by John Marco
That was the one great gift Malator had given them.
25
Aliz Nok lived on a busy street, but he was mostly forgotten by the people of Torlis. For five decades he had remained in the tiny house with the shop at the back, even after the death of his wife. He worked in solitude, without helpers of any kind, seeing only those few customers who came to his shop to sharpen their knives or reminisce about the old days. At nearly seventy, Aliz Nok was the oldest blade maker in Torlis, a skill that had long ago given way to quicker, modern methods, leaving Aliz Nok’s quaint shop quiet, the hearth and hammers rarely used.
In his youth, Aliz Nok had been renowned, forging blades for the royal family and its many generals, patiently working long nights in his smoky shop while wide-eyed apprentices watched and learned. The apprentices were gone now, as were his customers, but Aliz Nok had never forgotten his skills or let them decay from disuse. Though no one seemed interested in his fine blades any longer, the old man continued to refine his ancient methods, finding better ways to harden steel and sharpen the edge of the blades he made. He did not stamp out blades the way the modern makers did, with their dies and machines, producing inferior blades in such great numbers that the rulers of Torlis forgot the slower, better ways. Instead he worked patiently with fire and forge, making the metal bend to his will.
Aliz Nok’s bald head glistened with sweat. The stinging heat of his firepit spat sparks and embers into the air, lighting his shop like fireflies. A hammer trembled in his hands, its soiled handle worn to a perfect fit by his strong fingers. Slowly, slowly, he folded the metal over itself, hammering it smooth. Already he had completed one of the blades for the katath, and now its twin took shape on his anvil. He had worked tirelessly on the weapon, honoured by the commission. The one-eyed stranger would soon come to claim it. Aliz Nok did not let his deadline hurry him. Precisely, he hammered out a paper-thin fold of the metal, and when it was perfect bent it back over the countless other folds. Soon, he would encase the blade in clay, leaving only the edge exposed to the air while the blade tempered in his firepit. From there the core would slowly cool, hardening it, making it unbreakable. Aliz Nok smiled, pleased with himself and the tricks he had learned. He had seen the brittle blades his competitors made, so useless, so easily snapped. Not so with his kataths. His kataths never shattered, and this one would be the greatest of them all.
‘It will be perfect,’ said Aliz Nok as he hammered down the fold. He could see its perfection taking shape. His white robe soaked with perspiration, he licked his lips to wet them. So thirsty, yet to rest now would ruin his work. He needed to be disciplined, always, for perfection to take shape. His shop had no windows, and Aliz Nok knew not the time. It had been daybreak when he’d begun, and now it was long past sunset. His stomach screamed for food, but he had already eaten once today and that was enough. Lost in his work, the old katath maker ignored the needs of his body, thinking only of the blade.
Would the one-eyed man come, he wondered? He would bring gold for the commission, but that did not matter to Aliz Nok. He would not accept payment for such an honour. Just being remembered was enough for the old man. The stranger had come from Niharn, he’d said, the great fencing master himself. To think of this made Aliz Nok swell with pride. Niharn had remembered him and his craft. The world was not hopeless after all.
‘Work,’ he told himself. ‘It is for her.’
Because she was a girl and only slight of build, the katath had been a challenge. It could not be tall, nor uselessly short. It needed weight, but could not be heavy. But most of all, her katath needed blades that could pierce the hide of the Great Rass and puncture its twin hearts.
And that was why Niharn had sent the one-eyed man to Aliz Nok.
The old man worked tirelessly that night, forging the blade until morning, then carefully encasing it in the clay he had made, leaving the edge exposed so that it would heat and cool quickly. If not tempered this way, the core would cool too quickly, making it brittle. Not so with the edge. To hold its sharpness, it needed to cool fast. Aliz Nok worked hunched over his filthy table, laying the clay lovingly across the curved blade. Already he had made the shaft for the blade and its twin, drying and splitting the bamboo so that it whistled when twirled through the air. He had spun the shaft on one finger to test its balance. Soon he would tan the leather to attach the blades, then carve the shaft with powerful runes. He looked forward to this, for he had long ago mastered the runes of Sercin and was sure that the God would appreciate his handiwork.
