The Temporary Administrator 3 knocked on the goatskin door that closed off The Senior Administrator’s inner sanctum from the rest of the spacious Administration Hut filled with the sound of furious scratching of quill upon parchment.
“Enter!” Came the reply as the ‘click click’ sound of cowie shells being moved on their abacus temporarily halted.
Letting himself into The Senior Administrators room the Temporary Administrator 3 waited until he was called over to the Cocobolo topped desk before he spoke.
“My lord, there is a representation from the Artisan’s Guild to see you.”
“Are they smelly?”
“A little sire.”
“The go have them washed.” The Senior Administrator quickly turned back to his abacus, “When that is done I will see them.”
“And you are?” The Senior Administrator looked at the first of the three sodden men standing in the area outside the Administration Hut in the weak sun of the early Wintersend morning.
“Dixcart my lord.”
“And what do you do?”
“I skin goats.”
“So Dixcart the Skinner, what is your problem?”
“Each month sire I take the goat carcasses that have been gutted by Bourel and with my teeth and nails I removed their skins.”
“And?”
“If I had a tool sire to assist me, I am sure I could double my work, at no increase cost to the tribe.”
“Yes, I could see how that might work.” The Senior Administrator pointed at his Temporary Administrator in a way that the latter understood this detail was to be noted while he turned to the second sodden person.
“And you are?”
“Bourel my lord.”
“And what do you do?”
“I gut goats.”
“So Bourel the Gutter, what is your problem?”
“Each month sire I take the goat carcasses that have been slaughtered as part of the months quota and with my teeth and nails I removed their guts.”
“And?”
“If I had a tool sire to assist me, I am sure I could double my work, at no increase cost to the tribe.”
“Yes…” The Senior Administrator saw a pattern beginning to form as he moved onto the final sodden person.
“And you are?”
“Plaisance my lord.”
“And what do you do?”
“I bone goats.”
“So Plaisance the Boner, what is your problem?”
“Each month sire I take the goat carcasses that have had their skins and guts removed and with my teeth and nails I removed their bones.”
“And?”
“If I had a tool sire to assist me, I am sure I could double my work, at no increase cost to the tribe.”
“Right, I am now fully appraised of your problem and agree that a solution of a new tool would benefit,” The Senior Administrator teased his recently trimmed and waxed goatee beard to a point, “However I am unclear as to how you intend to resolve this?”
“Sire…” one of the sodden men stepped forwards.
“Yes Bourel?”
“Dixcart sire, Bourel is the one with the entrails in his hair.”
“Sorry, please go on Dixcart.”
“We three have discussed this at length and suggest perhaps a knife would suit our needs adequately.”
“A knife you say?”
“Sire,” Bourel stepped forward, causing the Senior Administrator to instinctively back off slightly, “a small metal tool, about the length of my hand, sharpened along one edge and to the point.”
“Like the sword used by our Warriors.”
“Before you sold them at the last Fair.” Plaisance cut in after Dixcart spoke.
“Our brave Warriors,” The Senior Administrator turned on Dixcart and fixed him with a hard stare while doing his best to ignore the seditious remark from Plaisance.
“Sorry sire, our brave Warriors.”
“Do not forget that without these brave two thousand Warriors defending this village each month there is no telling what terrible fate would befall the Holy Virgin Queen Enrod.” The Senior Administrator preached to all three, “Only last month they repelled an invasion of the outlying farms by a squad cannibalistic raiders.”
“Was that not a gazelle?”
“A squad of cannibalistic raiders disguised as a gazelle, yes.” The Senior Administrator stiffened trying not to turn on Plaisance for his continued attempts to undermine the official report of the incident.
There followed a serious of mumbled apologies from the sodden three before the Senior Administrator called them back to order, to reiterate their request for the new tool.
“So,” The Senior Administrator reviewed what he had been told, “a small metal tool, about the length of my hand, sharpened along one edge and to the point, similar to the sword used by our brave Warriors but smaller?”
There was no verbal response to this but a great nodding of heads, to which The Senior Administrator dispatched the Temporary Administrator he loved on an errand. The Temporary Administrator returned twenty minutes later and reported his finding to The Senior Administrator and the assembled trio.
“I have spoken with Master Hamon the blacksmith concerning your request for a small metal tool, about the length of my hand, sharpened along one edge and to the point, similar to the sword used by our brave Warriors but smaller.”
“And?”
“Master Hamon asked had you considered using a scythe?”
“Not really.” Dixcart replied after a quick consultation with his companions.
“Not that it matters, the Guild of Blacksmiths are not yet at that particular skill level anyway,” the Temporary Administrator 3 continued, “however, Master Hamon reports that once the Guild of Blacksmiths have advance to the point were they may produce Lamps and Sythes, the Plows…”
“Ploughs!” The Senior Administrator cut in sharply.
“Sorry Sire,” the Temporary Administrator 3 looked suitable cowed, “Ploughs, the Cauldron and finally the Glass Pipe, they will get on to researching the proposed Knife.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Six months.” The Temporary Administrator 3 consulted the notes scribbled upon his his clipboard.
“There you are,” The Senior Administrator turned to the somewhat drier three, “you will have your knives in six months.”
“Six months to research the item,” the Temporary Administrator interrupted his superior, “however Master Hamon suggested that at the present rate of skill improvement it will take two years to reach the point before he may even begin the research process…”