[center][b][h1]Nelf[/h1][/b][/center]


Firs thing the morning, Drom would hand Andrew a note left by the harbor master.  It read:

“Your Grace,

I had intended to speak to you last evening about a development, but got sidetracked by the news of an incoming ship.  I believe our new dwarf friend may have inadvertently made contact with the Cat’s Claw.  I went to the tavern to find him talking to Kriltra.  She approached him and then me, wanting to talk about something.  Supposedly she is to meet Bork for a beer this coming afternoon.  He may or may not have mentioned any of this to you, as I don’t think he realizes the potential import.  But I did warn him to be careful with her.

Regards,

-N.”

[center][b][h1]Bork[/h1][/b][/center]

After his meeting with the abbot, Bork spent the rest of the evening working on his plans.  Further work on the seawall and harbor scheme would wait until after he’d examined it.  In the meantime, he would work on estimates for the amount of wood and labor needed to build his waterfront phase one.  Pigeon Spit currently only had one skilled carpenter, which suggested that its woodcutters would have little trouble delivering lumber at least as fast as the town could do anything with it.  He worked some equations in chalk on the wall and, once he was comfortable with them, noted them in his book.  Next to that notation he would put down a figure for nails.  He had a guess on man-hours, but was not yet ready to finalize them on paper yet.  

He pursed his lips.  Heavily-used tools broke, even with good maintenance; they would need more, in addition to the nails.  A conversation for an ironmonger.  But more than anything else they needed at least one more skilled carpenter if they wanted to grow at all.  

If Andrew really intended to go out to the mines day after tomorrow, then Bork would want to spend time tomorrow finding out what he could in town.  A census could get you headcount, but to get a feel for Pigeon Spit’s capacity, the dwarf wanted to see it in action.  He would go out to the docks first thing in the morning to watch the fishermen work their morning catch, then ask the harbor master about getting things like barrel lids, used crates, and other scraps to test out his makeshift wheelbarrow idea.  Then he needed to talk to various artisans, to learn about their supply situation, the state of their tools, and their plans for succession.  Even dwarf stonemasons eventually got old and died, after all.  He would take a peek at people’s gardens to see what they were growing, and how well they were growing.  And he would ask the taverner and innkeeper about their businesses.  How patrons paid.  Did they barter or sell their produce?  And if so, what sort of produce were they seeing the most of?

The two people he most wanted to talk to today were Findir, the dwarf farrier and ironmonger, who also reportedly smelted soft metals like silver on the side, and the catlady he apparently had a date with later this afternoon.  So many people to see and talk to, for someone who wasn’t social at all.

He rose and headed out early, noting as he did that there was a note for the abbot on the front desk.  Stepping outside, he looked up at the once-more clear sky and smiled.  That was one less thing to make his rounds an ordeal.  Bork was not yet in the habit of wearing his new hat, and had gone out bare-headed; the sea breeze stroked his short, prematurely-gray hair.  Walking past his nascent moat, he headed for the docks.  He had watched the activities before, but he had so far not watched the harbor master or the fishermen plans with numbers in mind.  Then he had been a mere spectator; now he watched as an appraiser, a planner, a…master builder?  He liked the sound of that, and smiled again as he looked out over the ocean.  This was the best mood he had been in since leaving Roswitha at home to come here.