Seven Words of Power (5 page)

Norio now tried to get his son’s attention, but Akio couldn’t see him. His son’s rising and falling chest betrayed his anxiety, and Norio’s heart reached out to him.

Norio closed his eyes, and gave a prayer to the Lord of the Earth.

He opened his eyes but was still unable to catch Akio’s attention.

Please, let it all work out,
he thought to himself.

~

Akio was in a daze. His heart was hammering and he felt suddenly light-headed. He looked for his father in the crowd, but couldn’t see him. Norio had always been good to him, and made many sacrifices for him, including paying for his tools and his admission to the guild, even at the expense of his own career. Akio couldn’t blame him for staying away.

Part of Akio was aware enough to notice Builder Kazuki, Rika’s father; Michio Saga, the High Builder; and a handsome young man that must be Prince Masaki moving from one apprentice to the next. Each time they reached a new apprentice, the youth would nervously remove his cloth to reveal the arch he had made. Meanwhile the townsfolk looked on and the men made comments to each other about one feature or another while the women discussed the marriage prospects of the young man in question.

Some of the arches were tall and thin, and the crowd made sounds of appreciation when they saw how the runes enabled such a thin support to hold such a tall and graceful structure. Others were wide and sturdy, with indomitable strength build into every crevice, and runes chiseled into the surface that, when drawn over with essence, would make the arch last for a thousand years.

Then suddenly the three were standing next to Akio.

Builder Kazuki frowned when he saw who it was. “Apprentice Akio, please meet High Builder Michio Saga.”

Akio mumbled something.

“And Prince Masaki Rolan.”

Akio stuttered as he tried to speak a formal greeting. Prince Masaki smoothly interjected.

“It is a pleasure, Apprentice Akio. What do you have for us today?”

Akio looked stupidly from one man to the other, and then realized that this was his cue to reveal his work.

Akio stepped back, pulled on the cloth, and in one great sweep it was revealed.

It wasn’t an arch. There were no runes on it at all. There were no principles of strength, or compression, or lightness, or resistance to the elements, utilized to create this work.

Akio had made a statue.

The statue was of a woman, a young girl really, and was breathtaking in its detail. She had been carved out of a single block of marble, a large as life, in a pose that was both innocent and sensual. The essence of her being had been caught in the stone, her expression thoughtful and playful, endearing and sweet. She looked into the distance, smiling, as if seeing an old friend approaching. One of her hands was raised in welcome. The folds of her dress fell around her shoulders, her breasts, and her hips. She was beautiful.

At the foot of the statue, on its base, Akio had made his mark: a stylized version of his initials. He had been so proud when he'd finished, and remembering his father’s words, he had made this one final touch. A statue had no blocks, no inner surfaces to hide the mark away, so there was no other place for his mark. It made sense at the time, yet now, it just looked impudent.

He knew it was good. Surely they could see it?

But it wasn’t an arch. In his frustration, he hadn’t used the oracle once. Akio hadn’t made any calculations, or inscribed any runes. He looked anxiously from one man to the next, and immediately he knew he had done a foolish thing.

Builder Kazuki was stunned, his mouth agape, and looked to the High Builder to take the lead. Prince Masaki had a strange expression on his face, contemplative and pondering.

High Builder Michio was the first to speak. “This is no work of lore,” he said, looking at the statue. His gaze turned to Akio. “You are no builder.”

Kazuki looked from one man to another. “We cannot even waste our time pretending to judge this.” He frowned. “The entry is invalid.”

Akio’s spirits fell at Rika's father's words.

Prince Masaki tore his eyes away from the statue, appearing to require an effort to do so. He directed his attention to Akio. “She is beautiful. Tell me, Apprentice, who is she?”

Kazuki answered, scowling. “She is my daughter, Rika.”

“Bring her to me.” The prince looked up at the statue again. “Please.”

Soon Rika’s mother emerged from the crowd, Rika in tow, and she brought her daughter over. Shy and uncertain, Rika put her hand over her heart and dipped her head.

Prince Masaki looked from the statue, to Rika, and then back again. He shook his head in admiration. “Your daughter is beautiful,” he said to Kazuki.