When at last he had covered the blade with clay, Aliz Nok went to his firepit to stoke the flames. The hearth roared as he fed it air and coals, lusting for the blade. Patiently he waited for the heat to build, feeling the skin of his face tighten with pain. Then, when the fire was right, he slid the blade off its paddle and into the burning coals, sending up a shower of sparks.
The katath maker waited.
He watched the flames engulf the blade, searing and hardening the clay around its core. This was the time that always made him anxious. He found his stool nearby and sat down, and his thoughts drifted like smoke toward his dead wife in heaven. He was ready to join her, he decided. Thinking of her made him smile. She was proud of him, he was sure, looking down on him from the realm of the dead, watching as he made his last great blade.
‘It is a blessing to do this work,’ Aliz Nok whispered to himself. ‘Thank you, Sercin. Thank you for sending the stranger to me.’
At last the blade had fired, and the old man took it from the flames with pincers, placing it directly into the urn of waiting water. The water hissed and bubbled, sending steam into his eyes. He turned his face from the spitting urn, counting to himself as the blade cooled. Soon the boiling subsided. Aliz Nok stopped counting. He withdrew the blade from the bath and set it down on his work table, studying the edge and the clay-covered core. The clay had hardened perfectly, without a single crack or blemish. He knew without opening it that he had succeeded. Smiling, he took his hammer and gently smashed away the clay, brushing the dust away to reveal the blade beneath.
Aliz Nok nodded, pleased with himself. Like its twin, the blade was perfect. Exhausted, he left the blade on the table, still half-encased in its clay. The hardest part was done, he decided. He had earned some sleep.
Three days later, Lukien arrived at the home of Aliz Nok. He had not seen the katath maker since giving him the commission, granting the old man the full month he needed to make Lahkali’s weapon. The narrow street was filled with noise when Lukien arrived as mid-day crowds shopped among the many market stalls and bargained with merchants behind pushcarts. Aliz Nok’s humble house sat behind a new, larger home, which cast a sad shadow over the old man’s door. Surprisingly, the door was open when Lukien arrived. He pushed it open to peer inside, noting at once the smell of sulphur and sweat. The windows all remained closed, letting dusty sunlight into the living chamber. The home had not been cleaned since the last time Lukien had been there, and he noted the same bits of debris scattered right where they’d been a month ago. Without a wife to help him, the old master had let his house decay to a depressing sight, and Lukien held his breath against the strong smell of smoke that had polluted it.
‘Aliz Nok?’ he called.
No answer came. Lukien stepped inside and looked around, shutting the door behind him. Across the dismal living area lay the door to the shop. It, too, stood open. Lukien hesitated. He had been surprised by Niharn’s insistence that the old man could help him, and when he’d first seen the home he had almost turned around. But Niharn had assured him with sincerity, promising Lukien that he would find no better smith to make Lahkali’s weapon. Now, surrounded by Aliz Nok’s depressing home, Lukien’s doubts returned.
‘Hello? Aliz Nok, are you here?’
Again the old man did not respond, prompting Lukien forward. He went across the living area to the shop, sticking his head over the threshold. The room stunk of oils and metal and burnt out coals. The firepit s
tood at the far side of the chamber, cold. Bent bits of iron blanketed the floor around the workbench, where scattered tools lay. Lukien cleared his throat against the smell, looking for a window to open but not finding one. Instead he found Aliz Nok, sprawled on the floor, his body partially covered by a blanket. An old, soiled pillow cradled his head. His mouth stood open, but no sound came from him. Concerned, Lukien went to stand over him, watching for any sign of breathing. When the old man’s eyes opened it startled them both. Aliz Nok bolted up with a shout, making Lukien jump.
‘I’m sorry!’ Lukien cried, catching his breath. ‘It’s just me – Lukien.’
‘Lukien?’ The old man shook the sleep from his head. ‘Yes . . .’
‘Fate Almighty, I thought you were dead! You gave me a scare, Aliz Nok.’ Lukien put out his hand and helped the man to his feet. ‘This is where you sleep?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘When I am busy. I have been very busy for you.’
