by LeRoy Clary
“Your driver does us a favor, but we work for the wealthy and have no time for anything else.”
“Do you have the ability to repair a nick on a blade?”
“Of course, but as I told you . . .”
While he answered, I pulled my blade and placed it on the counter in front of him. His mouth quit working. His eyes grew large and he drew back as if the blade would leap from the counter and strike him. I said, “Is this blade something of the quality you might work on?”
His thumb tested the chip on the cutting edge without lifting the sword. He said, “I have only seen three of these masterpieces made by my ancestors in my life, only one of the three was this quality.”
“The chip?”
“The blade cannot be touched with the heat of a forge.” He used a bit of soot to mark the blade, the chip in the center. “No metal will bind with this for a repair. However, the edge can be reshaped near the chip in such a way that nobody will ever know it has been repaired. The chip is not deep, nor repairable otherwise. That is the best anyone can do.”
I waited.
He gently moved his index finger along the edge to indicate where it would be changed. “There is nobody else in Malawi who should touch this, nobody in the world. Did you cause this damage?”
“In battle,” I admitted.
He gave me a bit of a smile. “Good. The sword is beautiful but made to fight.”
“The cost?” I asked, my eyes looking to Elizabeth for permission to pay.
He snorted in derision. “This blade, this work of art, was created right here in this building, in the forge behind me, by an ancestor with skills that no longer exist. It is a family heirloom. The cost, you ask? I have not enough money to pay you for the privilege of making the repair.”
Confused, I said, “No, you don’t understand. I will pay you.”
“No, it is you who does not understand. These swords were sold to last a lifetime. Not the lifetime of the buyer, but of the sword. You will never pay for a repair. It is my honor and duty to make this small repair.”
Elizabeth had joined me in being stunned at his explanation. She stood at my side and asked, “Do you sell scabbards? I mean, we are to go to the king’s ball tomorrow and my brother cannot wear that.” She pointed to my hip. “It is a working scabbard intended to hide the perfection of his blade and not draw attention to it.”
He called over his shoulder and the pair working at the forge raced to join him. They were at least as impressed, nudging each other to get a better look at the damage. What impressed me most was that neither touched the blade, their respect was so great. While they discussed the repair processes they might use, the first man escorted us to a small door leading to a room. Inside were scabbards, hundreds of them hanging on three walls.
Some were tipped in silver or gold, others were made of exotic leathers, and some had the tool-work of masters for their intricate designs. There were scabbards for long blades, short ones, wide or narrow, and even a few for the hated tri-cornered blades that made wounds that refuse to heal.
He brushed aside several and lifted three from a hook. He handed them to me as he said, “These are made for imitations of your sword, the best swords we can make for the last century. Any of them will do, so it is your preference as to which you like the best.”
I held them up for Elizabeth to see. She selected the same one I had my eye on, the plainest of the three, but the smooth leather held a sheen the others couldn’t match. He gave me a single nod of agreement as he returned the other two to the hook.
I said, “Those other swords you spoke of. May we see the best? Not the prettiest, but the one most functional? Please do not consider the price.” Since I was not paying for the repair, I felt confident in selecting one for Will without consideration to cost.
“For you?” he asked.
“No. For a warrior so great the King of Dire has rewarded him with titles and land, but no sword. I would like the King’s favorite daughter, Princess Elizabeth to present it to him.” I looked at her to find a blush like few I’d ever seen.
“Follow me,” was his only response—if you don’t count the sly grin at her embarrassment.
He went to another door, which surprised me. Swords of every kind hung on the walls and behind the counter, flat blades, short ones and long, narrow and thick, heavy and light, gray, silver, and black. A few were decorated so heavily with gold they were yellow. Some blades curved slightly, others more. A few curved forward, looking deadly and awkward.
But he ignored all those and worked a lock that refused to budge, which hinted that it hadn’t been opened in a long time. A solid click finally sounded, and he swung the door open. Inside was a locked case, which was fastened to the floor with iron pegs. The walls were solid wood, thicker than the length of my longest fingers. Nobody was going to get into the room, and if they did, they would find the treasure was locked inside an unmovable box.
He went to the far wall and touched a place on the wood, higher than his head. A hinged panel opened and his gnarly fingers held another key. He opened the lock on the box as we stood quietly aside. Inside lay four swords on a bed of green silk, all different.
I didn’t speak or look at Elizabeth. We waited.
He motioned to them. “Any of these will be what you are seeking. Two are magnificent, not as good as yours, but close. One is extraordinary and certainly fit for a king’s reward for exceptional service. The last better than any will wear at the ball, in this city, or kingdom, but a poor sister to the other three. Please make your selection.”
He didn’t say which was which. I ignored him and picked up the nearest. Next, to mine, it was the finest sword I’d ever held. I slashed the air and could have purchased it without a second thought. The second I tried was the ugly sister.
The third felt even better in my hand than the first.
