- Chapter 073 -

  Brooms and Luck

  Finnian’s main office and primary sawmill was a cathedral of industry.

  Mark stood before it, leaning far too heavy on his cane. It was a massive structure, entirely timber, constructed with a complexity that defied the simple labels. Flying buttresses of laminated wood soared upwards, supporting a roof that seemed to float. The exterior was a riot of decorative carving, patterns of leaves and vines that intertwined with gears and saw blades, a visual manifesto of the Carpenters' Guild, “Art through Industry.”

  The sound was a physical assault. The scream of high-speed blades biting into hardwood was a constant, high-pitched keening that vibrated in his teeth. The air was thick with a golden haze of sawdust that smelled of strong resin.

  He guessed that it was near enough to ten. He didn't have his pocket watch, it was still in pieces on Carl's bench, the subject of an intense study, he really needed to get it back in a working condition.

  Walking had been a mistake. His 'distinguished' cane was feeling more like a crutch with every step, and his back was screaming for his effort. But he had insisted to himself. The chair was efficient, but walking was a statement. He was recovering. He was capable.

  The main doors swung open, and Finnian O'Connell stepped out. He wore a simple, rugged tunic of brown leather, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked less like a Guildmaster and more like a man who had just stepped away from a lathe.

  "Mark!" Finnian boomed, his voice cutting through the industrial roar. "You made it. And on your own two feet, I see." His rolled 'r's added a warmth to the greeting. "Grand to see you vertical, lad."

  "Barely," Mark admitted, limping up the steps. "But I'm here."

  Finnian clapped him on the shoulder, the friendly gesture that nearly knocked Mark over. "Come in, come in. Can't hear yourself think out here."

  He led Mark through the chaotic, dust-filled entrance and up a flight of stairs to a glass-walled office that hung suspended over the production floor like a captain's bridge. The door sealed with a satisfying thud, cutting the noise down to a manageable background hum.

  Mark moved to the glass, looking down. It was a masterpiece of coordination. Massive logs, stripped of bark, moved along a system of rollers and belts. Men and women guided them into the maws of spinning blades, their movements precise and practiced. Planks emerged, were stacked, sorted, and moved on. It was a river of wood, flowing with a mesmerizing rhythm.

  "Impressive, isn't it?" Finnian said, joining him at the window. "The heart of the trade. We process more timber in a day than most towns see in a year."

  "It's incredible," Mark said honestly. He watched a team of four workers maneuver a massive beam onto a sled. "The workflow is... organic."

  "Aye," Finnian agreed. "We've spent centuries refining it. But..." He turned to Mark, his expression shifting from pride to professional curiosity. "You didn't come here just to admire the sawdust. You're a consultant now. So tell me..."

  He gestured to the floor below.

  "What's wrong with it? What can I do better?"

  Finnian leaned against a heavy desk, crossing his arms. "I have people," he admitted. "Good lads and lasses with the Heart of the Conductor. They keep the flow moving, smooth out the snags. But Deirdre... she dropped a hint. Said you have a knack for spotting the things that hide in plain sight."

  He paused, his expression darkening slightly.

  "And Eric... rest his soul," Finnian added, the blessing sounding more like a curse. "He visited more than once. Looked at the books, checked the inventory and placed his orders. Said everything was fine. But after what you found at the Provisioners'... I wouldn't mind a second opinion. A more mundane look."

  Mark nodded. He turned back to the window, his gaze sharpening. He stopped seeing the spectacle and started seeing the system..

  Logs entered from the river side, wet and heavy. They were stripped, then fed into the primary saws. The rough cuts moved to secondary processing, planing, sanding, jointing. The finished timber exited onto the loading dock wagons. It was a linear flow. Efficient.

  But as he watched, he noticed the pauses.

  At the primary saw station, there were six workers. Four were actively guiding the log. Two were standing back, watching. Waiting.

  He shifted his gaze to the planing station. Same pattern. A flurry of activity as a board came through, then a lull. Workers leaning on brooms, checking tools that were already sharp, chatting.

  It wasn't laziness. Their posture was alert. They were waiting for work.

  "Why are there so many people standing around?" Mark asked. He pointed to the primary saw. "Those two by the intake. And the three over by the stacking bay. They aren't working."

  Finnian frowned, stepping closer to the glass. "They're the relief. And the safety spotters. If a log jams, or a blade shatters, you need hands ready to move instantly. It's dangerous work, Mark. We don't run lean on safety here."

  "I understand safety," Mark said. "But that's not what I'm seeing. Look at the primary saw."

  He traced the movement on the glass.

  "The log comes in. The four handlers engage. The saw cuts. It takes... maybe thirty seconds for a standard trunk. During that thirty seconds, the intake crew is idle. They can't load the next log until the cradle clears."

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He shifted his finger.

  "Then the cut is done. The output crew takes the planks. That takes another twenty seconds to clear and stack. During that time, the saw is spinning free. Burning energy. And the intake crew is still waiting."

  He turned to Finnian.

  "You have a bottleneck at the clearing stage. The saw is faster than the stacking. So the saw has to wait. And because the saw waits, the intake waits. You have twelve people standing still for twenty seconds of every minute."

  Finnian stared at the floor below, his eyes narrowing as he timed the rhythm.

  "Aye," he murmured. "I see it. The stackers can't keep up with the blade speed."

  "And because they can't keep up," Mark continued, warming to the problem, "you've added more people to the stacking crew to try and speed it up. But there's no room. They're tripping over each other. Adding manpower to a space constraint doesn't increase throughput. It just increases the accident rate."

  The next half-hour was a blur of professional focus. Mark felt the familiar, satisfying click of his brain engaging with a tangible problem. They dissected the workflow, tracing the path of the timber from wet log to finished plank.

