Chapter 6: 6.

We have a tarpit. TAR. PIT. Pretty much pure asphalt pitch. It looks like a series of interconnected caves all very slowly flooded from beneath by pitch, forming several "puddles" on the surface. Locals don't see any use in the "tar pits" and avoid the whole area. Obviously, no one bothered to tell me that there is such an area, not until I realized people avoided going in that direction and started asking questions. At my direction, ten men with pickaxes and shovels break off pitch chunks and collect them into baskets. They seem to think this is "lady's wild fancy", but the combo of me paying good money for work and having a reputation for squeezing gold out of garbage keeps them from muttering.

Dwarves are way more curious about it. Granted, I just asked them to prepare a couple tons worth of pebbles, heavy steel rollers and a huge steel pot. Of course they want to know what it's all about. Father had people clear out and grade the road to the quarry and future dwarven settlement already, but so far it's just a gravel bed, not really any better than regular road.

...OOkay, note to myself - be cautious with dwarven cuisine. Apparently, the smell of melting asphalt is reminiscent of some kind of dwarven delicacy. Weird. I heard about tar being used as medicine before, but as food? Huh. Anyways, explanations. Given the lack of proper mixing machines just yet, we're doing the layered tarmac. Drizzle asphalt, lay a layer of pebbles, drizzle more asphalt. Repeat five times, then roll the thing down with rollers. Father promised some kind of "workforce to work to the bone" for further effort, dwarves are just going to detail two men for overseeing the process. The rest are busy quarrying and cutting stone. They're REALLY going at it, there are four rocksaws being in use simultaneously now, and they expanded the size of the slab. Apparently, Geoff did the numbers and decided that a slab of toise by demitoise by pied is the optimal building block, with halves and quarters and eights available for detail work. That translates to roughly two by one by one third meters dimensions. Hefty.

...And, apparently, some of the father's subordinate lords are inquiring about getting some of those goodies. Who'd have thought simple rock slabs are such a sensation? Pitched the idea to dwarves about downsized rocksaw. Basically, pedal-driven jobbie for producing rock slats and such, more of an attachment to worktable than a workplace in itself. Apparently, they tried already and the wire loop turned out to be too finicky for such a small setup. Hinting them to simply make an iron wheel and treat the edge the same way as wire may have been... a bit of a revelation. Because now we're also SELLING rock adjustment workplaces. Which is basically a sturdy table with a pedal and gear setup built into the support. Because, apparently, this primitive tool is still head and shoulders over any other option they have. Said options being pickaxe and lot of luck, hammer&chisel and lot of effort or sand, rags, and inhumane amounts of patience. The rock-cutting disks being classed as county secret AND dwarven craft secret. And dwarves are, for all intents and purposes, persuaded I AM the salvation of their people that had been prophesied by Argyl's head priest on deathbed right after the Red Mountain erupted. He claimed, quote - "Seven dark years will be endured by sons of Dorn, and much will be lost. Our salvation comes from the land of long nights and long snow. The secrets will be revealed, the kin will be gathered and the city will be built. A city that will eclipse the sky and straddle the earth, a city where rivers of metal will run on the shores of clay."

Shit. Fuck. Shit. FUUUCKING SHIT! This realm has goddamn destiny. I already had an inkling of this due to whole prophetic dream thing with mother, but this? A prophecy that straight up lines with my plans and generally does not call for anything I wouldn't have done?... I need to look into things more. What other prophecies I might fulfill? Clues about future? Gimme. Pound of salt already included, of course, self-fulfillment is always a danger with prophecies.

Anyway, asphalt road. It will take a week for the workforce (Convicts, as it turns out. A group of bandits have been captured on the highway to the capital by our guardsmen recently. Leaders were hanged, the rest were pressed into indentured service to the county for ten years. Which, ironically enough, some of them confessed to be better terms than what they had in the gang.) to extend the road all the way from dwarven settlement to the current town. Two more weeks to pave main streets and extend spurs towards the estate, tannery and tarpit. Rory had, with father's permission, the whole blacksmith moved to the settlement, leaving behind only a small shop where locals can go to have their horses shoed or knives sharpened. Dwarves apparently now take turns manning the store, because Rory is too busy running the smelting team to do it personally. They, uh... were more than a little surprised by my suggestion to let their women handle this. They were much more surprised when it worked out. Apparently, they never made the connection between "taught the basics of craft traditionally" and "might actually fill in for apprentice-level jobs".

