Because of their multiple hammered refoldings, the join lines between layers of iron and steel were as complex as the sutures of a human skull. After the bar had been forged and ground into a blade, the smith pol- ished it and dipped it into strong acid which he quickly flushed away.
The steel resisted the biting fluid, but some of the softer iron was eaten by even the brief touch. The iron became a shadow of incredible delicacy against which the ripples of bright steel stood out like sunlight on moun- tain rapids. Even without its functional purpose, the watermarked blade would have commanded a high price for its appearance.
Samlor’s eyes stung. He blinked, because in the wavering lamplight the spidery lines of iron against steel looked like writing.
The stranger smiled more broadly.
“Unc-” began Star with a tug on the caravan master’s left sleeve.
The iron shadows in the heart of the blade read “He will attack” in Cirdonian script. A moment before they had been only swirls of metal.
The stranger’s hand slid fully onto the hilt he had been pinching to display. He twisted it in a slashing stroke toward Samlor’s eyes.
Samlor didn’t believe the words written on steel. He didn’t even believe he had seen them. But part of his nervous system-“mind” would be too formal a term for reflex at so primitive a level-reacted to the strangeness with explosive activity.
The Cirdonian’s left hand shot out and crushed the stranger’s fingers against the grip of his weapon, easily turning the stroke into a harmless upward sweep- The metal that Samlor touched-the copper buttcap and the tang to which scales of dark wood were pinned to complete the hilt- were cooler than air temperature despite having been carried beneath the stranger’s cape.