yet.

The sounds of desert insects, unnoticed during the day, filled the night air. The sun wouldn't be up for another hour. It was hard to keep to the path in the dark. Burrs from weeds at the edge of the path clung the fabric of his leggings.

He rounded the northern tower, and all at once, the whole harbor was laid out before him. The moon hung just above the horizon, its reflection a wavering ribbon on the surface of the ocean, silver white. The harbor was a forest of masts, at least thirty ships were tied up at the quay, and more were anchored further out.

Pebbles skidded under his feet as he tried to slow his pace on the steep slope. Eventually the path leveled, and he found himself in the shadow of the wall enclosing the harbor. The path was blocked by a gate in the wall, closed and locked.

Beside it, a brass bell hung from a bracket in the wall. He pulled the rope to rouse the gatekeeper. The peal was unexpectedly loud. The spyhole slid back and a face appeared, the bolt was drawn, and the gate swung open to admit him.

A short path led to the quay. To the left, the great ocean-going vessels were berthed at the busiest part of the quay, at the foot of the road that led up to the city's seaward gate. The ships rocked on the swell, the sound of halyards slapping against the masts traveled over the water. In the other direction was the shipyard. He turned to the right, towards the shipyard.

Even though the sun was not yet up, a line of men snaked back from the entrance to the shipyard. Who would have guessed so many would come here in the dark and stand in line for a chance to wield a tar brush or hammer pegs into the ribs of a ship under construction? Tomorrow, he would make sure to arrive earlier.

The men were of every age and nationality. Almost all of them were muscular through the arms and shoulders. Urzahil, while strongly built, had never done physical labor in his life. He was beginning to have doubts about the whole thing.

Urzahil joined the line, which continued to grow behind him. Seabirds cried overhead. The surge slapped against the wharf. He switched his satchel to the other shoulder. It wasn't even light yet, and already the strap was digging into his shoulder.

The line moved forward a step at a time. The Foreman pointed men toward one or another of the vessels under construction. Soon there were only three men in front of him.

"No experience? Go to the back of the line, I'll only use you after everyone else has been assigned," the Foreman said, and the poor unfortunate shuffled to the end of the column, his head down.

The next man must have met with the Foreman's approval, because he headed in the direction of a ship that was nearly completed. The man after that stepped up.

"You! Whenever you're here, tools go missing. Get out!" The man almost ran off. The Foreman shouted at his retreating back, "I won't have a thief in my shipyard!"

It was Urzahil's turn next. He had no experience either, the Foreman would send him to the back of the line, too. Before the Foreman could say anything, Urzahil spoke first.

"I'm big and strong, and I follow directions. What will I be working on today?"

It was a trick he'd learned in Diplomacy, act as if the decision's already been made in your favor. As often as not, it worked.

The Foreman looked him over. "Think you can swing a hammer?" Urzahil nodded. The Foreman turned to the man beside him. "He'll be helping Jenris on the new warship under construction. Show him where he needs to be, and find him some tools."

Urzahil followed the Foreman's assistant into the shipyard. A dozen or more ocean-going vessels were in various stages of completion, from bare ribs reaching skyward to vessels with their masts stepped, complete except for canvas and rigging. The sound of hammer-blows echoed off the cliffs behind them.

As they walked through the shipyard, his nostrils was filled with the smell of pitch and new wood. Smoke stung his eyes. They were passing a low shed. A tink tink came from within, a hammer against metal. Inside, a man raised a hammer and struck the glowing metal.

The scarred surface of a workbench in front of the smithy was covered with an assortment of hammers, chisels, planes, awls, and other tools of the shipbuilding trade whose purpose was a mystery. The assistant selected a medium-sized mallet and gave it to Urzahil.

The man stopped in front of a skeleton of a ship, a keel and ribs on a frame encased in scaffolding. Two men lifted a plank and set it on sawhorses, holding the plank with one edge was upward. Someone drew a two-handed plane along the edge, raising pale curls of wood from a stepped joint. The ground was covered with wood shavings and sawdust. Curls of wood crunched underfoot.

"Each plank is shaped just so before it's fastened in place. That man shaping the lapped joint is as skilled as a cooper."

The Foreman's assistant climbed a short ladder and beckoned Urzahil to follow. He spoke to another worker already in the scaffolding.

"I've brought you a helper. After you proof the sud, he can clinker the strakes."[1]

Urzahil imagined his Sindarin teacher pacing in front of the podium. "Come on, Urzahil, it's not that hard. 'Clinker the strakes.' Think of shipbuilding and new wood." Urzahil faked a cough, covering a grin with his sleeve.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The work turned out to be straightforward enough. Urzahil's job was to attach the long planks onto the ribs of the ship by driving large square nails with a mallet. The planks, softened with steam to make them flexible, were held in place by two strong men. Jenris painted the lapped joint between planks with sud, a mixture of pine pitch and wool, to make the seam waterproof, and Urzahil nailed it in place.

