‘I do, Master.’
‘And how do you feel?’
‘I can sense the sky calling me. I feel the need for wings.’
Ruad smiled. ‘Then let us return to the hawk. Hold to your feeling.’
The two craftsmen made their way to the workshop, where the boy lifted a tiny knife. ‘Am I ready?’ he asked.
‘We shall see,’ answered Ruad. ‘Release the magic of the Blue.’
Lug nicked the skin at the base of his right palm and held his hand over the bird’s metallic head. A single drop of blood splashed on the beak.
‘Now the wings,’ Ruad ordered. ‘Swiftly now.’ Lug followed the instructions, then stepped back. ‘Press your finger over the cut and stop the bleeding.’ Lug did so, but his blue eyes were fixed on the bird. At first there was no movement, but then the golden head jerked, the plate rings grinding together. Slowly the wings spread and the hawk rose from the bench, soaring through the open window in search of the sky. The man and the boy ran out on to the mountainside to see the golden bird fly higher and higher. Suddenly it faltered, and Lug watched as a bronze feather floated away from the hawk . . . then another . . . and another. The flight was ungainly now.
‘No!’ screamed Lug, raising a slender hand to point at the struggling bird. Ruad watched in amazement as two fragile bronze feathers which had dropped from the bird reversed their flight and pinned themselves to the wings once more. For a few seconds the hawk steadied. Then the wings snapped shut and it plummeted to the ground, lifeless and ruined. Lug ran to it, gathering the feathers and cradling the twisted body.
Ruad Ro-fhessa came up silently, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Do not let this dismay you, Lug. My first bird did not even make the window. It was a great achievement.’
‘But I wanted it to live,’ he protested.
‘I know. And it did; it found the sky. Next time we will check the neck joints more thoroughly.’
‘Next time?’ repeated Lug sadly. ‘I reach the Age next week. There is no place for me in the House and I shall be sold.’
‘That is next week. Many things can happen,’ said Ruad. ‘Bring the bird back to the forge and we will see what can be saved.’
‘I think I will run away. I will join Llaw Gyffes.’
‘Stronghand may not be an easy man to follow - but we will talk about this on another day. Trust me, Lug. And now let us see to the bird.’
Ruad watched as the youth wandered the hillside gathering the fragments of metal. The feathers had fallen away - and then reversed their flight - albeit for only a few seconds. Yet Lug had only reached the Yellow, the least of the Colours.
Back at the workshop, they left the bronze fragments and sat by the fireside. Lug was silent and sorrowful.
‘Tell me,’ said Ruad softly. ‘What did you feel when you shouted to the sky?’
The youth looked up. ‘Despair,’ he answered simply.
‘No, I mean at the moment when you screamed.’
Lug shrugged. ‘I do not know what you mean, sir. I ... wanted it to fly.’
‘Did you notice what happened when you called out to it?’
‘No. It fell.’
‘Not immediately,’ said Ruad. ‘It tried to gather itself; in some way you were still linked with it. But you say you felt nothing. What Colour did you feel? Was it the Blue?’
Lug sat for a moment, trying to remember. ‘No, it was the Yellow. I can only reach the other Colours through you, sir.’
‘No matter, Lug. I will think on it. It is almost time for you to be going; your free time ends at dusk, does it not?’
‘I have a little while,’ said the youth. ‘Marshin says the family will not return from Furbolg until tomorrow. They are bringing guests for the auction.’
‘It may not be as bad as you think,’ offered Ruad. ‘There are many good Houses. The Lady Dianu may need a house servant - or the Lord Errin. Both have good names for their treatment of slaves.’
‘Why should I be a slave?’ Lug snapped. ‘Why? The empire has gone. All the lands are now being ruled by peoples who were once slaves. Why should I remain? It isn’t fair!’
‘Life has a habit of not being fair, boy. The Fomorian War was the last, and you were a victim of it. But you will have an opportunity to buy your freedom; it is not so bad a life.’
‘Have you ever been a slave, sir?’