I replaced it carefully and lifted the last one. Without slashes, parries, or thrusts, I knew it was the sword for Will. “I’ll take this one.”
“I knew you would choose that one,” he chuckled as he closed and locked the case.
The sword was longer and slightly heavier than mine, but Will was larger and stronger. There were no engravings, no fancy gold inlays, and no jewels inset in the handle. A curved hilt protected the hand during battle and on it was a trace of scrolled decoration. Generations of hands had worn the metal of the hilt smooth, but the blade appeared as if made this very day.
“How old is it?” I asked.
“Who can know such things?” he said.
“Did your ancestors make it too?”
“I wish we could take credit, but no. We have no factual information on its origin, but next to yours, this is the finest sword we have ever sold.”
“Can I afford it?” I looked at Elizabeth.
She lifted her chin. “If you have pen and paper, I will have my father pay whatever you ask if you will keep it here unsold until you receive payment via our fastest ship.”
He held up his hands in the surrender mode. “We have only a few clients, we select them carefully. None have ever failed to pay, so that is not an issue. The price of the sword is something my brothers and I have debated for decades. It came to my grandfather from his grandfather with only one caveat from the previous owner. It must be given to a good man.”
I erupted, “You cannot give such a sword away!”
He chuckled. “You misunderstand. The price of the sword was paid to us by the previous owner. It has already been paid for. We only held it here until we found a good man.”
“You don’t even know Will,” Elizabeth said.
He turned away and led us back to the counter, the sword held gently in both hands.
“You didn’t answer me,” she said.
He placed the sword in front of me. “A good man is judged by the quality of his friends. That is a proverb as old as Malawi. Our decision is final.” He asked me, “Where are your accommodations?”
“The Bl
ack Swan,” Elizabeth said before I could answer.
“Your sword will be delivered there my mid-day. Take this one for your friend. Again, I thank you for allowing me to enhance the pride of my family.”
We left the forge more than somewhat stunned. I didn’t like leaving my sword there, but inside my heart, I knew it couldn’t be in better hands. I held Will’s new sword as if it was made of glass. Honest Bran sat in his seat smiling and waiting.
“The inn,” she told him. “And we won’t need you tonight. Go home. Be back in the morning.”
He let us off at the front of the building and used the circular driveway to leave. The coachman recognized us and as we passed by him, whispered that he could arrange a proper coach and driver if we wanted. Elizabeth refused, of course.
Inside, we were quickly escorted into the main dining room, this time. There were over thirty tables, half of them occupied. We sat at one near the center where we had a good line of sight to the woman softly singing to the strumming of the man with the lute behind her. The tune was unknown to me, but her voice captured the setting of the room filled with the rich and powerful.
We ordered sweet white wine and listened both to the singer and to the conversation around us. We ignored the curious stares and questioning looks. Finally, a man came to our table and waited to be recognized. When I looked at him, he bowed and presented a small white paper in the center of a golden plate.
Elizabeth unfolded it and read silently. She turned to the man. “We would be delighted to attend.”
He quickly and quietly withdrew as if a vanishing spell had been placed on him. The room had quieted when he entered, and after he left, the level of conversation rose. They recognized the king’s messenger. I knew they talked about us, so I minded my manners and was sensitive to the changes in temperature of the diners. They would treat us warmer from now on.
Elizabeth leaned closer, still clutching the invitation. “Learn a lesson, Damon. The people in this room are wealthy. They have money, probably a lot of it. But they are not royalty and never will be.”
She sat up straighter.
I wondered at her statement. More than the appearance of Wyvern in Malawi had happened. I knew she was assuming a role, but the changes were not all likable. We talked little, listened a lot, and learned almost nothing of what we wanted.
The night was peaceful and the music relaxing. Although we were the center of what felt like a thousand stares, I had the impression it would be the last relaxing evening we might have for a while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The morning was filled with talk of the ball to be held at dusk. Even eating was a business meeting and planning session. Elizabeth was on edge, her attention to detail kept me hopping. She wanted to present me as more than a personal servant, but with her Dire features and my Kondor background, that didn’t fit. How she’d managed to get away with presenting us as brother and sister only confused matters.
It was obvious we were not. It was equally obvious I had neither the demeanor or manners of a Royal. I suggested her bodyguard might be a better fit. She snapped that bodyguards would wait outside the ballroom for their masters.
My features and skin told everyone I was from the Brownlands, or at least from the borders of them. Trager would do. It was small, few traveled there, and I could claim to be a member of a wealthy family—and distantly related to the king by marriage and was a royal adviser. I was her escort and adviser. It was not perfect, there were holes in the story all over, but it would do.
We circulated the Black Swan dining room all morning and part of the afternoon. Elizabeth put on a social performance and we moved from one table to another, often with formal introductions. She did not once mention that she was a princess, but most of the other talk was the truth. A true princess does not have to explain her position.
