Scrivener's Tale (35 page)

‘I need to see him,' Cassien said.

‘I'm sorry, Master Cassien, but my father is really too —'

‘I give you my word I will not upset him. I need only a few moments of his time.'

The sword maker nodded. ‘Hamelyn knows where my father lives. He can lead you there.' He returned the blades to Cassien. ‘Goodbye, Master Cassien. You are a fortunate man indeed to possess the last weapons that Ferrer Wevyr will make.'

Cassien smiled. ‘I feel privileged.'

‘Take care of them.'

He walked out to the back of the shop and left Cassien and Hamelyn staring at each other, while Cassien strapped on his sword and blades again.

‘He's not happy,' Hamelyn remarked after they left.

‘He didn't know his father did these. That's hard on any son, especially one who is carrying on his father's trade.'

‘And he's head of the sword guild. Jonti is highly respected.'

‘Even harder for him, then. And you did not recognise Ferrer when you were spying?'

‘The Wevyr brothers are a dead spit of Master Wevyr senior in height and build. In the dark and in my fear I probably didn't see the small differences.'

‘Is the sword speaking to you?' Cassien suddenly asked as he followed Hamelyn down more unfamiliar streets.

Hamelyn nodded. ‘It hasn't stopped. Mostly it whispers … murmurs to itself. When you're wearing it, it's quieter. When you took it off, it began a shrill tone.'

As odd as it was to hear this, and even odder to accept that a piece of inert metal was somehow communicating with his companion, Cassien took private pleasure in knowing his sword was calm when it was at his side. This factor alone meant he had to talk with Wevyr. He had to understand what Fynch had drawn him into.

They'd moved away from the hubbub of the town; buildings began to thin and beyond the path they were moving down, Cassien could now see pastureland and further into the distance, woodland.

‘Has old man Wevyr always lived here?' he wondered aloud.

‘As long as I've known him, he has.'

‘Hamelyn, how is it that you know everyone?'

‘I never forget a face or a name. I remember everything I've ever heard or seen.'

Cassien stared at him. ‘Really? That is a talent any of us would wish to have.'

Ham shrugged. ‘It's always been like that for me. Did you go to school, Cassien?'

Cassien shook his head. ‘Not the way you would know it. I belonged to an order of … well, I suppose you could call them monks. They taught me how to read and write. Books taught me everything else except how to use this,' he said, touching the sword at his hip.

Ham nodded wistfully. ‘I used to watch the other children going to schools. Emperor Cailech set up a system for children to have five summers of schooling in this region. In the city they were given eight summers.' He sighed. ‘I didn't get any schooling because I was an orphan. Orphanages usually provide workers from a young age so I was not allowed to have my five years of learning.'

‘But you read, I gather?'

‘Not well. I tried to teach myself by hiding beneath the open classroom window. I learned a little.' He gave another small shrug. ‘I didn't want to be a tanner or a slaughterer. I don't eat meat and I knew I couldn't be involved with anything that required me to kill an animal.'

‘But that's what awaited you?'

He nodded. ‘Most of our boys were sent to the local tannery or slaughterhouse. I was fortunate, though, because around the powerful sword guild grew an industry in nearby towns and villages for saddlery, carts and wagon building, the furbishing of leather-covered seats in coaches and the like. So I taught myself other skills. I didn't know what I'd do but my good memory has helped me to live by my wits.'

‘A powerful recall is a gift, Ham; not a skill you've acquired so much as an endowment from Shar upon you.'

‘I'll try to remember that,' Ham said, looking pleased with the compliment. ‘This is old man Wevyr's house.'

It was the last house on the last street, and the path leading to it had long ago stopped pretending it was a road. Grass and weeds provided a soft, mossy tread underfoot. A walkway had been made simply by people walking to and from the house; bulbs sprouted at the side of the path. They were not open yet, but Cassien suspected they would provide a shout of colour very soon. The house itself was modest.

He banged on the door and they waited.

‘If he's unwell, I doubt he'll answer the door,' Hamelyn noted.

‘We'll try once more,' Cassien said, not wanting to barge in on the fellow. He banged again.

