by Garon Whited
“And his son, Sir Peldar?”
I began to see where this was going. The sashes she was talking about were narrow things looped about the waist three or four times, then the tasseled ends hung down from the hip to about mid-thigh. The baron had golden tassels; his son had silver ones. Presumably, it was a badge of knighthood.
“All right. We’ll buy one today.”
“Not until you have Sir Raeth to go with you; he’s must purchase it and give it to you, along with some other things. Although,” she added, looking thoughtful, “if he’s short on money, I suppose you could give him funds beforehand. I am not entirely sure.”
I began to slowly realize that this was some sort of big deal. But then, I come from a republic, not a monarchy. Where I come from, a title is generally just a job description.
“Care to explain to me exactly what’s just happened? I’ve never been knighted before.”
She worried her lower lip. “I… I am not entirely certain, but I have learned more of it while residing in Baret. A knight is more than just a title; even nobility must earn their sash and such. It is quite possible to have a baron, or even a king, who is not a knight.”
“So what’s with the gift-giving?”
“The one bestowing the knighthood must make certain gifts to the new knight, you see. It marks him as a knight, as his… his badge of honor. His identification.”
“As a knight.”
“Yes. I think. But I think it is more than that, too. Knights have certain requirements to go with their authority and their privileges. I am not certain, exactly.”
I sighed. Oh, well; I had time. We’d wait for Sir Raeth and Sir Bouger. I said as much. Shada smiled and finished her breakfast.
“Can we go shopping, my lord?” she asked. I was hit by a memory flashback to Sasha, asking exactly the same thing. The occasion escapes me, but she had said that at one point or other, and Shada sparked the memory.
“Of course,” I answered, automatically. “I also have to get up to the gate and make sure they let the escapees in.”
“Then that we shall do first.”
And we did. The day garrison remembered us. Surprisingly, they were polite, took down the names and descriptions, and promised to let the night watch know about it. Maybe their commander had words with the troops.
Then we went shopping. I stopped by a hostler or carriage-wright or whatever you call the place. The man dealt with horses and with carriages; I don’t know what the shop is called and I didn’t ask. Since I don’t care to own a rickshaw, I rented one for the day by putting down enough to buy it, with the understanding that I would get the lion’s share back when I returned the thing.
In carriage terms, it was a sporty little two-seater. No cushions, but it wasn’t for picnics; it was a working cart for people to ride with some baggage. Ideal for a shopping trip.
Bronze looked it over, looked at me, and seemed to sigh. I harnessed her in and stroked her nose; my guess was she didn’t like draft duty. I thought about offering her a sugar cube, but she’s made of bronze. What do you offer a bronze horse?
I was tempted to shelve the notion until a more opportune time, but the shelf was getting full.
“Bronze?”
She lifted her head and twitched an ear at me.
“Is there anything you’d like to eat? Other horses get carrots and such. If you spot something you might like to nibble, let me know, okay?”
She nodded, turning her head to look at me with one eye.
“You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”
She nodded again.
“How?”
I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not something that can be answered fully with a whinny or a stomp of a hoof. Instead, she lifted her head and tapped me on the skull with her chin. It felt like a sledgehammer.
I got up, rubbing the top of my head, and glared at her.
“Next time, just shake your head if I ask something too complicated.”
She nodded again. Was that a horsy smile?
Shada and I got into the cart and we trotted along. Eastgate was a nice town, all things considered. It was still something less than downtown New York, but for the time and place… well, I’d gotten used to the local technology and had some experience with roughing it. It was actually pretty decent, compared to, say, slogging through the local forests.
This time, instead of just visiting the local dry-goods store, we toured the more upscale merchants. Shada exchanged some of our jewelry for coins, spent some time having measurements taken at a dressmaker’s, made me take off my boots so the cobbler could have a look at my feet, and otherwise took me in hand for a tour of the local shops. I didn’t mind. I could probably have managed on my own, but nowhere near as efficiently.
