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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 29

by Edited by Eric Flint


  "I'll do what I'm pa­id to." He let his ham­mer rest, and shif­ted his grip on the tongs. His wi­fe's ring slid on its cha­in aro­und his neck, cat­c­hing on chest ha­ir. He co­uldn't we­ar it on his hand when he ham­me­red. "And if'n 'tis men­ding I'm pa­id for, I'll mend what's fla­wed."

  She ca­me ac­ross the knotty turf in lit­tle qu­ick steps li­ke a hob­bled hor­se-as if it was her la­med, and not him-and whi­le he tur­ned to thrust the bent me­tal that wo­uld so­on be a ste­el hor­se-col­lar in­to the co­als aga­in she pas­sed her hand over his bench be­si­de the an­vil.

  He co­uldn't re­le­ase the bel­lows un­til the co­als glo­wed red as cur­rant jel­ly, but the­re was a clink and when her hand wit­h­d­rew it left be­hind two gol­den co­ins. Two co­ins for two hands, for two poc­kets, for two eyes.

  Wiping his hands on his mat­ted be­ard, he tur­ned from the for­ge, then lif­ted a co­in to his mo­uth. It den­ted un­der his te­eth, and he we­ig­hed its he­avi­ness in his hand. "A lot for a bit of tin­ke­ring."

  "Worth it if you get it do­ne," she sa­id, and upen­ded her sack upon his bench.

  A do­zen or so cur­ved tran­s­pa­rent shards tum­b­led red as for­ge-co­als in­to the hot no­on light, jin­g­ling and tin­k­ling. Gin­gerly, he re­ac­hed out and prod­ded one with a fo­re­fin­ger, sur­p­ri­sed by the warmth.

  "My he­art," the wo­man sa­id. "'Tis bro­ken. Fix it for me."

  He drew his hand back. "I don't know nowt abo­ut wo­men's he­arts, bro­ken or t'other­wi­se."

  "You're the Wey­land Smith, aren't you?"

  "Aye, miss." The col­lar wo­uld ne­ed mo­re he­ating. He tur­ned away, to pump the bel­lows aga­in.

  "You to­ok my gold." She plan­ted her fists on her hips. "You can't re­fu­se a task, Wey­land Smith. On­ce you've ta­ken mo­ney for it. It's yo­ur ge­as."

  "Keep tha co­in," he sa­id, and pus­hed them at her with a fin­ger­tip. "I'm a smith. Not ne­ver a mat­c­h­ma­ker, nor a glas­sblo­wer."

  "They say you ma­de jewels from de­ad men's eyes, on­ce. And it was a blac­k­s­mith bro­ke my he­art. It's only right one sho­uld mend it, too."

  He le­aned on the bel­lows, pum­ping hard.

  She tur­ned away, in a whis­per of black sa­tin as her skirts swung he­avy by her sho­es. "You to­ok my co­in," she sa­id, be­fo­re she wal­ked back in­to the sha­dows. "So fix my he­art."

  ****

  Firstly, he be­gan with a cru­cib­le, and he­ating the shards in his for­ge. The he­art mel­ted, all right, tho­ugh hot­ter than he wo­uld ha­ve gu­es­sed. He sco­oped the glass on a bit of rod stock and rol­led it on his an­vil, then scra­ped the gat­her off with a flat-ed­ged bla­de and sha­ped it in­to a smo­oth ruby-bright oval the si­ze of his fist.

  The he­art cra­zed as it co­oled. It fell to pi­eces when he to­uc­hed it with his glo­ve, and he was left with only a mo­und of shi­ve­red glass.

  That was un­for­tu­na­te. The­re had be­en the chan­ce that the ge­as wo­uld grant so­me myste­ri­o­us as­sis­tan­ce, that he wo­uld gu­ess cor­rectly and wha­te­ver he tri­ed first wo­uld work. An off chan­ce, but stran­ger things hap­pe­ned with ma­gic and his ma­gic was ma­king.

  Not this ti­me. Whet­her it was be­ca­use he was a blac­k­s­mith and not a mat­c­h­ma­ker or be­ca­use he was a blac­k­s­mith and not a glas­sblo­wer, he was not su­re. But he­arts, glass he­arts, we­re out­si­de his idi­om and out­si­de his ma­gic.

