Chapter 132: The Shrewd Ploy of a Sudden Hammer Stroke
As his feet touched the ground again, the dwarf initially intended to dive back into the excitement, only to realize that Arthur was also heading toward Percival's shop. He froze for a moment, then decisively turned and walked in the opposite direction.
By the time Arthur reached the outer edge of the crowd again, the dwarves' slogans had risen to a rhythmic roar:
"Hand over the Gwyhyr secrets!" "The gnome is a traitor to the Guild! Burn his workshop to ash!"
To give him credit, Percival was a man of mettle. He stood atop a wooden barrel, hammer in his left hand, his right hand cupped like a megaphone:
"[Gnomish Profanity]! Stop daydreaming! The Gwyhyr craft belongs to gnomes. I'll teach it to whomever I damn well please, and it has nothing to do with you dwarves! Do you see this barrel under my feet? It's filled with granulated blasting powder. If any of you [Expletive] dare cross the line, I'll send this whole street to the gods!"
As if someone had let out a foul stench, the crowd surged backward in a frantic wave. Percival, growing more emboldened, pointed his hammer at the front row of dwarves:
"Not a single one of you is worth a damn! You're just trash who can't stand to see others succeed! Instead of figuring out how to hone your own craft, you spend all day staring at someone else's treasures!"
In the wake of the retreat, Arthur suddenly found himself at the very front. He suppressed a smile; it was no wonder even Zoltan called gnomes "formidable characters." Some reputations were indeed well-earned.
He caught the gnome's eye and winked, signaling to ask if help was needed. Percival, using the motion of waving his hammer, made a subtle gesture of refusal and continued to pile the pressure on the mob:
"I suggest you lot scurry back home. I'm holding a Royal commission right now. If the King finds out his sword wasn't finished on time because of your meddling, let's see if you can keep your shops open then!"
The dwarves had never truly expected to extort the Gwyhyr secrets with a mere protest, and their momentum had withered significantly after being checked by the powder keg. Hearing the Royal Family mentioned, their expressions shifted instantly; several began looking around for an exit.
Just as the crowd was about to disperse, an ancient dwarf of an age impossible to guess stepped forward. Arthur heard someone whisper, "The President is showing his face."
"Ahem! Quiet down, everyone. Let me say a fair word."
The President leaned on a cane of oleander wood, his hunched back protruding like a camel's hump. This did not, however, prevent his voice from booming clearly into everyone's ears:
"Percival, we've been neighbors here for fifty, maybe sixty years. Let me offer a fair compromise, eh?"
"Hah! Weren't you the one who sold me out in the first place? Don't come out here playing the righteous patriarch now!" Percival spat irritably, though he didn't stop the President from continuing.
"The lads saying you should just give the Gwyhyr secrets away that was just hot-headed talk. But given the relationship between our two races, a technical transfer of this magnitude... well, it's only reasonable the dwarves have a say, isn't it?"
Percival remained silent, and the President's tone grew increasingly authoritative:
"We dwarves have never intended to restrict who you do business with. But the Gwyhyr is one of the pinnacle forging techniques; we cannot sit by and watch our interests be undermined. Tell you what we don't care who you gave the craft to or how much you sold it for. As long as you are willing to sell the same technique to us, we'll consider the matter settled. How about it?"
Percival curled his lip. "And how much are you planning to pay for my craft?"
The President slowly opened his right hand, raising five jewelry-encrusted fingers high:
"Five hundred crowns. No holes, no clipped edges full, pristine Novigrad Crowns. Is that a fair offer or what?"
Five hundred crowns...
Arthur nearly laughed out loud. That wasn't even enough to buy out a mediocre smithy; the President's offer was pure lunacy.
Yet the surrounding dwarves began to cheer frantically, acting as if Percival were getting the deal of a lifetime:
"What? As much as five hundred crowns?" "Actual full-weight Novigrad Crowns, not clipped or holed?!" "The President's business ethics are too noble! I'm mad with jealousy!"
