King of Ashes. Raymond E. Feist
the five.’
‘Our tongue,’ he began.
Bodai frowned as he resumed walking. ‘Of course you do. Don’t waste my time with the obvious. So, you speak four tongues that are not native to you. What are they?’
‘Westernese—’
‘Which dialect?’ interrupted Bodai as they turned a corner and moved into a busy boulevard that led to the docks.
‘Ilcomen.’
‘Good. It won’t take long for you to master the different patois, if needed. Others?’
They crossed a small street and approached the market where Hatu and his companions had spent the day. Hatu said, ‘I speak the trading language of Matasan, as if I were a native of the island of Katalawa.’ Bodai nodded as if this was good. ‘And I also speak Ithraci.’
‘Who taught you Ithraci?’
‘A language preceptor, brother. It was by Master Facaria’s order, he insisted I learn.’ Hatu shrugged. ‘It’s a dead kingdom, so I never understood the point.’
‘Not quite dead,’ muttered Bodai. ‘And the last?’
‘Sandurani, as if I were born there.’
‘Good, because Sandura is where we need to be.’
Hatu thought on that as they crossed the market and headed towards the docks. ‘So we’re a priest and beggar boy of the One?’
‘Not quite,’ said Bodai. ‘I’m a monk, not a priest. I’ll explain the rest of it when we reach the city of Sandura’s main harbour.’
The expression on Hatu’s face revealed his impatience. He wanted to understand now, not later.
‘You will be busy until then,’ said Bodai as they reached the docks and moved towards a ship readying for departure.
Hatu let out a sigh of resignation; he was to be a sailor again. It was his third assignment aboard a ship, and although he didn’t hate the work, he could have named a dozen things he’d rather have done with his time. He knew it was likely he’d draw the night watch, for the students were often kept apart from most of the crew.
Seeing that Hatu understood, Bodai smiled. ‘Come then, let us be off,’ he said as they reached the gangplank of the ship. It was a wide-bodied trading vessel, a wallower in rough seas, Hatu guessed. He hoped he didn’t have to experience that high in the rigging at night. Resigned to the coming trials, he followed Brother Bodai up the gangplank.
The smithy was windowless. It was entered via a long hall that followed an outside wall and turned a corner before emptying into the forge through a curtain. On the opposite wall, massive doors covered with hardened leather sealed out light; the glow of the furnace was the only illumination.
Horseshoes, bridles, stirrup irons, plough blades: all manner of common tools could be fashioned as the sun streamed through the massive doors, but the forging of swords was always performed in the dark, for the smith had to see the truth hidden within the colour of the metal.
Journeyman Declan had been given responsibility for overseeing the forge for the first time, and had been smelting iron into steel for three days. He knelt to examine the slag at the bottom of the furnace before returning to the huge bellows that hung from the ceiling. Declan and Jusan, the apprentice who at present napped in the corner, had been tending the bellows day and night. Declan pumped them slowly, watching the glowing embers rise on hot air into the hood above the fire, then looked back at the slag to study the colours of the flaming metal.
The journeyman smith stared into the furnace, looking for unwelcome changes in the hue. The red, orange, and white flames spoke to Declan, telling him if the iron was becoming the steel he desired. He added layer upon layer of iron sand and charcoal, paying constant attention to the heat, and within the glowing heart of the slag, something miraculous formed: jewel steel.
It was the steel from which the greatest swords were fashioned, and a material that few men could produce.
Intelligent and talented, Declan had a rare skill. He was a handsome youth nearing his twenty-second birthday but had achieved the rank of journeyman at eighteen, five years sooner than most. And he was now attempting his masterpiece a dozen years earlier than was normal for any master smith. It was unheard of for one so young, but Declan’s master, Edvalt Tasman, felt he was ready for the challenge.
The young man’s lanky frame hid the strength usually apparent in the bull shoulders and barrel chests of most smiths. Declan’s exceptional strength showed only in his forearms, wrists, and hands, which were more muscular than his otherwise slender build. He had green eyes and fair eyebrows, and his head was covered with a thick thatch of red-blond hair.
Jusan, a well-built youth of fifteen years, snored loudly in the corner. Declan turned to him and called, ‘Hey!’
The boy awoke instantly and blinked for a moment before he quickly came to stand behind the journeyman smith. Peering over Declan’s shoulder, Jusan said, ‘Is it time?’
‘Just watch and learn,’ said Declan.
Jusan watched closely as Declan used a long iron hook to pull the clay out of the furnace. Waist high and six feet on each side, the furnace had taken a day and a half to construct, and flaming coals spilled out as Declan pulled the slag out, inspected it, and put it back in the coals. ‘Just a moment longer …’ Declan muttered.
Jusan smiled at his teacher and nodded. He had a wide face and large brown eyes, and often reminded Declan of an owl as the smoke made him blink furiously. The boy was also starting to grow out of his gangly stage and his strength was approaching that of a man. He watched with interest as the mass of steel collected at the base of the furnace was revealed. Declan silently studied the pile of cooling steel, then turned to Jusan with a smile. Declan nodded once. ‘Go fetch Edvalt.’
The master smith arrived shortly after and knelt to inspect the smouldering blue-grey mass. He leaned forward until the heat threatened to singe his eyebrows and then sat back on his heels wearing a satisfied expression. A single nod indicated to Declan that he had passed the first stage of his goal: creating the steel.
Declan used large tongs to pull the slag from the bottom of the furnace and hurried to the larger of the two anvils in the smithy. While the steel was cooling, he quickly hammered it into an almost perfect cube, then moved it to the anvil where the work would be finished.
Jusan grabbed a bucket and poured water over it. Steam rolled off the hot metal as Declan retrieved a length of heavy paper and slid it under the metal, quickly wrapping the slag. For a moment the three smiths halted and prayed silently to the ancient god of the forge, Hagama.
When Edvalt’s father was a boy, smiths had performed a ritual with the prayer, but the One God’s priests had named many smiths heretics and burned them since then, and now the words were never uttered aloud.
Jusan handed Declan a pot of clay, and he applied a thick layer to all sides of the steel cube while Edvalt turned it. When it had cooled enough for the clay to be sticky but not hardened, Jusan passed the young journeyman a large jar of ashes, which Declan layered over the cube as Edvalt continued to rotate it. The ashes, clay, and paper would keep the air from the metal as the next step commenced, for the balance between air, heat, and carbon dust was vital for the final step in fashioning the steel.
Declan nodded to Jusan. ‘Bellows,’ he said quietly.
Jusan stepped away while the other two smiths picked up their hammers. Edvalt handed the tongs to Declan while Jusan pumped the bellows to encourage the fire back to its hottest point.
Declan