Standing, he found the dregs of the drug were still in effect and the hour was deplorable, so he began looking for an inn. The cold cobbles under his feet reminded him that he didn’t have any boots on.
The Flying Fish still had a lantern lit by the sign and there were still sounds of late-night activity inside, but it was subdued at this hour. Sean went in and bought himself a beer and a room. Taking the beer with him, he followed the rotund innkeeper through the sparsely peopled common room. The man chattered merrily all the while, but Sean was exhausted and didn’t hear what was said. Once ensconced, and the door closed. He sealed it to ensure he wasn’t disturbed, then finished his beer and crawled into bed. He would have a healthy chunk of the day to himself before anyone caught up with him, and if they killed their horses trying, they could damn well buy their own replacement, or walk for all he cared.
He woke late, but it was still morning, so he ate a heaping plate of potatoes and onions for breakfast.
“Meat is so scarce these days,” said the innkeeper, among the rest of his chatter.
After breakfast, he asked for directions to a bathhouse and a bootmaker’s establishment, then headed into the city.
He found the bootmaker, who happened to have a pair of soft-soled, lace-up boots that fit. He offered to make a good pair of riding boots for him, but Sean didn’t want to wait the two days necessary, and didn’t really need new boots, he just needed something for now, and they were comfortable.
Across the street, he saw a tailor’s shop; clean clothes would be nice after a bath, what he had on had been worn, and even slept in, far too long. Inside, he saw a fine selection of men’s and women’s clothing, displayed to show the skill of the tailor. A frail man with white hair came over and bowed. “May I help you, sir?”
Sean selected a linen shirt and pants. The shirt had wide sleeves and long cuffs; the buttons looked to have been cut from seashells and polished. The pants were black and had a high waistline that laced up the front like his new boots did. “I’ll take these,” he said.
“A fine selection, sir, I can have that made up for you tomorrow. If you will permit me, I will take your measurements.”
“Not tomorrow, now,” said Sean. “My next stop is the bathhouse and I want to put on clean clothes when I get out.”
“But sir,” said the little man, his formal manner cracking.
“You can take some of my measurements. You can make alterations if you think it’s necessary, but I want the suit delivered to the bathhouse on Kehl Street in an hour.” He flipped the man a silver coin. “Can you manage that?”
The man hefted the coin. “I can, sir; as you wish, sir,” he said as he bowed. He was obviously distressed at having to sell something made for display to someone who did not lack for money, but he took his measurements all the same.
The bathhouse was a fairly elaborate affair. The place was large, boasting eight baths ranging in size from something akin to a backyard hot tub to something closer to a swimming pool, all in separate rooms that could be heated and turned into steam rooms.
Sean wasn’t interested in a steam bath; he just wanted to get clean. That was just fine with the establishment, but he was required to accept an attendant regardless of his wishes. The boy led him to a mid-sized bath in a warm room. He was very proper and his calm manner soothed Sean into permitting him to wash his back.
The boy used neutral conversation and compliments to put Sean at ease. Standing in the bath with him, the young attendant prompted Sean to lean against the rounded edge of the tub, then he could massage his shoulders and back with scented soap. As he did so, he asked, “Were you wounded, sir?” His fingers found and traced the scars lightly.
Sean twitched. The wounds weren’t bruised any longer, but they were still tender if prodded in the right place. The boy, however, was skilled and his strong fingers eased aches and tensions Sean had scarcely been aware of.
“Are you an archer?” asked the boy.
“Oh I suppose I could fire an arrow from a bow, but I wouldn’t call myself an archer,” mumbled Sean as the boy lathered his back and neck, then started to move down one arm.
“What do you do?” asked the boy with genuine curiosity. “I can tell that you’re not a farmer.”
Sean smiled to himself. If I tell this kid that I’m a king, I won’t get much of a bath. “I’m just a fighter.”
“You must be good.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Sean, wondering what he would say.
“You don’t have very many scars,” the boy stated, as he finished with his other arm. He turned Sean onto his back and floated him out into the water. “Only a few got past your sword.”
