The Anvil of Ice (9 page)

"Indeed, Mastersmith," said Alv, and bowed. "I have already given it away."

"
What
! To whom?"

Alv drew a breath, and told him. For one instant a blacker fury than he had ever seen crossed his master's brow, and then, surprisingly, the smith began to laugh softly. "So we have given a gift to Louhi! For what that girl has, Louhi has, be sure of that. And what precious thing did you get in return? No, save me the mawkish details, I can guess!" He laughed again, a chilly little laugh, and Alv ground his teeth at what that laugh made of his hour. The smith pursed his lips. "Well, the price was high indeed for any such… matter, but at least there was a price. If you must trifle with women, better you learn to keep it a matter of trade than let them assume undue importance, and distract you from serious matters!" He grew thoughtful. "Louhi herself would know the bauble for what it was, and not wear it. But who knows, if the girl happened to keep the armring… It might yet benefit us greatly to have a hold over one so close to Louhi's secrets. Who knows!" He clapped his hands briskly. "So, to bed now, for tomorrow you begin work on your second piece—and that is armory. You will make me a helm of fine mail, and in it a virtue of concealment, of change, of moving subtly and unseen. Dream of that!"

But Alv dreamed of nothing; he could not sleep. His head burned on his hard pillow, strange twisted images of the day unreeling in his mind. One minute he would seethe with anger at the Mastersmith for casually assuming he had been pawing at Kara—the way the old Headman used to treat his maidservants!—and then even more at himself for not having done so. It was what he wanted, wasn't it? What caused the dull swelling ache in him now? She'd probably have enjoyed it well enough, giggled and given in the way the maidservants did. With what he'd given her—for what? for the shadow of a kiss?—he might have commanded the body of a great lady like Louhi, or for its worth in gold a hundred street girls. He might at least have got better value for it. And then he turned over and groaned. If he could think like that, the Mastersmith had made an understandable mistake, had read his character only too well. That was just what he'd thought of trying, might have tried—if it had been any other girl than Kara. But then why did the image of her still torment his body and banish his sleep?

At last he swung himself out of bed, tottered to the window and flung the casement wide. The night air poured in, crisp and cold enough even at the end of winter to make his lungs blaze. He hung there, drinking in great gulps, looking at the Iceglow and thinking how peaceful to be out there, cool and sterile, free from the tortures of the body—and yet, somehow, he would yearn for them still. Then below him he heard the soft boom of the hall door shutting, and the crunch of boots on flagstones. Startled, he looked down and saw the Mastersmith walk out across the yard toward the main gate. It was late at night, everybody must be asleep—except, of course, him. Alv bit his lip; could the smith have had second thoughts and be going after Louhi and Kara, to get back the armring? Surely not—but…

A spirit of deviltry seized Alv. He had already taken one risk and got away with it. He flung on his clothes, grabbed cloak and boots and went padding barefoot down the worn stone stairs, paused an instant to don his boots on the warm hearthstone in the hall, and cautiously unlatched the front door.

The clatter and creak of latch and hinges sounded deafening against the silence of the night, but nobody stirred in response. The front gate was securely fastened, but he had learned the lore of locks from this one's maker, and it was fastened from the outside only. He moved through it like a ghost, the gate stirred, and then he was looking down at a trail of footprints in the deep snow. He hesitated a moment, then ran softly and lightly along their track, carefully placing his feet in the actual prints so no second track would show. At every rise or hummock he would hunch down against cover to spy out his way ahead. And that was as well, else he would not have heard the voices in the
gully beyond
. He crept to
the edge
, peered over— and froze.

The Mastersmith was there, but not alone. Gathered around him on the snow was a semicircle of shadows, shapeless things—but with voices, low, dark and guttural. The tallest of them was a head or so shorter than the smith, and he stood stiff and dignified above the jabbering group. Their voices rose suddenly as if in fury, but when the Mastersmith snapped out one or two words, no more, in a clear commanding tone they fell silent at once. Then the Mastersmith turned as if to walk away, and Alv pulled his head back sharply. If the Mastersmith was going back to the house he would have to be there first. He turned and went sprinting back to the gate, and breathed easily only when it was locked behind him. Now his mind had something else to whirl over, as he padded carefully across the courtyard. What were those shadow-creatures, were they real, alive, or some kind of sinister snow-spirit? They looked like no people he had ever heard of. He crept into the hall and risked a moment at the low fire, imagining himself become a master mage whose works could call dark spirits in the night to fulfill his slightest wish, to compel any girl he desired. And was it such a wild hope? Soon he would be a journeyman, maybe a master while yet young. Then he wouldn't need to lie awake at night— not alone, anyhow. Any girl he desired—but then there would be Kara. For surely he would find her before anything, and her he would not compel.

He sighed, turned away—and knocked over the settle with a resounding echoing crash. Guiltily he scooped it up, waiting for doors to be flung open and angry shouts; should he bolt for the stairs or try to brazen it out? Either way would look suspicious, would very soon reach the Mastersmith's ears—and what then? He would at least suspect.

But there were no doors opening, no shouts, and he was almost aggrieved at the silence. Had everyone else vanished too? He peered into the kitchen. Ernan's thin snore came undisturbed from his little room beyond. Alv glided across to the storeroom, and heard Roc's loud snorts; he even seemed to grumble in his sleep. Alv touched his shoulder, found no response, shook and finally pinched him. Roc snorted more loudly, but did not awaken. Greatly daring, Alv applied the same tests to Ernan, who also did not stir. Then, afraid of the Mastersmith's returning, he tiptoed back upstairs—and then past his room, up to In-gar's. A light burned there, but there was no answer when he knocked. He found the journeyman flat out on his bed, with a book over his face and a lamp stinking and guttering beside him. Sleep had evidently struck him while he read, and could not be shaken off him. Alv blew out the lamp, and stole away, shaken, to his own bed. The whole household lay under some spell of sleep, and he could guess why—to cloak its master's nightgoings. Perhaps he did it often, and Alv had either succumbed to it, or slept naturally as he normally did. But tonight…

Tonight the turmoil in his mind had kept him awake. Or had it unleashed something, some force in him that could resist the Mastersmith's enchantment? Then surely he was a mage born! In the promise of that, in images of sensual delight, he found release and finally sleep. But the last vision in his mind was his first sight of Kara's face.