Percival let out a cold, mocking sneer:
"Tarun Zigrin, do you take me for one of those dimwits who just crawled out of a mine? You think I'll treat your farts like treasure? You want my Gwyhyr craft? Fine. Trade me the secrets of the Sihil! Otherwise, no deal!"
The clamor of the crowd died down instantly, leaving only the persistent, hacking cough of the Guildmaster to fill the silence.
"The craft of the Sihil is the most guarded secret of dwarven metallurgy. Elder Brouver Hoog issued an edict long ago: it is strictly forbidden to trade it."
"Then there's nothing left to discuss."
Percival shrugged and barked at Arthur, "Boy! Stop standing around gawking at the show. We've got work to do!"
Arthur gave a sharp nod and stepped up beside Percival. A collective gasp of indignation rippled through the dwarves. The Guildmaster's finger trembled as he leveled it at Percival.
"You would sooner teach a human than your own kind? Do you truly intend to shatter the millennium-old bond between our races?"
"Pah! You sanctimonious old goat! Don't you dare try to pin that on me. Does this 'our kind' of yours even include me?!"
Percival threw the accusation back in the Guildmaster's face without hesitation. He reached out to grab Arthur's hand to hoist it high, only to realize that even with his arm fully extended above his head, Arthur only came up to his waist. He settled for giving Arthur's shin a light kick, signaling the lad to raise his own hand.
"I'll tell you the plain truth: this lad isn't just generous with his coin, his talent puts every one of you lot to shame. I'm teaching him the secrets of the Gwyhyr because gnomish smithing hasn't moved an inch in two hundred years. I expect him to break those shackles. I expect that one day, he'll be the one bringing us a superior craft. And you? All you want is to hoard the best techniques like dragons so you can sit on your arses and get rich!"
Percival, in full fury, radiated an aura so commanding it forced the dwarven smiths to avert their eyes.
Sensing the plummeting morale, the Guildmaster gritted his teeth and forced a desperate counter-argument:
"Hmph. How do I know you haven't just invented this 'genius' nonsense as a cover to sell out to a layman for a pretty price?"
The dwarves immediately took up the cry:
"Aye! Whether he's a genius or not isn't for you to say! Let the work speak!"
"Let him compete against one of ours! Only the winner has the right to learn the Gwyhyr!"
The Guildmaster allowed the rabble to shout for a long moment before pressing his hands down for silence. He put on a mask of feigned reluctance.
"Percival, it's not that I don't wish to help you, but the people have spoken. If you remain pig-headed, I'll have no choice but to strike you from the Blacksmiths' Guild. After that, not so much as a single ingot of steel will find its way into your workshop. You know as well as I do that the Guild is a private body; Queen Calanthe has never had a taste for meddling in civil affairs."
From the Guildmaster's viper-like smile, Arthur read the subtext loud and clear: even if Percival had secured the favor of the Crown, it wouldn't be enough to resolve the crisis at hand.
Percival snorted derisively. "Fine. If it's a contest of skill you want, you'll get it. But you'd better put up a stake worth the trouble if Arthur wins, you hand over the secrets of the Sihil!"
"Him?"
The Guildmaster shot a contemptuous glance at Arthur and nodded. "Very well. If he can best the finest smith among us, we shall provide the craft of the Sihil."
The old dwarf's mental abacus was clicking rapidly. Smithing was a labor-intensive, technical craft where long-lived races like dwarves held a natural, overwhelming advantage. No matter how much of a prodigy Arthur might be, it was impossible for a human barely twenty years old to surpass a dwarven master who had spent a century at the forge.
However, the look of sudden, predatory delight on Percival's face made the Guildmaster feel as though he was the one who had just stepped into a snare.
"Lord Mayor, you heard it all, didn't you? This contest was proposed and accepted voluntarily by the dwarves."