“That was summer. It was winter when I opened my eyes again. A Lizerene healer was at my side congratulating himself on my recovery—but I had become this!”
The metal-master jerked his tunic upward, revealing the remains of his legs. The moonlight softened the horror, but Walegrin could see the twisted remnants of muscle, the exposed lengths of bone, the scaly knobs that had once been knees. He looked away before Balustrus lowered the cloth.
“The Lizerene said he’d been paid in gold. I returned slowly to the capital, as you can imagine, and painfully, as you cannot. Jubal had been freed the day after our battle. I searched for years and found him Downwind, already well protected by his ‘masks. I couldn’t adequately thank him for my life so I became Balustrus, his friend. I forged his swords and masks.
“Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed. But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he died—as he was certain to do. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘but he need not die. We’ll send him to the Lizerene.’ “
The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus’ voice was pure sated, insane malice. This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke—and been betrayed by Ranke in turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus’ ‘son.’ Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed—or would he betray first?
Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.
“Thrush—can you go into the city tonight?”
“I’m not so far gone that I can’t thread the maze.”
“Then go. Start looking about for men.”
Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. “What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?”
“Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don’t know how much longer we can trust him.”
“What’s made you agree with me at last?”
“He told me the story of his life. I can see Illyra in ten days—after the new moon and after she’s cleansed. We’ll leave for the north the next morning, with the silver and the ore if we don’t have swords.”
Thrusher was not one to say ‘I told you so’ more than once. He got his cloak and went over the outer wall without anyone but Walegrin knowing he was gone.
Chapter 5
THE METAL-MASTER organized his courtyard foundry with military precision. Within six days of the successful tempering, another ten blades had been forged. Walegrin marked the progress in his mind: so many days until he could visit Illyra, plus one more before the swords were finished; yet another to meet with the men Thrusher was culling out of the city and then they could be gone.
He watched Balustrus carefully; and though the metal-master gave no overt sign of betrayal, Walegrin became anxious. Strangers came more frequently and the cripple made journeys to places not even Thrusher could find. When questioned, Balustrus spoke of the Lizerene who tended Jubal and the bribes he needed to pay.
On the morning of the eighth day, a rainy morning when the men had been glad to sleep past dawn, Walegrin finished his planning. He was at the point of rousing Thrusher when he heard sound where there should have been silence beyond the wall.
He roused Thrusher anyway and the two men crept silently toward the sound. Walegrin drew his sword, the first Enlibar sword to be forged in five hundred years.
“You’ve got the money and the message?” they heard Balustrus say.
“Yessir.”
Balustrus’ crutches scraped along the broken stone. Walegrin and Thrusher flattened against the walls and let him pass. They’d never get the truth from the metal-master, but the messenger was another matter. They crept around the wall.
The stranger was dressed in dark clothes of unfamiliar style. He was adjusting the stirrup when Walegrin fell upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Keeping a firm hand over the stranger’s mouth and a tight hold on his arm, Walegrin dragged him a short distance from his horse.
“What’ve we got?” Thrusher asked after a cursory check of the horse.
“Too soon to tell,” Walegrin replied. He twisted the arm again until he felt his prisoner gasp, then he rolled him over. “Not local, and not Nisibisi by the looks of him.”
The young man’s features were soft, almost feminine and his efforts to free himself were laughably futile. Walegrin cuffed him sharply then yanked him into a sitting position.
“Explain yourself.”
Terrified eyes darted from one man to the other and came to rest on Walegrin, but the lad said nothing.
“You’ll have to give him a search, eh?” Thrusher threatened.
“Aye—here’s his purse.”
Walegrin ripped the pouch from the youngster’s belt, noticing as he did that the youth carried no evident weapon, not even a knife. He did, however, have some large heavy object under his jerkin. Walegrin tossed the purse to Thrusher and sought the hidden object. It proved to be a medallion, covered with a foreign seeming script. He had made nothing of the inscription before Thrusher yelped with surprise and a dazzle of light flashed between them.
As Walegrin looked up a second flash erupted. Their prisoner needed no more time to effect his escape. They heard the youth mount and gallop off, but by the time either man could see clearly again the trail was already becoming mud.
“Magic,” Thrusher muttered as he got to his feet.
Walegrin said nothing as he got his legs under him. “Well, Thrush—what else was in that purse?” he asked after several moments.
Thrusher checked it cautiously again. “A small ransom in gold and this.” He handed Walegrin a small silver object.
“One of the Ilsig links, by the look of it,” Walegrin whispered. He looked back toward the villa. “He’s up to something.”
“The magician wasn’t Rankene,” Thrusher offered in consolation.
“That only means we have new enemies. C’mon. It’s time to find my sister. She’ll make at least as much sense as the metal-master.”
The rain had kept the bazaar crowds to a minimum, but so close to the harbor there was fog, too, and Walegrin got them lost twice before he heard the sound of Dubro’s hammer. Two mercenaries, a Whoreson pair by the look of them, waited beneath the awning. Dubro was mending their shield.
