Master Vance nodded with agreement. “Look how green the grass is, too.” He turned around and looked at the backs of the buildings that stood behind the wall. Abi noticed that there was a row of outhouses behind those buildings, and that they too were uphill from the wall. “There is not a hope of getting those people to clean out their latrines on a monthly basis,” he said with resignation. “And they’ll never believe this isn’t a spring that just somehow decided to break through at this spot. Or just something temporary.”

“Or that wet ground can cause problems in the first place,” Abi pointed out.

“So?” asked Padrick.

“So, we pour concrete footings for this spot and build the wall on that. No more shifting ground.”

“I haven’t seen any concrete in this entire city,” Padrick replied, worried. “There isn’t even a word for it! They have nothing but mortared walls.”

“Then we’ll teach them how to make it.” Master Vance, then scowled. “This is going to take much more time and work than I wanted to allow.”

“Charity, Master Vance,” drawled Stev, not in his Whites, strolling up beside Abi. “’Tis a great virtue. So I’m told.”

Master Vance growled something under his breath and turned to his crew of predominantly shirtless, burly, thick-thewed, and mostly thick-headed workers. “Have any of you any notion of how to create . . .” He swore. “Damnitall, he’s right, there isn’t even a word for it in your tongue . . . it’s like mortar, but you make entire slabs out of it. It hardens into something like stone. Anyone?”

The men looked at each other and shrugged. The more intelligent looked as if they thought Master Vance was crazy.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “We’re going to have to make it from scratch and teach them how.” He turned back to his crew. “You and you!” he barked, pointing. “Get me a cartload of sand. You and you, get me a cartload of gravel no bigger than this.” He held up a rock chip. “You and you, get me a cartload of lime. You get me a cartload of that white clay your potters use. You get me several cartloads of wood, and you get me a cartload of fire-bricks, because we’re going to have to build a bloody damned kiln.”

They all gawked at him.

“Don’t just stand there staring like a bunch of owls! Hop to it!” Jicks shouted.

Well, they recognized the Command Voice when they heard it. They hopped.

Master Vance sighed as they disappeared. “Sennights of pease porridge,” he moaned.

“I can always make stew,” Jicks offered.

•   •   •