'Why, that is not the purpose of the broodmothers,' Astron said. 'They serve one function and no more. It is unthinkable for it to be any other way.'
'And you, Kestrel, how many wizards of my sex have you encountered in your peddling of woods?'
'Ah, you are the only one.'
'Yes, the only female wizard in Brythia, perhaps in all the kingdoms that border the great sea. Despite all the regulations thrown in the way, the unapproving stares, the whispers behind my back, I became a master-an equally accredited master in a local council, whether they liked it or not.'
'Then, if your council does not look with favor on you at the moment-' Kestrel began.
'It can only be an intensification of what already was felt. I am an embarrassment to them because I am so different and do not assume their stately airs. But no matter, I have won the robe and they cannot take it away.'
Phoebe paused and looked at Kestrel. 'What is important to me now is not their thoughts, woodcutter, but yours. What do you think of a master who happens not to be a male? Would you use me when you could elect to choose a man instead?' She glanced over at Astron and her voice softened to a whisper. 'Use one who has already proven that a demon such as that is her better in a battle of wills?'
Kestrel blinked again. 'I have considered you a master, no different from the rest,' he said. The question went deeper than that, but his answer was a truthful one. She had been chosen for the anvilwood because of her greater wealth, not anything else. As for the rest, he felt the old barriers sliding strongly into place. No good could come from raising the innermost feelings and trying to strip away the scarred layers of pain.
'Well said.' Phoebe smiled faintly. 'Perhaps my instincts in the matter were correct from the first. Stand in the light so I can see you better. No, not you, demon, only the man.'
Kestrel climbed back down from the wagon and into the brightness of the street.
'Yes, it is all coming back now.' Phoebe's smile broadened. 'I remember why I invited you in. And as for now, wizardry or something else of equal value, it does not really matter. Just so I am a full partner, and not a tool to be manipulated like a sorcerer's slave.'
'You will not try to continue our struggle for dominance?' Astron asked.
'No, why should I?' The smile vanished from Phoebe's face. 'If you still desired to control my will, I do not see how I could resist a second time, knowing I had lost the first.' She turned her eyes away from Astron and lowered her head. 'I have already proven myself worthy to wear the logo of the master. Perhaps in the end, that will be sufficient.'
'There is no more to it!' Astron exclaimed. 'Kestrel, you are most remarkable. I apologize for my doubt. When there is more time, you must explain how you achieved such an agreement of wills.'
Kestrel lightly touched Phoebe's arm again. Despite the inner warnings, it felt good to do so. 'Things are not always what they seem, demon,' he said slowly. 'I have already told you that.'
Astron wrinkled his nose and his membranes slid into place. For a moment he stared off into the distance and did not speak.
He suddenly burst out of his contemplation after a moment. 'Then let us get on with your plan. The flickers of light that I now see at the end of this alley-I do not believe that they are the simple fireflies of your realm.'
CHAPTER NINE
KESTREL hit the tapper against the brass door with authority. The gong seemed to reverberate all along the high metal-plated fencing that ran around the foundry. Even though it was barely dawn, smoke was already spilling out of the stack on the other side of the enclosing barrier. The wheeze of the bellows was quite loud, like the moan of a great djinn with nothing to destroy.
Astron had not been sure how much longer it would be before the wizards became certain of their location, but they had little time for additional delay. They had to get over the border and to the archimage soon, or it would all be too late.
Kestrel cupped his hands to his mouth and spoke directly at the demon, the noises within the foundry masking his words more than a few feet away. 'Now remember, Astron,' he said. 'You are the consulting alchemist for the countess. You will observe the process and say nothing. Occasionally shake your head slightly in disapproval after an explanation. Under no circumstances ask any of your questions. Just be on the lookout for more of your kind.'
'But an alchemist I am not,' Astron said. 'I cannot speak that which does not reflect reality.'
'That is just the point,' Kestrel said. 'Do not say a thing. Let those inside draw whatever conclusions they will. For what they think, you are not responsible.'
'To stand and shake my head is not very interesting, Kestrel. At least I should be able to find out something to add to my catalogues.'
'I will see to it that you are suitably amused,' Kestrel said. 'Just keep quiet while you are about it.'
Kestrel turned his attention to Phoebe. The gown they had purchased the previous evening with eight of the dozen brandels suited her well; she carried herself as one would expect of the nobility. She returned his approving look with a smile, but he pulled his eyes away. She had enthusiastically taken on the role he had outlined to her and did not even bother to ask any more about what had happened at her cabin or even the reason he was originally there.
So long as she did not ask, Kestrel decided, there was no reason for him to explain more. He darted one more furtive glance in her direction. And yet his logic did not quite ring true. For the first time in a long while, he was somehow uncomfortable about what he was hiding from someone else.
The door suddenly opened and Kestrel turned to meet the gateman. 'The grand countess of Brythia, second cousin to the king, is here to discuss terms for the shipment,' he said. 'Show us to the head alchemist without delay.'
The gateman puckered his prunelike face into a mass of wrinkles. With studied disapproval, he looked up and down Kestrel's own plain clothing and Astron, hooded by his side. 'I have received no instructions about a visitor,' he said. 'You will have to wait until I check with master Celibor.'
'Surely we can wait inside, rather than here on the street,' Kestrel said. 'Perhaps even a chair so that my lady can sit. The purse she carries is most heavy. And from what I hear of master Celibor, he will be most anxious to meet her.'
The gateman glanced at Phoebe, hesitated a moment, then snatched at the brandel that Kestrel waved in front of him. 'You may use my stool.' He waved as he headed off across the interior of the foundry yard.
Kestrel and the others stepped inside. Quickly, he surveyed the enclosure from one end to the other. The fencing formed a huge square, each side the length of a sprinter's race. In the rear corner of the left stood dumps of ore, huge boulders ripped from deep running mines, glinting with crystals of gray in the morning sun, A dozen laborers swung hammers at the larger ones, reducing them to smaller chunks and dust that were shoveled onto a belt squeaking over a long row of wooden rollers. Spinning flywheels and convoluted belts moved the rock into massive grinders and then through acrid chemicals dripping from glazed retorts. At the terminus of the conveyor, a fine powder fell into a chute leading to a huge brick-lined anthanar in the center of the square. On the backside of the furnace, barely visible from where Kestrel stood, two three-man bellows alternately expanded and shot air into the burning firepit.
A tall shed spanned the opposite side of the square, covering loads of sand that fell from hoppers into a red- hot cauldron. There a dozen glassblowers dipped long hollow tubings into a transparent slag. With bursting cheeks, they blew huge flat-bottomed bottles with tiny necks. These too were conveyed to the furnace and entered on the side opposite from the processed ore.
Near the front of the anthanar stood two alchemists, each furiously writing on parchment, giving life to the formulas that formed the basis of their craft. They stood on either side of a third conveyor, this one discharging a sequence of lead-capped bottles that were collected and arrayed in designated squares throughout the yard. Behind the back of the second master, in a cast-iron trough, a river of molten metal ran into an array of molds,
