“Who’s it for?” Ruhm asked.
This was one of those moments. Aric knew they had discussed this very topic, more than once. He tried to keep impatience from sounding in his voice. “The House of Thrace,” he said, watching his hands instead of Ruhm. “The Shadow King himself gifted the metals to Tunsall of Thrace, the family patriarch. A reward for service to the court of Nibenay, or some such. Anyway, Tunsall came to us and ordered the sword. It’s a rapier, meant for Tunsall’s granddaughter Rieve.”
Ruhm barked a loud laugh. “There’s that look again. Guess it’s not the sword you love after all. Ha!”
Aric swore inwardly. Here he had been thinking Ruhm was having one of his “simple moments,” and instead the goliath was luring him into a verbal trap. “I’m not in love with her! I haven’t really even met her. I’ve only seen her once or twice.”
“What color hair she got?”
“It’s orange-red, like the inside of the forge when it’s just starting to cool.” He glanced up at Ruhm’s grinning face, framed by an unruly mop of thick brown hair, and knew he had just tightened the trap around himself. That ghastly smile! “Yes, she’s pretty! Are you happy?”
“Think she’d wed a half-elf?”
“I’m a quarter elf,” Aric reminded him. Unconsciously, his left hand reached up and brushed the top of his ear. “My mother was a half-elf, my father was human. So I’m only a quarter.” He was adamant on that point, even though he knew it didn’t matter to most. To humans, he was still too much elf, and to elves he might as well be human. Fitting into neither camp was another difficulty of his trade, because members of both races often refused to give him work or to buy his wares. It was only because he was the best smith in the city—perhaps on Athas, considering the derth of metal and those equipped to work it—that he made a living at all. “Anyway, I have no intention of trying to marry her. Even if I was interested, which I’m not, she’s a noble and I’m about as common as a commoner can get. And she’s betrothed. I know you’re just teasing me, Ruhm, but I wish you’d get a new game.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“And don’t call me that!”
“Touchy today?”
“Don’t you have something to do, Ruhm? Something useful, I mean?”
“Could shovel charcoal, I guess.”
“Perfect. Go shovel charcoal,” Aric said. “And take your time!”
The last part of the job was attaching the hilt. This one was slender, as befitted a rapier meant for a young lady. It was not ornate, but neither was it plain. The pommel was smooth, swelling at the end to help Rieve keep her grip on it, and threaded, so the blade’s tang fit right through the grip, and the pommel held it all together. The grip was wrapped in durable erdlu skin—the cost of that had been dear indeed, but built into the price Aric had quoted Tunsall of Thrace before taking the job—then wrapped in fine wire for a better grip. The guard was an intricate web made up of three rings that curved around one another, merging together at the rear where they nearly touched the pommel. The design kept the weapon light, as did the fuller, the groove cut from the blade’s center, extending two-thirds of the blade’s length, from the guard down.
When it was done—really and completely done—Aric admired it for a few minutes, wishing there was a way he could both keep it and deliver it to the House of Thrace and collect his fee. It truly is a beautiful piece, he thought. My finest by afar distance. He might spend the next entire season making nothing more sophisticated than iron hinges for doors, but at least he had crafted this. There wasn’t another smith in the whole Ivory Triangle who could do better.
He took it in his right hand and felt its weight. Narrow, for the breadth of his hand, but he had measured Rieve’s—and he would never give Ruhm the pleasure of knowing it, but that had made Aric’s heart quicken, no denying it—and he knew it would be just right for her. He swished the blade through the air, tracing the letters of his own name.
Instantly, he lowered the blade’s point and glanced around to make sure no one had seen that. Ruhm stood in the doorway, but no one else was in sight, and Ruhm already knew he could read and write a little. Literacy was frowned upon, among commoners anyway. More than frowned upon, in fact—it could get a commoner consigned to slavery, if a templar happened to find out. But Aric had done so much work for noble houses that he had managed to pick up those skills along the way.
“Good with that,” Ruhm said. His preferred weapon was a greatclub, hardly requiring grace or finesse. “Should make one for you sometime, no?”
“No,” Aric said. “I mean, yes, I know how to use it. But I’m no adventurer, Ruhm. The last time I used a sword of steel—well, let’s just say it wasn’t my best day.”
“What happened?”
“I haven’t told you this story? How I got this?” Aric touched the scar that bisected his arched left eyebrow, like a tiny pink worm parting the hair. He was sure he had told Ruhm, maybe a couple of times. But Ruhm might have forgotten, or he might just be toying with Aric again.
“Don’t remember it.”
“I made it myself, for myself. I wasn’t too good at swordsmithing yet, but it came out half decent just the same. I strapped it on and thought I was the handsomest devil in all Nibenay.
“I guess the sword was handsome enough, at that. I had been out that night, and on my way home four elves saw me. They thought, because of the sword, that I was wealthy. Or else they just wanted the sword, I was never sure which. In any case, they tried to rob me, holding their own swords and daggers on me.
“I drew my sword and went at them. I tell you, Ruhm, I was something to see. I wove a glittering web of steel. The longer the battle went on, the more it took me away, until I had become a fighting machine. I felt I was watching myself from a great height, yet I was in the middle of it, too. My mind had ceased to think about anything but where the next thrust might come from, the next jab, and how I could counter those with my own.”
Aric touched his brow again. “When I regained my senses, the four elves were dead, and my only wound was the one that left this scar. But a templar accused me of brawling—only the intervention of others on the street, who didn’t realize I was a quarter elf, kept me out of trouble. They swore the elves attacked first, trying to rob me. The templar picked up her skirt and swished away. When she was gone, I saw one of the witnesses notice my ears. The whispers started, and I got out of there as fast as I could.”
“Got lucky,” Ruhm said.
“That I did. You don’t want to call attention to yourself, not in Nibenay. That’s what I say. It’s just a bad idea. Bad enough I decided to earn my way in the world this way—working with metal, crafting objects for nobility, that’s a good way to get noticed. All I want is to stand behind the forge and polish my steel and let the rest of the world pass on by. So no more steel swords for me, thanks. I’m no fighter, I’m a craftsman, and that’s just fine with me.”
“Me, then,” Ruhm said.
“You what?”
“Make me a metal sword.”
Aric tried to picture it. “A longsword, big enough for you? Not just a bastard sword, but a big bastard sword? With a three-handed grip? Maybe it could be done if you had the coin. It’d weigh a ton, but I guess that wouldn’t be a problem for you.”