Eye Spy

by Mercedes Lackey

  And then she worked backward to prove her design.

  It was early autumn when she presented her proposal paper to Master Ketnar. And it was nearly a moon before he called her before the tribunal of Master Builders who would render judgment on her proposal.

  To say she was nervous was an understatement. She stood before the three of them, her hands clasped behind her back to prevent them from shaking, her hair already damp with sweat.

  The three Builders in their sober robes looked like a trio of judges, and she just could not read any of them. Were they skeptical, even after viewing her proofs and her explanation of how she had gotten them? Would they deny her the Work? And if they did—what was she going to do?

  “This proposed Work is . . . extremely ambitious, Abidela,” said Master Ketnar where he sat between the other two. “I actually cannot recall a more ambitious proposal in my entire tenure as a Master Builder. And that includes my own.” He smiled, faintly, and Abi tried not to get her hopes up.

  “Normally,” said the Master on her right, “we would deny such a project outright, since you do not have a patron prepared to pay for it, and it is a public work that the Crown is likely to deny on the grounds that you are untried and unpracticed.”

  Her heart sank.

  “However,” the third one continued, “we have replicated and tested your models. We have triple-checked your math. We even went to view the arch that gave you the inspiration in the first place. We find no fault with your proposal. Because there has been a steady clamor from the populace of Haven to replace that bridge, because of your unique Gift, and because the King has informed us on occasions far too numerous to mention that he would very much appreciate if we managed to rebuild that thrice-damned bridge before he punches the next petitioner in the nose, we are approving it.”

  The approval broke over Abi like a wave, and for a moment she thought she might actually faint with happiness.

  “However,” Master Ketnar said, raising a finger. “This is a very ambitious work. And we foresee that there will be problems in bringing this project fully up to scale. So we are adding a caveat. We are approving it only if three current Master Builders work on it with you, Master Builders who will be familiar with your design and concept and are in complete accord with it, and at least three students who will also receive their Master Builder accolade when the bridge is complete. I think you already know and will approve of the three students—Brice, Emmit, and Rudi.”

  I think I may explode. “And the Masters?” she asked, trying very hard not to squeal.

  “Us,” Master Ketnar said, as the other two broke into huge smiles. “I don’t believe any of us have been so excited about a project since the building of the Temple of Alessar.”

  “And I wish I had known about semicircular arches then,” sighed the Master on the right.

  Master Ketnar continued. “Rudi is second to none of my students in working with wood as a building material, and we believe you will need his expertise and mine in constructing your scaffolding and your full-scale pattern. Master Edders has taught everything he knows about stone, the carving of stone, and the selection of stone to Brice; they will alternate at the quarry and at the building site. And Master Renold specializes in reinforcement, as does Emmit. Master Renold foresees a possible problem in scaling up, and he already has a solution should the full-scale model reveal he is correct.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “So, Trainee Abidela, are you ready to go to work?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Building the full-scale model out of wood took all fall and winter. It wouldn’t have been possible for the work to have continued through the winter at all except that the Sisters of Betane of the Ax cleared their sanctuary as a place to do the construction. “We owe Herald Mags and the Crown itself for uncovering the fiend who was persecuting women two decades ago,” the Prioress said. “And the project will be of immense value to the City in which we live.” Then she smiled. “Besides, this pattern-model will be of wood, yes? An ax hews more than men. Betane will approve.”

  As expected, problems did arise in the building of the full-scale model. The first problem was with the spandrels, the supports on either end of the bridge. According to the math and Abi’s design, the bridge had to be thin at the middle but broaden downward at each end in order to distribute the weight properly against the bank. The load-bearing arch would actually form the bottom of the span; the spandrels and roadbed would be built atop that. But careful measuring showed that the spandrels would be under water during the worst flooding, according to all of the records they consulted.

  That would put potentially intolerable force against the spandrels and create a problem similar to the one that brought down the last bridge.

