by K. J. Parker
Loredan watched Temrai through a curtain of fire as the young man mixed the flux, occasionally glancing sideways to watch the colours change in the steel. The wire that held the billets of hard steel to the core glowed bright orange, but the blade sections were still a dark purple.
‘The trick,’ Temrai observed, ‘lies in tempering the edges while letting the core cool slowly. It’s important to do everything in the right order,’ he went on, spitting into the flux to make it smoother. ‘First, solder the joints; then we pack the blade with bonemeal and dried blood while it’s still cherry red, and we hold it there for as long as we dare, to let the hardness seep in through the pores of the steel. Then we’ve got to temper the blade, as far as possible without cooling down the core. That’s difficult.’
Loredan nodded appreciatively. ‘It’s cooling it suddenly that makes it brittle, then?’ he asked.
‘That’s partly it,’ Temrai replied, ‘though there’s more to it than that. Some grades of steel don’t harden at all. Also, you don’t want the edges too brittle either; you actually want to soften them just a little after you’ve quenched off the original heat, and you do that by heating it up and quenching it a second time, except you take it to a much lower heat. You can tell the right heat by watching the colours; somewhere between reddish brown and purple’s what you’re after. The simplest thing to do is quench the edges only after the first heating – that’s when we’ve got it red-hot and smothered it in bonemeal – so that the heat left in the core passes out into the edges (which we’ve just cooled) and brings them up to the right temperature. There, that ought to do,’ he added, giving the flux a final stir. ‘Are you interested in all this,’ he added, ‘or am I boring you?’
‘Not at all,’ Loredan said, ‘it’s fascinating. And knowledge is never wasted.’
Temrai grinned. ‘Another time I’ll show you how to build a siege engine,’ he said. ‘Here we are, look, that deep, rather attractive orange colour.’ He nodded to the men working the bellows; they stepped up the rate of pumping, so that the metal glowed in the flame. ‘The flux’ll cool it, of course,’ he added as he drew the billet out with a pair of tongs, ‘so it’ll have to go back in again before we can start soldering. Patience is a virtue in blacksmithing just as much as in siegecraft.’
The flux hissed and bubbled as it drew down into the joint, leaving dull grey flecks on the orange metal like clouds in a sunrise. When he judged that it was ready, Temrai pulled it out again and touched the solder stick to the sides of the joint, watching the silver disappear into the fine line between the parts of the blade. ‘It only flows if it’s hot enough,’ he said, ‘and if it doesn’t flow, you’re wasting your time. The flux helps, but it’s the heat that does it.’
In the glow of the fire, Temrai’s face shone a bright orange, like the steel he was working. Loredan mopped his forehead with his sleeve.
‘It’s taken,’ Temrai said. ‘Now we pack it with the hardening stuff and bring it back to cherry red.’ He raised his head and looked Loredan in the eye. ‘If the smell of burning blood and bone makes you feel ill, now’s the time to stand well back. It can turn your stomach if you’re not used to it.’
He sprinkled the bonemeal and dried blood, making sure the edges of both sides were evenly covered. Loredan remembered the smell, but stayed where he was. As soon as the steel glowed red through the grey and brown crust, Temrai lifted the billet off the anvil and called for the quenching tray, a long wooden trough half-filled with water.
‘A bit of salt in it helps,’ he said. ‘Fortunate that we’re so near the sea, really. In fact, this is an ideal spot for this sort of job. Now then,’ he added, as he dipped the edges carefully in the trough, moving his head away as the steam rose up (the meeting of fire and water, after the burning of blood and bone), ‘here’s a useful tip. When you’re quenching, keep moving the metal up and down in the water, or else you’ll find you get tiny cracks which’ll ruin the whole thing. There,’ he concluded, holding up the billet. ‘Quickly scrape off this crud from the edges so we can see the colours, and there we are.’
