by K T Munson
Deckard undressed slowly and used the old unused water from yesterday to clean himself. He washed his face first and then the rest of himself. The water wasn’t cold but it wasn’t too warm either. He dressed quickly afterwards, his tired muscles relaxing and he gained mobility. Even his aching bones and sore muscles were not enough to slow him down.
He hurried from the room and down the hall towards his pile of designs. When he opened the door he found Evanora reading one. She turned quickly and nearly dropped the paper, narrowly catching it in the air.
“Father!” She exclaimed and put her hands on her hips. “You startled me. I did not think you would be up for some time.”
“I have finished it.” Deckard said and felt a foolish grin push across his lips.
Instantly Evanora’s face changed and she looked down at the drawings as she asked, “Already?”
“Yes,” Deckard responded coming over to pick up the finished set and hand it to her. “I will start making it today. Want to join me?”
“Father, today is Thursday.” Evanora said with a frown.
“What does it matter what day it is?” Deckard asked, knowing full well there were no lectures.
“It is Avanel’s birthday, I have been telling you all week,” Evanora said but her voice suggested she wasn’t at all angry with him. “She is my good friend and I promised.”
“Well you know how I feel about promises,” Deckard said and tried to hide his disappointment. “You can help me when you return.”
“You had better not get too far along without me.” Evanora said kissing him on the cheek before leaving.
Deckard watched her as she left and sighed. He found he was sighing a lot as of late and most of it was over Evanora. Before he could dwell on his daughter a moment longer he gathered up his plans and walked them into his workroom around the corner. He removed his old designs before tacking the new ones up on the wall.
Wandering around his workroom he gathered up the supplies he needed. Deckard would cut them in his workroom and then assemble them in the courtyard. The body of the craft could be made from wood and a woven basket but the spinning blades needed to be made of metal. The boat propellers were made of metal and they were effective.
His hands worked slowly, measuring and tracing, until they were perfect. Each measurement needed to be precise or his machine would fail. Time became a nominal factor as he worked, so completely consumed by what he was doing. When he clamped down the wood to start cutting his hand sliced across the handle of the saw. A slice of metal had curled away from the rest of the handle.
Deckard pulled his hand back in surprise as blood welled across the open wound. He set the saw down and picked up a rag and pressed it into the wound. He couldn’t continue to work as it was; he was right-handed and the pressure on the cut would prevent him using the saw. He looked to the window and saw that it was well into the afternoon. Clumsily wrapping his hand, Deckard gathered up his designs and left.
He walked through the house and down into the courtyard just as Evanora was returning. His daughter was dressed in her finest robe and her hair was done up in a mature and fashionable way. She had a small satchel over her shoulder as she closed the gate and locked it behind her. When she turned back and saw Deckard she came to a jerking halt.
“Father!” She said startled and her hand immediately went to her hair as though self-conscious.
He was so startled by how much older his daughter appeared than her thirteen years that he just stared at her. It seemed every time he turned around she was reminding him of her age. Within a year she could be receiving marriage proposals. He had watched at her holding the windwheel at the festival and thought it was a long way off. Seeing her now he realized she reminded him of her mother already, and she had been much older when Deckard met her.
She pushed her hair back nervously behind her ear and asked, “Does it look that terrible?”
“No, for a moment I thought I was looking at your mother,” Deckard finally managed and saw her eyes light up.
“Everyone thought it was old fashioned but Avanel’s mother said it was common thirteen years ago,” Evanora said proudly and then her eyes darted to his hand, “Father you’re bleeding!”
She rushed forward and took his hand in her own. It was only then that Deckard noticed the rag was seeped with blood. He must have cut himself worse than he originally thought.
“I cut myself earlier.” Deckard responded lamely.
“It is high time you hired an assistant.” Evanora said as she slowly unwrapped the wound.
“Why would I do that? I already have the best assistant.” Deckard said putting a hand on his daughters shoulder.
“I can hardly lift a slab of wood,” Evanora pointed out, but her words suggested she appreciated his praise. “You need a strong worker.”
“Let me go and bind this,” Deckard said remembering she was wearing her prettiest robe, “and then we can go and find an assistant.”
“You cannot bind it yourself, you always do a poor job,” Evanora said as they made their way back up towards the kitchen.
“I will have Marisol do it then,” Deckard retorted.
“Only if you want her to faint,” Evanora said pointing at the kitchen table. “Sit down and wait for me while I go and change.”
She didn’t wait for his answer but hurried off. Edna did that once or twice whenever Deckard was being difficult. She would just tell him what to do and then not leave a moment before any argument. Despite the fact that Evanora had never met her mother, she was turning out like her. He was beginning to wonder if his parenting had any effect on the woman Evanora was becoming. Based on whom her mother was; he very much doubted it.
Evanora returned shortly in different clothes and some clean bandages. She cleaned the cut before binding it. While she did he listened to her talk about the party. Apparently Avanel had worn a new kind of robe that was shorter and had a belt at the waist. Most of the girls were excited but Evanora thought it too tight and revealing. She preferred the ribbons to the belt anyways.
