Read Online Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) by Hilari Bell - Free Book Online
Authors: Hilari Bell
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used when you don’t have a precise count.”
“Uvadu mean between thirty-two and fifty?” the peddler asked incredulously.
“No, U
vay
du is between sixty and a hundred and fifty. U
vah
du is between thirty-two and fifty.”
“You’re kidding me,” said the peddler, dropping into Faran. And he must have said it before, for even the apprentices who didn’t speak Faran laughed.
“Just say ‘much’ and ‘big much,’” Soraya told him. “Why do you need a translator?”
She might be prepared to tolerate his presence to defeat the Hrum and get Merdas back, but she didn’t want to be around him tonight.
“This one sword …” The peddler groped for words again, then shrugged. “This one right.”
“Right?” Soraya raised her brows.
“It feels right,” he said, lapsing into Faran again. “The shilshadu of it. The trick of watersteel is something to do with the quenching, I think. When metal cools, I can feel …” His hands moved again, and Soraya nodded understanding. It was hard to find any words, Suud or Faran, to describe what you found inside the shilshadu of a thing. But she had seen him, standing behind his apprentices as they worked the steel with their hammer and tongs, his hands on their shoulders. Much as she despised him, it was impossible to ignore his skill at his craft. If he said he felt something, she had to believe that he felt it.
“It’s like something is moving, swimming in the metal as itcools,” he went on. “In watersteel, I finally figured out, it’s swimming in lines, in formation along the edges of the blade, but in the middle it’s just … just milling around. I don’t know how to put it more clearly than that,” he added. “But I’m certain of it now. And Lupsh here can feel it too.” He clapped one of the grinning apprentices on the shoulder. “The sword he just made feels like everything is swimming in the right way, in the right places. Some of the other lads are honing an edge on it now. By the time dinner’s over, it will be ready to test.”
“I’ll be there,” Soraya told him coolly. “Though I still think that one more broken blade won’t need a translator.”
T HE S UUD WERE BEGINNING to yawn, and Soraya felt sleep creeping up on her, too. The graying sky in the east showed that soon the sun would rise, but after the meal was over she went with the rest of the tribe to the edge of the camp, where the peddler had sunk a post into the sandy soil. He had bought it from the miners, along with the rest of his equipment, and it stood almost as high as a Suud man—which left it a hand span shorter than his own curly head, and he wasn’t particularly tall. About seven inches thick at the base, the wood was rough and unpolished—rougher now, with the sword cuts in it. That ordinary post had broken every sword the Suud had made so far.
The peddler held up the new sword, and the dim light of thesoon-to-rise sun flowed over the blade. It didn’t look very promising. The hilt was a couple of pieces of carved wood bound with leather strips, and even Soraya could see that some parts of the blade were thicker than others. The apprentice smiths had only sharpened about a third of one side of the blade, leaving the rest dull.
It did display the rippling pattern that marked the Hrum’s watersteel, but Soraya had been watching swords that looked very like this one break again and again, so that no longer impressed her.
“
You
have made this sword,” said the peddler in Faran. Soraya translated swiftly. “Not just Lupsh who forged it, but all of you—from the men who dug the ore, to the women and children who gathered wood for the fires, and even those who were taking an extra share of work, hunting and cooking, so that the rest of us could work at the forge, the smelter, or the mine.”
He looked at their somber, sleepy faces and smiled. “You did this because you wanted to learn the secrets of making metal, which I have taught you as well as I
“Uvadu mean between thirty-two and fifty?” the peddler asked incredulously.
“No, U
vay
du is between sixty and a hundred and fifty. U
vah
du is between thirty-two and fifty.”
“You’re kidding me,” said the peddler, dropping into Faran. And he must have said it before, for even the apprentices who didn’t speak Faran laughed.
“Just say ‘much’ and ‘big much,’” Soraya told him. “Why do you need a translator?”
She might be prepared to tolerate his presence to defeat the Hrum and get Merdas back, but she didn’t want to be around him tonight.
“This one sword …” The peddler groped for words again, then shrugged. “This one right.”
“Right?” Soraya raised her brows.
“It feels right,” he said, lapsing into Faran again. “The shilshadu of it. The trick of watersteel is something to do with the quenching, I think. When metal cools, I can feel …” His hands moved again, and Soraya nodded understanding. It was hard to find any words, Suud or Faran, to describe what you found inside the shilshadu of a thing. But she had seen him, standing behind his apprentices as they worked the steel with their hammer and tongs, his hands on their shoulders. Much as she despised him, it was impossible to ignore his skill at his craft. If he said he felt something, she had to believe that he felt it.
“It’s like something is moving, swimming in the metal as itcools,” he went on. “In watersteel, I finally figured out, it’s swimming in lines, in formation along the edges of the blade, but in the middle it’s just … just milling around. I don’t know how to put it more clearly than that,” he added. “But I’m certain of it now. And Lupsh here can feel it too.” He clapped one of the grinning apprentices on the shoulder. “The sword he just made feels like everything is swimming in the right way, in the right places. Some of the other lads are honing an edge on it now. By the time dinner’s over, it will be ready to test.”
“I’ll be there,” Soraya told him coolly. “Though I still think that one more broken blade won’t need a translator.”
T HE S UUD WERE BEGINNING to yawn, and Soraya felt sleep creeping up on her, too. The graying sky in the east showed that soon the sun would rise, but after the meal was over she went with the rest of the tribe to the edge of the camp, where the peddler had sunk a post into the sandy soil. He had bought it from the miners, along with the rest of his equipment, and it stood almost as high as a Suud man—which left it a hand span shorter than his own curly head, and he wasn’t particularly tall. About seven inches thick at the base, the wood was rough and unpolished—rougher now, with the sword cuts in it. That ordinary post had broken every sword the Suud had made so far.
The peddler held up the new sword, and the dim light of thesoon-to-rise sun flowed over the blade. It didn’t look very promising. The hilt was a couple of pieces of carved wood bound with leather strips, and even Soraya could see that some parts of the blade were thicker than others. The apprentice smiths had only sharpened about a third of one side of the blade, leaving the rest dull.
It did display the rippling pattern that marked the Hrum’s watersteel, but Soraya had been watching swords that looked very like this one break again and again, so that no longer impressed her.
“
You
have made this sword,” said the peddler in Faran. Soraya translated swiftly. “Not just Lupsh who forged it, but all of you—from the men who dug the ore, to the women and children who gathered wood for the fires, and even those who were taking an extra share of work, hunting and cooking, so that the rest of us could work at the forge, the smelter, or the mine.”
He looked at their somber, sleepy faces and smiled. “You did this because you wanted to learn the secrets of making metal, which I have taught you as well as I
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