by Jim Hodgson
“Father, I love you, but our job is to be experts in all forms of metalworking. This is a metal I haven’t worked with before. Do you know how?”
Ozel considered that if he ducked down he might be able to hide behind a nearby worktable. That wouldn’t technically be running away, so Aysu might not be cross with him. But it wouldn’t be staying put so Aysu’s father couldn’t be angry with him either.
Aysu’s father sighed, hands on his hips. “This will end poorly.” He turned and walked away.
Ozel didn’t know what to say or where to look.
Aysu checked the fire. Finally she said, “All right, help me pour another one.”
Aysu told Ozel that by the end of the following day she’d be done beating the two bars of metal into sword shapes, and would have used the huge grinding wheel to put a rudimentary edge on them. Ozel closed up his shop for the evening and walked along the cobbled streets toward the blacksmith’s. He was looking forward to seeing the test of the blades, but also a little fearful. He hoped for her sake that they proved themselves worthy. She’d put a lot of effort into them and weathered a lot of pressure from her father.
These thoughts were interrupted when he heard something that stopped him in his tracks. He turned. He’d just passed the open door of a pub. The glow of lamplight within spilled out onto the cobbles which were just beginning to darken. He walked the few steps back toward the door and looked inside.
Three men were seated at the bar, mugs in hand, speaking in the general direction of a man behind the bar who had one cloth over his shoulder and another working at the inside of a cup. It didn’t appear that the man behind the bar was paying much attention.
An old man was in the middle of a sentence. He said, “…tell you, if she manages to create real Koksal steel, it’ll be the end of this town.”
Two other men at the bar groaned at this. “Aw, come on,” one said.
“No, no, I tell you true,” said the first, raising his mug. A few of his syllables were slurred. “It’s a slippery slope, this one. Slippery slope. Bad enough when some people get themselves a normal blade, but what about a sword that could chop a building clean in half?”
One of the other men guffawed at this. “Chop a building,” he repeated.
“You watch. You just watch. There will be a crowd there tonight to see if she’s done it. If she has, you might be best advised to get out of Dilara before the whole place comes down.”
One of the other men snorted at this and muttered, “Have another one.”
At this point, the bartender looked up, saw Ozel in the doorway, nodded. “Evening, sir,” he said, setting his cup down. “Hungry?”
The three men at the bar turned to look. At least one of them recognized Ozel, judging by his expression.
“No, thank you,” Ozel said. As he turned and continued down the street he heard one of the men at the bar say, “Well, now you’ve gone and done it.”
The old man was right about the crowd. More people than usual were milling about in the street around Aysu’s shop. Ozel didn’t know how the word had gotten out, but these people appeared to be treating the sword test as some sort of spectacle.
Aysu hugged him when he arrived. “Isn’t this great? Look at all these people!”
“Yeah, I ...” Ozel said. “I suppose.”
“Suppose? No matter what happens, at least they know where my shop is now, right? I bet business improves. You watch.”
Ozel thought a lot of people were using the phrase “you watch” tonight. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to watch.
Aysu’s father leaned against a post nearby. For all his bluster, he was wearing a concerned expression. He didn’t seem to want to watch either.
People milling about in the street stopped chattering and clustered around as Aysu hefted one of the swords.
“Oi,” someone shouted. “Is that one of those legendary swords?”
Aysu shook her head. “It’s just an experiment. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
There was a log laid across two wooden trestles, nicked in places from previous tests of edge weapons and burned in other areas where it had been used to shape hot metal. Aysu planted her feet, swung the sword in a circle in the air experimentally, testing the weight. Then she sighted down the length of it, and seemed to like what she saw.
“All right then, stand back a bit,” she called. “You never know what could—”
Someone in the crowd shouted over her. “I bet she cuts the log right in half!”
Aysu shook her head at this. “With a new work piece like this it’s just as likely—”
Another voice rang out, “No woman blacksmith in the world could make a proper sword!”
Ozel saw the change on Aysu’s face. She gritted her teeth. Ozel thought, Oh, no.
Ozel heard Aysu’s father quietly say, “Oi!” in a warning tone.
Aysu lifted the sword, then brought it down firmly against the log. It bit into the wood.
Ozel breathed a sigh of relief. Leave it there, he thought. Just let that be it.
“Swing it properly, darling!” a voice called. Ozel thought he could see who had said it. A pair of young men were hanging near the back of the crowd and smirking at one another. Ozel turned to see if Aysu’s father had seen them as well, but he was no longer leaning against his post.
Aysu’s jaw clenched. She lifted the sword once more and brought it down on the log with a more forceful swing. As she did, it made a jarring clanging noise. The business half of the sword broke away and clattered to the cobbles.
There were a few laughs in the crowd. Some people made disappointed sounds. One laugh sounded incredibly derisive. Aysu’s face was pure disappointment. The onlookers shuffled around and looked like they might drift away.
