These have sometimes been irrevocably lost, as in cases where the body and everything on it have been burned in a funeral pyre or tossed in rage off the floating isles into the Maelstrom. But so prized are the weapons that once the word goes around that the owner has died (which it does with remarkable swiftness) the Brotherhood is quick to act. All is done quietly, circumspectly. Very often grieving family members are surprised by the sudden appearance of strangers at their door. The strangers enter the house (sometimes before the body is cold) and leave almost immediately. Usually an object leaves with them—the black coffer.
To facilitate the passing on of valuable weapons, members of the Brotherhood are urged to keep such weapons in a plain black box. This has become known as the black coffer. It is thus natural that the repository for such weapons in the Brotherhood’s fortress should have become known—in capital letters—as the Black Coffer.
If a member requests the use of a weapon kept in the Black Coffer, he or she must explain in detail the need and pay a fee proportionate to the weapon’s power. Ciang has the final say on who gets what weapons, as well as the price to be paid.
Standing before the door of the Black Coffer, Ciang inserted the iron key into the lock and turned it.
The lock clicked.
Grasping the handle of the heavy iron door, she pulled. Hugh was ready to assist her if she asked, but the door, revolving on silent hinges, swung easily at her light touch. All was dark inside.
“Bring a lamp,” Ciang ordered.
Hugh did so, catching up a glowlamp that stood on a table near the door, probably for this very purpose. Hugh lit the lamp, and the two entered the vault.
It was the first time Hugh the Hand had ever been inside the Black Coffer. (He had always taken pride in the fact that he had never needed enhanced weaponry.) He wondered why he was being accorded this honor now. Few members were ever permitted inside. When a weapon was needed, Ciang either fetched it herself or sent the Ancient to do so.
Hugh entered the enormous stone-lined vault with quiet step and subdued heart. The lamp drove the shadows back but could not banish them. A hundred lamps with the brightness of Solarus could not banish the shadow that hung over this room. The tools of death created their own darkness.
Their numbers were inconceivable. They rested on tables, reclined against the walls, were sheltered beneath glass cases. It was too much to take in all at one glance.
The light flashed off the blades of knives and daggers of every conceivable shape and type, arranged in a vast, ever expanding circle—a sort of metal sunburst. Pikes and poleaxes and spears stood guard around the walls. Longbows and short were properly displayed, each with a quiver of arrows, undoubtedly the famous elven exploding arrows so feared by human soldiers. Rows of shelving contained bottles and vials, small and large, of magical potions and poisons—all neatly labeled.
Hugh walked past one case filled with nothing but rings: poison rings, snake-tooth rings (containing a tiny needle tipped with snake venom), and magical rings of all sorts, from rings of charming (which grant the user power over the victim) to rings of warding (which protect the user against rings of charming).
Every item in the Black Coffer was documented, labeled in both the human and elven (and, in certain rare cases, dwarven) languages. Words to magical spells—should any be needed—were recorded. The value of it all was incalculable. Hugh’s mind boggled. Here was stored the true wealth of the Brotherhood, worth far more than all the barls and jewels of the elven and human royal treasuries combined. Here was death and the means to deal it. Here was fear. Here was power.
Ciang led the way through the veritable maze of shelves, cabinetry, and cases, to an unimportant-looking table shunted off to a distant corner of the room. Only one object rested on that table, an object hidden under a cloth that might once have been black but, covered with dust, looked gray. The table appeared to be chained to the wall by thick cobwebs.
No one had ventured near this table in a long, long time.
“Set the lamp down,” Ciang told him.
Hugh obeyed, placing the lamp on a case containing a vast assortment of blow-darts. He looked curiously at the cloth-covered object, thinking there was something strange about it, but not certain what.
“Look at it closely,” Ciang ordered, echoing his thought. Hugh did so, bending cautiously near it. He knew enough about magical weapons to respect this one. He would never touch it or anything pertaining to it until its proper use had been carefully explained—one reason Hugh the Hand had always preferred not to rely on such weapons. A good steel blade—hard and sharp—is a tool you can trust.
Hugh straightened, frowning, tugging on the braided strands of beard dangling from his chin.
“You see?” Ciang asked, almost as if she were testing him.
“Dust and cobwebs over everything else, but no dust or cobwebs anywhere on the object itself,” Hugh replied.
Ciang breathed a soft sigh, regarded him almost sadly. “Ah, there are not many like you, Hugh the Hand. Quick eye, quick hand. A pity,” she ended coolly. Hugh said nothing. He could offer no defense, knew that none was invited. He stared hard at the object beneath the cloth, could make out the shape by the fact that dust lay all around it but not over it—a dagger with a remarkably long blade.
“Put your hand on it,” Ciang said. “You may do so safely,” she added, seeing the flash in Hugh’s eye.
Hugh held his fingers gingerly above the object. He wasn’t afraid, but he was loath to touch it, as one is loath to touch a snake or a hairy spider. Telling himself it was just a knife (yet wondering why it was covered with a black cloth), he rested his fingertips on it. Startled, he jerked his hand back. He stared at Ciang.
“It moved!”
She nodded, unperturbed. “A quivering. Like a live thing. Barely felt, yet strong enough to shake off the dust of centuries, strong enough to disturb the web-weavers. Yet it is not alive, as you will see. Not alive as we know life,” she amended.
She plucked away the black cloth. The dust that caked the edges flew up, formed a nose-tickling cloud that caused them both to back off, wiping the grime and the horrible clinging wispy sensation of cobweb from face and hands. Beneath the cloth—an ordinary metal dagger. The Hand had seen far better-crafted weapons. In shape and design, it was exceedingly crude, might have been made by some smith’s child, attempting to learn his parent’s craft. The hilt and crosspiece were forged of iron that appeared to have been beaten into shape while it was cooling. The marks of each hammer blow were plain on both hilt and crosspiece.
The blade was smooth, perhaps because it was made of steel, for it was bright and shiny in contrast to the hilt’s dull finish. The blade had been affixed to the hilt with molten metal, the traces of soldering plain to see. The only things that made this knife at all remarkable were the strange symbols etched on the blade. The symbols were not the same as—yet they were reminders of—the one traced on Hugh’s chest.
“The rune-magic,” said Ciang, her bony finger hovering above, carefully not touching the blade.
“What does the thing do?” Hugh asked, regarding the weapon with disdain mingled with disgust. “We do not know,” Ciang answered. Hugh raised an eyebrow, regarded her questioningly. She shrugged. “The last brother to use it died.”