“Balustrus? Metal-master?” the third man demanded.
The man might be dressed commonly, but he wasn’t common. Once Walegrin’s
suspicions were aroused, other incongruities became obvious: clean, fresh-curled
hair; sturdy boots with gold buckles; hands that had never been truly dirty.
Unreasoning fear gripped him. He did not pause to wonder why a Rankan lord, for
such the visitor must be, would enter the metal-master’s shop in such a
disguise; he knew. The S’danzo curse and his false friends in Ranke had merged.
By sundown he’d be just so much meat on the torturer’s rack. They’d have his
secrets, his steel and, if he got lucky, his life.
“. . .It has cooled without a crack,” Balustrus said when Walegrin had regained
enough control over his fear to listen again.
“My men will come for it this afternoon,” the lord said, resting his forearms on
the table where Walegrin had spilled his sack of ore.
“As you wish, Hierarch Torchholder. I’ll tell my lads to hoist it up. You’ll
need a strong cart, my Lord. She’s as heavy as the god.”
Both men laughed heartily. Then, looking mildly annoyed, the High Priest of
Vashanka in Sanctuary stood up and rubbed his arm. A tiny object dropped to the
floor. Walegrin felt bitter bile surge up his throat as the Rankan retrieved the
bit and examined both it and his arm.
“It broke my skin,” he said.
“Scraps,” the metal-master replied, taking the small flake from the priest’s
hand.
“Sharp scraps. We should put them on the edges of our swords,” Torchholder
laughed, and took back the offending object. “Not glass either . . . Some new