Caliphestros sighs, heavily. “Only imagine the blessed silence, Keera, were he gone … He would feel little pain, I promise you: only the brief stab of Stasi’s largest teeth into the great artery of his neck, and his life’s blood would quickly and quietly stream away …”‡
Keera laughs quietly (for she has ceased to believe, rightly, that the old man intends Heldo-Bah actual harm), and says only, “We seem to have far too many things to pack and carry, my lord, to allow the loss of even one bearer. And, as I have said, he can carry a great deal.”
“Very well. I shall trust your word, and let the matter rest.” Lifting his head to call to the sharp-toothed Bane again, Caliphestros says, “Heldo-Bah, allow me to propose a more practical test of what you ignorantly call ‘alchemy’: the weapons that you and Veloc carry — I believe that I noted two rather well-crafted short-swords of Broken manufacture among them. Is this so?”
“Indeed it is,” Heldo-Bah crows. “Veloc’s was taken, just days ago, from one of our own Outragers, who had stolen it, I suspect, while undertaking one of his errands of murder and imagined justice for the Moon priestess. My own, however, came directly from a member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, whom I myself subdued!” And with that, Heldo-Bah unsheathes the sword and brings it out from under his cloak, holding its unarguably fine blade out toward his host.
Caliphestros nods silently, taking one or two steps toward Heldo-Bah and seemingly impressed by both the blade and its origins. But then it becomes plain that he has stepped less toward Heldo-Bah than in the direction of his own bedding, where, in a quick movement not at all encumbered by his crutches, he reaches beneath his sack of goose down and produces a sword of his own. Though not so elegant as either Heldo-Bah’s or Veloc’s, especially in the crafting of its hilt, handle, and pommel, the sword nevertheless has a peculiar and impressive effect on the three Bane, achieved primarily through the ripples of cold blue-grey that seem shot through its carefully honed, single-edged blade of moderate length.
“And suppose I were to tell you,” the old man says amiably, still holding his weapon out and toward Heldo- Bah, who uneasily but quickly moves his own blade into a position of defense, “that I could offer you something better — far better, in fact? Would you still cling so tightly to your prize?”
Further unnerved by Caliphestros’s attitude — which is less one of threat than of confidence — Heldo-Bah says only, “If you think to trick me into some sort of barter for that unadorned slab of steel, old man, I tell you that you would as likely persuade me to put my head in your companion’s maw.”
Once again, Caliphestros nods with seeming indifference; he then moves his own blade up and down casually, gripping its deerskin-wrapped handle with his right hand lightly—
And suddenly, in a pair of movements that seem to the foragers far too quick for a crippled old man to achieve, Caliphestros releases the pressure of his right armpit on the corresponding crutch, letting it clatter to the cave floor as he shifts all of his weight leftward, onto his wooden leg and remaining crutch. Even as he does this, he raises his right arm and his sword swiftly and brings the strangely tinted length of steel down with great force on Heldo-Bah’s blade. When all is still once more, Heldo-Bah stands in precisely the same attitude, save that his eyes have gone wide as they look down to see that the prize he took from the unfortunate young member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard has been severed by Caliphestros’s seemingly humble blade. The piercing tip of the Bane’s once-proud trophy, along with more than a foot of the best Broken steel, now lie on the cave floor.
{iv:}
Caliphestros examines the cutting edge of his own sword, and frowns slightly. “Hmm — not so clean as I would have liked,” he says calmly. “I seem to have nicked the edge of my blade, a bit …”
“Truly?” Veloc says in amazed derision. “Nicked it
Heldo-Bah’s head slowly shakes in disbelief, before nodding with envy; and finally, when he regains his complete composure, he casts his diminished sword to the cave floor as thoughtlessly as he stole it. He then fairly leaps to Caliphestros’s side, and anxiously indicates the blade that Keera has also moved closer to examine. “May I–Lord Caliphestros, may I have this one? It’s only fair, after all, now that you’ve rendered mine useless.”
Caliphestros shrugs. “If you wish,” he says. “I have several more like it.”
Heldo-Bah takes Caliphestros’s sword from the old man and gauges its weight. “So light!” he pronounces. “By the Moon, Veloc — we could sweep through the Tall as though they were so much wheat, had we blades the like of this!”
“Aye, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc replies, “I can already envision the historical epics I shall compose and relate, concerning the swords of the Bane that dealt mighty blows to the Tall and their kingdom.”
Caliphestros’s tone turns momentarily harsh. “You will be tempted to think you can achieve such feats, as would almost any people who have been maligned and subdued for so long, and who suddenly find themselves offered the chance for forceful redress; but
Turning to the cookstove and lifting the lid of the pot to find that its contents have begun to softly bubble and pop, Caliphestros fetches several earthenware bowls and spoons, as well as a ladle, the utensils all carved from a tightly grained wood, and then sets the collection of objects on his rough-hewn table. “But before this process can begin, much less be mastered, we must work, eat, and then sleep. My admittedly theatrical exhibition was intended only to hearten your spirits about the struggle to come — not to slow our progress.”
“And you have achieved your object, old fellow,” Heldo-Bah declares. “Now, let us finish the packing of your possessions, that we may consume this fare — for if you can cook stew as well as you can steel, Lord of Feathers and Fangs, it shall be satisfying, indeed!”
In this way — by the portentous shattering of a single sword — is formed an odd yet fast friendship between the most infamous person in Broken’s history and the three Bane foragers upon whom the mantle “saviors of their tribe” rests most precariously.
The stew is, even Heldo-Bah must admit, a most excellent concoction, not least because it is flavored with all manner of herbs and heartened by roots and greens, all taken from Caliphestros’s own garden. Of course, the fact the three foragers have been swiftly running and somewhat madly searching for most of the last three days and nights would make almost any food palatable, at this moment. But so genuinely satisfying is Caliphestros’s stew, and so much do his guests consume, that, by the time all the packed sacks have been set by the cave entrance, the three Bane are more than ready to seek out places among the many large bags filled with the down of various birds that cushion the cave’s hard rock protrusions, in its walls as well as on its floor. Exhausted and sated, the foragers fairly collapse onto these welcome spots to sleep away the few idle hours they have been allowed, ere nightfall signals their departure.
For his part, Caliphestros attempts sleep, as does Stasi, the latter lying on her side at the foot of her companion’s bedding, vigilantly lifting her head whenever a sound is captured by her exceptional ears, in order to assure herself that the Bane men are indeed slumbering harmlessly. In time, however, this duty becomes plainly unnecessary, and the great white panther rises, glances once more about the cave, and then walks slowly to its entrance, where three heavy deerskin sacks, as well as two lighter bags, sit waiting for their bearers to rise. Stasi will now sit and stand guard from this spot, and at first, she thinks to do this duty alone; but her wakefulness has brought her companion out of his comparatively light slumber, for they are as alive to each other’s restiveness as any two humans who have lived together for many years. Caliphestros drags himself across the cave, using the arms that have grown powerful in the absence of his legs to swing his half-body forward, and reaches the spot where Stasi now sits, her hind legs tucked beneath her, her fore legs side by side in front of her, and her powerful neck holding her head in an easy but alert position.
Caliphestros makes a small, affectionate sound of greeting, one that he is glad the three Bane cannot hear, for he does not wish them to think him overly sentimental. Yet his watchfulness, at this moment, is not a matter of sentiment alone: for often, on pleasant evenings when the pair have found themselves abroad in Davon Wood long past nightfall, Caliphestros has noticed Stasi’s wont to climb some log or large stone and fix her eyes on the distant sight of the small lights that flicker atop the great mountain to the northeast. The old man has always been able to
