and character,” said Orgos, “though using it requires something of the wielder as well.”
“Like what?”
“It depends on the artifact, though they all need tremendous mental focus and a sense of purpose from anyone trying to use them.”
“So I couldn’t use it,” I said, grinning.
“No,” he answered. “I can use mine, that’s all. I couldn’t use Lisha’s if I tried, and I doubt she could use mine. They are very . . . individual items. Mine requires a total faith in the righteousness of my cause.”
“Naturally,” I said.
“You wanted to know about it,” he said, a tad defensive.
“Let me try.”
I was kidding, really, but he drew it and passed it to me without a second thought. I took it and felt its weight in my hand. Then I stood up, threw back my shoulders, and held the sword above my head. I shut my eyes and focused. Nothing happened.
“Is there a magic word or something?” I said, squinting at Orgos with one eye.
“No magic word,” he said, smiling.
I shut my eyes and concentrated as hard as I could for about a minute; then I gave it back to him.
“I think it’s broken,” I said.
He grinned and sheathed it.
And did I believe any of it? I’m really not sure. I had seen things I couldn’t explain. This explained them. Kind of. I remembered how the sight of the sea had alarmed me in Stavis because it had shown me how out of my element I was. I wasn’t sure what “my element” meant anymore, especially since the Empire had shut the theatres down and tried to string me up as a rebel, but magic swords? Come on. If they didn’t exist, I was screwed, because my life depended on people who thought they did, and if they did exist, I was screwed, because . . . well, just because. How could I even live in a world where the words “magic sword” weren’t a kind of joke?
It was as if Mithos had been listening in on my thoughts and had devised a way to make me feel that, if I wasn’t exactly in my element, I could at least function usefully. The innkeeper, he said, had told us where we could get permits for the market. Since it was close by, he said we should take a pitch-covered torch and go right away.
It was late by the time we reached the office, but light showed under the door, so Mithos knocked loudly, then turned to me and whispered, “Take over, Will.”
“What?” I gasped, caught off-guard.
“Do what you do,” he said. “Talk.”
“It’s after eleven o’clock!” shouted a voice inside. “Come back tomorrow.”
I waited for a second, but Mithos just shrank into the shadows and stood there in silence.
“Er . . . open up,” I ventured, knocking louder, “we need to see you now.”
“Why?” demanded the voice, irritably. There was movement inside and I heard a woman giggle.
“We need to check your records from the Saturday market.”
“You can’t, they’re not public property. You need a warrant, or something. Can’t see them. Good night.”
Mithos tapped me on the arm with Duke Raymon’s seal. Ignoring it, my face pressed to the door, I spoke again, my voice officious. “I’m from the inspection office. Come on, come on. I haven’t got all night. I have to have the documents updated by tomorrow morning.” Mithos’s tap with the seal became more insistent.
“You’d better have all the proper papers,” said the voice inside, “or I’m not showing you anything.”
“I just want a look at one day’s entries,” I said, trying to sound official. “Though I could go back to the duke, get the paperwork which is so dear to your heart, and proceed to check every single market permit you have issued this year to make sure that number agrees precisely with your total commission.” There was a sudden silence and I knew I had the old chiseler. If this was anything like Cresdon, he would be issuing fake permits to account for the income he made from bribes. “Just show me the ledger and I’ll take care of the paperwork,” I concluded. “No questions asked.”
There followed muffled curses, a pensive silence, and then the sound of a couple of bolts being snapped back. Mithos, after one last poke with the seal I wasn’t going to use, stepped out of sight.
A middle-aged man with a potbelly, a robe thrown around him and belted with cord, stuck his head round the door.