It was so with Kunrad, as he himself knew, that his mind would follow a direction as a cart follows ruts. It had always been thus, a part of what had made him so fine a smith, but also so narrow and unfulfilled a man. That singleness of purpose would drive his thoughts farther and deeper than most, if he could only manage to direct it. Sometimes, though, it would carve those ruts for itself, and be a burden to him. Only of late had he begun to see how it had hindered him so long from looking beyond his craft; sometimes he blamed it for his obsessive need of the armour. Now, though, that same need was forcing him to learn to apply this fierce concentration to other concerns. It had shown him the clues he needed to escape the corsairs; and so, almost unconsciously, he was looking about at this cell also.
One thing forced itself on him. The lake water would serve for thirst and other needs, that was clear. But there was no food; and if there was going to be, it would probably have appeared by now. That could mean all manner of things, none good; but for now he might as well make the best of it. Fasting made for clearer thinking, it was said.
He knelt at the water’s edge and drank his fill, considering the bars. Like all the sothran work he knew of, they had no special virtues set upon them, but were mere lifeless metal, clumsily forged – and extremely solid, set in the living rock with stuff like tough mortar. In a window one might try to chip away at this; but under water it was not to be thought of. He stretched out on his prickly couch, wrapping the blanket around him. He would conserve strength thus, and be stronger on the morrow. He might have need to be.
He lay abed for most of that day, resting his body, easing his mind. Famine did indeed clear his thoughts, but it was the terrible clarity of nightmare. He began to twitch nervously at every shadow. His hunger was fading, now, and that, he knew, was precisely when you began to starve. Towards evening he drifted off, but woke almost at once sharply, sweating despite the cool air. Not a nightmare, not exactly; but a very fierce, direct dream in which the door stood straining to open if he could only find the key somebody had dropped about the cell. Somewhere close, almost at his fingertips; somewhere he had already seen it, without realising it …
He plucked a straw-shaft out of his ear and sat up. At least the stuff wasn’t damp or lice-ridden. He sank his head in his hands, and groaned. Then he looked at the floor more closely. He stretched out, idly it seemed, plucked up one of the loose stones and struck it once or twice against his manacles. The noise of the loose chains brought a guard to the spyhole, but Kunrad was lying back by then, hands behind his head, staring at the great slab of a ceiling.
At some point he must have drifted into uneasy sleep, for at first light the next morning he was awoken, thick-tongued and heavy of heart, by Merthian. The Marchwarden seemed impatient, standing over him as he went to splash his face in the surging little pool. ‘Well? Have you thought over what I ask?’
Kunrad blinked up at him with little goodwill. He felt cold, and his belly was growling to itself like an old dog dreaming. ‘My heart says, to Hella with you and all around you! But in reason, I’d need to know more, much more. All I know of you is as a thief. What am I to do, open the windows you slip into? Distract the infants while you snatch their pennies?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ said Merthian sharply. ‘There is of course a moral difference! If I have turned thief, it was in no small cause, believe me!’ He kicked savagely at the water’s edge, so that it sprayed out across the stone. ‘There is something afoot – something of moment, so great, so vital … I would like to tell you, but I dare not. Enough, that the cost of it will be huge, the gains immeasurable! So huge that every least coin I have and can or will raise on my great credit is already committed to it. So that every saving, even the very least trifle, is a great gain. I’ll not hang men for stealing, like my cruel forefathers; but I hate it as bitterly as you! I had hoped I could avoid it, buying in the North – but hate it as I do, I was always ready to. Does that tell you something of my need?’
‘Only of your duplicity. Is that any reason I should serve you?’
Merthian rounded on Kunrad, so suddenly the smith, still kneeling, ducked his head from a blow; but there were only words. ‘Reasons! I should not tell you this, but you, you who have gone through so much to hunt me down … you shame me. So hear! The realm of the Southlands, the state of Ker Bryhaine, is governed ill. Ill, and it grows weaker by the day!’ He shrugged. ‘I speak no treason. All know it, none will act lest their own selfish interest be put at risk! The Syndics are grown too fat and complacent, too corrupt – a self-chosen band that robs the commons to no purpose beyond their own gain and their families. They cast out the old nobility for its arrogance, yet their own is swollen far greater! Another rule is needed.’
