Very likely that was why this lord had come here, so far north. On some kind of embassy, perhaps, sent by the sothran Syndics or whatever they called themselves to reassure people, to calm their fears and remind them Bryhainers were not all tomato-haired devils.
If so, the smith decided, he was a good choice. The lord’s hair was nothing more outlandish than auburn or light brown, streaming back over his shoulders as he walked. He was as tall as Kunrad, towering over Gille and most Northerners, and a lot more lithe. He would be considered handsome, too, the smith realised as he drew closer – uncommonly so, in a lean, hawk-nosed sort of way. He walked easily among the crowd, without any hint of the legendary sothran arrogance. When he saw the smith waiting at his door, he stepped ahead of his followers and saluted him politely. ‘Merthian Laithe, of Anlaithann in the Southlands. Do I have the honour of addressing—’
Kunrad smiled to himself. Very neat! Merthian had phrased his name so as to avoid mentioning any title which might offend Northerners, but leaving no doubt that he had one – Lord of Anlaithann, probably, wherever that might be. It would do no harm to return his politeness.
‘Kunrad Erliksson, Mastersmith of Athalby, to serve your – lordship.’
Merthian smiled back and nodded to the burly soldier with a head of russet hog’s bristles who had unobtrusively moved up to his side. ‘We’ve been hearing about you along our road – eh, captain? It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ And he bowed.
That was not a gesture Northerners went in for, but Kunrad was not going to look like a yokel in front of the crowd. He bent awkwardly in return, ignoring Gille’s stifled snigger. ‘If it’d please your lordship to look over the works of my hands—’
‘If they’re anything like the others I’ve seen, it certainly will!’ said the newcomer cheerfully, plucking curiously at one of the hedge of swords.
‘Just workaday blades, those,’ said Kunrad. ‘Decent and sound for a fair price, but naught special. I’ve better within.’
Merthian straightened up and sighed. ‘Workaday!’ He looked at the smith a moment, then drew his own sword and offered it, hilt forward over his arm. ‘This is of Northern make, and what it cost me, I dare not tell you! Eh, captain? What would you make of that?’
Kunrad took it, weighed it in his hand, tapped it against another, checked the balance, peered at the hilt a moment, and swept it back and forth in great whistling slashes that made the captain stiffen visibly. Merthian just smiled. Then Kunrad held the blade away from the light, twisting it slightly, and gave a considering nod.
‘It’s a decent enough piece,’ he admitted. ‘From Dunmarhas down south, by the master’s mark, about seven years old. Good springy steel, well forged, with a harder edge added. It’s seen some use, it’s well sharpened bar a few nicks. But the pretty hilt, now—’
‘Ah!’ murmured Merthian, exchanging looks with the captain.
‘The hilt’s sothran work. Well enough in its way, but weaker. It’ll give, and soon.’
‘But that is newer!’ protested the captain.
‘Look for yourself! There’s already fine cracks about the base of the guard. It could be far better shaped to the hand, too, offset a touch to lessen the strain on your wrist, and end the wear where your thumb falls. I’ve guards and quillons that’ll shield your fingers better, but I’d go for a finer blade altogether. This one’s a shade short for a man of your stature. And a touch too rigid near the point – too ready to snap at the right blow. Too wide at the hilt, also, with the fuller – that’s the blood channel – too flat. And the tang overly narrow, by the look of it. And the same type of simple edge all the way along – nothing to catch or snap the other blade, nothing – oh, there’s far more you can do. And virtues – well, one against rust, that’s usual, and one of easy drawing and sheathing, and one of straight cleaving, but no more, and none as strong as they might be—’
He stopped. The captain was chuckling, quite openly. Merthian held up a hand. ‘Enough! Please excuse him, Mastersmith. We don’t talk much of such things in the South, but I – well, I’m not a man to mock what others believe in, simply because I don’t understand them. So tell me about … virtues, by all means.’
‘Little more to tell,’ said Kunrad, mollified. ‘Fair enough, but you can do better. But for the hilt, they might issue a common soldier such a sword here. Decent, but, well, as workaday as those.’