Loredan watched the colours change, straw to mud, mud to purple; then Temrai swung the blade dramatically through the air and held it up, examining it carefully. ‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Now we cool it for the last time, using oil because it cools more slowly than water, and that’s the job done. It isn’t all that difficult to understand,’ he added, ‘once you know why it’s got to be done that way. Like so many things in life.’
‘Indeed,’ Loredan replied. ‘Thank you, it’s been quite an education.’
Temrai smiled as he wiped sweat from his face. ‘Amazing what you can pick up just by listening to people while they’re working. By the way,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t make this thing out of old horseshoes just because I’m a cheapskate; it’s the best material I know for blade steel. There’s something about being continually bashed about and trodden on that makes the stuff remarkably tough and hard. You’ll have to provide your own hilt,’ he said, wrapping a scrap of rag round the tang. ‘It’s too late at night to go drilling bone and messing about with skin and wire. Here you are.’
The swordsmith handed the sword to the swordsman, holding it by the blade and offering him the rag-bound tang. Loredan took it and felt the balance, then held it up and looked down it to check the straightness. Along the narrow ribbon of steel he could see Temrai watching him, as if he were the other man in a matter of justice. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘it’s a neat job. For a first attempt, it’s very good indeed.’
‘I like getting things right first time,’ Temrai replied. ‘And doing things I haven’t attempted before. Does that make us all square, do you think?’
Loredan nodded. ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he said. ‘I expect you’re glad not to be beholden to me any more.’
‘It was the least I could do for an enemy,’ Temrai said. ‘Now get out of this camp before I have you crucified.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘It can’t be,’ said the wheelwright’s wife.
‘It is.’
‘It can’t be.’ She frowned, and peered. ‘He’s bedridden, never leaves his palace-’
‘Lodgings,’ her husband corrected her. ‘The Patriarch’s house is called his lodgings.’
‘Whatever. Still can’t be him, surely.’ She peered again. ‘It looks like him,’ she conceded.
‘Well, there you are, then.’
‘Doesn’t mean it actually is him. I mean, what’s the Patriarch doing getting out of bed when he’s seriously ill to go watching a lawsuit?’
‘Ah.’ The wheelwright lowered his voice. ‘He’s a friend of this Loredan, by all accounts. Great friends, they were, during the emergency. They do say,’ he added in a furtive whisper, ‘that he’s implicated.’
His wife looked shocked. ‘Get away,’ she said. ‘Patriarch Alexius?’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Don’t believe a word of it.’ His wife scrutinised the figure on the opposite side of the spectators’ gallery for a minute or so, hardly noticing the honeycakes she was munching as she did so. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Well, there’s no hard and fast evidence, of course, though I’ve heard it said-’
‘And there he is, bold as brass,’ his wife muttered, scandalised. ‘How he’s got the nerve to show his face in public-’
Once every so often, the fixture lists pinned to the door of the lawcourts produced what could only be described as a dream ticket; a combination of issues and participants so perfect that they could hardly have been better if they’d been chosen by popular demand. This was just such an occasion; the gorgeous and enigmatic girl fencer who had recently been appointed Attorney-General versus the notorious Colonel Loredan on a treason charge – which meant the City Prefect would be presiding in person, dressed in all his traditional finery, with a platoon of guards in parade armour standing by and, to crown it all, free admission…
Needless to say, all the city
dignitaries were present; the Lord Lieutenant, entitled by virtue of his rank to sit in the Emperor’s own box, surrounded by the heads of all the offices of state and a buzzing swarm of magnificently costumed clerks and functionaries; the upper hierarchy of the Order, including the Patriarch himself (but where was the City Archimandrite, late Deputy Patriarch, until recently the Patriarch’s inseparable companion? Rumour had it he’d either fled the city or been forced into exile on the pretext of an overseas appointment because of what he knew about the Patriarch’s clandestine involvement in whatever it was Colonel Loredan was supposed to have done; the plot thickened.)