Deckard did his best to respond positively and negatively in the right areas but he was very quickly lost. He much preferred when she climbed the trees in the courtyard and asked questions about the world. Now she was interested in fashion and what was pretty. Honestly Deckard didn’t know if he could manage to understand completely but he would try to listen.
Thankfully, it didn’t take long for her to bind the cut. When she finished she threw the bloodied rag away and washed her hands. Deckard looked down at the bandage and although there seemed to be a bit much, it was well done. Deckard stood and they soon left.
The streets were mostly empty that time in the late afternoon. It was when most families gathered to eat and many had left town and traveled south to visit Roanoak, now that there was peace, and to Ostapor. Soon Roanoak would open the way to Vargos and citizens of Tiam would flood to see the hidden world.
“Has there been any news from Ostapor?” Deckard said suddenly remembering he hadn’t heard anything since the first reports of a group of men freeing slaves.
“Only a little,” Evanora said as they turned down the street, past the Silent Sisters, towards the metalworkers. “I heard they call themselves the Sixty-Six Saviors and are led by a man the people are calling Hadrian the Hero. So far there has been no news of their capture.”
“The man has a noble vision,” Deckard admitted as he contemplated the ramifications of their actions. “Though it will likely end in failure.”
“I have read about slavery,” Evanora said with a frown. “I do not like anything about it. Many of my friends hope this ends slavery. There is nothing in Tiam’s history that is as terrible as when we oppressed our brethren.”
“I agree, daughter,” Deckard was very pleased. “Slavery was abolished over five hundred years ago, when the entire world enslaved others. Tiam was second only to Roanoak. In Roanoak, they began paying their slaves and calling them servants. Ah, here we are.”
They arrived at the billowing factory that was the metalworkers’ home. He stepped inside and Evanora followed. Inside there were large areas of fire with bellows that sent the smoke into the air. Men hammered away at anvils and two women refined the blades. Everyone knows that women were much better at the finer work, than the men. Evanora always stared at the women in their metal and leather outfits.
He showed the man his designs and they hassled over price. When Deckard was satisfied with what he considered a fair price he paid the man half their agreed bargain and confirmed that it would be done next week. The metalworker also referred an apprentice he couldn’t keep on because of the reduction in work. The man had a family and could work hard but didn’t have the skill for metalwork.
“There you are,” he said after they had stepped out into the street. “I will send a messenger with my offer to this Jin and see if he will take work with me.”
Evanora was looking over her shoulder back into the belly of the metalworker’s shop when she whispered, “They have all stopped working and are staring at us.”
“What do you mean?” Deckard said and stuck his head around the corner.
It was true all of them were staring at Deckard as the man showed them his design. It was not difficult to guess from the designs what the blade was meant for. Deckard put an arm around his daughter, realizing that no one had ever tried to invent something that could fly, before. Why would they need something that could fly? They had The Knife.
“Don’t worry,” Deckard said as he steered her towards home, “I am sure they are just curious.”
Chapter 28
Lancel Storm
Lancel walked out front of the carriage watching the people in the streets wearily. Ashira was in the carriage behind him and they were just entering the city. Evermore loomed behind them, whispering of safety. Lancel wanted nothing more than to return.
He slowed down and rapped on the door. “Queen Ashira.”
After a moment she opened the door a little and asked, “What is it Lancel?”
“Are you sure you wish to go alone into the city?” Lancel asked glancing at the only other guard in their attendance.
“I am not alone I have you,” she pointed out. Lancel heard another voice which caused her to laugh before adding, “And Missari.”
“The King requested that I escort you,” Lancel pointed out.
“Only because I asked for you,” Ashira informed him. “We are going to the Swordsmith, because I have tried to learn to sew and failed. It was very frustrating, so much that I wanted to rip all my hair out, sew it back on, only to tear it back out again. This is what I should have done in the first place; inform me when we are there.”
She closed the door with a sharp snap and Lancel resumed walking as the carriage lurched to life. Ashira was one for honesty but she was clearly not pleased with the idea of sewing. The women that Eliron had assigned to her were quite amused with her inability to sew; yet somehow they seemed to admire her for her determination to please their king.
Luckily the Swordsmith was close to Evermore and they arrived there shortly. Already Lancel was nervous at how much attention they were receiving. The King always sauntered out amongst the people without hesitation, but Ashira was not safe. She would eventually be accepted by the people, especially once she bore Eliron’s children. However, presently, she was not loved, and hardly anyone liked her merely because of her place of birth.
When they arrived Lancel knocked on the door and said, “My Queen, we are here.”
The door opened promptly and Lancel offered his hand. Ashira’s hand was bare but she still wore her veil. Her hand was warm, soft, and delicate. Lancel was suddenly worried his hand was rough and would grate against hers. She hardly seemed to notice it as she glanced around her. When she released his hand he opened his hand wide as it tingled, before offering it to Missari.
Missari handed a long box to Ashira but Lancel grabbed it before she could. “Let me carry this.”
“Thank you,” Ashira said with a smile as Missari came out of the carriage.
The three of them went into the shop. There were two men inside checking the balance of weapons and the weight of them when she entered. Both stopped what they were doing and turned to watch her, slack-jawed. Missari blushed but Ashira was completely taken in by her surroundings.
