"Karadur has his good points," said Rhithos. "Were it not for his foolish ideas and impractical ideals—"
A scratching at the door interrupted the smith. Vanora opened it, and in bounced an animal. With a start of surprise, Jorian saw that it was a squirrel the size of a dog, weighing over twenty pounds. Long, black, glossy fur covered the beast. It chirped at Rhithos, rubbed its head against his leg, and let him scratch it behind the ears, and trotted out to the kitchen.
"My familiar, Ixus," said Rhithos. "The body is that of the giant squirrel of Yelizova; the spirit, that of a minor demon from the Fourth Plane."
"Where is Yelizova?" asked Jorian.
"A land far to the south, beyond the equatorial jungles south of Mulvan. Tis only in recent years that daring mariners from Zolon have sailed thither and returned the tale to tell. Ixus cost me a pretty penny,
I assure you. Some of my colleagues prefer that their familiars possess the bodies of beasts of the ape kind, because of their dexterity. I, however, demur. In the first place, these animals are delicate, easily destroyed by cold; in the second, being near kin to mankind, they have minds of their own and so often escape the control of the spirit." The smith spoke in a coldly controlled voice, without expression of face or of tone. Now he addressed himself to his dinner.
"You were saying about Karadur?" said Jorian.
"Only that he is full of ideals that, however appealing to the emotions, are impractical in the real world. The same applies to his faction."
"I heard there was a difference of opinion. Could you explain your point of view?"
"His faction, which call themselves the Altruists—"
"Or White Faction, do I understand?"
"They term themselves and us the White and Black Factions respectively; but we admit not the distinction. Tis but their own pejorious usage, to bias the case in their favor. To resume: these self-styled Altruists would fain release the secrets of the arcane arts to the vulgus, broadcast. Thus, they say, all mankind shall benefit from this knowledge. Every man shall have a warm back and a full belly; he shall enjoy a passionate youth, a teeming family, and a hale old age.
"Now, were all men as conscientious as we of the Forces of Progress, who must study many years and give up some of life's choicest pleasures to master our arts, who are straitly examined by the senior members ere being admitted to our fraternity, and who are bound by dreadful oaths to use our knowledge for the good of mankind—were all other men so sternly trained and strictly admitted to this arcanum, then might something be said for the Altruists' ideal.
"But as you have seen, Master Jorian, not all men are so minded. Some are stupid, some lazy, and some downright wicked. Most of 'em choose their own self-interest over that of the general; most of 'em elect the pleasure of the moment over what is good for them, and theirs in the long run. Loose this deadly knowledge on such a feckless rabble of fools, knaves, and lubbards? As well put a razor into the chubby fingers of a toddling wean! There are men who, possessing the fellest spells, would not scruple to use them to blast an entire city, if by so doing they could burke a single personal foe. Hence to this proposal are we Benefactors adamantinely opposed."
However emphatic his words, Rhithos never raised his voice, speaking in the same expressionless monotone. There seemed to be something mechanical about him, which reminded Jorian of the legend of the mechanical servant that Vaisus, the divine smith, had made for the other gods, and of the troubles that ensued when the clock-work man wanted to be ranked as a god, too.
"What of your current project?" he said as they finished their repast.
" Twill do no harm to tell you, since it will be finished in three days at most. It is the sword Randir, which I am forging for the Grand Bastard. When the spells that go into its tempering are complete, it will cut through ordinary armor like cheese.
"The trick, I may say, is to apply the spells during the tempering stage. Some apply them earlier, during the initial heating and forging. Most such spells, however, are wasted because the heating and pounding nullify them.
"But tell us of your escape. What price did Karadur exact? Despite his hypocritical piety, I know the old didderer would not work so taxing and risky a magical opus without a price."
"Oh, he said that your Forces of Progress demanded that I go to the capital of Mulvan and there seek out an ancient coffer called the Kist of Avlen, said to be filled with portentous spells from olden times. Karadur then wants me to lug this box back to the Goblin Tower of Metouro, where, I understand, your society is to hold a great Conclave."
"Aha! Now it comes out. If he told you that the order as a whole demanded this thing, he lied, or I should have heard of it ere now. It is his own faction, the so-called Altruists, who lust after this chest in order to force us Benefactors to accede to their mad proposals. How do they enforce this command?"
"By a geas that gives me a frightful headache and nightmares if I keep not on the road to Trimandilam. I have tested this spell and know that it works."
"I might have guessed. But continue, good sir, with the tale of your escape."
While telling of his abortive execution, Jorian silently cursed himself for a rattlepate. He had wrongly assumed that Rhithos was in on his project for the theft of the Kist of Avlen, or at least that there would be no harm in telling him about it. Now it transpired that Jorian had involved himself in strife between the two factions of the magicians' fraternity. Rhithos might well try to put sand in the works. Jorian's wine-loosened tongue had betrayed him, and not for the first time.
Jorian got what little comfort he could from the thought that his indiscretion was also partly Karadur's fault. The old wizard had managed to give Jorian the impression, without actually saying so, that his whole society was behind this raid and not merely his own faction. Jorian sighed at the thought that even Karadur, despite his lofty talk of purity of morals and ethics, was himself not absolutely beyond all forms of perfidy and deception.
Rhithos listened without expression to the rest of Jorian's narrative. At last he said: "Bravely done, good my sir. Now let us to bed, for there will be plenty to do on the morrow."
Jorian spent most of the next day eating, resting, and taking a much-needed bath in Rhithos' wooden tub. He watched Rhithos holding the blade Randir by its tang wrapped in rags, for the hilt had not yet been attached. The smith repeatedly heated the blade to cherry-red. Then he laid it on the anvil and struck it, now here, now there, to take the least curvature or unevenness out of it.
A day later, Jorian had fully recovered. He helped Rhithos with the sword, holding with pincers the ends of the wires wound around the grip, polishing the blade and the silvered brass knuckle-guard, and otherwise helping to give Randir its final touches. He turned the crank of the grindstone as the smith administered the blade's preliminary sharpening.
The imp Ixus hopped about the smithy, fetching and carrying to Rhithos' orders. It chattered angrily at Jorian and bared its squirrel's chisel-teeth at his leg until a sharp word from the smith subdued it.
"He's jealous," said Rhithos. "You had better go out and help Vanora. I am about to put a minor spell on the hilt and prefer to do so alone."
Jorian spent some time in chopping wood, hauling water, kneading dough, and weeding the garden without winning more than a few curt words from the girl. He tried flattery and stories:
"Did you ever hear," he said, "about the great wrastle betwixt King Fusas of Kortoli and his twin brother Fusor? This king, you see, was a great athlete—almost as great as Kadvan the Strong in Xylar, with the additional advantage that they didn't amputate his head after five years. I have never heard of a headless athlete who was worth a piece of mouldy straw in a contest.