It was not the first time Balustrus hinted that he knew more than he was saying, and the notion did nothing to reassure Walegrin. Kilite had often done the same thing-and Kilite had finally betrayed him. "Truly, metal-master, when can I have my swords?" he asked in a slightly calmer voice.
"Truly lad, I do not know. The bell is finished, as you heard. I have no other commissions waiting at my foundry. I'll start testing your ore as soon as the priest claims his bell. But, Walegrin, even if I stumble upon the right temperatures and the right proportions at once-it will still take time. I've only two lads to help me. I've agreed to payment in kind-but I cannot hire men with unforged swords. Besides, would you want me to contract day-labor from the taverns?"
Walegrin shook his head. He'd relaxed. His body could not stand the tension he brought to it. He was exhausted and knew his hands would shake if he moved them. What Balustrus said was true enough, except-He paused and a measure of his confidence returned. "I've five men with me: good men; more than equal to day labor. They sit idle until the swords are ready. They'll work for you."
It was the metal-master's turn to hesitate. "I'll not pay them," he announced. "But they can stay in the outbuildings of the foundry. And Dunsha will make food for them as she does for the rest of us." He seated himself in his stool and smiled. "How about that, son?"
Walegrin winced, not from the offer which was all he had desired, but from Balustrus' attempts at friendship and familiarity. Of course the smith hadn't been in Sanctuary when Walegrin was a youth. He hadn't known Walegrin's father and could not know that Walegrin allowed no-one to call him 'son.' So, Walegrin controlled his rage and grunted affirmatively.
"I'll give you another piece of advice-since you're already in my debt. You've got a hate and fear about you that draws trouble like a magnet. You think the worst, and you think it too soon. You'll be doing neither yourself nor your men any good by going north. But, now listen to me, the Sacred Band of Stepsons and probably the Hounds as well will have to go-and then there'll be no-one of any power and ability here. Jubal's gone-you know that-don't you?"
Walegrin nodded. Tales of the night assault on the Downwind estate of the slaveholder circulated in numerous variations, but everyone agreed that Jubal hadn't been seen since. "But I don't want to spend my life in Sanctuary looking after gutter-scum!" he snarled back at his would-be benefactor.
"Mark me-and let me finish. You're fresh back. Things have changed. There're no more blue hawks to roam the streets. That's not to say that them as wore the masks are gone-not all of them, not yet. Only Jubal's gone. Jubal's men and Jubal's power are there for the taking. Even if he should return to this town, he'll be in no condition to raise his army of the night again. Let Temp us, Zaibar-" Balustrus spat for emphasis, "and all their ilk fight for Ranke. With them gone and your steel you could be master of this place for life-and give it on to your children as well. Kittycat would surrender in a day."
Walegrin didn't answer. He didn't remember sliding the bolts back before opening the door, and perhaps he hadn't. He was ambitious to gain glory, but he had no real thoughts for the future. Balustrus had tempted him, but he'd frightened him more.
The morning sun brought no warmth to the young man. He shivered beneath his borrowed, monk's cloak. There weren't many people on the narrow streets and those took pains to stay out of his path. His cloak billowed out to reveal the leather harness of a soldier beneath it, but no-one stopped him to ask questions.
The taverns were boarded up as the barkeeps and wenches alike caught a few hours rest. Walegrin pounded past them, head erect, eyes hard. He reached the Wideway without seeing a welcoming door. He headed for the wharves and the fishermen whose day began well before dawn. They would be ready for refreshment by now.
He wandered into a slant-walled den called the Wine Barrel; Fish Barrel would have been a more appropriate name. The place stank of fish oil. Ignoring the pervasive stench, Walegrin approached the rough-hewn bar. The room had fallen silent and, though a swordsman like himself had nothing to fear from a handful of fishermen, Walegrin was uncomfortable.
Even the ale was rank with fish-oil, but he gagged it down. The thick brew brought the clouds of dullness his mind craved. He ordered another three mugs of the vile, potent stuff and belched prodigiously while the fisherfolk endured him.
Their meek, offended stares drove him back onto the wharf before he was half as drunk as he wanted to be. The tangy air of the harbor undid him; he vomited into the water and found himself almost completely sober. In an abysmal mood, he tugged the priest's cowl over his head and held the cloak shut with a death grip. His path wound toward the bazaar where Illyra lived and saw the future in the S'danzo cards.
It was a market day at the bazaar, with every extra stall crammed with winter's produce: jellies, sweet breads and preserved fruits. He shoved past them, untempted, until he reached the more permanent part of the bazaar and could hear the ringing of Dubro's hammer above the din. She had found herself an able protector, at least. He stopped before the man who was his own age and height but whose slow strength was unequalled.
"Is niyra inside?" he asked politely, knowing he would be recognized. "Is she scrying for someone or can I talk to her?"
"You're not welcome here," Dubro replied evenly.
"I would like to see my sister. I've never done anything to hurt her in the past and I don't intend to start now. Stand guard beside me, if you must. I will see her."
Dubro sighed and set his tools carefully back in their proper places. He banked the fire and moved buckets of water close by the cloth door of the simple structure he and Illyra called home. Walegrin was about to burst with impatience when the plodding giant lifted the cloth and motioned him inside.
"We have a visitor," Dubro announced.
"Who?"
"See for yourself."
Walegrin recognized the voice but not the woman who moved in the twilight darkness. It was Illyra's custom to disguise her youth with cosmetics and shapeless clothing-still it seemed that the creature who walked toward him was far too gross to be his half-sister. Then he saw her face-his father's face for she took after him that way-and there could be no doubt.
She slouched ungracefully in the depths of Dubro's chair, and Walegrin, though he had little knowledge of these things, guessed she was late in pregnancy.
"You're having a child," he blurted out.
"Not quite yet," she replied with a laugh. "Moonflower assures me I have some weeks to wait yet. I'm sure it will be a boy, like Dubro. No girl-child would be so large."
"And you're well enough?" Walegrin had always assumed she was barren: doubly cursed. It did not seem possible that she should be so robustly breeding.
"Well enough. I've lost my figure but I've got all my teeth, yet," she laughed again. "Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Yes-and more," Walegrin didn't trust the smith who stood close behind him, but Illyra would tell him everything he said anyway. "I've brought back the ore. We were betrayed by treachery-I lost all but five of my men. I have made powerful enemies with my discovery. I need your help, Illyra, if I'm to protect myself and my men."
"You found the steel ofEnlibar?" Dubro whispered while Illyra sought a more dignified position in the chair.
"I found the ore," Walegrin corrected, suddenly realizing that the great ox of a monger probably expected to make the swords himself.