Thrusher bit his lip and looked away in thought. It was just as well that he didn't look at his commander's face. Walegrin had been present at the moment the smith added the bits of silver to the molten metal. He could truthfully say he didn't believe the metal was the Necklace of Harmony, but after seeing the burst of white-hot flame he knew it was no ordinary piece of jewelry.
The whine of Balustrus' grinding wheel dominated the courtyard. The furnaces had been sealed; the piles of crushed ore glittered in the sunlight. Everyone awaited the results of the latest grinding. It seemed to Walegrin, as he turned away from the sound, that it was different this time. The metal shrieked like an agonized, living thing.
Thrusher gave him a sharp nudge. The courtyard had become silent and an apprentice was running toward them. It was time, the youth shouted, for Walegrin to witness the tempering of the blade.
"Luck," Thrusher added as Walegrin rose.
"Aye, luck. If it's good we can start thinking of leaving."
Balustrus was polishing the freshly ground blade when Walegrin entered the hot, dusty shed. The bronze man's tunic was filthy with sweat and dust from the grinding wheel. His mottled skin glistened more brightly than the metal.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said, giving the blade to Walegrin while he sought his crutches.
Fine, wavy lines of black alternated with thicker bands of a more silvery metal. The old Enlibrite sword he kept rolled in his mattress had no such striations but Balustrus said an iron core would ultimately yield a better steel; so much could be learned from the Rankan armorers. Walegrin thumped the flat of the new blade against his palm, wishing he knew if the metal-master were correct.
"We've done it, son!" Balustrus exaulted, grabbing the blade back. "I knew the secret would be in that silver."
Walegrin followed him out of the shed to one of the smaller furnaces which the apprentices had already fired. The youths ran when the men approached.
"But there was no silver mentioned on the pottery fragment; and there's no silver in ordinary steel, is there?"
The metal-master spat on a weed. "Wrigglies never did anything without a spell, lad. Spells for cooking food, spells for bedding a whore. Big spells, little spells and special spells for steel. And this time we've got the steel spell."
"With respect-you said that last time and it shattered in the brine."
Balustrus scratched his rutted chin. "I did, didn't I? But this .feels right, boy. There's no other way to explain it. It feels different and it feels right. And it has to be the silver-that's the only different thing this time."
"Did the silver have a 'steel' spell on it?" Walegrin asked.
The metal-master thrust the blade into the glowing coals. "You're smart, Walegrin. Too bad it's too late; you could have learned-you could make your own steel." He spat again and the weed fell over. "No, it wasn't a steel spell nothing like that. I don't know what the Wrigglies put on that silver. The Torch brought the necklace here right after the Prince announced the bell. I could see it was old, but it was plain silver and not valuable. I thought he'd want it for the inscription; silver pressed on bronze is quite elegant. But no-the Hierarch gives out that this is the Necklace of Harmony warm off Ils-no saying how he comes to have it. He wants me to melt the silver into the bell: 'Let Ils tremble when Vashanka's name is called!' he says in that priest's voice of his-"
"But you didn't," Walegrin interrupted.
"Not sayin' I didn't try, boy. Put it in with the copper; put it in with the tin-the damn thing floated to the top everytime. I had a choice: I could cast the bell with the silver buried in the metal and know that the bell would crack as soon as the Torch struck it. You can imagine the omens that would bring-and what it'd bring to me as well. Or, I could set the silver aside and tell the Torch that everything was exactly according to his instructions."
"And you set the silver aside?" Walegrin covered his face with his hand and turned away from the both the metal-master and the furnace.
"Of course, lad. Do you think the heavens're going to open up and Vashanka stick his head out to tell Molin Torchholder that Ils' silver isn't in the bell?"
"Stranger things have happened of late." Walegrin faced the metal-master's silence. "The silver should have melted in the bronze, shouldn't it?" he asked softly.