The water was only a little better than knee deep, so the boy was able to park Sean’s shoulders on his knee to wash his hair using an available dipper to pour clean water from a bucket over his head without getting any in his eyes.
“I’ve studied the sword since I was ten, but I’ve actually seen very few fights with it,” said Sean, having to stop himself from talking of his use of magic. He really didn’t want to give himself away here.
“I’ll be ten in a few years. Will you teach me how to use a sword then?” asked the boy. The question was a jarring reminder of what had been done in this valley.
“I plan to be back home soon. I suppose I could take on some students then. How old are you now?” He looked to be in his early teens.
“I’ll be seven next month,” said the boy, proudly.
“Well at seven, you’ll need permission from your father. Why don’t you introduce me to him? That way I can assure him that the offer is genuine. What is your name anyway?”
The boy’s veneer of competence was cracking under the pressure of youthful excitement. “My name is Bernard Sace.”
Sean couldn’t believe his luck. He was beginning to wonder if his ancestors were actually guiding his steps. This kind of luck was certainly more than just coincidence. “Why do you work here?” he asked as he sat up and took the soap and rag from Bernard and started on his toes.
“My father’s great uncle won’t let any of the family have anything to do with weapons,” answered Bernard, his bitterness almost showing.
“Then you won’t be able to come train with me,” Sean stated.
There was a knock on the door and another attendant brought in a paper-wrapped package. “From the tailor, lord,” said the girl.
Sean waved an acknowledgement then stood, allowing Bernard to use buckets of clean water to rinse the soapy water off before handing him a dry towel. Feeling greatly refreshed, he dressed in his new clothes.
His silver coin had bought him more than a shirt and a pair of pants, it had also bought him silk underclothes, a wide, black, silk sash that tied around his waist with the knot at his right hip – Bernard helped him with that – the tasseled ends hanging down to his knees. A high-waisted black jacket with wide sleeves that went only to the elbows was next. The whole thing was finished off by a narrow black tie that hung halfway down his front; he had never worn a tie before. The whole thing made him feel like some Spanish lord.
“I’m surprised that you don’t carry a sword,” said Bernard.
“Do I need a sword here in the city?” asked Sean.
“You are dressed very fine, sir. Someone could try to rob you. I didn’t see a purse, but they might still try.”
“I left my sword… I left my swords in my room. I’ll just have to be careful.”
“I would really like to see it, sir,” said Bernard shyly, then he looked up into Sean’s face with wide eyes. “Did you say ‘swords’, sir?”
Sean looked at the boy and smiled. “Do you know of a good blacksmith?”
The boy gasped, nearly hopping. “I do, sir. My father’s friend happens to be a blacksmith. I could have worked for him if he didn’t make knives sometimes.”
“Come on then, I’ll feed you lunch at my inn and retrieve my swords from my room, then we can go see your father and the sm
ith. That should solve just about all of my problems in one fell swoop.”
“Yes sir, yes sir. Let me get dressed. I’ll be right with you. I’ll only be a moment.” All his formal veneer was gone as he ran to wherever the attendants kept their personal effects, followed by shouts from the proprietor.
Sean scrubbed at his hair a little more with the towel then raked it back with his fingers. Maybe I’ll be able to get a haircut here, too. It feels strange not wearing my crown.
Dried and dressed, he went to speak to the proprietor. “I’ve hired Bernard as a guide for the afternoon. I’m sure his extended services will reflect well on this establishment.” Then with his best royal manner, he stepped out into the street. The air had been freshened by the rain, but it still smelled like a city. It smelled like too many people living too close together without adequate sewage or garbage disposal, and the air wasn’t cold enough yet to dispel the odor completely. He smiled. I wonder if I can clean up the city. What would the people say if I did?
Bernard joined him dressed in baggy linen pants, a matching shirt and shoes that looked like white tennis shoes.