  He wo­uld ha­ve to see the witch.

  ****

  The witch must ha­ve known he was co­ming, as she al­ways se­emed to know. She awa­ited him in the do­or­way of her ple­asant cot­ta­ge by the wil­d­f­lo­wer me­adow, mo­re wil­d­f­lo­wers-da­isi­es and but­ter­cups-wa­ving among the long gras­ses of the tur­fed ro­of. A nanny go­at gra­zed be­si­de the chim­ney, her long co­at as whi­te as the milk that stret­c­hed her ud­der pink and shiny. He saw no kid.

  The witch was as dark as the go­at was whi­te, her black, black ha­ir shot with sil­ver and bra­ided back in a wrist-thick qu­e­ue. Her skirts we­re kil­ted up over her gre­en kir­t­le, and she han­ded Wey­land a pot­tery cup be­fo­re he ever en­te­red her do­or. It smel­led of hops and ho­ney and spi­ces, and ste­am cur­led from the top; spi­ced he­ated ale.

  "I ha­ve to see to the mil­king," she sa­id. "Wo­uld you fetch my sto­ol whi­le I co­ax He­idrn off the ro­of?"

  "She's shrunk," Wey­land sa­id, but he ba­lan­ced his cup in one hand and lim­ped in­si­de the do­or to ha­ul the sto­ol out, for the witch's con­ve­ni­en­ce.

  The witch cluc­ked. "Ha­ven't we all?"

  By the ti­me Wey­land emer­ged, the go­at was down in the do­or­yard, mun­c­hing a re­ward of bru­ised ap­ples, and the witch had fo­und her buc­ket and was wa­iting for the sto­ol. Wey­land set the cup on the led­ge of the open win­dow and se­ated the witch with a lit­tle bit of ce­re­mony, hel­ping her with her skirts. She smi­led and pat­ted his arm, and bent to the mil­king whi­le he went to ret­ri­eve his ale.

  Once upon a ti­me, what rang on the bot­tom of the empty pa­il wo­uld ha­ve be­en me­ad, swe­et ho­ne­yed li­qu­or fit for gods. But ti­mes had chan­ged, we­re al­ways chan­ging, and the stre­ams that stung from bet­we­en the witch's strong fin­gers we­re rich and cre­amy whi­te.

  "So what ha­ve you co­me for, Wey­land Smith?" she as­ked, when the pa­il was a qu­ar­ter full and the milk his­sed in the pa­il rat­her than sang.

  "I'm wan­ting a spell as'll mend a bro­ken he­art," he sa­id.

  Her bra­id slid over her sho­ul­der, han­ging down. She flip­ped it back wit­ho­ut lif­ting her he­ad. "I hadn't tho­ught you had it in you to fall in lo­ve aga­in," she sa­id, her vo­ice lil­ting with the te­ase.

  "'Tisn't my he­art as is bro­ken."

  That did ra­ise her chin, and her fin­gers stil­led on He­idrn's ud­der. Her ga­ze met his; her eyeb­rows lif­ted ac­ross the fi­ne-li­ned arch of her fo­re­he­ad. "Tricky," she sa­id. "A he­art's a whe­el," she sa­id. "Bent is bent. It can't be men­ded. And even wor­se-" She smi­led, and tos­sed the fu­gi­ti­ve bra­id back aga­in. "-if it's not yo­ur he­art you're af­ter fi­xing."

  "Din't I know it?" he sa­id, and sip­ped the ale, his wi­fe's ring-worn now-clic­king on the cup as his fin­gers tig­h­te­ned.

  Heidrn had fi­nis­hed her ap­ples. She tos­sed her he­ad, long ivory horns brus­hing the pa­le sil­ken floss of her back, and the witch la­ug­hed and re­mem­be­red to milk aga­in. "What will you gi­ve me if I help?"

  The milk didn't ring in the pa­il any mo­re, but the gold rang fi­ne on the do­or­yard sto­nes.

  The witch ba­rely glan­ced at it. "I don't want yo­ur gold, blac­k­s­mith."

