Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (12 page)

“I’m not,” she choked. “A deghass isn’t afraid of anything.”

“Ah well, that explains it,” he said, dryly enough to bring her to her senses.

She pushed him away and staggered to her feet, her face flushed now—and cleaner, since most of the mud had been deposited on Kavi’s shirt.

“We should go.” She cast a nervous glance at the sky, but her voice was cool—the lady returned. Kavi sighed. But he’d have comforted anyone that afraid. And not teased them about it afterward, either.

“So we should,” he said.

They hadn’t penetrated deep enough into the ravine to find the great hatch, which wasn’t surprising. Unless you knew that the ravine widened again, it looked as if it ended in the mass of brush he now led them through.

When the aqueduct was built, this path had been clear, for this was the hatch where they’d removed the stone and earth, and hauled building supplies in—though it had been partially concealed
even back then; that old governor had had no intention of providing an easy invasion route into the only walled city in the whole of Farsala. A city the governor’s gahn had built walls around because it was the source of all his army’s weapons. Now Mazad would provide weapons again, not for the deghans in their proud skirmishing with the Kadeshi warlords on the eastern border, but for the real Farsalans, to rid themselves of the Hrum and then rule themselves for the first time in … for the very first time, as far as Kavi knew.

His exalted intentions made the aqueduct no less dark, for their torches were wet, and they sputtered and smoked. Water from the rising river rushed down the channel between the narrow walkways. It was cold.

This time, at least, the tunnel guards recognized Kavi and didn’t demand that he bare his arm. He was already known to be marked as a Hrum spy—and even if he’d only been forgiven by the slightest shifting of the Wheel, forgiven by the council he had been, and that was what mattered.

The guards were so startled by the Suud, who had lowered their hoods in the underground tunnel, revealing their demonwhite faces and hair, that they might have forgotten to search for the tattoo anyway.

The Suud ventured into Mazad even less often than they did other Farsalan cities, for Mazad’s smithies had close ties with the miners, and the Suud … well, the Suud didn’t exactly fear the
miners, who had so often invaded their desert in search of the legendary “superior” ore, but they’d been forced to kill a fair few of them—and been killed by them too, from what Kavi had heard.

Having dealt firsthand with the desert ore, Kavi knew that it had some hardening element in it, but the steel it made still suffered from the brittleness that plagued all hard steel.

He had wondered, working with the Suud, if some ancient smith had persuaded them to use their shilshadu magic on a cooling blade, and had somehow started the rumors of legendary ore that persisted to this day. And now Kavi was bringing the Suud into the City of Forges itself, to use their gifts. He shivered. But if Maok and the Suud council had feared revealing their secret magic more than they feared the Hrum, then they wouldn’t have let them go—or Kavi, either.

He repressed another shiver. It was cold in here, Flame take it, even walking. The girl was shivering like a drenched kitten, and so were the desert-bred Suud.

Kavi hustled them up the ladder that led into a seldom-used warehouse, and then out into the street with little regard for concealment—if no one had revealed the secret of the aqueduct to Governor Nehar and his pet guardsmen by now, it was unlikely anything Kavi did would make a difference. Besides, the rain was keeping folks inside.

Up one familiar street and down another they traveled, the
Suud’s bare feet slapping the cobbles, for they were too cold to move with their usual quiet.

Kavi opened the gate to Tebin’s work yard and herded the others straight into the forge, without so much as a knock before flinging open the familiar door.

The sudden heat was paradise, and the scent of hot metal was home. The clatter of work died as a dozen apprentices and journeymen stared openmouthed at the sudden invasion of shrouded barbarians. The only sound breaking the silence was that of chattering teeth.

Then Tebin stepped forward, the astonishment on his face melting into laughter.

“As entrances go, Kavi lad, I think you’ve just topped the one you made when Feroz Butcher set his dogs on you and the little one still had his teeth in your britches as you burst through the door.”

It was too colloquial for the Suud to follow, but the girl laughed, and Kavi felt his face grow warmer still.

“I’ve brought you some apprentices,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster. “For they’re in need of more teaching than I can give them—and they’ve a thing to be teaching you as well.”

