brought to it. He was exhausted and knew his hands would shake if he moved them.
What Balustrus said was true enough, except-He paused and a measure of his
confidence returned. “I’ve five men with me: good men; more than equal to day
labor. They sit idle until the swords are ready. They’ll work for you.”
It was the metal-master’s turn to hesitate. “I’ll not pay them,” he announced.
“But they can stay in the outbuildings of the foundry. And Dunsha will make food
for them as she does for the rest of us.” He seated himself in his stool and
smiled. “How about that, son?”
Walegrin winced, not from the offer which was all he had desired, but from
Balustrus’ attempts at friendship and familiarity. Of course the smith hadn’t
been in Sanctuary when Walegrin was a youth. He hadn’t known Walegrin’s father
and could not know that Walegrin allowed no-one to call him ‘son.’ So, Walegrin
controlled his rage and grunted affirmatively.
“I’ll give you another piece of advice-since you’re already in my debt. You’ve
got a hate and fear about you that draws trouble like a magnet. You think the
worst, and you think it too soon. You’ll be doing neither yourself nor your men
any good by going north. But, now listen to me, the Sacred Band of Stepsons and
probably the Hounds as well will have to go-and then there’ll be no-one of any
power and ability here. Jubal’s gone-you know that-don’t you?”
Walegrin nodded. Tales of the night assault on the Downwind estate of the
slaveholder circulated in numerous variations, but everyone agreed that Jubal