Bronze, however, made an unscheduled stop of her own, down in the lower-middle-class section. We were heading down the street at a walk, sticking to the center since most traffic was pedestrian, and she pulled over in front of a smithy. I knew I hadn’t done it, so I got out of the cart and went inside.
The whole front wall was wooden and rigged to swing upward; with the addition of a couple of posts out in the street, it made an awning of sorts. This was mainly to let air get inside easily, I think. The smith was a big, burly fellow with arms like knotted hawsers and a partial deafness. The younger version of himself was helping; it didn’t take much brain to recognize the two were related, probably father and son. The smith gestured and the younger fellow put the whatever-it-was back in the forge. Then the smith turned to me.
“Aye? And what can I be doin’ for you?” he asked, sounding friendly enough.
“I’m not sure. I think I’d like a sample of various metals, please. Iron, steel, copper, bronze, tin, and whatever else you have. Just something the size of a nail, at least to start. I’ll be back for more as soon as I figure out which one I need.”
The man’s eyebrows climbed his forehead. “And what might you be needin’ such things for?”
I smiled. “I’m a wizard.”
“Oh.” And that was that. He hunted up several metals, both shards and ingots; iron and copper were easy, since there were iron scraps about and copper coins. Steel was harder, since it was hard to make and seldom wasted; I wound up purchasing an unfinished knife. There was zinc and tin for making brass and bronze. He melted some into bronze for me and I bought a set of brass buttons while I was at it. I also got some silver from him for the gold I gave, so that worked out.
While his son was working the bellows to melt the bronze, the smith asked, “Wizard? ’Tis certain that what you’re doin’ is beyond my ken, but would ye take a moment to try and explain? I’m powerful curious.”
“Sure. This going to be a minute?”
“Aye.”
“Then step outside and meet someone.”
We did so, and I introduced Shada. He bowed. “Pleasure to meet wi’ you,” he said. “I am mastersmith Larel.”
“How do you do, mastersmith?”
“Well enough, and thank ye, lady.”
“And this,” I said, diverting him, “is my horse, Bronze. Bronze, this is mastersmith Larel.”
Bronze extended one foreleg, drew back the other, and dipped her head in a bow.
Larel stared hard at her. “Your horse…”
“… is Bronze,” I finished. “Yes. She has no need to eat, so far as I know, but I have a mind to see if there is anything she will.”
He blinked, and I could almost hear the hamster squealing as it sprinted in the wheel.
“So you’ll see if I’ve aught that will feed her?”
“Yes.”
He walked around her, carefully, gently patting her neck and rubbing her sides.
“’Tis excellent work,” he said, finally. “I could cast such a figure, but another must need ha’ made the mold. I have never seen the like. She’s a right beauty, she is.”
I chuckled and glanced at Shada. She was reclining in the cart, arms folded, trying not to smile; not a w
ord about her beauty, but Bronze was the only metal at hand. Maybe all smiths are like that. Or maybe he thought it would be forward to say anything about Shada. It would certainly have been forward to handle her as he was handling Bronze. But Bronze didn’t mind.
“That she is,” I agreed. “Fast, smart, tough, and beautiful. I like her. Do you see why I would like to find something she will eat?”
“If she wishes it, I’d feed her the finest steel I can craft,” he remarked. “My thanks for the kindness; I’ll surely sleep better for having been shown. Shall I bring her the pieces?”
“Sure.”
A moment later, Bronze was sniffing at the various bits of metal. She nibbled on the iron scraps, spat it out. The tin was more palatable, but she didn’t take more than a few ounces of it—and a good thing, too; chewing it made a racket.
“Nothing you like?”
She shook her head.
“Still think there’s something here?”
Nod.
“Well, there’s some bronze in the forge—”
Headshake.
“No? Well, I’m stumped.”
Shada called out, “Why should she wish to eat bronze? She is.”
I thought about that. Horses don’t eat horseflesh, but you are what you eat. “Good point.”