‘Only to my Craft,’ admitted Ruad. ‘But that does not count, does it? You were taken . . . what, five years ago? How old were you? Ten, eleven? It is the way of things, Lug. Wars cost money and that is recouped by plunder and slavery. The Gabala fought that war for national pride, for the right to give away their empire and not have it taken from them. You were one of the last victims. I know it is not fair, but a man who goes through life complaining about fairness will make nothing of himself. Trust me on this, boy. There are three kinds of men: winners, losers and fighters; The winners are blessed by the Colours; no matter what they do, life treats them like gods. The losers waste their energies whining like scolded children; they will amount to nothing. The fighters keep their swords sharp and their shields high; they expect nothing they do not battle for, but they fight until they drop.’
‘I do not want to be a warrior,’ said Lug.
‘Listen to me, boy!’ snapped Ruad. ‘And with your whole mind. I am not speaking of swordsmen, I am speaking of life. Your wits are both sword and shield; it is a matter of perspective. If you want something, then plan for it. Think of all that could go wrong, and picture all that can be done to make it right. Then do it. Don’t talk about it endlessly. Do it! Set your mind to the task. You have a good mind and a great Talent. I do not know how you held that bird in the air, but there is in you a power. So search for it. Build upon it. And never allow despair to rule your heart. You understand me?’
‘I will try, sir.’
‘That is a good enough answer. Now go home and I will examine the bird.’
Lug stood and smiled. ‘You have been very good to me, sir. Why do you take the time?’
‘Why should I not?’
‘I don’t know. In Mactha they say you are a hermit who dislikes the company of people. They say you are . . . rude and surly, ill-tempered and short of patience. But I have never found you to be so.’
Ruad rose and laid a huge hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘I am what they say, Lug. Make no mistake on that. I do not like people; I never have. Greedy, grasping, selfish and self-serving. But I have a way with Talent, boy. I can make it flourish - as a gardener with blooms. You remember the day I caught you hiding in the bushes behind the workshop?’
‘Yes,’ said Lug, grinning. ‘I thought you were going to kill me.’
‘On each Tiernsday for seven weeks you had hidden in that spot and watched me work. You showed patience - and that is rare in the young. That is why I decided to teach you a little of the Colours. And you have been a good student. If the Source is willing, you will continue so to be. Now be off with you!’
After the boy had gone, Ruad gathered together the remains of the metal bird, examining the points below the neck which had given way. The pinions were too slender, but only by a fraction. Lug had good hands and a sure eye, but as yet his soul was not attuned to the magic of the sky. But then, Ruad knew, magic was built on harmony and a slave boy reaching his majority was unlikely to find it. He could be sold to a ship’s captain and spend his life below decks, or to a prince and suffer castration to serve in a harem. And there were other, even less savoury ends for a youth of his looks. Yet these perils were not great. The vast majority of bright young slaves were bought by good masters who used them well in their businesses, giving them opportunities to buy their freedom at the age of thirty.
Still, who could blame a boy for fearing the worst?
Ruad locked his front door and saddled the old bay mare. He rarely rode into Mactha, but now he needed supplies - salt and sugar, dried meat and herbs and, most of all, more ingots of bronze and gold.
Bronze was a good metal for an apprentice to work with, but it did not take to magic like gold. Had Lug’s bird been Fomorian gold, it would have flown over the highest mountain and returned at a thought. But gold was scarcer than a woman’s virtue.
Ruad heaved his ungainly body into the saddle and steered the old mare down the trail between the pines. The ride took two hours and the sight of the white stone buildings of Mactha brought him little pleasure. He waved to the guard on the North Gate and rode on to the livery stable owned by Hyam. The old man himself was sitting at the paddock fence, bartering furiously with a Nomad trader.
Ruad unsaddled the mare and led her to the hay-box. Then he brushed her back and returned to the fence, where the debate was hotting up.
‘Wait! Wait!’ said Hyam, waving his slender fingers in the Nomad’s face. ‘We’ll put it to this traveller.’ He turned to Ruad and winked. ‘Good sir, be so kind as to examine the two horses by the rail and give me your honest opinion as to their worth. Whatever you say, I will abide by.’
Ruad glanced down at Hyam’s fingers, which swiftly flickered in archaic Roadsign. The burly craftsman wandered to the first beast, a seventeen-hands-high chestnut stallion of some eight years. He ran his hands over the strong legs and down the flanks, then moved on to the gelding. This animal was of sixteen hands, perhaps five years older than the stallion, and showed some evidence of a sway back. Hyam had signalled forty silver halves for the pair.