He looked the smith in the face, and Kunrad almost sought to stop his mouth; for in what he was being told, he read his own death-warrant.
‘I see you take my meaning,’ said Merthian quietly. ‘A king such as they had of old, yes. And yes, also, I see myself as the one. In the years since I was given this great office, so young, I have ruled firmly but fairly, as nowhere else in Bryhaine, and with vision. My hand is light, I encourage freedom and free thought. Even my enemies concede as much. I am proven. I can do the same for the whole land, perhaps even reunite the two peoples—’
‘What,’ asked Kunrad, holding up a blunt hand to stem the flow, ‘if some wish to be ruled by no king save themselves? And what of the true royal line, the Kermorvannen … oh.’
‘Exactly!’ smiled Merthian, a little sadly. ‘They are not in contention. When I wed Alais I shall be a Kermorvan. That is how they have remained hale and strong for so long – always ready to take in new blood, so long as it is tried and proven. Alais is the flower of her generation, and her line will mingle with mine. I will give her power in the land, so the people will follow us, and our children will be kings beyond question.’ He smacked one hand into the other. ‘That is for the future. For now – much remains to be done! And there is nobody more capable of it than I. Believe me, if there were, they would have been created Lord Warden in my stead! All the others are too old, or slight men, meriting little, or too jealously bound to one faction or another, unable to command enough respect.’
‘And you can? Without starting a bloody kinstrife?’
‘So I believe, on good foundation. From the majority of the people, certainly. Many of the Syndics, also. The Lord Bryheren, who sits as Chief Syndic, he is a good man in his way, unlike many of that line, but narrow and cold, a mind that draws lines and balances pennies and can look no further. He thinks well of me, but he might contest my claim, perhaps, and some others; so I must gather all the force I can. The more I have, the less likely they will be to unleash so destructive a war. But if they are so foolish, then the more easily I shall limit the chaos, and the sooner they will tire. Then they will accept me.’
He spoke quietly, without heat or boasting, a reasonable man sure of reasonable things. And to his own great annoyance Kunrad found himself carried along by the man’s sincerity, forced to turn and battle against it like a headwind. ‘There’ll still be a lot of harm done. People will die, and those who live won’t forget, any more than I could. If you’re so bloody confident, why not stake your claim out in the open?’
‘Without first taking every precaution?’ Merthian gave a bitter laugh. ‘I would not last half a day. And there is no time for endless argument. Would you wait to cast ballots upon who is to stop runaway horses? There are chances I cannot yet speak of that may be lost. I must let some ill be done, in the pursuit of good – but what I can, I’ll amend, as I’ve already said. And more, to those who help me. You can, Mastersmith. Now d’you see why your armour so impressed me? To become a king, I must look a king, every inch of me—’
‘You do. For what that’s worth.’
‘Not truly. Not a potent figure out of ancient time and times to come, both. A being more than human, one favoured by the Powers, a figure to rally to in battle—’
‘And to aim at, I’d have thought!’
Merthian laughed. ‘And that is why it has to be armour! And good armour, not mere jewellery! I sought it for a long time, something I could trust. I begged the Powers to send me what I needed – and by your humble hearth one day it blazed out at me. You have achieved that much already. You can do more, much more, with your art – and beyond it, if I am any judge of men. And I am. You, you hard-handed Northerner from a little corner of the Wild, you are nonetheless a man of great worth. You are a man I could trust with offices and employments, with land and people both. Help me, work with me, and you shall rise higher in the world than you can imagine, that I promise you!’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Kunrad stared at him, a long while, and sighed. ‘No. No, you still can’t see it, can you, my lord? A fact every smith knows. It’s where the blow falls that shapes the steel – not why. Think upon that, my Lord Merthian. You’ll have no other answer from me today.’
Merthian stared at him a moment, and his face was as unreadable as the moon’s. At last he said, quietly, ‘Then I shall return tomorrow.’