“Wizard?” asked the smith. “If I may?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“If she’ll take no metals, then p’raps coal? It feeds the forge to make the metal.”
“Excellent thought! Fetch me a rock, please.”
He did so, and I held it out on my open palm. Bronze snuffled it, snapped it up, and made crunching noises with it. Then she butted me in the chest—ouch—and sent me sprawling backward into the smithy. I hit the floor hard and skidded into Larel’s feet.
Lying on the smithy floor, I folded my hands together and looked up at the startled Larel.
“I think we found something she likes,” I observed. “One bucket of coal, please, and a hand up.”
Nodnodnod.
I have a coal-fired horse. Pity the statue wasn’t iron; I could have named her “Locomotive.”
A few minutes later, we had a bucket of coal on the street—plus an audience—and Bronze was chomping away at it. The coal, not the audience. I noticed smoke was coming from her ears. Just a little smoke, but it was there. I wondered if she was ready to breathe fire already.
“What do I owe you, my good mastersmith?”
We dickered for a bit and I let him get the better end of the bargain. Neither of us was really paying attention to the haggling; we were watching Bronze eat.
I did find myself interested in his shop, however. Maybe I’m being stereotypical, but there I was, a guy wanting to hang around the garage while the lady went shopping for dresses. I’m sorry, but dresses and shopping just aren’t my speed, unless we’re looking at books, computers, or other kinds of toys. I watched for a while, observing the work, until Shada climbed down from the cart. She stood in the entryway with her arms folded, looking at me.
I resolved to come back later.
I handed her back into the cart and we got underway again. Shada enjoyed the day out; to a degree, so did I, despite Bronze’s ears giving off a rather unpleasant sort of smoky odor from whatever internal processes were going on. What kind of digestion does a golem have? And do I need a pooper-scooper for them?
On the trip back through town toward the inn, I brought up the subject of her freedom. After all, she’d agreed to help me when she didn’t have much choice. I didn’t want her to feel I was forcing her to stay. If she wanted to, okay. But I had to clear that up.
“You know, I think I’ve got most of the hang of this place now,” I said. “If you want, you can afford to do pretty much anything you like.”
She glanced at me and frowned. “I do not understand.”
“I’m saying that if you don’t want to be around anymore, I’ll understand. I needed you—as a guide—for a while. Now I think I can manage on my own. And I know that you aren’t too happy about… well… me being what I am. I don’t suppose you have better prospects, but by now you could surely afford to find less distasteful ones, if you want.”
“Are you telling me that you want me to go?” she asked.
“Not at all,” I answered, feeling my stomach do a flip-flop. I didn’t want her to go, but I needed to let her know she could. “I’m just pointing out that you can if you like. It’s your feelings I’m trying to consider. I know you don’t like me much—I’m a bloodsucking fiend of evil and all—but you put on a good face and haven’t rubbed my nose in it, and I appreciate that. So I won’t stop you if you’d rather be somewhere else.”
She sniffed at me. “You,” she replied, frostily, “are the most arrogant and stupid man I have ever had the misfortune to know. Stop the cart.”
“What?”
“Stop the cart,” she repeated, in a tone suitable for addressing high-grade morons. I did so, feeling a deep-down sense of dread.
She got down, collected her purchases in one arm, and looked me squarely in the eyes. Her monologue described my mental, physical, and moral shortcomings in detail, rising from a conversational tone to something like a priestess’ chant. I barely kept up with what she was saying and can’t reproduce it without mangling it. It went on for over a minute, maybe two or three. People stopped to listen and stare. Even Bronze turned to look. I felt my face get warm while she boiled hotter and hotter.
“You self-centered, narrow-minded, black-hearted excuse for a man,” she shrilled, trembling. “For a while, I had thought it was an incredible irony that such as you might be different from a normal man—but I was wrong! You’re no better than them, no better than the mud between the toes of a pig! Men are always dolts, but you are exceptional! Get away. Go on! Get away from me before I say something unkind!” she finished.
