The Sheening Of The Blades (Book 1)

by Kari Cordis

After an interminable stretch of silence, the lieutenant finally cleared his throat and, looking almost human, said, “Well, I suppose you’re leaving anyway…” He snapped his neat little book up under his arm and stepped off the barge with a few staccato steps.

  “Ahh, the North,” Banion said as they floated on and Cerise fumed and spluttered and formed incoherent half-sentences. “Never more beautiful than when it’s behind you.”

  “Good thing it’s perfectly stable,” Loren couldn’t help remarking.

  The river became increasingly congested once in Merrani. Ari noticed his Wilds to the north were not as steep now as they headed to the Sea, their green flanks dotted picturesquely with boulders and crisscrossed with more and more well-trod paths.

  To the south, the rocky foothills of the Ethammers overtook the Empire’s fertile fields, a few scattered cotholders now barely scratching out a living from what was a breadbasket of bounty just a league to the west. Clothed with rock and thick evergreen forest, the bank rose increasingly into a tangled mass, more wild and unkempt the farther east they went. The straight, dull placidity of the Kendrick was vivacious now with rowdy Merranic traffic, all of which hailed Effenrike like he was a long lost brother. The river began to twist and turn so sharply that it was a shock when they rounded a hairpin bend and were suddenly at the Sea.

  The bustling docks of Alene, a city that looked like someone had watered the rock of Merrani and grew more of the same, sat right at the mouth of the Kendrick where it flared out into the jeweled water of the Bay of Saffir. Limitless horizon called like a siren to the boys’ eyes as they gazed out at the bright, beckoning immenseness. Never had they seen so much water, never had the dash of waves and the sparkle of sunlight on their crests seemed so full of promise. Adventure whispered, tugging at their hearts, drowning out the ruckus of the crowd of vessels, the rowdy quays and bellowing dockworkers. They had to be sharply brought back to reality to help unload the horses.

  Alene was no less fascinating, clinging to the edge of the Bay in a maze of rock on rock on rock: cobblestoned streets, buildings made of nothing but big blocks of stone, slate roofing. No wood anywhere. No grass, no trees, no flowers—not even a window box relieved the town architectural fetish. And there were no parks or open spaces like in the North. The streets were all narrow and irregular and broken only now and then by a stream gurgling down through town to the Sea.

  This stone and rock warren bottled up all the native life into such a level of noise and exuberance that it outdid even a Northern tradehall. Their senses were bombarded with the strangeness, with the almost overpowering smells of sweat and fish, and with the Merranics in their eye-assaulting flamboyant colors. Everywhere was the hearty roaring of a people blessed with bottomless lung capacity. In general, Merranics dressed in colorful trousers tucked into high boots, were prone to fur, and almost without exception had great heads of hair and beards. Some of the men wore earrings, and all of them wore a sword. They were a big, well-muscled people, even the women running to tall and husky, with saucy laughs and snapping eyes. To Ari’s delight, there were several redheads, though of the normal carrot color and all with respectable blue or gray or greenish eyes. But, with their tanned, weathered faces, he felt he could almost pass as one of them. No one stared, except the girls, interestedly, which he supposed wasn’t all that bad.

  Banion led them unerringly uphill through the winding streets until they topped out on a section that was relatively straight and wide. The breeze off the ocean hit them here, bringing with it such a pungent whiff of some atrocity that everyone but Banion literally gagged. Rodge buried his head in his dirty tunic.

  “Shedder,” Banion explained happily, waving one meaty hand out over the sea to the far cliffs of Addah. Dimly, through the haze of distance, Ari could make out enormous vats set into the distant cliff side of the Wilds. He barely had time to consider them before Loren had grabbed his arm, intending to pinch it off from the feel of it. Wincing, he followed his excited gesture. Just below them on the slanting hillside of the city sat a huge complex of magnificent stone. It was encaged like a fortress, an endless stream of bearded, furred men flowing through its gates. Only tradehouses were ever that busy in the North, but it was a gigantic Merranic flag that flew over this colossus, and the deep blue sparkle of the Sapphire that graced the enormous entrance.

  “The Forges of Vangoth,” they breathed, almost in unison.

