The Blacksmith Page 3

  Maggie said, “Why doesn’t Fiona see that?”

  “Because folk here don’t realise everything we’ve done for them. Uncle Will and Dad, and Granddad, and all the Archer’s in the blacksmiths’ guild, looked out for everybody, so folk here have had it easy.”

  “All the more reason for it to be some other family’s job, for a change.”

  I said, “Speaking of that…”

  Doug said, “Master Hamish and Master Walter are going together tomorrow to talk to the duke.”

  “Good. I’m off the hook.”

  “Until you get certified,” Doug said.

  “If.”

  “When.”

  I cuffed him, and he butted me back. Satisfied, we left Maggie at Ruth’s door and staggered towards the hayloft. When we had settled down, with several of our cousins snoring at the other end, I told him about the Crystal Palace spooking me. The news woke him up. He shifted around on the hay.

  “Ask Ruth for Uncle Will’s maps. He doesn’t need them anymore.” Doug rolled off the hay and climbed down. He was standing in the barn door, looking east, when I went to sleep.

  “When you get to Blacksburg—” Granny Mildred said.

  “I’m not going to Blacksburg,” I said. Charcoal nickered at me. I closed the stall door and rubbed his head.

  “Or London, or wherever you have to go to get certified—”

  “Forget it.”

  She peered at me through the slats. “Keep your eyes and ears open, your mouth shut, and your hands to yourself. Keep your nose out of other people’s business, and don’t draw attention.”

  I leaned over the door and reached for the bridle. “Tell me how to do that. I draw attention just standing up.”

  “Not much you can do about that, is there? I meant, don’t draw any extra attention if you don’t have to. Keep to yourself, keep out of trouble, and don’t go doing people favours right and left. Don’t be so damned-fool neighbourly to everybody.”

  “Why the hell not? I don’t like it when folk aren’t friendly to me.”

  “Because you’re a soft touch, and they’ll take advantage of you. People who are always friendly and helpful get noticed. Even short people. And if the commoners notice you, the Black Duke will, too, and he’s nastier than our duke. If the commoners like you, he’ll dislike you on principle. Don’t let him know who you are. Get in, get that certificate, and get out. Got that?”

  “Nae. You don’t get it. I’m not going.”

  Doug led his mare out of her stall. “Morning, Granny. Can you give Master Hamish or Master Walter a message before they leave for the duke’s?”

  “Aye. You have some advice?”

  “Aye. Don’t waste their breath saying how much losing the bridge hurts us. Tell the duke how it hurts him. Master Hamish knows everybody that goes past on their way to the Quayside market—he can count up how much the duke stands to lose when they can’t pay their rents and taxes. And, if we can’t get our goods to Quayside, the Water Guild will starve, and the Frost Maiden will come after him.”

  I said, “That ought to scare him shitless.”

  Granny cackled. “Thanks, sonny. I’ll tell them. Now you—” She waggled a finger at me through the slats. “For God’s sake, don’t tangle with any witches or wizards, especially from the Water Guild.”

  I rolled my eyes. I planned on spending an extra day on my way south, to put the hills between them and me.

  “Or the Air or Fire Guilds either,” she said. “The Earth Guild’s the only one you can trust to give a commoner a fair shake.”

  “Hey, now. I’ve got friends in the Fire Guild. They’re all commoners themselves.”

  “They’re the two-bit kind who make their living putting protection spells on houses, right?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “The higher ranking they are, the more they favour the aristos. Don’t you forget it.”

  Doug called, “Duncan, you coming?”

  “Aye. Be along in a minute.” I pulled the girth tight and opened the stall door. “I’m not worried. I’m not going to meet high-ranking wizards and witches of any sort here in Abertee, which is where I’m staying. Sorry, Granny.”

  The group heading to Nettleton was already on the move. Doug and I trailed behind, leaving a big gap, and talked—one of those conversations I have with Doug where the gaps for thinking are longer than the talking.