‘I was afraid you were going to say that,’ sighed Merthian. ‘I saw some other work on the way North, a couple of your pieces included. Well, show me something better, by all means; but I’m seeking all manner of arms for my housetroops as well. So we’ll set a price on these workaday ones too. A quantity price, of course.’
Gille and Olvar exchanged eager looks. Kunrad ushered in his guest, sizing him up as he did all customers. He found him a younger man than he first appeared – bright-eyed, pale-skinned, clean-shaven, no more than thirty. Well dressed in a quiet way, in rich green riding coat and hose; only the touches of gold at throat and cuffs, the single heavy ring and the fine tooled leather of belt and boots suggested special wealth. A casual wealth that needed no display, just as the very ease of his manner suggested he was used to command. The Lord Merthian evidently had nothing to doubt or prove, but he did not seem complacent about it. He was looking around the cluttered smithy with keen interest all over his fine features. Gille might have some competition with the girls tonight, thought the smith cheerfully, and warmed to his guest even more when he ignored the one good chair and slumped comfortably down on a bench.
‘Can I offer your lordship some wine?’
‘You can, Mastersmith – though with no offence to Northern wine, I’m happier yet with Northern ale. The captain here certain is! And by the way, plain Master Merthian will do very well. If truth be told,’ he grinned, as Gille filled the best pewter tankards from the house barrel, ‘it’s something of a relief to be free of all the honorifics. I find the North refreshing – in several senses, eh? Your health!’ He wiped foam from his lips. The captain belched happily. ‘Now, what can you show me?’
For the next hour a succession of Kunrad’s best swords were brought out, laid on the table, tested, compared, priced and mused over. Merthian plied him with questions about them, the considered kind of questions that spring from knowledge already wide. Evidently he had a deep grounding in the art of swordsmanship, and one based in experience, although there was nothing bloody or violent in his talk. The smith responded readily, for he rarely met anyone with whom he could share his enthusiasms so fully. Before long, fascinated by Merthian’s experience and his sothran viewpoint, he was questioning eagerly in his turn. Time passed, ale flowed, and almost in passing two of Kunrad’s finest swords were sold for little less than his asking price. They had hilts gilded and jewelled, the grips bound with finest doeskin on a base of hide boiled and hardened to form, and blades made like great tapering leaves but edged like razors, with cunning shapings and serrations at the top and strong, lethal points. The price was not low, and the captain spluttered into his ale; but Merthian paid without demur.
Not content with that, he picked out a great pack of lesser weaponry, the greater part of what Kunrad had made ready for the fair – so much that the captain and two of the followers had to be sent back to Merthian’s lodging for a deep bag of gold coin, stamped with the image of the Raven and Sun on one side, and with the image of a towered city on the other, impossibly great to Kunrad’s mind. Still they talked, with Kunrad eager to draw on Merthian’s experience; and it was to armour the talk turned. The prentices dragged out jingling mailshirts and lighter cuirasses of overlapping plates; and although the sothran shook his head a little at the prices, still more gold changed hands. At last Merthian took Kunrad up on a point about the padding of overlapping sections, and the mastersmith could not resist a reference to his great work.
Merthian’s eyes gleamed. ‘May I see it?’
Kunrad havered. ‘Well … it’s not ready. Nothing like. There’s a lot
still needs doing …’
Merthian spread his hands. ‘Does that matter? Oh, I know you craftsmen, you’d sooner astound me with the finished piece. But I shan’t be back this way for a long time. If ever. I too have a great project in my life, a work of order and peace, and it will hold me in the South for years to come. That is, if it succeeds; if not, well, who knows where I may be? My friend, this armour’s evidently the peak of your achievement, the end result of all we’ve talked about. You wouldn’t deny me this one chance to see it?’
The smith, as his prentices knew, was a kindly man by nature, and he had his common share of vanity. He had also had a little more than his share of ale. With a sigh he rose, angled the shutters so the sun, now sliding down into the afternoon, fell on the back of the smithy, and with a slight hiccup drew aside the heavy curtain that hung there.