  It was torture to slowly trail after the others, to wait impatiently while Banion haggled over the price of a room—Ari hadn’t known there were places that voluntarily would lower their price—but finally the stableman took their horses, they threw their saddlepacks in their room, and they were free.

  Rodge just rolled his eyes when they invited him, so they could move quickly back through the strange new streets. Girls with corselets (on the outside!) over their flowing blouses and bulky skirts smiled boldly at them, swinging their ubiquitous woven baskets. Men of all types lumbered by, often making cheerful excuses as they bumped into them. Nobody in Archemounte’s streets ever even smiled.

  The Forges were easy to find, all the biggest, busiest main streets leading unerringly to their gates. It was almost all foot traffic around them, horses big enough to carry Merranics probably needed for farm work. Ari and Loren came down off the hill at the side of the leaping, white-tipped Steelblood, the famous stream that fed the Forges with the compounds so crucial to the life of its metals. Coming in at one of the side entrances because it was a little quieter, they approached slowly, almost reverently. Two immense, muscled Merranics in vests of dark grey fur and loose breeches of a billowing dark blue stopped them at the open door. Just inside, they could see the orange of the furnaces and smell the heady scent of iron and steel being worked, tantalizingly close. The clang of metal poured out, echoing as if the inside was one huge cavern.

  “My father has a sword from here,” Loren explained, a little dreamily.

  “Most men do,” one of the guards said, gruffly tolerant. “Main entrance that way.”

  They wandered around and then through the great double doors of exquisitely worked hammered steel, strolling through corridor after corridor in a daze, in a sort of metal ecstasy. Sitting out on display was virtually anything that could be made of iron, steel, bronze, tin, lead, copper, pewter, or silver. There was even a little gold. There were sculptures, figurines, carvings, cooking pots, hair pins, and needles. There was a section of cart axles, plowshares, scythes, and pitchforks. Silverware, servingware, belt buckles, gameboards, jewelry—all sat out for sale.

  But mostly, there were weapons. If eyes could drool, Ari and Loren’s did, lingering longingly on the two-handed greatswords, common broadswords, elegant longswords, shortswords, rapiers, sabres, lances, javelins, pikes, halberds, spears. Knives—cooking, hunting, daggers of every shape, dirks, perfectly balanced throwing knives—were displayed on every corner. Damascened, inlaid, acid-etched, engraved, set with any jewel or stone you could imagine, it was almost too much to take in, extending for halls and halls and halls.

  They ogled and sucked in their breath and pointed out to each other the most exquisite, getting lost several times (who cared? They could have wandered happily until time stopped). Always in the background were the lurid flames of a hundred forges, the hulking figures of steelsmiths silhouetted in front of them as their powerful arms pounded out the rhythm of the Realm. The boys accidentally crossed the Great Hall a half-dozen times, a yawning cavern of a room with a ceiling so far overhead it was obscured by the forge smoke. There was always a crowd of men there. They were on their knees before the huge silver likeness of Vangoth that took up one entire wall, the Triele in his silver hands glinting a dull blue far overhead. It was exotic, barbaric, almost savage compared to the refinement of the North. The boys were rapturous.

  It was hours later that they remembered the time, sprinting guiltily all the way back up the hill in the dark to the inn. Everyone had already gone to dinner, but it didn’t take them lo
ng to find their party. They heard Cerise’s strident voice over every other sound in the crowded, smoky room—and the Merranics were not a quiet people.

  “What do you mean, they don’t have wine?” she was demanding as they slid unobtrusively into their seats. “It doesn’t have to be Queensmarked, or anything.”

  Banion, deep into an urn of beer and already mellow, said, “There’re no vineyards in Merrani. The grapes never developed a taste for fish gut fertilizer, so we never developed a taste for them.”

  She stared at him. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Where have you two been?” she asked, as talk turned general. Loren told her and Rodge made some cynical comment, but Ari was no longer listening. He’d sat next to Kai, and the low conversation between him and Melkin and Banion at that end of the table made him instantly forget the squabbling on the other side.

  “Any luck?” Melkin was asking, gravelly voice low. Kai gave a single negative shake of his head, but Banion said defensively, “I’ll ask around tomorrow. There have to be some around—there hasn’t been a time Alene’s been clean of them.”

