20. Heartbeats Carried by Love
The massive order of ten thousand suits from Malik Duqaq, ironically enough, simplified my daily life once production finally hit its stride. Or, to be precise, that insane workload crushed any room for stray thoughts, leaving me to just focus on the tasks at hand and quotas for two straight months. It was downright simplistic, in a way.
Women from the village had started gathering by the Barada River in twos and threes to do their laundry, weaving between the water hammers where workers—drenched in sweat from the desert sun and forge heat—had stripped down to show off their sturdy muscles and thick forearms. The housewives, who might've washed upstream in saner times, were sneaking lecherous glances at the hardworking men.
Whatever the case, two months on, the industrial complex's footprint was taking shape. We'd hammered in materials steadily as planned, and the robust silhouette of the massive facility was emerging. Stretching along the river, it drew villagers for water, blending into daily life and transforming our market-dependent hamlet into a vibrant, welcoming home base.
In that gender-blind bustle, I lounged leisurely when a booming shout echoed from the complex: "Line 3, get your heads in the game! You wanna pack up and crawl back to your old villages?!"
It was Rashid, of course. With the forge ballooning into a full complex, he'd shifted from instructor or artisan to foreman. His gravelly roar cut through the air, armband reading "Foreman" gleaming under the sun as he chewed out the craftsmen in my stead during my break.
I shot him a quick thanks for lightening my load and gazed skyward. Late June skies were infuriatingly clear, matching rumors of accelerating reinforcements for the Crusaders—Lombard forces finally pushing past Nicaea, slower than expected. Meanwhile, mercenaries and lords eyed our frontlines restlessly; our weapons and armor were skyrocketing in value, premium new releases fetching top dirham.
Still, most chatter was hype over scattered Lombard sightings near Ankara—no real clashes yet, a distant threat. Probably not till I fulfilled Duqaq's order.
Shaking off the break, I headed back to Factory 1, the core hub now handling finishing touches and key parts.
"Boss, you're here."
Rashid greeted me inside, his face lighting up as if those earlier bellows never happened. Despite the grueling pace, his vibrant energy brimmed with joy—tempting me to pile on more duties. I shook off the thought and accepted the lukewarm qatarmizat from Hasim, who'd grown tall and skilled in our six months together.
The factory's expansion had made these two indispensable in half a year. Sipping the sweet-tart drink to wet my parched throat, I asked, "Rashid, production smooth? Heard defect rates are dropping—can we ramp up if it's this solid?"
He shrugged theatrically. "Don't even ask. We're swamped as is. You say that like you mean it... Artisans handle their leads now, and we do finals here. Old hands catch defects fine. One artisan oversees craftsmen, apprentices learn on the fly—quick uptake, efficient. Defects bottomed out, output soaring."
His words checked out; processes hummed, ledgers matched stock. We'd reorganized for manpower infusion amid growth, and results shone. I couldn't micromanage forever—my role was oversight, occasional tweaks, numbers, and deals with Zaid. These two were my proxies.
As I scanned the area and pored over books amid the din of hammers, a fresh breeze cut through—soft wind and fragrance piercing the gritty air.
"Heavens, how do you work all day without a break?"
Miriam's voice. She'd just called me a workaholic after my own break, her light, playful tone drawing laughs. Her basket held fewer loaves and dates than before, like she'd handed some out en route.
Crisp amid the sweat and tension, she was why workers adored her.
"Miriam, glad you're here, but the factory floor's dangerous. Materials and people rushing—someone could get hurt..."
"Dangerous? With Uncle Rashid watching safety like a hawk? Even the paths are safe."
She had a point. There went Rashid, kicking a slacker's ass for leaving crates astray—no retort left.
She dragged a stool beside my perch, wiped sweat and grime from my cheek with her soft handkerchief. I flinched at her question.
"Anyway... passing the souk, I spotted a pilgrim with reddish-brown hair carrying a steel scale. Cat-eyed girl..."
Her tone prickled with cute jealousy—careful now. Chills down my spine ignored, I played it cool. "Oh, you saw her. Stuck her head too close to the water hammer, reached for the wheel—gave her a souvenir scale to shoo her off quick. Iberian from afar; better a scale than complaints."
She eyed me, pouting. "Souvenir? I don't have one yet..."
Her daily visits laced with souvenir pleas, now wilted. Lips pursed, I pulled out the pendant I'd made post-Cristina—a larger, shinier Sirion chest scale, polished harmlessly, heat-treated flawless as jewelry.
"Here. Way better than hers, handmade. No more sulking, okay?"
Her face melted into a radiant smile, fastening it around her neck, fingers caressing the gleaming scale at her chest. Head on my shoulder, she murmured, "Fine, this'll do. But next time, no bread."
Her "warning"—no snacks if another got a gift first—drew my unwitting grin. Her warmth seeped through, easing the grind's crush in this stolen moment.
But no slacking; I grabbed the ledger. "Bit more rest, then back at it. Your bread's got me fueled."
Spoke too soon—Hasim's call cut the peace short.
"Teacher! Fifth factory quench temp's too high! Cooling channel's jammed—overheat's making it unlivable nearby!"
Miriam pouted off my shoulder, disappointed; I apologized lightly, rising. "Oops, jinxed it... Sorry, Miriam, gotta go."
Trailing Hasim to Factory 5, sweltering heat hit harder. Quench issues halted upstream and downstream—classic bottleneck. Good thing no full conveyor automation yet.
Artisan lead and crew bowed sheepishly at the quench site—embarrassed to summon me. No biggie; lifelong manual crafters, outdated knowledge, green apprentices—I'd never taught this fix.
They were medieval techno-barbarians wielding my designs blindly.
Time for traffic control. Crude medieval quench overheating, yet they resumed work. Fine, till I spotted ore in crucibles, frantic bellows fans.
"Everyone, halt!"
On the small platform, I grabbed the megaphone. They froze, attentive.
"No forcing it till fixed—slow and steady. Panic or idling solves nothing! Don't turn your sweat into scrap—think first!"
I dashed to the cooling channel cover. Heat slapped my face, but no pause. Peering in, water dwindled to dry—backflow heat. Charcoal guy stammered guilt; I waved it off.
"Not the fuel. Circulation blocked."
Sleeves up, I inspected: narrow channel clogged with river debris, slag fused by heat.
Modern filters absent; guidelines were best. Still, I snatched a long iron rod, jabbed the drain hard, pounding clumped slag loose.
Twisting lifted the plug—thunk—fresh water gushed.
"Now! Crank the valve slow, widen the gate!"
Several turned the big-wheeled valve. Channel widened, cold river rushed in; quench heat plummeted palpably.
"Fixed! Resume with margin. Log this for next time—no calling me. Got it?!"
"Yes, sir...!"
Artisan nodded furiously, noting. Factory 5 normalized; I sighed relief, Hasim's eyes sparkling brighter.
"Teacher does it all!"
His boyish awe stumped me; I just ruffled his hair, departing.
En route to the office, crimson horizon framed the complex: sleek factories, pricey setups, scurrying laborers, ongoing builds.
Half a year ago, Rashid's ramshackle smithy on Souk Wadi Barada's edge—growth felt dreamlike.
My domain moved organically, like limbs. Sirion and arms from here would reshape the world, goals met.
And beyond: this land's history will change drastically—arrogant certainty swelled.
No one could match my efficient, era-transcending future knowledge.
That thought satisfied; smiling faintly, I strode into blaze and heat, dragging a shattered future closer.
Convinced my steel was invincible.