The Blade Itself

Logen frowned. “Er…” he said, but Bayaz was already moving off down the room, and taking the light with him.

“You must have used a few weapons in your time, Master Ninefingers. What’s your preference for?”

“I’ve never really had one,” said Logen, ducking under a rusty halberd leaning out from a rack. “A champion never knows what he might be called on to fight with.”

“Of course, of course.” Bayaz took up a long spear with a vicious barbed head, and wafted it around a bit. Logen stepped back cautiously. “Deadly enough. You could keep a man at bay with one of these. But a man with a spear needs a lot of friends, and they all need spears as well.” Bayaz shoved it back on the rack and moved on.

“This looks fearsome.” The Magus took hold of the gnarled shaft of a huge double-bladed axe. “Shit!” he said as he lifted it up, veins bulging out of his neck. “It’s heavy enough!” He set it down with a thump, making the rack wobble. “You could kill a man with that! You could cut him clean in half! If he was standing still.”

“This is better,” said Logen. It was a simple, solid-looking sword, in a scabbard of weathered brown leather.

“Oh, yes indeed. Much, much better. That blade is the work of Kanedias, the Master Maker himself.” Bayaz handed his torch to Logen and took the long sword from the rack.

“Has it ever occurred to you, Master Ninefingers, that a sword is different from other weapons? Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but they hang on the belt like dumb brutes.” He ran an eye over the hilt, plain cold metal scored with faint grooves for a good grip, glinting in the torchlight. “But a sword… a sword has a voice.”

“Eh?”

“Sheathed it has little to say, to be sure, but you need only put your hand on the hilt and it begins to whisper in your enemy’s ear.” He wrapped his fingers tightly round the grip. “A gentle warning. A word of caution. Do you hear it?”

Logen nodded slowly. “Now,” murmured Bayaz, “compare it to the sword half drawn.” A foot length of metal hissed out of the sheath, a single silver letter shining near the hilt. The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. “It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise. Do you hear it?”

Logen nodded again, his eye fastened on that glittering edge. “Now compare it to the sword full drawn.” Bayaz whipped the long blade from its sheath with a faint ringing sound, brought it up so that the point hovered inches from Logen’s face. “It shouts now, does it not? It screams defiance! It bellows a challenge! Do you hear it?”

“Mmm,” said Logen, leaning back and staring slightly crosseyed at the shining point of the sword.

Bayaz let it drop and slid it gently back into its scabbard, something to Logen’s relief. “Yes, a sword has a voice. Axes and maces and so forth are lethal enough, but a sword is a subtle weapon, and suited to a subtle man. You I think, Master Ninefingers, are subtler than you appear.” Logen frowned as Bayaz held the sword out to him. He had been accused of many things in his life, but never subtlety. “Consider it a gift. My thanks for your good manners.”

Logen thought about it a moment. He hadn’t owned a proper weapon since before he crossed the mountains, and he wasn’t keen to take one up again. But Bethod was coming, and soon. Better to have it, and not want it, than to want it, and not have it. Far, far better. You have to be realistic about these things.

“Thank you,” said Logen, taking the sword from Bayaz and handing him back the torch. “I think.”

A small fire crackled in the grate, and the room was warm, and homely, and comfortable.

But Logen didn’t feel comfortable. He stood by the window, staring down into the courtyard below, nervous and twitchy and scared, like he used to be before a fight. Bethod was coming. He was somewhere out there. On the road through the woods, or passing between the stones, or across the bridge, or through the gate.

The First of the Magi didn’t seem tense. He sat comfortably in his chair, his feet up on the table next to a long wooden pipe, leafing through a small white-bound book with a faint smile on his face. No one had ever looked calmer, and that only made Logen feel worse.

“Is it good?” asked Logen.

“Is what good?”

“The book.”

“Oh yes. It is the best of books. It is Juvens’ Principles of Art, the very cornerstone of my order.” Bayaz waved his free hand at the shelves which covered two walls, and the hundreds of other identical books lined neatly upon them. “It’s all the same. One book.”

“One?” Logen’s eyes scanned across the thick, white spines. “That’s a pretty damn long book. Have you read it all?”

Bayaz chuckled. “Oh yes, many times. Every one of my order must read it, and eventually make their own copy.” He turned the book around, so that Logen could see. The pages were thickly covered with lines of neat, but unintelligible symbols. “I wrote these, long ago. You should read it too.”

“I’m really not much of a reader.”