“Oh?” Curiosity dawned in Tebin’s eyes, then deepened as he looked at the bedraggled Suud, who were shedding their wet robes—removing more clothing than most Farsalans would have done in public. But with Tebin, kindness always came first. “Well,
it seems to me that this learning and teaching will keep till tomorrow, for you’re all wetter than drowned rats—and unless I’m much mistaken, these lads are up in the middle of the night! Warm food, warm beds, and then, lad, you and I will be having a chat.”

Kavi felt a surge of gratitude, despite the way Tebin’s voice had firmed on the final words, but the girl beat him to speech.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, as sincerely as any girl might, and not like a deghass at all.

T
HE SOUND OF METAL
striking metal awakened Soraya shortly after dawn. She yawned and buried her face in her pillow—a proper feather pillow, though the mattress was stuffed with straw and very similar to the ones she’d grown accustomed to in the Suud … the Suud! Her eyes snapped open. Were they awake? Probably. Soraya, exhausted, had eaten her bowl of hot oats and honey and slept through the evening and a full night. For the Suud, sleeping a whole night through would be unnatural, even if they had been up most of the day before.

And they hadn’t been as tired as Soraya was, for they hadn’t been as frightened. She shuddered again at the memory of the storm, at the knowledge that the lightning was somehow attuned to
 
her
. She wished, passionately, that she’d paid more attention to Maok’s lectures. Like the breeze, and the fires that sometimes flared up as she passed them, the storm had responded to her tension, her fear of the Hrum sentries. Unlike a soft breeze, or even a campfire, an aroused storm could prove deadly for her and everyone around her. And if she could do that to a sleepy winter rain, what would happen when the summer thunderstorms raged?

Soraya shivered, and resolved to perfect her control long before the summer came. But now, Azura be thanked, the sun was rising—and her Suud friends might need a translator.

Soraya pulled herself reluctantly from the warm bed. The muddy shirt and britches she’d shed last night were gone, and draped over a chair were a blouse, skirt, and vest—bright with gaudy peasant color and crude embroidery, but better than her wet and muddy clothes. Soraya dressed and ran her fingers through her short black hair. Kavi had cut it several months ago, when he’d disguised her as a peasant boy to help her escape from the Hrum, and the ends still didn’t reach her shoulders. It probably looked odd with the skirt, but the skirt itself felt strange after all this time in her comfortable boy’s britches.

Soraya shrugged, left the small room under the eaves, and went down the narrow stairs, where she followed the sound of voices to the kitchen.

There were no Suud present, but the peddler and Master Tebin
sat at the table, both looking heavy-eyed as they listened to a man in the black and green tabard of the Mazad city guard. A woman was frying stacks of flat cakes at the stove. She looked up at Soraya’s entrance and nudged the half-grown girl beside her. The child glanced at Soraya and then reached for a cup and the kettle.

Soraya vaguely remembered Master Tebin saying something about a woman who worked for him. The girl met Soraya as she approached the table and handed her a mug filled with steaming tea. The gangly child, just entering adolescence, was much the same height as Soraya—who suddenly realized where her borrowed clothing must have come from and smiled her thanks. The girl smiled shyly in return, but Soraya’s attention had already turned to the conversation at the table, and she sat down and joined the men.

“So when do you think we’ll be seeing these wonderful swords?” the guardsman asked. “I find it hard to believe that people who couldn’t even make an iron axe last summer can now make a blade to equal the Hrum’s.” His head was bald on top; the hair that remained to him was iron gray, and, short as he cut it, it still retained a hint of peasant curl. His manner was relaxed, almost kindly, but the eyes resting on the peddler were shrewd, and there was something about his question that demanded an answer.

“It’s a trick of craft,” said the peddler easily. “Nothing to do with the desert ore. Which is good, for with the Hrum patrols thick as they are, getting large amounts of ore into the city would be
impossible. But Master Tebin’s got both hard steel and soft right here in the yard that will be fine.”

The guardsman frowned. “I know he’s been experimenting with folding the metals,” he said. “And I know it failed.”

“Sorry, I’m not making myself clear,” said the peddler amiably. “It’s a craft
secret
. At least till we can be making it work.”