“I… I’m honoured you think so,” Kazuki stammered.

Rika’s mother scowled at her husband, picking up the cue. “Perhaps you might like to dine with my family tonight, Prince Masaki?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Rika’s mother bowed, and after a glare from her mother, Rika bowed again.

Akio looked on in horror. He had never expected this. Prince Masaki was giving suit to Rika!

“You have a remarkable talent,” Prince Masaki was talking to him. “Akio, is it not?”

“He is no builder.” The High Builder said again, scowling.

“Nor is he pretending to be,” a new voice said.

Akio glanced up; he knew that voice. It was his father, Norio.

“Builder Kazuki. Just think of how much love my son must bear for your daughter, that he can create this beautiful thing from memory alone.”

Prince Masaki started. He looked at Rika, and then back to Akio. “Of course. I should have guessed.”

“And think of how bold and clever Akio is, that he thought to take advantage of this opportunity to show you his work,” Norio continued.

Rika smiled at Builder Kazuki, who seemed unable to speak. “It’s true, Father,” she said. "He is very clever."

“I have to say the day is proving to be much more interesting than I had thought it would be when I woke this morning,” Prince Masaki said. “I have seen many arches, but nothing like this. Akio, do you think you could make a statue for me? I would like a representation of the High Lord, my father, to give to him as a gift.”

“Of course, Prince Masaki,” Akio said.

Akio looked around him. The townsfolk weren’t angry; they were thoughtful. Whatever they thought of the statue, they didn’t feel ridiculed, or upset, merely curious.

High Builder Michio’s deep voice boomed. “Can we now return to the examinations?”

“Of course, High Builder.” Prince Masaki smiled.

“Apprentice, remove this statue from the square.”

Akio nodded his acquiescence. But before he left, Rika's father, Builder Kazuki, finally spoke. “Akio, could you bring the statue past my house, later this evening? I think I have the perfect place for it.”

“Of course, Builder Kazuki,” Akio said.

Leading the cart, Akio left the square with his father walking beside him.

Norio spoke. “You did well, Akio.”

“I did?”

Norio shrugged. “Sometimes all it takes is a bold move — and to be ruled by your heart, rather than your head. Will you promise me one thing?”

“What is it, Father?”

“Ignore what I said. Never hide your mark – always make it where all can see.”

Norio put his arm around his son’s shoulders. Akio caught his father looking back at the statue, shaking his head, and suddenly realizing how much he loved the old man, Akio squeezed his father’s shoulders in return.

“Oh, and I’m sorry, my son, but High Builder Michio was right. You’re no builder.”

“Then what am I?”

“You’re an artist.”

The Attraction of Metal

“I’ll kill him.”

Senna tried to hide her face, but Luka lifted her chin. She winced when he ran his finger over her cheekbone with the lightest of touches, and he felt the rage coursing through his blood. The bruise under her left eye was scratched at the edges, the soft white skin of her cheek red and torn, as if hard knuckles had smashed into her face. Which was exactly what had happened.

Senna hung her head again. “Please, Luka. It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? Not that bad!” Luka took her by the arm, where the cheap material of her dress covered her shoulder. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Come inside and let me see.” He wanted to destroy the man who had done this, who had knocked his wife around like she was nothing.

Senna gasped when he touched her shoulder, and Luka’s eyes went wide. He slid the near-transparent cloth from her shoulder. The green and blue discoloration mottled her skin; bruises covered her upper arm.

“What did he do to you?” Luka demanded.

“He just grabbed me by the arm. He does that, Luka.”

“Like he just hits you in the face? I’ll kill him,” Luka said again.

Senna sighed. She gently removed Luka’s hands and weaved around him to enter their small lodgings, making directly for the wash basin. He looked after her, torn inside, aching to confront his wife’s tormenter, but fearful of bringing her to further harm.

Senna worked as a hostess at a burlesque house, The Bird in a Cage, billed as “the house with the longest legs in Seranthia”. She only served drinks, Luca knew, but not all the customers knew that. She’d stopped telling him stories about the patrons and their wandering hands; it upset him too much.