  “I don’t need to get certified,” I said. “I’d spend half my time, like Uncle Will did, listening to everybody’s troubles and fighting with the duke for them. Every journeyman in North Frankland would be on my doorstep begging for work, and I’d spend my time teaching them and keeping them out of trouble, rather than making things myself. And it would mean six months to a year working for a grandmaster to earn that frostbitten certificate. No thanks, too much trouble.”

  Doug snorted. “Talking yourself out of it won’t work. You’d have it already if everybody wasn’t telling you to do it.”

  “Maybe. But now… Am I more likely to get in trouble with the Water Guild if I get it or if I don’t? If I get it, I’d have the guild at my back, but I’d draw more attention, too.”

  “Aye. If being pinned down by the light was an omen, it doesn’t make much sense. There’s nothing they could come after you for.”

  “Aye. They can’t go over the duke’s head except for treason—”

  “Treason, my arse.”

  “Or murdering an aristo. Which must be somebody’s idea of a bad joke. With the Fire Office shielding them, you can’t kill the ones that deserve it. The Water Guild don’t like commoners getting above themselves, but they’ve never gotten a toehold in Abertee to come after us for that. Uncle Will used to say the duke would never let them in—he’s as scared of the Frost Maiden as we are.”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard about the duke’s son.”

  I sucked my teeth. “He takes after his mum—mean, stupid, and as arrogant as the Frost Maiden. The duchess wouldn’t let the duke have any say in raising him. He calls his mother’s manor down south home, and doesn’t give a mouse’s fart about us. He’ll let the Water Guild do whatever they like to us.”

  “Aye, and I’ve heard he sees red over the clause in the smith’s charter giving you the right to tell him what he needs to hear. He’s saying he’ll revoke the charter when he’s duke.”

  “He can’t. The duke’s dad tried, but he couldn’t. Not without giving us a chance to bargain for what we want in a new one.”

  “The duke’s dad wasn’t an air wizard. His son is. Maybe he can.”

  “Meaning whoever’s guild head when he gets to be duke is in for it.”

  “Meaning,” he said, “what’s good for Abertee and what’s good for you may not be the same thing.”

  Abertee’s problems faded as we rode through the gap at the bottom of the Upper Tee Valley. I grinned like a fool as we rounded the last bend, to where the valley walls opened up. Nettleton—home—was less than a mile away.

  I knew every last soul in that valley, and every rock, tree, and rill in it, too. I didn’t own any land here—Dad had left Doug the farm since I could make a good living as a smith, and that was fine with me, since I can’t stand tending sheep—so it seemed silly to call it my valley, but it was.

  Leaving again, after a few hours, made me ache. “Watch for me,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

  Maggie said, “We’ll expect you when we see you. You’re going to Blacksburg, aren’t you?”

  “Like hell I am. I hate cities. Crossroads is as big as I can stand, and being away from home at Midsummer stunk. Be iced if I’m going to miss Yule, too.”

  “But, Duncan—”

  “Leave him alone, lass,” Doug said. “He has to make up his own mind.”

  A long ride by myself helps with that. I rode into Crossro
ads determined to ask the local guild to promote me, and settle the question.

  The smiths who hadn’t already gone home were gathered around Granny Mildred’s table, talking about the duke and the bridge. I counted enough noses for a regular guild meeting.

  I nudged Granny. “Where’s Hazel?”

  “Off running some errands for me. Why?”

  “Talk her into coming here to stay.”

  Granny gave me the gimlet eye. “Getting ideas, are you? Well, forget it. Hazel won’t look twice at you. She’ll never have you if you’re not a master smith.”

  “What the blazes are you going on about? The guild will promote me, and I’ll go back to Nettleton to take over for Old Malcolm when he retires, and—”

  Master Hamish shook his head at me. “Sorry, lad, but we’re not going to promote you.”

  “What the hell. I’m as good a blacksmith as anybody in Abertee.”

  “Better,” Master Walter said. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. None of them would.