I excused myself when a messenger told me a man waited for me at the entrance. It was my sword, personally delivered by the old man at the forge. We walked outside and sat on a stone bench under a pair of cherry trees as he unwrapped it.
The old scabbard was there, but so was also the new one. It had been polished and with the hilt of my sword to decorate it, the thing was too beautiful to hold. He said, “The repair we made came out better than we hoped.”
I pulled the sword and couldn’t find the flaw or the repair and said so.
He asked, “You said it was damaged in battle?”
“Yes.”
“You must have won.”
Thinking back, it seemed so long ago. “I did.”
“This morning, my younger brother found a sketch of your sword in one of our oldest books. It was made almost two hundred years ago, and as we suspected, it was made by an ancestor of ours.”
“That’s wonderful to hear the history of it,” I said with feeling. “Do you know the history of others who owned it?”
“First, there was more in the book.” He waited as if deciding to tell me or not.
I said, “You’re hesitating.”
“The book, one containing our sales records actually, added two additional items. The first is that there was a mention of magic used in the creation of the sword. That is something I’ve never seen in the creation or forging of any sword by any craftsman anywhere. It is so unheard of, I have no response except to report it to you.”
“It’s that unusual?”
He said, “As I said, the first and only mention I’ve ever seen or heard about magic combined with forging. That includes my entire family. I even asked a retired uncle and my father when I went home before coming here. They have never heard so much as a whisper.”
“The second thing?” I asked, not wishing to spend more time on the subject of magic for a number of reasons.
“The wording in the sales journal is unusual and confusing mentioning the magic, as old writing often is, but it seems there was more to the original order. The language suggests this was not the only sword ordered that day. Perhaps another like sword was made and purchased, we cannot tell for sure. The words, as I say, are confusing and meanings change over time.”
I could tell the truth about Prince Angle’s singing sword but held back. I knew the purchase order had been for a magical pair, and the magic was the singing of the swords when they came together. It crossed my mind that to hold back information from him was as distasteful and I’d consider it if he did so to me. But he also held something back, I was certain of it. I offered again to pay him for the repair, and he refused, then departed with more than one glance over his shoulder as if still debating if he should tell me something else.
That’s the funny thing about trust. As nice as he was about repairing mine, and giving me the other for Will, he withheld something and my trust in him was lost. Trust is as complete as a mug that holds ale compared with one with a crack that does not. Serve me ale in a cracked mug that leaks out and I will not purchase it again. I only trust a mug that does not leak.
If he had been honest at the last, I’d have shared the Prince Angle story, one I’m certain he would have enjoyed and repeated and probably made a notation in his sales records for generations to come. I watched him leave, hoping he’d change his mind and return. He didn’t.
Perhaps he sensed I’d also held something back and broken his trust. I’d not asked about other owners of my sword. Perhaps Prince Angle and I would travel to Malawi and seek more information.
I carried my sword inside the inn and went to our room. I placed it beside the clothing I’d later wear to the ball, then went back to the dining room where Elizabeth had changed tables again to talk with a matronly woman.
At the first break in their conversation, I said I was going to see if Bran was at the stables and we might explore the city. She told me that was a good idea, but she had made several new friends and wished to spend time with them.
They were wealthy and gossips. Those with enough money to have others wait on them all day must have a hobby. Gossip was the hobby of the rich. The
situation was perfect for her. Honest Bran was standing near his carriage flirting with a comely young woman. He leaped to attention at my appearance and the woman flitted off without introduction, which was unfortunate. Bran and I would have to discuss women at some point. He needed to learn to share his wealth.
I said, “The city is fascinating. I’d like to see more of it.”
He said, “Will you ride in the back or sit beside me today?”
The invitation was hard to pass up. I climbed to the seat with him so we could speak easily as he took us out on the road. I wanted to talk about the politics of Malawi, the temperament of the king, his three sons, and how the people felt about the rulers, taxes, laws, and especially any changes in personnel that occurred in the last few years.
The trick was to lead Bran into talking about those things without being obvious what information I was seeking. I said, “Can we circle the palace?”
“Ah, so you can see it from all angles. Of course. There are roads all around it.”
“And you can tell me what we’re looking at?”
He pointed, “That is the West Tower, the tallest point in Malawi. Built on the peak of the hill, it has a natural overlook . . .”
Anna’s voice entered my mind, pushing whatever Bran said aside. *We need to talk.*
*Now?*
*Yes.*
I glanced around and saw a public park filled with trees, benches, and open grass where children played. I said to Bran, “Please stop here. I need a few moments to clear my mind.”
I was climbing down before the carriage rolled to a stop. An empty slab of wood had been placed across two boulders the right height to form a bench and I sat. *I’m alone, now. What is it?*
*Your sister. She’s very distressed because of the dragon and crying. She says something is wrong with it.*
*There must be more for you to react this way.*
*She wants to go to it, to heal it or help. She insists.*
*Ouch. What does Will say?*
