King of Ashes. Raymond E. Feist

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СКАЧАТЬ walked with a lively step for a man of his age, and had a sense of strength about his movement that marked him as a dangerous opponent despite his advancing years. Experience and core strength might well overcome a younger, stronger enemy.

      Hatu said, ‘I know only what other students have said, brother.’ He looked concerned as he struggled to say the right thing. ‘You explain things. To prepare them for … whatever it is they need to do. Some of them like you.’

      Bodai smiled slightly, his tanned face creased like wrinkled leather around his blue eyes, broken nose, and jutting chin. ‘Some of them like me?’ he asked. ‘What of the others?’

      Hatu hesitated, and Bodai said, ‘They think I talk too much?’

      Hatu nodded once.

      Bodai halted and laughed. ‘Perhaps I do. But I’d rather bore you to death than be killed because of your ignorance.’

      Hatu was surprised that he found the response both amusing and reassuring. He appreciated the master’s mirth, and the man’s attitude appealed to Hatu’s hunger to understand everything. There was no such thing as too much information; his desire to learn lay at the root of his constant frustration and anger.

      Bodai paused, narrowing his gaze. ‘This amuses you?’

      ‘No, brother, it pleases me.’

      ‘Well, then,’ Bodai responded with a playful slap to the back of Hatu’s head, ‘as it is my mission in life to please you, boy, we have begun well.’

      ‘Yes, brother.’

      ‘I shall call you … Venley. How many languages do you speak, Venley?’

      ‘Eleven,’ said Hatu, ‘but only five fluently.’

      ‘Name the five.’

      ‘Our tongue,’ he began.

      Bodai frowned as he resumed walking. ‘Of course you do. Don’t waste my time with the obvious. So, you speak four tongues that are not native to you. What are they?’

      ‘Westernese—’

      ‘Which dialect?’ interrupted Bodai as they turned a corner and moved into a busy boulevard that led to the docks.

      ‘Ilcomen.’

      ‘Good. It won’t take long for you to master the different patois, if needed. Others?’

      They crossed a small street and approached the market where Hatu and his companions had spent the day. Hatu said, ‘I speak the trading language of Matasan, as if I were a native of the island of Katalawa.’ Bodai nodded as if this was good. ‘And I also speak Ithraci.’

      ‘Who taught you Ithraci?’

      ‘A language preceptor, brother. It was by Master Facaria’s order, he insisted I learn.’ Hatu shrugged. ‘It’s a dead kingdom, so I never understood the point.’

      ‘Not quite dead,’ muttered Bodai. ‘And the last?’

      ‘Sandurani, as if I were born there.’

      ‘Good, because Sandura is where we need to be.’

      Hatu thought on that as they crossed the market and headed towards the docks. ‘So we’re a priest and beggar boy of the One?’

      ‘Not quite,’ said Bodai. ‘I’m a monk, not a priest. I’ll explain the rest of it when we reach the city of Sandura’s main harbour.’

      The expression on Hatu’s face revealed his impatience. He wanted to understand now, not later.

      ‘You will be busy until then,’ said Bodai as they reached the docks and moved towards a ship readying for departure.

      Hatu let out a sigh of resignation; he was to be a sailor again. It was his third assignment aboard a ship, and although he didn’t hate the work, he could have named a dozen things he’d rather have done with his time. He knew it was likely he’d draw the night watch, for the students were often kept apart from most of the crew.

      Seeing that Hatu understood, Bodai smiled. ‘Come then, let us be off,’ he said as they reached the gangplank of the ship. It was a wide-bodied trading vessel, a wallower in rough seas, Hatu guessed. He hoped he didn’t have to experience that high in the rigging at night. Resigned to the coming trials, he followed Brother Bodai up the gangplank.

       • CHAPTER TWO •

       A Task Completed

      The smithy was windowless. It was entered via a long hall that followed an outside wall and turned a corner before emptying into the forge through a curtain. On the opposite wall, massive doors covered with hardened leather sealed out light; the glow of the furnace was the only illumination.

      Horseshoes, bridles, stirrup irons, plough blades: all manner of common tools could be fashioned as the sun streamed through the massive doors, but the forging of swords was always performed in the dark, for the smith had to see the truth hidden within the colour of the metal.

      Journeyman Declan had been given responsibility for overseeing the forge for the first time, and had been smelting iron into steel for three days. He knelt to examine the slag at the bottom of the furnace before returning to the huge bellows that hung from the ceiling. Declan and Jusan, the apprentice who at present napped in the corner, had been tending the bellows day and night. Declan pumped them slowly, watching the glowing embers rise on hot air into the hood above the fire, then looked back at the slag to study the colours of the flaming metal.

      The journeyman smith stared into the furnace, looking for unwelcome changes in the hue. The red, orange, and white flames spoke to Declan, telling him if the iron was becoming the steel he desired. He added layer upon layer of iron sand and charcoal, paying constant attention to the heat, and within the glowing heart of the slag, something miraculous formed: jewel steel.

      It was the steel from which the greatest swords were fashioned, and a material that few men could produce.

      Intelligent and talented, Declan had a rare skill. He was a handsome youth nearing his twenty-second birthday but had achieved the rank of journeyman at eighteen, five years sooner than most. And he was now attempting his masterpiece a dozen years earlier than was normal for any master smith. It was unheard of for one so young, but Declan’s master, Edvalt Tasman, felt he was ready for the challenge.

      The young man’s lanky frame hid the strength usually apparent in the bull shoulders and barrel chests of most smiths. Declan’s exceptional strength showed only in his forearms, wrists, and hands, which were more muscular than his otherwise slender build. He had green eyes and fair eyebrows, and his head was covered with a thick thatch of red-blond hair.

      Jusan, a well-built youth of fifteen years, snored loudly in the corner. Declan turned to him and called, ‘Hey!’

      The boy awoke instantly and blinked for a moment before he quickly came to stand behind the journeyman smith. Peering over Declan’s СКАЧАТЬ