Merthian sprang up with a yelp of surprise. The stolid captain, who had been consoling himself with the beer, gave a long low whistle and swore. Even Olvar and Gille stared, for seeing the armour complete in cold mist, with pieces left unpolished, had not prepared them for the sight of it in the full sun. In the time that had passed Kunrad, pursuing his quest for the flaw, had replaced the damaged parts with his spares, and completed the polishing and the decoration. It stood there now, ranged on a frame as it would be worn in life; and the sunlight struck it now with such blazing force that it seemed to sound in the ear as well as the eye, a great clash of silver cymbals.
This was the form of it. A full suit, covering the body from head to foot, so that as it stood there, arms outstretched and masked helmet bowed, it looked like the statue of some ancient hero. It shone black and silver there, bright plates of ornamented steel founded on a base of mail that at first looked plain and dark, but shimmered with an elusive light in the steady sunbeams. It was as Kunrad had intended, both a stern image of martial strength and a thing of beauty in itself. Yet there was more, as he began to see for the first time, watching the others’ reactions. He had worked, perhaps better than he knew. He had envisioned something that would suit a leader of men; but in uniting the strength and beauty he had imagined with other qualities less obvious, maybe, he had created something that embodied leadership in itself, a vision of sheer power almost independent of the wearer.
There were two kinds of armour worn at that time, mail of interlinked rings or overlapping scales, and plate, that enveloped the body in stiff forms of solid metal. Mail was lighter and more flexible, but even with aketons – coats of padding – or light plates of stiffened leather beneath it, it could not withstand the heaviest blows with the edge, or the piercing of spear or crossbow bolt. Rings might be driven into a wound, and worsen it. Plate armour would turn almost any blow, but at the cost of weight and stiffness. Also, for all the time and patience it took to make mail, plate was more expensive, and much subtler, because elaborate joints of many elements, given archaic names such as poleyns and couters, had to be fashioned and worked for every flexion of the body, often down to the very fingers. Kunrad had chosen both. His work was founded on a mail-shirt of the pattern commonly worn, the long hauberk reaching almost to the knees, with mailed gauntlets and leggings; but uncommonly light and fine in its fabric, and shaped by his own subtle and complex craft.
‘The rings are small,’ he said, ‘but shaped and riveted each against its neighbour, and in places double-layered, so that they interlock if driven back against one another. There is a virtue upon them to enhance that.’
‘What makes them sparkle like that?’ asked Merthian wonderingly. ‘What manner of decoration?’
Kunrad smiled. ‘Not for appearance alone; nothing here is. Each ring is coated with black forge-enamel, baked hard and glossy – that is against corrosion. And they are lined with a dust of tiny gemstones, won from fine river-sand and little greater, so that they move freely against one another. That is what takes the light. So that while the shirt hangs thus, yes, it sparkles; but when its wearer moves—’ He took one arm gently, and the onlookers gasped. The cold glitter rippled like liquid fire.
Over the mail he had set garnitures, plate pieces to protect the most vulnerable areas, yet leave movement as free as possible. This again was not uncommon, but Kunrad had created these in his own fashion. Instead of a solid collar and breastplate there were jointed assemblies, like poleyns that followed the contour of the body, flexing and sliding over one another to follow its movements, and overlaid layers of lames, hands to protect the outer surfaces of side and thigh. These plates were not plain things, but shaped with careful skill, relying almost always on shape and angle for their strength, rather than sheer weight of metal. And they were made beautiful in themselves, richly but finely ornamented with fluting, moulding and inlays; yet every moulding had its own purpose, to block a blow or turn it, or to strengthen some other piece that might be driven back against it. The shoulder and arm assemblies, gardbrace and vambrace, seemed solid at first sight, yet beneath the beautifully shaped outer shells plate and mail flowed together as freely as a second skin. Gauntlets of mail with leather palm and finger panels covered the hands, but topped with more interleaving plates on springs of steel and whalebone – flexible till struck, then bedding, locking, impenetrable. Here as elsewhere the rivets that provided both fixing and hinge between plates were shaped, not for mere decoration as in ordinary fine armour, but as defences in themselves, shaped to deflect a blow in directions carefully considered. The inlays were of gold and silver, alongside glossy black enamel and the duller niello shading that added richness to the mouldings. They enhanced the shape of the armour, and its flowing movement, the free flexion of its joints, the commanding features of the visor-mask beneath the high-crowned helm.