To the people of the city, whose morale had recently been so sadly depleted by the indignities of the emergency, this display of civic pomp and gratuitous justice was just what they needed to remind them of the awesome majesty and splendour of Perimadeia, the strength of her institutions and the unquestionable rightness of her cause and proceedings. At a time when it was of the utmost importance to make the citizens feel good about themselves and the city, the perfect event had suddenly materialised, almost as if it had been planned that way by some public-spirited deity.
‘What’s her name?’ whispered the wheelwright’s wife. ‘You know, the Attorney-General.’
‘Don’t ask me,’ replied her husband. ‘Presumably she’s got one but I can’t remember ever having heard it.’
In the entrance hall trumpets blared, a signal for everyone in the courthouse to stand. While the magnificent domed roof was still reverberating with the sound, like a lover of fine wines savouring a special vintage, the main doors swung open and the Prefect entered the court at the head of a procession. In honour of the occasion he had ordered a brand-new set of official regalia; a flowing robe of gold tissue trimmed at the collar and cuffs with ermine and otter, and a tiara embroidered with gold and silver thread. In one hand he carried the lavishly embellished sword of state, while the other held the book of ordinances. He walked with a slow, measured dignity towards the place reserved for him, tucked the skirts of his gown around his knees, and sat down. Around him, his entourage filled the rest of the dais like a quart slopped into a pint jug, not quite pushing and shoving for the few available seats, while the Prefect and the Lord Lieutenant exchanged poisonous looks and the rest of the spectators plumped up their cushions and made themselves comfortable.
When the important matters of protocol had been sorted out and the ushers had hushed down the crowd, the Prefect opened his document case and nodded to the clerk; elderly, short-sighted Teofano, who had sat below the dais watching advocates die every day for half a century.
Teofano recited the grievances of the city of Perimadeia against the prisoner Bardas Loredan, customarily styled Colonel but without authority to use such title; that while commanding an expeditionary force against the national enemy he had by his negligence and failure to exercise due care allowed the said enemy to inflict on the said expeditionary force a severe defeat resulting in the loss of nine hundred and seventeen lives, injuries to a further two hundred and forty-eight of the soldiers comprising the said force and losses of horses and property both of the state and of private persons amounting to the sum of twelve thousand, three hundred and eight gold quarters; further, that while commanding the defence of the city in the capacity of Deputy Lord Lieutenant he had wilfully and without authority of the Council deployed and used an unauthorised weapon namely an incendiary compound, thereby tending to enrage the enemy and exacerbate the existing state of war between such enemy and the city and people of Perimadeia; further, that while serving in the said capacity he had negligently and carelessly performed his duties with the result that the said enemy had severely damaged the said defences and killed seven hundred and sixty-one citizens, injured a further three hundred and ninety-six citizens and caused damage to property both of the state and of private persons amounting to the sum of two million, three hundred and forty-nine thousand, five hundred and forty-nine gold quarters; further, that while charged with the duties and responsibilities of the said office of Deputy Lord Lieutenant, he had corruptly and fraudulently seized private property namely rope valued at eight thousand four hundred gold quarters; further, that while charged with the said duties and responsibilities he had corruptly sold state property valued at twelve thousand gold quarters to a third party for the sum of ten thousand gold quarters, to his own advantage and to the detriment of the state.
When Teofano had finished, there was an appropriately awed silence. Then the Prefect cleared his throat and asked who appeared for the state. A long, thin girl of no more than seventeen years of age, with a thin face and pale blue eyes, stood up and gave the court her name and details of her professional qualifications, adding that she was the Attorney-General of the city. Then she bowed to the Prefect and sat down.
‘Very well,’ the Prefect said. ‘Who appears for the prisoner, Bardas Loredan?’
After a moment, a dark-haired, clean-shaven man of just over average height stood up and faced the bench. ‘I do, my lord,’ he said, a little bit too softly. He raised his voice slightly as he gave his name; Bardas Loredan, fencing instructor, appearing as a litigant in person.
‘Very well,’ the Prefect repeated, and he began to read the depositions. They were more than usually long and complicated, phrased in the mystical language of lawyers’ clerks, and while his voice droned and droned the spectators sat in mesmerised silence, relishing the tension and studying the advocates’ faces, occasionally nudging their neighbours and indicating the size and odds of their wagers with their fingers.
