Storm Season

"As you wish, Hierarch Torchholder. I'll tell my lads to hoist it up. You'll need a strong cart, my Lord. She's as heavy as the god."

Both men laughed heartily. Then, looking mildly a

"It broke my skin," he said.

"Scraps," the metal-master replied, taking the small flake from the priest's hand.

"Sharp scraps. We should put them on the edges of our swords," Torchholder laughed, and took back the offending object. "Not glass either . . . Some new project of yours?"

"No-"

Walegrin could not hear the rest of Balustrus' reply. His fear-clouded mind had finally placed the Lord and his name: the Torch himself, War-god Priest. As if it were not bad enough to have the regular Imperial hierarchy sniffing along his trail, now here was the Wargod too-and the Sacred Bands? Walegrin was numb from the waist down, unable to move closer or run away. Damn the S'danzo and their curses. Damn his father, if he weren't already damned, for killing Rezzel and incurring supernatural wrath.

But Molin Torchholder was laughing now, giving the metal-master a small coin purse and a brief, casual blessing on his work. Walegrin, whose panicked thoughts always moved too quickly, knew he'd been sold. When the priest and his bodyguards had disappeared out the door, Walegrin confronted the withered, smiling, metal-master.

"Was it worthwhile?" he demanded.

"The palace has the best money in the city. Some of it was truly minted in Ranke and not cut three times since with lead or tin." Balustrus looked up from his counting and studied Wale-grin's face. "Now, son, whatever you've done to get Ranke on your tail-don't go thinking I'd be on their side. Your secrets are safe from Ranke with me."

Walegrin tried to laugh, but the attempt failed. "I'm to believe that the Torch himself just happened to wander down here-and that he just happened to find a piece of ore stuck to his arm and then he just happened to give you a double handful of gold?"

"Walegrin, Walegrin," Balustrus swung down from the stool and tried to approach the angry soldier, but Walegrin easily eluded him. "Molin Torchholder has only paid me what is due me-for the work on Vashanka's bell. Now it might seem strange to you that such a man would come here himself-but the Hierarch has taken a personal interest in this project from the begi

"Now, I expect you'll believe exactly what you want, but it was happenstance, all of it. And Torchholder's suspicions are not aroused; if they were he would still be here, believe that. Mark me well: I know him and the rest better than you imagine."

It was not the first time Balustrus hinted that he knew more than he was saying, and the notion did nothing to reassure Walegrin. Kilite had often done the same thing-and Kilite had finally betrayed him. "Truly, metal-master, when can I have my swords?" he asked in a slightly calmer voice.

"Truly lad, I do not know. The bell is finished, as you heard. I have no other commissions waiting at my foundry. I'll start testing your ore as soon as the priest claims his bell. But, Walegrin, even if I stumble upon the right temperatures and the right proportions at once-it will still take time. I've only two lads to help me. I've agreed to payment in kind-but I ca

Walegrin shook his head. He'd relaxed. His body could not stand the tension he brought to it. He was exhausted and knew his hands would shake if he moved them. What Balustrus said was true enough, except-He paused and a measure of his confidence returned. "I've five men with me: good men; more than equal to day labor. They sit idle until the swords are ready. They'll work for you."

It was the metal-master's turn to hesitate. "I'll not pay them," he a

Walegrin winced, not from the offer which was all he had desired, but from Balustrus' attempts at friendship and familiarity. Of course the smith hadn't been in Sanctuary when Walegrin was a youth. He hadn't known Walegrin's father and could not know that Walegrin allowed no-one to call him 'son.' So, Walegrin controlled his rage and grunted affirmatively.

"I'll give you another piece of advice-since you're already in my debt. You've got a hate and fear about you that draws trouble like a magnet. You think the worst, and you think it too soon. You'll be doing neither yourself nor your men any good by going north. But, now listen to me, the Sacred Band of Stepsons and probably the Hounds as well will have to go-and then there'll be no-one of any power and ability here. Jubal's gone-you know that-don't you?"

Walegrin nodded. Tales of the night assault on the Downwind estate of the slaveholder circulated in numerous variations, but everyone agreed that Jubal hadn't been seen since. "But I don't want to spend my life in Sanctuary looking after gutter-scum!" he snarled back at his would-be benefactor.

"Mark me-and let me finish. You're fresh back. Things have changed. There're no more blue hawks to roam the streets. That's not to say that them as wore the masks are gone-not all of them, not yet. Only Jubal's gone. Jubal's men and Jubal's power are there for the taking. Even if he should return to this town, he'll be in no condition to raise his army of the night again. Let Temp us, Zaibar-" Balustrus spat for emphasis, "and all their ilk fight for Ranke. With them gone and your steel you could be master of this place for life-and give it on to your children as well. Kittycat would surrender in a day."

Walegrin didn't answer. He didn't remember sliding the bolts back before opening the door, and perhaps he hadn't. He was ambitious to gain glory, but he had no real thoughts for the future. Balustrus had tempted him, but he'd frightened him more.

The morning sun brought no warmth to the young man. He shivered beneath his borrowed, monk's cloak. There weren't many people on the narrow streets and those took pains to stay out of his path. His cloak billowed out to reveal the leather harness of a soldier beneath it, but no-one stopped him to ask questions.

The taverns were boarded up as the barkeeps and wenches alike caught a few hours rest. Walegrin pounded past them, head erect, eyes hard. He reached the Wideway without seeing a welcoming door. He headed for the wharves and the fishermen whose day began well before dawn. They would be ready for refreshment by now.

He wandered into a slant-walled den called the Wine Barrel; Fish Barrel would have been a more appropriate name. The place stank of fish oil. Ignoring the pervasive stench, Walegrin approached the rough-hewn bar. The room had fallen silent and, though a swordsman like himself had nothing to fear from a handful of fishermen, Walegrin was uncomfortable.

Even the ale was rank with fish-oil, but he gagged it down. The thick brew brought the clouds of dullness his mind craved. He ordered another three mugs of the vile, potent stuff and belched prodigiously while the fisherfolk endured him.

Their meek, offended stares drove him back onto the wharf before he was half as drunk as he wanted to be. The tangy air of the harbor undid him; he vomited into the water and found himself almost completely sober. In an abysmal mood, he tugged the priest's cowl over his head and held the cloak shut with a death grip. His path wound toward the bazaar where Illyra lived and saw the future in the S'danzo cards.