“I care nothing for that,” Isenbend said. “Your master provided the instructions for which alloying agents to use. I told you they had to come from Vadras. If the tool broke, it is your fault, not mine.”
The cobbler spewed invective, his expression beneath his veil wild. “You failed, Isenbend. Don’t try to blame your lack of skill on the powders.”
The smith threw a string of curses at the cobbler. “I told you. The alloying agents had to be pure, absolutely pure.”
“The powders were as pure as the alchemist could make them,” the cobbler said.
The smith clenched his fists. “You’re a fool if you think one alchemist is the same as another. I said they had to come from Vadras, from the shop of Helioma.” He took a step forward. “I want my payment now, or I will cease to provide you any tools at all.”
“My master pays for results,” the cobbler said. “Succeed and you will be paid more handsomely than you can imagine.” He shrugged. “However, so that you will know my master is merciful, I will replenish the funds you need to make another attempt.” He reached into his tunic, searching, his mouth gaping as he grooped his clothes.
The smith’s hands shot out to grab the cobbler by his throat. His shoulders bunching, he lifted the smaller man into the air. “Swindler! I cannot succeed without money to buy supplies.”
Toria turned, reaching, but Fess had melted into the darkness.
Grimacing, the cobbler’s fists blurred as he hammered them into the smith’s forearms. Twin cracks, the breaking of bone, mixed with the smith’s cry of pain as he dropped to his knees. The cobbler smiled. “It seems you will be unable to make another attempt after all.”
Fess entered the smith’s shop, closing the door behind him. “Ah, master cobbler. About that boot.” Smiling, he held the blue-tinged lump of gold aloft.
The cobbler gathered his legs beneath him and leapt toward her apprentice, his fingers curled into claws. Fess appeared to shift to one side without transition, his hands moving more quickly than she could follow to rip the protective cloth from the cobbler’s eyes. Tools scattered and fell as the cobbler crashed into a broad worktable. He lay stunned, his arm thrown protectively across his face.
Toria darted to the broad door of the smithy, but by the time she entered Fess had lifted the cobbler from the floor and forced his arms away from his eyes. The cobbler’s struggles weakened, but he filled the air with threats of violence. With no more emotion than he might spare an insect, Fess put his bare hand on the cobbler’s neck.
Toria stepped over to where the smith lay on his side, his arms curled protectively across his chest. “How many more like the cobbler are there?” she asked. Then she touched him and dove into his stream of memories, swimming through those closest to the surface, but there were no images other than those of the man with them.
She destroyed all the threads of recollection connected to the cobbler and the new process for casting Isenbend had learned from him. When she released the delve, the smith had passed out, and Fess stood by her side, his eyes devoid of anger, pity, or even triumph. The cobbler lay forgotten on the floor, his unfocused gaze staring at her, a mute accusation. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest showed that he lived.
When Fess stepped around her toward the door, she clutched at his tunic. “The mercy stroke.”
He turned to regard her, his eyes coolly thoughtful, before he demurred. “He’s beyond any succor or mercy we can render, Toria Deel. He passed beyond such aid when I destroyed his vault. If we kill him, the masses may lift him up as a martyr, but if they see him with his mind broken, they will be fearful of sharing his fate.
He stepped past her. “The people of Bunard had a saying about those of us in the urchins, Lady Deel. ‘Nothing in life is ever wasted. It can always be used as a bad example.’ I’d say the cobbler qualifies on that account.” At the door, he paused. “There are others besides the cobbler,” he said.
“There would almost have to be,” she replied. “When we get back to the inn, I’ll apprise the Chief of Servants of what we found here. She can inform regent Cailin and the rest of the monarchs to keep an eye on the smiths.”
Fess glanced at the broken pickaxe where it lay on Isenband’s table. “Let’s hope they all met with similar success.”
C
hapter 19
I spent a succession of days in Cynestol in a procession of delves interspersed with the savage niceties practiced by court. The overpowering luster of their throne room had ceased to impress. The nobles of Cynestol were no more substantial than their images the polished silver threw at me, and I had enough of their memories to prove it. My time in the collective psyche of Cynestol’s nobility had taught me to hate the city.
Then the entertainers changed. Cynestol, like every other court on the continent boasted any number of permanent musicians, acrobats, and the like, but there were more than a few itinerant court entertainers present as well. The niches in the wall were filled with men and women possessing a physical gift and the preponderance of some talent that enabled them to make a better-than-decent living putting on a show for others.
I recognized one of them. Heedless of Rory trailing me or Bolt’s stare, I sought the juggler who kept a weave of daggers in perpetual motion while he stood on top of a ball. Every now and then he would pretend to slip, but the knives betrayed his intent. Each throw and spin remained perfect. He saw me, and recognition dawned in eyes so dark they were almost black. The knives disappeared one by one until the air had emptied and he dismounted.
“My apologies, master juggler.” I bowed. “I
