Ho-man hung on his every um.
“Then I’ll put it like this, burgermeister. Quoting our earliest king philosopher, Pithy Prince Poxum the Third, yore’s first Lore Lord:
Mine me black coal boys
Not diamonds or gold
‘Tis worth a king’s ransom
When knights turn cold
Fyryx begrudgingly touched his heart, snorting, “All hail the Semperors’ word, of course. But… what’s old kings’ coal got to do with this?”
“Call it a teachable moment, justice.”
“The lesson?”
“That everyone has a role, his own shoes to fill in this fateful jig. Even the slacker, the scallywag.”
The bookman and Treygyn exchanged a look.
“And what of this tenderfoot?”
“Not my top student, but…”
“He’s just a hoodlum then.”
“An imp, your honor.”
Fyryx threw his hands in the air. “Just when I thought we were getting somewhere!”
He circled the triple-deck witness stand. He had a different tack in mind.
“So you would confess, esteemed professor, that this munchkin Yin is less than a whiz kid.”
“Yet…”
“Not all that head-strong. Impressionable.”
“Well…”
“Vulnerable to a siren’s song or any pied piper’s tempting tune.”
Dustum swooned, looking pie-eyed, sweaty. “I suppose… maybe… like any teen.”
“And you would know, wouldn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
His hair stood on end. His skin went ashen.
“Rumor has it that you’ve been teaching treason bookman. Treacherous tracts.”
“Oh no, no. Only the standard textbook. Lives of the Semperors, Treasured edition. The full illuminated version. Volumes one through fifty-eight.”
“So those reports are all mistaken — that you’ve read Sylliver’s Travels in class? A classic you well know is banned.”
“S-S-Sylliver’s… who could have… how did you… no, judge Fyryx! It’s not what you think.”
“Oh really? Remember you’re still under oath.”
“It was just half of one torn leaf of it… a family relic six hundred years old. An innocent show-and-tell, that’s all. The children saw only a handful of runes.”
“And yet enough to corrupt this wayward son.” He flicked a wrist at Treygyn. “Clouding his mind like dust in the wind. What else could explain his walk on the dark side? Who beckoned him to ‘Go west young man’?
“You!”
Dustum needed an exit strategy. Sadly the bookman had nowhere to go.
“If that weren’t bad enough,” added Fyryx, “I’ve heard word from a little birdie of something nearly as concerning…”
Ho-man screwed up his eyes at Freebird. The mockatoo balked, “Awk! Don’t blame me!”
The prosecutor wagged his finger.
“I have hearsay to confirm that you skipped the Pledge of Compliance one morn.”
Madam Pum shuddered.
Some gasped.
Dustum fainted.
Or at least feigned that he did.
“Gotcha teacher!”
Ferrous the smith caught the slack academic, safe in his sinewed hands. “Whew!” The tawny man’s brawn saved the wan scholar’s skin, stalling his fall from grace. For the moment.
“How convenient,” Fyryx whined. “That’s fine — but he’s just earned detention.”
“Begging yer pardon, superintendent…”
The plainspoken artisan got his attention.
“Proctor needs a doctor quick. No worries. I’ll take care of it.” He looked to step down from the stand, his thick arms cradling the bookman.
“Off to the hospital. Lickety-split.”
His offer was met by a hot spray of spittle. “Chill out samaritan. Cool those boot heels. I’ll say when you’re done,” fussed Fyryx. The tortoises bared their teeth. Ferrous froze.
He sat Dustum down on the platform. “This could take a while my friend.”
Ho-man looked flustered. He interrupted, trying to keep the record straight.
“If you’ll just confirm your address witness… Let me check my list… It has you at the Village Smithery, under the shedding chestknot tree?”
Fyryx answered for him. “Naturally. But let’s forge ahead. I have questions…”
Suddenly from the settlement hill — clang! — a lone alarm bell rang.
Treygyn shouted from his hangout, “Master! The furnace!”
“Yes my apprentice…”
Fyryx eyed the smith. “Explain!”
Ferrous gestured back toward town. “My fires require emergency tending, justice. Or else — poof — we’re done!”
“How long have we got?”
“Fifteen minutes I’d guess.”
“And then what?”
“This whole outpost’s toast.”
“Toast?” The word stirred flatulent Bylo, who sat side-barred half awake. “Make mine pumperknuckle, burnt. And pump up the jam on top of it.”
Fyryx shook his head at Ferrous. “No exceptions, crafty witness.”
“What if I just spilled my guts?”