Kunrad watched the door shut once again, heard the bars drop home. So that was the prize! As it had been through all the years of sothran history, if he had heard true. Long years of squabble and discord, while the North sat back in its isolation and felt superior. Now it would all happen again – and who knows, with some result this time. Merthian King, riding in triumph – in Kunrad’s armour! He could see it now, the young man, his hair flying, parading his warhorse in the bright sun, a dazzling vision almost too bright to look upon …
He shook his head angrily, and slumped down by the water, watching the play of invisible clouds in the luminous surface. It must be a fine morning out there, fine and warm; the lake would be glowing blue instead of this dank green. How were the prentices faring out there?
He could easily end this, give Merthian an answer, as he had the corsairs; but Merthian was no man’s fool. The Marchwarden would release him, but under conditions; and he would be carefully watched. Every hold that could be kept upon him, would be. Merthian had not ordered Kunrad’s chain replaced; but liberty would load him with invisible restraints, much harder to break. Better to be mewed up in here and out of the way, out of thought, so that he could do his own thinking at will.
The door was no hope, not with so many other doors behind it, and so many guards. The rock was steel-hard, above and below. That left the slot, and those bars. No virtues – and yet they had been there a long time, perhaps since Ker an Aruel was built. He glanced at the spyhole, but it was shut, and his ear caught nothing from beyond it but low snores. Hastily he stripped down and slipped into the water, feeling the strong undertow that kept it circulating and clean. He tugged at the bars, really tugged, but not the faintest hint of give or movement came to him.
They rasped at his fingers. Without the benefits of a virtue against rusting, the water had eaten away at them somewhat, but only on the outside; they were rough and jagged there, but of course that formed a coating that protected the rest. The rust would be softer, yet even scratching that away would take too long, and achieve little. Merthian was not a stupid corsair, to leave a smith his tools. There was nothing here except a few sharp stones in the floor. Nothing he might bring his craft to bear on. If he could only have brought in a few small things with him …
Perhaps he had.
Kunrad clambered up, towelled himself roughly with the blanket, and began to search through his pockets. At least Alais in her mending had left them as they were. In his breeches pockets there were always odd bits and pieces of things, but he was surprised to find just how much. A small coin or two, a nail, two thin slivers of gold rod; how long since he’d worked with that gauge? Years, it had to be. There were cuts and clippings, tiny triangular snippets and sharp-edged shavings, some old and air-dulled, some new and sharp. The very dust and fluff glinted with small heavy particles. His jerkin pockets, chiefly for thrusting cold hands into, yielded a twist of one kind of wire from the contracting rope – useless now, but wire was always useful. They had missed his belt pocket, too; he vaguely remembered thrusting some useful things into that when he left home, a long age past. He searched hurriedly, in case there was a box of picklocks or a small sturdy file. What tumbled out was some waxed paper packets of salt, now caked solid, a few more of spices, and another containing unlovely brown shrivels he remembered were dried mushrooms used for flavouring stews. He allowed himself a quiet laugh over what he had thought was important, once. The mushrooms only reminded him how hungry he was. If his guts had been a wolf, somebody would have taken a spear to it.
All in all, it was a discouraging haul; and yet it was something more than nothing. He lay back on his bed, and stared at the shadowy rock overhead. Craft did not always lie in the wielding of vast powers, like Vayde’s. Sometimes you could achieve powerful effects with weaker forces by placing them cleverly, as you might roll a round pebble under the foot of a charging berserk. Somehow or other he must make such a pebble of what he had here, something that could affect some aspect of his cell. He turned over and contemplated his bed. Could he pack all that straw against the door and ignite it, somehow? Not without alerting the guards, and suffocating himself, most likely. He might make a loose rope of it, but not thin enough to trip or snare anyone …
He snorted impatiently. He was starting at the wrong end of things. The pebble was all very well; but first find your berserk, the force you can turn to your own advantage. He lay back, and searched now for something that would serve, something quite simple, probably. It would need to be.