The Foreman's Assistant moved around the hull, overseeing a dozen workers. From time to time, the Foreman himself came over to supervise the work.

Later, Urzahil saw the Foreman talking to an older man. The Foreman was holding his cap in his hands, his posture deferential.

"He's talking to the Master Shipwright," said Jenris.

The Shipwright was consulting a drawing held open by two youths who looked like apprentices. The Shipwright traced along the drawing while he gave instructions to the Foreman, who nodded but didn't speak. Clearly, Shipwright was an exalted position here. Urzahil guessed the apprentices had a promising future.

Urzahil had been so offended when Lady Lintoron urged him to apprentice himself to a shipwright. What had he said to her? "May I never fall so low …" Had he taken her advice, his life would be better now.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The city bells struck noon, and all the workmen laid down their tools. Urzahil put down his mallet, hitched the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, and followed the other men. They walked through the shipyard until they reached the corner where the quay through the shipyard met the wharf where ocean-going vessels tied up to unload their cargo and take on supplies.

Crowds had already formed around the stands that served hot food. Urzahil joined the line in front of a stand that sold triangular pastries filled with potatoes and peas, and tea in earthenware cups.

"The cups are a loan. It's bad form to take them very far from the stand," Jenris told him

The men in the crowd were not just shipyard workers, there were also dockworkers and what looked like sailors from the big ocean-going ships. One wore a headscarf from Harad, another had an ornamented belt from a Haven south of here. They looked like Caldûr, dressed in souvenirs from his travels.

The sailor with the headscarf was saying, "…you don't really know your own country until you've left it." Urzahil agreed. He hadn't understood what it meant to belong to the nobility, until he'd left it.

He felt inside his purse, debating how much to spend. When he reached the front of the line, he pulled out a large copper coin and asked for two of the pies and a cup of tea. He waited to hear how much more he owed, but the woman gave him two farthings in change along with his food.

He joined the other workmen from the shipyard on a low wall separating the quay from the street and sat beside Jenris to eat. Even without meat, the pastries were surprisingly good. He would come back to this stand tomorrow.

A group of Corsairs from one of the warships walked by, with long knives at their belts. The one with a scar over his eye was saying to his shipmates, "We used to be able to sail upriver all the way to Pelargir, but no more. Gondor controls the Anduin all the way down to the sea. Their ships are everywhere, and when we tried to raid a farm on the riverbank, we were met by armed men."

"Aye, it didn't used to be like that, not even five years ago. Gondor is flexing its muscles. It may come to blows sooner than we expect."

What would happen if invaders surrounded their walls? Every man and boy would be expected to raise a sword or spear to defend the city. The quay in front of him swam. Don't think about it.

Urzahil thought about where he was going to sleep tonight. He knew how much it cost to stay at the Boiling Frog, and he simply didn't have that much. He leaned over to Jenris. "I'm new here. What's the price of a bed for the night?"

"If you're asking about a bed at an Inn on the waterfront, it would run you at least twelve coppers, with supper and breakfast extra."

Urzahil frowned. It was less than the price of a room at the Boiling Frog, but it was still more than he could afford.

"I'll expect you'll be wanting basic lodgings, then. A place on the floor over an alehouse will run you four coppers, and that includes supper and breakfast. You have to watch out for the extra fees, though. If you want a straw pallet instead of the floorboards, it's two coppers extra.

"If you want a pillow or blanket, it's another copper each. Be sure you arrive before they stop serving meals. You can't just get there late and expect them to fix you a plate. It's not going to happen.

"One more thing, the places that cost the least go the fastest. Try to arrive as soon as they open, within an hour of quitting time. Otherwise, they'll be full and you've have to pay Inn prices." The man returned to his dinner.

Between today's wages and three days' worth of tips, he ought to have enough for supper and a bed, or to be exact, a straw pallet on the floor. The sky was clear. It looked like it was going to be cold again tonight. He might splurge on an extra blanket.

He finished eating and returned the cup. It wasn't time to go back yet, and wouldn't be until the bells rang again, so he went for a walk along the quay.

A huge warship bobbed on the swell. Its black, lateen-rigged sails identified it as one of the ships of the Corsairs, a beautiful vessel, sleek and built for speed. He went over to have a look. A burly man peered into the water beside the hull.

"It's not that cold, stop yer complaining." His voice was menacing.

