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Vulcan, the limping smith who'd forged all of the Swords. Mere humans-so
Bazas was ready to tell the world, royalty or not-mere humans ought to be content with the kinds
of armor humans had always worn.
Now Stephen bit his lip. In his cooler moments he was well aware that he needed to demonstrate
patience and control his chronically difficult temper if he was going to make a real success of
this job.
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For one thing, his stock of available scales-his original intention had been to use only those in
a narrow range of size and color-was far from unlimited.
Wiping his hands on his simple workman's shirt, he went to work again, longish hair falling over a
face that was swiftly losing its childish looks; his hair was growing dark, soon to be even darker
than his father's had been until a year or so ago, when Mark's hair and beard had started to show
some gray.
Long hours ago, during the sunbright afternoon, the youth had been sweating from his work, but now
the deep armory was almost chill. Tasavalta was a coastal land, whose climate, though subject to
abrupt and sometimes unpleasant variations, lingered for the most part in a state approximating
perpetual spring.
Now for a time the work went more smoothly. But the young prince soon paused again, with a
technical question for his old adviser, one for which old Bazas, as usual, had a ready answer.
Other voices, those of bored sentries exchanging passwords outside the thick walls, drifted in
faintly through a high grilled window. It had been necessary for Stephen to inform Karel, the
realm's chief wizard, and also General Rostov, the military commander, that he was opening the
heavily guarded Sword-vault to get out Dragonslicer. But he had not needed any special permission
to work with the dragonscales. At least he had not asked specifically, though he had told his
mother what he was going to do, before she left Sarykam with her husband.
Now, having shaped one more dragonscale to his own satisfaction, the boy added it to the small
pile of finished work and picked out a fresh scale from a small box nearby. Then once more he set
to work under the critical eye of the grizzled armorer.
Mulling over the subject of gifts in his own mind as he worked, wondering whether he ought to try
to discuss it reasonably with Bazas, Stephen's thought turned briefly to his two-years-older
brother, Adrian, who was now absent from home while performing-or undergoing-the last stages of a
years-long tutelage in advanced magic. This was a subject for which Adrian, unlike Stephen, had a
tremendous natural aptitude. It now occurred to the younger brother, trying to carve scales, to
wonder what, if anything, Adrian might be getting their father for his birthday. Mark himself,
though a child of the Emperor, was no magician, apart from one great and apparently inherited
talent-his amazing ability to hurl demons into distant exile.
Now for a time Stephen forgot about his brother and the subject of gifts in general. On the
workbench things for a change were going well. Presently another of the exotic scales had now been
cut and bored into the desired shape. Stephen held it up, inspecting the small, neat holes in the
hand-sized slab, openings through which tough thongs could be laced, binding it to a light wooden
frame. The surface of the shield (or, alternatively, the breastplate) when it was completed would
be comprised of rows of overlapping scales, like shingles on a roof, each protecting the otherwise
vulnerable lashings of the scale below.
With satisfaction the young Prince laid the latest scale on his small pile of finished work. Five
or six more of the same size, he told himself, ought to be enough.
Soon Stephen paused again, briefly, to ask Bazas another question having to do with certain
details of the shield-maker's craft. Months ago when he began to frequent the armory the young
Prince had discovered that it was necessary to speak loudly to the old man, who had been left
somewhat deaf by his years of labor at the anvil. Except for Stephen's loud voice the vaulted room
beneath the palace was very quiet at this hour, now that the Sword on the bench had once more
ceased the shrilling sound it made in action.
In the near silence, the lad noted in the back of his mind that there did seem to be, after all,
at least one other worker present there at midnight. The faint thudding sound of someone
industriously, almost continuously, hammering came drifting in from one of the armory's relatively
remote chambers.
The young Prince made some passing comment on this sound, mentioning the evident presence of
another worker to his companion. Old Bazas, who had not yet been able to hear the noise, only
grunted noncommittally. He was a proud man, who at any time during the past several years could
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have had his hearing restored by Woundhealer for the asking-but had not wanted to admit he needed
help.
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