  At this point the model was mostly on paper and a set of huge plans drawn on linen fabric for durability. Abi’s Gift was not going to help her here.

  She stared at the plans showing one of the spandrels, frowning, and thought, noting how the roadbed lay above the arch. I don’t want pillars between the roadbed and the arch because that would just replicate the problem the first bridge had. We need holes of some kind in the spandrels, but what will distribute the forces evenly and put them right back where I want them, into the riverbank?

  Then, after two days of staring at the plans, it occurred to her. Curves had distributed the forces evenly in the initial design. Why not go back and use arches again? Would arches within arches work?

  Well, why not? If I break it down, there is still force being moved along a curve.

  Carefully and deliberately, she sketched in three more semicircular arches of ascending size within the right hand spandrel, did a very quick set of calculations in her head, and called to the three Masters, who were discussing something else. “I think I have a flood solution,” she said.

  They hurried over to her, and once they saw her sketch, all four of them went to work.

  She didn’t go to bed until late that night, and not for several nights thereafter, but when the marathon was over and some small adjustments made, they were all satisfied. The arches within the spandrel would work, and work magnificently. Not only that, but they reduced the weight of the bridge by more than fifteen percent!

  Plank by plank, the wooden version of the bridge took shape, fitted together like a puzzle, and every bit of it pegged and glued until it formed a single, solid structure. This was because it was going to be taken apart—cut apart, in fact, and each separate piece used as the template for a corresponding stone block or slab, creating a giant puzzle in stone that would be reassembled on the banks of the river. The main arch would eventually be made of twenty-eight “relatively” thin slabs of limestone, each long enough for two big wains and a balustrade. On top of that would come the three spandrel-arches on each side of the bridge, and on top of those would come the rest of the spandrel and the roadbed. The roadbed itself would have an incline of no more than a few degrees.

  Meanwhile, Rudi and Master Ketnar created the plans for the scaffolding to support the work. Because the scaffolding would only have to last as long as the construction went on, they could use the existing piers to support it, and during a dry and clement spot of weather, work actually began laying stone on the old piers while the water was low. This work to support the wooden scaffolding got laid in long before the model itself was more than a quarter built.

  Every night, Abi went to bed late, tired but happy. The only regret she had was that she saw so little of her family and Kat. Maybe one supper in seven or eight was at home. They were far enough from the Hill that generally the lot of them shared meals with the Sisters of Betane. Such meals were fairly simple and a far cry from when she and the Royals would beg food from the Palace kitchen, but truth to tell, they were all so involved in the work that half the time Abi didn’t even notice what she was eating. But as Midwinter passed and Spring approached inexora
bly, she realized she missed doing the spycraft work for her father that was keeping Perry so busy, she missed being with her family, and she began to wonder if Mags resented that she was no longer available.

  Finally she came home late one night, long after dinner, to see a light still on in the room Mags called his workshop, and on impulse she headed there instead of to her own bed.

  Mags was deeply involved in constructing something—from where she stood, it looked as if he had hollowed a booklike box and was in the process of turning it into an identical replica of a book—a replica in which you could hide something. Amily stood beside him, holding an actual book—the one he was using as his model. She cleared her throat.

  “Work done for the day, Abi?” her mother asked. “Come squeeze in, your father is almost done with this part of the project.”

  Now she saw that he was engraving lines in the edges of the box that represented the pages, to replicate the actual pages of the book her mother was holding. The wood-chisel he used was hardly bigger than a horse-hair, and sent up a long, curling thread of wood that was surprisingly pretty. After all the work on the pattern-model she had a much keener appreciation for fine woodworking than she had had before.

  “Thet’ll do fer now,” Mags said, sitting up straight and laying the “book” and the chisel aside. “Strike me, iffen I’d known ’twas so much work t’make one on these things, I’da never started i’ th’ fust place.” He turned in his seat to face his daughter. “Long days, m’lass. Hope they’re wuth it.”