Soraya blinked. She didn’t think she could stand up to the commanding guardsman that firmly.

The guardsman’s eyes turned to Tebin.

“Don’t look at me,” the swordsmith told him. “I’ve no clue what the secret might be. I’d think the whole tale was moonshine, except that one of those Suud lads has a sword he forged himself, and the steel would match that of any Hrum blade.”

“Ah,” said the guardsman. “But did he forge it himself? Or did he steal it from the Hrum, and is using it to gain your craft secrets?”

Tebin met the peddler’s eyes and they both burst into laughter. “Sorry, Siddas,” the smith gasped. “But when you see this sword … Trust me, no Hrum would be caught dead with that blade. I can’t prove that young Lupsh forged it himself, but it looks just like a sword made by someone who’s only been working metal for a few months. No, I’m lying—it actually looks like something forged by an apprentice who’s had … oh, nine months of training. But from what I saw last night, Lupsh is a talented lad.”

“Last night?” Soraya asked, startled.

“Yes,” said Tebin, nodding a greeting now that the conversation had turned her way. “Not being accustomed to sleeping the night through, the Suud woke up again just a few marks past midnight, and having nothing else to do they went down to look at the forge. They tried to be quiet, but the forge … well, it’s not a quiet kind of place. So when Kavi and I woke up, we went down and joined them. I’m surprised we didn’t wake you, lass—ah, lady—with the racket we made.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t need a translator,” said Soraya, feeling a bit left out. “Where are they now?”

“Asleep in the forge loft,” said the peddler. “In the other apprentices’ beds, though we’ll be getting them their own beds soon. We worked out that they’d get up around evening, work from just after dinner into the middle of the night, then go to bed ‘early.’” He grinned. “We’re putting half our apprentices and journeymen on the same schedule, as well as me and Master Tebin, so they’ll have plenty of company. And the forge is kept dark—all forges are, to make it easier to see the true color of hot metal—so they’ll be safe from the sun and not have to wear those robes around the fire. That’s a blessing in itself.”

Soraya had never considered the danger of the Suud’s flowing robes around the glowing embers and hot metal of a smithy, but now she did, and shuddered.

“I’ll have some late nights then,” she mused aloud. “You’ll need a translator.”

“Actually, Lady Soraya,” said the guardsman. “I have another task in mind for you, if you’ll do it.”

“Another task?” Soraya scowled. “Who are you, sir, to be giving anyone tasks?”

“Ah,” said Tebin hastily. “Forgive me. Lady Soraya, this is Commander Siddas, in charge of the
loyal
city guard. Commander, the lady Soraya.”

He didn’t add “of the House of the Leopard,” as a formal introduction would demand, but Soraya didn’t care.

“Commander. I’ve heard of you.”

What she’d heard was good, but as the light-brown peasant eyes studied her, she wasn’t so sure.

“I’m told,” said the commander, “that you’re wanting to defeat the Hrum.”

They’d been talking about her? Soraya stiffened. “You were told truly. What of it?” And why did that arrogant note in her voice make him smile?

“I want you to spy on Governor Nehar for me,” the real commander of Mazad’s defenses said bluntly. “We think he’ll betray the city to the Hrum soon, but we don’t know when, or even more important, how. If we present you as a refugee, the governor’s wife will likely take you into their household.”

Soraya blinked. “She probably would. But don’t you have other people spying on the governor?”

“We do,” Siddas admitted. “But not among his family—the folks he speaks his heart to. And we need more information than we’re getting.”

“But … but I need to translate for the Suud. They’re alone here.”

“Not completely alone,” said Master Tebin. “And they all speak a bit of Faran. We managed well enough last night.”

Looking at his plain, gentle face, Soraya realized that she could leave the Suud safely in his keeping. And for all his faults, she knew the peddler wouldn’t let them come to harm. But to spy on her own people? To go into a deghan household as a guest with the intention of betraying them? She’d spied on the Hrum last summer without a qualm, but they were the enemy, so that was different. Or was it? Nehar was a traitor. He no longer deserved the honor one deghan owed another.

She picked gently at the embroidery on her skirt. “How could we explain my presence in the city? How did I get in?”