  "I din't want for hers, ne­it­her," Wey­land sa­id. "'Tis the half of what she ga­ve." He didn't sto­op to ret­ri­eve the co­in, tho­ugh the witch sna­ked a soft-sho­ed fo­ot from un­der her kir­t­le and skip­ped it back to him, bo­un­cing it over the cob­bles.

  "What can I pay?" he as­ked, when the witch met his pro­tests with a shrug.

  "I didn't say I co­uld help you." The la­test pull drip­ped milk in­to the pa­il rat­her than spur­ting. The witch tug­ged the buc­ket cle­ar and pat­ted He­idrn on the flank, le­aning for­ward with her el­bows on her kne­es and the pa­il bet­we­en her an­k­les whi­le the nanny clat­te­red over cob­bles to bo­und back up on­to the ro­of. In a mo­ment, the go­at was be­si­de the chim­ney aga­in, mun­c­hing but­ter­cups as if she hadn't just had a me­al of ap­ples. A lar­ge, fluffy black-and-whi­te cat emer­ged from the ho­use and be­gan twi­ning the legs of the sto­ol, mi­a­owing.

  "Question 'tisn't what tha can or can't do," he sa­id so­urly. "'Tis what tha will or won't."

  The witch lif­ted the pa­il and splas­hed milk on the sto�
�nes for the cat to lap. And then she sto­od, be­aring the pa­il in her hands, and shrug­ged. "You co­uld pay me a Na­me. I col­lect tho­se."

  "If'n I had one."

  "There's yo­ur own," she co­un­te­red, and ba­lan­ced the pa­il on her hip as she sa­un­te­red to­ward the ho­use. He fol­lo­wed. "But pe­op­le are al­ways mo­re di­sin­c­li­ned to part with what be­longs to them than what do­esn't, don't you find?"

  He grun­ted. She held the do­or for him, with her he­el, and kic­ked it shut when he had pas­sed. The cot­ta­ge was dim and co­ol in­si­de, with only a few em­bers ban­ked on the he­arth. He sat when she ges­tu­red him on­to the bench, and not be­fo­re. "No Na­mes," he sa­id.

  "Will you bar­ter yo­ur body, then?"

  She sa­id it over her sho­ul­der, li­ke a com­mon­p­la­ce. He twis­ted a bo­ot on the rus­hes co­ve­ring a ram­med-earth flo­or and la­ug­hed. "And what'd a bonny lass li­ke tha­self want with a gam­my-leg­ged, fusty, co­al-black smith?"

  "To say I've had one?" She plun­ged her hands in­to the was­h­ba­sin and scrub­bed them to the el­bow, then tur­ned and le­aned aga­inst the stand. When she ca­ught sight of his ex­p­res­si­on, she la­ug­hed as well. "You're su­re it's not yo­ur he­art that's bro­ken, Smith?"

  "Not this sen­night." He scow­led aro­und the rim of his cup, and was still scow­ling as she set bre­ad and che­ese be­fo­re him. Ot­hers might find her in­ti­mi­da­ting, but Wey­land Smith wo­re the pro­mi­se-ring of Ol­run the Val­k­y­rie. No witch co­uld mor­tify him. Not even one who kept He­id­rn-who had di­ned on the le­aves of the World Ash-as a mil­ch-go­at.

  The witch bro­ke his ga­ze on the ex­cu­se of tuc­king an es­ca­ped strand of his long grey pon­y­ta­il be­hind his ear, and re­len­ted. "Ma­ke me a ca­ul­d­ron," she sa­id. "An iron ca­ul­d­ron. And I'll tell you the sec­ret, Wey­land Smith."

  "Done," he sa­id, and drew his dag­ger to sli­ce the bre­ad.

  She sat down ac­ross the tres­t­le. "Don't you want yo­ur an­s­wer?"

  He stop­ped with his bla­de in the lo­af, lo­oking up. "I've not pa­id."

  "You'll ta­ke my an­s­wer," she sa­id. She to­ok his cup, and dip­ped mo­re ale from the pot war­ming over tho­se few ban­ked co­als. "I know yo­ur con­t­ract is go­od."

