Storm Season tw-4

by Robert Lynn Asprin

  "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 tell 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 Wale-grin'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 Temp us, Zaibar-" 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 niyra 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.

  "Well enough. I've lost my figure but I've got all my teeth, yet," she laughed again. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

  "Yes-and more," Walegrin didn't trust the smith who stood close behind him, but Illyra would tell him everything he said anyway. "I've brought back the ore. We were betrayed by treachery-I lost all but five of my men. I have made powerful enemies with my discovery. I need your help, Illyra, if I'm to protect myself and my men."

  "You found the steel ofEnlibar?" Dubro whispered while Illyra sought a more dignified position in the chair.

  "I found the ore," Walegrin corrected, suddenly realizing that the great ox of a monger probably expected to make the swords himself.

  "What do you need from me?" Illyra asked. "I'd think you'd need Dubro's help, not mine."

  "No," Walegrin spat out quickly. "I've found one to make my steel for me Balustrus, metal-master. He knows forging, grinding and tempering-"

  "And Ilsig alchemy," Dubro added. "Since he cast the Prince's god-bell it would seem good fortune falls to him."

  Walegrin did not like to think that Dubro knew of Balustrus and the making of steel. He attempted to ignore the knowledge and the smith. " 'Lyra, it's your help I need: your sight. With the cards you can tell me who I can trust and what I can do in safety."

  She frowned and smoothed her skirts over her great belly. "Not now, Walegrin. Not even if I could use the cards for such things. The baby-to-be takes so much from me; I don't have the sight. Moonflower warns me that I must not use the gifts so close to my time. It could be dangerous."

  "Moonflower? What is moonflower?" Walegrin complained, and heard a giggle from Dubro.

  "She is S'danzo. And she takes care of me, now-"

  "S'danzo?" Walegrin said in disbelief. "Since when do the S'danzo help you?"

  Illyra shrugged. "Even the S'danzo cannot remember forever, you know. The women have the sight, so the men feel free to wander with the wind. The women stay in one place all their lives; the men-It is forgotten."

  "Forgotten?" Walegrin leaned forward to whisper to her. "Illyra, this Moonflower who tells you not to use your sight-does she see those who used to come to you?"

  "She-or her daughter," Illyra admitted.

  "Illyra, breeding has clouded your mind. They will squeeze you out. They never forget."

  "If that were true, so much the worse for them. Since the mercenaries came to town scrying is not pleasant, Walegrin. I do not enjoy looking into the future of soldiers. I do not enjoy their reactions when I tell them the truth." She shifted again in the chair. "But, it is not true. When my son is bom the danger will be past and I will see again. Moonflower and Migurneal will not keep what is rightfully mine," she said with the calm confidence of one who has the upper hand. "You need not worry for me. I will not send you to Moonflower, either. I'll answer your questions myself, if I can, after my son is born-if you can wait that long."

  It seemed likely that she would be delivered of her child well before Balustrus finished making the swords, so Walegrin agreed to wait.

  4

  Balustrus' villa-foundry had fallen from fashionability long before the first Rankans reached Sanctuary. Weeds grew boldly in the mosaic face of Shipri in the attrium. There wasn't a room where the roof was intact and several where it was non-existant. Walegrin and Thrusher threw their belongings into a room once connected to the main attrium but now accessible only through a gaping hole in the wall. Still, it was a better billet than most they'd seen.

  The work was hard and dirty, with little time for recreation, though Sanctuary was in sight down the gentle slopes. Balustrus treated Walegrin and his men like ordinary apprentices, which meant they got enough food and more than enough abuse. If Walegrin had not borne his share
so stoically there might have been problems, but he was willing to sacrifice anything to the cause of his swords.

  For three weeks they lived in almost total isolation. A farmer delivered their food and gossip; an occassional mercenary came seeking Balustrus' services and was turned away. Only once did someone come looking for Walegrin himself, and that was after Illyra bore twins: a boy and a girl. The soldier sent them a gold piece to insure their registry in the rolls of citizenship at the palace.

  "Is it worth it, commander?" Thrusher asked as he kneaded a soothing balm into Walegrin's burnt shoulder. "We're here three weeks and all we have to show for ourselves is fresh scars."

  "What about full bellies and no problems from Kittycat? Yes, it's worth it. We should know how steel is made; I had always thought the smiths just took the ore and made it into swords. I had no idea there were so many steps in between."

  "Aye, so many steps. We've gone through two sacks already and what have we got? Three half-decent knives, a mountain of bad steel and a demon grinding away in the shed there. Maybe we would be better running. Sometimes I don't think we'll ever leave Sanctuary again."

  "He's mad, but no demon. And I think he's getting close to the steel we need. He's as eager to have the steel as we are-it's his life."

  The little man shook his head and eased Walegrin's tunic over the sore. "I don't like magic," he complained.

  "He only added a little bit of Ilsig silver- hardly enough to make a difference. We've got to expect a little magic. We found the mine with magic, didn't we? Balustrus isn't a magician. He said he couldn't put a spell on the metal like the Wrigglies put on steel, so he thought he'd try to add something to the steel that already had a spell on it."

  "Yeah-the Necklace of Harmony!"

  "You went to the temple and looked at the statue of Ils. You yourself said there was a silver necklace on the statue. You yourself said there wasn't a rumor in town to the effect that the necklace had been touched, much less stolen. It's not the Necklace of Harmony."