antiques, shall we?’
The Ceda led him to the far wall, and Brys immediately saw a perfect weapon, long and narrow of blade, pointed and double-edged, modest hilt. ‘Letherii steel,’ he said, reaching for it.
‘Yes, in the Blue Style, which, as you well know, is the very earliest technique for Letherii steel. In some ways, the Blue Style produces finer steel than our present methods. The drawbacks lie in other areas.’
Brys tested the weight of the weapon. ‘The pommel needs to be replaced, but otherwise…’ Then he looked up. ‘But it’s cursed?’
‘Only in so far as all Blue Style weapons are cursed. As you know, the blade’s core is twisted wire, five braids of sixty strands each. Five bars are fused to that core to produce the breadth and edge. Blue Style is very flexible, almost unbreakable, with one drawback. Finadd, touch the blade to any other here. Lightly, please. Go ahead.’
Brys did so, and a strange sound reverberated from the Blue Style sword. A cry, that went on, and on.
‘Depending on where on the blade you strike, the note is unique, although each will eventually descend or ascend to the core’s own voice. The effect is cumulative, and persistent.’
‘Sounds like a dying goat.’
‘There is a name etched into the base of the blade, Finadd. Arcane script. Can you read it?’
Brys squinted, struggled a moment with the awkward lettering, then smiled. ‘
‘The edges self-sharpen, I believe. Nicks and notches heal, although some material is always lost. Some laws cannot be cheated.’ The Ceda drew out another sword. ‘This one is somewhat oversized, I’ll grant you-’
‘No, that’s good. The stranger was very tall.’
‘He was now, was he?’
Brys nodded, shifting the first sword to his left hand and taking the one Kuru Qan held in his right. ‘Errant, this would be hard to wield. For me, that is.’
‘
Brys frowned. ‘Urudat?’
‘Very good.’
‘I’ve seen images of him in frescos and tapestries. A big man-’
‘Oh, yes, but reputedly very quick.’
‘Remarkable, given the weight of this sword.’ He held it out. ‘The blade pulls. The line is a hair’s breadth outward. This is a left-handed weapon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Brys considered, ‘the stranger fights with both hands, and he specified two full swords, suggesting-’
‘A certain measure of ambidexterity. Yes.’
‘Investment?’
‘To make it shatter upon its wielder’s death.’
‘But-’
‘Yes, another incompetent effort. Thus, two formidable weapons in the Blue Style of Letherii steel. Acceptable?’
Brys studied both weapons, the play of aquamarine in the lantern-light. ‘Both beautiful and exquisitely crafted. Yes, I think these will do.’
‘When will you deliver them?’
‘Tomorrow. I have no desire to enter those grounds at night.’ He thought of Kettle, and felt once more the clasp of her cold hand. It did not occur to him then that he had not informed the Ceda of one particular detail from his encounter at the tower. It was a matter that, outwardly at least, seemed of little relevance.
Kettle was more than just a child.
She was also dead.
Thanks to this careless omission, the Ceda’s measure of fear was not as great as it should have been. Indeed, as it needed to be. Thanks to this omission, and in the last moments before the Finadd parted company with Kuru Qan, a crossroads was reached, and then, inexorably, a path was taken.
The night air was pleasant, a warm wind stirring the rubbish in the gutters as Tehol and Bugg paused at the foot of the steps to Scale House.
‘That was exhausting,’ Tehol said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’
‘Don’t you want to eat first, master?’
‘You scrounged something?’
‘No.’
‘So we have nothing to eat.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then why did you ask me if I wanted to eat?’
‘I was curious.’
Tehol anchored his fists on his hips and glared at his manservant. ‘Look, it wasn’t me who nearly got us investigated in there!’
‘It wasn’t?’
‘Well, not
‘Master, it was you who sent me there. You who had the idea of offering a contract.’
‘Poking eyes!’
‘All right, all right. Believe me, master, I regret my actions deeply!’
‘You regret deeply?’
‘Fine, deeply regret.’
‘That’s it, I’m going to bed. Look at this street. It’s a mess!’
‘I’ll get around to it, master, if I find the time.’
‘Well, that should be no problem, Bugg. After all, what have you done today?’
‘Scant little, it’s true.’
‘As I thought.’ Tehol cinched up his trousers. ‘Never mind. Lets go, before something terrible happens.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Out of the white Out of the sun’s brittle dismay We are the grim shapes Who haunt all fate Out of the white Out of the wind’s hoarse bray We are the dark ghosts Who haunt all fate Out of the white Out of the snow’s worldly fray We are the sword’s wolves Who haunt all fate
FIFTEEN PACES, NO MORE THAN THAT. BETWEEN EMPEROR AND SLAVE. A stretch of Letherii rugs, booty from some raid a century or more past, on which paths were worn deep, a pattern of stolen colour mapping stunted roads across heroic scenes. Kings crowned. Champions triumphant. Images of history the Edur had walked on, indifferent and intent on their small journeys in this chamber.
Udinaas wasn’t prepared to ascribe any significance to these details. He had come to his own pattern, a gaze unwavering and precise, the mind behind it disconnected, its surface devoid of ripples and its depths motionless.
It was safer that way. He could stand here, equidistant between two torch sconces and so bathed by the light of neither, and in this indeterminate centre he looked on, silently watching as Rhulad discarded his bearskin, to stand naked before his new wife.
Udinaas might have been amused, had he permitted the emotion, to see the coins burned into the emperor’s penis pop off, one, two, two more, then four, as Rhulad’s desire became apparent. Coins thumping to the rug- strewn floor, a few bouncing and managing modest rolls before settling. He might have been horrified at the look in the emperor’s red-rimmed eyes as he reached out, beckoning Mayen closer. Waves of sympathy for the hapless