Then she turned on her heel and stalked off. I stared after her, dumbfounded. I found I couldn’t do anything else. I wanted to chase after her—to say something, anything. I couldn’t move. I watched her go and realized with a sense of shock that she was leaving.
It hurt. I didn’t want her to go. I was surprised at how much it hurt. It felt like Terri all over again, but with my own stupidity to blame this time. All I could do was watch her vanish into the crowd.
I flicked the reins and headed back to the manor. I didn’t want people to see their wizard weep in public.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 10TH
I took the sunset gracefully, without even convulsing. As Sasha mentioned, the changes weren’t nearly so bad if I had led a good life and didn’t need a lot of regeneration. Things seemed pretty mild. I could get used to it, or at least learn to tolerate it as a necessary nuisance.
There was no sign of Shada, and I was fidgeting. Waiting. If I’d had a book, I might have killed some time by reading, but I didn’t even have a paperback. I needed a distraction. Finally, I decided this might be a good time to have a chat with Firebrand.
I settled down at the low, rickety table in my room and laid Firebrand on it. I didn’t need light, but I got a candle just the same; some fire seemed appropriate.
“Hello,” I tried. I’m sure I must have looked silly to any third party, but I’d felt that sword; I knew someone/something was in there.
It didn’t answer. It was a very sleepy sword.
I touched it lightly, like I would touch the spirit of a man. It sounded deeper and harder, if that makes any sense, and somnolent and inquisitive at once.
“Hello,” I tried again.
It stirred. And, in a flash, I was no longer sitting in my room. I was standing in a cavern—I know the smell of a cave, and there was the echo you might expect. I spun around, looking the place over and staring; it was a big bloody cavern. But the place had an air about it that reminded me of my mental study, the place where I go to write this down, make notes for later, read my notes-slash-reference library. But it wasn’t my mental study—it wasn’t my mental study. I
’m not sure if it’s in my headspace or in the sword or somewhere in between.
“What do you want?” came the voice, and what I had taken for a pile of rock stirred slowly. Large head. Long neck. Scales. Those were wings, not flows of cooled lava… eyes the size of my head, lids just barely open. The voice was a cross between a hissing and a grinding, like a heavy stone as it slid over gravel.
“To speak with you,” I answered. My voice sounded awfully faint and piping next to the rock-grinding-crushing-grumbling of the dragon.
“Then you have your wish. Be silent.”
“Hold on a minute! I have questions.”
“Yes, you have questions now,” it observed, as the head rose higher to look down at me. The cavern roof was only a few feet farther when it stopped. Big bloody dragon, with eyes that glowed the color of my own. “Be brief. I require rest.”
“Okay,” I replied. Seemed fair to me. “What are you?”
There was a pause, as though for thought, then, “I am the sword of fire.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am the blade forged of the heart of the dragon.”
I thought about that for a second, and thought of Bronze. “Then my sword has the spirit of a dragon inside it? You’re the thing in the metal?”
“Much of it, yes.”
I haven’t met a dragon before. But, judging by this, I don’t want to, either. It looked at me as though it looked at all of me—the good, the bad, the hidden. I felt like I was four and my all-knowing, all-powerful grandfather was giving me the Long, Hard Look.
“So who made you?” I ventured.
“You did.”
I shut up. It regarded me for a moment more, then settled itself into a position of repose. As suddenly as I left, I was back in the room at the inn, exactly as if I had never moved. Which, considering the nature of my encounter, was probably the case. It now had the quality of a dream or a vision; I think I was drawn into the blade to talk to it, or it found a congenial imagery in my mind to talk through. Whichever, it implied a power in the sword I had not suspected.
Which didn’t help my feeling of unease. My ability to be disturbed was diminishing—there were a lot of things I’d been through that just made the typical wow-that-creeps-me-out things seem trivial. But what it had said… .