  "If you slow the primary feed slightly, maybe 10 percent," Mark argued, sketching a rough diagram on a scrap of parchment Finnian had provided, "you synchronize it with the stacking crew. The saw isn't idling, wasting energy. The intake crew has a consistent rhythm. You lose a fraction of top speed, but you gain consistency. And consistency is speed over time."

  Finnian nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. "It goes against the grain to slow down," he muttered. "But the logic holds. Less rushing means fewer jams."

  "As for the accounting," Mark said, tapping the desk. "It looks clean, but stop relying on the manifest from the sawyer. Create a dedicated checkpoint at the loading dock. One person. Their only job is to count what leaves the building. Physical verification. If the output doesn't match the input minus waste... you have a leak."

  Finnian sighed, rubbing his temples. "Simple. Brutal. And sadly necessary. I'll put a trustworthy lad on it tomorrow."

  He leaned back, the professional tension easing. The Guildmaster's eyes twinkled with a renewed, mischievous curiosity. The business was done, now was the gossip.

  "You've got a sharp eye, Mark," Finnian said. "Deirdre was right. You'd make a fine Conductor. Maybe even an Administrator, if you could stomach the paperwork."

  He paused, leaning in slightly.

  "But I hear you've been spending a lot of time down in the Artisans' quarter. With that grumpy gemsmith." He raised an eyebrow. "What did they put on the table to tempt you? Gold? A private workshop? A promise to make you the next Guildmaster?"

  Mark laughed. It was for once a truly genuine sound, light and unburdened. He gathered his cane, preparing to stand.

  "The Artisans?" Mark said, shaking his head. "They offered... opportunity. But in terms of what they put on the table?"

  He met Finnian's gaze, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips.

  "Not enough," Mark said. "Not enough… yet."

  Finnian threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Good lad! Keep them guessing. The moment you sign, they’ll try and drop the price. Keep them waiting!"

  He walked Mark to the door, clapping him on the shoulder again.

  "You're welcome here anytime, Mark. And if you ever decide you prefer the smell of sawdust to the stink of hot metal... well, the Carpenters know the value of a good plan."

  "Thank you for the time, Finnian," Mark said, leaning on his cane as they stood by the exit. The roar of the mill was louder here, a vibrating presence in the floorboards. "This is the first sawmill I've actually visited. It's impressive."

  He glanced back at the production floor.

  "I tried to visit one back home once. A client site. But the trip got permanently cancelled." He shrugged. "Obviously, that was before I ended up here."

  Finnian grinned. "Why? Were they worried you'd find out what they were hiding? Secret stash of gold in the lumber?"

  "Something like that," Mark said dryly. "The building exploded."

  Finnian's grin vanished. His face went slack with horror. "Exploded?" he stuttered. "A mill?"

  "Very bad health and safety," Mark explained quickly, seeing the Guildmaster's reaction. "They weren't extracting the sawdust properly. The theory was that someone tried to smoke a cigarette…" he waved a hand, dismissing the unfamiliar term "someone made a spark. And then the building wasn't there."

  Finnian stared at him. "Wood burns, aye. But... explodes?"

  Mark nodded. "Dust explosion. I have to admit from a personal standpoint I would love to know how you get around the issue. I would expect huge ducting, but I'm guessing some kind of wards or a complex array hidden somewhere.."

  Finnian looked out over his own production floor. The golden haze of sawdust hung thick in the air, dancing in the shafts of sunlight. It was beautiful. And suddenly, terrifying.

  "How does dust explode?" Finnian asked slowly with mounting dread

  “A naked flame or spark, with enough dust in the air it is more of a pressure explosion, happens with grains and other dust types in industry. The one I was due to visit, there wasn’t enough left to identify how it all went wrong.” Mark explained grimly.

  Finnian was silent. He was staring at the air, at the dust motes swirling around the heavy beams. He looked pale.

  "We sweep," Finnian whispered. "At the end of the shift."

  The realization hit Mark at the same moment it hit the Guildmaster. There were no wards. No scrubbers. Just brooms and luck.

  "Thank you for your time, Mark," Finnian said abruptly. His voice was tight, urgent. He was already turning away, his eyes scanning the ceiling, the corners where the dust gathered thickest. "I find myself in need of contacting the Engineers' Guild. Immediately."

  He glanced around his magnificent cathedral of timber, seeing it now not as a marvel of industry, but as a bomb waiting for a spark.

  "Go," Finnian said, distracted. "I have... safety procedures to review."

  The walk back was a trial. The adrenaline of the consultation had faded, leaving behind a grinding ache across his body. Mark was grateful for the benches scattered along the path, small islands of respite in the sea of his fatigue.

  He stopped at one overlooking a mountain stream. The water was clear and fast, rushing over grey stones, had he been a painter it would have been the perfect spot. He sat heavily, resting his cane against his knee. He looked up toward the tree line. There was a dusting of white on the higher branches. Snow.

  He hadn't seen snow since the first day. The memory of the forest, the cold, the confusion, the glowing eyes of the imp creature, it all hit him with a physical shiver. He pulled his jacket tighter, though the chill was internal. It felt as if winter was coming. And with it would follow a new set of challenges.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook. He flipped past the audit notes, to a page he had almost abandoned. The sketch of the laser engraver frame and gear system.

  He studied the design. Carl had dismissed the mechanical movement, opting for magical solution. But the enclosure... the box that would contain the light and the smoke... that was probably still necessary.

  He took his pencil and wrote a single word in the margin, underlining it twice.

  Ventilation.

  He closed the book. The project was evolving. And so was he. He pushed himself to his feet, gripping the cane. One step at a time. Back to the house. Back to the work.