Lunch was again meatless, but there were plenty of other things. There was a healthy serving of more potatoes and onions, something that looked like spinach, a boiled squash that might have been zucchini, beans and a platter of corn on the cob alongside. Sean made a pig of himself, or at least he felt like it. It was all such a welcome change from stew or jerky, though he did miss the meat.
After he was done eating, he went upstairs and as soon as he was out of sight, he brought his swords to him and buckled them around his waist. He adjusted his sash so that the loose ends dangled behind the hilt on that side. Then he brought the blackened and warped blade, its sheath that didn’t fit it anymore, and his cloak to wrap them in.
They were just leaving the inn when Ferris called, “Seanad, can you hear me?”
Sean knew they would notice him retrieving his swords, but he broke the connection without answering. Ferris would pick up his anger, though, and that was fine with him. Let them stew for a while. Let them march under my flag and be seen; maybe I’ll just stay ahead of them, do my business and hop to the next garrison.
Bernard noticed his dark expression. “Are you angry with me, sir?” he asked.
“No Bernard, not with you. Let’s go meet your father.”
“Is that what you want the blacksmith for?” asked Bernard, nodding at the bundle in his hand. “What did you do to it?”
“I abused it,” said Sean. He was having trouble reclaiming his mood from before lunch.
“Can I see?”
Sean remembered the reason they had come here. “Which one?”
Bernard’s expression was suddenly that of a boy who had just entered a world famous candy store, but he had only enough money to buy one piece of candy. What to choose? From the way the boy’s stare went from sword to sword, he appeared to be saying something akin to eeny, meeny, miny, moe. Finally he settled on the sword hanging oh Sean’s right hip.
Sean leaned the great sword, bundled in his cloak against the wall and drew the indicated sword. Holding it in his two hands, he was in the process of handing it to the boy when the innkeeper came in, and Bernard pulled back. He couldn’t resist leaning closer though. He even reached a longing finger out to almost touch the shiny blade.
“Boy,” said the innkeeper, and Bernard jerked away again looking guilty.
“He just wanted to see,” said Sean to the innkeeper with a glower.
“He’s always wantin’ to see. He ain’t to touch though, and he knows it.”
“We’ll see about that,” Sean said under his breath as he sheathed the sword again, winning a look of surprise from Bernard.
Bernard led off, winding through streets crowded with people. Some of the people crowding the streets had pushcarts and some had trays, most carried woven bags either full or empty. Soon, they found themselves in a higher-class part of town where the streets were much less crowded and there were no carts at all, only a few horse-drawn carriages. Here, the armed patrols that paced the streets in groups of three or four were far more visible, and everyone they passed eyed Sean and his two swords warily.
It may have been his clothes that bought him passage unquestioned; most everyone here was dressed much the same way, though only a few of them were armed. Apparently, it was the fashion of the nobility. He had seen some like it down around the inn, which wasn’t too far from the docks, but most people there were dressed much like Bernard.
As they made their way up the hill, a flood of messengers made an appearance coming down from farther up the hill. Each one would stop a person or group and deliver their message, then pass out a white ribbon to each that person; when they ran out of ribbons they made their way back up the hill.
When Bernard saw this, he gasped. “Someone must have died,” he whispered. “I wonder who it was.” They found out a few minutes later when one of the messengers stopped them.
“The High Lord and Great Provider, Mílos Sace, fell suddenly ill night before last and died early this morning. Mourn for his loss, all mourn for his loss.” The messenger wailed his message like a mourner and passed them each a ribbon.
I wonder if I’m responsible for the man’s death. The timing is right. “I am a foreigner,” said Sean. “Who is it that just died?”
The messenger looked appalled, but Sean couldn’t tell if it was because he claimed to be a foreigner or because he didn’t recognize the name of the deceased. “The High Lord and Great Provider, Mílos Sace,” repeated the messenger, as if he had not spoken clearly enough the first time.
Sean would have questioned the man further, but Bernard was pulling at his elbow. “Come on, we have to tell father.” He tied his ribbon around his forehead as he led on.
Sean couldn’t bring himself to mourn the man who had bastardized the district the way he’d found it. Great Provider my ass. He kept his ribbon in his hand, not crushing it only by force of will.