Then, again from the back of the crowd came, “Make a baby instead!” followed by laughter and then a sharp intake of breath. Ozel elbowed through the tide of people. When he could finally get a good look at where the hecklers had been standing, there was no one to be seen. He looked up the street and thought he saw the back of Aysu’s father’s shirt disappear into an alley. Ozel ran up the street and rounded the corner to find Aysu’s father with the scruff of a young man’s neck in each massive hand.
The old blacksmith was scolding first one boy and then the other. “… Answer me that, eh? What have either of you made besides a wet spot in your own breeches? Does my girl come down to the stables and ask if you got every spot of muck out of each stall?” Both young men were trembling with fear but neither answered. “Eh?”
They both responded this time. “No, sir!”
“I should crack your empty heads together and make the world a better place,” he said.
Ozel felt a pang of fear that Aysu’s father might actually hurt the two boys, but then he just shoved both away. They had to run to keep from stumbling into the damp filth of the alley. They looked nervously back as they scurried away, and were gone.
Aysu’s father turned, saw that Ozel was watching, sighed, and shook his head. Then he marched out of the alley, up the street, and back to the blacksmith’s shop.
Aysu was back at the forge pretending, not very convincingly, that nothing had happened.
Her father stood quietly behind her for a moment as she worked the bellows. Then he said, “This is my fault.”
Aysu did not answer other than to pull on the lever that made air whoosh into the forge. The coals pulsed with each pull.
Aysu’s father kept speaking to her back. “I didn’t want you to work that ore—”
“Well, I know that, don’t I?” Aysu asked, cutting him off. “You made yourself very plain that you didn’t want me working it. Now I’ve failed in front of those assholes. I hope you’re happy.”
“But I didn’t tell you why I didn’t want you working it.”
Aysu stopped pulling on the bellows.
“I didn’t want you working it because I tried before. When I was younger. I tried for years to get it
right. I became obsessed with it for a time. Listening to the legends, thinking I was going to be a legend myself. I didn’t want you to make the mistakes I made.”
Aysu turned around. “Why couldn’t you just say that before all this?”
“And you’d have listened?”
Aysu opened her mouth, then closed it.
Her father went on, “It’s not a normal ore. It needs some additional alloy or final finishing step or else it comes out like you just saw. Brittle and useless. I tried everything. Whatever the secret is, it’s lost.” He stepped toward his daughter, brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Please don’t make the mistakes I made. Don’t get stuck trying to make a legendary sword. You’re already legendary.”
Ozel thought Aysu was going to shout. She was gritting her teeth so hard he feared she’d grind them to paste. But in the end, she let her father fold her up in his arms and kiss her.
After a moment, Aysu said, “Ozel?”
“Yes?”
“Did my dad pull those boys’ arms off?”
Ozel glanced at Aysu’s father, but his back was turned. “It was a strong possibility for a moment there, but no, he let them go.”
“Well, that’s good then,” Aysu said. “In a way.”
Chapter 19
The same scholars who had been called upon to verify Usta’s claim to the throne were called together once more. This time they were asked how to plan a royal wedding. They’d taken a week to think about it, and sent word to the palace that they were ready to give a presentation on the matter at the king’s convenience. They brought heavy volumes with them in a wooden cart. A palace guard helped carry the big books into the hall.
When Usta, Elgin, and the three scholars were seated around the table, Usta nodded at the scholar in charge, Erben Polat, to begin.
Polat stood, bowed, cleared his throat, then touched his head. His head was bald above a ring of white hair that circled his scalp. Usta thought Polat must have developed the habit of touching his hair back when he had some and had never stopped doing it when the hair was gone.
“Your Majesties,” Polat said. “I understand that we are to have a new tapestry.”
Usta nodded.
Polat gave a satisfied smile and a small series of bouncing nods. The other scholars seemed pleased as well. “We are thrilled to hear it. This country has been without a new tapestry for an age. Right. On to the royal wedding. How many people do you plan to invite to the ceremony?”
“All of them,” Elgin said.
Polat raised a white eyebrow. “All the noble families?” he asked, sounding somewhat hopeful.
“We want everyone in Dilara,” Usta said. “A feast to end all feasts. Every man, woman, and child who wishes to attend is welcome.”
Polat regained his composure, “Well, that will certainly—”
“Living or dead,” Elgin said, meaningfully.
“Yes, indeed,” Usta agreed.
Polat’s mouth hung open. “Dead,” he whispered.
“We were thinking of planks of wood down the middle of the streets, if need be. Roast meats and bread as far as the eye can see,” Usta said.
“B-but, Your Majesty, there is no way the palace kitchen could—”
“Ah,” Usta interjected. “We have a plan for that. We will hire every pub and inn in the city to help us cook. We will supply the ingredients and pay for the kitchen’s time in gold pieces.”
“It will be a national day of cooking and then a national evening of feasting,” Elgin explained.
“Well, that’s ...” Polat said, then seemed to become aware that he might be in danger of treading into dangerous water. “Certainly a new approach,” he finished. He coughed. The other two scholars looked like they were glad Polat was leading this meeting. “Surely Your Majesties will want to have a private, royal dinner in the hall with the heads of the top noble families? After dinner the king traditionally retires to smoke cigars with the gentlemen.”
