“You might be able to find something. Did you ask Rhodos the chandler? He knows people.” Beltur quickly sensed the youth’s chest and shoulder area. There were still areas that held the dull red tinge of healing flesh, but he found no sign of what he considered active wound chaos or muscles that had no natural order, which would have indicated that they were dying or about to die. “You’re doing better.”
“Leastwise, that’s one thing that’s going well.” Poldaark shook his head mournfully.
As Beltur headed back down the stairs to meet with Herrara, he couldn’t help wondering what would happen to the three men.
L
On threeday, a light and feathery snow began to drift down on Axalt as Beltur left Barrynt’s stable on the walk to the smithy. The snow reminded Beltur that it was already midwinter, and he wondered how that much time had passed so quickly. Because you’re both busy?
He kept walking and reached the smithy at two quints past seventh glass, the time that he and Jorhan had agreed upon. “I tried to get here a bit earlier, but cleaning the stable took longer.”
“You’re spoiling young Frankyr by doing that.” Jorhan’s voice was gruff, but not unfriendly as he shoveled some coal into the forge.
“It’s the only way I can pay for stabling the horses.”
“I know that, and so does Barrynt. You do a better job than Frankyr did.” Jorhan laughed. “Now Frankyr has to do more at the factorage. Probably better for him that he’s not getting away with so much.”
“He may not think so.”
“Most young fellows want the most coin for the least work.”
“Not just young fellows.”
“True enough. How long are you going to work at the healing house?”
“You don’t need me here all the time now. When you do, I’ll have put in enough time and know enough that I won’t have to work there.” Beltur wasn’t certain he’d give it up. “Have you had any buyers approach you?”
“One or two of Barrynt’s merchant friends might be interested closer to spring. You ready to do the bellows?”
Beltur nodded and moved into position.
“We’re going to have to do the mirror in three pieces,” said Jorhan. “The mirror itself has to be thin. Trying to cast a thin center with a thick frame in one piece won’t work. Making the frame in two parts will make fitting it all together much easier.”
“Which part do you want to do first?”
“The center. That’s going to be the hardest part. Even getting the mold heated properly could be a problem. I made two just in case.”
Beltur began pumping the bellows to get the coal ready.
Half a glass later, Jorhan began to pour the bronze melt.
A sharp crack was followed by a hissing sound.
“Frig! Frig! Frig!” Jorhan righted the crucible to keep the rest of the melt from spilling through the break in the mold, and Beltur used the shovel, as well as his shields, to save what of the bronze he could from damaging the cooling grid.
While the second mold heated, Jorhan worked on forming a third.
The pour on the second mold went well enough, but, glasses later, it was clear that Beltur had implanted the order/chaos mesh with the nodes too close together, so close that the cupridium was effectively unworkable—and that meant Jorhan couldn’t polish it to the finish necessary for a mirror.
The third mold was heating when Beltur heard a series of sharp knocks on the door. “Do you want me to get it?”
“Better you than me.”
Beltur stepped back from the forge, then made his way to the door, which he opened. The man standing there looked vaguely familiar, but Beltur couldn’t place him.
“Are you Jorhan, the smith?” asked the heavyset and red-bearded man.
“No, I’m Beltur, his assistant.”
“I’m Councilor Zulkyn. I’m here to inspect the forge.”
“Do come in, Councilor.” Beltur stepped back and opened the door wider. “Jorhan is at the forge.” He gestured, then shut the door behind the entering functionary and followed him, stopping several paces back.
“Councilor Zulkyn, Smith. This is the new forge?” The councilor’s words were brusque, almost clipped.
Jorhan used the tongs to set the crucible with the melt components in it on the top of the forge wall closest to him. “The base was already here, Councilor. We added the upper lines of brick and leveled it off. We also added the coal box at the back.”
Zulkyn peered at the forge, then appeared to study every line of bricks on each side. His hands went up and down the sides of the forge, as if to determine if there were gaps in the brickwork emitting hot air or gases. Then he studied the chimney above the forge.
After a good quint, he turned to Jorhan. “The forge is simple, but adequate. I will report on that to the Council. Occasionally, members of the Council will return to inspect the premises.” He nodded and then turned, walking toward the door.
Beltur hurried to open it, nodding politely as Zulkyn departed. The councilor did not nod in return. Beltur closed the door and walked back to the forge.
“Not that friendly,” observed Jorhan.
“He seemed fair enough. He didn’t hint for coins, and he was quick and thorough.”
“First quick thing with the Council since we got here,” muttered the smith. “Time to get the mold ready.”
By slightly after third glass, the thin casting was cooling, and Beltur had a better feeling about it—that it would be almost as hard as black iron but workable to the extent of being able to be polished to the necessary sheen.
Since there was nothing else for him to do, he hurried off through the intermittent fine snow that was still falling. With the growing chill in the air, and the hint of clearing sky to the north, the night was going to be very cold, possibly one of the coldest nights since he and Jessyla had come to Axalt.
