Peter Brett – The Skull Throne (страница 26)

Not for the first time, he regretted his stubborn refusal to let the Damajah heal him. It was wise to remind her she could not bribe him with comforts – especially ones she could as easily take away – but the thought of stairs without pain was an image worth killing for. Still, there was something he had wanted far more, and soon he would have it.

Drillmaster Qeran walked beside him, faring far better on the steps. The drillmaster’s left leg was missing at the knee, replaced with a curved sheet of spring steel. The metal bowed slightly with each step, but easily supported the large man’s weight. Already, Qeran was close to the fighting skill he had once claimed before the injury, and he continued to improve.

Abban’s kha’Sharum were not allowed at court, but the drillmaster had trained the Deliverer himself, and his honour was boundless. Even in Abban’s employ, he was welcome most anywhere, including the palace. A useful thing for a bodyguard. Now none was fool enough to harass Abban as he passed.

Earless was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs, holding open the door to Abban’s carriage. Two kha’Sharum sat the driver’s seat, spears in easy reach, and two more at a high bench at the carriage rear, these armed with Northern crank bows. Qeran sprang easily into the carriage, taking Abban’s crutches as the deaf giant lifted Abban into the carriage as easily as a man might pick up his child, sparing him the dreaded steps.

Too big to comfortably fit inside, Earless closed the door and climbed the first step, holding a handle to ride outside. He knocked on the carriage wall, and the drivers cracked the reins.

‘Have the Damaji accepted Ashan as Andrah?’ Qeran asked.

Abban shrugged. ‘It is not as if the Damajah gives them a choice, with her displays of power. Ashan is her puppet, and none fool enough to challenge her.’

Qeran nodded. He knew the Damajah well. ‘The Sharum do not like it. They believe the Sharum Ka should have taken his father’s place. They fear a dama on the throne will take focus away from alagai’sharak.’

‘What a tragedy that would be,’ Abban said.

Qeran looked at him coldly, not amused. ‘If Jayan calls, the spears will flock to him. It would be easy for him to put Ashan’s and the Damaji’s heads up on spears and take the throne.’

Abban nodded. ‘And easier still for the Damajah to reduce him to ash. We waste our time, Drillmaster, pondering shifts above our station. We have our duty.’

They arrived at Abban’s compound, a high, thick wall heavily manned with armed kha’Sharum. The gates opened before them as the drivers gave the proper signal, revealing the squat, blocky buildings within.

The compound was strong and secure, but Abban was careful – on the surface at least – to give it no quality others might covet. There was no aesthetic to the architecture, no gardens or fountains. The air was thick with the smoke of forges and the sound of ringing hammers. Men laboured everywhere, not an idle hand to be seen.

Abban breathed deep of the reeking air and smiled. It was the smell of industry. Of power. Sweeter to him than any flower’s perfume.

A boy scurried up as Earless deposited Abban back on the ground. He bowed deeply. ‘Master Akas bids me inform you the samples are ready.’

Abban nodded, flipping the boy a small coin. It was a pittance, but the boy’s eyes lit up at the sight. ‘For swift feet. Inform Master Akas we will join him shortly.’

Akas managed Abban’s forges, one of the most important jobs in the entire compound. He was Abban’s cousin by marriage, and was paid more than most dama. One of Abban’s best kha’Sharum Watchers lurked in his shadow, ostensibly for his protection, but as much to deter or report anything hinting of treachery.

‘Ah, Master, Drillmaster, welcome!’ Akas was in his fifties, his bare arms thick with muscle in the way of those who worked the forge. Despite his age and size, he moved with the nervous excitement of a younger man. A khaffit like Abban, he was without a beard, though a rough stubble clung to his chin. He stank of sweat and sulphur.

‘How is production?’ Abban asked.

‘The weapons and armour for the Spears of the Deliverer are on schedule,’ Akas said, gesturing to pallets piled with spearheads, shields, and armour plates. ‘Warded glass, indestructible so far as we can determine.’

Abban nodded. ‘And for my Hundred?’ He used the term for the hundred kha’Sharum Ahmann had given him, but in truth they were one hundred and twenty, with close to a thousand chi’Sharum to supplement them. Abban wanted all of them armed and with the best equipment money could buy.

