From Tynnborg to the river's mouth downstream was a full day's march on foot—by Rurik's reckoning, no less than twenty kilometers.
"Place one signal tower every five kilometers," he calculated. "Three in total. If strange ships appear, by day we kindle wolf-smoke from animal dung; by night, bonfires of brushwood."
As for the garrisons, Rurik meant to station four men in each tower—three to rotate every eight hours, with one in reserve.
"Twelve men in all, and the cost of construction besides," he murmured from horseback. The expense, he decided, would be shared among the estates and villages under his rule. Since the warning system safeguarded every settlement, there was no reason the lord alone should bear its burden.
Resolved, he summoned the village headmen and local gentry. Thanks to the reputation he had earned in their last campaign, none dared decline his invitation.
After a brief discussion, they agreed to take turns manning the towers. With their lives and property at stake, they proved far less niggling than he had expected.
"There is another matter," Rurik added.
He led them to the riverbank, where three water-powered workshops were rising—one for washing woolen cloth, one for grinding flour, and one for sawing timber.
"After shearing, wool must be combed, spun, and washed. Fulling requires workers to tread the fabric underfoot, a slow and wearying task. I mean to build a water-driven fulling mill. When it is ready, you are welcome to make use of it."
Fat Harry, a portly squire, asked, "And what will the charge be?"
"Once complete, I'll levy a fee according to the results, but never more than five percent."
This was modeled on the customary milling fee. Typically, when peasants used their lord's mill, they paid between five and eight percent of the flour ground. Lord Rurik, lenient by nature, fixed both milling and fulling charges at a flat five percent—enough to earn him a little grain for his table.
After hosting them with a meager luncheon of fish broth and bread, Rurik dismissed the gathering and turned all his energies to the workshops' construction.
Of the three, the fulling mill was simplest: cloth laid in troughs of water and fuller's earth, beaten again and again by wooden hammers driven by the waterwheel, which cleansed the grease from the fibers.
The sawmill was costliest and most demanding—especially the long iron saw blades, its vital core. Kadel admitted that forging such things far exceeded his own skill, and that his father must be called upon.
"Then fetch him at once," Rurik ordered. "Take a horse from the stable, ride swiftly, and waste no time. These two workshops must not be delayed."
Leaving the riverbank, Rurik was on his way to bed when the Raven-Speaker intercepted him.
"My lord, I have chosen a site for a temple to the gods. Might you spare me some silver for its building?"
"Not for the moment." Rurik frowned. "Let me ask you a question worth pondering: in southern Denmark, I hear the lords are abandoning the old ways and converting to the Roman Church. Why is that? Think on it, and when you know, come to me again."
The Raven-Speaker proved sharper than most Northmen. After a night of thought he returned with an answer: writing.
"My lord, our runes cannot bear long records. We pass knowledge only by word of mouth, with accuracy depending on memory. As generations pass, most wisdom is lost. To manage affairs more efficiently, lords have turned to priests who master Latin—to keep accounts, collect taxes, write records. In time, their gods followed."
"True," Rurik replied. "But there is more. Consider your rites: they are too blood-soaked. Slaughtering beasts at every festival only frightens the children. Change them. Lay aside the hallucinogenic mushrooms. Dress in simple dignity, not in terror."
He lectured at length until the Raven-Speaker promised to comply. Satisfied, Rurik granted him a plot of land, two pounds of silver, and a booklet of symbols.
Runes had always been complex of stroke and form. Rurik had labored to adapt them, drawing on the twenty-first century alphabet he recalled. Since the Raven-Speaker was willing to reform the Norse faith, Rurik passed him this new writing system.
After twenty days' effort, the two produced a Rune Script, Version 1.0, and resolved to try it in small circles.
"Adults lack the time," Rurik counseled. "Gather children. Teach them the runes, and arithmetic. Spend the money wisely—when it is gone, come to me again."
He meant to cultivate talent from the ground up. One day, when he seized the northern Pictish lands of Scotland, he would need capable clerks to govern them.
The matter settled, Rurik returned to his workshops. Kadel's father had sent four fine saw blades.
A test proved that one blade cut timber with eight men's strength. The mill could mount three at once, equal to twenty-four laborers.
"Excellent. Here is the pay I promised."
When the three mills were at last in operation, Rurik called for Mitcham to reckon the accounts: seven pounds of silver in all. Yet conscripted labor had stirred grumbling among the villagers, and if such work were valued at cost, the true expense came nearer fifteen pounds.
"Seven pounds of silver would buy a great manor. The investment in these mills is no small thing—may the returns not be long in coming."
With a sigh he clapped Kadel on the shoulder. "Well done, young man. Have you thought of training apprentices?"
"What?" Kadel nearly swore aloud, but, mindful of Rurik's station, choked back the words.
Teach an apprentice, starve the master. Every craftsman in Christendom knew this truth. Orders were finite; the more craftsmen, the smaller each man's profit. Guilds in the cities guarded against it, allowing few apprentices.
Seeing Kadel's flushed face, Rurik understood—he had touched the man's livelihood.
"Well," he mused, "in one town there's room for but one smith, one tanner, one barber. When apprentices finish their training, masters give them tools and send them to ply their trade elsewhere. Should the apprentice stay to compete, either master or pupil must go hungry."
Rurik's answer was money. He promised to pay one pound of silver for every apprentice Kadel trained. Tempted by the sum, Kadel said he would think it over.