He stopped by the stable, saddled Slowpoke, and rode the gelding down to the market square, where he found someone with a fowl for sale. Then he took Slowpoke around the square twice and back to the stable, where he quickly unsaddled and groomed him before setting out for the cot. He’d no more than set foot inside than Jessyla turned from the hearth, where she had laid a fire and flames were slowly rising over the wood.
“Where have you been?”
Beltur didn’t have to strain to hear the edge to her voice. “We had trouble pouring the mirror sheet. Then the councilor came to inspect the forge. After that we finally cast the third sheet. I hurried off to the stables and gave Slowpoke a short ride—not a fast one because I didn’t want him overheated. But I picked up some fowl at the square. After dealing with Slowpoke, I hurried home.”
“You could have come home first, and we both could have ridden.”
“We have three horses,” replied Beltur. “Two have scarcely been ridden. I thought we could ride them after we eat.”
“That will be a while. You haven’t started anything, and I’m too tired to think about it.”
“I can cut the chicken into strips, season it, and fry it, then make a gravy to put over it and the leftover potato slices.” He paused. “You had a hard day, it sounds like.”
“The City Patrol brought in three children with bad frostburn. Their father had beaten the mother so badly she might die and then left all four of them. The oldest is four. Then one of the women from the women’s workhouse got in the way of a wagon, and it rolled over her foot. She said she didn’t even feel it because her foot was already numb. After that—”
“Why don’t we go into the kitchen. You can sit in front of the hearth there and have a little ale while I get supper ready, and you can tell me the rest of what happened while I do.”
“An ale sounds good.”
Beltur thought so, too, even as he wondered what he might face at the healing house on fourday.
LI
Fourday was another long day at the healing house for Beltur, and while he did have to deal with some wound chaos in
Yuareff’s arm, solidly encased in a plaster cast, the bones looked to be healing as well as a simple break would, possibly because Yuareff wasn’t that far from being a youth, and young bones healed faster.
Fiveday was another day at the smithy, where the only casting was two small pieces for the mirror, and Beltur got back to the cot in time to ride Slowpoke as well as make several trips from the water house to partly refill the kitchen cistern. Sixday saw snow and only a few minor injuries appearing at the healing house.
On sevenday, Jorhan set Beltur to work on the foot treadle that powered the polishing wheel. Beltur worked the wheel, with breaks, for nearly four glasses straight, polishing and smoothing the mirror destined for Halhana.
Beltur watched as Jorhan finally slid the polished surface into the frame. Each corner of the frame featured a delicate rosebud, or rather half of one as seen from the side, as if the cupridium flower had been captured half in and half out of the silvery metal, with the yellowish sheen between gold and silver. A spray of rosebuds in relief decorated each end of the base from which the mirror supports curved upward.
Simple elegance. That was how Beltur saw the mirror, even before Jorhan was finished.
“When will you give it to Halhana?”
“I’ll give it to Johlana at dinner on eightday. It’s up to her to present it to Halhana.”
“That’s the best piece you’ve done—that I’ve seen, anyway.”
“Most likely is,” agreed the smith. “Had enough sense not to mess it up with too much in relief the way some silversmiths do, except unornamented metal in gold or silver is an invitation to scratches. They’re too soft. Near impossible to scratch cupridium except with black iron. The reflected image is clear, too, and the mirror’s better than anything a glasswright can produce. More durable. Won’t shatter if it’s dropped, either.” Jorhan smiled happily. “Wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”
“It took us both.” After a moment, Beltur looked at the mirror again. All Jorhan had to do, it appeared, was to mount the mirror in the supports, using the two pin pieces they had cast on fiveday. “Maybe … if someone sees this … we might get an order.”
“I don’t think that’s likely,” replied Jorhan. “Only people to see it will be family.”
“What about Eshult’s family?”
“Not likely. They’re all into silver, remember?”
“I think this makes silver look tawdry.”
Jorhan grinned. “So do I. So does Johlana. Think that’s why she wants it for Halhana. Wants to give her something that’s special. So she can have a fine piece that’s not from his family.” Jorhan looked to the door. “You might as well go now. Nothing else you can do here.”
“Then I’ll see you on oneday.”
“Tomorrow night,” corrected Jorhan. “Johlana said you were coming to dinner.”
Beltur hid a frown. Johlana had said nothing to him, and neither had Jessyla. “Then … tomorrow night and on oneday.”
“Off with you. Don’t want your consort saying I kept you when I didn’t.”
With a smile at Jorhan’s mock-gruff tone, Beltur turned and headed toward the door.
He reached the cot by third glass, and that gave him time to start a fire and then shovel away the snow that had fallen on the walks intermittently throughout the day before he began to make a much milder form of burhka than favored by most Gallosians, but one more suited to his taste and, he hoped, to Jessyla’s.
When she arrived, the burhka was cooking in the covered pot suspended over the kitchen side of the hearth fire, but Beltur met Jessyla in the front room.
“You got home earlier today.”
“Jorhan didn’t need me any later. All he has left is the finish work on the mirror. He said he hoped to present it to Johlana tomorrow.” Beltur kept his face in a pleasant expression.
“Good! I’d like to see her expression.”
“Are we going to be there? I wasn’t aware—”
“Beltur! I told you last night.”
“You did?”