"Aye-and I set it aside very carefully when it didn't. I'll be glad to see the last of it. I don't know what it is that the Torch gave me-and I'll wager he doesn't either. But it is Wrigglie-work and it'd have to be spelled or it would have melted-see? So you come asking for Enlibrite steel. You've got the ore and, all things being equal, steel is steel. But it isn't, so I know we need a spell, a spell for hardness and temper. No-one alive would know that spell, but here I've got silver that doesn't melt with a mighty spell on it-
"And, oh, it feels right, Walegrin, it feels right. She'll take an edge like you've never seen."
Walegrin shrugged and looked at the metal-master again. "If you're right, how many swords can you make?"
"With what's left of your ore and my necklace: about fifty. And as it's my silver, lad, I'll be taking more for myself. There'll be about twenty-five for you and the same for me."
The blond officer shrugged again. It was no worse than he had expected. He watched as Balustrus wrestled the dull, red metal from the fire.
There were conflicting theories on the tempering of fighting steel. Some said a snowdrift was best for cooling the metal, others said plain water would suffice. Most agreed the ideal was the living body of a man, though in practice only Imperial swords were made that way. Balustrus believed in water straight from the harbor, left in the sun until it had evaporated by half. He plunged the blade into a barrel of such brine and disappeared in the acrid steam.
The blade survived.
"Get the old sword," Balustrus urged and with a nod Walegrin sent Thrusher after it.
They compared the blades for weight and balance, then, slowly, they tested them against each other. Walegrin held the old sword and Balustrus swung the new. The first strokes were tentative; Walegrin scarcely felt them as he parried them. Then the metal-master grew confident; he swung the new metal with increasing force and uncanny accuracy. Deep green sparks fell in the late afternoon light, but Walegrin found himself more concerned with the old man who suddenly no longer seemed to need crutches. After a few frantic moments Walegrin backed out of range. Balustrus stopped, sighed and let the blade drag in the dust.
"We found it, lad," he whispered.
He sent the apprentices into Sanctuary for a keg of ale. The soldiers and the apprentices partook lavishly of it, but Balustrus did not. He continued to sit in the courtyard with the fresh-ground blade across his hidden, crippled legs. It was dark when Walegrin came out to join him.
"You are truly a master of metal," the younger man said with a smile, setting an extra mug of ale beside Balustrus.
The metal-master shook his head, declining both the ale and the compliment. "I'm a shadow of what I was," he said to himself. "So, now you have your Enlibrite swords, son. And what will you do with them?"
Walegrin squatted in the moonlight. The ale had warmed him against the night breezes and made him both more expansive and optimistic than usual. "With the promise of swords I can recruit men-only a few at first. But we'll travel north, taking commissions-taking what's necessary. I'll hire more as I go. We'll arrive at the Wizardwall fully mounted and armored. We'll prove ourselves with honor and glory against the Nisibisi, then become the vanguard of a legion."
Chuckling loudly, the metal-master finally took a sip of ale. "Glory and honor, Walegrin, lad-what will you do with glory? What do you gain with honor? What becomes of your men when Wizardwall and the Nisibisi are forgotten?"
Honor and glory were their own rewards for a Rankan soldier and as for war-a soldier could always find a conflict or commission. Of course, Walegrin had neither glory nor honor and his commissions thus far had been pedestrian-like duty at the Sanctuary garrison: the antithesis of
honor and glory. "I will be known," he resolved after a moment's thought. "While I'm alive I'll be respected. When I'm dead I'll be memorialized-"
"You're already known, lad, or have you forgotten that? You have rediscovered Enlibar steel. You don't dare show your face because of it. How much honor and glory do you think you'll need before you can walk the streets of Ranke? Twenty five swords? Fifty swords? Do you think they'll believe you when you tell them we made the steel with bits of an old Wrigglie necklace? Eh?"
Walegrin stood up. He paced a circle around the seated cripple. "I will succeed. I'll succeed now or die."