Bernard’s home was a fine home with a walled yard and a white graveled path leading to the house. There were flowering trees all around the edges of it and a profusion of flowering plants lining the walk up to the front door.
A butler dressed all in black opened the door. Sean passed the ribbon to him rather than the bundle he had offered to take. “Good afternoon. I’m Seanad Ruhin. I’d like to speak to the head of the house.”
The man nearly fainted upon hearing the name. He turned almost hastily to announce him, forgetting the ribbon, forgetting to ask its significance, forgetting that Bernard wore one just like it.
Bernard’s father was tall and straight, with mostly gray hair, which meant he might be as old as thirty. No wife was in evidence; as least, none was visible. When his name had been recited, the man bowed deeply, which confused Bernard immensely. “I’m honored, my lord. I am Lahr Sace.”
“Bernard here is interested in learning the sword. I would like to offer…” Sean started, but another visitor interrupted the discussion before it had scarcely begun.
A man who looked positively ancient, though he carried himself as if he were only in his twenties, was shown in and announced as the seneschal to Lord Sace, Mr. Rastatt.
Bernard pulled Sean to the side as the man strode directly up to Lahr.
“My lord,” said Rastatt in a low, drawling voice then he bowed down to Lahr, placing one knee and his opposite fist on the floor. “The High Lord and Great Provider, your great uncle, has died suddenly only this morning. By right of succession, the title goes to you as the oldest and nearly the last member of his family.”
Lahr stood up in alarm. “He died? What happened? How?”
“I’m sorry sir; the doctors don’t know what happened. Your presence is requested at the palace to take control of the court. I have brought guards to see to your safety. Perhaps there will be more answers by the time you reach the palace. Will you come, my lord?”
Lahr looked at Sean. “My lord, would
you like to accompany us? We could finish our discussion there.”
“No,” said Sean. “My presence would only add to the confusion. I will be in contact with you at a later date. If you could direct me to a blacksmith, I will take my leave and allow you to gather the reins so carelessly dropped by your great uncle. My regards.” Sean bowed formally, but not nearly as low as the seneschal had.
Lahr took Sean’s actions to mean that he was not claiming his title regardless of his bloodline, so he told his son to show him to the blacksmith and allowed them to leave while he gathered his things to accompany the seneschal.
Soran’s Sword
The blacksmith’s shop was back toward the center of the city, not far from the river. The things Sean saw upon entering the shop told him that the man didn’t make swords for a living, but from what his young guide had said earlier, Sean still hoped he might make them upon request. An ornate wrought iron gate leaned against one wall, with other wrought-iron works that looked like they might fit windows. Gleaming silver figurines were crowded on shelves, and even some metalwork that might ultimately support pieces of wood to become articles of furniture filled the floor but for room to walk. Deeper in were some practical tools like shovels, pickaxes and hammers all waiting for handles. Nowhere did Sean see a weapon larger than a paring knife, but he asked anyway.
Sean unwrapped the sword and its sheath from his cloak and lay it out on the bench for the smith to see. The smith cringed at the sight of the blade, then he looked at the sheath. He scrutinized it closely and examined the belt that supported it, taking in the various wear marks and scratches, then after a puzzled glance up at Sean, he went back to the sword, tipping it to the light until he caught sight of the remains of the etching that dominated the ricasso. “Is this the original?” he asked, then shook his head before Sean could answer or offer an explanation. “I suppose you want this restored,” he continued. “I can make you one like it in a few days, but I’m really not a sword-smith.” He looked at the etching again. “No, I really can’t help you. I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Most all I do here is fancy stuff.” He waved a hand at his display, including things his assistants were working on. He rewrapped the sword in the cloak and handed it back to Sean. “You take the barge down to Basilia. There’s a smithy down there. If the same family runs it, it’ll be the same that King Soran started. It’s said that he blessed the place. It would be fitting to have this done there. At any rate, they make swords there all the time. They would know what to do for this.”
The Making of a Mage King: White Star Page 28