Walegrin empathized with Sanctuary’s naive, blundering young governor. Actually his idea wasn’t bad; much better than involving the mageguild or setting the Wrigglies against the outnumbered Rankans. That was Kittycat’s problem; his ideas weren’t half bad, but he wasn’t even half the man it would take to have people listen to them without laughing.
A new idea grew in Walegrin’s thoughts. The Prince had turned to Balustrus, metal-master, to cast the bell for Vashanka. Now he, Walegrin, would approach Balustrus to make Enlibar steel—for the Prince, perhaps, but not Vashanka. A pattern of fortune might emerge—might be stronger than the S’danzo curse. He imagined himself with the Prince; the two of them together might make one irresistable force.
“Did you see this bell of the metal-master’s? Is it worthy?” he asked Thrusher.
“Worthy of what?” Thrusher replied, not following Walegrin’s thoughts at all.
Chapter 3
DAWN’S FIRST LIGHT pierced the shadows and sent the denizens of the night scurrying. The streets of Sanctuary were almost quiet. Flocks of seabirds wheeled silently over the town, swooping suddenly as, one after another, the houses opened their doors to jettison nightslops into the street. A cowled, burdened monk slipped out the upper window of a tavern and disappeared down a still-dark alley. The brief moment of calm magic faded; the day had begun.
The establishment of Balustrus, metal-master, was among the first in the armorer’s quarter to come to life. A young woman opened the upper half of the front door and struggled to raise the huge, dingy slops-ewer to her shoulder. She froze, nearly dropping the noisome thing, when a man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a monk’s garb, but the cowl had fallen back to his shoulders. A warrior’s tore held his straw-blond hair over his brow.
Walegrin had had three days’ rest and washed the desert from his face, but he was still an ominous figure. The woman gave a small yelp when he took the ewer from her and carried it some distance before upending it. When he returned to the doorway, the metal-master himself stood there.
“Walegrin, isn’t it?”
If the young soldier was ominous, then Balustrus was positively demonic. His skin was the color of mottled bronze—not brown, nor gold, nor green—nor human at all. It was wrinkled like dried fruit, but shone like metal itself. He was hairless, with features that blended into the convolutions of his skin. When he smiled, as he smiled at Walegrin, the dark eyes all but vanished.
Walegrin swallowed hard. “I’ve come with business for you.”
“So early?” the bronze man chided. “Well, come right in. A soldier in monk’s cloth is always welcome for breakfast.” He hobbled back from the door.
Walegrin retrieved his sack and followed him into the shop. A single oil lamp set over a counting-table cast flickering shadows on the metal-master’s face. He rested a pair of iron crutches against the wall behind the table and seemed to hover there, unsupported. Walegrin’s eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He saw the price sheets nailed to the wall and the samples of bronze, iron, tin and steel; he saw the saddle-like perch in which the metal-master sat. But his first impression of the eerie place did not change and he would have left if he could.
“Tell me what you’ve got in your sack, and why I should care?” the metal-master demanded.
Forcing himself not to stare, Walegrin hoisted the sack to the table-top. “I’ve found the secret of the steel of Enlibar—”
The bronze man shook with laughter. “What secret? There’s no secret to Enlibar steel, my boy. Any fool can make Enlibar steel—if he’s got Enlibar ore and Ilsig alchemy.”
Walegrin untied the sack, dumping the blue-green ore onto the table. Balustrus stopped laughing. He snatched up a chunk of ore and subjected it to an analysis that included not merely striking it with a mallet, but tasting it as well.
“Yes,” the wizened metal-master crooned. “This is it. Heated and ground and tempered this will be steel! Not since the last alchemist of Ilsig sank into his grave has there been steel like the steel I will make.”
Whatever else Balustrus was, he was at least mad. Walegrin had first heard the name in the library at Coombs, where he’d gotten the shard of Enlibrite pottery Illyra had read. Kemren, the Purple Mage, had been supposed to read the inscription and Balustrus would make the steel and both men swell in Sanctuary. Kemren had been dead when Walegrin arrived in the city, but not Balustrus.
