Ambassador Graendol smirked. “Your armor sets you apart from those you share the street with,” he said lightly, “but you might find a Master of the Second Tier…more challenging than you expect. In any event, I would not dream of depriving the Federation of such a well-trained pet—sharp teeth will be needed in the coming months.”
“Living among these people has made you soft,” Hale rasped. “Give me what I’m here for or you’ll learn how good my training was.”
Graendol inclined his head, and the image projected within Hale’s helmet flickered briefly before solidifying. “I have already learned that the fugitive’s name is Randall, and he fled Three Rivers not long after your mission brought you there. It would seem he had no connection with the previous carrier—”
“I know all of that,” Hale said in a dire tone, “stop wasting my time.”
“Did you also know that he is a blood relative of this city’s ruling House?” the Ambassador asked with an arched eyebrow. “Moreover, that he is a third generation Ghaevlian/human hybrid, whose Ghaevlian ancestor resides in this very city?”
Hale stopped in his tracks and considered the Ambassador’s revelation. “Three Rivers was supposed to be cleansed of the Touched,” he said, feeling a thrill of anticipation. “How did this one escape notice?”
The Ambassador shrugged. “That is the wrong question,” he said with a short sigh. “The correct question is: have his abilities awakened?”
Hale snorted as he continued toward the main palace of the city, which looked to him like a grey mound of excrement with a winding path carved into it. “I’ve killed worse than him with less at my disposal,” he grunted dismissively. “Killing him won’t be the hard part; finding him might be. If he escaped detection for a decade in a quarantined city then he’s resourceful.”
“True enough,” the Ambassador admitted, “although I do know where he is at this very moment.”
Hale stopped in his tracks again, knowing the bastard had been toying with him for the past several minutes. “Where?” he asked coldly, reminding himself to pay the Ambassador a visit after his task was completed.
“He went to the Iron Vein District,” Graendol replied easily. “Apparently he had some work he wanted done with the article in question.”
Hale snorted. “Which way is the Iron Vein District?” he growled, wanting nothing more than to be finished with this part of the hunt; the need to make the kill had become almost overwhelming, blocking out nearly every other thought or desire.
“You would perhaps do well to consider caution,” the Ambassador advised slowly. “These northerners are not as weak as you might believe; the Jarl has eyes everywhere and does not take kindly to outside interference in what he considers ‘his’ affairs.”
“The Jarl,” Hale spat, “his line bent the knee just like all the rest. What do I care about what some would-be king likes and doesn’t?” he snorted, and he saw a signpost which clearly showed the way to the Iron Vein District.
“I would assume only as much as you care to accomplish your mission,” the Ambassador said lightly. “The Jarl’s alliance with the Ghaevlian Nation is the only reason this place stands unconquered by our grand Federation. Greystone means as much to the elves as it does to the Jarl; such an investment warrants protection.”
“If they stand in my way, I’ll cut them down,” Hale growled as he pushed his way through a crowd which had gathered between himself and his destination.
“I have a better solution,” the Ambassador suggested, “and have already made the necessary arrangements for a…cleaner retrieval of the article in question.”
“I don’t care about ‘clean’,” Hale retorted, “I care about ‘done’.”
“Ah, but I am afraid I very much care about ‘clean,’ my dear hound,” the Ambassador said smoothly. “And in return for your observance of my preferences, I will provide a Black Ship this very night to carry you back to the Capitol.”
Hale stopped and considered the offer. A Black Ship could have him back in the Capitol in just three days’ time, compared to the weeks’ long journey which lay before him if he took a more mundane method of travel. He supposed that delaying the kill for a few hours in exchange for cutting weeks off of his journey was a fair exchange—even though he hated to admit it.
“How did you get a Black Ship?” Hale asked coldly.
“My means are my own,” the Graendol replied smoothly. “But I would be more than willing to lend it to you…should we come to an arrangement.”