Girls are also grateful, more job opportunities for them means less time to get stir-crazy. Which, apparently, is an issue among dwarves which they call "uterus madness" and believe the cure is to "do spousal duties more vigorously". I'm... Going to VERY slowly soft-pedal this on the "there's so little of you and so much to do" grounds to try and get girls as many jobs they "have been doing" as possible. Because I'm just not confident I could expressly forbid this kind of chauvinism without alienating the dwarves in process, "divinely inspired" or not. They're notoriously prickly about people looking into "households". I'm hoping that by the time they hit enough of populace to invalidate the excuse, women doing customer service roles would be the new tradition. Because fuck that chauvinist shit with rusty pitchfork. Really.

Speaking of horrible racial traditions. Elves. They exist. Somewhere deep in the forests. No actual dialogue with them, they avoid showing up in cities and generally don't permit people to enter their holdings either. And by not permit, I mean "get sniped in the eye with an arrow" kind of not permit. I'm not actually sure what their deal is, info on them is scarce and disjointed. Most sources agree however that they are arrogant and hold the other thinking races as barbarians beneath their level. Not sure how much truth is in the statement, but they certainly believe in it. Even though the more I learn about them, the more I come to believe they're belligerently hidebound luddites. Or at least their leadership is. I'll withhold passing judgment on individuals until I get to talk to them at least.

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One month till academy. Rory, Geoff, and a bunch of other dwarves just left. Father is poking around through the things they brought in. Several assorted swords and daggers in ripple steel, a bunch of smaller things in silver and gold, like hairpins, lapel pins, cufflinks and other assorted sundries. A pepper mill much like my own, in very finely folded ripple steel. This one is at my suggestion, I'm going to fill it up with herbal mix. Should be nice to crank a time or two into steeping pot. Why is tea so prevalent? Question for later, neither books nor father nor mother could tell me much more than "that's how it always was".

"Well then. This should round out our presents very nicely." - he proffers happily, closing the chest - "You should finish up any outstanding business within the week, Alessa, we can not afford to tarry longer than that if we are to reach the capital before the autumn starts."

Annoying, but I counted on this - "I should be ready to depart in two days, actually. Started wrapping things up as soon as Rory showed off the sword. Leaving a number of long-termed experiments to run through, but I have had discussed them extensively with mother and left her detailed notes on what is supposed to happen, what might happen and what is to be done. She's been very interested in the perfume line, and I think she might want to take over that research entirely."

Gerard sniffs curiously - "Is that the new scent, actually?"

I had to nod - "Lilac, yes. Mother's idea, she took the notes on roses and experimented on... I think a dozen flowers already."

He snorts - "I'm already getting inquiries from pretty much everywhere in the kingdom about this. Your mother had a truly outrageous idea, you know? Send a gold coin with pigeon and a note on your preferred flower, get back a finger-vial of that perfume. I, uh... Let's just say we're getting a new pigeon coop built to handle the volume."

Good job, mom. Mail-order perfume at this age? I couldn't think of better way to make absolutely everyone want to cozy up to us even if I tried. Everyone knows that happy wife equals happy life and all that. And the wives are all over the 'eau fleurie du nord1flower water from north'. Which, while we're at it, is a very curious datapoint, because apparently French-like language is considered "old tongue" while English-like speech I'm using currently is "new tongue". Apparently, the kingdom of Champagne had been conquered by Albic Dominion, who had consequently abandoned Albic Dominion in favor of calling themselves kingdom of Champagne. Which, is seriously weird, because apparently this world had alt-England apparently outright conquer alt-France only to turn around and adopt the name and a huge deal of tradition. And apparently alt-England was actually alt-Vikings who ended up dissolving their small but fierce community in a much larger pool of alt-Europe. Trippy alt-history.

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