With a quick, invisible movement of his crutch, Balustrus brought Walegrin sprawling into the dust. "It is impolite to speak to the back of my head. Your fortunes have changed, and could change again. The Empire has never given you anything-and will not ever give you anything. But the Empire means nothing to Sanctuary.
"There is power here, lad, not glory or honor but pure power. Power you can use to buy all the honor and glory you want. I tell you, Walegrin- Jubal's not coming back. His world's ripe for taking."
"You've said that before. So Jubal rots under his mansion. How many bloodied hawkmasks have been nailed to the Downwind bridge? Even if I were tempted, there's nothing left."
"Tempus is culling the ranks for you. The wiserones are safe, I'm sure. They've heard Jubal isn't dead and they're waiting for his return-but they don't know everything."
There was an evil confidence to Balustrus' tone that made Walegrin wary. He never fully trusted the metal-master and trusted him less when he spoke in riddles.
"I was not always Balustrus. Once I was the Grey Wolf. Only twenty-five years ago I led all the Imperial legions into the mountains and broke the last Ilsig resistance. I broke it because I knew it. I was born in those mountains. The blood of kings and sorcerers runs in my veins, or it did. But I knew the days of kings were over and the days of Empire had come. I destroyed my own people hoping for honor and glory among the conquerors-"
Walegrin cleared his throat loudly. There wasn't a citizen alive who hadn't heard of the Grey Wolf: a young man clothed in animal hides, given a hero's welcome in Ranke despite his Wrigglie past-and tragically killed in a fall from his horse. The whole capital had turned out for his funeral.
"Perhaps my friends in Ranke were the fathers of your friends," Balustrus said to Walegrin's skepticism. "I watched my own funeral from the gladiators' galleries where drugged, stripped and branded I'd been left to die or improve my one-time friends' fortunes." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't your ordinary Rankan general-they'd forgotten that. I could fight and I could forge weapons such as they'd never seen. I'd learned metal-mastery from my betrayed people."
"And Jubal-what's he got to do with this?" Walegrin finally asked.
"He came later. I'd fought and killed so often I'd been retired by my owners, but then the Emperor himself bought me, Kittycat's father. I trained the new slaves and Jubal was one of them. A paragon-he was born for the death-duel. I taught him every trick I knew; he was a son to me. I watched fortunes change everytime he fought. We soon both belonged to the Emperor. We drank together, whored together-the life of a successful gladiator isn't bad if you don't mind the brand and collar. I trusted him. I told him the truth about me.
"Two days later I was on the sand fighting against him. I hadn't fought for five years; but even at my best I was no match for him. We fought with mace and chain-his choice. He took my legs with his second swing. I had expected that, but I expected a quick, merciful death as well. I thought we were both slaves: equals and friends. He said: 'It's been arranged,' pointed to the Imperial balcony and struck my legs again.
"That was summer. It was winter when I opened my eyes again. A Lizerene healer was at my side congratulating himself on my recovery-but I had become this!"
The metal-master jerked his tunic upward, revealing the remains of his legs. The moonlight softened the horror, but Walegrin could see the twisted remnants of muscle, the exposed lengths of bone, the scaly knobs that had once been knees. He looked away before Balustrus lowered the cloth.
"The Lizerene said he'd been paid in gold. I returned slowly to the capital, as you can imagine, and painfully, as you cannot. Jubal had been freed the day after our battle. I searched for years and found him Downwind, already well protected by his 'masks. I couldn't adequately thank him for my life so I became Balustrus, his friend. I forged his swords and masks.
"Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed. But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he died-as he was certain to do. 'Of course,' I said, 'but he need not die. We'll send him to the Lizerene.' "
The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus' voice was pure sated, insane malice. This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke-and been betrayed by Ranke in turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus' 'son.' Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed-or would he betray first?
Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.
"Thrush-can you go into the city tonight?"
"I'm not so far gone that I can't thread the maze."
