The whine of Balustrus' grinding wheel dominated the courtyard. The furnaces had been sealed; the piles of crushed ore glittered in the sunlight. Everyone awaited the results of the latest grinding. It seemed to Walegrin, as he turned away from the sound, that it was different this time. The metal shrieked like an agonized, living thing.
Thrusher gave him a sharp nudge. The courtyard had become silent and an apprentice was running toward them. It was time, the youth shouted, for Walegrin to witness the tempering of the blade.
"Luck," Thrusher added as Walegrin rose.
"Aye, luck. If it's good we can start thinking of leaving."
Balustrus was polishing the freshly ground blade when Walegrin entered the hot, dusty shed. The bronze man's tunic was filthy with sweat and dust from the grinding wheel. His mottled skin glistened more brightly than the metal.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said, giving the blade to Walegrin while he sought his crutches.
Fine, wavy lines of black alternated with thicker bands of a more silvery metal. The old Enlibrite sword he kept rolled in his mattress had no such striations but Balustrus said an iron core would ultimately yield a better steel; so much could be learned from the Rankan armorers. Walegrin thumped the flat of the new blade against his palm, wishing he knew if the metal-master were correct.
"We've done it, son!" Balustrus exaulted, grabbing the blade back. "I knew the secret would be in that silver."
Walegrin followed him out of the shed to one of the smaller furnaces which the apprentices had already fired. The youths ran when the men approached.
"But there was no silver mentioned on the pottery fragment; and there's no silver in ordinary steel, is there?"
The metal-master spat on a weed. "Wrigglies never did anything without a spell, lad. Spells for cooking food, spells for bedding a whore. Big spells, little spells and special spells for steel. And this time we've got the steel spell."
"With respect-you said that last time and it shattered in the brine."
Balustrus scratched his rutted chin. "I did, didn't I? But this .feels right, boy. There's no other way to explain it. It feels different and it feels right. And it has to be the silver-that's the only different thing this time."
"Did the silver have a 'steel' spell on it?" Walegrin asked.
The metal-master thrust the blade into the glowing coals. "You're smart, Walegrin. Too bad it's too late; you could have learned-you could make your own steel." He spat again and the weed fell over. "No, it wasn't a steel spell nothing like that. I don't know what the Wrigglies put on that silver. The Torch brought the necklace here right after the Prince announced the bell. I could see it was old, but it was plain silver and not valuable. I thought he'd want it for the inscription; silver pressed on bronze is quite elegant. But no-the Hierarch gives out that this is the Necklace of Harmony warm off Ils-no saying how he comes to have it. He wants me to melt the silver into the belclass="underline" 'Let Ils tremble when Vashanka's name is called!' he says in that priest's voice of his-"
"But you didn't," Walegrin interrupted.
"Not sayin' I didn't try, boy. Put it in with the copper; put it in with the tin-the damn thing floated to the top everytime. I had a choice: I could cast the bell with the silver buried in the metal and know that the bell would crack as soon as the Torch struck it. You can imagine the omens that would bring-and what it'd bring to me as well. Or, I could set the silver aside and tell the Torch that everything was exactly according to his instructions."
"And you set the silver aside?" Walegrin covered his face with his hand and turned away from the both the metal-master and the furnace.
"Of course, lad. Do you think the heavens're going to open up and Vashanka stick his head out to tell Molin Torchholder that Ils' silver isn't in the bell?"
"Stranger things have happened of late." Walegrin faced the metal-master's silence. "The silver should have melted in the bronze, shouldn't it?" he asked softly.
"Aye-and I set it aside very carefully when it didn't. I'll be glad to see the last of it. I don't know what it is that the Torch gave me-and I'll wager he doesn't either. But it is Wrigglie-work and it'd have to be spelled or it would have melted-see? So you come asking for Enlibrite steel. You've got the ore and, all things being equal, steel is steel. But it isn't, so I know we need a spell, a spell for hardness and temper. No-one alive would know that spell, but here I've got silver that doesn't melt with a mighty spell on it-
"And, oh, it feels right, Walegrin, it feels right. She'll take an edge like you've never seen."
Walegrin shrugged and looked at the metal-master again. "If you're right, how many swords can you make?"
"With what's left of your ore and my necklace: about fifty. And as it's my silver, lad, I'll be taking more for myself. There'll be about twenty-five for you and the same for me."
The blond officer shrugged again. It was no worse than he had expected. He watched as Balustrus wrestled the dull, red metal from the fire.
There were conflicting theories on the tempering of fighting steel. Some said a snowdrift was best for cooling the metal, others said plain water would suffice. Most agreed the ideal was the living body of a man, though in practice only Imperial swords were made that way. Balustrus believed in water straight from the harbor, left in the sun until it had evaporated by half. He plunged the blade into a barrel of such brine and disappeared in the acrid steam.
The blade survived.
"Get the old sword," Balustrus urged and with a nod Walegrin sent Thrusher after it.
They compared the blades for weight and balance, then, slowly, they tested them against each other. Walegrin held the old sword and Balustrus swung the new. The first strokes were tentative; Walegrin scarcely felt them as he parried them. Then the metal-master grew confident; he swung the new metal with increasing force and uncanny accuracy. Deep green sparks fell in the late afternoon light, but Walegrin found himself more concerned with the old man who suddenly no longer seemed to need crutches. After a few frantic moments Walegrin backed out of range. Balustrus stopped, sighed and let the blade drag in the dust.
"We found it, lad," he whispered.
He sent the apprentices into Sanctuary for a keg of ale. The soldiers and the apprentices partook lavishly of it, but Balustrus did not. He continued to sit in the courtyard with the fresh-ground blade across his hidden, crippled legs. It was dark when Walegrin came out to join him.
"You are truly a master of metal," the younger man said with a smile, setting an extra mug of ale beside Balustrus.
The metal-master shook his head, declining both the ale and the compliment. "I'm a shadow of what I was," he said to himself. "So, now you have your Enlibrite swords, son. And what will you do with them?"
Walegrin squatted in the moonlight. The ale had warmed him against the night breezes and made him both more expansive and optimistic than usual. "With the promise of swords I can recruit men-only a few at first. But we'll travel north, taking commissions-taking what's necessary. I'll hire more as I go. We'll arrive at the Wizardwall fully mounted and armored. We'll prove ourselves with honor and glory against the Nisibisi, then become the vanguard of a legion."
Chuckling loudly, the metal-master finally took a sip of ale. "Glory and honor, Walegrin, lad-what will you do with glory? What do you gain with honor? What becomes of your men when Wizardwall and the Nisibisi are forgotten?"