‘Yet none of this also is mere decoration,’ said Kunrad quietly, contemplating it. ‘There are virtues in the inlays also, more than the bare steel could contain. It may have many virtues forged into it, the turning of blades and the blunting of edges, the breaking of points and the baffling of blows, dispersing their force among its own springy sinews. For those, steel more than suffices. But to make the suit act as a whole, to have it follow the body of its wearer like his own skin, to lend it lightness and life and a flow like those of the flesh and blood within – there the finer metals of the patterning must serve, as the nerves do in the body of bone and flesh.’
‘I would not find that too hard to believe,’ said Merthian, no less quietly. ‘Even as it hangs there it seems alive, ready to move almost with a will of its own. And a strength, as if it could lend that strength to the wearer, to put fire in his friends’ hearts and fear into his foes’. That is armour for a leader.’
‘To that end I designed it,’ answered Kunrad.
They contemplated it in silence, swaying slightly on the cool breeze, the tall helm brooding in silence over the strength it crowned.
‘Did you have any wearer in mind, then?’ asked the sothran. ‘Is there a famous face in those features, some great man of the Northlands, some hero?’
Kunrad smiled. ‘We have few enough of those in these times. No, no one man; though if one such comes along, in my lifetime, I would gladly be the smith to craft him something fitting.’
Merthian looked puzzled. ‘But this—’
Kunrad winced slightly. ‘It’s … unfinished. There are problems within it. Perfecting it will teach me the shaping of something better, in time.’
Merthian shook his head wonderingly. ‘Smith, to me it appears perfect. Perfect! Smith – this also I would like to buy.’
Kunrad stared. ‘My – Master Merthian, I’m sorry. It’s unfinished, flawed. Besides, it’s not made to your stature, as it should be. I made it to mine, so I could prove it.’
Merthian rose to his feet. ‘We’re of a height, you and I – very close. My shoulders and breast are not so large-made, but a trace of padding will amend that. I can tell you now by the sight alone, that suit will fit me more closely than half the sothran armour I own. As to the flaw – Powers, man, I have talked enough wi
th you to know that what you call flaws are beneath the notice of any ordinary man. They need not affect the price. Smith, I want that suit, I will not haggle. Your price is mine! Name it!’
The prentices’ eyes glittered, but Kunrad writhed. ‘Master Merthian! Do not make me refuse you again! In all conscience, I cannot. I’ll gladly make you one like it, when I’ve done, for a fair price – or a lesser one for you, as outwardly fair as this, even now—’
‘And how long would that take?’ demanded Merthian passionately. ‘Smith, you heard me. My project calls me, as yours you; but mine must be launched within months. And then I cannot come back till it is done, and that may be years. And smith, I need that armour for it. Need! Do not think I am a child with a shiny toy under its eye. I have men to lead, I must be in their eye at all times. Even in the heat of battle I must be clear to them both in their eyes and in their hearts, a living standard and a banner they will flock to. Can you make me another suit to let me be this, in three days?’
The smith shook his head. ‘Not in three weeks, Merthian. I am truly sorry.’
‘Then if I do not have that one, I am nothing. Come, man, at least give me a fair chance! You showed it to me, you never said then that it was not for sale. At least name some price, however enormous!’
Kunrad held up a hand. He was breathing hard, and he ran fingers through his already disordered hair. ‘A price? What could I have of you that would persuade me? There are things you don’t begin to understand, that nobody but a smith truly could. A hundred thousand of those gold coins, a thousand thousand; your castle, your lands even, wherever they are—’
The captain was on his feet and drawing his sword, barking something in the sothran tongue. Gille gave a nervous yelp, but he reached for one of the swords on display; Olvar’s hands closed on the tabletop, ready to heave it over. The sothran servants crowded into the door. ‘Down on your knees, you Northland hound!’ the captain was shouting. ‘You baseborn bastard, you dare insult my lord Merthian, the—’
The Castle of the Winds Page 3