"Then go. Start looking about for men."
Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. "What's happened? What's gone wrong?"
"Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don't know how much longer we can trust him."
"What's made you agree with me at last?"
"He told me the story of his life. I can see Illyra in ten days-after the new moon and after she's cleansed. We'll leave for the north the next morning, with the silver and the ore if we don't have swords."
Thrusher was not one to say 'I told you so' more than once. He got his cloak and went over the outer wall without anyone but Walegrin knowing he was gone.
5
The metal-master organized his courtyard foundry with military precision. Within six days of the successful tempering, another ten blades had been forged. Walegrin marked the progress in his mind: so many days until he could visit Illyra, plus one more before the swords were finished; yet another to meet with the men Thrusher was culling out of the city and then they could be gone.
He watched Balustrus carefully; and though the metal-master gave no overt sign of betrayal, Walegrin became anxious. Strangers came more frequently and the cripple made journeys to places not even Thrusher could find. When questioned, Balustrus spoke of the Lizerene who tended Jubal and the bribes he needed to pay.
On the morning of the eighth day, a rainy morning when the men had been glad to sleep past dawn, Walegrin finished his planning. He was at the point of rousing Thrusher when he heard sound where there should have been silence beyond the wall.
He roused Thrusher anyway and the two men crept silently toward the sound. Walegrin drew his sword, the first Enlibar sword to be forged in five hundred years.
"You've got the money and the message?" they heard Balustrus say.
"Yessir."
Balustrus' crutches scraped along the broken stone. Walegrin and Thrusher flattened against the walls and let him pass. They'd never get the truth from the metal-master, but the messenger was another matter. They crept around the wall.
The stranger was dressed in dark clothes of unfamiliar style. He was adjusting the stirrup when Walegrin fell upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Keeping a firm hand over the stranger's mouth and a tight hold on his arm, Walegrin dragged him a short distance from his horse.
"What've we got?" Thrusher asked after a cursory check of the horse.
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"Too soon to tell," Walegrin replied. He twisted the arm again until he felt his prisoner gasp, then he rolled him over. "Not local, and not Nisibisi by the looks of him."
The young man's features were soft, almost feminine and his efforts to free himself were laughably futile. Walegrin cuffed him sharply then yanked him into a sitting position.
"Explain yourself."
Terrified eyes darted from one man to the other and came to rest on Walegrin, but the lad said nothing.
"You'll have to give him a search, eh?" Thrusher threatened.
"Aye-here's his purse."
Walegrin ripped the pouch from the youngster's belt, noticing as he did that the youth carried no evident weapon, not even a knife. He did, however, have some large heavy object under his jerkin. Walegrin tossed the purse to Thrusher and sought the hidden object. It proved to be a medallion, covered with a foreign seeming script. He had made nothing of the inscription before Thrusher yelped with surprise and a dazzle of light flashed between them.
As Walegrin looked up a second flash erupted. Their prisoner needed no more time to effect his escape. They heard the youth mount and gallop off, but by the time either man could see clearly again the trail was already becoming mud.
"Magic," Thrusher muttered as he got to his feet.
Walegrin said nothing as he got his legs under him. "Well, Thrush-what else was in that purse?" he asked after several moments.
Thrusher checked it cautiously again. "A small ransom in gold and this." He handed Walegrin a small silver object.
"One of the Ilsig links, by the look of it," Walegrin whispered. He looked back toward the villa. "He's up to something."
"The magician wasn't Rankene," Thrusher offered in consolation.
"That only means we have new enemies. C'mon. It's time to find my sister. She'll make at least as much sense as the metal-master."
The rain had kept the bazaar crowds to a minimum, but so close to the harbor there was fog, too, and Walegrin got them lost twice before he heard the sound of Dubro's hammer. Two mercenaries, a Whoreson pair by the look of them, waited beneath the awning. Dubro was mending their shield.
Storm Season tw-4 Page 13
