those dissertations had been about.
Deep in his mind, almost sooner than he could admit it to himself, his doubt was becoming a certainty. The Mastersmith was seeking to tether them both, not only rationing the knowledge he was giving them but carefully separating it, encouraging them to stay within their specialties. Ingar the scholar, seeking knowledge without the craft to put it into effect, Alv the man of skills denied the learning to use them—both of them less than a whole craftsman, both of them dependent on their master, doomed to use their gifts for him, as he chose to direct.
Black anger rose in Alv's throat, the worse for being wholly helpless. What could he do? There was nobody he could even talk to about it. Ingar had seen it already, last night if not sooner; Alv remembered his strange look, when he was confronted with the powerful reality of the helm his studies had given shape. He had seen it, and accepted it—perhaps even liked the idea, because it gave him an easy, congenial living without sweating over an anvil. Which is all very fine for him — but me? Where does it leave me ?
"Right up your own chimney!" said Roc, and laughed raucously. Alv glared at him. He had had to talk to someone, and while he had tried to avoid becoming close or familiar with the forgeboy, Roc had somehow remained the nearest thing to a friend he had. So in the end he had swallowed his pride and told him something of what he feared—putting the best possible complexion on it and with no question of seeking advice. But of course the first thing Roc said was, "If you want my advice—" He seemed to be waiting for Alv to deny it. "If you want my advice," he repeated inexorably, "stick it out, then get out! Getting to be a journeyman, that's the thing, getting the badge and script. Then push off and find some other bolthole!"
"Maybe I don't know enough yet—"
Roc shrugged. "Pick it up as you go along! The rank's what folk'll pay heed to. Take what you're given and use it, that's what I say."
"Maybe you're right," Alv admitted. After all, it was no more than he'd planned, wasn't it? But he hated the idea of leaving without at least some of the unique learning that was here, and was denied him. His anger turned round then, and became a cooler, more calculating thing. "Maybe you're right," he repeated, and Roc looked at him shrewdly. But Alv kept his own counsel then, though he did not cease to think. Go he would, but not without at least some of that special knowledge, knowledge he could rely on to make his living and let him search for Kara. And he would gain it by turning the Mastersmith's own methods against him; since Ingar was so content to be used by his master, why should Alv not make equal use of him?
And so he threw himself into what was to be the hardest labor of his life till then. Throughout the long weeks of study he kept returning, again and again, to those texts from the North wall. In them he at least found a foretaste of the knowledge that he wanted so much, that in truth was as necessary to him as meat to the starving, so strongly did the craft within him burn to find its fullest expression. But what little he learned served only to awaken further that appetite, never satisfying it. Often he felt tempted, driven, to disobey the Mastersmith's injunctions, but though he was no longer sure he believed the books were guarded, still he never once dared to let even a page too many fall open. What he was allowed, however, he read and reread, draining the last fine drops of learning from it, and most of all the Mastersmith's own notes in the margins. These came from many sources, but the ones he found most illuminating seemed to stem from comparisons with the lore of the Ekwesh.
"Indeed," said the Mastersmith gravely, when Alv sought counsel from him one day. "Their smithcraft is often rough and savage, for it is the preserve of their tribal shamans, who must also be priests, chroniclers, bards, healers and
Deep in his mind, almost sooner than he could admit it to himself, his doubt was becoming a certainty. The Mastersmith was seeking to tether them both, not only rationing the knowledge he was giving them but carefully separating it, encouraging them to stay within their specialties. Ingar the scholar, seeking knowledge without the craft to put it into effect, Alv the man of skills denied the learning to use them—both of them less than a whole craftsman, both of them dependent on their master, doomed to use their gifts for him, as he chose to direct.
Black anger rose in Alv's throat, the worse for being wholly helpless. What could he do? There was nobody he could even talk to about it. Ingar had seen it already, last night if not sooner; Alv remembered his strange look, when he was confronted with the powerful reality of the helm his studies had given shape. He had seen it, and accepted it—perhaps even liked the idea, because it gave him an easy, congenial living without sweating over an anvil. Which is all very fine for him — but me? Where does it leave me ?
"Right up your own chimney!" said Roc, and laughed raucously. Alv glared at him. He had had to talk to someone, and while he had tried to avoid becoming close or familiar with the forgeboy, Roc had somehow remained the nearest thing to a friend he had. So in the end he had swallowed his pride and told him something of what he feared—putting the best possible complexion on it and with no question of seeking advice. But of course the first thing Roc said was, "If you want my advice—" He seemed to be waiting for Alv to deny it. "If you want my advice," he repeated inexorably, "stick it out, then get out! Getting to be a journeyman, that's the thing, getting the badge and script. Then push off and find some other bolthole!"
"Maybe I don't know enough yet—"
Roc shrugged. "Pick it up as you go along! The rank's what folk'll pay heed to. Take what you're given and use it, that's what I say."
"Maybe you're right," Alv admitted. After all, it was no more than he'd planned, wasn't it? But he hated the idea of leaving without at least some of the unique learning that was here, and was denied him. His anger turned round then, and became a cooler, more calculating thing. "Maybe you're right," he repeated, and Roc looked at him shrewdly. But Alv kept his own counsel then, though he did not cease to think. Go he would, but not without at least some of that special knowledge, knowledge he could rely on to make his living and let him search for Kara. And he would gain it by turning the Mastersmith's own methods against him; since Ingar was so content to be used by his master, why should Alv not make equal use of him?
And so he threw himself into what was to be the hardest labor of his life till then. Throughout the long weeks of study he kept returning, again and again, to those texts from the North wall. In them he at least found a foretaste of the knowledge that he wanted so much, that in truth was as necessary to him as meat to the starving, so strongly did the craft within him burn to find its fullest expression. But what little he learned served only to awaken further that appetite, never satisfying it. Often he felt tempted, driven, to disobey the Mastersmith's injunctions, but though he was no longer sure he believed the books were guarded, still he never once dared to let even a page too many fall open. What he was allowed, however, he read and reread, draining the last fine drops of learning from it, and most of all the Mastersmith's own notes in the margins. These came from many sources, but the ones he found most illuminating seemed to stem from comparisons with the lore of the Ekwesh.
"Indeed," said the Mastersmith gravely, when Alv sought counsel from him one day. "Their smithcraft is often rough and savage, for it is the preserve of their tribal shamans, who must also be priests, chroniclers, bards, healers and
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