“The Queen Ashira,” Lancel said to the owner, by way of introduction.
“My Queen,” the shop owner said as he came around the corner bowing multiple times, “How might this lowly swordsmith please you today?”
“I was under the impression that the lowly swordsmith before me was, actually, the finest in town,” Ashira countered but she was smiling a little. “Are you not the finest in town?”
“I am, my queen,” the owner replied as he came to stand before her, “I am Belvix.”
He was a large man, with dark skin that tanned easily and the start of a large belly. He stood not much taller than the queen and yet he was somehow agile. Lancel had dealt with Belvix, a former citizen of Tiam, a few times. Lancel noticed that the two men set down what they were looking at and left the shop.
“Then I have an order for Belvix the lowly Swordsmith, to make a special sword,” Ashira said coyly before waving Lancel forward. “I wish to give my husband a gift of my homeland. This was my grandfather’s sword, passed on to me. I would like another made with folded metal, Lancel tells me you know this technique.”
“I do, my queen,” Belvix replied with a nod of his head, “but it is expensive and takes time.”
“I will only have the finest for my husband,” Ashira responded with a smile. “I know a little about the price of this type of sword and I know you would not try to mislead your queen.”
“Belvix would never try and cheat his queen,” he informed her as he reached into the box and took out the blade.
It was a curved blade, like the wave of a sand dune. The back was flat and the sides were covered in old carvings. The blade was only along a single side and it curved around to a point. Its handle was jeweled and clearly impractical.
“When my grandfather died the original handle was removed and a jeweled handle put in its place,” Ashira said as she reached forward and touched the blade in Belvix’s hand. “I would like a practical handle for the King to be able to use it, should he wish to.”
“It is a remarkable blade,” Belvix responded as Ashira removed her hand so that he could turn it to inspect down the blade. “I will need to keep the blade for comparison.”
“That is the reason I brought the box,” Ashira informed him. “We can discuss payment once the sword is completed.”
Lancel was shocked as he whispered, “My queen it is customary to pay at time of purchase.”
“In Roanoak we do not pay until after the product is complete,” Ashira said clearly stunned before adding, “I forget I am not in Roanoak sometimes. Forgive me Swordsmith Belvix, I am still learning all of the Vargosian customs and did not come prepared.”
“For the Queen no payment is necessary until the blade is complete,” Belvix said with a courteous tip of his head before he returned the sword to the box. “I shall send a messenger when the sword is complete.”
“Thank you,” Ashira said and Lancel was worried he had embarrassed her.
When Ashira stepped into the street children rushed forward and threw fruit at her yelling, “Queen of Droughts!”
Ashira gasped startled and lifted her skirts and she jumped back. She wore thin flowing pants that tightened around her ankles. She sidestepped as an old plum burst at her feet and splattered across the stone street. Others threw other old fruit and vegetables that stained the street, by her feet.
“Stop!” Missari yelled but Ashira was already pushing her towards the carriage.
A large man stepped up to the carriage and punched the guard. The man went down like a limp fish and stayed down. Ashira stopped walking and grabbed Missari’s arm to pull her back behind her. The childre
n laughed and skipped amongst the crowd that was forming. Lancel put his hand on his sword as two other men sauntered out in between him and the queen.
“Go back home, Queen of Droughts,” the big man said menacingly.
Ashira put her hand up and said, “I will not allow you to harm this girl. Violence will not solve anything. Stand down.”
The big man laughed a belly laugh but Ashira glanced back at Lancel who part of the message was for. “What are you going to do, Queen of Droughts?”
Lancel hesitated with his hand on the hilt of his sword. It was his duty to protect the Queen, even if the enemy was his own people. Yet his duty was also to obey his Queen who had clearly just expressed her wishes. She had ordered him to stand down. He was caught in the middle of a trap that was to obey his queen or to protect her.
“Ned, leave the Queen be,” Belvix said stepping out into the street.
“Mind your own business Belvix,” Ned the giant man said as he reached out with his big meaty hands and tugged Ashira’s veil from her face, “This is between me and the Queen whose hands are stained with the blood of my kin.”
Ashira lurched back when he wrapped his hands around the veil. The bells in her hair chimed as her face cover was pulled away. When they saw her, free from the veil, whispers rippled through the crowd. Even Ned stopped and stared, his eyes bulging out of his head.
Ashira raised her head and met Ned’s stare squarely. “Let me pass,” she said, calmly.
Ned seemed to move in a daze as he took a step away from the door. Lancel could understand; there was something entrancing about her beauty. Ashira continued to meet his gaze as she stepped forward towards the carriage. Lancel was about to take his hand off his sword when one of the men turned around.
He yelled as he rushed forward and grabbed Missari. “Do not listen to the Queen of Droughts and her trickery.”
Lancel drew his sword as Missari screamed and Belvix cartwheeled past him. Lancel had seen a lot of strange things in his life but never a man that cartwheeled into battle. He was a large man dressed in yellow and brown, and so he looked like a circle of cheese that was rolling down the road.