  “I can’t even begin to tell you,” she said, brightening, as she thought about the latest puzzle they had solved, the one Master Renold had anticipated—a way to strengthen the span by using iron dovetails between the blocks. “But that’s not why I’m here. I—I want to apologize because—”

  “Hush,” Amily interrupted, raising her hand. “You are not to apologize for not being here. You are not to apologize because you haven’t been out doing your father’s work. Your father managed that perfectly well before you were old enough to help. And it’s time for you to do your own work.”

  “She’s a-right,” Mags said, putting his arm around Amily’s waist and holding her tightly. “Perry’s been doin’ all right, an’ wut Perry cain’t do, Auntie Minda’s littles can, an’ wut they cain’t do, I got plenny people i’Haven t’pick up. But you—” He pointed a finger at Abi. “On’y you c’n do wut Abi c’n do. Didn’ ye prove that already? Nobody been able t’figger out how t’ rebuild that blamed bridge, but you did! We need ye t’ do thet, not creep aroun’ t’Fair.”

  For a moment she thought she might cry at those comforting words. “I was afraid you were disappointed, that I wasn’t like you or Mama, that I wasn’t a Herald or at least helping you like Perry—”

  Mags laughed. “Pleny’a Heralds. On’y need one King’s Own. Perry’ll make a good King’s Spy, an’ Lord Jorthun wut used ta’ be King’s Spy was niver a Herald. There’s on’y one Abi, wi’ th’ Gift t’ see how thin’s stay up or fall down. You go right on bein’ thet Abi. ’Sides, it’s nice t’hev some’un I c’n brag on wi’out givin’ away a secret!”

  * * *

  • • •

  There had been quite a bit more of that from both her parents before Abi went to bed, sure now that she had not disappointed anyone. The talk had been a huge relief, erasing a burden she hadn’t even been aware she had been carrying—and yet it had been one that had been eating at her for a very long time, ever since she’d started her Master Work, in fact. It had been at that moment that she had understood she was no longer involved in the Artificers and Builders because she wanted to use her abilities to help her father but because this was something she desperately wanted for herself. This bridge had become like a living thing for her, something beautiful as well as useful that she felt she had to see created—and besides that, it was something she wanted her name on, in public, for everyone to see. And as long as all she did was work for her father, creeping in the shadows, doing things she couldn’t talk about, she would never be recognized for what she was capable of.

  She thought now that she understood part of Lady Dia’s passion for breeding her dogs; as long as there were dogs out of one of her famous lines, her name would be recorded for others who cared about such things. Lord Jorthun didn’t share the same impulse, but he already had his name and his familial record—all highborn did. But this was the same impulse that must fuel a merchant to label his business with his name, not just the name of what he sold.

  She knew that there were plenty of people who didn’t feel that way, but she did—and that wasn’t a bad thing.

  Mags cared on her behalf but also on his own. That bridge would carry her name, but it would also carry his. . . . it’s nice t’hev some’un I c’n brag on wi’out givin’ away a secret . . . Even if no one ever knew what he’d done once the current leaders were gone, he’d still be the father of Abidela, who had rebuilt the bridge everyone had been sure could never be replaced safely. He would still be the father of Abidela, who discovered, or rediscovered, a new principle of building, one that would make stronger, safer bridges and buildings for hundreds of years to come.

  Perry didn’t seem to care . . . But on the other hand, Perry’s name was attached to a tale already. No wonder he doesn’t show that kind of ambition—it’s been satisfied. How many people get to save the entire Kingdom from a one-man horror? There had been nothing that needed to be kept secret about Perry and Mags’ confrontation with that psychopathic lunatic out in the Pelagirs; in fact, since the Council had had to be informed about what was going on, it would have been impossible to do so. So Perry was a hero; at least among a very chosen few, and his name was certainly in the Chronicles.