  “I talked to everyone here,” Mildred said, “and most that already left, and got them to agree. They won’t promote you, and let you off easy. If you want to be a master, go to Blacksburg and get certified. If you can’t get that certificate, don’t bother coming back.”

  Blacksburg

  Blacksburg lived down to its name. With no wind blowing off the sea, smoke from thousands of cooking fires, lamps, and forges hung over the city like a shroud. The buildings were so dirty that one ten years old looked the same as one two hundred. Faces, trees, and even fresh-washed sheets hanging on the line looked drab and grey. The only bright colours were in the rich folk’s clothes. The only white in the whole city was the duke’s palace. Earth Guild magic, probably, paid for over and over again out of taxes. He should’ve paid the Air Guild to blow the smoke away, and make things better for everybody.

  A deep breath of the smoke, mixed with the stink of night soil, horse manure, rotting vegetables, offal, sweat, and the heavy perfumes the women used to cover the other rot, made me double over, coughing and gagging. I got used to it after a while—mostly—but I woke every morning swearing that when I got back to Abertee I would pay Granny Mildred to purge the poisons from my system.

  Blacksburg taught me one thing at least: not to laugh at people who couldn’t follow directions. I could have found my way anywhere in Abertee, blindfolded. My first afternoon in Blacksburg, in trying to find a stable for Charcoal and a bed for myself, I couldn’t have found my way out of a burlap sack. Everybody I asked directions of rattled off things like make a right where the cooper used to be and a left where the Horse and Hound burned down. If they said you can’t miss it, I was sure to. The smith in the last town up the road had recommended a boarding house a few blocks downriver from the main city square; I must have passed within spitting distance of it half-a-dozen times before I found it.

  The smith had warned me about the wee houses, and that most smiths wouldn’t have room for boarders, but I still grumbled under my breath as I forked over a week’s rent. If the rates for journeymen in Blacksburg didn’t cover room and board, I’d be in trouble. I unpacked my saddlebags in a room with none of the comforts of home, and lay awake working out how many weeks I could stay before I went broke if they paid me what I would’ve earned in Abertee.

  I was the first boarder in the dining room, and had eaten half my breakfast before the next one showed. He returned my “Good morning” with a bleary stare and a mumble, and settled in the farthest corner. The others trickling in did the same. Only one bothered to talk to me, and that was to say, “New here, aren’t you?” and to warn me that talking too much would make people nervous. Saying that much must have made him nervous, because he grabbed a boiled egg and a fistful of bread, and bolted. I finished without talking to anyone else, and went looking for the swordsmiths.

  Later, I discovered that Grandmaster Clive’s smithy was only half-a-mile from the boarding house. I must have walked four miles before finding it in a welter of narrow, twisting streets near the docks. I found it then only because, as I got close enough, I followed my ears rather than the directions.

  Grandmaster Clive made a good impression even before I stuck my head in his door. The smithy yard was neat, well-tended. The sweet music of hammers said the smithy was full of men hard at work. I walked in and asked for the master. Without putting his hammer down, a journeyman jerked his head towards a dim corner. Sparks flew as metal scraped against a grindstone. I edged towards the corner, and waited for my eyes to adjust. The glint of light off steel hanging on the wall caught my eye, and I leaned closer for a good look.

  A rack held a half-dozen swords: a lightweight one on top with a blade thin enough to bend if you touched it, several heavier ones in different sizes and degrees of finish, and on the bottom, one five-feet long that even I would have had to use two hands to swing. In the flickering red light from the forge, they seemed to eel across the wall like they were alive. My hands itched to take them down, to test out the balance, to see how much the blade of the lightest one would flex.

  I bent down to study the inlay work on the biggest sword, and almost drooled. Guild symbols and writing—spells, no doubt—were etched into the blade as well. I couldn’t read what it said, but it didn’t matter—it was the prettiest blade I’d ever seen.

  The grindstone came to a halt. The man sitting at it said, “I’m Master Clive. What can I do for you?”