“This sounds a bit old-fashioned to us,” Usta said.
“I should think so, Your Majesty, it’s a tradition that extends backward to a time before history.”
“Let’s move on for now,” Elgin suggested.
“Right, well,” Polat said. “On to the officiant. We have compiled a list of the church’s top priests. Of course, Your Majesties know the church is diminished and in some disarray but—”
“We were thinking of having Wagast marry us,” Usta said.
“The wizard?” Polat said. He quickly added, “Yes, of course. The wizard. Wagast the Wise.” He coughed again. “It’s just that, typically during a ceremony like this, a ruler takes the opportunity to underscore that their power is derived from the will of God, which they do by having a top member of the church oversee it. It’s a tradition.”
“We understand the symbolism,” Elgin said. “But in this case, we are marrying two different people and two different peoples, if you’ll pardon my wordplay. There are at least two different approaches to religion here, so to favor one over another we feel would not represent us.”
“We like the symbolism of Wagast better,” Usta said. “Since he is, as you say, wise, we feel it gives our union a sense of considered, deliberate motion.”
“Right you are, then, Your Majesty. I take your meaning — that is, I speak for my colleagues when I say we take your meaning well. It’s just that the traditions of a nation are so important.”
The other two scholars nodded emphatically.
“There’s one other thing,” Elgin said, frowning.
Usta wondered what this could be, since they’d already covered what he thought they needed to impart.
“We’d like the three of you to be part of the ceremony,” Elgin said.
The three scholars looked at one another. “Well, Your Majesty, that’s a great honor. My only concern would be that as humble scholars we are more accustomed to a darkened library than a royal dais. Aren’t we?”
The other two looked a little frightened, but they managed nods.
“Not to worry,” Elgin said. “You’ll acquit yourselves well, we have no doubt. We’ll just get you fitted for Ilbezian summer wear.”
Polat looked down at his rough linen robes. “Summer wear?”
“Of course,” Elgin said. “Loose white shirt, short pants high on the leg, bright red shoes.”
Polat couldn’t help himself. “Short pants?” he gasped. “But, Your Majesty!”
“It is our tradition,” Elgin said.
Polat’s face had gone red and he was working his open mouth now, trying to think of a way to express his great alarm while being respectful. “But ... red shoes! My legs! I …”
“It seems arbitrary doesn’t it, when presented with another culture’s traditions?”
Uh, oh, Usta thought. She has you now.
“Well, Your Majesty, I would never suggest—”
“Perhaps,” Elgin continued, “given that our lives have changed so much in recent years, it’s time we made a few new traditions, and let a few of the old ones go?”
At this point, Polat, to his credit and to his great relief, realized that he might not have to wear short pants. He and the other scholars were looking at Elgin with expressions of reverence. Usta thought they even looked utterly thrilled that she’d outfoxed them this way.
Elgin smiled. “Now, let’s talk about which of the garments the king and I should wear. We want to blend the two countries’ traditional vestments, but also present ourselves as confident, fresh, and exciting.”
“Your Majesty is definitely exciting,” one of the lesser scholars breathed.
Usta arched an eyebrow at the man.
“Thank you,” Elgin said. “I am but a product of Ilbez. It is an exciting place.”
“True enough,” Usta said, smiling at his bride.
She smiled sweetly back.
The door opened and Yonca strode into the hall, her face grave. That could only mean one thing, Usta thought. Bad news.
Yonca drew herself up when they were in a more private room, and told them. “King Bilal Sakir is dead.”
The news hit Usta like a spear to the heart. “What? How can that be? What’s happened?”
Yonca shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know why or how, but my spiders bring me news. It happened in the mountains south of here, between us and Ilbez. The hill people captured him, carried him away, and killed him.”
“Why would they do that?” Elgin asked.
“They’re a murderous lot,” Yonca said.
“Yes, but they’re indiscriminate. They don’t seek specific people out and murder them.”
Yonca spread her hands. “I’m afraid all I know is that he’s been killed.”
“We’ll have to tell Ergam,” Usta said.
“Perhaps we should ask Ozel to do it?” Elgin said. “They are close. It might be easier hearing it from a friend.”
“No,” Usta said. “It would be wrong to hand this duty away.”
Chapter 20
Ergam took the news well. That is, in his own opinion, he took the news well. He nodded, and thanked his friends for doing their best to make a terrible situation as good as it could be. Ergam wished he could put a mask over his face so that his friends wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of seeing him in this anguish. Then he remembered that the only reason they could see his emotions was the magical mask the witch Guzul the Fierce had given him. That seemed like a hundred lifetimes past.
“How long ago did this happen?” he asked. Ergam had never seen Yonca look so concerned.
“To be clear, since I wasn’t there and didn’t see it myself, I can’t say for certain,” she said. “Probably a day ago.”
“But the spiders?”
Yonca nodded. “The hill people captured your father with the help of another extramortal, dragged him away up the slope.”
“And then …?”
“My spiders didn’t follow to the peak. A storm was coming. But they have not seen him since and—” Yonca coughed. Then she swallowed. “And there are bones.”