Reva went to the window, pushing it open with difficulty, yelling into the dark. “Oh, shut up, you drunken sot!”
Alucius fell silent and for once there was a murmur of appreciation from the crowd.
“We leave tomorrow,” Alornis said in a soft voice.
“I’ll travel with you a ways,” Reva said, forcing a smile. “Your brother has a bargain to keep.”
The King had supplied horses and money, a large bag of money in fact, some of which Al Sorna had given to her. “A holy quest requires funding,” he said with a grin.
Reva had taken the money with a glower, slipping away as they packed. It was easy to avoid the crowd, simply wade into the river a short way then follow the bank for a hundred yards. She made her way to the market, bought new clothes, a fine cloak waxed against the rain, and a sturdier pair of boots, shaped for her feet by an expert cobbler who told her she had dancer’s toes. From his grimace she divined this wasn’t a compliment. He gave her directions to her next port of call, not without a note of suspicion in his voice. “What would a dancer be wanting there?”
“Gift for my brother,” she told him, paying a little extra to forestall any more curiosity.
The swordsmith’s shop fronted a yard which rang with the constant fall of hammer on steel. The man in the shop was old and surprisingly thin, though the burn scars discolouring the knotted muscle of his forearms told of a life in the smithy. “Your brother knows the sword, lady?”
Not a lady, she wanted to snap back, disliking the pretence of respect. Her accent and lack of finery marked her clearly enough and any respect he felt owed more to the bulging purse on her belt. “Well enough,” she told him. “He’d like a Renfaelin blade, the kind a man-at-arms might use.”
The smith gave an affable nod and disappeared into the recess of his shop, returning with a sword of very basic appearance. The handle was of unadorned wood and the hilt a thick bar of iron. The blade was a yard of sharpened steel ending in a shallow point, free of any etching or decoration.
“Renfaelins are better at armour,” the smith told her. “Their swords have no art, more a club than a blade, in truth. Why don’t you let me show you something a little finer.”
And more expensive, she thought, eyes drinking in the sight of the sword. He carried one just like this, and made art aplenty with it.
She nodded at the smith. “Perhaps you’re right. My brother’s a slighter fellow than most, about my size, truth be told.”
“Ah. A blade of the standard weight would not suffice, then?”
“Something lighter would be better. But no less strong, if possible.”
He considered a moment then raised a hand indicating she should wait, disappearing again to emerge shortly after with a wooden case a yard or so long. “Perhaps, this may suit.”
He opened the case, revealing a weapon with a curved blade, single-edged, less than an inch across and a handspan shorter than the Asraelin standard. The guard was a circle of bronze moulded into an unfamiliar design, the hilt wrapped in tight-bound leather for a strong grip and long enough to be grasped by two hands.
“You made this?” she asked.
The old smith smiled in regret. “Sadly no. This comes from the Far West where they have strange ways of working steel. See the pattern on the blade?”
Reva looked closer, discerning dark regular swirls the length of the steel. “Is it writing?”
“An artifact of its fashioning only. They fold the blade, you see, over and over, then coat it in clay as it cools. Makes for great strength, but without the weight.”
Reva touched a hand to the hilt. “May I?”
The old man inclined his head.
She hefted the sword, stepping back from the counter and going through one of Al Sorna’s sword scales, the most recent one he’d taught her, designed to foil an attack by multiple opponents in an enclosed space. The sword was only a little heavier than the stick she practised with and well balanced, giving a faint musical note as it sliced the air. The scale was brief but strenuous, requiring several fully extended thrusts and a double pirouette to finish.
“Beautiful,” she said, holding the blade up to the light. “How much?”
The smith was looking at her with a strange expression, reminiscent of the looks men had given Ellora when she danced. “How much?” Reva repeated, putting an edge on her voice.
The smith blinked and smiled, replying in a somewhat thick voice. “Do that once more and I’ll throw in the scabbard for free.”
She made it back to the house in good time, sloshing up to the courtyard to find Al Sorna saying his good-byes to the drunken poet. “You could come with us,” he said.
