Chapter 47: His Own Hands

Chapter 47: His Own Hands

Orrel had brought a wooden case, a folded cloth, and a bun wrapped in paper.

"Didn’t get lunch," he explained when Silas looked at the bun. "Where can I put this?"

"The plate by the kettle," Silas said, stepping aside. "Your tools can go on the desk."

The mechanic crossed the threshold. Silas felt the familiar presence register inside the room, and the private appraisal appeared.

[Soul Talent: Steady Hand — C / Common]

[Talent Record available]

He accepted before Orrel had finished setting down the case.

[Temporary Talent recorded: Steady Hand]

[Assimilation: 0%]

[Duration: 7 days]

Orrel unfolded the cloth across the desk. "You said you wanted work you could repeat without buying a fresh part every time you made a mistake."

"I’d prefer not to pay for the same lesson twice," Silas said.

"Then you’ll like these," Orrel said.

The mechanic laid out a set of small fittings, a pair of narrow tongs, and several thin copper strips. One fitting had been cut open so its interior was visible. Another held a removable spring beneath a slotted cover.

Silas drew his chair closer. None of it looked particularly impressive. That was encouraging. He had recently spent seven days discovering how little he could accomplish with an impressive Talent.

Orrel adjusted the lamp and picked up the tongs.

"I’ll do one," Orrel said. "Then you try."

His hands were broad, with a pale scar crossing the first knuckle of his right index finger. He guided the spring into its seat without scraping the sides, held it there, and slid the cover into place.

Silas watched the pressure on the tongs. Orrel’s grip barely seemed to change.

"Is the Talent active?" Silas asked.

"Yes," Orrel said. "Watch the tip."

Orrel held the tongs above the cloth. A moment later, a faint tremor appeared at their end.

"Off," he said. "I’ve been unloading since this morning."

The movement settled again.

"On," Orrel said.

Silas leaned closer. He had seen steadiness like this in Greybank, but the difference was clearer with the two states so close together.

"Does it stop your hand getting tired?" he asked.

"No," Orrel said. "Hand still gets tired. It just stops announcing it quite so early."

"Convenient," Silas said.

"Until you start believing it." Orrel set down the tongs. "If the hand aches, rest it. Talent won’t mend a strained finger for you."

Silas looked at his own long fingers and flexed them beneath the desk.

Fine. No getting clever about the medicine.

Orrel took the fitting apart and placed it in front of him. Silas began reaching for the spring with Remote Grasp.

"Hands first," the mechanic said.

Silas stopped. "You know what I use for assembly."

"I do. You asked about tool handling too." Orrel offered him the tongs. "Try it once. If it’s useless, we’ll move on."

The request was reasonable. Silas accepted the tool with the air of someone permitting an experiment.

He caught the spring on his second attempt, brought it toward the slot, and watched it twist sideways between the tips.

"Less pressure," Orrel said.

Silas loosened his grip. The spring fell onto the cloth.

He stared at it.

Orrel ate a bite of his bun.

"Again," the mechanic said after swallowing.

Silas tried again. With a physical tool, pressure arrived through his fingertips and the resistance of the handles. He could not simply decide to hold the whole spring across its length, as he would with Remote Grasp. The tongs touched two small points, and he kept trying to make those points do too much.

On the fourth attempt, he reached the slot. Orrel showed him how to rest the edge of his wrist without trapping his movement.

"That better?" the mechanic asked.

"Yes," Silas admitted.

"Then keep it there," Orrel said.

A chime came from Orrel’s pocket before Silas could finish. The mechanic glanced at the message and frowned.

"Trouble?" Silas asked.

"Dain’s checking a housing. Thinks the cover doesn’t sit right." Orrel typed a reply, erased part of it, and put the device beside the lamp. "I’ve told him to check the seating."

Silas concentrated on the spring. He got it down, slid the cover across, and felt a small, entirely unreasonable satisfaction when it stayed.

Orrel was looking at the message again.

"Do you need to go?" Silas asked.

"No. He’s got the bench free and another mechanic there if he needs one." Orrel put the device facedown. "Show me what you’ve done."

Silas handed him the fitting.

The mechanic inspected it and nodded. "Good. Now take it apart without losing the spring."

That proved harder.

Halfway through, Orrel’s hand moved toward the tool. Silas stopped and looked at him.

"Were you going to do that for me?" Silas asked.

Orrel withdrew his hand. "Was going to tell you to turn it."

"You can tell me from there," Silas said.

The mechanic let out a short breath through his nose. "Yes. I can."

His device chimed again. Dain had sent a picture. Orrel enlarged it, started typing, then studied the image more closely.

"What?" Silas asked.

"He found it," Orrel said. "Strip caught under the edge. He’s reseated it."

"Will it work?" Silas asked.

"Should," Orrel said. "He still needs to test it."

Orrel wrote that much and left the device alone. A few minutes later, a final message confirmed the test had passed.

The mechanic smiled down at the screen before catching Silas watching him.

"He’ll be unbearable about that tomorrow," Orrel said.

"Does he get many opportunities?" Silas asked.

Orrel gave him a narrow look, then glanced back at the picture. "I used to send him for tools when a job got awkward. Kept things moving. Now I ask him to finish one himself, and he thinks it means I’m angry with him."

Silas looked at the spring he had finally freed. "Have you told him you want the station post?"

"Yes," Orrel said. "He offered to put in more evening hours so I’d have time to apply."

For a moment, Silas had nothing he wanted to say. He could picture the apprentice staying behind while everyone else went home, trying to make himself indispensable to a man who needed him to become independent.

Don’t let the boy do that.

"Did you take him up on it?" Silas asked.

"No," Orrel said. "Told him to finish his ordinary work first. Then I did half of it for him the next day." He put the device in his pocket. "I’ll leave him that housing. If it needs another check, someone else can do it."

Silas turned his fitting toward the light. "You can leave this one to me as well."

"I was," Orrel said.

"Your hand was coming over again," Silas said.

Orrel looked down at his hand and moved it to his plate instead.

They returned to the practice pieces. Orrel demonstrated transferring a copper strip between two shallow grooves without bending it. When Silas succeeded with the tongs, the mechanic let him try Remote Grasp and pointed out where the different hold made the task easier.

For several minutes, Silas forgot about copying anything. He wanted to know why one edge kept catching when the other passed cleanly. Orrel turned the cutaway fitting under the lamp and showed him.

By the time they finished, the tea was cold and Orrel’s bun had left crumbs on the plate.

Silas paid the agreed amount. Orrel checked the transfer, packed his own tools, and left the purchased pieces arranged on the cloth.

"Don’t practice until everything starts hurting," he said at the door. "The parts will wait."

"I have other things to do," Silas replied.

He did wait until Orrel’s footsteps had receded before closing the door and drawing on the new Talent.

The sensation was small and strangely intimate. His fingers wanted to settle. He held his right hand above the desk, watched the slight tremor in his fingertips diminish, and smiled.

He could have used this years ago, trying to draw clean lines after too much coffee.

Silas picked up the tongs.

Holding them still was easy enough to make him impatient. Moving them toward the copper strip disturbed the effect; he slowed down, restored it, and tried again. The strip rose without shaking.

[Steady Hand — Assimilation: 6%]

Pleased, he guided it toward the groove.

The metal folded at the point where he was gripping it.

His hand had stayed perfectly steady throughout.

Silas looked from the ruined strip to the remaining practice pieces.

"Oh," Silas said. "That’s going to be annoying."