  “It may have to wait,” Kai said and they both looked at him. Just then, their food came, and Ari impatiently took his huge plate, full of a salmon steak the size of a bread loaf, just to get it out of the way of the conversation. He didn’t want to miss anything here. The public room was raucously noisy anyway, a whole room full of Banions and Effenrikes. The men next to him were waiting until the serving folk left, so he took a swig of the ale, which almost needed to be chewed, to avoid looking like he was eavesdropping.

  Finally, when it was just them again, Kai said quietly, “Sable’s called a Kingsmeet.” Banion and Melkin looked like someone had thrown water in their face. A what? Ari wondered.

  “A Kingsmeet?” Melkin hissed in disbelief, leaning towards Kai as if perhaps he just hadn’t heard right. “There hasn’t been a Kingsmeet in over a hundred years!”

  “Hundred and fifty, at least,” Banion said, looking stunned. Melkin gave a sudden bark of laughter, neither happy nor amused. “Good for her,” he muttered grimly.

  Banion said slowly. “This’ll change things…probably the best is to go down to Merrane by sea and cut across.”

  “Bones and ash,” Melkin swore, and Cerise shot him a prim look of disapproval. He ignored her, snarling quietly, “I don’t have time for this; I’ve got fairytales to chase.”

  “I’ll look into passage tonight. With luck we’ll catch a ’Sloop leaving on patrol next day or so. That’ll still give us time to sniff around here a bit, too.”

  Melkin grunted sourly. “I guess we could stop by the Academy of the Magi as long as we’re in Merrane. Perraneus will no doubt be headed to the flaming party, too.”

  CHAPTER 7

  When they met for breakfast the next morning, Banion had found passage out of Alene. They’d be leaving the following day. Before he, Melkin, and Kai left to hunt up a Sword or two of Light, Melkin pierced them with his gimlet eyes and said acidly, “The rest of you stay together, and stay out of trouble.”

  “I want to come with you,” Ari shocked everyone by saying. He was a little surprised himself...but the hunt for the Whiteblades drew him like a hound on a half-forgotten scent. He wanted to be there if they found one, was almost sure he would recognize one from his little Book of Ivory obsession. He’d dreamed about them again last night, his nuns.

  Banion said casually, “He’s a man grown in Merrani.”

  “But he’s a Northerner,” Melkin said gruffly, after a moment’s hesitation. “Not this time.”

  Impatience and resentment flared as he watched them walk away, made worse when Cerise took charge of the rest of them. “I need to find a Post,” she announced like it was a royal decree, and immediately, barely considering what he was doing and lashed by restlessness, he stepped out into the middle of the street.

  “Excuse me,” he asked the nearest passer-by. “Do you know the way to the Post?”

  “Oh, aye!” Several seconds passed while the man surveyed him cheerfully. In Archemounte, it was both rude and invasive to interrupt strangers in their business on the street, but the hulking, hairy creature in front of him was obviously unoffended—if not particularly bright. Ari sensed everyone coming up behind him. “Could you direct me?” he pressed hurriedly.

  “You know the Forges?” the man said affably.

  “Yes.” He could feel Cerise’s eyes on him, feel the group’s surprise. He had no idea what had gotten into him.

  “Well, head that way; it’s about half way down, on the right. Big building with the Kestrel on the front. Can’t miss it.”

  Ari strode off, ridiculously pleased when they all scurried after him. “That was well done,” Cerise noted in surprise, forgetting to be domineering. They trooped along, accosted by the reek of fish, the powerful Merranic garbage, and the occasional beguiling whiff of ocean.

  It was easy to find, as predicted. Cerise took the lead as soon as the door was opened, marching up to the counter and a typical Merranic who seemed to be in the middle of his breakfast.

  She paused, looking at him in distaste. He had crumbs and honey in his beard and was chewing with the placid pleasure of the contented bovine.

  “That’s disgusting,” she announced. Northerners didn’t eat on the job.

  “Way to butter him up, Cerise,” Rodge approved as they all followed her in.

  “I’d like to Post a message,” she snapped. He finished chewing, stared at her with pointed resignation, and swallowed.