Chapter Three
- The Sword

Alv awoke next morning with the first gray glimmer of dawn in his eyes, and a driving urgency in his mind. For a moment, bewildered, he could hardly remember what it was; the events of the night had turned his old world wholly upside down. Then he remembered. His second trial piece! The Mastersmith had set it. Today the work would begin.

He suddenly felt very empty and helpless, the puzzles of the night retreating before a new and immediate problem.
A helm of fine mail, and in it a virtue of concealment, of change, of moving subtly and unseen
… Virtues indeed! He knew something of them—how to charm a jewel setting so it tended to turn away thievish eyes, to work a sword hilt so in action its blade would blur before the eyes of an unwary opponent. But these were light powers, minor charms added to some greater work, little use if their existence was suspected. Making them strong, making them work together as the living heart of a piece—the difficulty of it loomed over him like a wall.

He panicked. He didn't have the faintest idea where to begin. And yet if he was to have any chance of ever finding Kara again, he'd have to. He slumped down despondently. It seemed monstrously unfair, a task like that— surely the Mastersmith hadn't set anything so hard to Ingar the Booklouse, Ingar of the Parchment Anvil? Then the weight lifted so suddenly he laughed aloud. Of course, the second and third pieces weren't supposed to be things an apprentice could manage on his own. They were meant to stretch him as well as test him—well, it would, this one. And now that he was able to think more clearly, he thought he could see a clue in the very form of the thing—chain mail. A whole made up of thousands of tiny, separate pieces—

"Like the elements of a living body," said the Mastersmith, and nodded. "You see clearly, as I have always said. Each link a distinct work in itself, with its own particular virtue, some of one kind, some another—weak in themselves, for it is hard to make such negative virtues strong. But joined together into a single thing with an identity of its
own—then
they become strong."

Alv nodded, tracing the archaic words on the great scroll spread out before them.

Eynhere elofhallns styrmer Stallans imars olnere elof
…

"There is made…"he translated slowly, running his finger from word to word, "… one alone… a whole,
into
a whole, I mean… of power… surpassing… by many… being linked—why does it repeat 'one alone'? A copyist's mistake?"

"Hardly," said the Mastersmith sardonically, "since the copyist was I. It is a poetic form of
alofer
, an even more archaic term for smith—literally 'shaper.' Used here in the dative as a scholar's pun, and to heighten the assonance of the lines. I incline to think that is important in your chant-use these lines, and keep as much assonance as you can in the lines around them. You see their meaning now? 'The smith makes single things strong by combining them into a greater identity.' Remember, identity is important, the more so the greater the virtue in an object. If a portion of the helm is ill made, the whole thing fails, and you must needs begin again."

"And if it was damaged, Mastersmith?"

"That would depend on the extent and type of the damage. A few broken rings would not ruin it altogether, though they would weaken it; replace them exactly—if you can—and it will revive. But anything that destroyed its identity as a helm would surely destroy its virtue altogether. So though you would not wear it as armor to ward off blows it must be made strong in metal and frame, as the pattern shows. Go as far as you can with it, ask my help at need, and when I judge you have done enough I shall complete it. But you will need to study first. There is a text on ringmail in the Sothran tongue which you may find useful, somewhere on the East wall, and various odd passages in other books. And you must read some works on the powers of concealment and the guise of forms. You will find some references on the slate below the pattern. You may study to your heart's content the first scroll of the
Alhvarthen
. And my own notes on the
fjoth
characters, added to the third chapter of the
Book of Tarn
. I may find you others as you plan your work. Begin now!"

The first thing Alv did was seize the large slate with its precious pattern, and scan eagerly through the references. There were many texts from East and West walls he had not so far been allowed to read, but still none from the North. He sternly repressed the cloud of disappointment that settled about him; why should he expect his master to scatter his hard-earned lore before mere apprentices? Surely the quickest way to it was to get on with the task in hand, to the utter limit of his abilities. And this he did.

This time his preparation took not one week but four. He soaked himself in every authority he could find, till at times he had to force himself away from the books, head buzzing, and find relief in simpler tasks. Roc watched all this with cynical amusement, brought Alv the occasional meal and loudly blessed the powers that had never made him a magesmith. But for all his concentration, there were other thoughts nagging away at Alv. Some were of Kara, though those he could escape by reminding himself that this work was also his quickest way to her. But there were some, however trifling, that he could not escape, for he was reminded of them on almost every page or column of scroll he came to. Somewhere on them, often across the bottom left, he would almost always find slight chalky smudges. He wiped them off carefully, in case he was blamed for them—the Mastersmith cared for his library— and remained mildly puzzled as to their cause. He had not yet found it, however, by the time he felt ready to begin.

With the Mastersmith's wire-drawing devices he had made great coils of heavy wire in many metals, copper and gold and delicately alloyed steel. He had patterns ready to be minutely engraved round the edge of every single ring; he had characters into which the rings would be woven, in carefully balanced combinations, and patterns to be inlaid, embossed or enameled around the main frame of the helm. And for each of these he had its own chant, distinct but linked as closely as the finished rings.