“You’re putting in more dents than you’re taking out, oaf,” the younger, taller of the pair complained, but Dubro went on hammering.
Walegrin and Thrusher moved closer without being noticed. A rope was tied across the doorway, usually a sign that Illyra was scrying. Walegrin tried to find the scent of her incense in the air but found only the smell of Dubro’s fire.
There was a scream and a crash from the inside. Dubro dropped his hammer and bumped into Walegrin at the doorway. A third Stepson yanked the rope loose and attempted, unsuccessfully, to bully his way past both Dubro and Walegrin. The smith’s hands closed on the Stepson’s shoulder. The other pair reached for their weapons, but Thrusher already had his drawn. Everyone froze in place.
Illyra appeared in the doorway. “Just let them go, Dubro,” she asked wearily. “The truth hurts him more than you can.” She noticed Walegrin, sighed and retreated back into the darkness.
“Lying S’danzo bitch!” the third Stepson shouted after her.
Dubro changed his grip and shook the small man. “Get out of here before I change my mind,” he said in a low voice.
“You haven’t finished with the shield yet,” the young one complained, but his companions hushed him, grabbed the shield and hurried into the rain.
Dubro turned his attention to Walegrin. “One might e
xpect you to be here when something like this happens.”
“You shouldn’t let her see men like that.”
“He wouldn’t,” Illyra explained from the doorway. “But that’s the only kind that comes anymore—for mongering and scrying. The Stepsons scare anything else away.”
“What about the women you used to see? The lovers and the merchants?” Walegrin’s tone was harsh. “Or did the S’danzo not give them back?”
“No, Migurneal was not untrue. It’s the same everywhere. No woman would venture this close Downwind anymore—and not many merchants either. They don’t need me to tell them their luck if they run afoul of the Sacred Band.”
“And you need the money because of the babes?” Walegrin concluded, then realized he didn’t hear the normal infantile sounds.
Illyra looked away. “Well, yes—and no,” she said angrily. “We needed a wet nurse—and we found one. But it’s not safe for her or the babies here. They’re bullies. Worse than the hawk-masks were—those at least stayed in the gutters where they belonged. Arton and Lillis are at the Aphrodesia House.”
It was not uncommon to foster a child at a well-run brothel where young women sold their milk. Myrtis, proprietor of the Aphrodesia, had an unquestionable reputation. Even the palace women kept their children in the Aphrodesia nursery. But fostering wasn’t the S’danzo way and Walegrin could see Illyra had agreed to it only because she was scared.
“Have you been threatened?” he asked, sounding like the garrison office he had been.
Illyra didn’t answer, but Dubro did. “They make threats everytime she tells them the truth. She tells them they’re cowards—and their threats prove it. ‘Lyra’s too honest; she shouldn’t answer the questions men shouldn’t ask.”
“But I’ll answer your questions now, Walegrin,” she offered, not facing her husband.
The incense holders were still scattered across the carpets. Her cards had been thrown against the wall. Walegrin watched while she set her things in order and seated herself behind the table. She had recovered from the birth of the twins, Walegrin judged. There was a pleasant maturity in her face but otherwise she was the same—until she took up the cards again.
“What do you seek,” she asked.
“I have been betrayed, but I am still in danger. I wish to know whom I should fear most and where I might be safe.”
Illyra’s face relaxed into unemotional blankness. Her expressionless eyes stared into him. “The steel brings enemies, doesn’t it?”
Though he had seen her in scrying trances before, the change chilled Walegrin. Yet he believed totally in her gifts since she had read the pottery fragment which had led him to the ore. “Yes, the steel brings enemies. Will it be the death of me? Is it the final link in a S’danzo forged chain?”
“Give me your sword,” she demanded.
He handed her the Enlibar blade. Illyra stared at it a while then ran her palms along the flat and touched the edge tenderly with her fingertips. She set the metal on her table and sat motionless for so long that Walegrin began to fear for her. He had started for the door when her eyes widened and she called his name.
“The future has been clouded since I gave birth, Walegrin, but your future is as the fog to the sun.
“Steel belongs to no man but to itself alone—this steel even more so. It reeks of gods and magic, places the S’danzo do not see. But unless your betrayers work through the gods they will have no power over you. There is intrigue, treachery but none of it will harm you or the steel.”
“What of the men of Ranke? Have they forgotten me? When I go north—”
“You will not go north,” she said, taking hold of the sword again.
“‘Lyra, I’m going north with my men and the swords.”
“You will not go north.”
“That’s nonsense.”
Illyra put the sword on the table again. “It is the clearest thing I’ve seen in a week, Walegrin. You will not go north; you will not leave Sanctuary.”
“Then you cannot say no harm will come to me. What of the spy we trapped this morning. The stranger who got away. Do you see him?”
“No—he can mean nothing to you, but I’ll try my cards.” She picked up the deck, took his hand and pressed it against the cards.”Perhaps your future is distinct from the steel. Make three piles then turn over the top card of each.”