It was said the metal-master had been mad when he first came to the city, and Sanctuary had never improved anyone. He claimed he knew everything about any metal but he made his living mending plates and recasting stolen gold.
“I have another ten sacks like this one,” Walegrin explained, taking back the ore. “I want swords for my men and myself. I don’t have much gold; and fewer friends, but I’ll give you a quarter of my ore if you’ll make the swords.” He continued refilling his sack.
“It will be my privilege,” the cripple agreed, touching the stones one last time before they disappeared. “Perhaps when you have the swords you’ll tell me where you found this. At least you’ll tell what friends you have that it was the Grey Wolf who forged their weapons.”
“You’ve no need to know where the mine is,” Walegrin said firmly, looking directly at Balustrus’ legs. “You couldn’t go there yourself. You’d have to send others; you’d spread my secret around. Already too many people know.” The sack thumped to the floor. “When can I have my swords?”
The metal-master shrugged. “It is not like telling a cloth-cutter to make a tunic, boy. The formula is old; the ore is new. It will take time. I must melt and grind carefully; tempering is an art to itself. It could take years.”
Walegrin’s blue eyes came alive with anger. “It will not take years! There’s war in the north. Already the Emperor has called for men to fill the legions. I will have my swords by summer’s end or I’ll have your life.”
“I have,” the metal-master said with bitter irony, “been threatened by experts. You’ll have your swords, my boy, as soon as I’m ready to give them to you.”
The blond soldier had a ready reply, but withheld it as commotion rose in the street and someone hammered loudly on the bolted doors.
“Open up! Open up in the Prince’s name! Open your doors, merchant!”
Walegrin snatched up the sack. He glanced around the room, aware for the first time that it offered no hiding places.
“You look as if you’d seen a ghost, boy. If you don’t want to see the Prince’s man, just step behind the curtain. Take your ore with you. I’ll be but a moment with these fools.”
Unable to force coherent words through his tight throat, Walegrin simply nodded and, still clutching the sack, eased behind a curtain and into a dark passageway. He could see narrowly into the room he had left without, he prayed, being seen in return.
Balustrus struggled with the heavy bolts. He got the door open just before the Prince’s man threatened to break it down. Three men immediately surged past: two huge brutes in dirty rags and a third man in common dress.
“Balustrus? Metal-master?” the third man demanded.
The man might be dressed commonly, but he wasn’t common. Once Walegrin’s suspicions were aroused, other incongruities became obvious: clean, fresh-curled hair; sturdy boots with gold buckles; hands that had never been truly dirty.
Unreasoning fear gripped him. He did not pause to wonder why a Rankan lord, for such the visitor must be, would enter the metal-master’s shop in such a disguise; he knew. The S’danzo curse and his false friends in Ranke had merged. By sundown he’d be just so much meat on the torturer’s rack. They’d have his secrets, his steel and, if he got lucky, his life.
“…It has cooled without a crack,” Balustrus said when Walegrin had regained enough control over his fear to listen again.
“My men will come for it this afternoon,” the lord said, resting his forearms on the table where Walegrin had spilled his sack of ore.
“As you wish, Hierarch Torchholder. I’ll t
ell my lads to hoist it up. You’ll need a strong cart, my Lord. She’s as heavy as the god.”
Both men laughed heartily. Then, looking mildly annoyed, the High Priest of Vashanka in Sanctuary stood up and rubbed his arm. A tiny object dropped to the floor. Walegrin felt bitter bile surge up his throat as the Rankan retrieved the bit and examined both it and his arm.
“It broke my skin,” he said.
“Scraps,” the metal-master replied, taking the small flake from the priest’s hand.
“Sharp scraps. We should put them on the edges of our swords,” Torchholder laughed, and took back the offending object. “Not glass either … Some new project of yours?”