Just as it had for everyone else in Torlis, Lukien’s amulet translated the man’s words. The remarkable feat had stunned Aliz Nok at their first meeting, convincing him Lukien was something special.
‘It’s been a month,’ said Lukien cautiously. ‘Have you had enough time?’
‘I have,’ replied the old man. A strange smile crossed his wrinkled face. ‘You will be pleased.’
‘It came out well, then?’
‘No, not well. Perfectly.’
Aliz Nok let go of Lukien’s hand and went to his silent workbench. Beneath it lay a long box of polished wood, perhaps four feet in length. He held it out before him, beaming. A proud twinkle lit his ancient eyes.
‘Is that it?’ asked Lukien excitedly. ‘You made that box as well?’
‘It is a special weapon, Lukien. It deserves a special place to rest. Come.’
As Lukien approached, Aliz Nok noisily cleared the debris from his workbench with his forearm, then set the box down. Carved into the top of the box was a symbol Lukien had seen before in Torlis, a rune that twisted like a snake – the mark of Sercin. With Lukien hovering over his shoulder, Aliz Nok began undoing the box’s tiny golden latches. A long, gleaming hinge ran along the back of the top, and when the old man had finished with the latches he lifted the top on its silent hinge, revealing the weapon gently cradled in a cushion of velvet.
‘Here it is,’ said the old man. ‘A katath unmatched.’
What he saw in the box made Lukien’s eyes widen with delight. Inside were two separate shafts of split bamboo, each one lovingly carved with exotic symbols and both fitted with metal collars to lock them together. Separate from these was the head of the katath, two precisely matched blades, each curved and forged together in a V-shaped hook. Lukien could see the edge on them, gleaming dangerously in the dim light. A collar similar to the ones on the shafts lay at the base of the head, ready to fit it to its body. To Lukien’s admittedly untrained eye, the katath looked exactly as Aliz Nok claimed.
‘Perfect.’ Lukien reached out to touch it, then pulled back his hand. ‘May I?’
‘Of course. It is yours now, to give to the Red Eminence.’
Its beauty amazed Lukien. He could easily tell how the thing went together, but instead asked the old man to do the honour for him. Aliz Nok nodded proudly and began assembling the katath, first fitting the two shafts together, then snapping the bladed head in place. When it was done he held the weapon out before him, showing its balance by holding it only by a fingertip.
‘You see? Just as you asked. Not big, not heavy.’
‘And the blade?’ Lukien asked. ‘Is it sharp enough?’
‘My friend, you will not find a blade sharper, not anywhere. I have worked until my hands bled to make these blades. They are the finest I have ever made, sharper than the teeth of the Great Rass itself.’
‘They need to be, Aliz Nok,’ Lukien reminded him. ‘They have to get through the hide of that beast.’
‘They will, I promise. If you can train the Eminence to get close enough, my katath will do the rest.’ The old man turned the weapon upright, showing off its two-bladed head. ‘Look, you see how hard these blades are? They will not break, never. And the edge is soft enough to hold its sharpness. She may train with it, but it must be sharpened before she fights the Great Rass. Do not let it dull, Lukien.’
‘I won’t,’ said Lukien. Finally he took the weapon from its maker, at once loving its weight and balance. It seemed to have no weight at all, yet there was heft in its ornate shaft, enough for easy thrusting. He rolled it carefully in his hands, admiring its entire length. ‘Aliz Nok, it is remarkable,’ he said. ‘Niharn was right about you.’
The old man bowed his head. ‘I am honoured to be remembered by Master Niharn.’
‘You are, I can tell,’ said Lukien with a smile. ‘Niharn and I aren’t friends. When he suggested you I did not know what to think. It is his job to train the Eminence, after all, not mine.’
‘No,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘You have been chosen by Sercin for this.’
‘No,’ said Lukien, shaking his head.
The old man was insistent. ‘Yes. Sercin has touched you, guided you here with his own hand. And then he guided you to me.’ He gazed at the ceiling, but Lukien could tell he was really looking toward heaven. ‘Thank you, Sercin,’ he said with joy. ‘Thank you for not forgetting me.’
