But tonight. . . well, tonight, in some way, he was going to pay the rent. Of course, he owned the forge. It had been passed down for generations. But there was more to a forge than bricks and mortar and iron. He couldn't put a name to it, but it was there. It was the difference between being a master farrier and just someone who bent iron in complicated ways for a living. And it had something to do with iron. And something to do with being allowed to be very good at his job. Some kind of rent.
One day his dad had taken him aside and explained what he had to do, on nights like this.
There'd be times, he said, there'd be times - and he'd know when they were without being told - there'd be times when someone would come with a horse to shoe. Make them welcome. Shoe the horse. Don't let your mind wander. And try not to think about anything except horseshoes.
He'd got quite used to it now.
The wind rose, and somewhere there was the creak of a tree going over.
The latch rattled.
Then there was a knock at the door. Once. Twice.
Jason Ogg picked up his blindfold and put it on. That was important, his dad had said. It saved you getting distracted.
He undid the door.
“Evening, m'lord,” he said.
A WILD NIGHT.
He smelled wet horse as it was led into the forge, hooves clattering on the stones.
“There's tea brewing on the forge and our Dreen done us some biscuits in the tin with A Present from Ankh-Morpork on it.”
THANK YOU. I TRUST YOU ARE WELL.
“Yes, m'lord. I done the shoes already. Won't hold you up long. I know you're . . . very busy, like.”
He heard the click-click of footsteps cross the floor to the old kitchen chair reserved for customers, or at least for the owners of customers.
Jason had laid the tools and the horseshoes and the nails ready to hand on the bench beside the anvil. He wiped his hands on his apron, picked up a file, and set to work. He didn't like cold shoeing, but he'd shod horses ever since he was ten. He could do it by feel. He picked up a rasp and set to work.
And he had to admit it. It was the most obedient horse he'd ever encountered. Pity he'd never actually seen it. It'd be a pretty good horse, a horse like that. . .
His dad had said: don't try to sneak a look at it.
He heard the glug of the teapot and then the gling-glong sound of a spoon being stirred and then the clink as the spoon was laid down.
Never any sound, his dad had said. Except when he walks and talks, you'll never hear him make a sound. No smacking of lips, stuff like that.
No breathing.
Oh, and another thing. When you takes the old shoes off, don't chuck 'em in the comer for to go for melt with the other scrap. Keep 'em separate. Melt 'em separate. Keep a pot special for it, and make the new shoes out of that metal. Whatever else you do, never put that iron on another living thing.
In fact, Jason had saved one set of the old shoes for pitching contests at the various village fairs, and never lost when he used them. He won so often that it made him nervous, and now they spent most of their time hanging on a nail behind the door.
Sometimes the wind rattled the window frame, or made the coals crackle. A series of thumps and a squawk a little way off suggested that the chicken house at the end of the garden had parted company with the ground.
The customer's owner poured himself another cup of tea.
Jason finished one hoof and let it go. Then he held out his hand. The horse shifted its weight and raised the last hoof.
This was a horse in a million. Perhaps more.
Eventually, he had finished. Funny, that. It never seemed to take very long. Jason had no use for a clock, but he had a suspicion that a job which took the best part of an hour was at the same time over in a matter of minutes.
“There,” he said. “Tis done.”