“No—”
Walegrin could not hear the rest of Balustrus’ reply. His fear-clouded mind had finally placed the Lord and his name: the Torch himself, War-god Priest. As if it were not bad enough to have the regular Imperial hierarchy sniffing along his trail, now here was the Wargod too—and the Sacred Bands? Walegrin was numb from the waist down, unable to move closer or run away. Damn the S’danzo and their curses. Damn his father, if he weren’t already damned, for killing Rezzel and incurring supernatural wrath.
But Molin Torchholder was laughing now, giving the metal-master a small coin purse and a brief, casual blessing on his work. Walegrin, whose panicked thoughts always moved too quickly, knew he’d been sold. When the priest and his bodyguards had disappeared out the door, Walegrin confronted the withered, smiling, metal-master.
“Was it worthwhile?” he demanded.
“The palace has the best money in the city. Some of it was truly minted in Ranke and not cut three times since with lead or tin.” Balustrus looked up from his counting and studied Walegrin’s face. “Now, son, whatever you’ve done to get Ranke on your tail—don’t go thinking I’d be on their side. Your secrets are safe from Ranke with me.”
Walegrin tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. “I’m to believe that the Torch himself just happened to wander down here—and that he just happened to find a piece of ore stuck to his arm and then he just happened to give you a double handful of gold?”
“Walegrin, Walegrin,” Balustrus swung down from the stool and tried to approach the angry soldier, but Walegrin easily eluded him. “Molin Torchholder has only paid me what is due me—for the work on Vashanka’s bell. Now it might seem strange to you that such a man would come here himself—but the Hierarch has taken a personal interest in this project from the beginning. Anyone in town can tell you that. Besides, did I know you were going to be here this morning? Did I suspect that today I’d hold Enlibrite ore in my hands? No.
“Now, I expect you’ll believe exactly what you want, but it was happenstance, all of it. And Torchholder’s suspicions are not aroused; if they were he would still be here, believe that. Mark me well: I know him and the rest better than you imagine.”
It was not the first time Balustrus hinted that he knew more than he was saying, and the notion did nothing to reassure Walegrin. Kilite had often done the same thing—and Kilite had finally betrayed him. “Truly, metal-master, when can I have my swords?” he asked in a slightly calmer voice.
“Truly lad, I do not know. The bell is finished, as you heard. I have no other commissions waiting at my foundry. I’ll start testing your ore as soon as the priest claims his bell. But, Walegrin, even if I stumble upon the right temperatures and the right proportions at once—it will still take time. I’ve only two lads to help me. I’ve agreed to payment in kind—but I cannot hire men with unforged swords. Besides, would you want me to contract day-labor from the taverns?”
Walegrin shook his head. He’d relaxed. His body could not stand the tension he brought to it. He was exhausted and knew his hands would shake if he moved them. What Balustrus said was true enough, except—He paused and a measure of his confidence returned. “I’ve five men with me: good men; more than equal to day labor. They sit idle until the swords are ready. They’ll work for you.”
It was the metal-master’s turn to hesitate. “I’ll not pay them,” he announced. “But they can stay in the outbuildings of the foundry. And Dunsha will make food for them as she does for the rest of us.” He seated himself in his stool and smiled. “How about that, son?”
Walegrin winced, not from the offer which was all he had desired, but from Balustrus’ attempts at friendship and familiarity. Of course the smith hadn’t been in Sanctuary when Walegrin was a youth. He hadn’t known Walegrin’s father and could not know that Walegrin allowed no one to call him ‘son.’ So, Walegrin controlled his rage and grunted affirmatively.
“I’ll give you another piece of advice—since you’re already in my debt. You’ve got a hate and fear about you that draws trouble like a magnet. You think the worst, and you think it too soon. You’ll be doing neither yourself nor your men any good by going north. But, now listen to me, the Sacred Band of Stepsons and probably the Hounds as well will have to go—and then there’ll be no one of any power and ability here. Jubal’s gone—you know that—don’t you?”
Walegrin nodded. Tales of the night assault on the Downwind estate of the slaveholder circulated in numerous variations, but everyone agreed that Jubal hadn’t been seen since. “But I don’t want to spend my life in Sanctuary looking after gutter-scum!” he snarled back at his would-be benefactor.