And then, when the lapping lake water had turned dim and cold and blue, he sat up again, ignoring the faint dizziness and the roaring in his ears, and tore at his bedding. Then, stumbling in the dark, he hauled a flat stone out of the floor, and in the hardened hollow it had left he coiled the long twisted hank of straw he had made, and with it a little heap of fluff, dry grass that had caught in his boot, and more straw. Then he struck the stone against his manacle again, and sparks sprang from the flint and steel to settle glowing in the little heap. Again, and the glows grew. He blew on them, whisper-soft, and they wavered, mingled, merged. A shaky yellow flame awoke at the end of the hank, and grew steadily, setting shadows leaping about the stone roof. He sat back and drew a tremulous breath. He had been reduced to nothing, yet out of nothing he now had kindled fire. Its faint warmth brought home to him how chill he felt. He must move quickly before he wakened too far, and that meant going down into the water. Quickly he examined and sorted his scanty ingredients by the wavering light. It would be enough; it had to be.
He came back numbed and dripping to find the hank already nine-tenths burned, and fed it swiftly with more of his bedding, until a small fire crackled in the hollow and the thin smoke rolled down the sloping ceiling. He stifled a cough. Not even if he burned all his straw and blanket also could he make a fire hot enough for true metalwork; but all he needed was its semblance. The metal fragments were already heating among the ashes, and the stuff he had garnered was drying out. The iron of the bars was formed already, and he could not sing any virtue into that; but into the scraps before him, he could. He added more straw, keeping more ready to hand. And, as the fire grew and crackled, he urged the dry ingredients together on the stone, tapping them slowly with the nail as they began to merge, and singing softly to the rhythm of the tapping. A stone for an anvil, a nailhead for a hammer – and yet the forces were the same, conduits through which the strength he could summon up could flow.
Strip the rust and shield the iron,
Ward the moisture from the metal,
Blend the eater with the eaten,
Set the enemy as sentry!
He felt that strength grow as the song swelled, simple as it was, an easy thing a child in his first prenticeship might commit to memory, a deliberately mild and elementary virtue to set in a metal. He thought a moment, and added a few lines that might direct the chant closer
to what he had in mind.
Draw from water what is wanting,
Suck the salt and breathe the lifesbreath,
Break the wave against the ironwork,
Free the light airs to their wandering!
Over and over again, to the dull beat of the hammer shaping a simple bar or rudderpin into rustless form; or the rings of a corroded mailshirt, as he had set the prentices to do. Only from him there was nothing simple about it. Into those discarded twists and flakes he poured the full force of his mastery, the carefully nurtured source that made his swords hold their edge and his armour its shape beyond the mere strength of the metal. And behind it rode a black tide of anger that till now he had been careful to stem.
There was a suspicion in him, a foreboding of what Merthian was about. All he could pin down of it was the havoc a king-making war might create; but there was something worse, something the young Marchwarden had glanced over. Something worse. The nailhead tapped, the words fell and the stone clinked dull wrath through the smoke. Even Olvar and Gille had sung richer, more entangled versions, over the corsair mailshirts; but it was directness, not complexity, that was needed here, a sheer focusing of force. Kunrad heaped the fire, though even his leathern fingers were shrivelling from the heat. He must finish before the dawn.
He was tired, so tired that he found himself sagging over the fire, yet without slackening the beat in the slightest, or faltering on a single syllable, so much was smithcraft a part of him. He stared stupidly at the tiny heap of metal he was tapping, seeing it choking in the embers. Hastily he blew them back and snatched up the fragments, burning his fingers on the hot stone. Keenly he stared at them, and even as the fire faltered he felt a fierce inner glow that stirred his heart and filled his empty stomach; for tiny glints awoke there, brighter far than the embers, bright as the stars that faded in the sky beyond. Stumbling on stiffened legs he hurried back to the water and in, untwining the wire as he went, crouching, shivering, in the sunken notch to wrap it around and around the bars, and with each a tiny particle of the metal. It took most of his strength, and he stumbled back up. But before he allowed himself to collapse, he built up the fire, and brushed the stone clean, and wrang water into its hollow surface. Into that he put the dried mushrooms; and only then sank back on his decimated bed, more stone than otherwise, and curled up shivering in his blanket.
The Castle of the Winds Page 24