There was a splash; two men were swimming beside the hull. They disappeared under the water for intervals, and a scraping sound came from beneath the water until they broke the surface, gasping for breath. The neck of each man was encircled by a thrall ring, the iron collar that marked one as a slave.

"There better not be a single barnacle left on this hull, or you'll regret it." The overseer smacked a rod into his palm. It wasn't pleasant to watch, so he moved on.

Across from the piers where the cargo ships unloaded was Merchants' Row, the buildings that housed the offices of counting houses and import-export firms.

Most of the buildings had paintings on the façade indicating the nature of the business. He walked along looking at them, until a garish mural of camels and ships stopped him in his tracks.

I know your type. You're not a great lord, you're just a bootlicking little toady who's attached himself to a great lord.

Urzahil's face burned. He wheeled around and almost ran in the other direction.

He'd botched the chance to become a counting house clerk. It would have been comfortable life, until the ostentatious house filled with bad art started to get on his nerves, or worse, until he began to despise the tradesmen's preoccupation with wealth and their disregard for duty and tradition. He wasn't one of them. He'd had a lucky escape, he wouldn't have been happy in their world.

The merchant's words stung because he was right. Urzahil knew himself. He wasn't brave, and he wasn't courteous, but he was hardworking and loyal. He wanted his old life back, and he wasn't going to win it by strength of arms. He needed to find a noble lord, someone who needed an assistant or a scribe, and serve that lord to the best of his ability.

He went back to the shipyard. The hammering had fallen silent during the noon break, but the smells of shipbuilding were all around him, new wood, pine pitch, and the smell of the hemp used to make rope.

Beyond the new ships under construction, damaged boats were being repaired. There was one ocean-going ship here, but the rest were mostly coastal vessels. A large fishing vessel was tied to the pier, its mast snapped, its hull was covered with canvas. It had been there for some time, the canvas was beginning to mildew.

The prow was shaped like a wolf's head, it was a Lintoron boat, their largest and the closest thing they had to an ocean-going vessel. It must have been damaged in the storm eight weeks ago, the day his father was wounded. It didn't take eight weeks to repair a mast, nor did it appear that any work was being done on it. His family must not have the money to repair it, but if it wasn't going to sea, the boat wasn't earning any income.

Urzahil found he enjoyed the work, which was more craftsmanship than manual labor. The repetitive hammering lulled him into a meditative state, and he saw his life with great clarity, as if viewing it from a distance.

He swung the hammer, driving an iron nail deep into the wood.

"No wait, the strake isn't lined up yet!" Jenris cried.

Urzahil immediately realized his mistake. The two strakes weren't overlapped. There was a gap a big enough to put a finger through for the sea to pour in. If the sticky pine pitch were allowed to cool, it would be much harder to pry the strake loose.

Urzahil grabbed a chisel and wedged it under the strake. He pulled, but it didn't move. He struck the haft with the mallet.

"You have to use a pry bar for that! A chisel is a delicate …"

One hard blow, and snap. Urzahil blinked. Half of the chisel lay in his hand, the other half poked out from under the strake.

The assistant Foreman came over and gave Urzahil a pry bar. "Don't worry about it, everyone breaks a tool on their first day. It doesn't happen often after that."

After the assistant Foreman left, Jenris leaned over and whispered, "They charge you for whatever you break. Good thing it was the chisel and not the boat." He slapped his knee, laughing at his own wit.

ting ting ting ting ting

Five bells into the noon watch[2]. The men around him put down their tools and began gathering up their belongings. Back at the University, he'd still be in Coastal Geography, with Númenorian History still to go.

Urzahil put on his father's coat and picked up his satchel. The assistant Foreman slapped him on the back. "You're a hard worker, you're responsible, and you follow instructions. Come back tomorrow, and I'll have something for you. But be here early, the places go fast."

Urzahil followed the crowd and joined a line leading to a plank over two barrels, where a man sat with a ledger book and cash box. One by one, each of them gave his name and was paid his wages for the day, eight coppers apiece. Urzahil reached the front of the line and gave his name.

"I have to dock you four coppers for the chisel. Bad luck, that. It will teach you to be more careful next time." The man counted out four coppers and handed them to him.

Urzahil nodded and kept his face still. He remembered kneeling on the boards in front of the podium in Caldûr's class, grit from the floor in his mouth, his classmates laughing. In those role-playing exercises, he'd learned to control his temper. Without them, he would have done something unforgiveable and not been allowed back here tomorrow.

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Chapter End Notes

[1] "After you proof the sud, he can clinker the strakes" are traditional Viking shipbuilding terms meaning, "After you caulk the overlap, he can fasten the plank in place".