Walegrin cleared his throat loudly. There wasn't a citizen alive who hadn't heard of the Grey Wolf: a young man clothed in animal hides, given a hero's welcome in Ranke despite his Wrigglie past-and tragically killed in a fall from his horse. The whole capital had turned out for his funeral.
"Perhaps my friends in Ranke were the fathers of your friends," Balustrus said to Walegrin's skepticism. "I watched my own funeral from the gladiators' galleries where drugged, stripped and branded I'd been left to die or improve my one-time friends' fortunes." He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't your ordinary Rankan general-they'd forgotten that. I could fight and I could forge weapons such as they'd never seen. I'd learned metal-mastery from my betrayed people."
"And Jubal-what's he got to do with this?" Walegrin finally asked.
"He came later. I'd fought and killed so often I'd been retired by my owners, but then the Emperor himself bought me, Kittycat's father. I trained the new slaves and Jubal was one of them. A paragon-he was born for the death-duel. I taught him every trick I knew; he was a son to me. I watched fortunes change everytime he fought. We soon both belonged to the Emperor. We drank together, whored together-the life of a successful gladiator isn't bad if you don't mind the brand and collar. I trusted him. I told him the truth about me.
"Two days later I was on the sand fighting against him. I hadn't fought for five years; but even at my best I was no match for him. We fought with mace and chain-his choice. He took my legs with his second swing. I had expected that, but I expected a quick, merciful death as well. I thought we were both slaves: equals and friends. He said: 'It's been arranged,' pointed to the Imperial balcony and struck my legs again.
"That was summer. It was winter when I opened my eyes again. A Lizerene healer was at my side congratulating himself on my recovery-but I had become this!"
The metal-master jerked his tunic upward, revealing the remains of his legs. The moonlight softened the horror, but Walegrin could see the twisted remnants of muscle, the exposed lengths of bone, the scaly knobs that had once been knees. He looked away before Balustrus lowered the cloth.
"The Lizerene said he'd been paid in gold. I returned slowly to the capital, as you can imagine, and painfully, as you cannot. Jubal had been freed the day after our battle. I searched for years and found him Downwind, already well protected by his 'masks. I couldn't adequately thank him for my life so I became Balustrus, his friend. I forged his swords and masks.
"Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed. But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he died-as he was certain to do. 'Of course,' I said, 'but he need not die. We'll send him to the Lizerene.' "
The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus' voice was pure sated, insane malice. This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke-and been betrayed by Ranke in turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus' 'son.' Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed-or would he betray first?
Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.
"Thrush-can you go into the city tonight?"
"I'm not so far gone that I can't thread the maze."
"Then go. Start looking about for men."
Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. "What's happened? What's gone wrong?"
"Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don't know how much longer we can trust him."
"What's made you agree with me at last?"
"He told me the story of his life. I can see Illyra in ten days-after the new moon and after she's cleansed. We'll leave for the north the next morning, with the silver and the ore if we don't have swords."
Thrusher was not one to say 'I told you so' more than once. He got his cloak and went over the outer wall without anyone but Walegrin knowing he was gone.
5
The metal-master organized his courtyard foundry with military precision. Within six days of the successful tempering, another ten blades had been forged. Walegrin marked the progress in his mind: so many days until he could visit Illyra, plus one more before the swords were finished; yet another to meet with the men Thrusher was culling out of the city and then they could be gone.
He watched Balustrus carefully; and though the metal-master gave no overt sign of betrayal, Walegrin became anxious. Strangers came more frequently and the cripple made journeys to places not even Thrusher could find. When questioned, Balustrus spoke of the Lizerene who tended Jubal and the bribes he needed to pay.
On the morning of the eighth day, a rainy morning when the men had been glad to sleep past dawn, Walegrin finished his planning. He was at the point of rousing Thrusher when he heard sound where there should have been silence beyond the wall.
He roused Thrusher anyway and the two men crept silently toward the sound. Walegrin drew his sword, the first Enlibar sword to be forged in five hundred years.
"You've got the money and the message?" they heard Balustrus say.
"Yessir."
Balustrus' crutches scraped along the broken stone. Walegrin and Thrusher flattened against the walls and let him pass. They'd never get the truth from the metal-master, but the messenger was another matter. They crept around the wall.
The stranger was dressed in dark clothes of unfamiliar style. He was adjusting the stirrup when Walegrin fell upon him, wrestling him to the ground. Keeping a firm hand over the stranger's mouth and a tight hold on his arm, Walegrin dragged him a short distance from his horse.
"What've we got?" Thrusher asked after a cursory check of the horse.
"Too soon to tell," Walegrin replied. He twisted the arm again until he felt his prisoner gasp, then he rolled him over. "Not local, and not Nisibisi by the looks of him."
The young man's features were soft, almost feminine and his efforts to free himself were laughably futile. Walegrin cuffed him sharply then yanked him into a sitting position.
"Explain yourself."
Terrified eyes darted from one man to the other and came to rest on Walegrin, but the lad said nothing.
"You'll have to give him a search, eh?" Thrusher threatened.
"Aye-here's his purse."
Walegrin ripped the pouch from the youngster's belt, noticing as he did that the youth carried no evident weapon, not even a knife. He did, however, have some large heavy object under his jerkin. Walegrin tossed the purse to Thrusher and sought the hidden object. It proved to be a medallion, covered with a foreign seeming script. He had made nothing of the inscription before Thrusher yelped with surprise and a dazzle of light flashed between them.
As Walegrin looked up a second flash erupted. Their prisoner needed no more time to effect his escape. They heard the youth mount and gallop off, but by the time either man could see clearly again the trail was already becoming mud.
"Magic," Thrusher muttered as he got to his feet.
Walegrin said nothing as he got his legs under him. "Well, Thrush-what else was in that purse?" he asked after several moments.
Thrusher checked it cautiously again. "A small ransom in gold and this." He handed Walegrin a small silver object.
"One of the Ilsig links, by the look of it," Walegrin whispered. He looked back toward the villa. "He's up to something."