Lukien watched silently as the katath maker said his prayer. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was Sercin guiding him. His own Liirian gods, that fickle bunch of misfits, had never done anything Lukien could comprehend, and so he had never believed in them. But in these desert realms the gods had power. Lukien had seen it. Beneath his shirt he felt the Eye of God and knew its power was real.
‘Maybe your god has guided me,’ said Lukien. ‘I don’t know. Whatever is true, you’ve done me a service, Aliz Nok. I’m grateful to you.’
‘You will do well,’ said Aliz Nok. ‘You have talents; I see them in you. Sercin would not have chosen you otherwise. The Eminence is fortunate to have you for a teacher.’
His praise embarrassed Lukien. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘You’ve made the weapon. Now I must teach her how to use it.’
26
King Baralosus looked across the table at Minister Kailyr, exhausted and wanting to quit. They had been stuck in the squalid chamber most of the morning, going over ledgers and papers that burdened the table and spilled over onto the floor. Empty tea cups and half-eaten morsels lay scattered among the papers, the remnants of meals meant to keep them going. Kailyr, who always enjoyed this time of the season, smiled despite the drudgery, looking invigorated by the amount of work still ahead of them. It was accounting work, the kind of thing Kailyr excelled at, and the Ganjeese Minister of Treasure always insisted that his king be present at least once a season while the ledgers were balanced. It was an unnecessary formality, a way for Kailyr to prove that his vast department was without corruption. More importantly, it gave the king a true impression of how his treasury was faring. Kailyr worked with his usual aplomb, tabulating every important transaction and making notes in his ledgers with his favourite quill, a dandy pen with a white ostrich feather. He was Baralosus’ most trusted advisor and had been with the king since their boyhoods, and because he was so loyal Baralosus indulged him like this four times a year, pretending to take interest in the dull work of accounting.
‘We have more orders with Marn still coming,’ said Kailyr, referring to their fruit trade with their northern neighbour. The Marnans had always adored Ganjeese dates and pomegranates, and the past season had yielded fine crops of both. Kailyr grinned in delight as he noted the order in his ledger. The accounting of the crops had taken longer than usual, but the Minister seemed in no hurry to finish.
‘Good,’ said Baralosus. ‘That’s good news.’
He knew what his old friend was trying to do, and in an odd way Baralosus appreciated it. It had been days since he’d learned of Salina’s disappearance, and so far he’d heard nothing of her welf
are or location. The entire palace had been mourning her loss, sure that she’d perished somewhere in the desert. Baralosus own wife was shunning him, blaming him for driving their daughter away. The pall over the palace had driven Baralosus to depression, yet he was grateful for Kailyr’s attempt to distract him.
When will they come? he wondered to himself, not even hearing Kailyr as the Minister counted aloud. Four days ago, Jashien and Zasif had left for Aztar’s camp, and so far neither man had returned. Are they dead? Has Aztar killed them?
He had tried to stop asking these questions, but they came anyway, flooding his fevered mind. He spent long hours staring out the palace windows, waiting for Salina – or anyone with news of her – to return. Kailyr had seen the senselessness of this and insisted that the king join him in the counting chamber. For a man who’d spent his entire life with numbers, Kailyr was surprisingly wise.
Kailyr licked the tip of his ostrich pen, then dipped it into his ink well. ‘Look, Majesty – I have found an error! Those merchants who came from Dreel last year – did they pay all they owed?’
‘How should I know, Kailyr? I’m the king, remember? Counting coins is your job.’
‘Of course, Majesty. But I have an imbalance here.’ The Minister wrinkled his beakish nose. He loved puzzles, and always took glee in finding mistakes. ‘Let me see . . .’
As Kailyr worked, Baralosus poured himself some wine. He had already drank more than he should for so early an hour, but boredom had got the best of him and the wine helped to loosen his knotted shoulders. Part of him worried that he would never see Salina again. Part of him believed his wife’s accusations, that his cruelty to their daughter had driven her away. But another part of him – the part that knew Salina best – believed in her. She had always been a wily girl, and not at all stupid. She had planned her escape from the city well, and if anyone could survive the desert alone, it was she. Baralosus tried to convince himself of this, using the wine as a balm.