  He sho­ok his he­ad at the smi­le that cur­ved her lips, and snor­ted. "So­me­one'll find out tha ge­as one day, en­c­han­t­ress. And may tha ne­ver rest easy aga­in. So tell me then. How might I mend a lass's bro­ken he­art?"

  "You can't," the witch sa­id, easily. "You can rep­la­ce it with anot­her, or you can for­ge it anew. But it can­not be men­ded. Not li­ke that."

  "Gerrawa with tha," Wey­land sa­id. "I tri­ed re­for­ging it. 'Tis glass."

  "And glass will cut you," the witch sa­id, and snap­ped her fin­gers. "Li­ke that."

  ****

  He ma­de the ca­ul­d­ron whi­le he was thin­king, sin­ce it ne­eded the blast fur­na­ce and a cas­ting po­ur but not fi­nes­se. If glass will cut and shat­ter, per­haps a he­art sho­uld be ma­de of to­ug­her stuff, he de­ci­ded as he bro­ke the mold.

  ****

  Secondly, he be­gan by he­ating the bar stock. Whi­le it res­ted in the co­als, bet­we­en pum­ping at the bel­lows, he slid the shards in­to a le­at­hern bag, sli­cing his pal­ms-tho­ugh not de­ep eno­ugh to ble­ed thro­ugh he­avy cal­lus. He wig­gled Ol­run's ring off his right hand and strung it on its cha­in, then bro­ke the he­art to pow­der with his smal­lest ham­mer. It didn't ta­ke much work. The he­art was fra­gi­le eno­ugh that Wey­land won­de­red if the­re wasn't so­met­hing wrong with the glass.

  When it had do­ne, he sho­ok the pow­der from the po­uch and gro­und it fi­ner in the pes­t­le he used to ma­ce­ra­te car­bon, un­til it was re­du­ced to a pa­le-pink si­li­ca dust. He tho­ught he'd bet­ter use all of it, to be su­re, so he mi­xed it in with the car­bon and ham­me­red it in­to the he­ated bar stock for se­ven nights and se­ven days, fol­ding and fol­ding aga­in as he wo­uld for a sword-bla­de, or an axe, so­met­hing that ne­eded to ta­ke a re­si­li­ent tem­per to back a stri­king ed­ge.

  It wasn't a bla­de he ma­de of his iron, tho­ugh, now that he'd for­ged it in­to ste­el. What he did was po­und the bar in­to a rod, ne­ver al­lo­wing it to co­ol, ne­ver pa­using ham­mer-and then he drew the rod thro­ugh a die to squ­are and smo­oth it, and twis­ted the thick wi­re that re­sul­ted in­to a gor­ge­o­us fist-big fi­lig­ree.

  The ste­el had a red­dish co­lor, not li­ke rust but as if the tra­ces of gold that had im­par­ted bril­li­an­ce to the ruby glass he­art had so­me­how tran­s­fer­red that tint in­to the ste­el. It was a be­a­uti­ful thing, a ca­ge for a bird no big­ger than Wey­land's thumb, with cun­ning hin­ges so one co­uld open it li­ke a box, and such was his ma­gic that des­pi­te all the glass and iron that had go­ne in­to ma­king it, it span­ned no mo­re and we­ig­hed no mo­re than wo­uld ha­ve a he­art of me­at.

  He he­ated it cher­ry-red aga­in, and when it glo­wed he qu­en­c­hed it in the well to gi­ve it re­si­li­en­ce and set its form.

  ****

  He wo­re his ring on his wed­ding fin­ger when he put it on the next mor­ning, and he let the for­ge lie cold-or as cold as it co­uld lie, with se­ven days' he­at ba­ked in­to me­tal and sto­ne. It was the eighth day of the for­ging, and a for­t­night sin­ce he'd ta­ken the girl's co­in.

  She didn't di­sap­po­int. She was along be­fo­re mid­day.

  She ca­me right out in­to the sun­light this ti­me, rat­her than lin­ge­ring un­der the ha­zel tre­es, and tho­ugh she still wo­re black it was top­ped by a dif­fe­rent hat, this one with fe­at­hers. "Old man," she sa­id, "ha­ve you do­ne as I as­ked?"