“Your mind … and your hands were occupied elsewhere.”
Beltur flushed. “I … didn’t remember.”
She laughed. “I don’t think you heard a word.”
“That’s appearing very likely,” he admitted sheepishly. “What else did I miss?”
“Only that I found a satchel filled with scores of golds in the snow yesterday afternoon.”
“You didn’t.”
“No … I didn’t, but I don’t think you would have heard that, either.”
She’s probably right. “Let me get you a mug of ale, and after you have some, while we sit here in the front room, we’ll have time to work on your shields. Supper won’t be ready for a while.”
“What are we having? It smells familiar, but not quite.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Mutton?”
“That’s one ingredient.”
“Anything hot would be good.” She settled onto the bench facing the hearth.
Beltur returned shortly with two mugs of ale, handed her one, and sat down beside her. “How was your day?”
Jessyla didn’t answer immediately, instead taking a swallow of the pale ale. Finally, she said, “We had a woman from the poorhouse. She came in bleeding. We couldn’t save her.”
“Just bleeding?”
“The warder said she had a miscarriage. Herrara didn’t think so. There were bruises … and a lot more … cuts.” Jessyla shuddered. “It was awful. I managed a small shield to stop the worst of the bleeding, but that wasn’t enough, and there was chaos everywhere. The warder woman wasn’t at all concerned.”
“Bad blood between the two.”
“Or worse.” Jessyla shuddered again. “I’d never want to be in the poorhouse or a workhouse. Never!” She took another swallow.
“I think that’s one reason why Herrara tried to save Yuareff’s arm, even though the bones broke through the skin.”
“She wouldn’t have done it that way if she hadn’t known you could remove wound chaos. She told me that.”
“How is he doing?”
“There’s some fuzziness, beginning chaos, between the bones and the skin. You’ll have to get rid of that. I can sense it, but I can’t focus free order and move it where it needs to be the way you can.”
“You probably could.”
“I don’t want to try it the first time without you there.” She paused. “I know you did, with that boy in Elparta, but he would have died if you hadn’t. Yuareff’s chaos is barely there. I would have tried if you weren’t around.”
What Jessyla said made sense, but it also worried Beltur. Was she being too cautious? Or had he been too rash? Probably not then … but … Then again, for whatever reason, so much of what he’d tried had been when there hadn’t been good choices.
After a time, he said, “It’s time to work on your shields some more. You still need more tiny bits of chaos at the nodes in your shield.”
Jessyla winced. “Chaos feels … ugly.”
“It’s just chaos. It’s disorderly, but not ugly.”
“Disorderly is ugly.”
“Try to think of it as disorderly,” said Beltur.
“Why?”
“Because, if you think of it as ugly, you’ll be repelled, and you won’t use it as effectively. Think of it as disorderly, and that you’re making it more orderly by surrounding it with order. Which you are.”
“Sometimes…” Jessyla shook her head.
“Please try it that way.”
Jessyla set her mug on the floor.
Lines in her forehead told Beltur that she was concentrating, and he immediately sensed the web-like pattern. He nodded. “That’s it! Can you sense how much stronger it is that way?”
“Not really.”
“It is. Take my word for it.”
“Don’t I always?” A mischievous smile appeared.
“Mostly.” Beltur picked up a billet of wood from the
hearth firebox. “I’m going to pound on your shield. Hold it for as long as you can.”
“That might not be long.”
His first blow was moderate. The shield held. His second blow was harder, and the third was hard enough that the shock through the wood forced him to drop the wood. “Very good.”
“Now what?”
“Keep holding it. As long as you can. In time, you’ll need to carry shields all the time.”
“Like you? I don’t know…”
“You can carry them close to your skin most of the time. Besides, carrying shields all the time makes you a stronger mage.”
“Am I a mage yet?”
“You can’t do everything a full mage can do, but that will come. I started you with shieldwork because without protection none of the rest matters.” Especially for a woman. “That’s particularly important because you’re consorted to me.”
“You’re sounding like every mage in Candar is after you.”
“Not every mage. Just all those in Gallos and Elparta, except for Meldryn and Lhadoraak.”
“But we’re in Axalt.”
“I still think it’s necessary. If I’m wrong, your having strong shields can’t possibly hurt. Now I’m going to probe your shield with order.” He focused an order probe and jabbed.
“That hurts more than the wood did.”
“Both order and chaos will.”
The two continued the exercises for almost a quint before Beltur said, noticing the sheen of perspiration on Jessyla’s face, “That’s enough. I think we’re both ready for supper.”
As he headed for the kitchen, mug in hand, he just hoped the burhka was ready for them.
Before long he had dished out two portions into the mismatched earthenware bowls, and they sat down with their mugs at the kitchen table. Beltur watched as Jessyla took a mouthful.
“This is almost like burhka, except it’s not as spicy hot.”
“It is burhka. I didn’t see why it couldn’t be spicy without burning out the inside of my mouth and throat.”
Jessyla took another mouthful. “It’s good. I’m not sure I’d call it burhka.”
“You mean it’s not burhka unless it’s so spicy hot that you can’t taste anything but the peppers?”
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