Hale considered threatening the Ambassador into letting him use the Black Ship, but that would likely cause Senator Vendo undue difficulty—which she would then repay him tenfold. “Fine,” Hale rasped, “show me your ambush site and if I approve, we do this your way.”
The Ambassador’s visage blurred briefly before clarifying again with a self-satisfied smile on his face as a small map appeared inside his helmet. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Don’t try me, Ambassador,” Hale warned as he turned and followed the map to the indicated point.
One way or another, this would end tonight.
Chapter XXXIX: A Job Well Done
Evening 18-0-6-659
Randall glanced outside and saw that the sun had nearly gone dark. He turned back to the smith, Yorys, who was polishing the crosspiece with a small piece of strange paper while carefully holding the sharp, deadly-looking bit of metal with an oilcloth.
The smith stood with a triumphant look on his face and held the crosspiece for Randall to see. “It is done,” he declared proudly as he held it out before himself.
Randall looked at it and knew that it was no ordinary crosspiece. In fact, he had never seen anything like it. It was quite clearly well-made, with perfect symmetry and incredibly sharp edges on the inner and outer portions of the forward-facing tongs.
“If it meets with your approval, I’ll just make my mark and we can assemble the set so we can temper it and be done,” Yorys said hopefully.
Randall nodded before realizing that Dan’Moread might not like to have a mark of any kind on its surface. He had examined the weapon thoroughly and found absolutely no markings of any kind, and he suspected that was not by accident.
“Your mark,” Randall repeated hesitantly.
Yorys nodded excitedly. “It will be my masterpiece for certain,” he agreed.
“I don’t think…” Randall began, rubbing his neck nervously, “I mean, this thing’s got no marks on it of any kind, right?”
Yorys looked down at the sword with a puzzled expression. “No,” he agreed, “I suppose not.”
“It seems like we might be damaging its value then,” Randall pressed, remembering something about antiques losing their value if they were cleaned. Rich people apparently liked rust on their old things for some unfathomable reason. “What if we put the mark on the grip instead?” he asked hopefully just as the idea came to him.
Yorys scowled. “A maker’s mark belongs on the metal,” he said in a hard tone. “The grip can be damaged, or even lost,” he argued, “but the metal remains—especially forge-tempered star metal!”
Randall held his hands up haltingly. “I understand that; I’m just not convinced we wouldn’t be causing damage to its value,” he said, wincing at the idea of referring to the sword as a piece of property.
Yorys looked like he wanted to complain, but nodded reluctantly. “Aye, that we might,” he allowed. “It would be a poor smith what ruined a commission’s value for vanity’s sake.”
“We could use the design as part of your new shop’s emblem?” Randall offered. “The crosspiece, the pommel, or the whole sword for all I care,” he said, hoping that Dan’Moread would be more amenable to using its image as a mark on his shop, rather than his shop’s image as a mark on the sword itself. “I mean, this is a pretty unique weapon; that’s got to be worth quite a bit in novelty alone.”
Yorys stood in silent contemplation for a while before nodding. “It’s no
t what I wanted, but with you to act as witness to my work I’ve no doubt the Armorer’s Guild will accept this as my work—if we place my mark on the grip plates, at least.”
“Fine with me,” Randall agreed. The dragon’s tooth wasn’t metal, so he doubted Dan’Moread would mind the mark being present on its surface.
“Then all we’ve left is assembly and tempering,” Yorys declared, gesturing toward a nearby bench with a large, wooden vice built into the end.
Randall took Dan’Moread over to the vice, along with the two grip plates, and the two men set about the job of assembling putting the sword together.
Nearly five hours after the sun had darkened for the day, Randall stood beside Yorys in the Dragon’s Tooth forge and was barely able to breath with all the thick, noxious fumes in the air.