Alucius demurred with a florid bow. “The prospect of isolation, cold and constant threat from savages, all at a far remove from a decent vineyard, is a delightful one, my lord. But I think I’ll pass. Besides, without me, my father will have no-one left to hate.”
They clasped hands and Al Sorna went to his horse, glancing at Reva and taking in the sword strapped across her back. “Was it expensive?”
“I bargained it down.”
He pointed at a grey mare, saddled and tethered to the post beside the well. The priest had tutored her in riding and she slipped onto the mare’s back with practised ease, undoing the tether and falling in alongside Al Sorna. Reva watched Alornis embrace Alucius, fighting down the lurch in her chest at the tears shining in the girl’s eyes, the way the poet thumbed them away, speaking soft words of comfort.
“You know he loves her, don’t you?” she asked Al Sorna, keeping her voice low. “That’s why he comes here every night.”
“Not to begin with. I expect the King was keen to ensure my sister’s interests didn’t stray beyond matters artistic.”
“He’s a spy?”
“He was. With his father out of favour, I doubt he had much choice. It seems Malcius has more of Janus in him than I thought.”
“And you allowed him to keep coming here?”
“He’s a good man, like his brother before him.”
“He’s a drunkard and a liar.”
“Also a poet and, on occasion, a warrior. A person can be many things.”
There was a commotion amongst the watching throng, the guardsmen raising their pole-axes in warning as a man in a black cloak rode through the crowd. She heard Al Sorna groan in consternation. The man halted before the guards, speaking in a loud voice heavy with authority. The guard captain gave an emphatic shake of his head and a terse gesture of dismissal. Reva noticed the other guards stiffen as several more black-cloaked men appeared out of the crowd, all armed.
“Come on,” Al Sorna said, nudging his horse into motion. “Time for you to meet a kindred spirit.”
The man on the horse was thin to the point of gauntness, hollow cheekbones shaded beneath deep-seated eyes, his close-cropped hair steel-grey and thinning. He wore an expression of deep scrutiny as he offered Al Sorna a respectful nod, his gaze dark and piercing as if he were trying to cut away the Darkblade’s skin and glimpse the soul beneath. Reva noted how the guards and the black-cloaked men eyed each other with wary eyes whilst the crowd looked on in rapt silence.
“Brother,” the gaunt man said. “It gladdens my heart, and the hearts of all the truly Faithful, to see you safely returned to us.”
Al Sorna replied in clipped tones, devoid of any warmth or regard. “Aspect Tendris.”
“I told him he wasn’t welcome, my lord,” the guard captain said.
“And why would he say that, brother?” the gaunt man asked. “Why should you ever bar your door to your brother in the Faith?”
“Aspect,” Al Sorna said. “Whatever it is you want, I can’t give it to you.”
“Not true, brother.” The Aspect’s voice became fierce, his eyes wide with conviction. Reva noticed his voice was pitched loud enough to be caught by all ears in the crowd. “You can join with us. My Order welcomes you, as your own does not.”
Reva shifted in her saddle, settling the sword more comfortably on her back. This man is mad, she decided. Some lunatic luminary of their heretic faith, so lost in its lies his reason has fled.
“I no longer have an Order,” Al Sorna informed the Aspect, his own voice at an even level. “Nor do I wish another. I am commanded by our King to undertake Lordship of the North Tower.”
“The King,” Tendris rasped. “A man in thrall to a Denier witch.”
“Watch your tongue, Aspect!” the guard captain warned, causing his men to take a two-handed grip on their pole-axes. The black-cloaked men began reaching for their weapons.
“Enough of this!” Al Sorna barked, the implacable note of command in his voice sufficient to forestall further movement, even the crowd seemed to have frozen. However, there was one, Reva saw, who seemed immune to the command, one of the black-cloaks, a large, blocky man with broad, brutish features and a strikingly misshapen nose. He was careful, keeping his movements small as he shifted something beneath his cloak.
“You’ve stated your case and had your answer,” Al Sorna told the Aspect. “Now take yourself off.”
