attrium. There wasn’t a room where the roof was intact and several where it was
non-existant. Walegrin and Thrusher threw their belongings into a room once
connected to the main attrium but now accessible only through a gaping hole in
the wall. Still, it was a better billet than most they’d seen.
The work was hard and dirty, with little time for recreation, though Sanctuary
was in sight down the gentle slopes. Balustrus treated Walegrin and his men like
ordinary apprentices, which meant they got enough food and more than enough
abuse. If Walegrin had not borne his share so stoically there might have been
problems, but he was willing to sacrifice anything to the cause of his swords.
For three weeks they lived in almost total isolation. A farmer delivered their
food and gossip; an occassional mercenary came seeking Balustrus’ services and
was turned away. Only once did someone come looking for Walegrin himself,
and that was after Illyra bore twins: a boy and a girl. The soldier sent
them a gold piece to insure their registry in the rolls of citizenship at the
palace.
“Is it worth it, commander?” Thrusher asked as he kneaded a soothing balm into
Walegrin’s burnt shoulder. “We’re here three weeks and all we have to show for
ourselves is fresh scars.”
“What about full bellies and no problems from Kittycat? Yes, it’s worth it. We
should know how steel is made; I had always thought the smiths just took the ore
and made it into swords. I had no idea there were so many steps in between.”
“Aye, so many steps. We’ve gone through two sacks already and what have we got?