  I straightened up and introduced myself. “I’ve never seen swords like either the top one or the bottom one, or so many together in one place. The other grandmasters I’ve met either had only one in their smithy, or none at all.”

  “Who’ve you met?”

  He nodded as I named them. “I’m one of the few that makes swords without a buyer already lined up. There’s not much call for new ones, since they’re for show these days, what with the Fire Warlock fighting all our wars, and the Frost Maiden scaring the nobles out of fighting each other.”

  “If they’re for show, I guess that means they’re not dangerous.”

  “Don’t insult me.”

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t—”

  “Of course they’re dangerous.” He wrapped a polishing cloth around the lightest sword’s hilt. He pulled it off the rack and jabbed it at me. I backed away. “This one would poke through a chest even as thick as yours and out the other side, and if I got lucky and hit your heart, you’d be dead.” He laid it back on the rack and hefted the two-handed monster. “This would cut through your thigh bone, no sweat.” He grinned. “Not that I would. I don’t want Her Iciness coming for me. Besides, it’d be a shame to dull the edge. But it’ll chop through bone like my wife’s kitchen knife through new cheese.”

  He slid the polishing cloth along the sword’s blade, and let the sword settle into its felted slot in the rack. He wiped dust I couldn’t see off the shiny blade and scrubbed at the hilt.

  I said, “Why’d you make that one so heavy, if you weren’t sure you’d find a buyer?”

  “Because I can. I may never sell it.”

  “I would, too, I guess, if I could.” Not that I’d ever get the chance, and there was no point in dreaming. The grandmaster pulled a sword from the middle of the rack, and carried it out into the yard. I followed. “What would it take to make that one shatter?”

  He sat on a bench, waved me to a spot at the end, and began polishing the blade. “No idea. I beat the spell into it—I’ve beaten the spell into all my swords—but it’s been centuries since we’ve heard of an aristos’ sword shattering in his hands for lifting it against somebody he was sworn to protect. God knows there are enough stories going around about them treating everybody under them like dirt. I don’t know if it means the aristos have stopped swearing to protect their vassals, or if we’ve forgotten something in the spell, or…” He shrugged. “Or maybe we swordsmiths aren’t strong enough wizards anymore to make
the magic work.”

  “Or maybe the aristos pay their lackeys to do the dirty work, instead of doing it themselves. If they’re not actually using the sword…”

  “That may be most of it, though there are some you’d think their swords would shatter just from being in the same room with them.” He gripped the sword blade with the polishing cloth, and held it out to me, hilt first. “Here, give it a swing.”

  “I don’t need a broken hand.”

  He snorted. “That story about them breaking commoners’ hands is hogwash. It’s the same earth guild spell you’d put on anything valuable. It breaks a thief’s hand, but not the owner’s, or anybody else he lets use it. Go on, take it.”

  I gripped it, and sure enough, it did me no damage. I swung the tip through a circle in the air. It felt alive in my hands, like part of my arm. I opened my fist, and the sword balanced flat on the edge of my hand. I gripped it again, and gave it a good swing.

  Master Clive winced. “Guess you’ve never seen anybody swing one before. It’s a sword, not a hammer.” He took it back from me. “Not that I’m going to show you. I’m already in deep shit with the Black Duke, who thinks I’m too fond of my own work. The notion that any commoner has his hand on a sword keeps him awake nights.” He shot me a keen look. “Enough of this. You didn’t come to see me about swords.”

  “Nae, sir. I need to be a certified master. I’m hoping you’ll take me on.”

  “You and every other journeyman in Blacksburg. I’ve got a full smithy.”

  “I can see that. If I stick around in Blacksburg, then when one of your journeymen moves on…”

  “Then I’ll have to take on one of the several dozen others already waiting. You could be waiting for a couple of years, or more.”

  “Fire and frostbite. I haven’t got a couple of years.”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  I explained about Uncle Will, and Abertee needing a certified master.