‘I’d say thirty-eight silver halves,’ stated Ruad.
‘You ruin me!’ squealed Hyam, dancing on the spot. ‘How can this happen to an honest man?’
‘You agreed to abide by this man’s decision,’ the Nomad reminded him. ‘And though it is five pieces more than I offered, I will accept.’
‘There is a conspiracy in Heaven against me,’ said Hyam, shaking his head. ‘But I have been trapped by my own stupidity. I thought this man knew horses. Take them; you have a bargain beyond your dreams.’
The man grinned and counted out the money; then he led the horses from the paddock. Hyam transferred the silver to a hip-pouch and sat back, grinning.
‘You are a rascal,’ said Ruad. ‘The stallion has an inflamed tendon; it could be lame within the week. And the gelding? Its spirit has gone.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said the old man softly. ‘They are from the Duke’s stables and he is not kind to them.’
‘How is life for you, Hyam?’
‘It could always be better,’ answered Hyam, running his hand through his thinning white hair. ‘But there are bad times coming.’
‘According to you - and all horse-traders - times are always bad,’ said Ruad, smiling.
‘I cannot deny it, Ruad, my friend. But this is different, believe me. You can see the signs throughout Mactha. The number of beggars has increased since your last visit. And whores? The town swims in new whores. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have complained about that, but now? Now I see it for what it is. Many are good women who have lost their husbands or their homes. Walk down the Streets of Trade and see the closed shops with their barred windows. And the price of slaves is dropping . . . that is never a good sign. The beggars fight among themselves for the best sites, and the number of robberies has doubled since last year.’
‘Does the Duke take no action?’
Hyam hawked and spat. ‘What does he care about Mactha? I hear news from all over the Duke’s realm. He has almost doubled the taxes everywhere. Farmers must give him twenty per cent of their crops, or else yearlings. And since most of the farmers rent their lands from the nobility, they are left with about ten per cent to feed their families and plan for the coming year.’
Several men had gathered to view the horses. Hyam signalled Ruad to silence, and they continued their conversation using Roadsign.
‘There is madness in the air, my friend. The Duke ordered three men impaled last month. Their crime? They wrote to the King, asking for justice against the raised taxes. The King sent Earl Tollibar, the Duke’s cousin. Now justice is to be served against the three men who asked for it. There’s a sort of dark poetry there.’
‘Impaling was outlawed more than twenty years ago,’ said Ruad.
‘But in those days the Knights rode the land and the old King ruled. Do not look to yesterday, Ruad. Yesterday is dead - gone, like the Knights.’
‘All the counsellors cannot be dead,’ protested Ruad. ‘What of Kalib?’
‘Poisoned, so they say.’
‘Rulic?’
‘Killed in a hunting accident. I should get in supplies for the winter, Ruad; there is a bad feeling in the air.’
‘Look after the mare,’ said Ruad, aloud. He walked out through the crowd gathering for the horse auction and on to the Streets of Trade. As Hyam had said, many traders had closed their businesses. It was not a good sign.
A young woman approached hint. ‘Your pleasure, sir.’
He smiled at her. ‘Business must be bad for you to
approach one so ugly.’
She did not return his smile. ‘Only three copper quarters,’ she said, her eyes avoiding his.
He took her hands and turned them over. They were clean, the nails scrubbed. ‘Why not?’ he told her, and followed her through a maze of alleys to a dismal structure with a broken door. Inside it was clean but dingy, and a baby slept on a pile of blankets by the far wall.
She led him to a pallet bed and swiftly lay back, hauling her woollen dress up around her hips. Ruad was about to loosen his belt when he heard a movement behind him and stepped sideways so that the club whistled harmlessly past his shoulder. Turning, he hammered a blow to the assailant’s midriff, doubling him over, then cracked the blade of his right hand to the man’s neck. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
The woman sat up, her hand over her mouth.
‘We needed money,’ she said. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘No,’ said Ruad, ‘and you’ll get your money when you’ve earned it.’
He loosened his belt.
Ruad stepped from the gloom of the dwelling into the sunlit street - his good eye narrowing, his senses alert. The woman had been a disappointment, bursting into tears as he moved to her. She had made him angry and, unlike some men, anger had no part in Ruad’s sexual desires. He had dressed and left her.