“How much longer will this take?” Randall asked, careful to keep the thick, oil-soaked rag over as much of his face as he could manage. His eyes burned and were swollen from the incessant flow of poisonous vapors coming off the newly made portions of the sword. The smell was horrific, but his nostrils had plugged several hours earlier and he was breathing strictly through his mouth.
“Almost done,” Yorys assured him, which was the same thing Randall had heard the other man say for nearly an hour. “The pommel’s set, the grip pins are welded on nicely, and the crosspiece is already seated perfectly and set permanent. I’m just trying to get this last bit finished…” he explained as he poured a few more drops of the foul-smelling liquid onto the edges of the crosspiece, causing another gout of acrid, green vapors to boil up from the hissing metal.
“Why can’t we do this with fire?” Randall asked for the third time, having never received a satisfactory answer.
“Star metal’s not like other metals,” Yorys replied, and judging from his tone he had forgotten the prior queries along the same lines. “Heat helps to shape it, but too much heat will only ruin it; we need the strongest acid to temper star metal into something that will hold, and even with that it’s a difficult process.”
This was actually a more coherent explanation that Randall had received to that point. “So where does the acid come from?” he asked, glad to have a conversation to keep his mind off the horrific conditions of the forge. Randall understood now why Hostettler had declined the ‘opportunity’ to work with Dan’Moread. Even if not for the potentially deadly nature of the poisonous fumes—which Yorys had clearly explained were harmless to ‘star children’—the working conditions were absolutely terrible.
“Nobody really knows,” Yorys shrugged as he wiped away the bits of blackened powder which had formed on the star metal’s surface using a well-oiled rag which was nearly gone from repeated use, like the other five he had tossed into the bin. He then poured another two drops on an exposed section of the star metal, evoking another round of hissing steam. “The Ghaevlians supplied Greystone with it before they left.”
Randall eyed the section the smith was working on warily, seeing no discernable difference between the part he was working and the parts he had declared finished. “And you’ve done this before, right?”
Yorys continued to work as though he hadn’t heard him, which only served to heighten Randall’s anxiety.
“This whole ‘acid-tempering’ thing; you’ve done it before, right?” he repeated.
“I’ve read about it in a book,” Yorys said reassuringly as he wiped the latest bit of gunk away from the blade.
Randall gulped audibly—at least to himself—and suggested, “Maybe we should take a break?”
“No need,” Yorys said as a glint came into his eyes.
“No, seriously,” Randall urged, “you must be exhausted—I’m exhausted just watching you!”
“No,” the smith shook his head as he tossed the rag onto the floor and hoisted the sword triumphantly in his hands as he moved away from the cloud of acrid fumes, “there’s no need because we’re finished.”
Randall followed him into the foyer of the smith. When they got there, he looked up and down the weapon and was actually awestruck for several seconds, while he and the smith looked at Dan’Moread in silent appreciation.
When Randall had first seen the sword, its surface had been glittery and slightly reflective, but now the light that struck the flat of the blade seemed to shift from one color to another. Blues, purples, and greens all shone off the sword’s every surface—including the newly-fashioned pommel and crosspiece.
“Your commission is complete,” Yorys said officially as he bowed low, presenting Dan’Moread’s newly-fashioned hilt for Randall’s inspection.
Even in the poor lightning of the smithy, Randall could see that it was finer work than he had ever expected to find—or afford. Reaching out tentatively, Randall’s fingers wrapped around the dragon’s tooth grip plates. The hilt felt warm and inviting to his hand, unlike the harsh, rough star metal beneath. Those grip plates were set on the tang and secured with a pair of star metal pins which had been expertly flattened by Yorys’ skilled hands.
Even running his thumb gently across the grip, Randall was unable to discern by feel alone where the pins were. “Amazing,” Randall breathed.
“It should be,” Yorys said proudly. “I only hope I’ve done your weapon justice; not many smiths get the honor of working with raw star metal. Where did you find so much of it, anyway—and in such a strange form?”
“What do you mean?” Randall asked absently as he carefully ran his fingers over the blunt portions of the crosspiece.