There was no answer for the second time. ‘Go around,' he suggested to Ham.

The boy skipped away to the rear of the house, while Cassien banged for the third time. ‘Master Wevyr?

He waited for a few moments in silence and then heard footsteps. The door was opened by Ham, who grinned.

‘The back door was ajar. I called to Master Wevyr. He knows I'm here, but not that you are. Perhaps I should go and see him first so we don't startle him.'

Old man Wevyr was propped up in the parlour shelling peas into a bowl when Cassien followed Ham down the small passage of the modest dwelling. Wevyr was indeed a spit of his son Jonti, except his hair was white, tied neatly in a tail, and his face was lined and mottled. Cassien could believe that, in shadow, Ferrer Wevyr could have been mistaken for Jonti. Wevyr was hunched from the bone-ache and his fingers were gnarled by the ravages of the same disease. The old man looked up unhurried from his simple toil.

‘I grew these. Plumper than Wife Tanny's tits of fifty summers gone.'

Ham guffawed, but reined in his amusement quickly after a glance at his companion. ‘Master Wevyr, this is Cassien.'

Wevyr regarded him as Cassien undid his cloak.

‘I apologise for visiting uninvited, sir,' Cassien began as politely as he knew.

‘I've been expecting you,' Wevyr admitted, popping another pod and giving a gentle smile of satisfaction.

That was a surprise. Cassien said nothing but his pause asked the unspoken question all the same.

Wevyr continued. ‘Ever since I handed over those weapons you're wearing to that chatty tailor, I figured you may find your way here. I told Fynch you should come.'

‘Why's that?'

The sword maker shook his head slightly. ‘Guilds — particularly the sword guild — are especially secretive. I'm sure you know that. Or perhaps you don't? Your young companion would. My father taught me how to keep my mouth shut as his father had taught before. It's not that we are all about secrets in our line of work, but we must always be discreet and respect our clients and their need for privacy. I have made blades for kings, and equally fine blades for assassins and ne'er-do-wells, as did my father and grandfather before me.' He laughed. ‘Everyone pays with the same money. And everyone has their reasons for needing a new blade.'

‘Why did you make mine?'

Wevyr snorted deep in his throat as if it were clogged. Cassien had noticed the spit bowl. He wondered if they were going to share what was in the back of Wevyr's throat, but the older man continued as brusquely as before. ‘I was commissioned. I don't ask questions of my clients.'

‘Some clients are certainly more intriguing than others, aren't they?'

‘Why yes. My great-grandfather once made a sword for the Emperor Cailech himself. Shar, but that would have been the commission of all commissions,' Wevyr said wistfully.

‘And what is your proudest work?' Cassien baited. He was sure he knew the answer.

‘You already know. You wear it.'

Cassien nodded. ‘The tailor is dead. Killed for what he knew.'

Now he had Wevyr's attention. The old man regarded him with a gaze that was still bright and alert.

‘And have you come to kill me too? For what I know?'

Ham looked startled, whipping an anxious glance at Cassien.

‘I've come to learn what you know. It's why you hoped I'd come, so you could share it before you pass. These are my weapons, given to me personally by the man who commissioned them … and we both know it wasn't Zeek. The tailor was merely the courier so he could pass through the region unquestioned, untroubled.'

‘Pity he was a drunk.'

‘Yes,' Cassien agreed.

‘Or perhaps it would have been best if Master Fynch had simply collected the weapons himself.'

‘A decision that always had a risk, I agree, but a calculated one.'

Wevyr shook his head. ‘I warned him it was dangerous.'

‘Why did you think that about Zeek?' Cassien asked. He still hadn't moved from the doorway and Wevyr hadn't stopped shelling his peas.

He did so now to regard Cassien dolefully. ‘I'm not talking about Zeek. Those weapons, had they fallen into the wrong hands, are more dangerous than you or I can imagine.'

‘Wevyr,' Cassien said urgently, dragging a chair opposite the sword maker and sitting down, ‘the weapons are in the right hands, but I don't understand why I was given blades that were forged with blood.'