Akas scratched at his stubble. ‘There have been … delays.’

Qeran crossed his arms with a glower, not even needing a cue from Abban. Akas was a big man, but not fool enough to mistake the gesture. He put up his palms placatingly. ‘But progress has been made! Come and see!’

He darted over to a group of pallets, these shields and spearheads shining like mirrors. He selected a spearhead and brought it over to a squat, heavy anvil.

‘Warded glass,’ Akas said, holding up the spearhead, ‘silvered as you requested to hide its true nature from the casual observer.’

Abban nodded impatiently. This was not news. ‘Then why the delay?’

‘The silvering process weakens the glass,’ Akas said. ‘Watch.’

He put the spearhead on the anvil, holding it in place with banded clamps. Then he took up a long, heavy sledge, the handle three feet long and the head thirty pounds at least. The master smith swung the hammer with practised smoothness, letting its weight and momentum do more work than his considerable muscles. It came down with a sound that resonated through the forges, but Akas did not stop, putting all his strength behind two more swings.

‘A waste to make that man khaffit,’ Qeran said. ‘I could have made a great warrior of him.’

Abban nodded. ‘And had no weapons or armour for him to wield. The sagas may tell tales of cripples working the forge, but it is a strong man’s labour, and not without honour.’

After the third blow, Akas unclamped the spearhead and brought it over for inspection. Abban and Qeran held it to the light, turning it this way and that.

‘There,’ Qeran said, pointing.

‘I see it,’ Abban said, staring at the tiny flaw in the glass, near the point of impact.

‘Ten more blows like that, and a crack will form,’ Akas said. ‘A dozen, and it will break.’

‘Still stronger by far than common steel,’ Qeran said. ‘Any warrior would be lucky to have such a weapon.’

‘Perhaps,’ Abban said, ‘but my Hundred are not just any warriors. They have the greatest living drillmaster, the richest patron, and should have equipment to match.’

Qeran grunted. ‘I’ll not argue, though mirrored shields bring some advantage over clear glass. We used mirrors to herd alagai in the Maze. They are easily fooled by their own reflections.’

‘That’s something, at least,’ Abban said, looking back to Akas. ‘But you spoke of progress?’

Akas broke into a wide, conspiratorial smile. ‘I took the liberty of making a set with the new alloy.’

The alloy was electrum, a rare natural mix of silver and gold that was in short supply and valuable beyond imagining. The Deliverer had already confiscated all the known metal for the Damajah’s exclusive use. Abban had secured his own source, and had agents seeking more, but the consequences would be dire if the Damajah caught him hoarding the sacred metal.

‘And?’ Abban asked.

Akas produced a spearhead and shield from beneath a cloth. Both shone bright as polished mirrors. ‘As strong as the warded glass, at least. We cannot melt or break either one. But the new alloy lends … other properties.’

Abban kept the twitching smile from his lips. ‘Do go on.’

‘When we charged the equipment, the warriors made some startling discoveries,’ Akas said. ‘The shield did more than block alagai blows. It absorbed them. The warrior took a full lash of a rock demon’s tail without shifting his feet an inch.’ Qeran looked up sharply at that.

‘Once charged, the alagai could not even approach the shield for the length of a spear. The warrior had to turn the shield aside just to strike.’

‘That is as much a weakness as strength,’ Qeran said, ‘if one must give up protection to strike a blow.’

‘Perhaps,’ Akas said, ‘but what a blow! The speartip split the rock demon’s scales as easily as plunging into water. Observe.’

He took the spearhead back to the anvil, using a different clamp to secure it vertically, point down. Again he lifted the sledge and struck hard. There was a great clang, and Abban and Qeran both gaped to see the speartip embedded over an inch into the iron. Again Akas struck, and again, each blow hammering the spearhead in like a nail into wood. On the fourth blow, the anvil split in half.

Qeran moved to the anvil, touching the cracked metal reverently. ‘The Andrah must hear of this. Every warrior must have one. Sharak Ka will be ours!’

‘The Andrah already knows,’ Abban lied, ‘as do the Deliverer and Damajah. On your life and hope of Heaven, Qeran, you will speak of it to no other. Just the thin sliver used in the glass is worth more than a Damaji’s palace, and there is not enough to equip even a fraction of our forces.’