She said the owner, Erelin Osta, wasn’t a bad man, and in fact tried hard to look after his girls: both the hostesses, who served drinks and whose complaints generally revolved around lack of payment and groping; and the showgirls and working girls, whose problems could be much more serious.

Luca hated her working there, but at the moment they were poor. All of their gilden had gone to pay for his apprenticeship with the blacksmith, and the wages he earned simply weren’t enough to put food on the table. His master, like the owner of The Bird in a Cage, was forced to pay much of his income to the streetclans for their “protection”. There wasn’t much left for wages.

Even the streetclans weren’t the problem. Most of the residents of Seranthia simply stayed out of their way. It was Gugan who was the problem.

“I’ll kill him,” Luka said for the third time.

Luka was a big man and he knew it. In a crowd, Luka was the one who stood head and shoulders above the rest, and swinging a hammer day after day had made him strong. Even among the other apprentices he was the strong one, and whenever a block of iron needed moving or a wagon hoisting, Luka was always the man the blacksmith called for.

Senna finished changing out of her work dress, and now she just looked like Senna, the woman Luka loved, looking up at him with her beautiful brown eyes. His little wife was so small that he thought if he hugged her too hard he would break her.

“Luka,” Senna said. “I love you, and I know you’ll always protect me and treat me well. But fighting isn’t your thing, my love. You’re gentle, and you’re clever, a lot cleverer than people give you credit for. You’re always talking about different metals and their melting points, or the effect salt has on water. But you know you aren’t attracted to fighting. You work at a forge, with weapons everywhere, yet you never talk about swords or armor.”

“I just don’t find them very interesting,” Luka said. “Swords cut. Armor is clothing made out of metal. What’s to learn?”

Senna smiled. “Exactly. Please, Luka, don’t do anything. When you finish your apprenticeship you can start your own forge. It isn’t long now. Don’t worry about Gugan.”

Hearing the name again made the rage rise back to the surface and heat come to Luka’s face. His mind worked as he considered his options.

When Gugan rose in the ranks of the streetclans — and The Bird in a Cage became one of the businesses in his protection ring — that was when the trouble had started.

Gugan was a former legionnaire in the Tingaran army. Luka had never met him, but he had heard him described. He didn’t sound like someone who would be hard to pick out in a crowd.

The rumors on the street said he had lost both his arms when he saved his commander’s life from a prismatic orb, long ago during the Western Rebellion. Gugan had tried to throw the glowing orb back the way it had come but it exploded in his hand. Others laughingly said he’d fallen into a deep trench, and was holding onto the edge for his dear life when an enemy cut down at his arms; miraculously he’d survived.

Either way, he had been gifted with two replacement arms of metal — Gugan became a melding. A forceful blow from one of those arms could punch through stone. He had retired after the war and been given a pension. When he’d spent his pension, the streetclans had welcomed him with open arms.

Gugan hadn’t made many friends among the shopkeepers, food vendors, and barkeeps he extorted. He treated the working women at Erelin Osta’s burlesque house as his personal playthings, and they’d soon learned to give in to him or face his fist. Erelin had appealed to the Tortho, the head of Gugan's clan, but been told to keep his mouth shut. Fearful for his life, Erelin had no option other than to wait it out. Eventually, when a man was disliked enough in Seranthia, justice would be done.

Gugan had his fun with the working girls and the dancers. Then the melding started on the hostesses.

Senna served drinks. She wore a revealing dress, near see-through, but she called it her uniform and she never let a customer think otherwise.

But Gugan didn't consider himself a customer. He didn’t like being refused, and he let it be known in the only way a man of violence knew.

“I need to work tonight,” Senna said.

“No, you can’t,” Luka pleaded.

“You think I want to?” Senna said. “Look, I’ll cover the bruises with some powdered chalk. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“If he touches you…”

“Luka, he’s a melding, and no one in Seranthia interferes with the streetclans. Gugan only comes by once a month and you’ll finish your apprenticeship in three weeks. Soon as you’ve got your smithy I’ll quit my job, and with a forge you’ll be able to afford your own protection. In a month, no one will be able to touch us.”