tempered this will be steel! Not since the last alchemist of Ilsig sank into his
grave has there been steel like the steel I will make.”
Whatever else Balustrus was, he was at least mad. Walegrin had first heard the
name in the library at Coombs, where he’d gotten the shard of Enlibrite pottery
Illyra had read. Kemren, the Purple Mage, had been supposed to read the
inscription and Balustrus would make the steel and both men swell in Sanctuary.
Kemren had been dead when Walegrin arrived in the city, but not Balustrus.
It was said the metal-master had been mad when he first came to the city, and
Sanctuary had never improved anyone. He claimed he knew everything about any
metal but he made his living mending plates and recasting stolen gold.
“I have another ten sacks like this one,” Walegrin explained, taking back the
ore. “I want swords for my men and myself. I don’t have much gold; and fewer
friends, but I’ll give you a quarter of my ore if you’ll make the swords.” He
continued refilling his sack.
“It will be my priviledge,” the cripple agreed, touching the stones one last
time before they disappeared. “Perhaps when you have the swords you’ll tell me
where you found this. At least you’ll tell what friends you have that it was the
Grey Wolf who forged their weapons.”
“You’ve no need to know where the mine is,” Walegrin said firmly, looking
directly at Balustrus’ legs. “You couldn’t go there yourself. You’d have to send
others; you’d spread my secret around. Already too many people know.” The sack
thumped to the floor. “When can I have my swords?”