“Mark me—and let me finish. You’re fresh back. Things have changed. There’re no more blue hawks to roam the streets. That’s not to say that them as wore the masks are gone—not all of them, not yet. Only Jubal’s gone. Jubal’s men and Jubal’s power are there for the taking. Even if he should return to this town, he’ll be in no condition to raise his army of the night again. Let Tempus, Zalbar—” Balustrus spat for emphasis, “and all their ilk fight for Ranke. With them gone and your steel you could be master of this place for life—and give it on to your children as well. Kittycat would surrender in a day.”
Walegrin didn’t answer. He didn’t remember sliding the bolts back before opening the door, and perhaps he hadn’t. He was ambitious to gain glory, but he had no real thoughts for the future. Balustrus had tempted him, but he’d frightened him more.
The morning sun brought no warmth to the young man. He shivered beneath his borrowed, monk’s cloak. There weren’t many people on the narrow streets and those took pains to stay out of his path. His cloak billowed out to reveal the leather harness of a soldier beneath it, but no-one stopped him to ask questions.
The taverns were boarded up as the barkeeps and wenches alike caught a few hours rest. Walegrin pounded past them, head erect, eyes hard. He reached the Wideway without seeing a welcoming door. He headed for the wharves and the fishermen whose day began well before dawn. They would be ready for refreshment by now.
He wandered into a slant-walled den called the Wine Barrel; Fish Barrel would have been a more appropriate name. The place stank of fish oil. Ignoring the pervasive stench, Walegrin approached the rough-hewn bar. The room had fallen silent and, though a swordsman like himself had nothing to fear from a handful of fishermen, Walegrin was uncomfortable.
Even the ale was rank with fish-oil, but he gagged it down. The thick brew brought the clouds of dullness his mind craved. He ordered another three mugs of the vile, potent stuff and belched prodigiously while the fisherfolk endured him.
Their meek, offended stares drove him back onto the wharf before he was half as drunk as he wanted to be. The tangy air of the harbor undid him; he vomited into the water and found himself almost completely sober. In an abysmal mood, he tugged the priest’s cowl over his head and held the cloak shut with a death grip. His path wound toward the bazaar where Illyra lived and saw the future in the S’danzo cards.
It was a market day at the bazaar, with every extra stall crammed with winter’s produce: jellies, sweet breads and preserved fruits. He shoved past them, untempted, until he reached the more permanent part of the bazaar and could hear the ringing of Dubro’s hammer above the din. She had found herself an able protector, at least. He
stopped before the man who was his own age and height but whose slow strength was unequalled.
“Is ‘Lyra inside?” he asked politely, knowing he would be recognized. “Is she scrying for someone or can I talk to her?”
“You’re not welcome here,” Dubro replied evenly.
“I would like to see my sister. I’ve never done anything to hurt her in the past and I don’t intend to start now. Stand guard beside me, if you must. I will see her.”
Dubro sighed and set his tools carefully back in their proper places. He banked the fire and moved buckets of water close by the cloth door of the simple structure he and Illyra called home. Walegrin was about to burst with impatience when the plodding giant lifted the cloth and motioned him inside.
“We have a visitor,” Dubro announced.
“Who?”
“See for yourself.”
Walegrin recognized the voice but not the woman who moved in the twilight darkness. It was Illyra’s custom to disguise her youth with cosmetics and shapeless clothing—still it seemed that the creature who walked toward him was far too gross to be his half-sister. Then he saw her face—his father’s face for she took after him that way—and there could be no doubt.
She slouched ungracefully in the depths of Dubro’s chair, and Walegrin, though he had little knowledge of these things, guessed she was late in pregnancy.
“You’re having a child,” he blurted out.
“Not quite yet,” she replied with a laugh. “Moonflower assures me I have some weeks to wait yet. I’m sure it will be a boy, like Dubro. No girl-child would be so large.”
“And you’re well enough?” Walegrin had always assumed she was barren: doubly cursed. It did not seem possible that she should be so robustly breeding.
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