  And now that she thought about it, Mags himself wasn’t entirely anonymous. Papa has done things that are in the Chronicles—the madman in the Pelagirs and uncovering the devious plot of the priests of Sethor the Patriarch. So he knows what it’s like to be valued.

  He really, really does. And he wants me to have that on my own.

  Now buoyed by gratitude as well as relief, she set her mind on the problem of how many slices the bridge would have to be cut up into until she fell into sleep.

  11

  “I’m sorry that I almost never see you anymore,” Kat said, surveying the bridge model, which at the moment was being sliced up into careful pieces according to the marks painted on all four sides. “But I’m also not sorry, because we’re getting this. You do know it’s pretty much all people can talk about, right?”

  Abi nodded with satisfaction. “We’ve added a fourth Master candidate, a Journeyman rather than an Artificer Trainee or a Builder,” she said. “He’s a stonemason, and he’s designing and carving the—well, I can’t call them parapets that will be on the side, because they aren’t going to be that bulky. Handrails? Balustrades? Anyway, they’re beautiful—gorgeous little pillars making a rail across the top. They look like stone lace. There won’t be another bridge in Haven like it. But how’s your Circuit among the Law Courts going?”

  Kat smiled. “As you’d expect, because no one knows I’m the Princess most of the time. Lots of swearing up and down that the other fellow is a liar until I get trotted out, and then suddenly no one wants Truth Spell invoked and people are obliging and willing to settle just like magic. Of course, if it’s a criminal case, no one gets the option of whether or not I’m involved.”

  But then Kat sighed. “What’s wrong?” Abi asked.

  “I envy you. Look at this beautiful thing! And you’re responsible for it! If it weren’t for you, Father would still be getting petitioners coming in at least once a week demanding that he replace it! And me, with no special Gifts, I’m in charge of intimidating boring petty quarrelers into behaving themselves in—”

  “Stop right there,” Abi commanded. “You’re forgetting something. What you’re doing now is just the Circuit work any new Herald
would get, probably because the Circle doesn’t really know you. You’ve completely forgotten how quickly you put together Lady Asterleigh’s problem and a logistics hole for the Guard. Remember now?”

  Kat struck her forehead with the palm of her hand. “Of course you’re right. I’ve been so immersed in feeling sorry for myself, I forgot what I’m really good at.” She brightened immediately.

  “So go talk to the Lord Marshal and remind him. And whoever’s in charge of Guard logistics too. Maybe they can relieve you of Court duties early, or entirely, and put you to work doing things you excel at.” Abi grinned, pleased she’d been able to lighten Kat’s mood. She didn’t blame Kat one little bit; Mags often got called for a round of Court duty as the cover for him not being on Circuit like other Heralds, and while he took these stints in good humor, and sometimes even got decent leads from what he learned while on duty there, the assignment was probably one of his least favorite things about being a Herald.

  “But then,” he’d add, “I c’ld be doin’ this while sloggin’ through th’ mud an’ snow an’ livin’ i’ Waystations. ’Stead, I sleep in m’own bed, w’ m’lovely wife, an’ eat li’cherally like th’ King. So I reckon I got it good.”

  “And you could be doing the same thing, essentially, while slogging through thunderstorms and blizzards and living in Waystations,” Abi reminded her friend, echoing what her father had said. “Instead you get to come back up to the Hill every night and sleep in your own comfortable feather bed.”

  “Not to mention not cooking my own food.” Kat laughed. “You have put things in their proper perspective.”

  Having seen and marveled at the bridge in its deconstructed form, Kat went on her way, back up the Hill to a fine dinner, probably at her father and mother’s side with the Court. Abi returned to discussing the iron dovetails with Master Renold. “We’ll want soft, flexible iron,” he told her. “So the bridge can flex a little, according to traffic and weather.” He showed her the two slots he would have carved in the ends of each of the twenty eight slabs of limestone that would make up the main arch. The iron dovetails themselves would be shaped like a capital letter “V” and be carefully hammered into place while red-hot.