“Star metal is usually found in large pieces,” Yorys explained. “Since it’s so easy to work into a usable form, it usually gets put to use quickly. Even in its raw state it’s comparable to mild steel; tempered and it’s even stronger than Federation white steel. But the metal you brought was too fine…almost like it was a filing of some kind.” The smith shrugged. “In any case, the metal was the expensive part; just having worked with so much of it will likely guarantee me licensure by the Armorer’s Guild, forgetting the complex tempering process. This piece will go down as one of the finest ever produced by a Greystone smith, mark my words,” he puffed his chest out proudly.
“I really don’t know much about metalworking,” Randall said as he took a practice chop with the sword to test its balance, “but I think you’re probably right. The balance is amazing now!”
“Remember,” Yorys said, moving beside him and grasping the hilt with his own hand and turning the tip downward, “the balance will shift depending on its position. This will take a lot of practice to get used to, but the result will be an unpredictable quality to your style that will serve you greatly.”
As he spoke, Randall could actually feel the weight distribution of the blade seem to fall toward the tip of the sword. “Amazing…how is it you’re only an apprentice?” he asked in disbelief.
Yorys shrugged. “Didn’t get my calling until just a few years ago; I was a wanderer, having escaped the Federation and finding this place far more hospitable.”
“It is that,” Randall agreed reluctantly, “but isn’t Greystone a bit, I don’t know…barbaric?”
Yorys shook his head. “I thought the same thing at first, but it didn’t take much time for me to realize the truth.”
Randall pulled Dan’Moread’s tip up and immediately felt the weight inside the sword begin to fall back toward the hilt, making the weapon seem somehow lighter in his hands. “What truth?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.
“Where I happen to be is only part of it,” Yorys replied as he made his way over to a nearby table, “because wherever I go, I’ll always be keeping myself company. If I wanted to make my life work here in Greystone, I had to understand what it was about me that was standing in my way.”
Randall stopped in the middle of a chop to face the smith. “You’re not suggesting that life would be just fine if we were still in the Federation, are you?” he asked incredulously.
Yorys shook his head. “Nay; but it took me a few years to realize t
hat I wasn’t in the Federation anymore,” he said pointedly.
Randall knew the other man was trying to make some kind of grand point, but he was too tired to understand it at the moment. “I have no words to thank you enough for what you’ve done for us,” Randall said graciously.
Yorys turned around with something long and dark in his grip. “Who?” the smith asked with a cocked head.
“What?” Randall asked in confusion.
“You said ‘us’,” Yorys explained as he gestured to the sword. “Is this a gift, then?”
Randall cracked a grin almost immediately. “I guess you might say that,” he agreed.
“Well, in any case,” the smith gestured with the object in his hands, which was a finely made, if simply designed leather sheath. “I’m no good with the scabbards, but this one should be about the right size.”
Randall tried it and found that it was nearly perfect aside from being six inches too long. But he wasn’t about to complain as he strapped it across his back with the attached pair of belts dangling from the neck of the scabbard.
“Let me help with that,” the smith offered, and after a few minutes they had properly secured the belts to two points on the scabbard so it would rest comfortably and properly across Randall’s back.
“Thank you, Yorys,” Randall said graciously.
“The Nation’s gold will thank me more than your words,” he said with a wink, “but I appreciate the genuine sentiment. I’ll need to present the piece to the Guild tomorrow afternoon, if it’s ok with you…” he said hopefully.
“Of course,” Randall agreed, only now remembering that he hadn’t yet heard Dan’Moread’s voice. “I wouldn’t want to delay your obviously bright future in the Armorer’s Guild.”
Yorys grinned and gestured toward the door. “I have to clean up now; Hostettler’s going to be madder than a nest of hornets when he finds we took half of his remaining dragon’s tooth—even with guaranteed payment—and I want to be well clear of here when he comes in at dawn.”
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 42