  Reverently, he re­ac­hed un­der the block that held his smal­ler an­vil, and bro­ught up a do­es­kin swad­dle. The su­ede dra­ped over his hands, clin­ging and soft as a ma­iden's bre­ast, and he held his bre­ath as he la­id the pac­ka­ge on the an­vil and lim­ped back, his left leg drag­ging a lit­tle. He pic­ked up his ham­mer and pre­ten­ded to lo­ok to the for­ge, un­wil­ling to be se­en wat­c­hing the lady.

  She ma­de a lit­tle cry as she ca­me for­ward, ne­it­her glad nor sor­row­ful, but rat­her tight, as if she co­uldn't ke­ep all her ho­pe and an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on pent in her bre­ast any lon­ger. She re­ac­hed out with hands clad in che­ve­ril and brus­hed open the do­es­kin-

  Only to fre­eze when her to­uch re­ve­aled me­tal. "This he­art do­esn't be­at," she sa­id, as she let the wrap­pings fall.

  Weyland tur­ned to her, his hands twis­ted be­fo­re his ap­ron, wrin­ging the haft of his ham­mer so his ring bit in­to his flesh. "It'll not shat­ter, lass, I swe­ar."

  "It do­esn't be­at," she re­pe­ated. She step­ped away, her hands cur­led at her si­des in the­ir black kid glo­ves. "This he­art is no use to me, blac­k­s­mith."

  ****

  He bor­ro­wed the witch's ma­gic go­at, which li­ke him-and the wit­ch-had be­en mo­re than half a God on­ce and wasn't much mo­re than a fa­iry story now, and he har­nes­sed her to a sturdy lit­tle cart he ma­de to ha­ul the witch's ca­ul­d­ron. He de­li­ve­red it in the sunny mor­ning, when the dew was still damp on the grass, and he bro­ught the he­art to show.

  "It's a very go­od he­art," the witch sa­id, tur­ning it in her hands. "The latch in par­ti­cu­lar is cun­ning. Not­hing wo­uld get in or out of a he­art li­ke that if you didn't show it the way." She bo­un­ced it on her palms. "Light for its si­ze, too. A girl co­uld be pro­ud of a he­art li­ke this."

  "She'll ha­ve no­ne," Wey­land sa­id. "Says as it do­esn't be­at."

  "Beat? Of co­ur­se it do­esn't be­at," the witch scof­fed. "The­re isn't any lo­ve in it. And you can't put that the­re for her."

  "But I mun do," We
y­land sa­id, and to­ok the thing back from her hands.

  ****

  For thirdly, he bro­ke Ol­run's ring. The gold was soft and fi­ne; it flat­te­ned with one blow of the ham­mer, and by the third or fo­urth stri­ke, it spre­ad ac­ross his le­at­her-pad­ded an­vil li­ke a pud­dle of blo­od, ro­se-red in the light of the for­ge. By the ti­me the sun brus­hed the tre­etops in its des­cent, he'd po­un­ded the ring in­to a she­et of gold so fi­ne it flo­ated on his bre­ath.

  He pa­in­ted the he­art with ges­so, and when that was dri­ed he ma­de bo­le, a rab­bit-skin glue mi­xed with clay that for­med the sur­fa­ce for the gilt to cling to.

  With a brush, he lif­ted the gold le­af, bit by bit, and se­aled it pa­in­s­ta­kingly to the he­art. And when he had fi­nis­hed and set the brus­hes and the bur­nis­hers asi­de-when his lo­ve was se­aled up wit­hin li­ke the ste­el un­der the gold-the iron ca­ge be­gan to be­at.

  ****

  "It was a blac­k­s­mith bro­ke my he­art," the black girl sa­id. "You'd think a blac­k­s­mith co­uld do a bet­ter job on men­ding it."

  "It be­ats," he sa­id, and set it roc­king with a burn-scar­red, cal­lu­sed fin­ger­tip. "'Tis bonny. And it shan't bre­ak."

  "It's cold," she com­p­la­ined, her bre­ath pus­hing her ve­il out a lit­tle over her lips. "Ma­ke it warm."

  "I'd not won­der tha blac­k­s­mith left tha. The he­art tha star­ted with we­re col­der," he sa­id.

 

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