In his seat at the back of the spectators’ gallery, Alexius gave up trying to follow the legal rigmarole and concentrated on keeping his eyelids from drooping. The Prefect’s voice was a heavy monotone, and Alexius could feel sleep slowly crowding in on him. He fought it, but-
– Sat upright, to find he was exactly where he had been, sitting in the courthouse, with its high domed roof, the rows of stone benches encircling the sandy floor, the judge’s platform, the marble boxes where the advocates waited for the command. He could see Loredan’s back, and over his shoulder the girl on whose behalf he had once dreamed exactly the same dream; older now, grown up, somehow suddenly beautiful in a way that made him uneasy. He could see the red and blue light from the great rose window burning on the blade of her sword, a long, thin strip of straight steel foreshortened by the perspective into an extension of her hand, a single pointing finger.
He saw Loredan move forward, his graceful, economical movement; and the girl reacts, parrying backhand, high. Now she leans forward, scarcely moving her arm at all except for the roll of the wrist that brings the blade level again. Loredan’s shoulder drops as he tries to get his sword in the way, but he’s left it too late, the sin of an overconfident man. Because Loredan’s back is to him, he can’t see the impact or where the blade hits; but the sword falls from his hand, he staggers back and drops, bent at the waist, dead before his head bumps noisily on the flagstones. The girl doesn’t move, and the blade of her sword points directly at Alexius, her eyes staring into his along the narrow ribbon of steel whose point hangs in the air, motionless, unwavering…
Alexius reached out for the moment, the double handful of time he’d just seen for the second time, caught it, held onto it tightly like a blacksmith trying to hold onto the hind leg of a nervous horse while he presses the red-hot iron shoe onto the hoof, and the air is filled with smoke and the smell of burning, and steam as the hot iron is quenched-
– And woke up, to hear the Prefect’s voice still droning. The woman sitting next to him was nudging him in the ribs.
‘You were almost asleep,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t want to miss the big fight.’
He smiled his thanks and sat up, trying desperately to remember whether he’d managed to catch that double handful of moment, and if he had, what he’d done with it.
‘Five quarters on the girl,’ whispered the woman. ‘Two to one.’
Alexius considered for a moment. ‘D
one,’ he whispered back, fumbling in his sleeve for the money.
The Prefect gave the signal, and the two fencers took guard. At precisely the same moment they both raised their swords into the guard of the Old fence, so that between them lay one continuous ribbon of steel that connected them hand to hand and eye to eye. For what seemed like a lifetime they held the position, their arms outstretched but absolutely steady, their sword-points not wavering by the thickness of a hair. One minute, a minute and a half, two minutes; they could have been an instructor and his pupil practising the oldest and most arduous exercise of all, which strengthens the muscles and trains the mind to be patient and alert. Three minutes-
Alexius’ head began to hurt, very badly. He put his fingertips to his temples, closed his eyes, opened them; then the pain began in his chest and arm, and he leant forward, trying unsuccessfully to breathe. Just as he thought he was about to black out, he felt a hand on his arm; and at once the pain stopped, his head cleared, his lungs filled with air-
‘You all right?’ asked the man on his left; a large, thickset bald man with an accent. ‘You had me worried for a moment.’
Alexius gestured that he was fine; then he recognised-
‘Gorgas Loredan,’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ the man replied. ‘Fancy you knowing my name.’
‘I-’
‘Ssh. They’re off.’ Gorgas Loredan was gazing intently ahead. ‘You a betting man, by any chance?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Five quarters on our kid. Two to one.’
Oh, well, thought Alexius. ‘Done,’ he said.
Then he looked down at the two small figures below. Loredan had his back to him; he was lunging now, graceful and economical in his movements. The girl parried, backhand, high, and counterthrust. Loredan dropped his shoulder to parry, realising he was late on the movement, but just in time-