project of yours?”
“No-“
Walegrin could not hear the rest of Balustrus’ reply. His fear-clouded mind had
finally placed the Lord and his name: the Torch himself, War-god Priest. As if
it were not bad enough to have the regular Imperial hierarchy sniffing along his
trail, now here was the Wargod too-and the Sacred Bands? Walegrin was numb from
the waist down, unable to move closer or run away. Damn the S’danzo and their
curses. Damn his father, if he weren’t already damned, for killing Rezzel and
incurring supernatural wrath.
But Molin Torchholder was laughing now, giving the metal-master a small coin
purse and a brief, casual blessing on his work. Walegrin, whose panicked
thoughts always moved too quickly, knew he’d been sold. When the priest and his
bodyguards had disappeared out the door, Walegrin confronted the withered,
smiling, metal-master.
“Was it worthwhile?” he demanded.
“The palace has the best money in the city. Some of it was truly minted in Ranke
and not cut three times since with lead or tin.” Balustrus looked up from his
counting and studied Wale-grin’s face. “Now, son, whatever you’ve done to get
Ranke on your tail-don’t go thinking I’d be on their side. Your secrets are safe
from Ranke with me.”
Walegrin tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. “I’m to believe that the Torch
himself just happened to wander down here-and that he just happened to find a
piece of ore stuck to his arm and then he just happened to give you a double
handful of gold?”
“Walegrin, Walegrin,” Balustrus swung down from the stool and tried to approach