The old man dropped his hands and in so doing upended the bowl and scattered bright peas in a shower of green to the parlour floor. He barely noticed. His eyes were on Cassien, his mouth parted in shock, bottom lip quivering. Cassien noticed his hands shook.

‘How do you know this?' he hissed. ‘Master Fynch did not tell you, so don't start fashioning a lie.'

‘You were seen,' Cassien admitted, although he had intended to lie and blame Fynch.

He watched Wevyr blanch. The old man shook his head. ‘It's not possible. We took all precautions.' He tried to stand, but fell back against his chair.

‘Not quite,' Cassien said, ‘but you must not fret on this. We are fortunate that you were witnessed by a friend rather than foe.'

‘Who?' he demanded. ‘Who spied upon us?'

‘I did,' Hamelyn admitted, looking terrified.

Old man Wevyr's huge, twisted fingers shot out and grabbed Ham's shirt. He shook the boy. ‘You!' he growled.

‘It was an accident, Master Wevyr,' Ham began to gabble.

Cassien had stood and now reached over and pulled Ham away. ‘Leave the boy. He is innocent and, as I've just told you, he is an ally.'

‘What did he see?'

‘Enough that you'd better tell me the truth.'

‘Master Fynch would —'

‘Wevyr, the last time I saw Master Fynch he was dying.'

‘Dying?' he breathed, sounding deeply unnerved.

‘Likely dead, given how he looked. He banished me. Made me promise I'd come to Orkyld, to follow through and make sure we had no more loose mouths.'

The man gasped. ‘So answer me. Have you come to kill me with my own blade once you learn all that you need?'

Cassien shook his head. ‘Not you, although I wouldn't hesitate if you cross me. Is the blood in each weapon?' The old man nodded. ‘Tell me why Fynch's blood is mixed with the metal.'

The old man shook his head. ‘If he wants you to know, he would have told you.'

‘I agree but he was dying before he could share anything relevant.'

‘He was hale and hearty when I met him.'

‘And we both surely know that can't be right. How does a man of his age remain hale and hearty? How does any man reach such an age?' Cassien said, leaning so near to Wevyr's face that he could smell the porridge on his breath.

Wevyr looked away. ‘Why is he dying now?'

‘I can't answer that, not because I'm withholding information but because I simply don't know. I don't understand much about him, except that he is my friend, as he is yours. He has come to both of us. He commissioned you to make a special blade and he chose me to bestow that blade upon. He has a purpose for it.'

‘He never told me, Master Cassien.' Wevyr held up his hands in defence. ‘That's the truth of it. You must know he's a secretive man. I have met him many times through my life so I have come to like and respect him. But it has always troubled me that he talks about my father and …' he sighed, ‘… and my great-grandfather before him, as if he knew them. How else would he know about clients such as Romen Koreldy — a noble turned mercenary — who had blades made in our family workshop more than a century ago? No-one is privy to our secret accounting books. No-one but myself … not even the boys yet, although soon I will hand them the key to the vault where our records are kept and my sons will have access to the names of the kings and villains alike who have used the services of Wevyr and Son. How does Fynch know about Koreldy? The same way he knows my great-grandfather had gout, and there is no logical explanation.' Wevyr looked away. ‘So we turn to the illogical, which is that Master Fynch has outlived his peers many times. I don't understand it. I don't want to. But I do like him and I trust him more than most men. Yes, Master Cassien, he bled into the molten metal that your sword is forged with. He insisted upon it.'

‘Didn't you ask why?' Cassien queried.

‘Of course I did!'

‘What was his reply?'

‘He simply said that the wielder would need this enrichment.' He looked up at Cassien and shrugged.

‘That was his precise wording? And he used “enrichment”?'

Wevyr nodded. ‘Exactly Master Fynch's words.'

‘And you didn't think it curious?'

The old man wheezed a laugh. ‘Curious, you say? I thought it downright lunacy, young man — and in agreeing to it, as though I too had been touched by the moon!'

‘Why would you permit it? Not just a master sword maker, but arguably the Grand Master of the modern age, yet you let a client drip his blood into your crucible.'

He nodded with a look of bemusement. ‘You're right, of course. But Master Fynch is persuasive. He knows things, and the way he talks it …'