He placed the three piles where she pointed and flipped over the cards. The first showed two men dueling. Though blood dripped from their blades neither seemed injured. It was a card Walegrin had seen before. The second was unfamiliar and damaged by water running through the colors. It seemed to show a great mass of ships on the open sea. The third card showed an armored hand clutching a sword-hill that changed to flame halfway up the blade. Without thinking Walegrin moved to touch the flame. Illyra’s fingers closed over his and restrained him.
“Your first: the Two of Ores: steel. It means many things, but for you it is simply this steel itself. But you already know this.
‘“Your second: this is the Seven of Ships, or it was the Seven of Ships. It was the fishing fleet, but it has become something else.” She squeezed his hand. “Here is all danger and opportunity. Not even the gods see this card as we see it now. The Seven of Ships sails out of the future; it sails for Sanctuary and nothing will be the same. Remember it!” she commanded and overturned the card again. “We were not meant to see what the gods have not yet seen.
“Your third is not a sword, though you thought it was. It is the Lance of Flames—the Oriflamme: leader’s card. Coming with steel and the revealed future it places you in the vanguard. It is not a card for a man who believes in S’danzo curses.”
“Don’t speak in riddles, Illyra.”
“It is simple. You are not cursed by the S’danzo—if you ever were. You have been marked by the gods; but remember what we say about the gods: it is all the same whether they curse or favor you. Since the birth of my children this is the first future which is not clouded. I see a huge fleet sailing for Sanctuary—and I see the Oriflamme. I will not interpret what I see.”
“The men in Ranke will not reach me and Balustrus will not sell me?”
The S’danzo woman laughed as she gathered her cards. “Raise your eyes, Walegrin. It doesn’t matter. Ranke is to the north and you’re not going north. The steel, the fleet and the Oriflamme are right here.”
“I do not understand.”
The incense had burned down. Sunlight came in through the roped-off door. Illyra emerged from the aura of mystery to be herself again. “You are the only one who can understand, Walegrin,” she told him. “I’m too tired, now. It doesn’t really matter; I don’t feel your doom—and I’ve felt doom often enough since the mercenaries started coming. Who knows. Maybe you aren’t the one who understands. Things happen to you, around you, and you just muddle through. Tell Dubro I’ll see no-one else today when you leave.”
She stood up and went behind a curtain. He heard her lie down; he left quietly. Thrusher was helping Dubro with a wheelrim, but both men stopped when they saw him.
“She wishes to be left alone the rest of the day,” he said.
“Then you best begone from here.”
Walegrin headed out from the awning without argument. Thrusher joined him.
“Well, what did you learn?”
“She told me that we will not go north and that a great fleet is headed for Sanctuary.”
Thrusher stopped short. “She’s mad,” he exclaimed.
“I don’t think so, but I don’t understand either. In the meantime we’ll follow our original plans. We’ll come back to the city tonight and speak to the men you’ve found. There should be twenty-five swords finished by now—if there aren’t, we’ll cut our losses and leave with what we’ve got. I want to be out of here by sunrise.”
Chapter 6
THE LIGHT IN the tiny, upper room was provided by two foul-smelling candles. A man stood uncomfortably in the center of the room, the only p
lace where he could stand without striking his head on the rough-hewn beams. Walegrin, deep within the corner shadows, fired questions at him.
“You say you can use a sword—do you fight in skirmish or battle?”
“Both. Before I came to Sanctuary, two years back, I lived a time at Valtostin. We fought the citizens by night and the Tostin tribes by day. I’ve killed twenty men in a single day, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
Walegrin didn’t doubt him. The man had the look of a seasoned fighter, not a brawler. Thrusher had seen him single-handedly subdue a pair of rowdies without undue injury or commotion. “But you left Valtostin?”
The man shifted his weight nervously. “Women—a woman.”
“And you came to Sanctuary to forget?” Walegrin suggested.
“There’s always work for such as me; especially in a city like this.”
“So you found work here, but not with the garrison. What did you do?”
“I guarded the property of a merchant…”
Walegrin did not need to hear the rest of the explanation; he’d heard it often enough. It was as if the surviving hawkmasks had settled on a single excuse for their past involvement with Jubal. In a way there was truth in it; Jubal’s trade wasn’t fundamentally different from the activities of a legitimate merchant especially here in Sanctuary.
“You know what I’m offering?” Walegrin asked flatly when the man had fallen silent. “Why come to me when Tempus needs Stepsons?”
“I’d die before I served him.”
That too was the expected response. Walegrin emerged from the shadows to embrace his new man. “Well, die you might, Cubert. We quarter in a villa to the north of town. A sign says ‘Sighing Trees,’ if you read Wriggle. Otherwise you’ll know it by the smell. We’re with Balustrus, metal-master, for one more night.”
Cubert knew the name and did not flinch at the sound of it. Perhaps he did not have the abhorence of magic and near-magic that most mercenaries had. Or he was simply a good soldier and accepted his lot with resignation. Thrusher emerged to open the door.
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