protected by his ‘masks. I couldn’t adequately thank him for my life so I became
Balustrus, his friend. I forged his swords and masks.
“Jubal had enemies, most more able than I; I feared my revenge would be
vicarious and his death swift. When Tempus came I thought we were both doomed.
But Tempus is cruel; crueler than Jubal, crueler than I. Saliman came here one
night to say his master lay alive among the corpses at the charnel house, an
arrowhead in each knee. Saliman asked if I would shelter the master until he
died-as he was certain to do. ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘but he need not die. We’ll
send him to the Lizerene.’ “
The ale no longer warmed Walegrin. He was no stranger to hate or revenge; he had
no sympathy for the slaver. But Balustrus’ voice was pure sated, insane malice.
This man had betrayed his own people for Ranke-and been betrayed by Ranke in
turn. He had called Jubal his son, told him the truth about himself and believed
that his son had immediately betrayed him. Walegrin knew he was now Balustrus’
‘son.’ Did the metal-master expect to be betrayed-or would he betray first?
Balustrus submerged himself in his satisfaction; he said nothing when Walegrin
took his mug of ale far across the courtyard to the shadows where Thrusher sat.
“Thrush-can you go into the city tonight?”
“I’m not so far gone that I can’t thread the maze.”
“Then go. Start looking about for men.”
Thrusher shook off the effects of the ale. “What’s happened? What’s gone wrong?”
“Nothing yet. Balustrus is acting strangely. I don’t know how much longer we can