  “I never get that,” he said. She looked at him in disbelief, not quite sure she’d heard him right. Rodge and Loren began to grin.

  She drew herself up stiffly, eyes flashing, and proceeded with the deliberate enunciation one usually saved for the impaired, “I need to Post a message. Please get me someone who can do that.”

  The Merranic began to move. In no great hurry. “No one more impressed with Northerner business than Northerners,” he observed, moving parchment around.

  “Imperials,” she corrected through thin lips.

  “See what I mean?” he asked, giving Rodge and Loren a wink.

  “Are you going to give me assistance or not?” Cerise demanded impatiently. “I need Post to her Imperial Majesty, Queen Sable.”

  He gave her a look. “I thought you were the Queen.”

  While Rodge and Loren erupted in laughter, he handed her a pen and ink and the small, very thin sheets of paper used to Post.

  Ari, moving restlessly away from the waves of contention, suddenly caught a glimpse of what lay through the wide, Merranic-sized doorway behind the Postmaster. Northern Posts always kept their mews hidden from the public, but here all the birds were almost in plain sight. Most of them were homing pigeons, of course, the common man’s Post. Their History Master had mentioned them, how they had been used in the Ages of War almost to exclusion, human messengers being killed at a rate that reduced them statistically to insignificance.

  In the corner cages, something huge and faintly white caught his eye, and he drew in his breath. He called Loren over, pointing.

  Imperial Snowbirds, the huge, pure white owl of the White Wilds, they bore only royal Post. It was one of these that would take Cerise’s message. Very rarely, you would see them ghosting over Archemounte like some fragment from a dream, back to their home in the Palace. The boys sighed happily, craning their necks to see what other wonders were in the dim recesses of the Merranic Post. Next to the Snowbirds, they could make out the large, grey and white Sea Kestrels of Merrani—these would fly only to King Kane’s Fortress of the Sea, and were pecking at their food with Merranic good cheer and appetite.

  The Postmaster noticed them noticing his birds, and rather than immediately closing the door, said with a hint of pride, “In good shape, eh? Get plenty to eat.”

  “Like their owner,” Cerise muttered acerbically, bent over her message.

  “What’s that next to the Kestrels?” Ari dared. They were
almost as big, with a faint blotchy pattern laid strikingly over a dusky tan body, but there was an intensity hovering there in the dimness that was in stark contrast to the easy-going Kestrels. There were only a few, caged separately, and all had wickedly curved beaks and such a fierce, wine-colored eye that Ari could feel their glare from the other side of the counter.

  “Bloodhawks, for the Hilt,” came the ready answer. “Kill anything that tries to stop ’em, those ’uns. Just like the Rach. Then those daft giants there at the end are the Midnight Condors, bound for Lirralhisa and the Seven Falls.” Loren gasped as he finally made out the dimensions of the shadowy birds in the far corner. They were almost camouflaged with soft brown plumage and hooded eyes, and were absolutely immense, almost a size and a half larger than the owls.

  “Wingspans of three yards,” the Postmaster said huskily. “You should see ’em fly. Though, ’course, it’s always night when you release them.”

  It was like a whiff of magic, a twinkling curtain of stardust thrown over an ordinary day…

  Then the door opened, and everything changed.

  At first it was only impressive—a big party of good-natured Merranics, loud and exuberant and slapping one member of youngish years on the back in a general congratulatory way. All done at high volumes of sound, by a large group of enormous men, in proper Merranic fashion. They barely noticed the little bunch already at the counter, pushing up through them unapologetically, boisterous and thoughtless.

  Rodge was literally pushed down. The offending Merranic, the one everyone was congratulating, at least noticed.

  “Sorry, little guy,” he boomed, picking Rodge up off the ground with one hand and casually setting him back on his feet. Cerise smirked and Rodge’s face went livid.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said loudly, which was drowned out by one of the men bellowing, “A Post! To Jarl Grevken of Merrane! This lad,” he turned to put a great, meaty hand on the “lad,” who was well over six feet, studded with muscle, and had a jaw like a draft horse, “has made Seawolf! Which just goes to prove that even Blood’s occasionally good at something!”