King of Ashes. Raymond E. Feist
Then he said, ‘We wait.’
AS A FREIGHTER MADE READY to depart the harbour, the sailors on deck saw a colourful procession making its way towards the boarding plank. A gaudy palanquin carried by six large slaves and followed by half a dozen retainers, all heavily armed, reached the gangplank and was lowered. Its gauze curtain was pulled aside to reveal an obese man with a massive black beard and flowing oiled locks to his shoulders; he descended the carriage as a young man in fine robes placed a step before him.
As Hatu extended his hand to help his master from the litter, Bodai spoke through the enormous false beard. ‘When attempting to evade those who seek you, it’s often wise to look exactly like someone they do not have to seek.’
Hatu was exhausted from the fear of being discovered, and from spending the night having his skin dyed to make him look like a southern islander, but the sight of Bodai wrapped in an entire roll of linen to double his weight, wearing the outlandish dress his agents had found for him, was still amusing.
He followed Bodai up the gangway as their retinue of hastily gathered agents departed, to scatter quickly throughout the city. Hatu found the theatre absurd but looked forward to describing the humorous event to Hava and Donte some day, assuming he lived long enough to see them again.
New Considerations and an Old Friend
Declan sat quietly while enjoying a mug of ale. The forge had been busy since he accomplished his masterpiece as they caught up on some work put aside while the sword was completed. But finally, the tools, ploughshares, and horseshoes had been finished, and by three o’clock, Declan had fulfilled the work. There were still a few small tasks, but nothing pressing, and Edvalt had pointedly told Declan to leave early and to begin to consider his choices.
He had removed his dirty tunic and trousers, soaked through with sweat, and had poured buckets of well water over his head to clean up as best he could. Edvalt had commandeered the wooden tub for a proper scrubbing and once he had rinsed away most of the soot and grime, Declan decided he could wait for a day to bathe properly. He settled for a quick swim in the ocean, washing the salt water away with a bucket of fresh, determined to get his proper bath soon.
They had not spoken of Declan’s options since he finished the sword for Baron Bartholomy, but the decision hung over the new master smith’s every waking moment. While Declan had always known this day would come, and that he would be ready to set out and create his own future, he suddenly felt as if it had taken him by surprise. He realised that thinking about it and living it were quite different.
Edvalt had made it clear that once Baron Bartholomy had paid for his sword, the old smith would consider retirement. Good smiths were able to live better than most common men, but even they rarely earned the opportunity to retire, and often lived with their sons or daughters until death arrived to claim them. Some earned enough goodwill from a village that the people provided for their dotage, but that was rare. A few, like Edvalt, were good enough to be able to plan for the day they could no longer do justice to their craft. They earned enough coin to buy food for their remaining years and live in a quiet cottage on the edge of a town, or rent a small loft in a city.
Declan knew that Edvalt and Mila would not move in with their daughter and her husband. The old smith still had years of work left in him, but he was getting to an age when he would welcome a gentler pace. Declan understood that. Over the course of Declan’s life he had seen Edvalt maintain his skill, but he knew that his pace was slowing. Tasks that used to take an hour now took longer. Even with a talented apprentice like Jusan, Edvalt’s productivity had fallen a little.
Soon, it would reduce significantly. It was a simple fact of life. If he lived in a big city, a craftsman like Edvalt could still do well, fashioning small, valuable items, mostly armour and arms; but here in Oncon? For every sword commissioned, he had to make hundreds of horseshoes and bridal bits, repair wagon tongues and wheel rims, fix or fashion rakes or hoes, and create all the other village items that devoured the days and returned little in payment.
Declan weighed his choices. Edvalt would expect an answer soon, perhaps even within days. He knew that should he stay and buy the smithy, the transition would be an easy one, for he would simply continue to work as he had all his life, paying Edvalt a portion of his due until he owned the smithy outright. It was an appealing plan, for this was the only home he had ever really known.
Yet there was a curiosity within him, a desire to see some of the world. Garn was a vast place with diverse peoples and foreign ways. Not only were there many alien places on the twin continents and the surrounding islands, there were distant lands across the sea few men had visited. During Declan’s life, many travellers had passed through Oncon and they had piqued his interest about such imagined destinations.
A master smith, even one as young as Declan, would be assured a good life and prosperity in the right town, and with the patronage of a local baron he might even expect wealth. Who knew if there were master smiths beyond the sea? Or even if anyone across the oceans knew of jewel steel?
The lure of the unknown and the comfort of the familiar pulled at him equally. He let out a slight sigh and realised that though he would have to decide between them soon, he did not have to make a decision this very minute.
Marius, the proprietor of the room that passed for a tavern in the village, three tables and a tiny bar where only four close friends could stand, came over and said, ‘Bit early for you, Declan.’
‘Edvalt …’ he began, then decided not to go into detail and finished, ‘… gave Jusan and me the afternoon to ourselves. Work’s been hard and I thought an ale would soften the evening.’
‘Well, I guess,’ answered Marius. He was a slender man of fading years, as close to a man of means as one might find in this village. He had a steady business in ale and wine but also lent money, and as a result owned tiny interests in several local enterprises; and while Oncon had no formal inn, for a few coppers, Marius would allow travellers to sleep on the floor of the tavern room, or in the shed. He even traded in some luxuries, if asked, and had items shipped in from nearby cities. ‘You want another?’ he asked.
Declan regarded his half-finished ale and considered the question. He wasn’t much of a drinking man, and on the rare occasions he had overindulged, he had always awakened sick and miserable. Declan shook his head and said, ‘I’m good.’
The sound of a wagon rolling up before the inn caught Declan’s attention just as a familiar voice shouted, ‘Marius! Get your saggy ass out here and help me unload!’
‘Rozalee!’ said Declan with a laugh.
Marius looked annoyed, because he knew heavy lifting would be involved. ‘Declan, help that harridan unload and your ale is free.’
Declan nodded and said, ‘One more after we’re done, for both of us?’
With a feigned resignation Marius agreed, and Declan hurried outside to see one of his favourite people climbing down from the wagon’s seat. Rozalee stood almost as tall as Declan, her face lined by the sun and the wind, nights sleeping out in fair weather and foul, and most of all from laughing. Rozalee laughed a great deal.
She wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat, secured by a chin tie, and she cast it back as she threw her arms around Declan and hugged him hard without ceremony, lifting him off the ground. She was not a heavy woman, but she was muscular from years of driving mules, loading and unloading wagons. She grabbed his buttocks playfully, with both hands, and squeezed hard. ‘How’s my favourite apprentice smith?’ she asked as she let Declan go.
Laughing as he disentangled himself, Declan said, ‘It’s been years since I was an apprentice, Roz.’
Smacking his arse, she said, ‘I wasn’t talking about you, fool. I meant Jusan. He’s turning into a lovely young man.’
Declan