you’ve never seen.”
Walegrin shrugged and looked at the metal-master again. “If you’re right, how
many swords can you make?”
“With what’s left of your ore and my necklace: about fifty. And as it’s my
silver, lad, I’ll be taking more for myself. There’ll be about twenty-five
for you and the same for me.”
The blond officer shrugged again. It was no worse than he had expected. He
watched as Balustrus wrestled the dull, red metal from the fire.
There were conflicting theories on the tempering of fighting steel. Some said a
snowdrift was best for cooling the metal, others said plain water would suffice.
Most agreed the ideal was the living body of a man, though in practice only
Imperial swords were made that way. Balustrus believed in water straight from
the harbor, left in the sun until it had evaporated by half. He plunged the
blade into a barrel of such brine and disappeared in the acrid steam.
The blade survived.
“Get the old sword,” Balustrus urged and with a nod Walegrin sent Thrusher after
it.
They compared the blades for weight and balance, then, slowly, they tested them
against each other. Walegrin held the old sword and Balustrus swung the new. The
first strokes were tentative; Walegrin scarcely felt them as he parried them.
Then the metal-master grew confident; he swung the new metal with increasing
force and uncanny accuracy. Deep green sparks fell in the late afternoon light,
but Walegrin found himself more concerned with the old man who suddenly no
longer seemed to need crutches. After a few frantic moments Walegrin backed out