“Be my guest.”
Ferrous took an epic breath while Freebird the sidekick played emcee. “Time for a monologue. Awk! Heeere’s smithy…”
“Always been at the bellows, have I. Chip off the old block like my daddy. Born out back of the smithing shop. Reared by the anvil and his knee… He taught me everything that I know. Honesty, sweat, hard work, wood lore…”
Ferrous rubbed his crew-cut head. His once ember eyes looked darker, dampened.
“Then it was two score and four years later. I stood still at the forge. Alone. Master of the hardwood, yes. But broodless in my irony home. Wedded to my jealous hearth. No wrightful heir to share the time.”
He looked up and around the courtroom.
“That’s when I first noticed some little rascal starting to stop by my shop each noon — a tyke on his trek home after school. Up on tiptoes in the window. Backsack of scrollbooks. Snot-nosed. Mute. The kid didn’t utter a rune for moons. Just hung around wide-eyed for hours on end until the dinner bell rang. Then he ran.
“I think he was drawn by the ironfire. The clang of the making of things. I dunno. The glow of the smoke and the folk-talk and gossip. Sparked his interest I guess — this young Yin.”
He pointed a soot-stained hand at Treygyn. Treygyn blushed like that boy again.
“And then one day his spirit, his spunk trumped the sheepishness. He asked to be my apprentice. Part-time anyway.”
“Do say,” said Fyryx.
“So I taught him everything I know. Bellowing, stoking, stirring, poking, fire walking now and then. Molding, pounding, bending, rounding. Sharpening some things at the end. And not to mention the founding fathers — smelting, melting, and their cast of friends.
“Lad had a natural knack for it too, what we wrought, the artifacts of life.” He caught Treygyn’s attention and winked. “Simple implements. Tools like us. Just what is just plain useful, handy. Everyday treasures — nothing fancy.”
He pulled a bunch of something from the pocket of his quilted pants. “I’m talking things like these nine inch nails that keep our Keep together and standing. Shoes for our chevox. Or plowshares for farm work. But most of all the toiling sticks that made my little sweatshop famous.”
From her perch the elderwoman nodded to confirm his claim.
“A shame you couldn’t see the laddie wield one,” Ferrous beamed with pride. “I’d like ya ta witness the promise he has. Stick tricks he’s picked up so young…”
Bong! Gong! A second alarm. Double trouble. Overtime.
“Better get down to brass tacks craftsman.” Fyryx hit wits’ end with him.
Meanwhile the court clerk checked the sundial on his wristwatch. “Sudden death.”
And woodsmith turned to character witn
ess. “Last few bullet points. I’ll be quick.”
Judge Hurx tapped his foot. “I doubt it.”
Turtle one, on the bottom, had an itch and shifted weight to scratch it. Ferrous, tossed, lost his spikes but spoke on.
“Bottom line — he’s fine (for a teenager), with more skill than run-of-the-mill. ‘Cept maybe…”
“What?”
“When his friends come by.”
“Friends, eh? Clerk take note. I’m listening…”
“Every afternoon like clockwork, orange sun high in the sky, I spy a couple of them out back. Always scheming, up to something. Mischief-making valley folk.”
He paused and squinted at the crowd. “In fact I see the blokes right now.”
Fyryx craned his neck to look but they’d already ducked from sight. “These clucks,” he cracked, “egged this one on?”
“Scrambled his brains, the rotten yolksters. Poached him from his smithing work. But I can’t vouch they hatched this plot… It’s got to do with a chick, I think.”
“Chick? A girl?”
“The daughter of Yo. Though I don’t claim to know much of women — I ply softer mettle than them. But he came to me asking questions, advice. And even this smithy could read his eyes.
“He was beside himself by fair day.”
“Be that as it may,” said Fyryx, “it’s short of a motive. Not cause for effect. Oh yes, I know less of that fair sex than even you do. Voodoo dolls to me. And yet my male intuition senses a manufactured conspiracy…”
The brother Treasuror drew in closer.
“You swear you know no other catalyst? Nothing to get off your chest?”
“No justice.” Ferrous looked flummoxed. “Unless…”
“Yes?”
“Unless you count talking politics. You know — chawin’ with folks, just chewin’ the fat. And tellin’ ‘em tales of wonder and wanderlust from old Syland’s misty past.”
“Really! Now what could go wrong with that?!” Fyryx was at his most sarcastic. “Myth maker. Master fabricator. I’ve got a mind to arrest you right now.”
The